No Longer a Person

Contains scenes of non-consensual sex.

No Longer a Person

I was 35 when it happened, I'd been out of work for a year and I was flat broke, with few friends and only a handful of relatives. I turned to my aunt, the one my mother had warned me against before she passed away, and asked in desperation if she could help. She could, she said: she organised me a job as a live-in PA to one of her rich acquaintances, on the other side of the country in the home counties. I took it - I just thought my mother had meant my aunt would take advantage and get me a bad job. I had no idea what I was walking into.

A taxi dropped me off at the beautiful, big detached home in the suburbs and I walked up the long gravel drive and knocked on the door. A well-built man with a shaved head greeted me and took my bags from me. He led me upstairs into the office room, where his wife was working: the woman whose PA I thought I was to become.

"Welcome," she said. "George, will you get the young man something to drink?"

"Sure thing," he replied.

I looked her over: she was white, a brunette, quite petite, with small breasts and dark eyes. She looked back at me and her gaze seemed to sear into me. I smiled and she just looked at me blankly. We sat in silence and I racked my brains for something to say.

"Erm, so when do you want me to start?"

"Let's talk about it when you've had some refreshments, yes?"

"Oh OK."

George came back a minute later and handed me a large glass of orange juice. It was a hot day and I was parched, so I gulped it down in a few goes, then I waited for the woman to address me: she seemed intent on an email she was writing. Minutes passed and I began to feel very woozy. George moved to my side, then he held me and told me everything was going to be OK. I passed out when he thrust a syringe into my neck.

When I awoke, I felt air caressing my skin, and I tried to move to shake off the sleepiness. A clank announced one of the chains that held me to a metal table. I opened my eyes to find myself bound to the metal table, tilted so that my head was higher than my feet. George stood there, quite naked, wearing a metal collar and something on his cock; the petite brunette was there too.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"Shut up, slave," said the woman; George stood mute.

"Let me go!"

"Last warning: silence," said the woman with a fierce look in her eyes.

"Fuck you!"

"Wrong answer."

She raised a remote control and I felt my neck and my balls explode in agony as electricity pulsed through them. I jerked around on the metal table, making a racket as the chains rebounded and juddered, but I could not get loose. She kept her thumb down on the trigger for a while, and I thought I might be about to pass out when she finally released me.

"Silence," she said.

I nodded - the pain was too much to even contemplate asking for more of.

"Good boy. First lesson learned: obedience avoids pain. You are no longer a person: you are a slave, and you will be trained here until broken, then sold to the highest bidder on the black market for submissive boys. Your old name no longer applies: I am renaming you Sugarboi, with an I in 'boi', to reflect your new status.

"It is usually good, Sugarboi, to tell a boi how he came to be where he is. Your aunt is part of our organisation and regularly sends me males to train. You came to her attention many years before when she installed spyware on your computer and found out about your submissive tendencies, but until now you were not in a sufficiently vulnerable position to take. After the death of your mother, that changed.

"I paid her good money for you and consider you my property at present, Sugarboi. I will break you, train you, then sell you. I have done this many times and never been caught. Your social media will be monitored by me, and your friends will find you gradually cut off contact over the next few months as your new job takes over. I doubt they will miss you once 'you' sever contact completely, having fallen in love with someone on the other side of the world.

"My boi George here was once trained by me in just such a way. He is so broken that he can be trusted to live without a control collar - his is purely decorative - and help train you: he will report any attempt by you to beg him to be let go. George is a very good boi indeed. You will break, for you are no longer a person. You are property. I look forward to destroying and rebuilding you.

"We will speak again tomorrow, slave. For today, you will be shackled here and reflect on your new status in my basement dungeon. It's escape-proof and soundproof, by the way: scream all you like."

Week 1

I did indeed scream all I liked that first day. Over and over, I drew in great gulps of air and directed them at the cellar walls and door, screaming for help, to be let go, anything. No one came. George entered to feed me a few times, and a couple of times to put me in elaborate bondage so I could use the little bathroom down there in the cellar. The rest of the time I spent chained to the table.

The door only opened when I was securely chained to some other surface, and I quickly realised I had no chance of escape unless someone let their guard down or made a mistake. I resolved to watch and wait, and stopped my screaming. That left me with a night's broken and restless sleep before day 2, when my training really started.

For the whole of day 2, I got nothing but pain. Even now, years later, I can hardly bear to recall those moments. I knew my brunette captor only as 'Mistress'. Mistress spent that first day with me using every whip, flogger and cane she had while I hung defenceless in chains, suspended from the ceiling, my toes barely touching the floor.

"What is your name?" she would cry.

"Sugarboi, Mistress," I would cry back.

"With more sincerity, bitch!" she would shriek, then punish me more.

She left me after many hours of torture, chained to the floor of the cell that made up the rear wall of the cellar. I shook and howled as every part of my body sang with pain, but no help came - I simply had to bear it and try to rest. George delivered me food and ignored my gibbering and pleading, and finally I went to sleep wracked with fear about the next day.

Training me as a slave involved a lot of pain and a little pleasure. The next day, Mistress introduced me to her strapon, while I lay tied down to the metal table, face up so I could see her take me. She fucked me slowly while I wept at the invasion, and she alternated flogging and caressing me to help me feel the difference.

"Tell me you're my slave and make me believe it," she would say.

I would pause, then suffer a barrage of flogging for it, then spit out the words "I am your slave, Mistress," and she would laugh and shake her head.

Fucking, flogging, and convincing: so passed day 3. She never let me cum, though I believe she climaxed twice, but she did give me a pat on the cheek and a 'well done' before George bound me back in my cell and I was left alone again for the night. The words "I am a slave" echoed around in my head all night, but eventually sleep found me.

On day 3 they made me their coffee table for the day. George came into the cellar, ball-gagged me and bound me up tight in chains that left me barely even able to crawl and a gag that I could only just breathe around, then he took me upstairs into the sitting room, where he forced me into a coffee table frame and bolted the perspex top down over me.

My arms and legs were tied down to the four legs of the table, and my head was bound to force me to look straight ahead instead of down at the floor. I drooled a little around the gag that had invaded my mouth. The metal and glass coffee table let other people see me, let them see that I was just part of the furniture, and I was left alone there for much of the day while my mind raced with ways to try and get free. A few attempts at rocking it to the side confirmed the table frame was secured with thick screws into the floor. I had no chance of escape.

Now and then, Mistress and George came into the sitting room and rested their cups of tea or their feet on the table surface. Both of them ignored me completely, and I was left to simply exist, naked and bound, on display like their cabinet of fine china. When I needed to use the bathroom, George took care of it right there in the room, without ever letting me free. He broke me a little bit that way - I found myself feeling ever so grateful to him for the attention.

In the evening, Mistress and George fucked each other on the sofa, to my left hand side, while I stared straight ahead and their sextoys rested on the table above me. Not once did they acknowledge my existence, and I knew better than to beg for release around the gag. I was their table, and they paid me no attention. As I listened to them fuck, I knew I was nothing to them - they never even referred to me at all. Just an object to be seen and admired, or perhaps looked down on and pitied.

For day 4 and day 5, we went back to beatings and shock torture. I lost what was left of my fight and started to withdraw into myself, only to be brought back to reality late on the fifth day when Mistress chained me over a bench and fucked me with her strapon until I came messily in her hand. She wiped the cum on my face, then left me strapped to the bench for half the night, until George came down and released me, to lock me in the cell and leave me to rest.

On day 6, Mistress had me chained up against one of the cellar walls and addressed me, while George stood politely, mute, behind her, his hands behind his back and his legs spread wide.

"Has it sunk in yet, Sugarboi?" asked Mistress.

"I don't know... Mistress," I replied.

"Not going to beg to be let go?" she said with a sardonic smile on her lips.

"No Mistress."

"Still thinking of escaping?"

"... "

"Answer me, slave. Now!"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Bad, bad boi, Sugar. Very very bad indeed. I wonder, George, have we beaten him enough?"

"Not nearly, Mistress," said her husband.

"What should we do with him now, George? You pick, I'm bored of training him at the moment."

"Perhaps, Mistress... Hmmm..."

"Take your time, my love."

"Thank you, my love. Hmmm... Perhaps it's time for Sugarboi to take a little trip."

"Capital. Supervise and report to me tonight."

"Yes, Mistress."

Mistress strode out of the room, and George went with her. He returned a few minutes later with several screens, which he wheeled in on stands of different heights. George kept coming and going, leaving me securely chained to the wall, while he gathered some equipment - a few syringes, a heart-rate monitor, and even a defibrillator. He got all of it together, checked it over, then nodded at me.

"I'm going to make you hallucinate a little bit, then I'm going to bombard you with some nice sound and vision routines one of our young protégés put together to help bois like us adjust to their new lives. She's a real up and comer, so Mistress says, and this might just be the tip of the iceberg. I don't know what's in this syringe but it certainly seems to be good stuff. Try to enjoy it.

"Anyway, brother, you won't know what's hit you for the next eight hours, but I guarantee it will open your mind to the possibilities of submission. This could be make or break for you, you know - if this doesn't change your attitude a bit, well, there's no telling what my wife-owner will do when she's mad. No telling at all - just look at the scars on my backside if you don't believe me..."

I rattled the chains that held me to the wall as George approached me with a syringe in his hand. He plunged it into my neck and then shot me up with the hallucinogen; after that he donned a pair of filtered glasses and a set of thick ear protectors, then he started the videos playing and hit me with a flogger when I dared to look away.

What can I remember from that day? Just flashes of light, sound and speech as my mind unhitched from reality and the videos swallowed me up. I saw slavebois in all sorts of scenarios, serving all kinds of women - slim, fat, black, white, rich, poor, at work, at home, in open fields and dark forests.

Again and again, the words 'serve', 'obey', 'happiness' flashed before my eyes and poured into my consciousness. I heard my voice, distant but loud, repeating them over and over: serve, obey, happiness. I think I remember George nodding as I said them, but then maybe I just imagined it. I'm almost certain he stayed there with me throughout the ordeal, but I will never know for sure what happened that day.

The images grew ever more vivid and powerful. Many punishments were shown to me, many ways of torturing recalcitrant slavebois, alongside many ways of rewarding those who just obeyed. I hung in the chains while I watched brutal whippings draw blood, and gentle fuckings that drew explosive climaxes. I saw flogging and fucking, caning and cunnilingus, shock torture and cock milking.

Around and around the videos went, looping back to previous scenes or splicing in new catchphrases: no more free will, no more problems; what a slave is told to do, a slave will love to do; you will find happiness at the end of a leash. On and on the words and pictures came, until my head rang with them.

At the end of the day, George got me back in my cell and gave me a meal, then cleared my plates and left me to sit and collect myself. I was glad he had never needed the defibrillator, and glad he was my slave-brother in that strange place. I was glad too that I had caused him so little trouble, when our Mistress had ordered him to look after me, and even happier still that he had chosen to share the videos with me. I had obeyed, so I was happy.

They let me rest the next day: I spent it running over and over all the things I had seen on video, wondering which were coming my way and when. As the day went on, my mind cleared bit by bit, my vision sharpened, my thoughts came back into a coherent shape, but at the back of my mind was a new insistent voice. It said: serve, obey, happiness.

Week 2

Mistress stood in the cellar on the eighth day, while George got out all manner of chains and harnesses from drawers and cupboards around the room. I waited, not daring to speak, always hearing that voice that told me to serve and obey and thus be happy. Mistress watched me and smiled - her eyes lit up - and finally she spoke to me.

"Good boi, Sugarboi, you've learned a thing or two thanks to George here - he might even get to cum for the first time in a few weeks because of this. Won't that be nice for him?"

"Yes Mistress, thank you Mistress," I replied without thinking.

"Good. You know, Sugarboi, that white European males like you have done all sorts of harm all across the world, so many of my buyers like to make a show of turning you and your ilk into special kinds of slavebois. Today we'll work on one such kind. Today you will be my puppy! George, ready?"

"Yes, my love," he said, with chains ready in his hands.

"Make him crawl for me," said Mistress.

George came into the cell and shoved me down onto all-fours. He quickly mitted my hands and muzzled me, then he strapped a thick black leather harness around my torso and looped it beneath my crotch, before he buckled and padlocked it firmly into place. The transformation did not stop there, of course, because at that moment I could still have stood on two legs if I tried.

Despite the voice in my mind, I thought about my chances of escape. Could I manage to break free and shoot past them both when they opened the cellar door? Might I be able to open a door with my mitted hands? Could I be about to leave the cellar? Would that give me an opportunity? I shook my head, clearing the thoughts, then shed a tear because of how easy it had been to get rid of them. Why was I helping them?

My male captor kept going on turning me into a puppy. He fixed straps around my thighs and wrists, then locked short chains from them to my ankles and my collar, then to different points on the harness. The web of chains that resulted kept me on all-fours, totally unable to stand, and meant I had to move like a pet.

That left a few finishing touches. He unlocked my chastity cage and let my cock spring free, then he tied a pink ribbon around it so that I was presented with a bow that encircled my balls and sat above my shaft when I knelt up. George leashed me, then he put a pair of dog ears around my head, held on with an alice band, and then he patted me on the rump and I crawled forth from the cell.

"Such a cute little puppy wuppy!" said Mistress, "Such a good little boi with his little pink bow round his little puppy penis! Yip for me puppy! Good boi! See how easy it is to just obey?"

Again I had surprised myself. For some reason I had yipped in a high register the moment she had told me to, and I had meant it. I was her puppy in that moment. I took a quick mental audit and realised that I liked her up there and me down on the floor, I liked the way she held my leash and the powerless feeling that came from all the chains.

"George?" said Mistress.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Puppy mode, now."

"Yes, Mistress," he said, then left the room in a hurry.

"George has gone to get into his puppy costume: the two of you can be trained together today I think. Oh, and puppy wuppy? If you so much as look at me wrong, I will activate the shock devices in the harness that George put you in. You may howl with pain, but the soundproofing all through my house is superb, and no one will hear you. You are as much a prisoner upstairs as down. Heel, boi. Let's go to the playroom in the attic."

That was how it was for the rest of the day: in the wide, airy attic the two of us males - bois really - scampered and crawled around while Mistress taught me tricks and George showed me how it was all done properly. He wore a pink PVC petsuit with a cutout for his cock and balls, and a collar that bore a nameplate: Scamper. His puppy personality was ultra-playful, quite dumb, and perhaps even charming as a result. He seemed very liberated in the petsuit, able to just exist and play.

"Scamper, show Sugarboi how to catch a frisbee in the chains!" Mistress would say.

Scamper/George would jump up from his front legs then push up from his hind legs, gaining just enough momentum to get off the ground and catch a frisbee in his teeth. Muzzled as I was, I was allowed only to let the frisbee hit me in the face, but I was still made to get the aim perfect - for next time, Mistress said. The frisbee hit my muzzle again and again, and every time I missed, I got another shock from the harness.

I went along with it all day, rolling over, playing dead, fetching, begging and chasing around after Scamper, who suited his petname far better than he suited George. The hardest part was when we stopped to rest and I got a chance to think: I could not ignore that my cock kept getting hard as I charged around in the pet-costume, and nor could I deny how right it felt to be leashed. I was frightened at how easy I found it to follow orders, but more frightened still about risking disobedience. When Mistress did shock me with the harness, I howled with agony, and a few times was quite enough to teach me to obey and be happy doing it.

"Good bois!" said Mistress as the evening drew in. "Now then puppy wuppy, you've not had a cummy wummy in a few days have you boi?"

I shook my head.

"Do you know how puppy wuppies cum?" asked Mistress.

I shook my head again. Mistress gestured to a pile of cushions on the floor in the corner of the attic.

"They hump! Come here puppy wuppy: hump these pillows til you cum. Scamper: you too!"

We did it while Mistress laughed and mocked us, but we never dared stop. I thought the orgasm might release some of her hold on my mind, so I humped and humped against a pile of pillows while Mistress stood over me holding my leash. She showered me with humiliating praise while I thrust my cock back and forth into the fold she had made in a pillow for me, and I went at it hard and fast as she mocked me. I came a few minutes later, and then I collapsed down onto the floor and shook as Mistress stroked my flank.