Do you know what service is? Do you? Do you understand the concept of service with no expectations, abject slavery without complaint? Are you capable of blindly following instructions without feeling the need to question them? Are you able to give up control so completely that the only thing you know is how to obey and to serve? You see, that’s the very essence of what I seek and what I expect; my standards are high, deliberately so. In addition, I am a Sadist and, as such, I enjoy inflicting pain and suffering upon those fortunate enough to be enslaved by me.
So what is extreme service? What is extreme slavery? What type of person fits my need and what is expected of him? How are these attributes affected by my own need to satisfy my own sadistic desires? Let’s look at these aspects one by one.
For me, extreme service is the provision of comfort to myself in all aspects of my life. This may be in the undertaking of household chores (cleaning, laundry, dish-washing and any number of other necessary tasks). It might be in ensuring that my meals are prepared in a timely fashion and to my own tastes. Extreme service means the completion of all secretarial duties in order that my life runs smoothly with the minimum of inconvenience to myself. It is necessary for my life to be enjoyed by me and for my servants to do whatever is necessary to ensure that nothing is left unfinished or undone, nothing is left to chance and that there is no possibility of my being taken by surprise by an unforeseen event occurring. It is my absolute right, my destiny, to live my life with this level, this high standard, of service and it is the fate of the men I have enslaved to ensure that my destiny is fulfilled.
How is this achieved? That’s simple. It is achieved by my enslavement of men who are capable of the required levels of service and who, in so doing, follow a code of extreme slavery which defines how they live their lives – and that definition is that they live their lives, in extreme slavery, only to enhance my own life. It is the reason that they exist; no more, no less. Put simply, extreme slavery is the ability to blindly follow orders, demands and instructions without questioning why those orders or instructions were issued. Men were born to live a life of abject and extreme slavery, to be fully owned by a Goddess whose destiny is pre-ordained. I am so far above an enslaved man that any comparison is futile because his is a life of service and suffering whilst mine is one of peace and contentment. It’s the natural order of things; I enjoy, men endure.
What type of man is capable of enduring a life of extreme slavery and, thus, providing me with extreme service? In ancient times, Cleopatra owned slaves whose lives were lived purely for the benefit of their Queen. Countless slaves ensuring that every aspect of Cleopatra’s life was peaceful, enjoyable and where she wanted for nothing. Extreme slavery is the fate of all men but not all men recognize this, some harbor delusions of grandeur and seek to better themselves; they are fools. The only true life for a man is one of blind obedience, of complete trust that his owner knows what is best for him and, most importantly, a life where he displays a willingness to be molded into that which his owner requires. Without regret, without questioning, without disobedience and without enjoyment. A man must give his life to his owner, his Goddess, so completely that she is easily able to render his being as not belonging to himself, his sole reason for existence is purely to serve and to suffer. I seek slaves who, willingly, endeavor to enter this life and who willingly allow themselves to be molded into the pieces of property that I require them to be and who willingly endure their future lives without any desire to escape their fate.
So, by finding men who can be enslaved, who are capable of entering into a life of extreme slavery to provide me with the extreme levels of service that I have an absolute right to expect, my life is one of peace and contentment; but what of enjoyment?
Some people enjoy sports, others like the arts and still more find other leisure pursuits to make life tolerable. Me? I enjoy hurting men and I don’t just mean punishing them for infractions or disobedience. I mean that I enjoy hurting men for my own pleasure; I enjoy torturing them in order that I can get a visceral thrill from hearing them beg, hearing them plead, hearing them whimper and hearing them cry out in agony. I enjoy seeing a man’s tears fall as he endures torment for my own amusement. You see? I enjoy; men endure. Does this affect a man’s ability to suffer extreme slavery and provide me with extreme service? No, of course it doesn’t because he is molded, re-programmed, to accept all that I can give him. Does he need to be a masochist before his enslavement by me? No for two reasons. Firstly, because a masochist would enjoy this and I do necessarily want him to enjoy (only to endure) and, secondly, because I will teach him that suffering is the only way of life for him and being a masochist is irrelevant.
So, when all is said and done, an additional and very important aspect of a man’s extreme service to me is his ability and willingness to suffer at my hands. I am a predator and I hunt for men. I will take a man, enslave him and then tear him to pieces before reconstructing him, remolding him, in the shape that I require so that instead of begging me to stop, he will be begging me not to stop. I don’t have limits and those men who do have them are of no earthly use to me. I want to strip away his dignity, his pride and his arrogance until the only thing that’s left is his complete and utter submission. No remorse, no mercy, no regret and no pity. Only then can a man give me extreme service. Only then can he be considered to be in extreme slavery.
01 - PROLOGUE
“Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
He sits and waits. Waiting, always waiting, raging against his own ambition, his own arrogance and self-belief. Waiting in darkness, a darkness which is all-embracing, his eyes unable to see beyond the confines of his immediate surroundings. Waiting in pain, a pain which is both physical and emotional, his body aching from the unnatural position in which his tormentor has placed him and his mind aching as he tries to understand how he has been out-thought, out-fought and, finally, conquered. Waiting in rage, the rage of one who has come to realise that he isn’t, after all, able to control his own destiny, that his ability to dictate his own fate has been lost, carelessly and with a scarcely believable arrogance. Waiting in doubt, the doubt of one whose subjugation is so complete, so absolute, that he can no longer trust his own thoughts, his future now programmed for him by the whims of another.
He can hear her in the next room, hear her soft voice as she talks, inconsequentially, with a friend, her words not able to be understood failing, as they do, to penetrate the softness of his imprisonment. Just the sound of her quiet voice; soft, gentle and utterly authoritative, the authority of one who has no darkness, who has no pain, who has no rage and who has no doubt. The authority, if you like, of one who is supremely confident in her own abilities.
His breathing is difficult and through only his nose, her soiled panties having been stuffed into his mouth with the gusset wrapped around his tongue, so that oral inhalation is impossible. The panties held in position by a stocking tightly knotted around his head. Another stocking, tied higher on his head, blinds him and would allow only a diffused light to enter his eyes were his head not also encased in the upper portion of a pair of her tights, the legs of which were tied around his neck just above his dog collar. That collar is attached to a chain leash which now rests in his lap as he sits in the hessian sack, the opening of which has been sewn closed to allow him no egress. He can smell the hessian, rank and as old as time, a time which has now, for him, ceased to have meaning.
He shifts to redistribute the pain, a pain borne out of having his wrists bound together between his shoulder blades. He struggles to remain in an upright position, his struggles made more difficult by the binding together of his ankles, a final humiliation as his bonds are all of her discarded nylons, items she no longer needs to hold in place an item she has completely subdued.
The door opens and he listens as two sets of foot-steps enter the room. One set approaches him and he can hear as a pair of scissors is used to cut open the sack. It falls away and he lifts his head to where he can faintly see her through his nyloned blindfold. His leash is taken and he can hear her winding the chain around her wrist, tautening it so she has control. She bends down so that her mouth is next to his left ear.
“Do you recall the online conversation we had a couple of months ago,” she whispers, “the one in which I said you will be destroyed?”
“You always imagined that you would be able to avoid that eventuality, didn’t you?” she continues, mockingly.
He nods again. He feels the tears welling up and they escape his eyes; tears of rage, tears of doubt, tears of hopelessness. She doesn’t see them because the fabric of the stocking soaks them up. She doesn’t care because this is life as it’s meant to be, his tears are nothing to her other than a source of detached amusement.
“That time has come,” she whispers again, “that time is now.”
She prises his legs apart and reaches down to feel his balls, to place them in the position she requires and then steps between his legs. She turns and, parting her cheeks, leans back to envelop his face with her backside, his nose wedged deep into the gap. He panics as his breathing is blocked off.
“Are you ready?” she asks. He tries to shake his head. “Not you,” she says, “my friend who is going to video what is about to happen.”
She laughs and her laughter is joined by that of another from across the room. “Let us begin,” she says and he feels her alter her position to bring one of her heels to rest on his balls.
“Now,” she continues. He feels her muscles contract.
“Dear God,” he thinks, “she's won!”