Captive slave, the thudding of your heart sounded almost as loud in your ears as the cascading water. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, willing your breath to slow as the washcloth was methodically passed over every part of his muscular body.  You noticed that he hadn’t yet lathered his face. You saw that he’d brought a can of shaving cream and razor into the shower with him, so surely he’d wash his face before he shaved it. That would be your chance.  It was as difficult to avoid looking below his waist as it would be for a junkie to keep themselves from snatching an unattended packet of their drug of choice, but you swore to yourself you would be careful.  Cock slut, I laugh when I think about how oblivious you were to the fact that it was too late for discretion.  You were lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that he hadn’t acknowledged you in any way since that last glance, and by the intoxication of your secret fantasies.

He took his time, but finally your peripheral vision showed him lathering his hands, closing his eyes, and bringing them to his face.  You waited a beat or two, and then turned your head toward him more completely.  You let your gaze travel down his defined chest, down his washboard abs you pictured tracing with your tongue, past his bellybutton, and finally to the little peppercorns of pubic hair.  With an intake of breath, you looked down, and only partly managed to bite back the moan that escaped your lips in reaction to what you saw.  Your eyes darted back up to his face, which he was still busily washing, so you looked hungrily back down.

To say it was a cock worthy of being tended to by a beta boy captive slave, as you would soon be, was an understatement.

From the center of a tightly-coiled nest of pubic hair came the root of the spectacular big black cock. “Only a little bit narrower than my wrist,” your racing mind calculated.  You traced the single thick vein that ran from that root half way down the flaccid length before twisting like a lightly pulsing tributary under the shaft and out of sight.  The whole thing, perfectly-proportioned head included, was the color of dark roast coffee beans, and hung in front of his sparsely-furred nut sack.  His balls were each the size of an extra large egg, one hanging slightly lower than the other.  Your beta dick and the slut spot inside your fuck hole throbbed painfully.  You resisted the urge to stroke yourself, and covered your puny endowment with a washcloth.  How big would it be when hard?  Had to be 7 inches soft, or maybe a little bit more.  How much cum pumped out of those big balls when he came?  Would he talk dirty to you while you sucked it?  When he forced that fat fuck stick into your ass pussy and you moaned in discomfort but took it anyway, would he call you a good boy?

“You like that, don’t you bitch?”

Your eyes were still locked on that meat and your mind scrambling with images and questions and fantasies, and at first you simply thought the words were part of that, until he repeated himself more forcefully, communicating his authority instantly and without shouting.

“Bitch, I asked you a question.”

Suddenly, you were forced back to reality, and your stomach rolled with humiliation and anxiety. Your eyes darted up to his, and of course he had long since finished washing his face.  Water seemed to drip from his chiseled chin in slow motion, and his onyx black eyes, narrowed but not angry, pinned you instantly to the wall. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he calmly assessed you.

“What?  Oh.  Uh, sorry about that.  I just–I don’t know what I was thinking.  Just kinda blanked out for a second there.  Lot on my mind.  Works’ been crazy, you know how it is.  Welp, have a good day. Sorry about that.”

You babbled these words while rinsing yourself quickly, and made a motion as if to leave, but with a subtle gesture he stepped into your exit path.  He was fully 6 inches taller than you and at least 50 pounds heavier, and his broad chest looked more like a wall to you in that moment than the one in China.

“It’s rude not to answer a question when someone asks you one.”

And in that moment, even though the exact words didn’t occur to you, you knew that you were his captive slave, to do with what he would.

Heart racing, fuck sluts?  Here’s part 3

xx

Goddess Rachel, Captive Slave Trainer for Beta Bottom Boys

1-800-356-6169