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You Know What To Do

by rubbermusclepig

Chapter 1

He hung up the phone.

A deep, completely unknown, yet well-remembered voice had been on the other end of the line.   "You know what to do," the voice had said.  Did he know, he wondered.  The voice said he did.  So he must.  The voice was always right.

Wait.  That was a weird thought.  What did it even mean?

All he seemed to know right now, and all that he seemed to be able to focus upon was a strange buzzing in his hears.  A throbbing, buzzing noise that had begun immediately after he had heard those words.  An audible buzzing that seemed to mask something hidden behind it.  A buzzing that was somehow not unpleasant.  On the contrary, it seemed to fill him with a hunger.  A deep hunger for something that he couldn't quite place.  A hunger that was quickly becoming a need.  He needed to satisfy that hunger.  But he didn't know how.  Though the voice said he did.  So he must.  The voice was always right.

Wait.  There was that weird thought again.  There was something he had to do.  Somewhere he had to go.  Something he had to search out to assuage this deep feeling of hunger and need.  He knew he couldn't rest until he figured it out.  The hunger was growing.  The need was increasing.

Behind the buzzing he began to hear whispers of words that he couldn't quite catch.  Some came to him - serve, Master, obey, reward......  But others remained just beyond the reach of his consciousness.  They affected him nonetheless.

He shook his head and tried to focus on what he needed to do.  He figured that it meant going somewhere, so he decided to take a shower and change into some street clothes, and get out there to search.  He went into his bathroom and stood looking at himself in the mirror.

He was proud of his body.  It was firm and muscular, without being a typical body builder physique.  He was conscientious in the gym and that dedication showed in the size of his pecs and shoulders.  But he also liked to eat and drink so he was insulated with a layer of fat, and had a firm round gut to go with his muscles.

He pulled his t-shirt off over his head, and was struck by the intense scent of musk that came to his nostrils from under his upraised arms.  The buzzing became more intense, and suddenly one of the elusive whispered words reached hs consciousness.  "Pitpig."  He felt his dick throb in his boxers when he heard this word, and wondered why it was also painful.  But he had no time to think about that now.  All he wanted was more of that scent.  How long had it been since he had showered?  He didn't care.  He was a pitpig.  He knew that now.  As though automatically, he turned his face toward his left pit and inhaled deeply, and then to his right.  It was heaven.  It didn't satisfy his need, his hunger, but somehow he knew that was part of this whole unknown equation.  What he did know was that he wasn't going to get a shower.  He would just leave that scent on himself as he began his search for who knows what.

"Good boy."  The words, unbidden, and in the same deep voice from the phone, rose above the noise of the buzzing to penetrate his consciousness.  His dick throbbed again, more forcefully, when he heard those words.  And more painfully.

He stripped off his boxers to see what was making his dick painful.  His eyebrows raised in wonderment when he looked down and saw his dick encased in a shiny metal cage with a built in lock.  His flesh was straining against the metal.  He knew about chastity - had always been a little bit interested in it and had often searched out images such as these when he was looking for something to fap to online.  But he never really wanted it for himself.  And he didn't remember buying a cage.  He reached down to feel it in his hand.  A locked nub.  Before he had time to wonder about his use of the word nub, another word bubbled to the surface of the buzzing noise.  "Chastity pig"

The buzzing intensified and he felt a bit dizzy.  He buried his face in his pit.  He grabbed at his locked nub.  No.  Not his locked nub.  It didn't belong to him.  He grabbed at Master's locked nub.  Master's caged plaything.

"Good slave" came the deep voice that he now knew he craved.  Wait.  "Slave?"  He knew he was a bottom.  A sub.  That's why he surfed those sites.  And then he remembered.  It must have been three or four months ago.  He was fooling around on one of those mind control and training sites.  He wanted to learn how to be a better bottom.  He had talked with many many men.  One he remembered specifically....vague snippets of conversation came to him.  The Man had said things like.....  "You should be in chastity, boy.  You don't need your dick for anything other than peeing, do you?"  And, "When you're locked up, you will be increasingly butt hungry.  Like you should  be."  "Faggot's are holes for their Master's pleasure."  And "Faggots focus on their Master's dick.  That's the only dick that matters."  And "Your Master's scent will control your mind...."  It was all very erotic and very exciting.  But he hadn't gone that much further had he?  How many times had he conversed with that man.  He didn't know.  Couldn't remember.  But he hadn't really considered himself a slave, had he?  He couldn't really remember much more than that, though.  His brain seemed a lot more clouded now.  Not like it was going away.  He was just a bit foggy.  But like his mind was being pushed down.  Deep.  Down....Deeper.....Further under.....Obey.  Slave.  He couldn't remember all that had happened.  How many times he talked with the Man.  But it didn't matter.  The past didn't matter.  Now mattered, the present.  His Master mattered.  Now, he was a slave.  A faggot slave.

"Good faggot.  Good slave."

It walked into its bedroom in a daze.  Overwhelmed by the scent of its own armpits and the sensation of precum leaking out of its caged dick.  Overhwlemed by a new hunger, now that it's need for pheromones was somewhat sated (though its own didn't quite fill the need the way it knew the pheromones of its Master would); it was butt hungry, as the Man had predicted.  It needed something in its hole.

"You know what to do." came the words into its ever increasingly foggy mind.  If you could even call it a mind any more.  The mind was still there, but it was beyond the slave's recall.  There was fog.  There was need. There was hunger.  There was obedience.  There wasn't much else.

In the bedroom, as though on an altar, was a large, fist-shaped plug.  The slave knew what to do.  It lubricated its cunt (the last accessible vestiges of the slaves mind said "Is it called a cunt?  Surely not.  Surely it has another name...  a hole perhaps?"  and the deep entrancing voice said "No slave.  It is a cunt.  A slave has a cunt."  The last thought the slave had as its mind slipped deeply below any access was, "Yes.  It has a cunt...."  The large plug was deftly inserted and one piece of the hunger was sated.  It is an asspig

It dressed.  A sleeveless rubber vest that let the slave smell its own pits.  It is a pitpig.  The vest exposed the slave's large meaty nipples...and it felt a hunger there.  It is a titpig.  Tight jeans tucked into bright red knee-high socks and encased in 20 eyelet knee high boots were the only other articles of clothing for the slave.  It is a bootpig.

It wandered the streets for hours.  It knew what to do.  It caught its own scent and the scent of other men it passed.  That was pleasant, but not what it needed.  It concentrated on the plug, and squezed its cuntlips around the base.  That felt good, but did not satiate the hunger.  It saw the wet patch on the front of its jeans, but knew that was irrelevant.  It was searching.  Reaching out.  Trying to find the beacon that would draw it onward.

After many hours of searching, suddenly, the slave's head jerked up.  Its nostrils flared.  Its pulse quickened.  It knew that scent. Its pupils dilated with desire and a small trickle of drool escaped form the corner of its mouth.  Like a predator, it honed in on that scent.  It followed the scent through many twists and turns, and all the while the scent got stronger.  The buzzing in its ears increased.  Desire mingled with lust overwhelmed the slaves senses as it drew ever closer to the source of that scent.

The door to the somewhat seedy looking bar was unprepossessing in appearance.  Beat up wood, a surprisingly sturdy lock, and a small, dirty window set at eye height.  But the slave new that what it was seeking was behind that door.  It opened and went in.  The scent was overpowering.  If not driven by an existential and primal need it would have fallen to the floor right then and there.

There He was.  The Master.  The Man.  Seated on a stool at the back of the bar, underneath the soft glow of a red pendant light hanging from the ceiling.  He was facing the door, legs spread apart, arms behind His head, and the red light reflecting off of a dense, thick auburn coloured beard.  Dark, hairy pits exposed.  The scent of them, though not seeming to affect any other patrons, was singeing the slave's brain with lust.  The men in the bar stopped drinking.  They rested their pool cues.  They watched, for they knew what was about to happen.

The slave walked slowly across the floor, inexorably drawn toward the Man.  With each step the slave took, the scent became more powerful.  The pheromones were intoxicating.  If the slave had been given a choice of how it wanted to die, it would have chosen this.  "To die of a rose in aromatic pain...." Alexander Pope had written.  The slave didn't know Pope.  If it had, and if its mind had still been within reach, it would have thought of those words.  But it didn't.  It only knew its need.  It approached the Man and softly buried its face in the Man's left armpit.  It was home.

The Man reached his right arm around and cupped the slaves ass cheek.  "Welcome, slave," said the voice.  "I knew you'd know what to do."


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