Twink Slave Stories

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Twink Slave Stories
This is a story I made up and wanted to share with people, hope you enjoy it.


P.S. This is not a real a story, only a fantasy.


Tommy was 13 the day when his life was fully changed.
It was Friday, the day Tommy would go to his room and talk to his friends on social networks or applications, he was home alone, as it was like this everyday. Tommy, who has a stunningly beautiful mother at the age of 30 with wonderful size 8 feet and 2 sisters that are adopted when their mother was 21, are both blonde with size 7 feet, one of which was 17 and the other 18, his father had died after a plane crash. Tommy would usually make his sisters and mother angry by his natural aggression to them, but this week, he was grounded with no computer in his room and couldn't leave his room after school hours. He was extremely bored, so he decided to ride his bike, even if it was against the rules of his punishment, but he went on to ride it anyways. After about 2 hours he parked his bike back home and opened the door, there his mother and sisters stood there.
"What on earth were you thinking Tommy?!" Yelled his mother.
"I was bored so I went for a bike ride, but that's none of your business, bitch." Replied Tommy.
His mother was just an inch from beating him, but that never worked, Tommy was a true paintballer, he could rarely feel pain.
"That's another week for you Tommy, cussing at your mother is a terrible sin." Said his mother.
But Tommy didn't care... at all.
"Can it skank!" Tommy said with anger coming from his voice.
"Go to your room we will arrange what will your punishment be. NOW!" Said his mother angrily.
Tommy could never stand his mother's screaming so he went to his room immediately. After fifteen minutes Tommy heard his name called by his mother from the Entertainment room.
"Tommy come down here, I want to apologize for the screaming and drama I did fifteen minutes ago."
Tommy rushed down and saw his mother and sisters sitting down in front of the television.
"You can watch T.V. if you're that bored." Said his mother
"Cool, where's the remote though?" Replied Tommy.
His mother had told him that she forgot where she put it and asked him to find it under the sofa, as she reminded him that it might have been there. Tommy went down on his knees and hands to look for the remote, but as he saw the remote he felt the pressure from his mother and sisters hands pressing on to his hands and simply bringing them behind his back and tying them up.
"OH WHAT THE F**K LET ME GO!!" Tommy screamed out.
His mom and his sisters dragged him to the sofa and moved the carpet, it seems that they have installed chain loops for Tommy to hold him and prevent him from escaping. His mom stood over him, she was still in her business dress, pantyhose and high heels.
"Listen, we've got you now, you're ours. You will follow every single command that we give you from now on."
"NO LET ME GO NOW!" He flinched and moved, but nothing worked.
His mother attached the loops and chains of his to the loops on the ground.
"I told you once, if you don't follow our commands, we will call the police, and set you up in a way that it would seem that you wanted to brutally murder us. So you've got 2 options."
His mother took off her high heels and held it in her hands.
"Now this is extremely necessary. I know, I know, I've been on this heels like, aaaalllll day, but you gotta accept your consequences, we're not taking shit from you anymore. So get ready to give up your life to us now."
Tommy shook his head and accepted the consequences.
"Alright here we go, first whiff for our new family owned slave"
She lowered her high heel to his face and placed the smelliest part of her foot, the toes. He inhaled, coughed and gagged he did, but he knew what his job was and had to do it. His mother and sisters laughed as hard as they could. The youngest of the two sisters took off her Puma high tops that she wore all day at cheerleading.
"Hey loser, I've been at cheerleading all day today, mind if you take whiff of what that smells like?"
"Yes Josie, I do, if it is your command and wish." Said Tommy
"Excuse me? My name isn't Josie for you anymore, from now on you will call me Goddess!" Said Josie
"Yes Goddess, you are the most powerful one and rule me. I am meant to be stepped on and nothing more." Replied Tommy
"That's better." Said Summer, Tommy's oldest sister
Their mother smiled with happiness in her, seeing her daughters dominating her son as well as her. She always thought that men are nothing more but snakes and deserve this kind of treatment from women. Josie placed her Puma on his face and held it there for a minute straight. Tommy almost died without any air in him. Summer, his older sister took off her knee high boot and placed it on his face after her younger sister was done. After several minutes they all finished choking him with their terrible foot odor inside of their shoes, boots and heels.
"Okay dear, now you need to clean our shoes, the inside and the outside, we've been walking on dirt and they're really dirty. I mean, you can't expect me to go to work with dirty heels like these will you now?" Said Mary, Tommy's mother.
"No! Smelling them is the last straw, but licking them?! I mean that's just degrading!" Tommy replied.
"Oh dear, you are a comedian aren't you? You know what's going to happen if you don't do it dear. I'm not going to clean my heels for something I didn't do, so as default you'll do it. Oh, and also you'll clean everything that I do to them too!" His mother told him with a sweet voice.
So he got to it, knowing he would have to do this for the rest of his life. After what seemed like hours to Tommy, he was finally done with licking the dirtiness from the outside of their shoes and the sweat from the inside of their shoes.
"That's right dear, suck it up. You will be doing this for the rest of your life. Oh yes and I've planned out what we're going to do to you tomorrow and so forth." Said her mother sweetly.


Part 2 will be continued soon. 
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19mancini92 (2017-07-27 19:46:08)
[ Eintrag ]

Generally I like gainer stories so I clicked on this one...oh my god I wish I hadn't! Kidnapping and feeding stories are fine but this one goes too far. This is a sick horrible story. It's the family part at the end which is so disgusting. It disturbs me that the person who wrote this actually enjoys the idepa of murder and inflicting twisted emotional pain on parents like that.
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использует защитную технологию, которая является устаревшей и уязвимой для атаки. Злоумышленник может легко выявить информацию, которая, как вы думали, находится в безопасности.

Style | The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
As a subscriber, you have 10 gift articles to give each month. Anyone can read what you share.
The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid.
“Hi,” his message said. “I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women. I also like women who smoke.”
I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment.
I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing. I’ll happily degrade him, I’d say. I’ll throw olive pits at him. Whatever turns him on.
“I’m a strong, confident woman,” I wrote. “I need my apartment cleaned. When can you come over?”
We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. Sometimes, at night, he’d ask me how I was doing.
“I’m O.K.,” I’d say. “Kind of lonely.”
I had been single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Although our exchanges didn’t always make me feel better, it was still nice to know someone was rooting for me.
Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy. After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. His fantasy didn’t work if I didn’t play along, and I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain.
We set up a date for him to come over and clean. But at the last minute, he backed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m broke. I don’t even have subway fare. I could ask my dad for it, but I don’t think he’ll give it to me.”
A friend said, laughing, “He needs to get a real job as a houseboy to support his houseboy fetish.”
I tried twice more, and both times fell through. I didn’t hear from him again until I started my YouTube series.
“Ladies of Leisure” was something silly I thought up when I was drunk. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes.
I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen.
And then, I got a text from the Houseboy.
“Your videos are really good,” he said. “I bet they would go over well in the smoking fetish community.”
Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel. They had names like “AshtraySlaveNY” and “SmokingFetishVids.” I had gone viral. Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the Houseboy texted me.
“Sometimes you smoke with your left hand. You’d look more comfortable if you smoked with your right. It would be hotter.”
“That’s not really the point of the videos,” I replied.
I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me.
“Do you need a chauffeur tonight?” he would ask.
Or, “When are you going to put out a new video?”
Or:, “I want you to use me as an ashtray. Let me be your pig-slave.”
And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy.
“It’s your lucky week,” I wrote. “I need a ride to Ikea.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but I don’t have money for gas. I know it’s not very slavelike to ask for gas money. But I’m broke.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Cheaper than a cab.”
We made a date for a Friday at 2 p.m. Two o’clock passed, and then 3. I called him, trying my best to be domineering.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “There’s really bad traffic.”
Twenty minutes later, I called again. “Where are you?”
“Close. Ocean Avenue and Parkside.”
Finally he showed up, around 3:45. I walked outside to meet him, and saw a man waving at me from a red Toyota.
Perhaps I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I was looking forward to seeing what this man, this Houseboy I had been talking to for months, would be like in person. I felt I already knew him. I walked over to his car and opened the door. The Houseboy was overweight and had long dark hair with streaks of gray. As I had already known, he was in his early 40s.
“Do you know how to get there?” I asked, trying to be cold.
“Yes,” he said. And then, “You’re really pretty. I couldn’t see your freckles in the videos.”
He started driving. Although I was trying to play the part of the cruel, confident woman, I couldn’t help but make friendly conversation.
“Yeah,” I said. “But not particularly religious.”
“What do you think about Israel and Gaza?”
I sighed. “I honestly don’t know if it can ever get better,” I said. “There are thousands of years of history there. Everyone hates each other too much. And no one is willing to compromise.”
He responded with an educated, nuanced take on the situation. I was surprised. I knew the Houseboy was kind, but I didn’t expect him to be so smart. After all, he lived with his father and couldn’t even afford subway fare.
When we got to Ikea, I told the Houseboy he could push my cart. He agreed, thanked me and went to get one. I led the way, walking two steps ahead of him through the assorted goods in the Ikea Marketplace. Occasionally I stopped, picking up bowls and wineglasses. I needed a new comforter. I needed a lamp for my room.
We checked out. I swiped my credit card, put my stuff back into the cart and walked out of the store, the Houseboy at my heels. He loaded my haul into the back seat of his car, taking care to put the fragile things on the floor where they wouldn’t break.
“You’re not going to take the B.Q.E.?” I asked, when we drove by an entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
“I’m afraid we might get stuck in traffic,” he said. “And then we’d never get off.”
When we got to my neighborhood, I gave him directions back to my building. He parked across the street, and I loaded things into reusable shopping bags to carry up to my apartment. The Houseboy offered to help me take them upstairs.
“O.K.,” I said, handing him a bag. “That’s me over there.”
I opened the door to the building. We walked up two flights, and I unlocked my apartment. I put my bag down on the floor, and the Houseboy put his down, too.
“I have gas money for you,” I said. “How much do you think? Twenty?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Eight, at the most. Honestly, I’ll probably just give my dad six, and keep the rest.”
I gave him $11. We stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other. It seemed strange to hug, but doing nothing felt uncomfortable, too.
“Thanks,” I said, and I opened the door to let him out.
“It was a pleasure serving you,” he said. “I hope you call me again.”
He started to walk out the door, but stopped and turned around.
“By the way,” he said. “You seem really nice.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, coming from a man who wanted to be abused. Maybe I should have been meaner. Maybe I should have made him take the B.Q.E. Maybe I should have lectured him on Gaza, interrupting him when he tried to give his perspective.
“I’m a little bit of a princess,” I often say.
And, “I like to get what I want when I want it.”
But the Houseboy saw through me. I wanted to give him what he was looking for: I wanted to dominate him, boss him around, make him feel bad about himself. But in the end, I couldn’t. When it comes down to it, I’m uncomfortable throwing olive pits. I’m not good at calling someone names, or ignoring his presence. I just want a friendly ride to Ikea with a smart guy who can talk intelligently about Middle East politics.
I guess I’m nice. But my apartment is still a mess.

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