Welcome *I Guess*

You can call me crippled jim . I was born as a disabled bisexual male. I've always been well taken care of by kind & loving people. Yet, part of me has always fantasized about being at the mercy of sadistic females. The first few tales of horror, cruelty, & torture have been written from their point of view, but I think I'm going to start writing from the slave's POV.

Don't expect suspenseful stories of good verses evil. No, these will be stories of evil people taking pleasure in doing evil things to the most vulnerable among us. Enjoy them, or don't, I don't really care. 🖕

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE DO I CONDONE TORTURE & VIOLENCE IN REAL LIFE! These stories are FICTION & FANTASY!


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Thursday, September 16, 2021

The Gift

 This will be the last story I write from the point of view of the dom.  I'm actually a subby at heart, so from now on stories will be told from the slave's POV. 

As always, this story depicts over-the-top cruelty.  Anyone enslaving and torturing vulnerable people, against their will, belongs in prison.  Enjoy the fantasy for what it is, but KEEP THINGS SAFE, SANE, CONSENSUAL, & FUN IN REAL LIFE!

All characters depicted are above 21 years of age. 

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It was a crisp Christmas morning.   The pandemic was still going strong, so instead of booking  a table at a nice restaurant, for a champagne brunch, mother and I decided to dress comfortably and celebrate the holiday at home.  I tossed on some comfy blue jeans and a red white & blue Christmas sweater, and mother sported a bright red sweater dress.  

Since we wouldn't be going out, and teasing randy onlookers with our gorgeous bodies, our kitchen slave, miss chattel,  wouldn't get the day off she'd looked forward to all year.  We didn't really give a shit.  I mean, that's what dwarfs are for, to be used as slaves by the rich and the beautiful.  It's what the disgusting things are bred for. 

 We loaded our ceramic cock shaped bong, and spent the morning toking, enjoying miss chattel's  delicious cooking, and exchanging presents.  Honestly, I enjoyed keeping our waif working and her spirit crushed beneath my foot on Christmas as much as the succulent tastes of her eggs benedict, salmon mousse, and glazed ham.  It wasn't enough for mother and I to have everything, we truly wanted our slaves to have nothing.  We took immense pleasure in making them live in squalor and misery while we enjoyed the best of everything. 

As we feasted and opened gift after gift, the presence of the brightly wrapped over-sized box teased my imagination.  "Can I open it yet?" I said.  

 My flaxen haired mother leaned back comfortably, took another hit of Amethyst Koosh, and crossed her  bare legs pretending to relish her power over me.  "I don't know Molly," she said.  "What will you do for me?  Mwahahahaha..."  She threw her head back as she laughed, mimicking a villain from the early days of Hollywood. 

 Playing along, I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands together to feign impoverished desperation.  "Oh, please kind lady," I begged.  "I'll be good, I promise."  I kissed her feet and looked up at her with playfully sad eyes. 

 She pretended to think things over as she rubbed her chin.    Then she broke with her villainous character and smiled warmly.  "Okay," she said.  "Have at it Babe.  Besides, who wants you to be good?  Good's boring."

 I clapped happily, untied the oversized ribbon, flung off the lid, and peered inside.  I gasped with surprise when I saw a thin male midget coiled into a fetal position.  "Is he...?" I said wide-eyed.

 Mother grinned wide and nodded.  "It's your very own dwarf.   I was 21 when my mother bought me my first play thing.  I think it's time you had your own slave, rather than simply using house slaves."

 Technically, midgets and dwarfs are different.  Neither mother, nor I, gave a fuck.  They were all grubby little creatures to us, so we used the terms interchangeably.  This one was a three foot ten-inch-tall male with an exaggerated long skull, full lips, and a sunken forehead.  Its thin crop of black hair had been allowed to grow to its shoulders except for four random two-inch patches which had been shaved and waxed bald, to keep the slave humiliated.  Its face had, obviously, been waxed permanently smooth so the thing wouldn't need to shave itself each morning. 

 It was common practice to modify a slave in order to limit the time they had to spend self-grooming, in order to maximize the time they had to do their owner's bidding.  Some owners even pulled their slaves' teeth, so they didn't need to spend time brushing and flossing.  Mother was one such owner.  She kept her slaves toothless and hairless, to keep them focused on their work. 

 Mother only ever bought farm-raised slaves.  Free-borns remembered what it had been like to live like a human, so they would try to escape.  Farm-raised slaves, on the other hand, had been raised in barn stalls and been treated cruelly their entire lives to keep them from developing self-esteem.  Slaves with no self-esteem or a sense of self-worth don't even THINK about escaping.   

The farm where my new slave had been bred and raised, and my slave's first owner, had apparently left its teeth in.  I didn't mind though, since their removal gave me something to look forward to.

 Mother let me assist her whenever she had to remove a new slave's teeth.  She taught me how to make the procedure last all day while inflicting the maximum amount of pain possible.  It always made for a fun day. 

 I threw my arms around her neck and planted a huge kiss right on my mother's gorgeous cheek.  "It's what I've always wanted," I said. "I know it's rude to ask, but was it expensive?"  I said, "it," since we thought of dwarfs and midgets as sub-human slaves to be used and abused as we saw fit.

 "Its previous master died," Mother said,  "and there was an estate auction. Male midgets cost a bit more, but I knew you'd want to practice your cock and ball torture."

 I cocked my head, choked up with loving gratitude.  "Oh mom, it must have cost you a pretty penny.  I don't deserve such a beautiful present."

 "Now hush," she said.  "You make me happy every minute of every day.  I'm beyond thrilled to get you something you've wanted for so long.  Besides, your father left us fucking loaded!  We can have whatever the fuck we want."

 I hugged her, then turned my attention to my new play thing.  "I gotta say though," I began, "as far as cocks and balls go, there's not much to work with."  We laughed until our sides ached.  Mother raised me to take pleasure in the hardship and pain of our slaves.  It wasn't enough to rob them of their freedom and work their tiny fingers to the bone, we truly wanted them to be as miserable and downtrodden as possible. 

 I hoped our laughter about his diminutive male parts was grinding its feelings into powder.  If it was, it was too well trained to let it show. My present stayed curled up in its box until ordered to move.  

Once we had composed ourselves, mother said teasingly, "So, are you going to spoil your new pet and pamper him endlessly?"

 I laughed and wrang my hands wickedly.  "Good one," I chuckled.  "No, I'm going to make my new play thing suffer endlessly for my amusement.  I'm going to humiliate it, starve it, and torture it for a long long time.  When I'm not torturing the thing, it'll be waiting on me hand and foot."

 "What are you going to do with your new toy first?" mother asked me.

 "I'm going to think about it while we toke and enjoy some of these caviar topped deviled eggs.  There's no need to rush, right?"  We snacked and toked for almost an hour, as we enjoyed my play thing's discomfort, staying perfectly still in its cramped little box. 

 Once mother and I had finished our eggs & bowls, mother decided to take a nap.  I made myself a martini, kicked my slave's box onto its side, and made myself comfortable on the chaise sofa.  "Crawl over here now you ugly piece of shit and kiss my feet."

 My property tumbled from its box, lowered its head, and began crawling to me its hands and knees. 

"No!" I said in the cruelest possible tone.  "When I tell you to crawl, straighten your legs and use your forearms to drag your body like a slug.  If your belly, prick, and knees get carpet burn, that's just too fucking bad for you."

 It was an obedient little shit.  My new toy put its gaunt belly on the floor and used its boney forearms to pull itself slowly across the room.  The thing had obviously been underfed; I could see its papery skin hug the outline of every one of its ribs and the vertebrae which comprised its spine.  Watching the deprecating journey brought a smile to my supple lips. 

 Once my present reached its destination, it rose to its knees, took my right foot in its tiny hands, and began kissing, my toes.  I kicked it hard in the face, sending it sprawling backward.  "You stupid maggot!" I screamed.  "What did I tell you to do?"

 "Kiss your feet Mistress."  The slave scrambled back to its knees and bowed its head reverently. 

 "That's right maggot, in fact that's your new name, maggot."

 "Yes Mistress, I'm your maggot.  Disgusting stupid maggot." 

 "That's right," I said.  "You described yourself perfectly."

 "I was disgusting stupid number five for Master Paul," it said. 

 "I see," I said.  "In any case, I told you to kiss my feet.  I did not tell you to touch my feet with your grotesque little hands.  Do you think you are worthy to touch my feet with your grotesque little hands?"

 "No Mistress," it said submissively.

 "That's Mistress Molly maggot!"  I kicked it in its face.  To its credit, my slave shook its head once to clear the cobwebs and immediately continued to kiss my feet. 

 "Yes, Mistress Molly.  And no, I don't deserve to touch your beautiful skin with my sub-human hands."

 I grinned.   I used my right foot to steer its face to my left foot, and as it kissed me I ran my right big toe through its hair and up and down its cheek.  "You have been trained well," I said.  

 "Yes Mistress Molly, they trained me at the farm where I was produced and raised for sale."  It closed its eyes and shuddered as it said it.

 I moaned contentedly.  "You were raised just to serve actual people.  You never knew your mother, did you?  Oh wait, they call them something else, don't they?"

 "Stock producers is what they’re called Mistress Molly."

 "That's right," I said.  "I saw a documentary about it.  Once certain female slaves hit twenty-one years of age, they’re strapped to a bed, given a feeding tube, and impregnated by prime male stock."

 "Yes Mistress Molly.  Their colostomy bags are emptied by slaves, but they’re otherwise ignored until they give birth.  The day after their stock is produced they’re impregnated again to maximize inventory."

 I laughed joyously.  "I love it!" I exclaimed.  "They just lay there, ignored, with nothing to do but digest the sludge being pumped into them through their feeding tube.  If I had my way, they wouldn't even have music to listen to."

 "They don't Mistress Molly," maggot said.  "Before I was sold, it was my job to empty their waste once a day.  They just lay there, staring at the ceiling."

 "That's what I like to hear," I said. "They’re just things to be used."

 "Yes Mistress Molly, we're just things to be used." 

 "I bet you don't know which one produced you?"  I knew the answer, but I wanted him to say it to make it feel even more worthless.  I wanted to keep it beat down, groveling, and miserable.  It made slaves easier to control, and it was fun. 

 "No Mistress Molly," it said.  "I never knew my mother.  The handlers raised me and trained to be an obedient slave."

 "Kept you in a stable stall with hay or some shit?"

 "Yes Mistress Molly," it said.  "I slept on hay in my stall until I was sold to Master Paul."

 "Makes sense,” I said.  "You are just a work animal after all."

 "Yes Mistress Molly, I'm just your work animal, your slave."

 "And no one ever loved you the way my mother loved me."  I smiled and ran my big toe up and down the bridge of its nose as I went out of my way to crush whatever small amount of self-esteem it might have possessed.  Mother taught me it’s important to keep a slave's spirit crushed so they never feel they deserve to be anything but a slave.  Besides, it's fun to watch the last scraps of joy dwindle in their little eyes. 

 "No Mistress Molly," it said sullenly. "Nobody ever loved me.  Slaves don't deserve love; slaves are produced and raised to serve the owners who own them." 

 Its tiny heart shattering made my cruel smile grow wider across my moist perfectly painted lips.   "You may be ugly and stupid, but you know your place," I said.  "I like that.  I like that a lot."  Its kisses became more passionate along the arch of my foot. 

 I continued to berate and degrade the peon for fun, when miss chattel came crawling in, knelt near my waist, and bowed its bald head.  Miss chattel was our only slave with a suffix in front of its name; it was our primary kitchen slave.  The other half of her name, chattel, means “completely owned worker,” which it was.  As our kitchen slave, miss chattel not only cooked gourmet fare for mother and me, kept the food ordered, and the kitchen well-stocked and spotless, but it prepared and fed the other slaves their gruel  (a tasteless gray cereal-like mush of oats boiled in milk with no sugar, salt, or seasoning of any kind).

 Its misshapen breasts hung to the floor as it knelt silently before me.  Its tits hung long from multiple sessions of torture.  Mother and I enjoyed taking miss chattel to the basement and chaining its hands and feet to our large chrome torture machine nicknamed “the jungle gym.”  We took pleasure in putting our slave’s breasts between horizontal rods which were connected to each other by long vertical bolts, and tightening the washers slowly to crush the breasts painfully.

 We’d drink Merlot, dance, laugh, and tighten the washers slowly every so often to increase the level of pain.  Once its breasts achieved a lovely Persian Red color, mother and I would hook brass weights to our kitchen slave’s tits to slowly stretch and painfully disform her breasts.  The smallest problem with one of our meals; a burnt corner of toast, an undercooked grain of rice, or a lukewarm bowl of soup; would earn miss chattel a trip to the basement.  Mother and I ate very well.

 I knew miss chattel wouldn't move or speak until I addressed it.  Just to make it squirm and have some fun, I ignored it for fifteen minutes as I continued to debase maggot.  Once I hit pay dirt, and streams of tears were cascading down maggot's sunken cheeks, I turned my attention to miss chattel.  "Why are you here instead of preparing Christmas dinner for mother and me?  Speak, kitchen wench!"

 Maggot's kisses turned into long cleansing licks, removing the dust from my soles and dead skin from in between my toes.  The thing had been well trained.  As miserable as I had made the urchin, it remained determined to serve and please me, which is the mark of a good slave. 

 "Mistress Molly," miss chattel said.  "Since you and Queen Ursula are home for Christmas this year, should I still make the Christmas cake for your house slaves."  We made the slaves refer to me as, “Mistress,” but to Mother as, “Queen,” or “Your Heinous,” because she was head of the house.

 "They really look forward to their Christmas cake all year, don't they?" I said. 

 "Yes, Mistress Molly," miss chattel said.  "It's the one treat they get each year."

 I jumped for joy on the inside.  Before I answered, I kicked maggot's ugly face just hard enough to let my slave know it was finished with my feet. "Pleasure me, maggot," I said. 

 Upon command, miss chattel crawled out of the way, and maggot; crawled to my waist, unfastened my jeans, lowered them and my pink silk panties, and began flicking my clit with its tongue.  As I suspected, maggot's previous owner had taught the thing how to please a woman orally.  Master Paul, whoever he had been, must've entertained female guests with cunnilingus from his slave.  Maggot knew how to lick and suck to take my climax to the highest possible peak.  

 I moaned with pleasure, then spoke.  "How would giving the house slaves a Christmas cake benefit my mother or me?"

 "It wouldn't," the kitchen slave said. 

 “There’s your answer, you ugly moron,” I said.  Seeing miss chattel sulk with disappointment heightened my orgasm to the nth degree, and my entire body stiffened and quaked with rapture.  Once I regained my composure, maggot set about cleaning me with its mouth. 

"By the way," I said.  "This is my new personal slave.  I've named the thing, maggot.  It was my Christmas present."

"Queen Ursula gives good presents to her beautiful daughter,” miss chattel said.  “Will I feed it with the rest of your possessions Mistress Molly?"

I cocked my head to the left, then to the right, then finally said, "Feed it the same cold gruel as the rest of the slaves, of course...., but instead of twice a day, once every other day should suffice, say- 5am, before its work day begins."

Maggot gulped, but continued cleaning me with long satisfying licks across my nether region and down my inner thighs. 

 "Yes Mistress Molly," miss chattel said. 

 "Oh," I said.  "And, make maggot eat it off the floor, like an animal." 

Miss chattel sneaked out an ever-so-slight smile.  I typically punish slaves for smiling, but mother and I allowed miss chattel to take some pleasure in the humiliation of the other slaves. It made them feel even lower and more worthless.  "Thy will be done, Mistress Molly," miss chattel said.  “When should I begin its feedings?”

I ran my fingers through maggot's hair.  “New Year’s Day will be soon enough,” I said.  “It’ll give it something to look forward to.  Besides, I want to keep it hungry for a while, really make it earn its first meal.”

"I taught you well," a voice said. 

 I looked toward the hall entrance.  My mother was casually leaning against the wall.  The black leather strap of a sterling silver chain leash was looped around her left wrist.  The other end of the leash was attached to a black leather collar, featuring the words, “piss pot” in yellow lettering.  Slave's names were always written in lower case lettering, befitting their station.

 The collar was fastened to the neck of mother’s naked hairless toothless female personal slave.  It was knelt at mother's feet looking straight down as it had been taught.

“Oh shit!” I said.  “Did I wake you up?”

 “No  worries sweetie,” she said.  “It's been fun watching you play with your new toy.  I see you gave it a name.”

 “Yes,” I said.  “It's my little maggot.  What do you think?  Think the name fits?”

 “Oh, definitely,” mother chimed.  “A maggot is a disgusting little worm-like creature that wallows in, and eats, filth.  I think you hit the nail on the head.  I can't picture a more disgusting loathsome creature.”

 “True, but I think I can find some… entertaining uses for the creature.”

 “As long as those uses don't require too much brain power you should be fine,” she said.

 “I know, right?“ I said.  “I think the breed is inherently stupid.”

 “Do you think they’re as stupid as they are ugly?” she said.   We knew full well our slaves could hear us.  Not only didn't we give a flying fuck, we hoped our words were making them feel all the more worthless and miserable.

 I laughed.  “Oh, I don't think they could be that stupid and still scrub floors.”  We laughed harder.

 As we laughed at the sub-human slaves, mother pointed to a wardrobe at the far end of the room.  Her personal slave crawled to the wardrobe, removed a selection of whips, laid each whip across the coffee table, knelt beside the table, put her hands behind her back, and bowed her toothless bald head.

 “I thought we could have some fun breaking in your new toy.” mother said. 

 “Absolutely,” I said cheerfully.  “Sounds like fun!"

 Mother Chose a lovely dark chocolate bullwhip, with a polished cedar wood handle, we bought down in Mexico.  I chose a four-foot jet black snakewhip with a sterling silver tip.  I liked the way the lash grew into a soft handle, which felt comfortable in my hand.  Plus, the silver tip promised an extra little kiss of pain.  The slave caregiver put the rest of the whips back in the wardrobe, hanging them one by one in order according to size, closed the wardrobe, and knelt again at my mother’s gorgeously cruel feet.

 I stood and coldly said, “Maggot, lay face down on the coffee table now!”

 t obeyed without hesitation.  We keep iron shackles affixed to the corners of the table.  Once we had its wrists and ankles secured, I put my foot on the table next to maggot's face.  “Kiss my foot, you ugly piece of shit.”

 “Yes Mistress,” it said, and it began bathing my foot in loving kisses.

 Without warning, I delivered a beautiful blow to its spine and mother delivered a champion shot to its kidney.  Maggot's head lifted as it winced in pain.

 “Who told you to stop kissing my foot?” I said. 

 “Nobody,” it said, and went back to kissing my feet with sad, but loving, pecks.

 “That’s right maggot!” I said in the meanest possible tone.  “Mother and I are going to whip you, but you are to keep kissing my foot.  Understand maggot?”

 “Yes Mistress," it said, “but why am I being punished Mistress?”

 Mother and I laughed hysterically.  “You're not being punished,” I said once I got my breath.  “You're being tortured for our amusement.  After all, it is Christmas, and people should have fun on Christmas.”

“Torturing maggot amuses you Mistress Molly and Queen Ursula?” it asked.

“Very much,” I said. 

“Then Mistress Molly and Queen Ursula should whip maggot,” maggot said, and continued kissing my foot with even more tender loving kisses.

Mother and I had loads of fun putting marks all over my new slave.  Mother concentrated on maggot's lower back, near its liver and kidneys, to cause the most amount of pain per blow.  I focused on its mid-spine, simply because I liked the warning the red and purple welts decorated its back. 

"It's so obedient," mother said, "I almost feel bad about beating it."  She delivered a rapid volley of four wonderfully vicious blows. 

"Nonsense mom," I said with a good-natured chuckle.  "It's a slave, it obeys because it has no choice.  I'm not going to exchange mercy for obedience though.  That's ridiculous.  Enjoy yourself, it's Christmas."

"I taught you so well," mother said.