Matt is instructed on how a slave greets his Master as Anwar makes his arrival to sample his new possession.

Duped - Part 7 (Page 1)
by Chrisus
Series: Duped
Art piece by Joji
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Hussein's instructions to me are quite explicit!

As he prepares me for Anwar's arrival, he instructs me on how I am to conduct myself in my Master's presence. It's unsettling to think that I'd ever considered Hussein as a friend but I had done so and as I think on this, I realize the depth of betrayal that he, his father and Anwar used in their dealings with me. Deliberately, they'd built up my trust in them to such a degree that I'd never doubted the "friendship" they'd falsely shown to me. How trusting and foolish I'd been. Sadly, I am now paying a high price for that trust.

Hussein has me "bend and spread" as he lubricates my asshole making it ready for my Master's cock. He scoops a dollop of a gel-like substance from the same phial that Miguel had used when he'd prepared himself for my cock. As it is applied to my asshole it feels cold and sticky but Hussein uses a finger to massage it into me. I have to say the sensation is pleasurable and involuntarily I find that I am grinding my ass back onto his finger; I am eager for more.

As his finger lubricates me and makes my ass ready for my Master's use, he tells me of the protocols I must now observe as a slave.

He informs me that I am to wait on my knees with my right foot crossed over my left ankle and with my legs spread wide. I am to hold my upper body erect with my chest thrust out and my stomach sucked in. And my fingers are to be intertwined behind my head. I am not to fidget or to sigh or to show any signs of boredom - no matter how long my Master keeps me waiting. A slave is not allowed to be bored; he must always show eagerness for his Master's attention.

Hussein tells me when my Master enters the room, I am to prostrate myself on the floor in the St Andrew's cross position and wait for his instructions. When my Master gives me his permission to pay homage to him, I am to crawl forward on all fours to his feet, kiss them three times and say.

"Master, your slave prostrates himself before you! Master, your slave presents himself to you! Master, what would you have your slave do to serve and please you?"

Hussein decides that rather than words, it would be better if I practised and so I am made to assume the kneeling position and when he instructs me to do, I prostrate myself before him and then crawl to his feet and kiss them in supplication. I disappoint Hussein and once again, I am the victim of his ire. He uses the cane on my ass as a "teaching aid". He makes me repeat the exercise until he is satisfied that I am at least familiar with it; even if my performance of it is ragged.

And he reminds me that whenever I am on "all fours', I must keep my knees spread apart so that my cock and balls hang low and swing freely between my thighs and my ass is on full display. He tells me this is obligatory for all slaves as their Arab Masters like to see their slaves display themselves openly.

Hussein then has me practise the standing at full display position and the modified display position. These are simple to learn and I am familiar with them; I'd seen Sven adopt these positions whenever I'd visited Anwar's London home.

Essentially, it is a "crash course" to give me the rudimentary protocols to use when Anwar arrives. Quite obviously, my movements lack finesse and grace and I will be instructed in these more fully - and painfully - when I am sold and my new Master undertakes my training. But they will suffice for now and Hussein seems moderately pleased with my efforts.

He orders me into the kneeling position and tells me to wait while he informs Anwar that I am ready for him. And he instructs me that as I wait, I am to remember what he has taught me. More importantly, however, I am to think of ways to please Anwar as he uses me.

This is the first time since my enslavement just two hours ago, that I have been alone. The room's silence is broken by my laboured breathing and the loud pounding of my heart. My chest heaves and my belly flutters with each ragged breath and the surging of my arterial blood roars in my ears. And occasionally, there is a strangled sob of anguish as I consider my changed circumstances.

The same questions repeat themselves in my troubled mind - why is this happening to me? And how could I have been so foolish and why couldn't I have foreseen this happening to me?

And naturally, I wonder about my uncertain future! What is in store for me? I fully understand that I am now a slave and next Saturday I will be sold to the man who bids highest for the right to own me. But there are other intangible questions about my future. For example, who will own me after Saturday's auction?

Will my new Master be an Arab and will I, like Miguel, serve as his slave in Maluchistan or some other Middle-Eastern country? Or will I be taken to London or some other large city and serve as Sven does? And there is a more chilling prospect and one that does appear very possible; I could be sold to some oil-rich, black billionaire and taken to a remote part of Africa to serve as his pleasure slave. All these are frightening prospects and they terrify me!

So many questions remain unanswered and so many troubling scenarios tumble around in the vortex of my fevered imagination that my mind spins. I am overcome with my panicky emotions and I am at breaking point. A loud, anguished cry strangles in my throat and gives way to silent, salty tears of fear and regret. Most of all, I cry for the freedom that I have lost.

Suddenly the door opens and my Master, Anwar enters the room.

Immediately, I prostrate myself on the floor and spread my limbs out in imitation of the St Andrew's cross. Anwar towers above me and I wait for his instructions. Slowly, he walks around my supine form and pauses several times to peruse my naked body; a body that now belongs to him.

The air is electric with our mutual expectation. I know he's about to summon me to pay him homage and I quickly rehearse what Hussein had taught me. Then Anwar clicks his fingers and commands me.

"Crawl to my feet slave, and pay to your Master the homage that is due to him!"

His voice is imperious! Gone is the warm, confidential manner he'd adopted with me as he feigned friendship for me. Now, his tone is cold and commanding and it instills fear in me. Instinctively, I know that I must obey and to do so quickly or pay the price of incurring his displeasure.

I scramble onto all fours and scuttle over to where he is standing. I lean forward and lower my head to kiss his feet three times and I tell him.

"Master, your slave prostrates himself before you! Master, your slave presents himself to you! Master, what would you have your slave do to serve and please you?"

As I utter the words the bile rises and scorches my throat. For the first time, I have called him "Master" and I have referred to myself as "your slave". How many times in the past have I fantasized about this? How many times have I longed to be in the position I now find myself forced to adopt? Far too numerous to count!

Bitterly, I recall how at our first meeting and within the silence of my mind, I'd craved to call him "Master".

But those things had been done by me because I'd wanted - no I needed - to do them; they'd been fantasies and not reality. They'd been done because they fed my erotic wet dreams. Now I do them at his bidding because I must. There are no options open to me other than to obey this man who has made me his unwilling slave.

Once more Anwar circles me like a triumphant predator tormenting its wretched prey before the final, fateful lunge. Suddenly, I am convulsed by an uncontrollable shivering.

"Stand and display!"

Hurriedly, I leap to my feet and adopt the standing at full display pose. I remember what Hussein had taught me; I stand tall with my hands behind my head and I tighten my body so that my taut musculature is thrown into sharp relief and my genitals thrust forward in an obscene invitation to my Master to inspect them. Anwar reaches out and places his exploratory hands on my shoulders. They move to the firm, rounded balls of my biceps and he squeezes hard. Satisfied, he slides his hands down over my chest to my nipples.

At first, he plays with them as he uses his fingertips to gently tease the nubs into needle-point sharpness. Suddenly, his playfulness turns into spite as he cruelly pinches and twists my nipples. I yelp with the unexpectedness of this and angrily, my new Master slaps my face and admonishes me.

"Stand still, slave! How dare you move when your Master is inspecting his property?"

Without thinking, I hear myself apologizing.

"I'm sorry Master! Forgive me Master!"

In replying as I do, my survival instincts have taken over to prevent me from being punished. And it works. Anwar is gratified with my contriteness.

His hands move down over my belly to my hairless groin and he takes my balls in his hands. He tugs at them to test the elasticity of my scrotum and then he rolls each of them between his finger and his thumb. He compliments me.

"Very good, Matt! You have nice, plump balls and they will be appreciated by the buyers who inspect you. They'll certainly be one of your many favourable selling features."

At Anwar's mention of buyers and being sold, my emotions get the better of me and I break down and cry. Through my wild sobbing, I hear my heartfelt pleas to him not to sell me. I beg him to set me free and finally I tell him that.

"I'm not really a slave."

Cruelly, Anwar just laughs and tells me.

"But Matt, you are a slave! You have told me of your slave's nature on several occasions and confided in me your long held fantasies of serving an Arab Master. However, let me just say that I also recognized these features within you at our first meeting and I have worked assiduously since then to grant you your wish. I would have thought you'd be happy that I have done so."

"Master, I don't want to be a slave!"

"You think that now, Matt! But I assure you that this will change. It's the shock of your sudden and unexpected enslavement that clouds your judgement. Within time, you will come to acknowledge that to serve as a slave is your destiny. It is your birth right. Slavery for you is your natural condition. Accept that Matt and you'll be happy in your servitude. Reject it or fight it and you'll suffer for you intransigence. No Master will tolerate a difficult slave and you'll be punished for any trouble you cause."

"Please Master, set me free?"

"That's impossible, Matt! You were born to be a slave and a slave you will remain. Now shut up and let's not have any more nonsense about setting you free. That won't happen!"

The finality of Anwar's words does sink in. I now know nothing will save me. No amount of pleading from me will soften his attitude. Foolishly, I'd told him about my slave fantasies and he has taken me at my word and turned me into the slave of those wild, erotic imaginings. I am his slave - although his ownership of me is to be a brief one. Several days from now I will have a new, unknown master and an uncertain future. I think back to London and to Sven; suddenly his slavery is preferable to my own. Now I change my tactics and beg Anwar to take me back to London to serve as his slave.

Obviously, back in London, the opportunities for regaining my freedom would be greater than in the Middle-East or Africa. Suddenly, there is a glimmer of hope; all I have to do is to convince Anwar to keep me as his slave and take me back to London. Once there, escape should be easy.

"Master, take me back to London with you and allow me to serve as your slave alongside of Sven?"

"Slave, as appealing as that sounds to me it's not going to happen. I have no need for two slaves to serve me. For the moment, Sven meets all my needs most admirably and to introduce you into my household would be the cause of great disharmony. Two slaves, each competing for their Master's favour, is disruptive. It engenders jealousy between the slaves and causes the Master a great deal of worry. If I were to take you back to London, Sven would resent your presence and there would be bickering between the two of you and I would find myself adjudicating which of you is in the wrong and administering the appropriate punishment."

"Master, I promise to behave if you take me back to London with you. I won't cause any disruption and I will be on my best behaviour - I promise."

I hear my words tumbling out and I am both sickened and ashamed. How quickly I have accepted the mindset of a slave. Here I am pleading - no begging - with Anwar not to sell me and to take me with him when he returns to London. Yet, even as I beg, I know my pleas are falling on deaf ears. I have only to look at his face to know that he won't take me with him. He has steeled his heart and his mind to my plight. Nothing will save me from my fate.

Satisfied that my balls are sound, Anwar now takes hold of my cock and pulls it forward from my body. As he teases my piss-slit, he tells me.

"You are fortunate slave that you are circumcised. At least you are spared the excruciating pain of the skinning scalpel."

The very thought of circumcision appals me. I feel a sickening squirming in the pit of my stomach as my balls retract and my cock shrivels in my Master's hand. Anwar is amused at my involuntary reaction to his words and he laughs loudly.

"Does the thought of the cutter's blade frighten you, Matt? As it should! I have witnessed new slaves being skinned and it's not a pretty sight for the observer. But I imagine it's much worse for the luckless, new slave. Oh, how they beg and plead to be spared but all to no avail, of course. The pain they suffer is all too obvious and their cries of anguish are quite heartrending. It is hard to watch dispassionately and not to feel a small degree of sympathy for the unfortunate slave. But it is a necessary operation and there's no avoiding it, I'm afraid. And pain is a necessary and unavoidable part of a slave's lot; through his fear of pain, a slave learns to diligently serve his Master's needs. But let me continue with my inspection of you."

Anwar orders me to turn around with my back to him and I feel his hands resting upon my shoulders. He squeezes them hard as a test of their strength before they sweep down over the concave of my back to my ass. He grasps as ass-cheek in each hand and kneads them much as a baker kneads his dough.

"You are as impressive from the rear as you are from the front, slave. You possess wide shoulders that taper down to a narrow, trim waist and an ass that flares out into - what is that term you Westerners use to such good effect, ah, yes - 'a bubble-butt'. You do indeed possess a most beautiful bubble butt that promises true delight to its fortunate users. And I like the way your ass-cheeks sit astride the strong, muscular columns of your legs. Indeed you are a most beautiful slave and one who is assured to lift the spirits of the most jaded of masters."

The touch of his hands on my ass is electric; I know all this is just a prelude to his use of it. He slips a finger into my ass-crack and seeks out my anus. As his finger tickles and teases me he speaks - not so much to me but about me.

"Hussein has prepared you well for my use, Matt? It would seem that your ass is lubricated and ready to receive my impatient member. Is that not so, slave?"

"Yes Master!"

"Then let us begin! You may undress me slave."

In the confusion of my mind, I desperately look for an escape. But common sense and fear tell me there is to be no salvation for me. Anwar has enslaved me and I have no other recourse than to obey his command to undress him.

I think back to how Miguel had very recently removed my clothes and I adopt similar methods. Very carefully, I remove Anwar's jacket and carefully hang it in the cupboard provided for that purpose. I stand in front of my Master and momentarily hesitate unsure of my next move. Anwar instructs me.

"Unbutton my shirt and remove it!"

Shyly, I unbutton my Master's shirt and slide it off his shoulders until he stands stripped to the waist before me. Then, I drop to my knees and carefully remove his shoes and socks. Next, I unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly and ease his trousers down over his legs into a crumpled heap round his ankles and I help him to step out of them. Momentarily, the sharp intake of my breath causes me to hesitate; I am transfixed in wide-eyed astonishment by the massive, tent poling at the front of his undergarment. But a series of cuffs to my ears quickly regains my attention and gently, I slide the underpants down Anwar's legs to his feet and his hard erection springs free from its constricting confinement. Now, this man who has enslaved me stands before me as naked as I am.

But the similarity ends there! Anwar's hirsute body is that of a free man; my newly denuded one is the smooth, hairless body of a slave.

This is my first sighting of Anwar's naked body and it is truly a thing of beauty. How many times over the past few months have I longed to see him in all his naked glory, to reach out and to touch his warm, firm flesh and to feel the scorching heat of his powerful erection.

His musculature is clearly delineated and yet it lacks the unsightly bulk of the over-zealous fitness fanatic. As a gay man, I've always considered I am a connoisseur of the perfect male form and my Master doesn't disappoint me.

Anwar's body is that of a thirtyish, virile man of Middle-Eastern appearance with a strong, lithe body. His limbs, muscular chest and firm, flat stomach have a light covering of black hair. His prodigious genitalia, nestling in a thick forest of black, pubic hair stretching from thigh to thigh, are a darker hue to the rest of his body colour. Indeed his heavy balls hang down like two purplish-brown plums between his strong thighs. His handsome face, framed by a closely cropped, black beard, is dominated by dark, piercing eyes and what I now see as a cruel mouth.

With an assurance born of arrogance and vanity he towers over my crouching form. Anwar stands naked before me with all the self-assurance of a master completely in control of the situation. Of course, his culture decrees that a man will never appear nude in the company of free men especially if they are infidels. However as slaves are neither free nor men he doesn't have a problem with being naked in my presence. I am no longer free and in his eyes I am no longer a man. I am simply a Franj slave not worthy of a second thought.

Impatiently, he instructs me to.

"Hurry along, slave!"

Kneeling before Anwar, his cock is at my eye-level; indeed it pokes out at right-angles to his groin placing it just inches from my face. It has to be said that he is most generously endowed and, at a first glance, it appears that his cock is larger than my own. And like me, he is circumcised.

My face is just inches from my Master's groin and I can smell his musky masculinity. I am sorely tempted to take the initiative but being inexperienced in those matters that govern behaviour between Masters and their slaves, I am unsure of what is expected of me. As the seconds tick away, I wait for his instruction and my nervousness grows. What must I do?



  1. 31118azti - June 19, 2020, 3:56 pm

    Very erotic!

  2. scotts60143 - June 30, 2020, 9:00 am

    Very interesting chapter with Matt now being a full blown slave! Hair removed and all. Funny how many times he said he fantasized about this happening but but now that it has he is having second thoughts?? A little late for that! Anxious to see who ends up buying him at the auction. He so longed to be owned by an Arab man, but he could end up the toy of a rich African or Chinese…or almost anywhere in the world where someone has the money to buy him!

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