My Boss V

At that time, my self-esteem had already hit rock bottom, and only that morbid desire that occasionally surfaced within me made me feel "proud" to be scum for that macho. But I needed to get out of there, and I managed to do it thanks to external circumstances, as I felt incapable of anything on my own.

Undoubtedly, such a traumatic experience had nullified my willpower. I had to start looking for a job, but I needed a break.

In those days, I focused on my language classes and searched the internet or the newspaper for any interesting job offers. Things weren't going too well, but I was in no hurry.

I still remembered how it all started: those suggestive emails from my boss, at first involving girls humiliated by their masters, then submissive boys... And that's when that rope around my neck began to tighten.

I no longer kept those emails because, having left the company, I no longer had access to that email and couldn't see anything. Better that way.

I remember my inbox overflowing with my boss's address, and in the subject line, sexist, mocking, and highly humiliating comments. He loved to humiliate with simple remarks; he was an artist at it and knew how to make me feel like the most inferior being in the world. He didn’t need to make me swallow his piss or lick his cock; his mere perversion and character were enough to make me feel inferior.

Evidently, after having consumed his own shit, I was no longer a person to him but a pariah he could do whatever he wanted with.

But three months had passed, and everything was behind me. The problem was that it wasn't easy to escape from such a strong and intense experience. Many nights, I found myself glued to the computer, trembling with perversion, excitement, and fear, with an email half-written to my old boss, as I remembered his address perfectly, but it was a message I luckily never sent.

I had simply become a wanker of those lived morbid experiences; it excited me to write him an email telling him he was my God and that I was his slave and always would be...

I would go on and on, telling him a thousand things, confessing that I was still excited by all that, but then I'd hit cancel because I didn’t want him to have even my email address. It had taken so much to get out of all that.

The aftermath of my sexual torment was that I could no longer get aroused seeing a woman; I liked them, but I didn’t feel sexually excited. It was as if the thrill of being humiliated had annihilated any other kind of sexual desire.

If that was truly the case, I was lost; I would have to seek help, go to see a psychologist or some specialist. But I felt incapable of telling anyone what was happening to me. I was terrified and didn't see how to regain my sexual desire for women. I only got hard thinking about those terrible humiliations I suffered in that office day after day.

I so desperately wanted to escape that hell, and now I found myself facing another problem. But I couldn't tell anyone what had happened there. I would die of shame. I couldn't bear it. Nobody knew anything, except my ex-boss, of course.

Although, hopefully, he would have forgotten about me by now, hired another secretary, and was fucking her in his office in the afternoons. Thinking of it that way, maybe he, who knew what it was like to relate to guys and girls, could help me overcome my sexual block.

But no, I couldn’t write to him. I shouldn’t: he was the source of all my ills.

However, after half a year in that situation, one night I couldn't take it anymore, and I wrote him an email as respectfully as I could, without any reproach, without blaming him for anything; I didn’t want him to get mad at me, I just humbly begged him to help me.

I detailed precisely what was happening to me. It was a hypocritical email, incapable of confronting him with anything, almost self-blaming for everything, trying to get a response, a key to pull me out of that deadlock.

Several weeks passed until one fine day, an email appeared in my inbox that seemed quite extensive, with several attachments. It had taken its time; maybe he was planning to give me a valid and studied response, something really useful to cure my serious problem:

"Hello, slut, I was looking forward to having your email. It's been months since you left, and I’m almost going crazy since I had no way to contact you. I want to remind you that you are my toilet slave; just because you no longer work here doesn't mean you have no obligations to your Master. Tomorrow I want you in the office at five; don’t keep me waiting; we have a lot to do. Oh, if you have any doubts about what to do, look at the attachments; I think they are quite convincing."

I was petrified. Instead of receiving help or, at least, understanding for my problem, I received a message in those authoritarian and ruthless terms. I was going to delete the message, but still trembling from the shock, I started downloading the attachments, and to my shame and astonishment, they were photos of me sucking his cock, drinking his piss, eating shit... photos I don’t know how they had been taken, as I had never seen any hidden camera, but there was no doubt about it, and in all of them, my humiliated pig face was unmistakably visible...

That was blackmail. That was all I could say to my Master the next day in his office, but he laughed in my face and shoved his cock down my throat. There, on my knees, I swallowed his semen, tasted so many other times; that afternoon, I drank his piss, and, as always, I said yes to everything, he dressed me up as a pig with stockings and panties, and filmed me while I ate his ass, his balls, and his cock...

Everything was already the same; my destiny was to be his servant, and he would always be my God.