By firesix
published April 30, 2019

Noah never should have stopped when I called out his name.

Had a chat on the Discord about my worst fantasies… and decided to write about them. I’m going to write more of these sadistic shorts so if anyone has any suggestions feel free to tell me in the comments. I just needed to start writing again and I consider this as good a place to start as any. And it gets me off too. Anyway, enjoy. Mwah.

The worst mistake Noah ever made in his life was accepting my request to have a selfie with him. It wasn’t actually a selfie, of course. There was a nice big spiral on the screen that he only really had to look into for a couple seconds, and then he was gone.

And he really was beautiful. 6’6 and muscular, long blond hair, stubbly beard and piercing blue eyes like a fucking Norse god. I loved every little bit of him. I always had. And being so beautiful was going to cost him.

It would’ve looked, to anyone else, like we were having a conversation. A fan talking to his favorite baseball player. Nothing worth taking a second look at. But it was a lot more than that. A lot more.

“Can you hear me, Noah?”


“You’re under my control, aren’t you?”


“Great. Now listen closely. At 5 PM, exactly, I want you to go to the gym and work out. Work out as hard as you fucking can. Get as big a pump as you possibly can. And don’t shower - I want you nice and sweaty. And then come to my house. Immediately.” I told him my address. I repeated it a couple times, just to make sure it sank in - you never know the first time. I knew he heard me, even though drool was now escaping his mouth and dripping down his chin.

Then I snapped my fingers, and he was back.

“Wait, what…” He looked down at me, eyebrows furrowing. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” I replied, shrugging. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Wait, no - you showed me something weird - I…” But I was already walking away. I knew I’d see him later.

At 8 PM, the doorbell rings. I find Noah at my door, sweaty and disheveled, his long hair sticking to his neck. Huge, muscular chest rising and falling with each breath. He looks like a fucking god. I can’t help but crack a smile at the baffled look in his pretty blue eyes. He stands there, immobile, for a solid thirty seconds, even as I head back into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. Then I beckon him inside.

“Come on in. What took you so long?”

“I don’t understand what I’m doing here,” Noah manages, voice cracking. “I don’t know what’s going on. I just know I was working out, and then I, all of a sudden I, I was here. I don’t… would you please just tell me what’s going on.”

I’m not completely sure what to tell him, to be honest. “You’re hypnotized,” I choose to say. “And you will be for the rest of your life. And-”

“No, that’s - that’s not true. I’ve been, I’ve been doing things you didn’t tell me to do all day. You can’t do that. That can’t be true.”

“It is true. Shut up and let me talk.”

“I just don’t get it-”

“There’s nothing to get, you big bitch. If you talk back one more time you’re going to be in big fucking trouble. Anyway, if you’ll just let me fucking talk. You’re mine now. I know it’s gonna be hard to adjust to, but from now on, that’s just the way it is. And I can do anything I want. Let’s start with this: you’re going to live with me.”

“No I’m not. No I’m not.”

“You fucking…” I can’t really get angry at him, seeing how gorgeous he looks standing helplessly in my living room, but the point isn’t really to be honest with him. The point is to do what I want, and I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer badly. I snap my fingers.

“What’s your name?

“Faggot,” he answers instinctively. His eyes widen in shock. “No. That’s not my name. My name is Faggot. Faggot. Faggot Bitch. No, oh my god. Oh my god. I don’t - I don’t remember -”

“Your name is Noah,” I remind him. “Now say it.”

“My name is Faggot. I’m - I’m Faggot. Oh my god. Oh my god.” His face is red, entire body shaking with humiliation. Tears are already forming in the corner of his eyes. “That’s not my name. You - you know that’s not my name. You just said my name.”

“Do you remember what I said your name was?”

“No.” I watch the first tear slide down his cheek. “No I don’t.”

“So you’ve forgotten your name.”

“No!” he yells, tremors in his voice, tears streaming down his face and into his beard. “No, I haven’t! I haven’t forgotten my name! My name is Faggot! My name is fucking Faggot!” And then he collapses. His legs completely give out as he falls to his knees on the carpet. And then he sobs.

I grab him under his shoulders and drag him down the stairs, even as he screams and cries like a big baby. I feel like it’s finally sunk in to him that I’m in complete control of him, and that he’s never going to get his life back - well, not the life he knows, at least. But I don’t care. I really don’t. It’s hard to care when he looks the way he does.

I toss him on the ground and grab the handcuffs. He struggles a bit, of course, but through his incessant crying, his body has grown weak. I lay him on his stomach. Then I grab my cock, jack it a couple times, and slide it between his tight, muscular asscheeks. He doesn’t even move.

I start slowly, but before long, I’m jackhammering him with all the force in my body. He shakes, but his cock quickly hardens under him. Thanks, in part, to the reinforcement I whisper into his ear as I go. By the time I reach my orgasm, he’s muttered maybe 20 times, “I live to serve my master, I live to serve my master,” and he only stops once he’s completely passed out and the words have sunk irrevocably into his head.

God, Noah is pretty.

Or should I say Faggot.

Noah moved out of his old apartment, just like I told him to. As soon as he’d woken up after fucking him the very first time, all the fight was gone. He still cries, and still begs, and sometimes he’s still bad. But of course, he pays for it every time. Not a single mistake, not a single bad game goes unpunished. All mine. He’s all fucking mine.

He’s in my kitchen right now, cooking me dinner in a cute little apron like always. He doesn’t like it very much, but he doesn’t have a choice. He still doesn’t remember his name. Sure, when he sees his name on the screens in the baseball stadiums, or when a fan calls it from the stands, he still hears it, but it escapes from his mind the second he looks away. It’s inevitable. It’s beautiful. Sometimes, even I forget it. As far as I’m concerned, he used to be Noah. He was Noah before he met me. Now, he’s Faggot. He’d even tell you so himself.

He’s lucky. I’ve been treating him better than he deserves, the past couple days. He had a pretty bad outing last time - raised his ERA above 5. I punished him, of course. He punched himself in the face for almost five minutes, one for every hit he’d given up this season. He went until he started bleeding and crying too hard to continue, and then I let him stop - and he should be grateful. I could’ve let him keep going. I should’ve let him keep going. The great thing about having him under my control is that I don’t even have to hurt him. He hurts himself.

The threat of me taking away all his baseball ability is ever-present, of course. It’d be an easy punishment for me to inflict, and I absolutely would if I felt it was necessary. The next time he talks back, in fact, he’ll forget how to pitch for a few days. I have no problems with that. Humiliation is just part of his life.

He’s told me that some of his friends found out about this whole thing. Probably because of my programming. Every time he tries to tell someone else about this, his enslavement, his constant torment, he asks them to fuck his ass instead. And apparently, they have. A lot. The big, beefy long-haired slut is apparently a popular cumdump for his old friends. And he hates it. He cries about it sometimes. I hear his weak little sobs when I lock him in his cage at night, or when I make him kneel at my feet as I eat dinner. But I don’t care. I really don’t care at all.

“The food better be ready soon, bitch,” I call out, my patience wearing thin.

“Yes sir. I’m sorry sir. I deserve to be punished, sir.” He punches himself in the face. “It’s almost done, sir.”

“I was thinking about asking online for more ideas on what to do with you,” I tell him a few minutes later as he brings me my plate. He has no plate, of course - just a dog bowl on the ground, like usual. “How would you like that, Faggot?”

“Oh, please don’t, sir. This is enough, sir. I don’t want you to hurt me any more.”

“You forgot my title, bitch.” I slap him across the face, then snap my fingers. “Good luck in your game tomorrow now that you’ve forgotten how to play.”

He cries, again, softly, as he eats dinner from a bowl on the floor. And somewhere in his head, he’s probably wondering how he sunk this low.

But I’m not done with him. Not even close. And no matter how humiliating, degrading, and sadistic my ideas may be, I’ll go through with them anyway. And if you have any ideas? Well, that’s your decision. But I wouldn’t mind if you gave me a suggestion as to what to do with him next. I wouldn’t mind at all.

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