About a year ago, back when I was living in that shithole Squallyoaks in south London, my squatmates and I briefly owned a slave. We found him through his personal ad on Gumtree.com. “Chore Slave Seeks Dominant Abusive Master,” I believe it said
To the rest of the world our slave was a 28-year-old lawyer from Nepal, but to us he was a servant. Twice a week he would come over and do our dirty work – wash our dishes, alphabetize our VHS tapes, scrub the semen from the walls with a toothbrush – and in return we’d abuse him. Hannah would whip him with one of her various leather and chain bondage toys. Kerri would scream unknown Scottish obscenities at him in her retarded accident, occasionally throwing the remains of her TV dinners at his back. I once made him lick a wad of my saliva off the floor. It was kind of fun but also slightly disturbing if we weren’t drunk or high. However, after two months the slave stopped showing up, realizing we found the situation more humorous than we did sexually arousing. Basically he wanted a dominatrix, not three K’ed-up scumbags more interested in watching America’s Next Top Model than shaming him.
After the house-cleaning slave ditched us, some of my friends went on to get slaves of their own. They’d been given a taste of power, and they wanted more. Hannah, for a while, had a slave that would pay her to scream at him in public. Kerri found a man in Hungary who funded her weekly shaman lessons (embarrassing), as long as she engaged in sexy emails with him on a semi-regular basis. I never bothered finding another slave, perhaps because I have this thing called “conscience” which makes me feel guilty when I take advantage of others. But who knows?
Recently however, through almost no effort of my own, I acquired my second slave. Slave and I met on a sex fetish forum. My forum username is Slutever, and two months ago he messaged me asking if I ever read the sex blog of the same name. When I informed him that I was actually the author, he began casually messaging me, offering to “buy me things.” At first I felt uncomfortable about it, but after his tenth email literally begging to buy me gifts, I gave in and sent him a list of books I wanted on Amazon. Not the sexiest of all gifts, I know (I think he had lingerie in mind), but he obliged.
The day I received my first package I felt an unsettling mixture of pleasure and guilt. Some weirdo perv in Ireland had bought me these books and I had given him nothing in return (aside from maybe a boner or two). I enjoyed the feeling far more than I wanted to.