Three years of slavery: being freed. Part eight.

One day, when I was alone in the house, I saw a guy whom I hadn't seen in years, the guy who had made the contract for me to be in slavery for three years. The time had run out, and I didn't even remember it.

I had been delivered to my Owner by this same agent, who maintained a sex app on the internet for the sale and rental of submissive and masochistic fagots to sadistic and dominant Owners.

Years ago, he must have charged my Owner a sum of money for handing me over for three years, with the rules that he and I established that they shouldn't cut any part out or break any bone. 

For three years, I served as a sex toy for my Owner and his boyfriend without being able to complain about any breach of contract.

They held me captive, used and tortured me cruelly, fed me, and altered my body by injecting so many things that I didn't even know what they were doing.

Now, the guy from the app arrives at the house, brings a change of clothes, asks me to get dressed, and tells me to take off the collar. I obeyed and followed him to the car. He left me in a small, cheap hotel room where I could shower and find other clothes.

He handed me a bank card; I saw I had a good cash balance. In a few weeks, I tried to get used to getting my life back, going back to work, and having an everyday life.

It had been three years since I slept in a bed or wore a piece of clothing; none of this was familiar or made sense to me anymore.

I looked in the mirror, and what I saw didn't seem like me. The pig nose, pointy tits, huge balls, and dick made me look pathetic and grotesque. Without the grooming that kept my hair short, I was hairy and bearded in a short time, and my entire body was covered in thick, long hair, which made it look more like an animal than a person. 

I drooled when I spoke, and it seemed like I had never used forks or knives; I had lost my coordination in front of a plate. The most challenging act was talking; I couldn't articulate the words naturally, my voice sounded like a growl, and I couldn't even think usually.

I lost the ability to control myself; I was shitting and urinating in my pants uncontrollably. 

When I went out on the streets, I felt ashamed of the ugly, smelly trash I had become. I didn't feel like people; I felt like I was dressed up and pretending to be something I wasn't - I felt like I wasn't a person anymore.

When I met a familiar face, the person didn't recognize me; they looked at me with strangeness and disgust. I wasn't me anymore.

I was afraid to leave my room and fell into deep depression and sadness. I desperately missed the kitchen floor, nudity, and slavery. I felt like my place in the world was chained and naked.

Desperate, I called the man who freed me and asked if I could go back and be my Master's slave again.