The new collaboration with Gen, a great Eastern BDSM artist.

When we draw gay BDSM scenes, it is common for us to picture ourselves in the characters. I am a masochist, I always imagine myself to be the one who is humiliated, beaten and tortured. Sometimes I also imagine myself as the viewer watching or the one who tortures. That's why most of my characters are somewhat fat, bearded and mature like myself.

I have maintained a respectful and entertaining collaboration with Gen, a Japanese artist who produces very exciting images. He enjoys more realistic, almost photographic, and more bloodthirsty images, with the victims shedding viscera and blood in agony.

Here he worked on a drawing of mine, making the victim younger, more muscular and oriental. The result is fantastic.

I really enjoy his work and I am very proud of our friendship and cooperation.

Here is the link for anyone who wants to know about his work.

https://gen-359-original-drawings.tumblr.com/post/173817388537/my-drawing-at

So how does it feel now that all of its fantasies have come true? Is it everything it had hoped for?

Where am i?

Who am i?

What am i?

How long have i been here?

Who is He? 

Why is He doing this?

Will i survive?

Have i died and gone to Hell?

i have no answers.

i remember nothing of before. i know nothing of the future. 

i am in a pit, i am alone, i hurt, i am frightened, i am filthy, i stink…this is all i know.

it gets dark, it gets light. 

Sometimes He comes, sometimes He doesn’t.

Occasionally He takes me out to torture me, usually He doesn’t.

Some things are always the same. 

i am always bound in this position, ankles and thighs tied together, i long ago stopped feeling them…numb. Balls battered and then pulled behind, fixed tightly. Cock tortured and fastened at the front, strangled. Hands stretched up and tied off.

i am always thirsty. He enjoys standing above at the side of the pit, pulling out his cock and pissing down on me. At first i tried to hide, now i open my mouth wide and try and catch as much of the life giving urine as possible. Sometimes He aims for my mouth, sometimes He deliberately misses, soaks my body, leaves me sitting in a pool of piss, unable to reach it…stinking.

i am always hungry. Sometimes He brings a bowl, wears thick rubber gloves, drops His shit on me..well i assume its His shit.. At first i tried to hide, now i open my mouth and stretch as far a possible to try and catch it, starving. 

This is fun for Him; he chuckles, grins, laughs, mocks. This is a nightmare for me, i sob, whine, pant, cry.

Then today He told me something devastating, something which tore into my soul and now inhabits it. After He had fed me, He stood and stared as i grunted, grovelled, gagged…pathetic. Then He dropped the bombshell…’So, how does it feel now that all of its fantasies have come true? Is it everything it had hoped for?’ He laughed at my confused expression. ‘Yes cunt, this is what it begged Me for during those online conversations, when it told Me how it wanted to be nothing more than an owned object, wanted its humanity erased. This is what we planned together. it doesn’t remember the instructions I gave it, which it followed precisely. How it willingly gave up everything left a note to ensure no one came looking for it. Came to me willingly, knelt, and begged to be broken. It remember any of that?

I stared blankly up, His words hitting like punches. Somewhere….somewhere deep inside, I knew it was true. This is what I am. This is why. This is who He is. With that knowledge came a degree of acceptance. This was my fantasy and now I had to pay the price. I didn’t remember, but I understood.

I made this drawing and sent it to my friend TWISTED SUB, asking him to write the story.

We have many fantasies in common, and I love his texts.

I loved the way he handled the theme. 

Devastated by the brutal treatment, by utter degradation, the ruined animal has already forgotten how it ended up in those conditions. He is no longer a human being, he has no past or future. Your filthy, sore body already has the same thing as the shit and the piss that covers it.

His Owner, out of sheer sadism, takes pleasure in reminding the fagot why he is there in those conditions.

Get to know his marvelous work at the following address:

https://submissive4dominant.tumblr.com/post/173632585743/where-am-i-who-am-i-what-am-i-how-long-have-i

The Hatch - another collaboration with Twisted sub

The Hatch

My world is reduced to 4 bare concrete walls, bare concrete floor, 8 feet by 6 feet. If I stand on the tips of my toes i can touch the ceiling with my head.  A plastic bucket is the only furniture. It can be dark, pitch black or it can be blindingly light, nothing in-between. Stiflingly warm or freezing control. Absolute silence or deafening sounds of any description, screams, rock music, white noise or the Voice. And then there is the Hatch…

The Hatch is all that matters in my world. It is the only constant, it is always there, watching, waiting. I fear it but i also worship it. It can give me treats, food and drink but it can equally punish me. That happens less often now, I’ve learned how to please the hatch, how not to make it angry. I’ve learned not to make a sound, even when the hatch is closed. I’ve learned to piss and shit in the bucket until it is completely full. I’ve learned to eat everything given to me, however disgusting. The hatch is creative with its punishment, a fireman’s hose stuck through and blasting me with icy water, left shivering and shaking to drip dry. Tasers applied before I can realize what is about to happen. Gas piped through which makes me want to rip my eyes out from the pain. Hot air pumped through until I feel I’m going to boil alive. And the worst thing? It can just remain closed for days on end, depriving me, starving me, dehydrating me, the contents of the bucket the only thing sustaining me. Totally alone, isolated, in darkness, nothing. Sometimes then I just kneel before it, begging it to open, promising to do anything if it will just acknowledge my presence. 

I’ve also learned to obey the Voice, the Voice that comes from nowhere, that seems to know every move i make, that comes and goes, that i sometimes think might just be in my head.  The Voice teaches me what I’ve done wrong, tells me what i must do when i get confused, tells me what i am…tells me i am forgotten outside, i don’t exist, i am nothing, i am an object. The Hatch and the Voice my only connection to anything outside my world. 

When the bucket is completely full, the Hatch gives me pills. i like them, they make me sleep really deep, who knows for how long, time has no meaning in my world. When i wake up the bucket is empty. Sometimes I’ve been shaved, or had a piece of equipment added or removed. Piercings, tattoos, suddenly appear. The last time tight rubber mittens were locked onto my hands tightly secured around my wrists with wire meaning i couldn’t use my fingers. i have no idea why, I long ago stopped questioning why. But now i can’t feel them anymore, my hands are numb, I fear they are dying, in my nightmares i imagine them rotting away. i want to say something to the Hatch but i daren’t, the Voice has told me i don’t need hands, that they are unnecessary…for the first time in however long i get scared, realize how much I am controlled, how my life is controlled in every detail and how it could end at any moment. i start crying and right on cue the Hatch opens…I see the pills…this time i don’t want to take them…don’t want to know what will have happened when I wake up. But the Hatch is supreme, i am nothing, i have no resistance to the will of the Hatch, the Voice. I take the pills and as taught open my mouth to show they have been swallowed, it doesn’t matter, the Voice is right, the Voice and the hatch know what i need, They can give and take away, that is Their right, i am nothing, i need nothing except the Hatch and the Voice, i love Them. I realize with a flash that the walls, floor and ceiling don’t matter, i don’t matter, the Hatch and the Voice They are my Masters, they are my world and that world is limitless. 

The trainee learned that his vocation was for the fagot of the company.

The transport company was small; she owned about 40 employees, almost all men.

The new trainee had come of age, eighteen, from a large, impoverished family. 

He could have been more innovative and more successful at school. Although he looked a little stupid and ignorant, he was quiet and polite.

At first, the boss seemed sensitive to his condition. He listened to his stories and knew about his financial problems and the human and health dramas his family suffered. He loaned him money, applied fees and high interest rates, and made his debt grow.

Gradually, he changed his behavior and became intolerant of his failures or delays. He cried out at him harshly and humiliatingly. He had no alternatives; he carried himself slavishly and submissively.

One day, he brutally slapped his face, and he accepted resignedly. That was just the beginning.

He began to beat him, whip him, and humiliate him more and more cruelly.

He never reacted, defended, or protested. He moaned, obeyed, and made himself available for beatings.

He was so excited by his dominance that soon, the punishments and abuse turned sexual. He ordered him to suck him, ejaculate in his face and mouth, lick his feet, and crawl at his feet. He obeyed without question and did his best.

Little by little, the boss lost the shame of beating and humiliating him in front of the other employees. The best thing is that when he forced him to lower his pants to slap his ass with his belt, his beautiful, well-sized dick was immediately hard!

The whole company concluded, by monumental erection, that he liked that treatment. It was clear that he also felt aroused by being humiliated and abused.

For years, he was beaten and abused by some employees and his owner everywhere, any time, in front of the whole team.

Over the years, he has left all trainee roles and has just become the company's pet. He served the coffee, tended the cleaning and tidying up of the tables, and swept the floor, but after these tasks, he sat for hours waiting for someone to call him to torture and abuse him sexually.

One of the managers became accustomed to tearing off his entire clothing and dragging the fagot by the ears to the bathroom to rape him. He would get excited by shaking and walking with the naked boy between the tables of other employees.

With the scene repeated daily, no one was bothered or shocked by its pathetic nature anymore. Many noticed that the naked faggot went to the bathroom with a hard-on to be abused and fucked.

At company parties, the employees would take him to the bathroom and make him suck all the dicks. They poked in his mouth and raped him. Sometimes, they told him to wipe the filthy soles of their shoes with his tongue. They made fun of keeping him hungry and thirsty all day and then serving in a pot of dog food shit and piss, making him eat everything.

He never disobeyed, complained, missed his job, or made any gesture to prevent or defend himself from the blows. He obeyed the cruelest of orders and accepted the most brutal beating in silence and with his cock hard and dripping.

Indeed, he knew that he was an inferior animal, that this was his function, and that they should treat him this way. One day, faced with financial difficulties, the company had to dismiss part of the team. 

The owner of the company had to sell the faggot to a competing company.

He was never seen again, neither in the company nor the family.

The constant brainwashing worked.

Years ago, I discovered the Twisted-sub blog posts. I loved the perversities and cruelties he described. Many fantasies and situations he told me were very close to my fantasies and kinks. I was excited about a lot of them.

I offered to collaborate and contribute to his work.

The author asked me to illustrate one of his most perverted texts.

The constant brainwashing worked.

The fag had been put in a sty for six months, with his vocal cords cut, naked, covered in dirt, eating only scraps of food, and curling up with his foster pig family at night to keep warm while listening to his reconditioning tapes. That's what he saw when the mirror was placed in front of his snout. 

His owner enjoyed hearing the pig's grunts and screams of shock and horror at seeing what he had become.

His skin no longer looked human; it had stains of dirt and wounds, making it look more like pig skin. His body hair was encrusted by feces, and urine formed hard, dark crusts on his face, chest, belly, and head. He no longer thought, reasoned, or even remembered his previous life; he only felt hunger, cold, and smells; the smells that before would make him nauseous now pleased and attracted him.

The other pigs stuck their snouts up his ass all the time, sniffed, and licked his dirty, smelly dick. He liked it when pigs licked his dirtiest, smelliest parts. He began to reciprocate, sticking his nose into the pigs' anuses, licking the holes and the most stinking and contaminated parts of the giant pigs. He began to enjoy the smells and the taste of the dirt he licked.

One day, one of the more giant pigs simply mounted him and fucked him horny and violently. When he felt the pig's weight on his hip and the pig's dick inside him, he felt like part of the hovel; he felt like a horny sow, pleased, and enjoyed being fucked!

The employees and their boss laughed, seeing the pleasure and excitement the sow felt being fucked by all the pigs in the sty.

From then on, every evening, the employees and their boss had fun choosing the giant pigs and watching with sadism and horny the most lascivious sow in the sty, moaning with lust and coming while being fucked repeatedly.

With this, the transformation process was finally complete.

Our daily whipping scene, much to the family's delight.

My parents reacted harshly to the mistakes made by the household servants. Among them, the young Polish coachman irritated them most. He was handsome, poor, uneducated, and seemingly unable to adapt to the rigid discipline imposed by the estate.

Most of the servants were illiterate and struggled to understand French, which only increased my father’s frustration. Convinced that fear and obedience were inseparable, the Baron invited a specialist in “discipline” to instruct the household. The man compared servants to animals that needed training through commands, severe punishment, and reward.

Day after day, he demonstrated his methods in the dining room, using the coachman as an example before the family. The young servant was summoned to the room, ordered to undress, kneel, and obediently endure the humiliations and brutal beatings in silence, while the atmosphere in the room became increasingly disturbing. What was presented as discipline seemed to hide something darker beneath the surface: fascination, cruelty, and power mingled in ways I only understood years later.

I felt a mix of excitement and fear, but I believe many in that room felt aroused and pleased at seeing the Polish man's strong body, naked and being whipped.

Looking back, I realize those rituals shaped my understanding of authority, desire, and violence. The carriage house, the stable, the formal rooms of the estate — all became stages for tensions the family refused to name openly.

The other pleasure of whipping a stupid animal!

It's just another version of the design posted. Less bloody, but I liked the colors. Just learning how to use the features of Photoshop.