Brutal Water Retention Training: Bottle Deep, Slave Obeys
No lube. No mercy. Just a big plastic bottle and a gay slave on all fours, shaking. The master’s order is clear: take it all. The bottle’s base stretches his hole wide open, deeper than anything he’s ever felt. He screams, but he doesn’t stop. Because slaves don’t stop. They obey. The bottle goes in slow, inch by inch, his body twitching, belly bloating. It’s training. It’s pain. It’s total control. Once it’s in, he’s ordered to hold. No release. Just pressure. Master walks around him, watching his toy struggle, leaking a little, begging for permission to let go. This is more than humiliation. It’s a lesson in ownership. When a master says “hold it,” the gay slave holds it. Until it hurts. Until he’s full. Until he’s broken and begging to piss himself. Arab domination. Master control. Slave obedience. Nothing else matters.
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The Slave’s Arrival
The room was stark, its concrete walls echoing with the sound of my bare feet as I stepped inside. I was pale, my skin almost luminous under the harsh fluorescent light, a stark contrast to the man who awaited me. He stood there, tall and imposing, his olive skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my knees tremble. He was my master, an Arab man whose presence filled the space, and I was his slave, a white boy who’d come to serve. The air was thick with the scent of him—musk, spice, and something raw that set my gay heart racing.
I’d known I was gay since I could remember, but this was a new frontier—a surrender to a man whose dominance was as natural as breathing. “Kneel,” he commanded, his voice a deep growl with an accent that rolled over me like thunder. I dropped instantly, the cold floor biting into my knees, my head bowed in instinctive submission. “You’re mine now,” he said, stepping closer, his boots thudding against the ground. I nodded, my throat tight, already lost to the power of my master.
He circled me, a predator assessing his prey, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he tilted my chin up with a rough hand. “Look at me,” he ordered, and I did, meeting eyes that burned with control. “You’re so pale,” he murmured, almost to himself, his fingers tracing my jaw. “A perfect slave to mark.” My breath hitched, anticipation curling in my gut—this was why I’d come, to be claimed by him in ways I’d only dreamed of.
The First Command
My master stepped back, his gaze never leaving me as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest covered in dark hair, muscles rippling with every move. “Strip,” he said, and my hands moved before my mind caught up, peeling off my clothes until I was bare before him, my white skin stark against the gray room. He smirked, a flash of teeth that sent a shiver through me. “Good,” he said. “A slave should be naked for his master.”
The gay hunger in me flared as he approached again, his scent overwhelming—leather, sweat, and something uniquely him. He grabbed my hair, tugging my head back, forcing me to look up at him. “You’ll learn to please me,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered, the title slipping out naturally, a pledge to my Arab master. His grip tightened, a spark of pain that made me gasp, and I felt myself sinking deeper into his control.
“Crawl to me,” he commanded, stepping back to a low bench against the wall. I obeyed, my hands and knees scraping the floor, my pale body moving toward him like a moth to flame. He watched, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with something dark and possessive. When I reached him, he patted the bench. “Up,” he said, and I climbed onto it, kneeling again, my heart pounding as I awaited his next move. This was my role as his slave—to follow, to submit, to be his.
The Mark of Ownership
The master stood over me, his shadow swallowing me whole as he unbuckled his belt, the sound of metal clinking sending a jolt through my spine. “You’re too clean,” he said, his voice a rumble that vibrated in my chest. “A slave should bear his master’s mark.” I didn’t fully understand until he stepped closer, his hands moving to his pants, undoing them with a deliberate slowness that made my mouth dry.
My gay desire surged as he towered over me, his presence overwhelming, his intent clear. “Look at me,” he said again, and I did, my eyes wide as he positioned himself above me. Then it came—a warm, steady stream, his piss hitting my chest, running down my pale skin in rivulets that glistened in the light. I gasped, the shock of it mingling with a strange, twisted thrill. “Take it,” he growled, and I did, tilting my head back, letting it splash across my face, my lips, marking me as his slave.
The heat of it was intense, the scent sharp and primal, a claim that sank into my very being. My master watched, his expression fierce, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice thick with possession as the stream slowed, leaving me drenched, my white skin stained with his mark. I trembled, overwhelmed, my gay soul reveling in the degradation, the ownership, the sheer power of his act.
He stepped back, admiring his work, the way my body glistened with his essence. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and that word—coming from my Arab master—was a reward, a validation of my surrender. I stayed there, dripping, my knees pressed into the bench, a slave baptized in his dominance, every inch of me his to command.
The Aftermath of Submission
The master didn’t touch me right away, letting me feel the weight of what he’d done, the wetness clinging to my skin like a second layer. “You took it well,” he said, his tone softer now, but still laced with authority. I nodded, my voice lost to the haze of submission, my pale body a canvas for his desires. “Thank you, Sir,” I managed, the words shaky but sincere, a gay prayer to my Arab god.
He sat on the bench beside me, his thigh brushing mine, the heat of him a contrast to the cooling liquid on my skin. “A slave must know his place,” he said, his hand finally resting on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. “You’ve learned yours.” His fingers slid down, tracing the path his piss had taken, and I shivered under his touch, the intimacy of it cutting through the rawness of the act. My master was pleased, and that was everything.
The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the aftermath, the scent of him mingling with mine. “You’ll wear this for me,” he said, smearing the wetness across my chest, a possessive gesture that made my pulse race. I nodded again, my white skin no longer pristine but marked, claimed, a slave transformed by his will. The gay connection between us deepened, a bond forged in this act of dominance and surrender.
The Bond Eternal
As time stretched on, my master pulled me closer, his arm wrapping around me, pulling my damp body against his. “You’re mine,” he repeated, the words a mantra that sank into my bones. I leaned into him, the warmth of his skin a comfort against the chill of my own, my pale flesh pressed to his darker frame. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered, my voice steadier now, buoyed by the certainty of my place as his slave.
The gay dynamic we’d built was undeniable, a power exchange that left me marked in more ways than one. He tilted my head up, his lips brushing my forehead—a rare tenderness that contrasted the roughness of before. “You’ll serve me again,” he said, a promise and a threat, and I nodded eagerly, craving more of his dominance, more of his mark.
The room faded around us, the concrete and light irrelevant compared to the heat of his body, the weight of his claim. My master had taken me, broken me, rebuilt me with his piss and his will, and I was grateful. As his slave, I’d found my purpose—white skin stained by an Arab hand, a gay surrender that would bind us forever.
