Cash Slave

Cash Slave

A Cash Slave is where a master believes he has the right to take money off a slave. This comes from the idea of a slave is there to serve its Master in anyway it can. Some BDSM website, like Slaveboys, ban all posts where people are looking for Cash Slaves. This is for the simple reason that it’s mostly people trying to take advantage. I have taken tributes off regular lads before, but never tried to search out Cash Slaves. The boi I have had the longest BDSM relationship wrote up his thoughts about Cash Slaves, so I have decided to let him speak on the topic rather than me:

For me two things are most wrong and most likely to put me off so-called ‘cash slavery’. One: if it’s a demand coming from the Master, rather than a need to tribute, to spoil, to spend on someone worthy, coming from the slave – then what differentiates it from pure and simple prostitution?

Two: This tired old business of ‘fag’ and ‘scum’ and all of that nonsense, particularly when it’s depressingly homophobic, and even more so when it’s very clear to anyone whose access to the web goes beyond this site that a lot of those so-called ‘straight’ Masters are anything but, all of that is just pathetic, and a total turn-off.

There’s a man I call Boss, one of two I have ever truly thought of in this sense to this day. He was the first man to take my foot fetish beyond its safe and repressed boundaries, to force me to sniff day-old socks, to lick a pair of trainers if I really wanted to get to the meaty size 11s inside them. He was the first man to hold my head down on his sweaty sock and tell me ‘what a dirty cunt you must be if you get hard on sniffing a Man’s socks and lapping up his sweat from his stinking feet’, which, to my utter surprise (this goes 15 years back…) made me ROCK HARD. He showed me who I am, where I belong, what I need to be happy. I still think of it as the fucking pinnacle of my entire sex-life, that, back in the days when he didn’t have Sky and I did, he would come to watch the football, and I would have his beers ready for him, his pack of fags, and spend two hours of bliss made up of a first half of him watching while I got busy on his feet, his balls, his pits, his dick; a second half of him watching while I did exactly the same – and a break in between when he’d roll me over and fuck me senseless.

I was never told ‘pay up faggot’ or such shit. But I have been the source of financing all of his internet presence for 15 years, paying for memberships etc, as well as, after I really pleaded with him to allow me to do this, buying every pair of shoes, every pair of socks, and every pair of underwear he has worn in the last decade. Who should I call my Master? Some jumped-up little oik who thinks this is a way to boost his ego while denying to himself that he’s a whore? Or Him?

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