This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. Or, if you've read all the other chapters so far, I advise you to be very, very sorry, and never do it again. I welcome your feedback, and hope you have enjoyed the story.
A Number Of Nights Chapter 11
The email from his Master told the boy that the block of time the next day was to begin a bit differently than he was used to. He was to meet Master at a store near where Master lived.
When the time arrived, the boy was there, waiting for Master by the front door as he'd been instructed. Master Ryan arrived a few minutes late, and simply walked past the boy; the slave followed him in. The Master led him back to the shoe department, and picked out a style of high-tops that were flashier than the boy would usually wear. "Find a size of these that fit you, boy."
The slave tried on a couple of pairs, then went with the larger of the two. The Master led him to the counter, and then paid for the boy's shoes. He walked out of the store with them, and told the slave to meet him back at his house.
"Strip down to your underwear, slave," were the first words out of the Master's mouth when they had both arrived. The slave stripped out of his clothes quickly and neatly, and knelt before his Master.
"These are a present for you, boy," the Master said, giving him the shoe box. "From now on, you need my permission to wear any other shoes."
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master!" the slave said enthusiastically.
"Go ahead and put them on, boy. Let me take a look at you."
The slave sat on the floor and put the sneakers on without socks, then stood, head bowed, while his Master inspected him. "Not bad, boy. The marks on your back have faded well. How do they feel?" The Master ran his thumbnail down one of the stripes on the boy's back. The boy hissed through his teeth.
"They feel all right, Master. Better than this slave thought they would by now," the boy replied.
"Good to hear it, boy. Because we're going to be adding to them tonight." The Master smacked the boy's ass through the fabric of the boxer briefs he wore.
"Sir?"
"Part of my ambition here is to get you into better shape, so I've come up with a way to get you motivated." The Master circled him, running his hands over the boy's skin. "So tonight, you get a spanking. Seventy-five strokes."
"Yes, Master."
"I will, however, give you a chance to work some of them off. You get two sets of pushups, and two sets of situps. Each one you complete will take one stroke off your total. Ready?"
The slave's shoulders had fallen, and he was breathing deeply. "Yes, Master."
"Do twenty each time, and you're good. Let's see you do twenty-five pushups."
The slave dropped to his knees, and then to his chest on the floor. He braced his hands on the floor, and lifted himself up in a good pushup, fell again, and did another. He was struggling by the tenth one, but managed to persevere until sixteen, where he failed to raise himself more than a couple of inches off the floor.
"Fifteen off! That leaves you with sixty lashes to go. Take a minute, and then let's see you do some situps."
The boy remained lying on the floor while the Master paced around him, and then the Master commanded him to start. He rolled over onto his back, wincing with pain, and the Master put one foot across his feet and stepped down. "That should help. Let's go, boy; touch your elbows to your knees with each one."
The boy strained even with the first one; he got up to ten, then collapsed on the floor.
"Only twenty-five off so far, boy. This is going to hurt," the Master said.
On the next set of pushups, the slave didn't make it to eleven. And the situps only took seven off the total.
"Let's see," the Master said. "Fifteen, ten, ten, seven... that's forty-two. Leaving you with thirty-three strokes."
The slave was lying on the ground, looking a bit winded. "Yes, Master."
"On your knees, boy," the Master said. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to do this every week. Every week, you'll have seventy-five to work off. If you want to avoid them, you're going to have to start getting stronger, fast. How you do it is up to you."
"Yes, Master," the slave replied.
"If you want my help with it, you can beg me for it later. For now, it's time for your punishment. Get naked." The slave stripped off his underwear and kicked off his sneakers. The Master kicked an ottoman towards the boy. "Get over that, ass in the air, now."
"Yes, Sir." The slave scrambled to drape himself over the ottoman, and waited. The Master brought out the leather cuffs, and put them on the slave's ankles and wrists, and then locked them, ankle to wrist, on either side of the ottoman. The boy's ass was up, and spread wide. The Master then brought out a small wooden paddle.
"I was going to add on fifty for the punishment you earned last night by letting that plug drop out of your ass, but I'll give you a chance to work that off later. Brace yourself, boy. This is going to hurt."
The first blow from the paddle was light, and the boy almost sighed with relief. The Master increased the strength he was using gradually, though, and the cumulative effect of all the blows on the boy's ass added up quickly. Soon the boy's ass was burning, and he was dreading every stroke. By the fifteenth he was struggling against his bonds, and by the twentieth tears were leaking from his eyes. By the time the last blows fell, gently, on his reddened ass, he was sobbing and begging wordlessly.
The Master left him bound for a few minutes while the slave caught his breath, and then he unlocked the padlocks between the slave's cuffs, and let him get off the ottoman and onto his knees, gingerly. Then Master Ryan locked the slave's wrists together behind him, and padlocked his ankle cuffs together as well.
He sat on the floor before the kneeling slave, and wiped the slave's face off with the slave's own t-shirt. "Okay, boy. Okay, it's over. You took that well. Just make sure there's less to give you next time."
"Yes, Master," the boy said, his voice hoarse. "Thank you, Master. This slave will work hard to be strong for Master."
"Good boy. That's my good boy. You ready to work off your punishment from last night now?" The Master was looking at his phone.
"Yes, Master, anything this slave can do to please Master," the slave replied.
"You've got fifteen minutes to get me off. Do it in ten, and I'll give you a chance to cum too." The Master looked at his phone. "Starting... now."
The slave, hands bound behind him, instantly dove for the crotch of the Master's jeans with his face; he unbuttoned them quickly, and then struggled for a while with the fly before being able to pull it down with his teeth. He bit carefully at the crotch of his Master's jeans, and pulled down hard to get them out of the way; they slid down about a foot. Then the boy moved back up and grasped the waistband of the Master's underwear, and pulled them down below the Master's nuts.
The Master was half-hard already, so the boy took his cock in his mouth in its entirety, and started sucking, at first gently, then with gradually increasing pressure. He didn't try any of his usual tricks or techniques; he simply moved his mouth firmly up and down his Master's shaft, his tongue working gently along it in a similar rhythm. A couple of minutes of this, and his Master started groaning.
The boy was bent over the Master, mouth working his cock; with his hands bound behind him, he couldn't support himself, and so he was relying on his back and stomach muscles to keep him upright and working. Only a couple of minutes in, he could feel his already-abused muscles threatening to give way. He kept his rhythm going, though, feeling the burning in his back and stomach muscles getting worse by the moment. He concentrated on his Master's cock, the taste and smell of it, the idea that he was pleasing his Master, and he redoubled his efforts to get his Master off as quickly as Master wanted.
His continual and determined stimulation kept building; the Master laid back and let the sensation wash over him, and then realized that the sensations were building on themselves, gradually getting him closer and closer to release. The slave's determined motion moved him to the edge of orgasm quickly, and the slave felt a couple of initial twitches, and then the Master's cock let out a gusher of cum into the slave's eager mouth, then pulled the slave back and finished cumming all over the slave's upturned face.
"Nine minutes, boy. Nicely done," said Master Ryan. "So, no punishment. And you get a chance to get off. Let me see your hands."
The boy maneuvered until his hands were within his Master's reach, and Master Ryan unlocked them, then locked them back together in front of him. "Okay, boy. You've got ten minutes to get off while licking my feet. Go."
The slave lay on the floor face-up at the Master's feet, and started licking the soles of the Master's shoes, while his bound hands went to work on his own cock. Master Ryan wiped his own cum off the slave's face with his sole, smudged it around, and let the slave lick it off him. Soon the slave's face was nestled between the Master's sneakers, and he was licking at them furiously. The Master lodged his heel in the boy's mouth, and used the boy's teeth to pry his sneaker off, then rubbed his sweaty sock in the boy's mouth as the boy moaned and stroked himself furiously.
In the end, it took only six minutes for the boy to spurt his cum all over himself.
"Clean it off and eat it, boy," said the Master.
The slave scooped up his cum off of his skin, and ate it as the Master moved over to his recliner, pulling his jeans up as he went.
"You owe me a story, slave," the Master said.
The slave stood. "Yes, Master.
The dog limped through the city, in what he thought, what he hoped was the direction of the restaurant he'd had in mind. Though he wasn't quite sure; he didn't navigate the city so much as drift through it, normally, and now that he had a destination in mind, it was difficult to find his way through the red haze of the pain from his leg. He had walked much longer than he'd thought would be necessary, and was on the verge of giving up and lying down, when he heard a kind voice call out to him.
There was a man, tall and bald and rough, calling to him from a construction site. His appearance was intimidating, but there was a note of compassion in his voice. The dog would normally have run, but under the circumstances, he stopped, looked over, and wagged his tail hesitantly.
The man approached carefully, calmly, and gradually got to where he could reach out and touch the dog's coat. Instead of grabbing him, though, as the dog had feared, the man reached out and stroked his fur, sitting down on a curb to do so.
Even through the pain of his leg, the dog shuddered with a deep pleasure; the man's touch was reassuring, strong. He sagged against the hand petting him.
Slowly, the man gained his confidence, and the dog gave himself over to his attentions. The man got him into the back of his car, and drove him to a vet's office, where the man stood by him, reassuring him that everything was going to be all right, as the doctor ministered to his wounds.
The leg turned out not to have been broken, apparently, as he didn't need a cast, but he was drugged and dopey when the vet had finished with him. The man took him home, made him a makeshift bed, with a cereal bowl for a water dish, and the food the vet had given him in another, and left the dog to sleep for the night.
The man kept the dog with him while the dog recovered, and all of the man's efforts to find the dog's owner were, of course, futile. As he recovered, the dog got to know the man, know his habits and his voice and his smell, and he began to listen to the man's commands; it was the least that he could do, seeing as the man had saved his life.
In time, the man came to see that the dog had some intelligence, and in order to help his recovery, began training him down at the park. He taught the dog to fetch, to come when called, and a variety of other tricks, most involving tennis balls. The dog picked up on them quickly, and well, and came to find that he looked forward to their training sessions, even though they did pain his wounded leg some.
As he healed, he began planning his escape. Now that he was well again, it was time to go and roam the city. But the dog found himself putting off his departure; every day he said to himself he should leave, and every day he found a new excuse to stay. And gradually he came to look inside himself, and found that the void that he'd had inside him since before he could remember, was gone. It had been filled. It wasn't the man's love that had done it, as he'd been loved before; nor was it his love for the man, as he'd loved others as well, and still been hollow inside.
After a time, the dog came to realize that it was his service to the man which was what had healed him; belonging to the man, being focused on the man's needs instead of his own, having someone else to serve, someone who determined the course of his life. It was everything he had ever wanted.
The dog was exuberant; whatever had given him this gift had made him happier than he could ever have been in life as a man. And it was in this joyful mood that the Master took him, for a special treat, to a distant park across the city where the dog could romp through woods with him; a park which the dog vaguely recognized, but couldn't be bothered to remember.
And when they came into the grove, the nymph remembered the dog. She saw that he'd found happiness in the form that she'd given him, and that angered her; this was supposed to be a punishment, a curse, and here this ridiculous man had found himself happy because of it. She recalled the pain in the soul of the man he had wronged, and she rescinded the curse.
The man searched and searched for the dog through the woods until it grew dark, but all he could find was a young man sitting by the stream, who looked at him with tears in his eyes, but declined any help.
And so the man returned to his house, and after a while he packed up the dog's things, and stopped looking through the ads in the papers and online looking for any sign of the dog that he'd lost.
And then one day, there was a knock on his door. A young man, who looked vaguely familiar, stood there. "I have a strange story to tell you," he said.
It took a while for the man to believe him, and a while longer for the man to accept his service, but eventually, they both adapted. And the dog belongs to the man to this day."
"That's a nice ending, boy," Master Ryan said.
"Thank you, Sir," the slave replied, bowing his head slightly.
"Come here, boy." The Master patted his lap, and the boy came over and sat down, half on the arm of the chair, and half on his Master, his head against his Master's shoulder.
"You like the ones with happy endings, don't you boy?" The Master asked, stroking the boy's hair.
"Yes, Master. In stories, you get to choose how to end the telling, at what point it will be perfect to go off and leave the characters' fates to conjecture. In life, it's not as simple."
"Why do you tell stories, boy? Why these stories?" Master Ryan asked.
"Master, the stories help us see our lives better; stories give us perspective on who we are, on how to conduct ourselves, and how not to. Especially in this community; we live in stories. We do scenes together, we trade tales of our best nights, our greatest experiences, and our worst. We even have magic words. The stories are a lens through which we see the world clearer for a while.
"That's why this slave likes the ones with happy endings," the slave said, his face half-buried in his Master's shirt. "This slave wants to see the world that way."
"And if you were telling our story, boy, how would it go from here?" Master Ryan asked.
The slave's hand moved over his Master's chest as he talked. "Sir, the next few weeks, this slave would become more and more comfortable in its new position; soon it would learn to take pride in its service to Master, and at the alterations that Master would make to its body and its mind. It would work to perfect itself, to become the slave that Master deserves. It might enter college again, with the proper motivation this time. Master would continue to learn to use this slave to bring himself to new thresholds of pleasure, exploring the varieties of sexual thrills that this slave could provide, and enjoying the services it learns to perform for Master. And someday, this slave would be invited to become Master's completely, to wear Master's formal collar, to live as part of Master's household, and to belong to Master body and soul, heart and mind."
And that's the scene. The Master is reclining, fully clothed, in his armchair, one arm around the slave's shoulders, the other stroking the slave's hair. He's looking down at the slave, a smile on his face that shows pride, and hope, and love in equal measure. The slave is naked, fetters on his ankles, and manacles upon his wrists. A portion of the slave's ass is visible, and it's still bright red from the earlier paddling. One hand has snuck in the open neck of Master Ryan's shirt, and is resting in the chest hair there. His face is turned up towards his Master, and on it there's a smile made up, in equal measure, of pride and hope and love.
"And they lived happily ever after."
The End