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Even The First - PART ELEVEN
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Even The First - PART ELEVEN
He always thought about fucking me.
Paul came home extremely late. I heard the car. I ran up the basement stairs as fast as I could, my bare feet hitting the bare wood loudly. Paul was already standing behind the glass front door; illuminated from above by a movement-activated flood-lamp he looked like a powerful alien. I opened the door and knelt, immediately looking at his feet. He stepped forward. I lowered my face to lick his boots, dark beneath the shadow of my head; that is how he had told me to greet him always. I repeatedly kissed the smooth, hard, shiny, black leather toe. There was a fine grain dusty grit caked in places round the edge. I opened my mouth, put my tongue out and lavished it across the surface, loosening the dirt with my spit, eating it.
This was typical. Paul wanted his boots clean. Sometimes if they were particularly dirty he would get me to remove them and he would enter the house in his socks, leaving me to clean them up. I was punished if his boots were not clean. Soon after I arrived Paul had taught me how to show him proper respect when he entered the house. He said it was only fair that I demonstrate my gratitude to him for his generosity by completely obeying him. By letting me stay in his house he was giving me a gift of protection I could not get elsewhere, a life of meaning and reward and happiness. He also granted me access to his cock.
Whilst I licked the street dirt from his toe, Paul closed the door behind him with a click. When one shoe was clean and shiny I transferred my attention to the other. I kept my palms flat on the floor in the way he had taught me. He let me eat the soil out of the cracks in the rugged soles before by letting me crawl behind - he lifted up each boot, like a horse's hoof, and to let me eat from it. I always liked to do this because it made me feel safe to receive his approval. That has become the only reason I ever do anything, I guess.
"Right," said Paul, "Good. Good. That's good."
Paul put his fists in his pockets.
When I had finished both shoes I kissed them again. I crawled back and knelt up to open his trousers. I could see the shaped outline of his penis inside. He seemed happy. He watched me open the large brass zipper of his trousers, pull apart the fly and spread the two sides flat. The weight of the zipper pulled them down.
Often at this point Paul would touch my head. Ruffle my hair. He could be quite affectionate. But this time he didn't move his clenched fists from his pockets.
Inside his underwear his penis bulged forward. It was very clearly visible. I couldn't help licking my lips in anticipation of having it in my mouth. I was about to pull down the elastic waistband and let it flip out. I was about to put it between my lips and suck it to its full jaw-aching size. "What are you doing?" said Paul. I didn't know what to say. "Sir?" "Hold still," he said, and with that thwacked the side of my head. "Right." "Thank you Sir." "Right." But there was more.
"What's got into you? What's your fucking problem? What's got into you? Why didn't you answer the phone?" "I didn't get to it in time, Sir." Thwack! "Why not?" "I was in the basement, Sir." Thwack! "Why were you in the basement?" "I was waiting for you, Sir." Thwack! "Sorry, Sir." Thwack! "Why were you waiting there?" "Sorry Sir I was there because ... because ... " Thwack! "Why weren't you in the kitchen?" "I had already prepared dinner. I was waiting for you to return, Sir, sorry, Sir." Thwack! That hurt. Tears smarted my eyes though I was used to worse. "But why? You know you have to answer the phone." "I'm sorry Sir." Thwack! "Where was the phone when I called?" "The mobile Sir?" Thwack! "Right. The mobile." "It was in the kitchen, Sir." Thwack! "In getting tired of this. Right. I don't need this shit. I've had a hard day. The last thing I need is you acting up. Don't you want to behave? Don't you want to get it right? Why am I bothering with you?" I whispered, "I am sorry Sir. I've said I am sorry. What else can I do?" Thwack! "Don't you fucking dare talk to me like that. What else can you do? Pussy-boy. Right. You can get it fucking right. You can do it properly." I was distraught. I forgot everything. I knelt down and pressed my face to his boots saying, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," As many times as I could, thinking that, this couldn't be right.
This couldn't be right.
I didn't understand.
He watched whilst I kissed his feet. Then he put one foot on my neck, pushing my face into the leather of the other. That hurt. Then he removed his foot from my neck and stepped away. "Stay down." I stayed in that position, my face pressed into the hallway carpet (it was green, like a lawn) and my hands and arms bent supporting my upper body and my legs kneeling so that my backside was pointing into the air. Paul put his boot into the middle of my back and pressed do that I had to rest my chest in the carpet also. Then he went round the back, took out his cock, and fucked me quickly and brutally. It felt good.
The solid meat thwacked into me and I gripped it with my arse muscles until I felt him penetrate deeper and slower, pumping all of his sperm inside me, breathing hard with effort.
Paul always came a lot. It was like drinking a hot milkshake giving him a blow job and when he came inside me I could feel his ejaculation filling my rectum and squirting back out of my anus when he was done. On those occasions when he came on my face, it soaked my head and dripped all over the floor. I spent ages licking it all up. He said he liked to know all of his seed was inside me one way or another. He didn't like it to escape anywhere else.
I must have gallons and gallons of his sperm inside me.
He grunted, "Right," and pulled it out dripping from me, "clean up."
I spun round on my hands and knees and then knelt up to lick his cummy cock clean, and suck the dregs of his cum from inside it. As I did so he put the heel of his palm to my forehead and held me off, once he's from it. The smell of me clung to his pubic hair.
"Right," he said quietly, "I know what you've been thinking about: Thinking about my cock. Thinking about serving me. Thinking about my cum. Thinking about the way I use you just to please myself. Thinking about how I abuse you. Thinking about having me inside you. I know how you think. I know what you think. I know what you need. You need to be some guys property. You need to be serving some guy constantly.
"Don't you?"
I didn't speak.
"So that's why I'm so sick of this attitude thing you've got going. Like you'd rather be somewhere else. There isn't any where else for guys like you. Right. This is your place. This is it. You struck gold when you got into this. Now don't kid yourself you can exist without it."
He rocked his hips forward so that his fat stinking cock hung at an angle in front of my face. Inches from my lips.
"See that son. See that. Right. Say Please can I suck your cock, Sir."
I said it.
"Right."
It felt good to have his penis in my mouth at last. It felt good; it felt right. Engulfed by his day-old stench of piss and sweat and my own juice, I opened my throats and let it all fill my lungs and trickle down my throat.
He really was my Master.
"Right. Get my food." "Yes Sir. Thank you Sir." "Thank you for what?" "Thank you for fucking me Sir. Thank you for letting me clean your cock Sir." "Right. Stop." I didn't move. Paul grabbed my face by the chin and looked at me. His face was shining. "And don't ever tell me you don't love it, cunt," he said.
Whilst Paul was eating I knelt by his side, only standing to take away his plates or to bring him something, like a beer or ketchup.
When he finished he slumped into the sofa and switched the TV on. I stood, waiting, in the 'semi-display' position, which is with my legs slightly spread to show off my genitals, my hands behind my back, my shoulders straight and my chest out, my head up and looking at a point in the wall opposite. Paul had taught me this position to show respect to him, and anyone else who happened to be in the room.
The 'display' position was with my legs slightly further apart and my hands on the back of my head so that the viewer could look at my muscular arms and deep pits.
Paul had instructed me in all kinds of 'presentations', as he called them.
The 'respect' position was with my head down and my hands by my side.
I knew which position to adopt in which situation. Paul had punished me whenever I got it wrong and now I was fully aware of what position to adopt. If I got it wrong, forgot, or misjudged, then Paul corrected me, with punishment if he saw fit. Obeying him in this respect as in all others is how I re-pay Paul for letting me be his slave, I guess. After all, he is letting me stay here, and he does fuck me.
Paul muted the TV. "Right," he said. I instinctively adopted the full display position. Paul did not look at me. I waited for him to speak.
"Right. What's got into you tonight? What's your fucking problem? What's got into you? Right. You used to be a good boy; now it's like you aren't bothered. It's half hearted. I don't want that. I don't want to have to live with that. I've done everything for you. Made you welcome in my home. Right. Fed you. Kept you safe. Where's the gratitude? Don't. Fucking. Speak. I'm talking. I tell you when it's alright to speak. Right. There's sure as hell gonna be some changes. I'm not gonna keep coming home to this half-hearted attitude like you can't be bothered. I don't want that, you hear. I want it to be like before again. Right. You were pleased to serve. I felt your eagerness. It was in your blood. Eyes. Right. Everything. Happy to serve. Where's the enthusiasm? I don't need this. I need a man who's happy to serve. Right. I've got guys queuing up to be in your position. Constantly at me to ditch you and enslave them instead. They'd do it for nothing - none of the privileges you get."
I wondered what he meant.
"Have you even worked out today? I don't think you have. You look mushy. Right. What the fuck have you been doing with your time? I've been phoning: Nothing. Can't be bothered answering the bloody phone even. Everything. Right. I don't wanna know. You got problems with this set up, I don't wanna know. Doesn't interest me. This is how it stays. This is it. Right. Buck up your ideas. Fucking. Fucking. Snap out of it. Ok? Fucking snap out of it, slut, yeah? Just fucking snap out of it ... useless piece of shit."
I was about to speak. He must have heard me take a breath:
"Don't. Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth. Right. Now there's gonna be some changes on your attitude or else I'm giving you up. There's others take you off my hands. No problem. Right. They wouldn't spoil you. Or perhaps they would. I don't care. So you: Is that what you want?"
He took a breath and shook his head.
"Right. Now I've got a job for you. Nigel's coming round tonight. I want you to be especial nice to him cs he's going through a rough time. Right. His mums just died."
And I thought, "Is that's my problem?"
"He's pretty cut up. You're going to give him a good time. Right. Make him forget his troubles. Right. I'm letting him have you for a few days. He'll like the company. Right. So you'll be like his personal whatever. Do whatever he wants. Make him happy."
"Yes Sir," I said.
I thought, I'm sick of making other people happy.
"You could sound a bit more enthusiastic. It'll be like a holiday compared to here. He'll like to spoil you. Nice easy time. What he'll want is something to take his mind off his troubles. Be a distraction. Do whatever he wants. Whatever. Make him happy. Don't come back with bad reports from him of being unsatisfied cs you were moody or halfhearted. Right. I won't like that. Give it some enthusiasm."
Paul stood up and grabbed my cock and balls and squeezed hard. He put his face close to mine, like a sergeant-major.
I hardened in his fist.
He let go, with the words, "Right. You worthless piece of shit."
Then he kissed me and his beard rubbed against my face grandly.
"What would you do without me? Suck your own fucking dick?"
I realised it would not matter what I would do; I'd never get the chance.
He laughed.
He stuck his finger in my hole roughly and poke around in it like he was searching for something. With his other fingers and his other hand he gripped my buttocks, kneading and squeezing me hard.
I was never going to escape this man. I knew I kept him hard and he'd never let me get away from him and his control. He liked it too much. He was completely selfish.
Pushing my face away with his hand he put his finger in my mouth. "Right. You like it when I do that, play with your bottom." I couldn't reply. "You're such a girl." He must have seen some protest in my eyes, and added, "You a man? When I picked you up you were on skid row, this kid. Desperate for something. Right. Vulnerable." He removed his finger from my mouth, slowly dragging down my lower lip and leaving a wet line on my chin. "Completely lost." And then I heard myself say, "I wasn't lost." "Oh it's got a voice has it? Right. You didn't have a clue - for all your army training." "I was fine." "You think I don't spot a loser like you. You needed some help. Right. Fighting fit but not fit for purpose. But I found you a purpose: Serving me." "I ... I had mates. I would've been fine." "Right. Like bollocks would you. You had 'fuck me' practically tattooed on your face. You were begging for a real man like me to put a chain around your neck and put you to use. Right. You wanted to be owned. The look on your face when you saw me and realised here was a real top - the relief, the eagerness was obvious!"
I looked at the floor.
"Right. Don't look down. Look at my face."
I looked at his face. I thought, "This is it. This is when I tell him to go fuck himself. This is when I tell him to forget it. Tell him I'm not interested. Tell him I don't need him. Tell him I don't want him. Tell him I don't care. Tell him. Tell him! TELL HIM!!"
I said nothing. I looked at his face. I could tell what he was thinking about. I could tell he was thinking about fucking me.
He always thought about fucking me.
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END OF Even The First - PART ELEVEN