Going Home to a Submissive Life Part 1
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I arrived on a wet Sunday afternoon in April; my belongings were mostly in storage and I only had two heavy suitcases. It didn't feel great. A grey day and I was back where I started - the dull town in the English Midlands where I'd grown up. Living as a lodger in a small ugly house. My new landlord opened the door. I heaved the suitcases over the threshold onto a dusty, brown carpet and stepped inside.
I did my best to feel positive. My move to the Midlands was the fresh start that I really needed. My boyfriend, who I lived with in London, had dumped me in the January. We'd neither had anywhere else to go, and we'd spent the last three months dividing things up, arguing, trying to avoid each other in the small flat we shared.
Now that was over I was determined to make the best of my new situation. The plan I decided on was to leave London. I'd been there since uni six years before but my employer, a bank, didn't really care where I was based. Back in my parent's home town I could live much more cheaply and save money to buy my own house.
My brother Oliver found somewhere for me to rent - a room in a house owned by a recently divorced work contact of his. I'd seen pictures of the room and Olly assured me the guy was fine (and not bothered that I was gay). That was all I needed: I could always move if it didn't work out.
So. the owner of the house, Lev, my new landlord, a big guy in a baggy shirt, watched me as I carried the suitcases in. I rapidly realised the place - neither my room, nor the whole house - was as clean as it had looked in the photos, but it was OK. I smiled at Lev in relief.
That evening Lev and I went to the pub, had a few drinks to get to know each other. I didn't have many friends left in my home town, so I was hoping we'd connect. But it became clear he wasn't the most exciting person: his life was pretty basic. He'd come over from somewhere in Eastern Europe fifteen years before, done a few courses, learned to speak and swear in English like a native, and now had a boring coding job in an IT firm. Apart from working, it seemed he went to the pub and went to the gym, played video games. On Sundays he usually visited his daughter and argued with his ex-wife.
Like all flat mates we saw plenty of each other going to and from the shower. Lev was a sight worth seeing: the baggy shirt he'd worn on the day I arrived hid a lot of muscle. He went to the gym nearly every day. But while I certainly didn't mind seeing him with his shirt off, I wasn't particularly hot for him - I found him a bit boring, he was late 30s, ten or twelve years older than me, and age and beer was adding a good layer of fat over some of the muscle. And he was too hairy: plenty of chest hair looks good on a guy but it gets too much when men - like Lev - have dark wiry back hair sticking up over the top of their T-shirt, upper arms that need shaving and yet are somehow still thinning on top of their heads.
Anyway, like I said, we got on well enough but we weren't ever going to best friends. He was a fairly quiet, closed guy. Most days, he'd get up and leave before me in the mornings. I'd go to work, come back, go for a run, have a meal. Lev would come back either straight from the gym or from the gym via the pub. He'd microwave something in the kitchen then disappear into the sitting room, shutting the door on me. I got the impression he'd rather not have had me around.
The only time he'd really talk much to me was when he'd get really hammered in the pub. Then he'd come back very late, crash about the house, and want someone to chat shit to.
That was what happened one night in early July.
I was in bed, nearly asleep, it was close to midnight. Lev banged open the front door, bounced into the kitchen. He yelled for me, "Sam, Sam." I tried not moving, hoping he'd just leave me, but he shouted again even louder.
He obviously wasn't going to let up, so I came grudgingly out of my room.
He was quite spectacularly drunk, especially given it was only Thursday and he had to work the next day. But it was a warm summer evening, he was still wearing his vest and shorts from the gym, and it must have been nice to sit around with his mates in the beer garden. Thinking about it made me wish I had a few more friends in the town.
I half listened to him. There was a long story about making or possibly losing millions off blockchain that Jack had told him but that had actually happened to a guy in Bahrain or Belgrade and that he might have seen on YouTube or something.
Halfway through he lost the thread of his story, interrupted himself. He edged away from me in the small kitchen.
"Sorr' man."
"What?" I asked.
"Don' smell good."
It was true. He was still in his gym stuff and I could tell from the moment I'd got near him that he'd worked out well on a hot day.
I shrugged. "It's ok."
And it really was ok. It was a bit gross, but - even though I've always been a super clean person - it was also getting me a bit turned on. Somehow, trapped in that small room with him and his body odour, for the first time I started to think about Lev fucking, about his dick.
Forgetting about the blockchain thing, he decided to give me the full effect. He lifted his arm up, flexed his impressive bicep and stepped towards me, laughing, "Eh.. smell this yeah."
And he shoved the dense, dark, wet hair of his armpit towards my face until my nose was nearly buried in it. I couldn't stop myself breathing in.
It was gross.
It was musky, deep, potent.
It was like being smashed in the face by solid testosterone.
I took a second breath as deep as I could and collapsed back onto the kitchen chair, dazed. He looked at me, surprised, drunkenly worried. "You ok?"
I was wearing what I slept in, a t-shirt and boxers. My little dick was sticking as hard as it ever had straight up out of the boxers.
He noticed it. Laughed again. "Fuck, you like it, like gay?" I honestly think he hadn't even thought that forcing me to smell him would turn me on.
I vainly tried to cover up my hard on. I nodded, weakly. "It's just very... manly...."
He paused. Then decided I needed some more. He was standing up, I was sitting down. He pulled the waist band of his shorts and underpants wide out and let them close again right under my nose, forcing a deep blast of sweat stink out from his crotch.
This time the musk of sweat-soaked body hair was mixed with the unmissable sharper smell of balls and dick. It was almost more than I could take, I moaned slowly.
He laughed, "see you like it."
And then the moment was over, he was fading, sleepy, his eyes starting to look heavy.
I didn't want it to end. I had an idea. "You err... want me to wash your gym stuff? I can do it by the morning?"
He looked at me dozily, slurred, "You jus' wan' wank over my shorts."
I didn't deny it. "They'll be clean for you in the morning," I repeated.
"OK." He peeled his gym vest off there and then and handed it to me.
He looked at me bare-chested, cross eyed, "I don' mind you have fun with my stinkin pants an' stuff. Rest of clothes outside bedroom.
"Goin' bed now.."
He wandered off and I thought he would forget immediately, but thirty seconds later a hairy, tattooed arm dropped his gym shorts, underpants, socks outside his bedroom door.
I barely slept that night. It was like the smell of his pits and balls in the kitchen has drugged me, driven me half crazy. The strong scent on his vest, shorts and especially underpants were the hits I needed to keep me high.
I wanked over and over again, three, four times: imagining what it would be like to suck him, be fucked by him, but mostly just thinking about licking and sniffing his pits and balls for hours at an end. I rubbed the clothes round my face. Rationally I knew it was gross - I was even enjoying sniffing the skidmarks in his underpants - but I couldn't stop myself.
And I needed to get up early. I was determined to keep my promise to get the clothes back to him clean by the morning. He started early. So at 4 I got up and reluctantly put the shorts, pants, vest, socks in the washer. I ran them through twice - they hadn't been carefully washed ever before, I think. And then I put them in the dryer and then ironed, even the socks, to make them fully dry, folding them neatly.
The Lev that faced me at 7:30 was very different from the night before. Freshly showered, but hungover, grumpy, he stared at me like I was the last thing he wanted to see.
I don't know how much he remembered from the evening, but he seemed to know he'd given me his gym stuff to wash. He grunted as I handed him the neat pile of fragrant, clean clothes. "Have you cum on them?" was all he said. I shook my head - even if I had it would have washed off - but still he shook out the vest and looked at it critically for any marks. Then, staring at me to show he was doing me a favour, he picked up the rest of the carefully ironed clothes, screwed them up and shoved them in his gym bag.
That was the moment our relationship changed: day 1, week 1. That evening, though Lev didn't speak to me, I found a new pile of smelly, sweaty gym clothes outside his bedroom door. Again, I wanked over them half the night, and washed them for the morning. Again he accepted me handing them over clean at breakfast with a grunt. By day four the daily pile outside his bedroom had expanded to include his office shirt, and by the end of the week I was responsible for washing all his clothes.
It was pathetic how grateful I was. From the precise moment he'd shoved his pit in my face, I'd gone from being not that bothered to being totally obsessed by him. The slight contact with his body through his used clothes, the stink of his sweat, was what I wanted more than anything. I didn't dare hope for any more than that.