This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of consensual BDSM and humiliation among adult males. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--I don't want to lose any fans!
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I Got What I Wanted
I'm a real sicko. I didn't even know his name and... I could guess his reputation, though. Bad Boy. They say the girls are always attracted to the Bad Boys. Well, it's not just the girls.
We both started at Hubbard and Hubbard on the same day, which is when I first saw Bad Boy. His name, I learned, was Keith. H&H is a wholesaler, specializing in hardware: everything from those tiny screws that disappear as soon as you take them out of the battery-holder to the huge nuts and bolts that hold bridges together. H&H does this New Employee orientation thing, mostly about what a great company it is and how we can advance if we pay attention to our jobs, etc. I paid close attention, because that's the kind of employee I am--and because I might wind up delivering the orientation someday. Keith squirmed in his chair like sitting quietly was torture. I went to work in Personnel. Keith headed for the warehouse.
Keith is my height, and that's about where the resemblance ends: I'm a mousy brown-haired guy. His hair is jet-black, wavy, and thick. I shave every other day. He could shave twice a day, if he was into that. I'm what they call "graceful," or "trim." He's muscular--enough so it's obvious through his clothes. It's not body-builder muscle, though. It's more like worked-on-a-farm-from-childbirth muscle. I'm precise, a sort of a neat freak. Keith tends to leave a path of disorder behind him. I'm described as "mild-mannered." Keith has a temper. I care. Keith doesn't. In other words, Keith is exactly the sort of guy I spent my whole childhood avoiding.
Please understand: every social experience of my entire life has trained me to look at Keith-type guys from a distance, out of the corners of my eyes; to avoid close encounters when possible and never, ever, one on one. I'm the sissy. Keith-types are the bullies.
And for some terrifying reason, I want to be bullied.
When I was first getting my act together about being gay, I learned that sometimes, "why" is a pointless question. Even if I knew exactly, down to the chromosomal level, why I'm gay, it wouldn't make any difference. I'd still be gay, so I should relax and enjoy it. And I do. I pride myself on being more attuned to culture, to seeing the world through pink-colored glasses and picking up on the little details that really make society tick. But when it comes to my sexual quirk, "why" keeps screaming at me.
I'm no virgin, believe me. But I never had the kind of... I've never realized my darker fantasies, which tend to involve guys like Keith. And nobody's ever done the sorts of things I imagine the guys like Keith doing to me. As I said, I'm a sicko. I wonder if it is because, at some subconscious level, I feel bad about being gay. I don't, though! I'm out, I contribute to gay rights groups, I subscribe to gay magazines without the plain white wrappers, I march in the Pride Parade with my church group, even though I actually only go to church half-a-dozen times a year. (I'd march with the H&H group, if there was one, but H&H has a very traditional view of such things. Frankly, I don't know why they haven't found a reason to fire me. I must be even better at my job than I think I am.)
We have two employee parking lots: one near the main entrance for us desk jockeys, and another near the warehouse entrance, for the real working stiffs. I park in the warehouse lot. I say it's because that's where most of the employees I have to deal with park, and I want them to at least know my face. Turnover is a lot more common among labor than management.
The truth is, since that first encounter in orientation, I'd been trying to identify Keith's vehicle. Just curious, of course. There are a fair number of motorcycles back there, and my fantasy was that Keith would ride one of them. He doesn't, though. He drives a pickup truck, one of those battered old beauties that he has to be maintaining by himself. About the only maintenance I do on my car is always getting it to the dealership within twenty miles of its next scheduled service.
I've taken to parking near Keith's truck. I keep hoping we'll see each other in the lot, that I can just sort of acknowledge him. I want him to scowl at me, send me that "keep out of my way" signal, maybe even flex. I'm afraid to actually face what I want from him.
But now, I may have to. Keith's in trouble, and the issue's been kicked up to Personnel, and I'm the one who has to deal with it. Him. And in exactly seven minutes, he's supposed to be sitting across from my desk. His file's open in front of me: one recommendation for promotion, then two disciplinary matters, and now? The rule at H&H is, three times and you're out--or at least it's up to Personnel. Me. His supervisor did not say he should be fired. His supervisor, Mister Bruckner, said we--I--should "fix it."
Intercom: "Mister Laghner is here, Sir."
Me, trying to sound like a "sir" if Keith happens to be listening: "Send him in, please."
Enter Keith, filling the doorway, tight jeans, black work boots, snug-fitting khaki shirt a little the worse for wear, work gloves tucked into his pocket. I feel like I'm shrinking behind my desk. "Sit down, please, Mister Laghner." He does, almost overwhelming the chair. "I imagine you know why you're here."
A scowl. I wait for an answer, because that's how it's done. "Yeah," he says, at last. "Bruckner."
"And do you know what Mister Bruckner was concerned about?"
"You gonna fire me, or what? Can we just do it?"
God, if you only knew. "Not necessarily, Mister Laghner. Mister Bruckner actually values you as an employee. He's hoping we can help you improve--well, adjust might be a better word, help you find alternatives to... I know you got upset, Mister Laghner. We all get upset. But you can't take it out on the equipment. Surely, you--"
"I ain't gonna take it out on Lonnie! I know what happens if I did that."
"So...you're saying this is Lonnie's fault?"
"I told him, asked him all polite, and he just...he didn't listen."
"So you smashed a very expensive wireless bar code scanner."
"I put it down hard. Ain't my fault the goddamn things are so fucking fragile!"
"Mister Bruckner seems to think you did more than put it down hard."
"Yeah, well he wasn't there!"
"He says he was, Mister Laghner. He says you threw it on the floor."
"I missed the shelf."
"This is the third--"
"Look. Just fuckin' fire me, okay? I hate you assholes!"
"Really?"
Keith's eyes narrowed. "Someday, somebody's going to show you sissies what the real world is like!"
"Do it." What the hell did I just say?
Keith looked at me, wide-eyed. "What the hell did you just say?"
I buried my face in the papers on my desk. "Why you so pissed all the time?" I whispered.
"Because every time I start to crawl out of...get another start, an asshole like you fucks it up."
"You want to punish me?"
"Huh?"
"I'm off at 4:30. You want to meet me in the parking lot?"
Keith leaned back in his chair. "What the fuck is this, man?"
"I want to talk to you off-campus. Just you and me."
"So...I'm not fired?"
"Not yet."
"You trying to pull some--"
"Meet me in the parking lot at 4:30. Please, Mister Laghner."
"So...do I go back to work now, or what?" He was clearly baffled.
"Yes--if you can keep your temper for--" I glanced at my watch. "For two hours and ten minutes. Can you do that, Mister Laghner? Tell Mister Bruckner that we're taking the matter under advisement."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means I'm stalling, to be honest."
"What are you--"
"Let's take it one step at a time, Mister Laghner. All right?"
Keith shrugged. "Yeah. Okay. Take it 'under advisement' and I'll meet you in the parking lot. I drive--"
"I know."
Keith simply stared, and I dropped my eyes. "We done?" he said.
I nodded, and listened to the chair scrape as he got up and left my office. "I'm insane," I told myself, as I carefully gathered the contents of Keith Laghner's file and put it, ever so gently, into my desk drawer.
"I believe you told me you wanted to show me something," I said, as Keith approached the truck.
"Something about what the real world is like?"
"Look, Mister--"
"Harold. Harold's fine."
"I need the job. I like it, to be honest. Most of the time, anyway."
"And I'm the guy who has the power to get you fired."
"What is this about, dammit? Whatta you want, Harold?" He managed to turn "Harold" into a curse word. So far, so good.
"Guess," I challenged.
His eyes narrowed. "You're a faggot, ain't ya? You want...what? Sex, or something?"
"Does that scare you?" I took a step closer to him.
That did it. The next thing I knew, I was in Keith's truck. "What happened?" I groaned.
"Shut up!" Keith expertly pulled his truck out of the parking space, then out of the lot and onto the street. He turned right, and the part of town I was familiar with shrank in the rearview mirror. "I need this fuckin' job, Harold."
"Where are you taking me?"
"You fell down. I couldn't just leave you in the parking lot."
"Why not?"
"Because somebody'd fucking find you, dumbass! And then the shit would really hit the fan!"
"Okay, so where--"
"You wanted to talk, faggot. Talk! You want me to fuck your ass or something, okay. But I keep the job."
"What if we--I wasn't in Personnel? What if we just, say, met on the street, just the two of us--"
"Some magic land where it wouldn't cost me my job?" he sneered.
"--where you could, you know, do whatever you wanted to me. What...what would you do?"
The car slowed. "I'd never have met you--or if I did, I'd just push you out of my way. The way I see it, assholes like you are...assholes. You get the money, and the car and the house and the fancy restaurants and the whole shitting world and I get the garbage. I get the left-overs." The car pulled off the road and stopped, and Keith grabbed my clothes and pulled me to him. "You assholes spend your lives screwing us. Maybe I should screw you!"
"Please, Sir--"
"'Please, Sir,'" Keith mocked. "Suddenly we're all polite? Suddenly you respect me? You think I believe that shit for a second? For a goddamn second?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his fist clench. "Please don't hit me again, Sir. I'll do whatever you want, Sir. Please...you can do whatever you want, but please don't hit me!"
Keith blinked. "Stop playing games, Harold! What's this about?"
"How would you like...say you could get even with assholes like me. Would you?"
"And wind up in jail? Are you-"
"I told you: this is just you and me."
"You can kiss my ass."
"If that's what you want me to do. I'll be your slave, Sir!"
Keith locked his eyes on mine. "Is that what you want, punk? Or are you just scared shitless?" I just looked at him. "Fuckin' answer me, punk!"
"B-both, Sir."
Keith's hand tightened on my shirt for a moment, then he threw me against the passenger door. "You're sick!"
"Yes, Sir."
He ground the truck into gear and raced into the street, tires screaming. The next few minutes were filled with sharp turns and sudden stops, almost as if he was trying to beat me up with the car. Then, we bounced as if we'd completely left the road, and the truck stopped. Keith released his seatbelt and grabbed me again. "Undo the fucking seatbelt," he commanded. As soon as I'd obeyed, he dragged me out of the truck and more or less threw me to the ground. It was immediately obvious what had happened to the scanner unit.
"You know, punk, I always wanted to have a piece of shit like you to knock around. See that door?" He pointed.
"Yes, Sir."
"Crawl, punk!"
I scrambled along the ground. I had no idea where we were. Keith's shadow stretched across my back and the ground in front of me; the light was turning the warm colors of the setting sun. I was past terror: terror was pointless, now. I was at Keith's mercy.
He stepped ahead of me and unlocked the door, then held it open while I crawled past him. He kicked my ass through the opening and I fell on my face on the garage floor. The door shut behind me. Keith grabbed my collar and pulled me to my feet, pushing me forward as he did. In a moment, he had my back pressed against a wooden post. He pulled his belt off and strapped my neck to the wood, with the buckle behind the post where I couldn't reach it. "Don't go away," he growled. The smile on his face was terrifying.
He wasn't gone for more than a few seconds before I felt rope being wrapped around my legs. He quickly tied my hands behind the post, then added more rope around my waist. At last, he released the belt. "Breathe, punk!"
I obeyed. "Thank you, Sir," I gasped.
He pressed his face close to mine. "You're a faggot masochist, ain't you?" he said, in a voice that was icy calm.
"Yes, Sir."
"Okay, Harold, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to work you over real good, just like you want. If you're lucky, I might even rape you a few times."
"Yes, Sir." My head was spinning.
"You give me any shit, or tell anybody about this, and hell! I just tell your boss you're a fag who came on to me, and that'll be your job, see? Deal?"
"Yes, Sir."
Keith slapped my cheeks a couple of times. Not surprisingly, he'd spent a little time in juvenile detention, where he learned--among other things--where to hit a guy so the marks would be hidden. It didn't take long before I was untied, naked, and cowering on the floor. "Fucking sissy," he growled, towering above me.
The thing about fantasies is, they're fantasies! I was in over my head, and I knew it. My goddam cock was making me commit suicide! "Keith," I gasped. "Please--"
Keith planted his boot on my face. "Shut up! Lick my goddamn boot!"
I poked my tongue between the lugs on his sole and began.
"Atta boy. You work that tongue! Looks like you had a little accident--fell off the loading dock, maybe. You're kinda banged up. Tomorrow, you're going to call in sick and we'll have some more fun. Then, you're going to tell Bruckner that you've agreed to let me keep my job, provided I get to go to your office any time I feel pissed. Then, instead of breaking any of his precious toys, I'll bust you. Got it?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, and went back to his boot.
"Who knows, punk, this may turn out real good for the both of us."
"What--whatever you say, Sir."
"You're a piece of shit!" he sneered, pushing my face to the side. "Roll over and put your hands behind your back!"
"Yes, Sir."
Keith quickly crouched on my ass and tied my hands, then stood. "Get up!" he ordered. I tried, but he kept pushing me off balance with his foot. "Get up, pussy!" He laughed at me. "Stupid faggot!"
At last, he let me get to my feet, only to grab my wrists and hook them to a hoist. A couple of pulls, and I was bent over, trying to ease the pain in my shoulders and struggling to keep my balance. Keith dug his fingers into my hips. "You got an ass like a girl! This'll be fun!" I heard him spit three times. The third one hit my crack. Most of the time, when guys fuck you, they're just getting off. If they know what they're doing, after the initial pain ebbs, it can feel pretty good. I'm sure Keith wanted to get off. But he wanted to hurt me while he did it. He plunged in, then pulled all the way out and nailed me again. He kept at it, so the pain just kept hurting. Finally, though, his fingers dug even deeper and he pulled my ass onto his cock, hard, and wave after wave of cum poured into me. I was off balance; my shoulders were screaming. "Shoot, Sir! Fill me! Let me have it!" I cried, desperate for the attack to end. And eager for more.
He pulled out, at last, and I regained my balance. "Thank me, faggot," he snapped.
"Thank you, Sir."
"My cock's dirty, faggot. You got my cock dirty!"
"I'm sor--"
"Beg me to let you clean it!"
"Please, Sir, let me clean your cock, Sir."
He stood in front of me and slapped my face with his shaft. It was as big as it had felt, back there. I struggled to catch the slime-covered pole with my lips, pulled it into my mouth, and began sucking on it.
"Yeah, pussy! Clean it good!"
How was it possible that Sir's cock was growing again? Never mind, I told myself. Enjoy it! Too soon, though, he pulled out and walked away. I heard the door creak behind me. I was alone. I tried to shift my legs again, to ease the pain in my shoulders. I realized my body was covered with sweat. As the pain of reality faded, my cock began to stiffen. I had no way to bring myself off, of course. I had what I wanted. If only I could survive it.
Keith returned, eventually, carrying two bottles of beer. He lowered the hook slowly and I sunk to my knees. He retied my hands in front of me. "Here," he said, and handed me a bottle.
"Thank you, Sir," I gasped.
"Drink every drop, punk," he smiled.
It wasn't beer. It was piss. It didn't matter: I was incredibly thirsty. Piss is mostly water, I told myself. It won't kill me.
"Better let you get a little shut-eye. You gotta call Bruckner tomorrow morning," Keith said, when I'd emptied the bottle. Once again, he walked away. I watched him crouch at the base of the pillar, then he turned to me. "Here, boy. Get your faggot ass over here."
I got to my knees and crawled awkwardly across the floor. When I got to the pillar, he wrapped a chain around my neck and locked it. The other end, I realized, was locked around the pillar.
He untied my hands. "Rest up, punk. Busy day, tomorrow." He left me, naked and chained. I got as comfortable as I could, shut my eyes, and jacked off.
Keith woke me early, and led me by the chain up to the house. "You stink, punk--clean up!" he ordered. "Cold water only! Got it?"
"Yes, Sir." All I wanted to do was sit on the toilet for a shit and a piss. While I did that, Keith secured the chain to a pipe. The cold shower pulled me fully awake. Every part of me seemed to hurt; every move was agony. I washed as quickly as I could, then waited, shivering, for Keith to return.
"Here!" he said, tossing me a small towel. He unlocked the chain and led me into his kitchen. "Four eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Toast and coffee. There's a bowl of corn flakes on the floor for you, after you get my breakfast, punk."
"Yes, Sir." The bowl of cereal was on the floor, and without milk. Keith sat above me, enjoying the meal I'd prepared. The smells filled the kitchen, and I felt hungrier after my corn flakes than before.
Keith set the phone in front of me, and grabbed the chain around my neck. "Remember what you're supposed to say to Bruckner, punk?"
"Yes, Sir. He's to let you check in with me whenever you start to get...whenever you need to."
"Whenever I fucking want to, you mean. And then call in sick. Do it, fuckface!" He handed me his phone, then sat, arms crossed and eyes locked on mine, and listened while I did as I'd been told.
"No, no, Mister Bruckner. We had a good talk and I'm convinced he deserves another chance." Bruckner replied, and I continued. "Nope. Entirely my responsibility. Thanks!" The call to the Personnel office was next. Keith twisted the chain slightly, so I coughed in the middle of my explanation.
"Okay, asshole. From here on, you're mine--you're my slave and my fucktoy and my punching bag, if I feel like it. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Master. Call me Master, punk."
"Yes, Master."
"Now get this place cleaned up, slave! Do a good job, 'cause you'll be eating on that fucking floor!" Just to make sure I didn't stray, he locked the free end of the chain across the arch of my foot and around my ankle, so I couldn't walk without stepping on it. Before he left for work, he did the same thing to my other foot, then locked that chain to a concrete block. I could stand, but it wasn't fun. I suppose I could have tried to get away, but judging from the amount of effort it took to get from the kitchen to the bathroom, I was pretty sure I wouldn't make it to the street before he got back from work. I fantasized a few escape scenarios--setting a smoky fire, for example--but the truth was, I didn't want to escape. Instead, I jacked off and went to work cleaning the house.
Things were looking pretty good, by the time Keith pulled his truck into the yard. I got myself to the front door and knelt. He walked in, saw me, and laughed. "You pathetic little cocksucker! Roll over and stick your feet up." He took the chains off of my feet, then ordered me to unload the groceries he'd bought.
I'd no sooner gotten the groceries away when he summoned me from the living room. "My boots are a mess. Get your ass out here and clean 'em!"
"Yes, Master." I crawled back to the living room as quickly as I could. He was lounging on a leather recliner, waiting. He let me work on them for a good fifteen minutes or so, then pulled off his shirt. "My pits stink. Lick 'em clean, cuntface!"
Accept it, I told myself. You got yourself into this. It's what you wanted, sicko. Now enjoy it! And I did, losing myself in his smell. It was a privilege, in its way, having his splendid body right there. I got glimpses of the pulse in his neck, and the shifting muscles in his arms. Licking his armpits seemed to relax him, for some reason--it would be a good trick to use when I got back to work, when he came to me for "counseling."
At some point--I'd lost track of the time--he grabbed me by the hair and got me between his legs. "Get my cock out," he ordered, "and suck me."
"Yes, Master." I hurried to obey. To my surprise, his crotch didn't smell too much of sweat. There was even a hint of soap smell in his hair. He sat back and let me work his shaft, and lick his balls. I tried every trick I'd learned about sucking cock, looking for the ones he'd like the most. This wasn't like last night's rape: it was actually lovemaking, like a reward for good behavior, or something.
"There's some fried chicken in the grocery bag. Fetch, slave. And grab me a beer."
"Yes, Master." The box of take-out chicken was cold, so I put the meat and potatoes on a plate and zapped it in the microwave for a few seconds, then brought it all to him on a tray. Keith ate while I took off his boots and socks and licked his feet.
Every once in a while, a scrap of chicken would drop to the floor. "Don't forget to thank me, cuntface."
"Thank you for the chicken, Master."
"Got some buds coming over for poker, tonight. Get the place set up. Maybe I'll show you off. Not naked, though. Got some shit for you to wear." He handed me another bag.
"Yes, Master." A shiver ran down my spine--fear or excitement, or maybe both. What if his "buds" were guys from H&H who recognized me? "Master, are you sure this is a good--"
Master grabbed me by my hair and slapped me hard. "You don't ask questions, punk. Just do as you're told!"
For a moment, I think I actually saw stars. "Yes, Master!"
"Now get those damn clothes on while I get cleaned up. And make sure there's plenty of beer in the fridge!"
"Yes, Master." My outfit turned out to be pink lacy underwear, a short green vest that didn't button, and a maid's cap. I loaded beer into the refrigerator and cleared off the dining room table. Master came back to the living room wearing jeans, a sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off, and sneakers. He looked around the room. "Grab me a beer, then put together some sandwiches. And there's a big can of nuts back there. Put that out on the table. You'll answer the door real polite, and get them whatever they want. Got it?"
"Yes, Master."
"When you're done, just kneel in front of me so I can put my feet up."
"Yes, Master."
About half-an-hour later, the first guest arrived, and I answered the door. "Good evening, Sir. May I get you anything?"
For a moment, he just stared: a human tank in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, short and broad, with a crew cut and brown shoes. "Holy crap," he muttered. "Beer--whatever you got that's dark."
"Yes, Sir." I hurried to the kitchen and dug through the refrigerator until I found some brown ale. When I got back, Master was laughing.
"Dumbass scratched my truck, so I told him he could work it off. He'll do whatever you want, Marty."
"Damn, Keith. You're a real asshole," Marty laughed. "Good thing he didn't dent it."
There was another knock, and I hurried to the door. "Good evening, Sir. May I get you--"
He was wearing motorcycle jacket over a black tee-shirt, and camo pants. Easily over six feet tall, he was slender and balding, with a respectable beer belly. A forest of hair rose from the top of his shirt. He threw his jacket at me and handed me a six-pack of bottles with hand-written labels. "Brung my own shit. Put it in the fridge, boy!" He turned to my Master. "Makin' me jealous, Keith. Where'd you find this piece of trash?"
"Fucked up Keith's truck, Carl," Marty answered. "Nice ass, though."
"Pretty boy," Carl laughed. "You can suck my dick any time, faggot. Nate here, yet?"
Master shook his head. "You kidding? Nate's gonna be late to his own fuckin' funeral."
"Got anything to eat?" Carl asked. "Stopped at Burger World, but it didn't make a dent."
"Go get Mister Carl a sandwich!" Keith ordered.
"Yes, Master," I said, automatically, then blushed and hurried to the kitchen with Carl and Marty's laughter behind me.
"Damn, man. You got balls, I'll say that for you. Remind me never to mess with your car!" I think it was Marty, who said that.
I took a deep breath, and returned with a ham and cheese sandwich for Carl. "Here you are, Sir. Would you like something to drink?"
"Gimme a can of Pepsi, if you got one."
"Yes, Sir." I was digging a can out of the back of the fridge when the doorbell rang.
"Hey, faggot!" Keith yelled. "Doorbell. Move it!"
"Yes, Master," I answered hurrying out of the kitchen.
"Where's my goddamn Pepsi, bitch?" Carl laughed.
I hesitated for a moment.
"Answer the goddamn door, faggot!" Keith snapped.
"Yes, Master."
"You got a lousy slave, Keith," Carl laughed.
"Good eve--"
"Did I miss anything?" the new arrival challenged, pushing past me, solid as a statue. His clothes looked almost painted onto his powerful black body.
"May I get you--"
"Who the fuck are you, bitch?"
"Tell Mister Cutter who you are!" Keith said, and the room fell silent.
"I'm Master Keith's slave, Sir."
Cutter laughed. "Like to see all you white boys like that. Get me a Dos Equis and a salami on rye, slave!"
"Yes, Master."
"And bring me my goddamn Pepsi or I'll shove it up your ass, can and all!" Carl thundered.
I raced to the kitchen, my face burning with embarrassment, finally got the Pepsi, and hurried back to Carl. "Here you are, Sir."
"Ice, dumbass. Glass of ice! What're you, born in a barn?" Carl thundered, and for a moment I thought he was going to slap me.
"Sorry, Sir!"
"Hey, white bitch, where's my goddamn salami on rye!"
"Hustle, faggot!" Keith ordered, as the kitchen door swung shut behind me. I was cutting the salami in half when I realized my cock was hard, and visible if anyone looked. "That's going to kick things up a notch," I thought. Glass of ice, sandwich, check. I pushed my way into the living room through a burst of laughter. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be laughing at Marty.
"You one sick fucker," Carl said.
"Thank you, thank you very much," Marty answered, doing a tolerably good Elvis Presley imitation.
"Your sandwich, Sir," I said, presenting the salami on rye to Cutter, who took it without acknowledging my existence. I turned quickly to Carl. "Your ice, Sir."
"Dumbass," Carl replied.
"Hey! White bitch! Where's my damn Dos Equis?"
"You wanna fuck that white ass, Cutter?"
"That piece of trash doesn't deserve it, Marty!" Cutter laughed. "Beer, bitch! Now!"
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir," I said, bowing backwards into the kitchen.
"You boys about ready to start losing your shirts?" Keith challenged. "Let's get down to business."
"What about Nate?" Carl asked.
"You know that fool can't show up 'til half-way through the first hand," Marty answered, sitting down. "Ante up, gentlemen."
I hurried back into the room with the Dos Equis, and just to be safe, a glass.
Cutter was already sitting at the table. "Goddamn faggot's got a hard-on, man. You let your help run around hard?"
"Don't worry about it," Keith laughed. "I'll cut it off, later."
"You got a knife small enough?" Cutter responded.
"Deal 'em, Marty."
"Shit! Is it my turn?"
"Naw. We just like to watch your pretty little hands," Keith laughed.
I stood, awkwardly, while Marty shuffled the cards and offered them to Cutter, who cut them and handed them back. "Kneel, slave!" Keith hissed, and I dropped to my knees at his side. The first hand was well underway when the doorbell rang. I hurried to answer it.
"Good Eve--"
"What the fuck are you!?"
"Master Keith's slave," I answered, almost comfortably. May I get you anything?"
The newcomer, whom I assumed was Nate, just shook his head and pushed me out of the way. I went back to my position at Keith's side. For the next few hands, I fetched and carried as ordered, and the teasing gradually dissipated. Soon, I was being treated almost as part of the furniture, forgotten unless needed. I couldn't decide if this made me more or less an object of derision and contempt--until I noticed that my cock had gone soft.
Then, things changed. The game had become more intense; hundreds of dollars were moving around the table, and then Keith said, "I'll see your hundred bucks and raise you one blow job." For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Then, Cutter said, "How the fuck does that work, man? What's a blow job from a faggot worth?"
"He's not bad at it," Master Keith replied. "What's the going rate?" A few numbers were batted about, and then Master said, "How about fifty bucks? Bet you can't find a decent blow job in town for fifty bucks."
Marty laughed. "I don't think you can find a decent blow job in town for any price, comes right down to it. I'll see your hundred and fifty and raise you another hundred."
"I'm out," said Carl."
Cutter studied his cards. "Me, too. I want to see one of you two clowns collect."
"Call," said Master.
"Straight flush," Marty announced, emphasizing the "straight."
Master tossed his cards up. "Go, slave--pay the man!"
"Right here?" Marty said, surprised.
"Cost you more to take him home," Keith grinned.
"Come on, man! I wanna see if it's worth fifty bucks!" Carl laughed.
"Fuck you guys," Marty muttered. He pushed his chair back and spread his legs. "Come and get it, faggot!"
I quickly crawled under the table and got between Marty's legs.
"Open it up and dive in, bitch," Marty laughed.
I did, carefully opening his jeans to reveal faded jockey shorts. I carefully pulled the waist out and slipped it behind Marty's respectably large, hairy balls. His cock was already swelling.
"Take it, cocksucker," Marty growled. "Show me what ya got! And if I feel any goddamn teeth, you're going to lose them!"
I took the head of his cock between my lips and began licking it with my tongue, pulling at the same time, to encourage his erection.
"He should be spectacular," Cutter said. "that's what they're best at!"
"You heard the man, cocksucker. Make me happy!"
I worked his cock deeper into my mouth, in and out, each time a little farther, while it grew and stiffened. It seemed to be about the same length as Master's, but thicker. Marty let me work it, making noises half- way between humming and growling. "Jesus!" he said, as I plunged deeply. "Take it, bitch!" I pressed his crotch to my face, slipped my tongue through my lips, and tapped his nuts. "Sweet Jesus," he gasped. "Gentlemen, this is definitely a fifty-dollar blow job." His fingers slid into my hair, gripped my skull and held it motionless while he pumped his cock into me. "Oh, yeah, bitch, you take it. Take my cock." His thrusts got stronger, and he began to work my head, pulling it deeper, until my nose was crushed against him. I could barely breathe. I whimpered. "Choke on it, bitch!" Marty roared, and pushed even deeper into me before exploding with wave after wave of cum. I thought for a moment that I might black out, but then he relaxed enough to let me suck in air. He pulled out, then grabbed his cock and wiped it all over my face. "Yeah," he sighed. "Definitely a fifty, maybe a hundred. Who's dealing?"
"Ante up, gentlemen."
"Consider this cocksucker's worth a hundred!"
Cutter won me, next. Nice, fat cock, maybe six inches long, pumped my head back and forth like one of those latex cocksucker things, then--just when I was expecting him to shoot, he pulled out and told me to open my mouth while he shot. I guessed about half of his cream went in, and the rest covered my face while Keith and Carl watched.
"Told ya," Marty laughed. "Definitely a c-note." By the end of the evening, everyone agreed that Keith had found himself a gold mine.
Cutter was especially enthusiastic, and started dropping over between games to use me. Once, he turned to Master and asked, "You don't let this bitch get off, do you?"
"How do you mean?"
"You shouldn't let a cocksucker get off, man. It's like they're using you! You got to get a cage for his cock." Seeing that Master still looked puzzled, he smiled. "Don't let him cum before I get back tomorrow night."
The next night was poker night. It started out pretty much like always, then Keith won a blow job.
"Hold up," Cutter said. "Time for the floor show. Get a bowl out of the kitchen, bitch!"
When I got back, Keith was standing in the middle of the room, and the others were sitting in a sort of circle around him. "Get naked, slave!"
"Yes, Master." I stripped as quickly as I could.
Then Cutter walked up to me with a dildo and a jar of grease. "Lube it up, bitch," he said.
It was pretty obvious, what was coming. I looked at Master. "Do it, punk!" I lubed the dildo and held it in front of me.
"Now shove it up your cunt, punk!" Cutter commanded.
It was larger, I think, than any cock I'd ever taken, but I pressed it against my hole. "Take it, punk!" Cutter ordered, and I started to push it in. The others could tell I wasn't enjoying the process, and pretty soon they were all chanting, "Take it, punk!" until I got it in.
"Work it, punk!" Cutter commanded, and I began pumping myself.
Then, Master walked up to me and opened his fly. "Suck it, faggot," he grinned. It took me a minute or so to get his cock free, with one hand working the dildo, but eventually, I started sucking, fucking myself with that damn rod at the same time. Then, Master grabbed my head and took over. "Play with your little prick, faggot. Show me how much you like getting fucked!"
At the same time, Cutter slipped the bowl under my cock. "Fill it! Bitch!" he sneered.
It didn't take long. I knew exactly how to manage the dildo, and Master's cock was more than ready. I drained myself.
"On your feet, bitch!" Cutter ordered. Puzzled, I stood up, still holding the dildo. "Both hands on the dildo, bitch!" I obeyed, and Master and I watched while Cutter put a cock cage on my limp dick. "See that, man?" he said to Master. "See how that goes on?"
"Yeah."
"Then you just lock it. Like so."
"Oh, fuck!" I said, in spite of myself.
Master slapped me--hard.
Cutter picked up the bowl. "Take it, bitch--and don't you dare lose that dildo!"
I obeyed. My knees were trembling.
"Now, eat up all that fag juice," Cutter said, smiling. "You must be hungry."
Keith was an excellent Master. He seemed to have a powerful instinct for the role. He was self- indulgent, and he knew exactly what sort of torture and humiliation would excite me. Of course, every once in a while, he terrified me. I was never absolutely sure he wouldn't go too far, which was exactly what I wanted.
About six months in, Keith got promoted to foreman. Apparently, having me to bully made him exactly the sort of firm but fair employee the job required. I kept my job, of course, cock caged, tucked away in my office, pushing paper, dealing with other "problem" employees. I became the informal Personnel counselor, and most of the employees I "counseled" left my office grinning. Meanwhile, Keith took what he wanted from my apartment, and sold the rest. Then, he took my car. With each step, I became more and more dependent on my Master. Eventually, everything that had been mine was his. By day, I continued to push papers, and Keith kept working in the warehouse. And every night Keith drove us home. My salary covered most of the bills. I did the housework, learned to cook things the way Keith liked them--all naked, of course, except for a pair of police leg cuffs. Things were approaching perfection, except for the chastity harness locked on my penis.
Master taught me how to service every part of his body with my mouth and tongue. He made me do exercises, and beat me if they weren't done perfectly, no matter how much my muscles ached. For a while, he used ropes to tie me to the post, or to an old workbench, so he could torture me. He never called it torture, though. He called it "teaching the punk a lesson." Eventually, he attached straps to the bench, to make things easier. He bought a bunch of old horse gear and converted it into various harnesses. He had a positive genius for that sort of thing, even sold a few pieces now and then.
During my annual vacation, he had my nose pierced. By the time I returned to work, the hole was healed and unnoticeable, and he could put a ring through it whenever he wanted to. He had contacts in H&H's metal shop, so he fashioned three sets of irons for me, each an improvement on its predecessor. The third set was comfortable enough for me to wear it for as long as he wanted.
He fashioned some cages out of old livestock pens. One was more or less cube-shaped, small and uncomfortable, another was tall enough for me to stand in, but not much else, and a third was on casters, so it could slide under his bed.
The poker nights continued. I polished boots. I was made to stand motionless, wearing a garland of flowers and a very revealing gown, holding a large bowl of punch. I was used as a table and a footrest. Once, I was used as an ashtray--the trick is to keep saliva or water in your mouth to put out the burning tobacco. And at the end of the game, the winner got to work the pussy boy over for the rest of the night. Once in a while, Master took me to parties, naked but for a collar and leash, so I could provide entertainment, fucking myself with a series of dildos, sucking cocks, or just serving as a sissy maid.
The most surprising thing was when Master released my cock. I never knew when it was going to happen, or what he'd do next. Sometimes, he would spend the evening pumping it up without letting me cum, or perhaps insist that I cum all over my dinner, or into a bottle of beer, or onto his boots and then lick it off, or just smear it all over my face and let it dry and gradually flake off.
We're coming up on two years, now. Keith's a little worried; it seems he's being considered for a management position. I'm a little worried, too: it almost seems like he's beginning to care about me. I wonder if he'd sell me to Cutter.