Hey. I'm Gene -- wait, who am I kidding? Yeah, I wanna call myself Gene, but that's not my given name. That's Jean. Jean-Pierre. I DID use Gene until, well, until -- I'll tell you the story. Just let me be Gene for a little while longer.
With a name like Jean-Pierre, you'd think I'm French. Half right. I was born in Louisiana and then, "moved" up north.
Again, who am I kidding? After my second conviction, I got sent to a prison on the East Coast. That was for three years. I was lucky: the maximum I could've gotten was ten, and with it being my second conviction. By the way, I'm 33.
I got into all the messes I've gotten into on my own. No question about it. I hated school, hated authority (sort of), and did some shit I shouldn't have done. And then I got into my current "situation."
If I describe myself physically, some of the stuff may make more sense. Like I wrote, I'm 28. I'm on the short side: if I stand straight, I'm 5'8". I've got a thick body too: I guess I'm a chonk. Hairy too. Most of the time. Sorry to keep teasing you about this stuff, but please bear with me, just a little longer.
The first time I went to prison was for assault. I beat the guy up pretty badly. I got pissed off: some queenie guy wanted to pay me to have my cock sucked. He looked like a strong wind could knock him over, so I figured: easy mark. He was. I took the money he offered, laughed at him, and walked off. He started screaming, and he wouldn't stop. He was pissing me off, so I went back, and I hit him. And I did it again. Beat him up pretty badly. But people DID hear his screams and, well, I couldn't get away. It was a pretty open and shut case, and I got five years (I was 19 at the time). Well, I should've let him suck my dick because, for the next five years, I'M the one who did the cock sucking. And the bottoming. Every day. At least once, sometimes twice.
Believe it or not, I got out for good behavior. I guess because I was always hiding in case some guy much bigger and stronger than me "needed a date," as they'd say. I kept out of trouble, never ratted anyone out, and I was out at 22. I DID use the weight room in prison, and I came out with a pretty fine body. And something that became my trademark, still is. Some people call it a mullet, some people call it a sheep skin, but I have a very unique, thick hairstyle. My hair forms tight curls , so you can imagine a sheepskin. The cut is sort of mulletty. I like it and don't ask me why, but it made me very popular for what I used to do (I was a male stripper. I did construction work, too).
Second time, I knew better. This time it was grand larceny. I had gotten in with some guys, and as part of my "initiation," I needed to hotwire a car. What can I say other than, I got caught again? "Repeat offender" is what I remember the D.A. saying over and over again. A new uniform -- this one brown rather than the smudgy green one the first time around, and a new prison. A new set of cocks to suck and to take up my ass. Tougher guys, too. You've all heard the stories about how you need a big guy to protect you in the yard? It's true. You don't choose them, they choose you. And once Brick chose me, well, that's how I got the tattoo on my rear: the one that says "Bitch." It DID hurt like a bitch when he did it. He gagged me with a sock and a napkin tied over it while he did it. Of course he tied me up while it happened. Hadn't had much of a chance to recover when he fucked me. "Brick's Bitch." He fucked me a lot. That time though, that time...I came while he was in me. Pissed him off because I was tied down to his bunk. For the rest of my time there, I had to get used to him yelling "Hey genie, let `em see what you are." I had to bend over and show the tattoo. Sometimes, he'd invite a friend to take my ass, and sometimes he'd take me in front of everyone.
I did the time and again I got out early. Same kind of good behavior. But at my parole hearing, I remember the chair of the board telling me "Jean-Pierre, you're still young, and you've got two felony convictions. One more and, well, whatever it is, the sentence is 25 to life. If I were you, I'd start choosing more wisely." I nodded. And listened. At least for a while.
Trying to find work with two convictions, and without finishing school is, no pun intended, a bitch. You sort of learn the grimy side of the economy that way. I did what I had to do to survive: I turned tricks (got STDs a couple times, too), did manual labor off the books for less money than I should have been paid, and then, one day, I saw a sign in front of some seedy theater: "Male Dancers wanted. No experience necessary. Good pay." I walked in and after I had taken off my shirt and flexed a little, I got a job. It paid crap, but it was something, and it led to "freelance" work. You know, those bachelorette parties and even some parties for the gays. I actually liked working the gay parties better: the pay was better, the tips were better and, honestly, I began to realize that there was "something" about prison sex that I missed.
Admitting that I was looking for "something" with another guy wouldn't have gone over with my crowd. It was a tough bunch: if we could do something that wasn't really legal, we did it. It was a hand to mouth existence, and I really was never quite sure where I was sleeping on a given night, but it was the hand I was dealt.
An economic crash really put an end to the dancing gigs. Don't get me wrong: people still got married, bachelorette parties still happened, but they cut back. Entertainment wasn't really part of most of them. I wasn't making enough money, so I went back to construction. That's how I met Stuart -- excuse me, MASTER Stuart. (I have to get used to saying "Master" again. I know he's on my trail and when he finds me, well, things'll go back to the way they were.
Every town has their fixer. For us, it was Malcolm. A real piece of work. Smiley, friendly, but if you called him "Mal," you never worked an off the books job again. I got told that before I interviewed with him. He was blunt: "you know, I know a whorehouse looking for some guys, but you're not the right fit. But I do know that there's a house renovation coming up. BIG house. Needs laborers. If you're willing." He offered me more money per hour than I expected, and two days later, I was at the home of Stuart Bloch, getting ready to work.
Master Stuart is 55. He's in good shape -- surprising good shape -- and I think he has more money than God. That's what got me in trouble. There were six of us working, and we pretty much had run of the house. Because we never knew how many people were coming to work on a given day, Master Stuart paid us, in cash, every day. The first day, I saw him open a drawer and pull out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills. He peeled off two, for each of us, then put what was left back. I never saw him lock the drawer. The next day he paid us the same way, only he took the money from another place. Again, he didn't lock it. At some point I spoke to my bud Jim: "how the hell much money you think he's got around?" We knew of at least five places, and he never seemed to be all that concerned about keeping it safe.
I have to say I really enjoyed that job. It was clear, early on, that Master Stuart was gay. He was open about it, and he flirted with all of us. I started to flirt back: I'd put on the tightest, rattiest shorts I could find; I'd close only ONE button on my shirt, and Master Stuart would respond: "Jean, can you bend over and get that pile of books for me please?" I'd answer "Sure will. And for an extra ten spot I'll stay bent for a few minutes." We'd laugh about it. Sometimes I thought I was special to him, but really, he teased us all that way.
That was the last good job I had in a while. Things really cooled down after that. Construction always gets slow in the winter, and it was getting cold. I had a nice little nest egg from that three-week job, but of course, I ran through it faster than I should have. I needed money, and I didn't know where to get it. Actually, that's not true. I remembered all those little "stashes" where Stuart kept his money. I began to think: if I could get in there, maybe, just maybe.
Of course the rise dawned on me. I'm a criminal, but not stupid. I knew if I got caught, I could be sent away for a while -- GEEZ, I'd be Stuart's age when I got out. But I decided to try it. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want to have to share whatever I found. And just in case I crossed paths with Stuart (I picked a night when I knew he was out with Malcolm and some of his other queeny friends). You meet a lot of people with a lot of skills in prison and one guy taught me how to pick locks like a pro. (I had to blow him after each lesson, and since I was another man's bitch, well, I had to be careful. I didn't get caught).
So I picked the lock on Stuart's front door, and let myself in. I knew where the light switches were from working there, and I was careful not to put on too many. There was money in the places where I remembered he had stashed it before. I took it all, and I made a mistake by stopping to count it: there was 2680 in all. Then I made another mistake: I got too greedy. I began to walk around, opening doors, opening closets, cabinets, looking for anything I could steal. I was tempted to go down in the basement because when we were working there, Stuart let none of us go down. If we needed supplies, he'd go and get them. I did find his private gym room, and now something made sense: I thought a wealthy man in his fifties would be out of shape. Stuart wasn't. One time, one of my buds was having trouble with a big piece of furniture, and Stuart went over, pushed him out of the way and moved it himself. I spent too much time in the gym room, because there were photos hanging of Stuart when he was younger. He wasn't "jacked" back then, and he got better looking. (Let me be clear: I'm NOT into older men, but there was something about Stuart that brought out the "situational gayness" they told me about at the second prison.
Then I found his porn stash. All male, all rough. I think I laughed because some of it made what happened in prison look like nursery school play. Was he into this kind of stuff? I didn't know but, well, looking at it was getting a rise out of me. Anyhow, I looked at my watch and : FUCK, I had been there three hours. WAY LONGER than I expected to be. By now, those old fogies would be going home, probably setting themselves in bed for the night, whatever. I figured I had to get out before Stuart got home. I started heading toward the front door, and then I felt an arm around my neck. I later found out it was Stuart, but at that moment, all I knew was that it was strong, and the grip was getting tighter and tighter. I screamed.
"HEY, LET THE FUCK GO! I'll leave everything behind. JUST LET ME GO." I heard a rough little laugh of some kind, and then I felt fingers pressing against my temple. "You're not going anywhere, Jean. Except to sleep." "STUART LET ME THE FUCK GO I SWEAR." I nearly threw up as he tightened his grip, and I began clawing at his arm because I wasn't able to breathe.
"I bet you're REAL pretty when you're sleeping, jean. REAL pretty." He overpronounced my name as if I were some hoity toity Frenchman. I kept on fighting even though I knew -- I had been choked out in prison before -- that I'd run out of air. I just wasn't thinking. I screamed for help about five or six times before I blacked out.
When I woke up, I couldn't move my arms. I could tell my wrists were locked into some cuffs that were coming out of a wall. I looked around, and this HAD to be the basement. I saw a whole bunch of the stuff that I had seen in the porn stash I had been looking at.
I pulled at the cuffs, but they didn't move. I screamed, and that's when I realized I was gagged. I could feel the tape now. It was a tight gag. I looked around and I saw: my shirt was open. FUCK. Had he been playing with me? My jeans were still on me, but the top button was open, and I felt kind of... funny. There was something on my cock! It felt heavier- that isn't hard because I'm not really hung much, which may explain part of why I was always the recipient when I was having sex. I didn't know what it was, but I'd find out. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and then I saw Stuart. I hadn't seen what he was wearing when he came home, so I don't know if he changed. What I DO know is that he looked sexy -- goddamn sexy.
"So, look at this, jean," he did it again with my name. "I don't think I've ever caught a French fly in my web. I began to scream again, and I cursed a blue streak. I pulled but all I was doing was hurting my arms.
"Let me show you something, jean. I'm sort of surprised an experienced thief like you wouldn't have watched for this, but this house is under 24-hour surveillance. See that screen over there?" He pointed to a video screen in the corner. "Let's take a look at some of tonight's highlights." He raced through them. There I was, breaking in, looking through the drawers, pocketing cash, and I probably blushed when it got to my sitting down and looking at the porn stash. That's when I saw that Stuart was wearing gloves: right before he ran a gloved finger in a straight line from my Adam's apple, all the way down to the open button.
"You wondering why your dick feels funny, jean?" I cursed him again, and he commented about how much fire there was in my eyes. "You can make this easy, or I can rip them off." I had spread my legs, trying to keep him from pulling the jeans down, but he seemed determined. I gulped and pulled them closer to make it easier for him to drop them. "Much better. You know, what is it that young folks say, you really rock a pair of tight jeans ?" He laughed. "You know I've already admired your ass in your jeans. You just don't know how many times." I began to get a sense of what was going to happen, but first... my jeans went down, and I saw my drawers were gone. I saw what looked like a pink clip on my cock. Stuart had his hands on it, and my balls. It was small, but it functioned, and it began to harden, until it hit the tip of that...thing. I moaned.
"You may be moaning a whole lot more, jean." He dropped my balls and cock. "You know, you made things way too easy for me, jean." I must have looked confused, and he continued. "I've had an eye on you for a while. I have a feeling you're wildly talented in bed, and I've been looking forward to finding out for myself. I couldn't figure out how to do it, though and then...you gave me the chance."
"Mmmmmph?" I tried to say "huh?". "Two-time offender -- convicted. And now, breaking and entering, attempted robbery, and probably a few more things. And it's all on tape. That's a third strike for you, jean. With the minimums, oh, you'll be older than I am now when you get out."
"I'm fucked. I'm truly fucked," I began to think. I was too confused to realize that what he said next was something I ought to have expected.
"Of course, the police never need to know about this. I've already taken the money out of your pockets, and the porn out of your bag." He chuckled. "You have good taste. Some of those scenes are really hot." He took my balls again. "Did you read the one where the hairy superhero gets his balls shaved?" I had. I had thought about it, and now, "mmmmmmmmmmph" I shook my head no. "So here's the proposition, jean. I'm sure you know an awful lot about the fine art of being a man's bitch. " His fingers came out and toyed with my nipple. My hips bucked forward. "I saw the tattoo on your ass. Sloppy work, but we can take care of that and get a good one. " He paused. "So, to cut to the chase, you can go to prison, or you can agree to be my bitch boy. " He pulled the tape away from my mouth. "Whaddya say, stud?" I started screaming right away. I made up a story about having friends ready to come and meet me. He didn't believe a bit of it. He just stared at me, and when he got tired of hearing me, he squeezed my balls and said "I think you're done. I'll call the police right now. They'll be impressed that an old geezer like me took down a young turk, and you, young man, will be a not so young man when you get out of the slammer." He pulled out his phone.
"PLEASE. Can we work something out? I'll do odd jobs around here, I'll take care of the garden, anything. I won't ask for a penny. Just don't send me to jail, PLEASE." He put down his phone. "I guess I wasn't clear. I said I WOULDN'T send you to jail. There's just payback, jean. And remember, I know enough about how prisons work to know: you bartered for everything. Of course, when you think about it, trading your ass for extra food or cigarettes or whatever...THIS time, we're talking about a couple decades of your life. And ..." I saw his wicked leer for the first time, as he got closer, and ran a finger around my lips "You really don't have anything much to barter but ..." I couldn't help it: I began to cry. "I'll tell you what, jean. You can think about it. I'll leave you here overnight and tomorrow, you can decide what you want to do. Oh, if you make a mess, you'll be cleaning it up." I think he meant it too. I tried to gather my thoughts. The situation didn't look very good to me. I was chained up, caught in the act of stealing, and I think Stuart saw through the bullshit of my friends being nearby.
"Hot down here, don't you think? You want some water?" "Yes, please," I replied. I thought for sure that there was some trick involved in him getting me water, but there wasn't. "You right-handed or left-handed?"
"I'm a leftie," I answered, and he loosened the cuff on my left wrist. He handed me a glass. Real glass, and clean water. I gulped it down. "More?" I was thirsty, I was hungry, and I was scared. "Yes please" I answered, and he brought me another glass. Of course, then my bladder began to ache. It had been a while since I took a piss. "Please, I need to use a bathroom." He smiled. "Let's get something. You can piss in this pail," he pulled over a plastic bucket. "And when you're done, that wrist is going back on the wall." I wanted to die. I was about to pee in front of this guy, through that thing he put on my dick, and I couldn't think of what to do. Pissing made me feel really much more relieved. I could think things out.
"So, you were reading my magazines. You like those stories, jean?" He asked. I could feel myself blush when I said "yeah, I do."
"That's good. Because I was thinking that we could begin to play out one of them, get a little pleasure, until you go off to jail. Of course, if you choose the alternative, lots of roleplays are available." He took the glass from me and took it and the pail away. While he was gone, I tried to reach over to loosen the other cuff. I didn't have enough time. He came back and laughed. "Not happening , jean. You think you're the first one who I've chained up?" I felt his strength when he grabbed my wrist and restrained me again. "Now, that bit of pleasure. This is, of course, for me. As of right now, your pleasure means nothing to me." He pulled off the polo shirt he was wearing, and I had to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. Like I said, Stuart looks like he's jacked (I found out that he took no drugs: it was all hard work). I could see he was sweating. He got close to me and shoved a pit in my face.
"Lick it, Frenchie," he said. "Get it clean or...you may lose that little rose of yours." His hand was on my cock again. I knew how to do what he wanted: I've licked pits before, and I got to work. I heard him moaning in pleasure. "Oh yeah. You're the right one, jean. Make the right choice." I know he could tell I was getting excited, and then he said "You need the evening to decide? Because the police can be here in ten minutes. I'll be out of your hair." I could feel my body sag. "No. I agree to your terms. I'll do what you want." He smiled, came over, and grabbed my hair. "Good boy. Now, you're gonna do something I know you know how to do, and you're gonna do it properly because if you don't, I'll kick your teeth out and then I'll call the cops. He uncuffed me. "On your knees, hands behind you. I'll unzip, and you get to work." I was confused. I should have wanted to try to escape, but what I wanted...was dick.
"I understand." I got in position. He unzipped a solid cut 7 inches and I got to work. It was the first time I blew my new Master. It wouldn't be the last.