Disclaimer: Do not continue reading if you are not 18 years old or you are offended by portrayals of male to male sex or the laws in your state or county forbid this type of material.
Copyright 2004 by the author. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
Names, characters, locations and incidents are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Master Bottoms
--------- Day Four -----------
At about a quarter to six, Logan finally fell asleep. I knew that was his way of dismissing me. So I gathered up my clothes (at least the ones I hadn't left in the limo) and headed downstairs to the dorm. Other bedroom doors opened also and other totally beat slave tops headed down the stairs with me. We all showered in a nice warm cascade of water, washing off the many hours of dried jizm. I retrieved my uniform from my footlocker and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Number 8 asked me about my evening, but I was way too tired to make small talk. I told him I'd fill him in later. I went about my morning chores in a stupor. I trusted Admiral Dick to give me time in the afternoon to rest up. And I'm sure he would have, but Logan had other plans.
Right after lunch, Logan told me to get my sorry dick down to the tennis court. It seemed he had challenged Harrison to a match, - three sets - and number 11 and I were the designated ball boys. As they were warming up with a few gentle volleys, I realized they were talking about a wager. Logan especially was determined to be victorious, but Harrison wasn't going to give it to him easily. "What are they playing for?" I asked 11.
"The loser has to fuck the winner."
"Don't you have that backwards?" I asked. I remembered my days back on the high school wrestling squad. To make our practice heats more interesting, the coach encouraged us to "fight for fuck." The guy who pinned his opponent got to fuck him. And the coach and the rest of the squad would watch and add to the loser's humiliation by calling him pussy boy, bitch, or asshole.
"No, 37, remember, here, the bottom is the position of honor. The loser of the match will be reduced to performing the role of the slave top. And to add to his shame, we are here to observe his dethronement.
Wow. Once again, I realized I was still not used to this topsy turvy world with its upside down rules.
Logan served and after a short volley, won the point. "Fifteen," he called, but in a few minutes it was "fifteen all." Then Harrison won his second point, "Thirty, Logan." And Logan didn't score again. Game for Harrison.
Logan worked on the next game, and it stood at deuce for a long time. Finally, he got the advantage and then won the game. Harrison won game three but Logan won the first set, four to two.
I knew better than to say anything during the match, but I was secretly rooting for Logan. He had given me such a fantastic day in the city. Even though he used me up and threw me aside, I was still impressed by his insatiable asshole. I would have gladly gone to the opera again as his escort, but of course I knew I would not be chosen. He would need a fresh new outfit next time around.
Harrison won the second set, five to one, but Logan rallied in the third set and won the first four games. When he scored the final point, both, like gentlemen, met at the net and exchanged hand shakes. "OK, Logan, you got me fair and square. Let's get this over with."
"No, Harrison, you mean, Let's get this started. It won't be over until I say it's over."
Number 11 and I stood and watched as Harrison allowed Logan to pull his Izod shirt over his head, then unbutton and unzip his shorts and let them drop to the clay surface. Logan instructed Harrison to get his shoes and socks off. Then, Logan slowly took Harrison's tidy whities down his legs. Here was this champion of Wall Street, the president of the club, allowing another member to strip him naked. But Logan had still more in mind.
Logan cupped Harrison's balls in his hand and squeezed, knowing Harrison in this role couldn't complain. He stroked Harrison's puny little cock and made sure 11 and I got a good look at it. Then he went over to his tennis bag, pushed aside a towel, and pulled out, - oh, shit, 11 and I both gaped - Logan pulled out a codpiece, dog collar and harness. He had gone to the storeroom that morning and gotten a uniform that wasn't currently in use. And ironically, since Harrison was the president, it was uniform number 1.
"Put it on, Dickhead." And Harrison knew he had to obey.
Logan then pulled out a camera and handed it to me. "Here, 37, start recording this event."
I glanced at Harrison, and he nodded for me to do as I was told. He got into his gear and posed for me. By then, Logan had his pants off.
"Hey, 1," he said with a sneer, then pointing to his asshole. "You see this? You want this, Dickhead?"
"Yes, Sir, I want your ass, Sir."
"I can't hear you."
"Yes, Sir!" Harrison shouted loud enough for the members still inside to know how the match turned out. "I want your ass, Sir."
"Beg for it, Dickhead."
Harrison got down on his knees on the clay and whined, "Please, Sir, I want your wonderful ass, Sir. Please give it to me."
It was embarrassing to 11 and me to witness this humiliation of our employer, but I kept on snapping pictures as I had been told.
Harrison crawled on his knees over to Logan and began kissing his ass, his tongue darted deep into that hairy crack where my dick had spent so much time. I even wondered if Harrison could taste my manjuice. After all, I hadn't seen Logan shower. For all I knew he left my dried jizm there for this moment. Logan made sure I got plenty of close-ups of Harrison's tongue in his ass.
"OK, Dickhead, the time has come." Logan leaned on the net pole and pushed out his buttocks. "Fuck me, 1. Fuck me hard."
And obediently Harrison pushed his short little male member into Logan's ever-hungry ass. As Logan swallowed his president deep inside, I got the whole sorry scene on film. I even got face shots of Harrison straining to get a halfway decent load out.
When he was finally finished, - and none too soon for my likings, - Harrison pulled out. Then oddly, both men started laughing. They embraced each other and even kissed on the mouth. "Jolly fun, my good man. But next year, be ready to wear this yourself, Logan." and Harrison tugged at his collar.
Then, arms around each other, they walked up to the house, Logan pantless and Harrison barefoot and in his silly uniform. About a dozen members had gathered on the porch and applauded as the two approached.
I shook my head. 11 and I gathered up the assortment of clothes, tennis rackets, balls, and of course the camera and carted them back to the house. I thought I would never get used to this strange world.
[What happens when two ardent baseball fans root for two different teams? Who's holding the bat? And who always has two balls? Find out in the next episode.]