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 Six --------
The next morning, I again slipped out of Logan's room around six when he was sleeping. But right after breakfast I was summoned back. He had his bags packed, and he had to get from 37 one final fuck before he left. I carried his bags down to the limo for him and James took over. Logan gripped my cock for a goodbye shake and they took off.
As I walked back inside, Harrison called me into his office. "Logan was very satisfied with your work, 37. He gave me a glowing report."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I turned to leave and then I noticed there were 8x10 glossy prints of all the pictures I had taken after the tennis match.
"You're a pretty good photographer too, Dickhead. You've got a real eye for it. You oughta think about developing it."
"Thank you, Sir," I mumbled and left the room.
I finally did get a good break after lunch. I sacked out on my cot and fell promptly asleep. When I woke up, I was alone and had a few hours to kill before supper so I switched on the TV and settled on the Discovery channel. It happened to be a documentary on the ancient tribe of Amazon women. I jerked myself off as I watched. Then showered and went outside to stretch my legs before supper.
A UPS truck pulled up to the servants' entrance and the driver hopped out. "You mind helping me with some packages here?"
"No problem," I said. Over the last few days, several deliverymen had stopped by and none of them were phased by the presence of scantily clad hunks walking around. I'd seen this particular UPS man before. He had on the official brown UPS shorts, socks and shirt. He had solid hairy legs with muscular calves, equally hairy arms with an eagle tattooed on one just below his sleeve. He was a good six feet tall, with hazel eyes and auburn hair. His namebadge said George.
"So, how do you like it here so far, 37?" He knew I was a probationer. And he was familiar with the protocol.
"I think it's a great job. I really like working here, George." We set our parcels down inside the door and went back to the truck for another armload. I couldn't help noticing that the UPS man was carrying an impressive package himself.
"I did too," George announced.
"You mean you used to work here?"
"Yep. I was 33 for two and a half years."
"Why did you leave?"
"Most slave tops only last for two or three years. Five years tops. The work really takes a toll on you. and of course once you're in your thirties you're not as attractive to these guys. They're always looking for fresh young meat. But they're good to their ex-slaves. These are all powerful men, well-connected. They make sure their boys get good jobs on the outside. Good salaries, good perks like family health care, even special job considerations."
"Like what?"
We carried in the last of the deliveries, but old 33 wasn't in any hurry to leave. He walked me back to the dorm and sat down on my cot.
"Like my boss knows he can't bitch about me taking too much time off. I get paid for a full week, even if I only work one day. I don't abuse it, but I can take as long as I fuckin please to complete my route. There's really no way he can get rid of me. My job is secure. On the other hand, no other driver is permitted to deliver to the Club. If there's a package for here, I have to be available. The club decides what deliverymen can enter their grounds. You can understand why. So a lot of the guys you see drive in here are ex-slaves."
"What about the others?"
"Well, some get set up in their own businesses. I know of an artist who has a patron here at the club. There are school teachers, cops, the owner of a golf pro shop, a farmer upstate, even a pastor."
"So you've kept track of where some guys go."
"Actually we have sort of an alumni association. The Club pays for it. It's called Mu Beta. We have a monthly newsletter and once a year in the fall we spend three days back here at the club, no expense. It's a reunion. They rent fancy camping trailers for some of us, and others even stay upstairs with our partners or lovers or wives, and the current slaves wait on us like members."
"Hold on, you said wives?"
"Yeah, a lot of guys have gotten married. Most of the tops are gay, but by no means all of us. In fact the wives think we make pretty good husbands. We know how to pleasure them with our dicks, and we're used to taking orders. That's a combination a lot of women look for."
"Are you married, George?"
"Nah, I'm a solid fag. I've got a great bottom. Phil and me, we've been together four years now. I kind of got my fill of sweet asses working here, so I was ready to quit playing the field. No more one-night stands. I went in search of a permanent relationship. You'll find a lot of us have settled down with a permanent partner, either male or female. We're good faithful lovers. Family men."
"I've never seen women here at the club."
"The reunion's the only time you would. The place is off limits to females otherwise. Even the married members can't bring their spouses. Not that they'd want to anyway. Most women don't want to lay in bed and watch a parade of pretty boys fuck their husbands."
"But what about the Mu Beta wives? They don't mind?"
"Well, remember! We're all expert tops. That's why we got the job here. During the reunion, we sleep upstairs like members, we get waited on, we use the pool and the links and all, but we really aren't looking to get our asses fucked by you guys. We might do a lot of 69 with you, but that's about it. However, the members who are around, - there are usually about five or six here during the reunion, - they see plenty of action. Some ex-slaves want to fuck the guys they served and bring back those sweet-ass memories. The bottoms are always hungry for cock, you know that, . . . [I nodded] . . . and some of them make a point of collecting a fuck from every ex-slave that comes (pardon the pun). Of course our number keeps growing, so each year it becomes a bigger challenge for these members to collect a complete set."
"Sounds like a great time?"
"It's a fuckin hot time. We show slides and films, . . . [I thought about my tennis pictures] . . . we laugh about the fun we had. We have dumb awards. You know, The Busiest Cock, Most Talented Cock, Cock Most Likely to Succeed, that sort of thing. Everyone has a blast. We all have good memories of our time here."
"Wow. That's great to hear."
"Well, 37. I better hit the road. Wouldn't want to get fired!" George winked at me, patted my codpiece and walked back to his truck.
"See you next time," I shouted.
This was my fifth day at the Club and I realized I was already getting accustomed to the differences. Bottoms were Masters. They ruled. Tops were simply there to serve, to satisfy the voracious hunger of the bottoms. And why not? I remembered the show on the Amazons. Here were a whole race where those with the dicks served those without. The women were in charge. They determined what the men did with their equipment.
And then there's Playgirl magazine. Another case of big dicked men being exploited for sexual fantasy. The readers of Playgirl, both men and women, are looking for tops who can get their juices flowing. These readers aren't going to sit back and let others run their lives. They know what they want and they intend to get it.
There is a definite place in this world for a top who's ready, able and willing to be used for the sexual gratification of others. And after five days, I was seeing myself fulfilling that role.
I took a shower and went down the hall to the kitchen for supper. After my relaxing afternoon, I felt quite refreshed and I guessed it showed. Admiral Dick said, "You're looking hot, 37."
"Yes, 35, I am. I think I could fuck a horse tonight. Bring `em on. I'll outlast them all. Meet SuperCock" I was feeling real cocky.
"Good to hear that, Dickhead. You're the centerpiece tonight!"
Oh shit, I thought to myself. Well, this is going to be a challenge. But hell, I had kept it stiff through nine innings of nonstop plowing and fondling. I stuck out my jaw and said to myself, "Fuck, I can do it. I'm SuperCock."
So there I was laying on the members' table facing the ceiling, wearing only my dog collar and harness, no codpiece. Through seven courses, I kept it pointed up, by sheer will power. A couple members kept playing with it, but I knew they weren't seeing it go limp. I was determined to show them I had what it took. I felt my blood pulsing through its engorged veins. I felt my precum trickling down from the slit. I knew from the beginning I could do it, and I did. It stayed rock hard up through dessert. When the members stood to leave for their cigars, I just lay there perfectly still. Then without any further encouragement, I blew a geyser of cum toward the ceiling. The members heard the explosion and turned back to witness this fountain in the middle of their table. "Now that's a centerpiece," said Bennings and they left for their cigars.
The centerpiece is not called upon to perform afterdinner service, so I had a couple hours to freshen up before I was paged to a bedroom for the night. This time it was Bennings, my early morning swimmer. He spent the entire night experimenting with various techniques to recreate his toy's fountain display. And he succeeded several times.
[What does 37 tell his mother about his work at the club? What does he observe when his fellow slave finishes probation? What tests will 37 need to perform? Find out in the next episode.]