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
-------- One year later --------
Well, I lasted a year. Actually more than just lasted. I thrived. It was like every one of these fabulous asses gave me new energy, new stamina. I had a daily smorgasbord of fantastic bottoms. My prowess has become legendary. The third Friday of every month, I am the centerpiece at dinner and newer slaves are told to study my example.
I have been given the job of club photographer. I take stills around the grounds, and videotape various club functions. Often members took home copies of the evening parlor orgies. I've developed a real talent for photography. The Club has even issued me a business card like Tom's: Fred Jones, Photographer, Master Bottoms Club.
The members decided they needed a theater room with a huge TV screen and large comfortable theater seats. They could use it to show the latest titles from Falcon and Colt, before they were released for general distribution. They could also show the home videos I was taking. And the theater would provide a great venue for Buck Hastings night. Buck was a former slave, the stuff of legends, who went on to join the Chippendales. Now every once in a while, the club hired him to come and perform his strip show just for them. Unlike his usual shows, here at the club he could go full monty and fuck selected members as part of the act. So with these uses in mind, a contractor was called in to build a new three story addition to the south, which would house the theater, a bowling alley and two new bedrooms. Of course the contractor was a member and the construction crew were all ex-slaves.
Every Christmas, the club closes down. Most of the members want to be with their own families. The tops are given a week off, so this year I went home to Mom on Long Island. She was real proud of my business card, and handed them out to all her friends. She was amazed at the expensive gifts I bought for her and Sis. I didn't bother telling her that I got very substantial discounts at some of the most exclusive shops on Fifth Avenue, the ones owned by members. That plus the fact that I had created a fat little bank account by salting away my year's pay. Frankly, I never had the time to go spend it on anything, and I really didn't need anything, since all my worldly needs were met. I never needed to pay rent. I never needed to buy food. I never needed to buy clothes, obviously. And I never needed to pay for boys to fuck. I had even begun to study the stock market.
I told Mom that I wanted to spend one day of my vacation with Barry. Mom was pleased. She always said she liked Barry. Much more than any of the other guys I brought home. So on December 28th, I borrowed Mom's car and drove out to catch the 7AM ferry from Orient Point to New London. The hour and a half crossing gave me time to reminisce about Barry and me.
I met Barry when we both went out for wrestling at school. The coach was always confused that one of the best wrestlers on the squad always seemed to `lose' the practice sessions when we fought for fuck. But Barry was as strictly a bottom as I was a top. What he lacked in cock he more than up for in ass. His rear end was a top's dream come true. Firm and full with a hole that just pulled you in. We spent a lot of afternoons together, and whenever we had sex, there were fireworks. But after graduation, his family moved to Connecticut. We still stayed in touch, but we hadn't seen each other since then. I wondered if it was possible to rekindle the flame that once burned between us.
I knew he had gotten his own apartment in Hartford. When he opened his door, neither of us said even "Hello." We just grabbed each other in a tight hug and shared a long wet delicious kiss that seemed to last for hours. That kiss represented all those years we had lost since High School. Finally he took me inside, and took off my winter coat. We settled down and began to get caught up. While drinking coffee, we exchanged our Christmas presents. He gave me a beautiful silverplated cock ring inscribed, "To Fred From Barry." And I gave him a dildo I had had custom molded from my own cock. Then we talked about what we were doing. I showed him some pictures of the Club, and one of me in my uniform, and a few of the other tops. I explained that I couldn't reveal any of the members' identities and he understood. Barry had about a half dozen married men in town who came over on a regular basis to get a blow job and some ass without any commitment. That helped him pay for his apartment. And he had an office job with one of the insurance firms in town.
As we sat on his couch and talked, we kept unbuttoning each other's clothes. Now we were ready to get caught up in other ways. I inspected his butt. I don't know what kind of exercise he'd been doing since high school, but Barry had developed some blue ribbon bulbous buns. The skin covering those mounds was so tight, I was tempted to bounce 31's quarter off them. We started with an energetic 69, some delicious rimming, and then I ripped into his ass, doggy position. Barry remarked that I had changed, but for the better. Our sex was more mutual now; I wasn't calling the shots, giving him orders and using insulting slurs, the way I used to. The flame had been reignited. Besides lunch and dinner, we got in several steamy fuck sessions before I had to leave to catch the last ferry back home. But we promised to write often and phone every Sunday. I knew then that one day I would abandon all other assholes for his alone, and he later told me that he was looking forward to the time when, `forsaking all others,' he would give me exclusive access to his hole. Those Hartford husbands would just have to eat shit! But we both knew that time had not yet arrived. His ass and my dick had jobs to do. Love was one thing, business quite another.
I was back in Pennsylvania on Dec. 30th to prepare for the big New Year's Eve orgy. This year, Mr. Marshall was in attendance for New Year's. Marshall, a hollywood heart throb, who often competes with Matt Damon for roles, is the youngest of the members. At the club he uses his born name, Marshall, rather than his stage name, but everyone knows who he is. His face is often on the cover of People, often next to some young bosomy starlet. In his mid 20's, he is still cast as a brilliant college student, or World War Two private, or some other man just starting out in life. Marshall is also the least mature member of the club. He drinks beer instead of bourbon, he smokes crack instead of cigars. He constantly horses around, loudly and boisterously. Some members resent his presence and wonder aloud how he ever got into the club. But he met the two prime requisites for membership: with several movie contracts every year, he is wealthier than half the others in the club; and he has a beautiful tight little boy's ass, without a single hair to be seen.
Marshall rarely calls the tops by number. He prefers to come up with mocking pejoratives: cum faucet, plow jockey and ass kisser, all of which accurately describe our functions; wiener and banana, which portray our endowment; and cock boy, which I didn't think was very clever. His best slur though was dildo. "Hey, Dildo, get over here." That seems to me very perceptive, for that's what we slaves are here, living dildos, always available to be used by the bottoms for self-gratification.
His agent had let the rumor get around that Marshall checked into some drug rehab center after Christmas. Marshall even joked about the thousands of fans, mostly teenaged girls, who sent him encouraging cards saying they hoped he beat this terrible curse, and his noble example had encouraged them to stop playing with weed and they would always stand behind him no matter what. They would be dumbfounded if they saw how he actually spent New Year's: crawling on the parlor floor on all fours, wearing only a party hat and blowing a noisemaker while ordering a succession of boy toys to plug his sweet young ass. He took two of us up to his room at about 2:30, but he was so stoned he was fast asleep as soon as he hit the bed. At three, 18 and I went back to the dorm to sleep.
Around the end of March, Mr. Dover arrived for three days. When he wasn't around, the tops called him Doberman, but we had to be on guard in his presence not to let that name slip out by mistake. Dover was the kinkiest member of the club. He raised AKC Champion Great Danes and he had a real dog fetish. He had all the tops run around in a circle in the front lawn and pulled out what he considered the top five in our class. With hardly any body hair himself, he preferred hairy tops; felt they conformed best to the standard for our breed. From these he selected the Best in Show. And shit, it was me. He put a leash on my collar, and took off my codpiece. The harness and collar were my uniform for the rest of his stay, during which I was practically confined to his room. I was not allowed to speak, at least not in English. I was supposed to bark whenever I wanted to ask for something, and he would guess what I needed. He inevitably guessed wrong. But at least this way, I wouldn't accidentally use the term Doberman. He fed me Gravy Train in a bowl, with a bowl of water. He pulled me by my leash, which was better than being pulled by my dick which was the ordinary way tops were dragged around the house. To piss and shit he walked me on the leash outside and number 20 had to follow us with a pooper scooper. After my mess was picked up, I would fetch the ball Doberman threw, and each time I brought it in my mouth back to him he gave me a doggy cookie. Inside, when on the phone, he would run his fingers behind my ears. He bathed me in the tub, blow-dried my hair, then brushed it with a dog brush, cut my nails and brushed my teeth. He treated me like a champion, and it occupied a large portion of his day. But whenever he left the room for meals or tennis, he locked me in a small cage he used for carrying his studs from show to show. The only way I fit was to sit with my knees against my chest. Hell, that's animal cruelty, ain't it? Call the ASPCA. When 29 and 33 came to make the bed each day, they brought me some human food the chef sent up, like a ham sandwich and a Pepsi. Doberman wanted sex from me only three times a day, once before breakfast, once outdoors after the fetching game, and once before he dressed for supper. And he always used, you guessed it, the doggy position. But first, he'd make me sniff his hairless ass for a long time. "The bitch decides when it's time," he explained. He even purposely farted in my face but I kept on sniffing. Finally he'd give me the order to mount, and each time I fucked his kinky little tail off, like the champion stud I am. I guess he also got a few fucks in the parlor after dinner, but he still came up to the room fairly early each evening, unlocked my cage, and let me lick him all over. Then he pointed to my dog bed where I curled up for the night.
[What happened to 37 after he left the Master Bottoms employ? Did he ever see his lover Barry again? Find out in the next and final episode.]