Mister Lee
z119z
"I have two loads for you. Be ready at 8:00."
"Yes, Mr. Lee."
Mr. Lee hangs up even before I finish speaking.
The phone calls are always that abrupt and dictatorial. No "Hello, this is Mr. Lee." No "Are you free tonight?" Obedience to his commands is assumed. If I have other plans, I cancel them. Mr. Lee has made it clear that a failure to be available at the specified time will end our arrangement. There are no excuses in Mr. Lee's world.
At 7:55 I receive a text telling me the car is approaching. I leave my apartment and take the elevator to the lobby. I am wearing a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants with nothing underneath. I have on sneakers but no socks. I stand outside under the portico where the lights illuminate my face. Each time there is a different driver. I am not sure how they identify me. Perhaps Mr. Lee gives them a picture. A black SUV with tinted windows pulls up and flashes its lights. To any passerby it would look like a normal Uber or Lyft ride. As I approach, the driver unlocks the doors. I open the back door and ask, "Mr. Lee?" I always confirm that. It's probably not necessary, but I don't want to get in the wrong car.
The driver says only a curt "Get in." He is wearing a ball cap and glasses. The overhead light is turned off. I sense only a dark shape of a head and shoulders outlined against the light coming through the front window.
The seat belt slides across my chest as I close the door, pinning me in. I hear the door lock click. Beside me on the seat is a pair of goggles. I put them on. They look normal, but the lenses have been coated with an opaque film. It is impossible to see out of them. Also on the seat next to me is a pair of earphones. I put those on as well. They emit a form of white noise, cancelling all other sounds. When I am effectively blinded and deaf, the car pulls away from the curb. Mr. Lee does not want me to know where I am being taken. The car moves at a moderate speed. It stops often—traffic lights or stop signs. Occasionally it turns. For a time it travels at a faster speed. Perhaps we are on a freeway. The driver changes lanes. We slow down again.
The first few times I tried to work out mentally where we were going. But it's difficult to gauge how fast and how far you are traveling when you can't see or hear. The trip always seemed endless before I learned to just sit there and let the white noise wash my mind. It's very relaxing if you just surrender to the sound. The journey goes much faster when I ignore the fact that I'm being driven to some unknown location.
It's funny how your mind works. The white noise is just endless static. But sometimes I think I can hear a voice. The glasses are the same. They completely surround the eyes. I can't see anything. But I swear that I sometimes see moving lights. I even catch my eyes moving to follow them. Sometimes they coalesce into momentary images, brief flashes of figures. It's only my imagination, of course. There's nothing there. Just my mind in overdrive trying to make sense of random noise and complete darkness. As I say, it's just best to let the white noise and the darkness relax you. I feel so peaceful and happy when I do that.
Eventually the car comes to almost a complete stop and makes a sharp right turn. We are there. The car moves forward slowly and then stops. After a second, the white noise in the earphones stops. That is my signal. I remove the earphones and the glasses. The door locks click. I push the door open and exit the car.
I am in an alleyway. Light spills in from the main streets at either end of the block, but it illuminates almost nothing. To my right near the end of the alley, I see the squat shape of a dumpster in the light from the headlamps of the car as it moves off. In front of me is a door with the stamped metal numbers 3 and 6 at eye height. They are pitted and tarnished, whatever shine they may once have had long gone. They look like they have been there for decades.
As I approach the door, a motion detector activates a light over it. The LED on the camera above the door glows red as it swivels toward me. A few seconds later, the door opens soundlessly. Mr. Lee is, as always, dressed in a black rubber or vinyl suit that covers his body completely. The executioner's hood on his head leaves only his lips and eyes exposed. His eyes flash briefly in the meager light coming from outside as he steps back to allow me to enter. He holds a riding crop in his right hand.
I have never seen Mr. Lee's face or body. He is always clothed and masked. The lighting is always dark or dim. He is about 5 foot 10 or 11 and has a trim build. He has a deep voice and speaks without an accent. I don't even know if "Lee" is his real name or even if that is the correct spelling. It could be "Li." It might be a first name rather than his surname.
Nor do I know how he found me. Three years ago, I received an unsigned letter in the mail laying out the rules for what would become our arrangement. I was intrigued by its kinkiness--I got hard as I read the letter--and the mystery of it. It was as if he had reached into my mind and found my most hidden desires, ones that I had never admitted to anyone or didn't even know that I had. I texted the number given in the letter to tell the sender that I was interested and would obey the rules. The first time I arrived, he told me to call him "Mister Lee." Three years later, I know little more about him.
I step inside and the door closes behind me. The only light comes from a dim bulb in a wire cage overhead. I pull the envelope out of the pocket of my sweatpants and hand it to Mr. Lee. It contains ten $100 bills. He opens the envelope and pulls out the money. He fans it out so that the row of 100s is visible. He doesn't bother to check to make sure that there are ten of them. We both know what he would do if I failed to pay the going rate of $500 per load. That knowledge is what made me count and recount the bills several times to make sure I was paying the correct amount.
There is a chair beside the door. I sit on it and remove my shoes, positioning them carefully out of the way beneath the chair. I stand and remove my clothes, folding them and placing them neatly on the chair. When I am naked, Mr. Lee points to the floor with the riding crop. I lie face-down on the floor, my legs together and my hands clasped behind my back. The linoleum is cold but clean. Mr. Lee would not tolerate a dirty floor. Mr. Lee zip-ties my wrists together and then my ankles.
A brighter light briefly spills into the room as Mr. Lee opens the door to the cellar and goes downstairs. He closes the door behind him and leaves me.
I wait. Waiting is part of the ritual. Mr. Lee never speaks during this part. I have visited him so many times that I know what to expect. So I wait. Here and now, Mr. Lee controls time. I am one of his tools, his instruments. When he is ready to use me, he will. The cellar is sound-proofed. No noise reveals what Mr. Lee is doing. The building creaks and pops. Odd inexplicable noises. Outside an occasional car passes. This is not a busy area at night.
In the dim light, I can make out shelves packed with boxes on both sides of the narrow room, but it's too dark to read the labels. The cold makes me shiver. I try to control the trembling and not move. The floor gets harder and more uncomfortable.
How much time passes? A half-hour? An hour? More? I press my ear against the floor, straining to hear something, anything. I should know by now that I can't hear him, but that doesn't stop me from trying. The only thing I have is my thoughts. The degradation of lying naked on a cold floor in a dark storeroom waiting to be used--again. The growing physical aches from lying in one position. I'm cold, sore, bored.
I have almost zoned out when Mr. Lee returns. The cellar door opens, and the bright light spills out onto the floor. Mr. Lee walks over to me. He places the sole of one of his boots on the back of my neck and presses down. I can feel the rough treads.
He positions the other boot in from of my mouth. I try to raise my head to lick the boot. He presses down harder on my neck. The most I can manage to do is to touch the boot with the tip of my tongue.
He has a riding crop and uses the business end of it to trace my spine and the curve of my buttocks. My flesh involuntarily spasms. He knows how to make me quiver. He grunts. I don't know whether he is pleased or unhappy with my response.
"What are you?" The question is part of the ritual.
"An instrument of your will, Mr. Lee."
"What are you?"
"A tool, Mr. Lee."
"Get up." He snips open the zip-tie around my ankles.
"Yes, Mr. Lee."
Always "Mr. Lee." Not "Sir" or "Master Lee." He has made it clear to me that he is "Mr. Lee." In the early days, a "sir" or a "master" would lead to a swift slap and a shouted "No, it's Mr. Lee." Now it would probably lead to him dismissing me.
I have to contort my body and wriggle to rise to my knees. It's hard with my hands tied behind my back to get my balance. I kneel, head bent forward. He fastens a heavy leather collar around my neck and clips a leash to it. He jabs the riding crop into my back, pushing me toward the cellar door. I struggle to my feet, legs bent and chest and head bent forward submissively.
I inch down the stairs struggling to keep my balance. It's very difficult to keep from rolling down them with my hands tied behind my back. The stairs are steep and narrow. There are fourteen of them. I've counted them many times. I move as quickly as I can. Mr. Lee holds the leash tightly, pulling the collar tight against my throat. He descends the stairs behind me. If I'm too slow, he slaps my ass with the riding crop..
When I reach the bottom, I sink to my knees. I hate this part. The concrete floor is even colder and harder than the floor upstairs. It's also a lot rougher and grittier, and it tears at the skin on my knees. I try to ignore it--I will not be allowed off my knees until Mr. Lee has finished using me.
The cellar is brightly lit, so bright that it hurts my eyes after the darkness of the storeroom. Ahead of me are two men, their backs toward me. Naked. Their arms are pulled over their heads and held up by ropes looped around hooks in the ceiling. Their legs are spread apart with bars attached to ankle cuffs and secured by short chains to eyehooks in the floor.
Their backs are criss-crossed with welts from Mr. Lee's whips. Torn pairs of underwear cling to their red, swollen butts. The man on the right was wearing a pair of tighty whities. All that remains are the waistband and a few shreds of fabric. The man on the left appears to have been wearing a pair of tight blue boxer shorts. The fabric droops over the back of his thighs--his spread legs keep them from falling to his ankles. I imagine Mr. Lee had them strip down to their underwear. His whips finished undressing them.
Tight laces secure hoods over their heads. I know from past experience that the eye and mouth holes will be zippered shut. They wear earphones and the music is playing so loud that I can hear tinny sounds escaping from them. They cannot see anything and, I'm guessing, cannot hear anything but the pounding, raucous music. Their bodies droop, worn out from Mr. Lee's ministrations. Only the ropes securing their arms keep them upright. Without them, they would collapse to the floor.
Each man has a remote-controlled butt plug rammed up his ass. As I watch, both men shudder in unison and cry out as the plugs deliver an electric jolt. Perhaps earlier, they shouted "fuck" with each charge, but they are so exhausted now that they can manage only a moan. Their bodies twist and contort. For a few seconds, each jerks upward, their torsos arching backward at the waist. The muscles in their legs and arms pull against their restraints as they struggle to escape the shock. With a groan, each sinks back.
My part in their ordeal is about to begin. Mr. Lee prods me forward with the riding crop. Still on my knees, I circle around the men. Weighted alligator clamps hang from their nipples, the bare teeth biting into their flesh. Metal rings, each about an inch thick, circle their balls and cocks, forcing them outward. The closed zippers on their hoods gleam in the light, parodies of smiling mouths with shiny metal teeth and gleaming eyes. I can smell them. Mr. Lee has made them sweat. They reek of arousal.
Mr. Lee steps up to the man wearing the boxer shorts. He has--or had--a nice body. He won't be showing off at the gym until the bruising and the welts disappear, if they ever do. I wonder what he thought was going to happen. He obviously devotes many hours to working out. His pecs are so swollen that the chain linking the tit clamps dangles free of his body. Other than a neat patch of hair above his groin, his body is smooth.
Mr. Lee grabs his cock and rolls a condom over it. The man jerks in surprise and mumbles something. Mr. Lee motions me forward. I take the cock in my mouth and begin sucking. Whatever the man was expecting, he wasn't expecting that. He tries to pull back, but Mr. Lee puts a hand on the back of my head and his other hand on the man's butt, forcing us together. I press my face into the man's groin, swallowing the whole length of his cock. I crush my nose into his pubes.
I run my tongue along the underside of his cock, focusing on that sensitive spot beneath the head. The man may not have been sure of what was happening at first, but he definitely likes it. His cock swells and fills my mouth. A little bit larger than average, but not so large as to make me gag.
The butt plug delivers another shock and the man twists in my mouth. Pain and pleasure. His body is trying to react to both. The signals to his brain must confuse him. I redouble my efforts. Mr. Lee doesn't like this stage to take a long time.
Sometimes the men are in so much pain by the time that Mr. Lee brings me in that they can't perform. But Mr. Lee won't let me stop until they cum. There have been nights when my jaw is aching by the time they shoot. Fortunately boxer guy must have got off on the pain or he really likes being sucked. He gets into the swing of things and begins thrusting his cock in and out of my mouth. Mewling noises come out of his mouth, little "uhms" of pleasure. He cums within five minutes. He shoots several times, jamming his cock into my mouth and holding it there. His screams of pleasure/pain echo around the cellar. When his hips stop thrusting, his weight pulls his cock out of my mouth.
His cum fills the end of the condom. The load makes it swing back and forth as the man shudders with the last spasms of his orgasm. It glistens in the bright light of the cellar. I can't take my eyes off that gleaming sack as the man's cock deflates and the bag swings back and forth. It's hypnotic to watch it. I lick my lips. I want to leap forward and pull the condom off with my mouth, crushing it between my teeth and letting that hot cum spurt into my mouth.
But that is not permitted. My role is to be passive, inert, without initiative. Mr. Lee is the one who decides what happen, not me. I feel like a dog waiting for table scraps. I eye the feast I hunger for, but I am too well trained to lunge for it.
Mr. Lee carefully peels the condom off the man. He presses the open end against my mouth. With a rubber-gloved finger he pushes the other end of the condom into my mouth, turning it inside out. I suck on it, feasting on the cum. I lick it clean, compulsively tonguing it, moaning with the pleasure of it.
Mr. Lee pulls the condom out of my mouth. I thrust my head forward, trying to keep it inside me for as long as possible. Mr. Lee laughs. He swings the condom against my face, lashing me with it, as if it were a whip. It sticks to my forehead and hangs down over my right eye.
He prods me with the riding crop, nudging me to crawl over in front of the other man. The movement of my sore knees against the hard concrete sends bolts of pain up my body.
The second man is younger, not as bulky, but well-defined. Each of his muscles is outlined clearly. His body convulses and his flesh shudders as an electrical pulse surges through him. His stomach muscles contact lifting his legs off the floor. He briefly hangs suspended from his arms, swinging from side to side, before his feet crash back to the floor.
I kneel before him, my face at the height of his groin. A metal ring encircles the base of his cock and balls, and a small metal band runs around his cock just beneath the head. Electrical wires lead to a small box on the floor. His cock is pointed straight at my face.
Mr. Lee leans down and flips a switch on the box and then adjusts a dial. The man's cock jumps as the first jolt of electricity strikes him. I watch entranced as his cock jerks up and down with each pulse of the current. The steel ring makes his cock and balls jut toward me and holds them in place. As I stare at his cock, a drop of pre-cum oozes out. It hangs at the tip of his cock for a moment before slowly, almost reluctantly, dripping down in a long string to the floor.
I can't take my eyes off his piss slit. It's like I'm hypnotized by it. My eyes follow it. My mouth gapes open, hungry, wanting to take the cock into my mouth. I lose track of time as I fixate on his pulsating cock. It fills my eyes, it fills my mind.
Above me the man groans and thrashes about as the electricity runs through him. I can feel it now. Each time he groans, I groan. I feel the glowing pleasure in his cock as his balls churn and his body spasms. We are throbbing. His piss slit contracts and expands uncontrollably as his cock jerks up and down.
With a great cry, he shoots an enormous jet of cum. It hits me square in the face. A second, and then a third follow quickly. The cum is hot on my skin. It sticks to me before slowly sliding down my face. My forehead is covered with it, as are my cheeks. I will find out later that gobs of it are stuck in my hair. A large wad forms on the tip of my nose. I open my mouth and stick out my tongue to catch it.
I turn toward the cameras so that the viewers of the live show can witness it fully. This is what I paid for. A chance to be used and to be part of Mr. Lee's productions, the thrill of being exhibited to thousands of complete strangers. Some of them wish they were me. Others glory in what they see as my humiliation—the pathetic faggot who pays to suck cock and get facials. I hope they feel they got their money's worth tonight. Unlike me, they witnessed Mr. Lee's torturing of these two men and got to see me servicing them. One of the cameras zooms in on my face. I am the star of the moment. The condom still dangles from my forehead. The cum is already turning cold and drying on my face. I remain there kneeling. Mr. Lee will tell me when I can get up.
In the background I hear the clicking noises that signal incoming messages. There must be dozens of them. There will be more later after Mr. Lee edits the videos of this session and makes them available to his subscribers. I can't wait to discover what he makes of tonight's adventure. I especially enjoy the comments. I read all of them. Some viewers are very inventive--there are some seriously perverted people out there. I hope Mr. Lee uses some of their suggestions for what to do to me next.