[DISCLAIMER: The following completely fictional story, the sole copyright for which belongs to the author, depicts homosexual behavior and should not, therefore, be read by anyone under the legal age of consent in whatever jurisdiction or by anyone offended by homoerotic and/or pornographic material. It is forbidden to post the text electronically or disseminate it in any manner without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.]
PLEASE HELP ME
Help. Somebody, anybody. Please help me. I'm desperate.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop myself. I am about to go to another man and give myself to him, give him my soul, my body, my devotion, my self. It will ruin my life.
Please, please help me.
I know what to expect. Mark has told me what I must do. His door is unlocked. I am towalk in and take off all my clothes in his front hall. My collar will be there, and I am to put it on. Then, naked from the neck down, I will climb the stairs and knock on his bedroom door. He will open it. He will be dressed. I am to undress him slowly, respectfully, unbutton the front and cuffs of his shirt, slip it off him and put it neatly over a chairback, untie his shoes, remove them and his socks and put them by the dresser, undo his belt and open his zipper and help him out of his pants. But I must not touch his body or take off his briefs.
When I have hung the trousers in the closet and made sure the creases are straight, I must come back to him and stand in front of him with my hands behind my back and my eyes shut while he examines me. He will touch me, feel my muscles, pinch my nipples, fondle my buttocks, play with my genitals. He will turn me around and bend me over and put a finger into me, maybe more than just one finger. If he hurts me, I am not allowed to protest. I must not speak until he speaks to me. He will put his hands on my shoulders and press down until I am on my knees. He will grasp my head in his hands and bring my mouth to his crotch. I must then lick his balls and his cock through the fabric until he lets me stop.
Help me, please. He is going to enslave me. I want him to do it. Can't someone help me?
Whatever happens in his bedroom, I will have cut myself off from my old life, from my wonderful, caring wife, from my beautiful daughter, from the support and security of my family. Once I enter his house, I will be completely his. And I know he alone will set the terms for everything we do together, for sex, for work, food, entertainment, clothing, housing, finances, travel, friends, even for the length of time he will keep me under his roof, in his life.
Mark has told me the rules, and I have agreed to them. There really is only one rule: I owe him everything; he owes me nothing. I will be past all help. Help me, please. I am in such terrible trouble.
Although I am fairly sure that he does like my body, I also suspect that before he possesses me, he will make me take all the hair off it. The one time we met at his gym, I had just come out of the shower. He took my towel from me, looked me over and asked me why June liked me to be so hairy. Just from his tone of voice, I knew he wanted me to be completely smooth the way I imagine he is.
He has never let me see him naked, but I know that he has no hair on his arms, legs or chest. And they look terrific that way. His skin is so beautiful. It has a luster that maddens me, the way his deep-set green eyes do, the way the outline of his long, thick cock in his tight bathing suit did when he took me swimming.
That was when I offered myself to him. Back from the neighbor's pool, we went into his house for a drink and I summoned up all my courage and I asked him to fuck me. "Please, Mark," I said, "I want to belong to you. Please help me. Please take me, here, now, on the kitchen table even. Make me your lover, I beg you."
He just laughed at me. "You're not ready," he said. "Go home. I'll tell you when I want you, and I'll tell you how to make me want you." I bowed my head. I felt tears in my eyes, but I obeyed. I had no choice. My crazy lust for him had built by then, two months after we first laid eyes on each other, to a level that already gave him total control of me. I was too far gone for help.
But I need help. Please. I have to have help. I cannot save myself by myself.
He has made me wait through almost three more months of torment and overwhelming, maddening desire till this evening when he will either take me or destroy me or perhaps both. In those months, he has made me exercise at his gym downtown almost every lunch hour to get back the body I had when I was a college wrestler. "I don't fuck slobs," he said. He has made me double and then triple the usual distance of my evening and weekend runs. "When I fuck," he told me, "I want to feel lean muscle in the legs that wrap around me." He has even made me take a course in massage because, he said, "if you want to touch my body, you had better know how to do it so that you give me pleasure."
And that is all I want to do. I want to give him pleasure so that he will want me and use me for his pleasure. I don't really know anything about having sex with a man. I have never done it. I never wanted to do it until I met Mark at the bus stop last spring.
All we did that first time was nod at each other. We each had a newspaper. We sat in separate seats till the subway stop and in separate cars on the train into town. And we got off at different stops. Coming home in the evening, I didn't see him at all. Either he worked late or he stayed in the city to have fun. Still, he was there at the bus stop the next morning and the next, and a week later, when it began to rain, he offered to hold his umbrella over both of us, and I accepted. That's when I began to slip into obsession, to lose my grip on my old values, on sanity even.
We sat together on the bus and on the subway, and we exchanged names and histories and likes and dislikes, and I realized that even though, at 27, he was five years younger than I, Mark was much more sophisticated, worldly, focused, self-confident. He was extremely handsome, too, a chiseled face and a luxuriant head of beautifully trimmed sandy hair. Over six feet tall, he also radiated an extraordinary physical power. I thought of it as healthy sensuality at first, not as a sexual aura, but I was naive then and not sensitive to my own sex drives. Ironically, June was the one who woke me up.
It was a Wednesday night a week later and I had worked so late that the bus from the subway had stopped running. June came to pick me up, and as I waited for her, I saw Mark standing on the curb. He was looking for a cab. When I offered him a lift home, he accepted, and in the car he sat in front chatting with June while I played with Becky, up past her bedtime, strapped into the baby seat in the back. Mark said he would get off at our bus stop, but I asked him to come home with us and have a drink. Partly, I was just being neighborly. I knew he had no one to go home to, but also I like to have someone to drink with when I unwind after a hard day. Being pregnant, June has given up alcohol.
Actually, he didn't stay long. But it was long enough for me to see that with his expensive jacket off, his shoulders were unusually broad and his torso, in a fitted shirt, was definitely tapered. June must have been taken by him, too, because she was the one who invited him to come another night for supper. "Amos is a terrific cook," she boasted. "On top of all his other domestic talents."
"Such as?" Mark asked quietly.
"General handyman is all," I answered, "and for some computer problems, I'm better than your average teenager."
Mark gave me an appraising look and grinned at June. "I accept the invitation," he said. "You're very kind to let a hungry bachelor give his microwave a rest. But don't let word get out about Amos' skills. Somebody might try to steal him, and good help around here is hard to find."
We made a date for Saturday, and Mark walked home. His house is only two blocks away. Three stories high, it is the biggest and oldest in the neighborhood, a Victorian white elephant surrounded by cookie-cutter colonials. He had told me that he inherited it from an aunt and moved out here last year to get away from the noise and pollution of the city. When he was gone and June and I were having a late supper, I asked her whom we should try to set Mark up with. "Your cousin, Ruthie, maybe," I suggested, "or Janice? He's in marketing, too."
"I don't think he'd be interested in either one, sweetie," my wife - a smart blonde - said. "It's a shame, considering how easy on the eyes he is, but girls aren't his thing. Couldn't you tell? He's light in his loafers."
I didn't believe her. It wasn't that Mark was pushy or macho, but he had a strength that I took to be completely masculine. On our bus rides, we had talked sports, and he knew more than I did. His voice was pretty deep. He had no effeminate mannerisms. June was seeing things.
But she was right. I found that out on the Sunday after he came to supper. Ruthie came too, and we all got along cheerfully, I thought. I was flattered when Mark took second helpings of my ratatouille and the peach pie. And I agreed to come over the next afternoon to help him reorganize some computer files. All he wanted to do, he said, was compress some material, but either he couldn't understand how to use his zip program or it was defective.
He had a nice hardware setup in an office room on the second floor, and when he showed me the directories of files he wanted to zip, I shooed him away and said I'd work the problem out faster without him hovering. That must have been just what he wanted.
Alone, I started to open the files he'd indicated. They were photos, photos of handsome, buffed, naked men with other men like them. Some were kissing. Some had penises deep in their mouths or their asses and even, in a few photos, both. I had never seen anything like these images. They got me hot.
"Shocked?" Mark had come quietly back into the room. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Or excited? I guess that's more like it. Isn't it, Amos?"
I couldn't speak. He moved his hand to my neck.. He caressed me.
"Please, Mark." I finally got my voice. "I have to go. I'm sorry. Those are very upsetting. I wish..."
"That you hadn't seen them. Is that really, true, Amos? I don't think so. I think you'd like to see more or even do some of that."
"Is... is that what you do?" I stammered.
"But not in front of a camera. If you want to see me in action, Amos, you'll have to get into the action with me. Think about it." He gave a mean chuckle. "Not that you'll be able to think about anything else."
Please, I need help so badly. And now. Time is almost up.
He was right. I went home and straight into the downstairs bathroom and I masturbated while I imagined being in those photos, being with Mark. I groaned so loudly when I came that June heard me and got anxious. I told her I was badly constipated. I groaned again and then desperately tried to clean up the mess I had made. Right after supper, I went back to the bathroom and brought myself off a second time. I pictured myself on my knees with Mark standing behind me, caressing my neck. Again, my orgasm was incredible, but this time I caught most of it in my hand. I licked my hand clean. I liked the taste. I wondered how Mark would taste.
He wasn't at the bus stop Monday morning or Tuesday. Maybe, I thought, he is ashamed, the way I am ashamed and wants to avoid me. I settled into my seat near the back of the bus that Tuesday and felt a little relieved, safe, alone. Then he was there. He must have got on at the second stop because, all of a sudden, I looked up from my paper and he was standing in the aisle.
"How's it hanging, Amos?" he asked with a slight grin, sitting down and pushing me over.
I didn't answer. "Well, if you won't tell me," Mark growled in a low voice, "I'll just have to see for myself. Spread your knees, Amos, and just go on reading that rag." He put his hand between my legs, and I opened them, and then I felt his fingers exploring my crotch. He cupped my balls and then he squeezed, not hard, but as though I already belonged to him. I was beet red. I couldn't speak, but worse, I couldn't push him away. I wanted him there, and he knew it.
"About average, I'd say. Maybe a little better." Mark withdrew his hand and patted me on the knee. "Just like you, Amos. But from now on, I don't want you wearing underwear unless I give it to you." The bus had reached the subway station, and Mark got up. "See you tomorrow, young fellow. Don't forget what I said."
Wednesday morning he was at our usual stop, and we got on the bus together. "All the way to the back, Amos," he murmured, and I walked ahead of him and sat down. He joined me and slapped away my newspaper as I started to open it. "Unzip," he said, "Pull it out. Your nuts too." I couldn't believe him. I just stared.
"Don't tell me you're wearing underwear, my friend, when I told you not to."
"No, Mark," I said. "But I can't."
"I think you can. I think you want me to see what you've got. Now, show me."
I did. He looked. He stroked my penis as I sat there frozen, terrified that another rider would see us. Even so, I began to get hard. Mark stopped. "Put it away, you pervert," he ordered me. "I prefer cut cocks," he added, "but in your case, a little out-patient surgery could fix things up." He turned away and started reading his paper as though nothing had happened. We didn't talk again until he was about to get off the subway. "Take this," he said, handing me his business card. "That's my direct number. Call at twelve thirty. Don't be late."
When I telephoned, he answered right away. "Is your office door closed?" he asked.
"Yes, Mark," I said.
"Yes, sir," he said.
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"Pull your pants down to your knees, boy," he said, "and wrap your fist around your dick."
"Mark,..." He hung up.
I dialed again. He picked up but did not speak.
"Sir." I said.
"Better."
"Sir, please, my office is on a corridor, and half the inside wall is glass. People will see."
"Turn your back to the corridor, then, and just unzip your fly."
"Yes, sir." I did. My chair has a high back. I prayed no one would notice.
"Boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take your cock out where you can see it." I did.
"Now imagine that you are with me. How do you see us?"
"You are standing, sir, and I am on my hands and knees in front of you."
"Do you have any clothes on?"
"No, sir."
"Do I?"
"Just your underwear, sir."
"What kind."
"Briefs, sir."
"Wrong. I am wearing a jockstrap, boy. Do you know why?"
"No, sir."
"Because I have been exercising. Hard. Very hard."
"So you are very sweaty, sir. Is that right?"
"Right. And what do I want you to do, boy?"
"Lick the sweat off you, sir."
"You're quick, boy. Go ahead. Start with my left leg, the front and then the back."
"Yes, sir."
There was silence, and I saw myself running my tongue up his leg, onto his thigh.
"Do the other leg, boy."
"Yes, sir."
Another interval. "Your cock, boy, it's hard, isn't it? You're excited. Are you touching it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, stop, and zip your pants back up. If you want to serve me, you have to learn discipline. No erections unless I allow them." The line went dead.
I got up and hurried to the executive washroom and beat off again. When I came back into my office, the phone was ringing. It was Mark.
"You went and jerked yourself off, didn't you, pervert?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did I say you could?"
"No, sir. I couldn't..."
"Help yourself. Too bad. I had plans for you." He hung up.
For the next four days, he didn't speak to me at the bus stop or anywhere else, but on the following Monday, he came and sat with me on the bus. "Underwear, boy?" he asked.
"No, sir." I hung my head.
"Self-abuse?"
"No, sir."
"How many times with June?"
"Just once, sir."
"Were you thinking of me, boy?"
"Yes, sir. All the time."
"When you fucked your wife?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"What were you thinking, boy?"
"That I was June and you were me, sir."
"In your dreams, boy." He stood up as we came to the subway station and handed me a small parcel. "Wear this. Don't take it off till I tell you. Sweet dreams."
When I opened the package in my office, I found that he had given me a sheer, nylon, see-through pouch hanging from a narrow, elastic waistband with a strand of cloth that went up between the buttocks to the back of the band. I went into a stall in the washroom and put it on. It felt incredibly sexy. I wanted to see what I looked like wearing it, how I would look to Mark, but I didn't dare leave the stall, and, anyway, the washroom mirrors were too small and too high up to be any good. Even at home that night, I couldn't find a safe time to look at myself in June's full-length mirror.
Mark made me keep the pouch on for two more days, but on Thursday he gave me another parcel and told me to wear what was in it instead. He also gave me an envelope to open in the office. Instead of the pouch, I had to put on a jockstrap, but not a clean one. It had lots of stains on it, and a note from Mark in the envelope explained that they were his stains, his sweat, his semen, his urine. "Before you put the jockstrap on," the note read, "sniff it, smell it, lick it and put it in your mouth so it gets very wet. Wear it till I tell you to take it off."
Also in the envelope was a picture. It showed a naked man on all fours wearing a dog collar. A man in blue jeans was standing next to him, but you could only see his legs and the hand holding the leash that was clipped to the collar. I went to the washroom, and inhaled the odors of the jockstrap and covered it with my spit and sucked it, and before I put it on, I beat off.
"You are pathetic, boy." It was Mark on the telephone when I came back to the office.
"Sir?" I said.
"I told you no erections, no masturbating, unless I say so."
"Yes, sir."
"But you've just been playing with yourself, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir." My voice was choked.
"And now you're sorry. You're about to cry."
"Yes, sir." I did begin to cry.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you. What is your shirt size, boy?"
"Sixteen and a half, thirty-three, sir."
"Just the collar size. That's all I need to know." He hung up.
At the beginning of the next week, Mark came to the bus stop with a gym bag. He handed it to me. "No more client lunches, boy," he said to me on the bus. "I've got you exercise gear and a membership at my gym. Be there at noon today and every weekday from now on. The address is in the bag. Your personal trainer is Hank. He knows what I want you to do. And I'll be checking on your progress."
"Thank you, sir." I said.
"You're welcome, boy. You can start wearing underwear again, if you want. But not at the gym. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Do you want to suck my cock, boy?"
"Yes, sir. Please."
"It's eight inches and thick, boy. Think you could take it?"
"I'd like to try, sir. Very much."
"I just bet you would." He laughed. Our bus stopped. We got off, and he didn't speak to me again. Not for three weeks. And then all he said was, "Hank says you're coming along."
I glowed. Everyday at the gym had been torture. Not just the physical strain of the exercises, but the mental one of performing them in nothing but a muscle shirt and a pair of tight, silvery, thigh-length spandex pants that I knew put the dimensions of my penis and testicles on total public display.
Worse, most of the men working out there were gay. They gave me appraising, knowing looks. One or two tried to strike up conversations in the shower or when I was getting dressed. And Hank, spotting for me, or just standing by, kept putting his hands on me, especially on my butt. "You've got a sweet ass, dude," he said to me one day. "Mark sure knows how to pick `em."
Mark also arranged to have the masseur at the gym teach me some of his techniques. The man sold me a videotape, and I actually practiced some on June. She was a little surprised that I was interested in massage therapy. I told her it was my present to her because I remembered how stiff and achy she got when she was carrying Becky. June gave me odd looks now and then and once asked me what I was worrying about that had me so preoccupied. But she has never mentioned Mark since that one time he came to dinner, and, of course, neither have I.
Almost four months have gone by since then, months during which Mark has played me like a trout on a line. In the last weeks my desire for him was driving me out of my mind. So was my fear that he would never take me. Then, last Monday, right after I got home to my empty house - June and Becky have gone to the shore - the phone rang. It was Mark. "Boy," he said, "come here now." Then he hung up.
I ran over, still in my office clothes. He opened the door and led me back to his kitchen. "Strip, boy," he said and sat down to watch me. As soon as I was naked, he told me to get down on the floor and crawl to him. I did.
For a few agonizing minutes he didn't say anything. "Boy," he said, "you have done pretty well. Now, the choice of what happens next is yours. Are you ready to choose, boy?"
"Yes, sir," I answered. "I am ready." I was thinking, praying, "please, please, ask me to be yours."
"Boy," Mark said, "I need a houseman, someone who can cook, who can clean, take care of my clothes, take care of me, do the chores I haven't got time to do, someone healthy, strong, who will look good in a uniform. I think you would be suitable. Would you like the job, boy?"
I was shocked into silence. I couldn't answer. It wasn't the question I wanted him to ask.
"The pay is good," he went on, "and, of course, I will take care of health insurance. You will have your own room and bath behind the kitchen. It's simple but clean. We will arrange for you to have time off when it suits me. I have exercise equipment on the third floor for you to use to keep in shape. Also, you will not be required to be my sex partner, but you will not be permitted to have sex with anyone else, including your own hand, unless I give permission."
"Sir," I said, still horrified by what he was proposing. "Please, I want to serve you, but I want to serve your body as your lover. If I become your house servant, will you use me for sex, too? Please, sir?"
He reached down and took hold of my hair and lifted my head into his crotch. "Is this what you want, boy?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." I said. "Oh, yes. It's all I live for."
"Stand up boy," he ordered me. "Do you remember that you asked me to fuck you here in the kitchen, on the table."
"Yes, sir. Please do it. I'm ready."
"Almost, but not quite." He grabbed my cock and pulled me over to the table. On it, lying on a cloth were three irregularly shaped cylinders graduated in size and a tube of lubricant.
"Do you know what these are, boy?"
"No, sir."
"They are butt-plugs. Dildos. If you are going to be ready for me, you have to stretch your asshole first. Do you want to get ready for me?"
"Yes, sir. Please help me get ready. Please, sir."
"Boy, if you take the position as my houseman, you will also call me master."
"Yes, sir. Yes, master."
"Good boy. If I hire you, I will give you a new name. I was thinking of Kim. Kim is a good name for a houseboy or a valet, don't you think?"
"Yes, sir." I was appalled.
He lifted the smallest plug from the table and put it my mouth. "Suck it, boy. Get it good and slippery," he said.
"Now this," he said, picking up a kind of leather belt from the table, "is going to keep the plug in place. These two straps in front go down the front over your belly and under your balls and then they turn into a single thin strap that goes up between your buttocks." He slapped one of them. "It runs through the little raised handle on the plug. Then it snaps onto the belt. Put the belt on, boy. Now."
I did. My cock had gotten incredibly hard as he talked, and I expected him to say something about unauthorized erections, but he just watched me buckle myself into the apparatus. When I was done, he gestured to me to take the plug out of my mouth and give it to him. I did. He picked up the tube of lubricant and squeezed some onto the plug and some onto his fingers. Then he sat down.
"Come here, boy. Lie over my knees." I did. "Spread your ass for me, boy." I did. His finger attacked my hole, spreading the slick, cool gel around it and then in it. I moaned. No one had ever touched me there before. It was awful. It was wonderful.
"Hold still, now, boy," Mark said and slowly began pushing the plug into the opening his finger had made. "It's going in, boy," he said, as I moaned again, but this time in pain. "Don't whine. It isn't that long or thick. Not like me. You do still want me to fuck you, don't you boy?"
"Oh, yes, master. More than anything. Please say you'll do it. Please."
"I don't make promises, boy. But you've got a cute ass. I'll admit it. It's probably your best feature. Stand up now." He slapped me again on the butt, really hard this time. But only once. I wanted him to do it again.
While he had been talking, he had also threaded the back strap through the handle of the butt plug. Once I was on my feet, he tugged the strap a little to lodge the plug firmly in me and then snapped it to the belt.
"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he said. He put his hands on my waist and turned me to face him. My erection was now pushing up toward my navel. Still, he ignored it. "Keep that plug in you tonight and all day tomorrow, boy, and on Wednesday morning, take it out and put in the next size bigger. Then on Friday you put in the biggest one. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Saturday morning I'll need you here about 10:30. I'm having friends for dinner. I'll want you to get the house ready, cook the meal, serve and clean up afterwards. That is, if you've decided to apply for the servant's position."
I looked at him. I knew it was no use begging him. It would either be his way or it wouldn't happen. "I would like to apply for the job, sir. I will try to do it to your satisfaction."
"I like your spirit, boy," Mark said. "But I don't much like this." He grabbed my straining penis and yanked it hard.
"Please, sir." I reached for his hand, but he let go of me.
"Kneel, boy," he said.
I did, in front of him, looking up at him, mutely imploring him to accept me there, then.
"Jerk yourself off, boy." He was cold, matter-of-fact. "Use both hands. Make it fast."
I did as I was told. I would always do what he told me. I belonged to him. I shot up into the air and onto my chest and the floor, and Mark made me clean myself off with my fingers and lick them clean and then lick the floor. I began to cry before I had finished. I sobbed and bawled, and he knelt down beside me and caressed my neck.
"It's all right, boy. It will get easier. When you give yourself up completely, you'll see how happy you will be to have a master who understands you."
"Yes, sir," I whimpered. "But I'm so afraid."
"Amos, baby," Mark's use of my name surprised and thrilled me. "You know there isn't anything in life you want as much as you want me. And whether you get your wish or don't get it is completely in your hands. It's your choice.
"I've offered you a position in my household, on the condition that you do well next Saturday. But you don't have to take the job. You don't have to wear those plugs in your ass. You are a free man, Amos. Free at least for the rest of the week. Now get up off the floor and get dressed and go home. I don't want to see you until Saturday morning."
"Yes, Mark," I said. "Thank you, sir."
He watched me dress, but as I was leaving, he stopped me. "Boy," he said. I wasn't Amos anymore. "Two things I forgot. If you come on Saturday, bring a toothbrush. I'll want you to stay the night. And I won't have much of a uniform for you that soon, but you will be able to wear this." He held out a broad leather collar with two rows of shiny metal studs on it. "It's size sixteen and a half, boy. It will fit you just right."
I was hard again, so stiff that it was difficult for me to walk home. The thing in my ass made walking normally even harder. But I didn't care. He was going to take me. He wanted me to spend the night. That meant that, at last, I would feel his strong arms around me and his big dick inside me, using me, teaching me how to be his lover as well as his servant. My fear had vanished. I could hardly wait for the weekend.
During the week, though, my anxiety returned. I talked to June a couple of times. She sounded so happy at her parents' place that I couldn't bring myself to hint at the trouble I was in, at the disaster I was about to inflict on myself and on our contented, orderly, ordinary life. I imagined, instead, that I could put myself finally and completely in Mark's hands and then, after a while, free myself, return to June, be forgiven and be purged of these hideous, marvelous desires that have welled up in me. But can I free myself? I don't know. I won't know until I spring the trap. And then it may be too late.
I need help. Please help me.
When I came to Mark's house yesterday morning, he was in white shorts and shirt, immaculate, dazzling, smiling at me, taking my hand. "I'm glad that you decided to come," he said, drawing me into the hall. "I hope this all works out today."
"I hope so, too," I said.
"Sir."
"Sir."
He handed me a list of the things I was to do - vacuum and dust the downstairs rooms, make up his bed upstairs with new sheets (For me? He said nothing.), polish the silver he had set out in the kitchen, set the table for dinner for four (He had left a sample table setting.), prepare the meal - chilled zucchini soup, duck breasts in red wine, wild rice, fried apple rings, endive and walnut salad, profiterolles in hot, dark chocolate sauce.
"Any questions?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Please, I have never made profiterolles. I don't know how."
"The recipe is in the kitchen. If you fuck it up, just do meringues. That's not too hard, is it?"
"No, sir."
"Good. I'm going to play tennis, and I'll have lunch and a swim at the club. I'll be back around five. The guests are coming at eight. I expect everything to be in order when I return."
"Yes, sir."
"And Kim?"
I hesitated, confused. Then I remembered. My new name. "Yes, sir."
"Before you start, go to your room and take that thing out of your ass. There's a replacement on the bed. Put it in."
"Yes, sir."
He left, and I went to the drab little room behind the kitchen. It contained an iron bed with a thin mattress and a scratchy blanket on coarse sheets, a rod with wire coat hangers, a dingy chest of drawers with an oval mirror on top. No pictures. No book shelf. No decoration of any kind. Just a naked bulb overhead for light. This would be my new home. I started to cry, but then I pulled myself together. Mark would let me sleep with him. I was sure of it. All I had to do was do what he wanted.
I took off my jeans and unsnapped the strap of my harness, carefully drew the plug out of my hole and took it off the strap. I held it up to compare it with the one he had left for me. The new plug was at least an inch longer and almost an inch thicker. After two days, I had barely gotten used to the last one. I was frightened, frightened of the pain and frightened of the hurt that this monster could do me. But it was part of my test. I couldn't fail. Mark had left a tube of K-Y with the dildo, and I smeared it and myself heavily. Kneeling with my chest on the bed, I managed to insert the thing. It felt as though I had shoved a baseball bat up my behind, but after a while, the pain dulled a little and I was able to reattach the strap and stand up to dress and begin my work.
By five o'clock I had finished everything but the last-minute food preparations. Mark did not come home until nearly five thirty, and he immediately set out to inspect my work while I waited for him in the kitchen. "Nice job," he said as he came in. "Thank you, Kim. You have done well so far."
"Thank you, sir. But I am sorry I could not get the profiterolle recipe to work for me. I am not much good with pastry."
He put his hand on my neck and massaged it lightly. Then he cupped my ass. "Don't worry, Kim," he said. "You can learn. Now, though, I think you should have a shower and lie down for a while. You look tired, and you will have to be fresh tonight."
"Yes, sir." I said. "Thank you, sir."
He walked with me back to my room and watched while I undressed. Then he helped me take the harness off and removed the plug. He held it up to my mouth. "Clean it, Kim," he said.
"Master," I put my hands together in front of my chest. "Master, please. No. It has shit on it."
"That's why it needs to be cleaned," he said. "Do it."
I wanted to die. I began to sob. "Mark, master," I wept, "I've done so much to please you already. I've let you humiliate me in so many awful ways. You own me, but please, not this."
"Boy, this is just the beginning. Or maybe it's the end. If you can't do as I say, you'll have to leave." He put the tip of the plug on my lips. "Which is it going to be?"
I opened my mouth and drew the awful thing into it and rolled my tongue around it, wiping it clean. When I was done, Mark pulled my head onto his shoulder and rubbed my back. "No more tears, Kim," he said. "You're passing all the tests, and I'm very pleased. Now go shower and rest. I'm sorry, there's only cold water for you, but the plumber won't come unless there's someone to let him in, and I'm never here. You see, I really do need a houseman."
When I came back to the room after the shower, my clothes and shoes were gone. On the bed, though, lay a piece of thong underwear, bright red, like a jock but with only a single thin strap up the back. Next to it was a starched, ruffled white apron much too short to cover my groin. The two pieces of clothing, apparently, were to be my "uniform" at least for tonight. I rested a while, dozing, and when I heard Mark call me, I put on the obscene red pouch and hurried to the kitchen, bringing the apron with me.
"You look very nice, Kim," Mark greeted me. "Did you get some rest?"
"Yes, master."
"It's almost seven-thirty, Kim. I think you should set up the bar in the living room now. Ice, white wine in the cooler. I'm sure you know the routine."
"Yes, sir."
"At eight-thirty, put the bowls of chilled soup on the table and light the candles. Then come in and tell me that dinner is ready."
"Yes, sir."
"After you clear the soup, pass the duck and the wild rice on a platter together and the apples separately. Then as you take those dishes away, replace them with the salad plates. Do the same for the dessert dishes. You do know how to serve at table, don't you, Kim?"
"No, sir. I mean, I'm not sure how you like it, master."
"The classical way. You start by serving or by clearing the place to my right and go round the table counterclockwise, coming to the host last. And you always offer food from the left and take things away from the right. Leave on the left, remove from the right. You can remember that, can't you?"
"I'll try, master. Thank you."
"Good. While we eat, you are to stand by the kitchen door and keep an eye on everybody's wineglasses. If they get below half full, you offer to pour more. What side will you pour from, Kim?"
I thought. "The left, sir? Leave on the left?"
He slapped me across the face. "You're a disaster," he yelled. "You know nothing. You're worth nothing. Wineglasses are on the right of the table setting. You don't reach across to pour into them, do you? That would interfere with eating and with conversation."
"Yes, master. I'm sorry, sir. I'll remember."
"You'd better. When we leave the table, you are to bring us coffee - decaf - in the living room and pour it and see if anyone will have brandy or a liqueur. After that, if I snap my fingers and point down to the floor, you are to get on your knees and come over to my chair and suck my cock. Then you can clean up the last course and do the dishes and go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."
I stared at him. I couldn't believe he would make me take his dick in my mouth in front of his friends. Then I found that I could believe it. And that I would do it. That I wanted to do it.
God help me. Help me, please.
"Put the apron on now, Kim, and set up the bar. Then stand by the door and open it for my guests when they come. And don't fuck up tonight. I only give my people one chance. If they don't get it right the first time, they never will."
"Yes, master."
Actually, Mark helped me with the apron, tying the bow in back so that the ends dangled just above my buttocks. He caressed those and from behind, he put his arm around me, across my chest. "You're scared shitless, aren't you, Amos?" he asked.
"Yes, Mar..., yes, master."
"Don't be, big boy. Be proud of what you are. There's no dishonor in being a servant, especially not my servant. I'm very picky." His hand rubbed my stomach, and I felt his lips on my shoulderblade. "You look great," he went on. "Really desirable. My friends are going to be jealous. They should be."
He let me go and then turned me by the shoulders to face him. From the counter behind him, he picked something up and held it toward me. "Your collar, Amos. Do you want me to put it on you? Once you're wearing it, it doesn't come off until I take it off. And while it's on, you're Kim or boy or just my no-name domestic help." He looked at me. He's only an inch or two taller than I, but those green eyes cast a spell over me that makes me a child, a dwarf.
"Please, sir," I finally said. "Please let me wear your collar. Please let me serve you. Please don't send me away."
Smiling, he buckled the stiff leather band around my neck. Then he patted me on the cheek. "Do well tonight, Kim," he said, "and you'll never have to worry about anything again. Now go set up the bar."
The first guests, two slim, distinguished-looking men in their late thirties or early forties, didn't arrive until about eight ten. I let them in and blushed as they briefly examined me, but I managed to say, "Good evening, gentlemen. Master is in the living room." and they walked right past me to shake hands with Mark. The next arrival, about five minutes later, was much younger, maybe 20, maybe less. Long dirty blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, faded, tight-fitting jeans. He gave me a big smile when I opened the door for him.
"Hey dude," he took in my costume and my exposed body in a quick, amused glance, "you must be new. And kee-yute. Lucky Mark. Say," he held up a small cloth bag. "My toilet kit. Would you put it in Mark's can for me, please? It's got my poppers and condoms and things. I don't want to have to go hunting for it later."
"Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Master and his guests are in the living room." I took the bag and turned.
The boy whistled behind me. "Great ass, man, really great," he said. "What's your name?"
"Kim, sir."
"Well, Kim, I'm Joey. I sure hope Mark lets us get it on. I bet you give a great ride." He groped his own crotch. "Think you can take nine and a half, Kim?" He didn't wait for me to answer, just laughed happily and went into the living room. As I went up the stairs, though, I could hear him talking with Mark. "A major hunk! Wow! Where did you pick him up?"
I didn't hear any more of their talk, and when I served the meal, I was so nervous and concentrated on my work that I barely listened to the conversation. When I spilled some white wine, refilling Joey's glass, Mark glared at me and gestured me to his side. "Like this, asshole," he whispered, taking the bottle, pouring wine into his own glass and then as he raised it, twisting the neck so that no drops spilled. "Thank you, master," I said, retreating to my post by the kitchen door.
That was the only incident during the meal, and I did notice that Mark and his guests enjoyed the food. But it wasn't until I had served the coffee and Joey had taken a snifter of brandy that I felt I had gotten through the evening in one piece. As I was leaving the room to clear the table and start on the stack of dirty pans and dishes in the kitchen, Mark called me back. "Come here, Kim, please," he said. I went and stood trembling in front of him, sure that he was going to snap his fingers and send me to my knees to perform oral sex on him right there. But he had other plans.
"I only wanted to thank you, Kim," he smiled up at me. "You did a very nice job this evening. The dinner was excellent." His guests clapped. He went on. "In case I don't see you again, I want to pay you now." He had a hundred-dollar bill in his hand.
"Sir," I started to say, "you don't..."
"Come here, Kim." He reached under my apron and put the money into the red pouch, pushing the folded bill down over my cock. I turned scarlet, but he just grinned and casually brushed my genitals as he moved his hand away.
"Kim," Joey said. "Isn't that a sort of Asian name? You've sure got a lot of hair for a Jap or a Chinaman."
"Well," said one of the older guests, "that can be taken care of. Right, Evan?" he asked his companion. "Hair today, gone tomorrow?"
The one named Evan got up from the sofa and came over to me. He brushed the thatch on my chest lightly but then ran his fingers over my scalp fluffing my hair up and out and smoothing it back. "The body's a snap. Depilatories or electrolysis, and a nicely set up, mature fellow like Kim can be a twink in no time. If that's what he wants, of course.
"But what I'd really like to do is work on this." He combed his fingers across my head again. "You know, layer it some. Taper the line in the back instead of this ugly boxy look. And," he took my hand, "we could do something about your nails, too.
"Mark can give you my address," he added. "Just come in when you want. I'll fit you in."
"I bet you will," his friend said. "Fit yourself in is more like it, you randy old goat."
"Pay him no attention," Evan took my chin in his hand and lifted it, looking at me appraisingly. "Who's been doing your hair?" he asked.
"My wife, sir." That was a conversation stopper. I dropped my head. I imagined what June would think if she saw me like this. I started to cry. If only someone would help me, I yearned. Anyone. Please help me.
To my surprise, it was Joey who came and wrapped his arms around me. "Don't, dude," he said. "You've got too much going for you to be sad about what's over and done with. Maybe your old lady was great. Probably was.
"But Kimmy, you've got too much here," he patted my behind, "and here," he squeezed my testicles a little, "to waste on a woman. Men are going to appreciate you a lot more than any cunt could. Starting with Mark. I know he's going to treat you real well. The way he's treated me. He's a gent."
I looked at Mark. He just smiled enigmatically at me, and looked at his watch. "We ought to get going, guys," he said. "I don't want to miss the show." He stood up and took Joey's hand off me. "I'll be late," he said to me. "Leave the front and upstairs hall lights on, turn down my bed and get some sleep yourself. I'll be down for breakfast at nine thirty."
"Yes, master," I said. "Thank you, sir."
It took two hours to get everything in order, and when I was finished, I was so exhausted that the rough sheets and lumpy mattress in my grim, stuffy cell didn't bother me. I slept like a dead man, and didn't wake up until after nine. Still wearing only my collar and the red pouch, I rushed into the kitchen to start breakfast and then realized that I didn't know what Mark liked. Coffee, I guessed, would be all right. I put a pot on and found orange juice in the refrigerator that I poured into a glass. But I had no idea what he would eat and whether he would eat in the kitchen or the dining room. The only thing to do was wait and let him tell me. Meanwhile, I emptied the dishwasher. As I was bent over getting a pan out of the back, Mark came through the swinging door. Joey was right behind him.
"Dream man," the boy said. "You should always bend over like that, Kim. That has to be one of the ten finest asses I've ever seen."
As I stood up, he came to me and rubbed his crotch into mine. "Good morning, gorgeous," he said and kissed me.
"Good morning, sir. Good morning, master." I could feel myself getting an erection. I tried to will it away, and I did gently separate myself from Joey, who was dressed in just a pair of white briefs. Judging by the way they dangled, he could have been serious last night when he said he had nine and a half inches. Thinking about him, though, was not getting me any less hard.
"Good morning, Kim," Mark said with a slight smile playing on his lips. Joey amused him, I could see, and maybe there was something more, real affection perhaps. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, master. Thank you. Master, I'm sorry I don't know what you like for breakfast or where you'd like to have it served. I've started the coffee. And I didn't know that..." I groped for the right words, "that the young master would be here, too."
"Hey, dude," Joey was laughing. "Not the English butler routine, man. I'm just Joey, college student, go-go dancer, high-priced escort and very discreet, right, Mark?"
"Right," my master said. "No problem, Kim. We'll all get our breakfast together and have it right here in the kitchen. I'm not formal when I'm in my bathrobe. Sit down with us."
I did. It was really pleasant and relaxed except for Joey who couldn't keep his hands off me. Finally, Mark made him stop. "You're oversexed, Joey," he said. "And if you weren't such a great fuck, you'd be a real pain."
"Yes, master," Joey smirked at me as he used my words and flat intonation. "I'll try to be a good boy. Are you going to let Kim give me a massage?"
"After he cleans up." Mark got up from the table. "Come upstairs when you're done, Kim. The massage table is set up in the sewing room, second door on the left. Just knock on the bedroom door, and Joey'll come to you."
"And come and come," the boy giggled. "See you upstairs, Kimbo. Don't take too long."
This was to be my final test, I assumed. Why wouldn't Mark let me work on his body, though? I wanted so to touch his flesh, to feel the silky surface of his skin and the honed muscles under it. That was probably precisely why he would not lie on the massage table himself. For five months he had been ratcheting up my desire for him and denying me, time and again, the satisfaction I wanted.
He had made me a slave not to him - that would come, I prayed - but to my lust for him. I had become his plaything, a trophy or a toy to be exhibited to his friends, but I had yet to put my mouth on his body or feel his hot, demanding strength inside me. I still didn't know, as I walked up the stairs and rapped on his bedroom door, if he would ever stop teasing me and degrading me and take me at last as his partner in sex, as his lover.
"Please take me, master," I thought to myself as I looked around the little room where the massage table stood. "Help me to understand myself, to be a man in love with a man. Please, help me."
"Here I am," Joey loped into the room, still in his white briefs, and smiling happily, as though he were glad to be with me. He hopped up on the table and put his arms out to me. "I like to know my masseurs," he said, drawing me between his legs and curling them around my waist. "And I think kissing is a great way to get to know someone."
His lips were on mine. His tongue pushed into my mouth. His hand pressed against the back of my head, and I gave myself over completely to his warm, affectionate appeal. My cock went rigid, straining against the red fabric that held it and, apparently, brushing Joey's thigh.
"Now that's more like it, Kim," he ended our kiss and reached into my groin. "If you're gonna be stiff with me, that's the right part of you." He folded his fingers around me, trapping my erection in the cloth. "And a nice part, too. Very nice."
He let me go and put his hands on my shoulders. "Mark says you're cherry, Kim. Is that true?"
"Sir? Cherry?"
"Like never been fucked, never been sucked. Never made it with a guy. Really, man? This your first time?"
"Yes, sir. It will be. I mean, I hope so. If I please master, that is. He hasn't really said that he'll."
Joey stroked my chest, fiddling with a nipple. I got harder and hotter and more embarrassed and unsure of what I was supposed to do.
"Kim," the boy said. "I don't think you have a thing to worry about. If you really want to spread your legs for my brother, he's ready to screw your ass to kingdom come and back. And he's great in the sack. I can tell you."
"Your brother, sir?" I was astounded and more than a little revolted and, as I had been since I first saw Joey, intrigued.
"Stepbrother, but we're pretty close," Joey laughed. "Asshole buddies, I guess you could say. Well, let's see how you are close up. I haven't had a good massage in a long time." He relaxed the grip of his legs around my waist and leaned back. "Help me take these nut-huggers off, and you can get started."
I didn't react until he took my hands and put them on the waistband of his briefs. "Just pull them off, Kim. Don't be frightened. There's nothing inside that you haven't seen somewhere before." He raised himself a little from the massage table and let his legs dangle free as I pulled the briefs down over his thighs and ankles. As I straightened up, my eyes and his crotch were on the same level, and I was surprised to see that although his hairless balls were unusually big, his penis, soft, droopy, circumcised, seemed smaller than mine.
"Kiss the frog, Kimmy, and it turns into a prince." Joey obviously saw where I was looking and guessed what I was thinking. "Now you. Lose the jewel box. The point of a nude massage is that all the players get to take all their clothes off."
Again, I didn't move. So it was his hands that pulled the thin band off my waist and drew the pouch down to the floor. As it descended, the folded $100 bill that Mark had put in it last night fluttered out.
"Haven't had time to get to the bank, have you?" Joey chuckled. "That was really shitty of him, and I've told him so. You're not some cheap dancer doing a bump-and-grind on a bar so that guys will stuff money into your jock. But Mark always has to be the alpha dog, Kim. I hope you can handle it. You sure have the right equipment for it." He was fondling me, rubbing my testicles and massaging my semi-erection. "Except maybe for the foreskin. Mark likes his cocks cut, you know." He tugged on me. "Of course, it's a snap to have removed."
"Joey, please don't do that," I said nervously. No man, not even Mark, had played with me that way. "Anyway, I thought you were getting the massage and I was giving it."
He let me go and grinned at me. "Okay, okay. I like to be bossed around, too. Sometimes. Kim, look, I hope this all works out. I like you, and I know I'd like playing with you. Mark has been talking about making a porn movie. Maybe it could be a mystery. You could wear a mask and fuck me, and I could finally figure out that the butler did it."
I laughed. "Please lie down on your stomach, Joey," I said. He did, and I bent and kissed one of his buttocks. Wetly. "I really like you, too. You're fun. Everything else has been so scary, and you help me relax. Now let me relax you."
"Deal," he said. "Kim? Right here," he fingered a spot on his lower back, "I must have twisted when I should have turned last night. It's sort of sore. Could you...?"
"I'll try." I found a bottle of unscented lotion and went to work on him. Now and then he sighed contentedly, especially when I was pushing my fingers into his neck and shoulder muscles.
"That's great," he said. "You're really good."
"Thanks, this is really my first time. I'm glad I'm doing it right. Would you mind turning over now? I can put a sheet over you, if you'd like."
"Only if you scare easy," he said rolling over. "All that good rubbing you did has got my frog puffed up some."
It had. It was still not nine and a half inches, but his penis had more than doubled in length and it was now at least as thick as the last dildo I'd had to put in my ass. I had never imagined such a transformation, and my eyes widened as I took in Joey's now imposing sex organ.
"Ready to kiss it, Kim?" Joey casually fingered his cock as I watched. "You've never done that, have you, dude?"
"No, sir. I mean, no, Joey. Do you really want me to? Oh, god, Joey, it's beautiful. So are you, I mean. You really are." I was babbling.
"Just do it, Kim. And while you're there, you could lick my nuts a little and just sort of see what turns you on. Some guys, you know, get off just from smelling a nice, ripe crotch. Go ahead, man. You've been waiting for this a long time, haven't you?"
"All my life, I guess." I couldn't believe I was going to worship a man's genitals, but I also couldn't resist. I lowered my head into Joey's groin and brushed my lips the length of his penis. And, as he had suggested, I inhaled his smell. The odor was familiar but elusive, fresh and loamy, like a mushroom that had just been picked and still had rich, black soil clinging to it or maybe briny, like a clam still in its juice. Joey's soft, brown pubic hair had been trimmed, but it was still thrilling to bury my nose in the patch that was there.
He put his hand, fingers spread, on the back of my head, pushing me deeper into his flesh. "Put your tongue out, Kim," he said. "Taste me. I like my boyfriends to sort of roll my nuts around in their mouth. Give me a bath. Make your baby happy."
It was all I wanted. I wanted to die, blissfully, with the solid, warm, vital weight of his heavy testicles on my tongue, inside my mouth. With my nose underneath his sac filling with the musky scent coming from between his spread legs. I moaned my joy, my lust, my complete surrender to sex and to desire.
Then Joey spoke. "Hey, Mark," he said. "This guy's a keeper. Great hands. Great mouth."
I snapped upright and turned. Mark, in his tennis whites, stood in the doorway, looking only a little irritated. And at Joey, not me. "Get up and get dressed, you slut," he said to his stepbrother. "I've got a court reserved and I don't want to be late. I'm going to whip your ass."
"You and who else?" Joey retorted as he sat up. "Martina?"
He hopped off the table and put an arm around my waist. "That was awesome. We'll finish up another time, dude," he said, kissing me lightly. "And if you decide not to go down for my big, bad bro', come find me some Saturday night at the Rainbow's End. Everybody knows me there. See ya." He picked up his underwear and ducked out of the room.
Mark came into it, eyeing my erection and then taking hold of it. "He's a cute kid, isn't he?" he mused. "I think I'm going to have him move in here and get serious about his studies. You could consider him a fringe benefit if you take the job. It's yours if you want it."
"The job, sir?"
"My houseman. You've done well on the things that I consider important, and I can train you to do the rest."
"And that's all I'll be, sir? Your houseboy?'
"No, I'd expect you to become a first-class valet, a gentleman's gentleman. You could do some gardening, if you like. And if my friends needed a waiter or a bartender or a masseur, you could earn something extra on the outside." He let go of my cock and bent down to pick up my red thong and the $100 bill. "You shouldn't be so casual about money, Kim," he said. "You earned this. Don't throw it away."
"How can you be like this to me, Mark?" I shouted in despair. "I don't care about the money. I only care about you, about making love to you, about belonging to you." I got down on my knees in front of him. "Please, master, please. Just tell me that you want me. Why have you done all this to me if you only want me to polish your silverware and iron your pajamas?"
Mark put his hands under my elbows, lifted me to my feet and pushed me to sit on the massage table. "Kim," he started, "no, Amos; you're still Amos. Tell me, Amos, would you have let me have sex with you that first week after you came to my house, after I made you unzip yourself on the bus?"
"Yes, of course. It's all I wanted."
"So, if that's all I wanted, I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of getting you to where you are right now, naked and hot and completely in my power. Amos, I want something more than your bruised mouth or your tight ass or your eager dick. Sex gets old, but beauty doesn't, and you have beauty, Amos. I've brought some of it out, but there's more to come."
"I'm not beautiful, Mark. That's not true."
"You haven't looked at yourself in a mirror lately. As I said, you need more work, but in that red posing strap and the collar, you're already a knock-out. I like beauty. No, I have to have beauty. I'm sure you didn't notice, but I have very fine pictures and china and silver, and they matter a lot to me. I want you to belong to me the way they do, beautiful things from which I can take pleasure, which I can use to give me pleasure. Do you understand?"
I did and I was horrified. He didn't feel any love for me, just an acquisitive desire to have me around as a useful, ornamental, animate object.
"Mark, I'm a person, a human being like you, like Joey. Do you really want to take my spirit away?"
"If you're ready to give it, Amos, yes. That's pretty much what I want. I can have your body by snapping my fingers. I want all of you, and I want you to give it to me freely, understanding the consequences."
I buried my face in my hands. Naked by his side, completely overpowered by him, I couldn't face what I had become. "Mark, master," I whimpered, "you terrify me. Tell me, please, if I... if I do... give myself, all of myself, to you, will you let me love you? Will you love me?"
He stood up and pulled me off the table to stand in front of him. He put his hands on my shoulders. "You can never tell about love," he said. "I may grow to love you. I do plan to make love to you and to teach you how to make love to me. Isn't that what you really want to know?"
"Yes, master. It is. Thank you."
"Good. I think we understand each other. Your clothes are in your room. Get dressed. Go home. Think about it. And if you accept the job and my conditions, be here at six." He spelled out what I was to do, coming naked to his room, undressing him and beginning my real sexual initiation. "And afterwards," he said casually, "I'll probably want a light supper, and we can go over the list of things that need doing in the house next week."
"Yes, master."
He turned to go and then turned back. "Kim," he reached for my neck. "Let me have the collar. It'll be here for you if you come back tonight. But you don't have to, boy. It's up to you." He unbuckled the collar and moved again toward the door.
"Master," my tears flowed again. "I love you. Whatever happens, I love you."
"I know, Kim," he said. "You poor cocksucker, I know." He left.
I'm in agony. Please help me. It's almost five-thirty. I'm at home, paralyzed on the living room sofa. I thought that he would be the one to make the choice, would decide my life. But I have to decide. How can I? I want him more than anything in the world. But I will lose everything else I ever loved and wanted if I go to him. If I don't, life will not be worth living.
Help me. Please help me. Somebody. Anybody. Help me, please.
[I would be very grateful to hear from any readers who think this story is worth continuing and who have suggestions about how it should. My own inclination is to make Mark, the master, more caring and vulnerable, less domineering as Amos/Kim becomes his lover, but I'm not even sure the tale deserves a sequel. -- Park517@aol.com]