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RICK HOWMAN - PART THREE
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RICK HOWMAN - PART THREE
"Tops are stupid," he said, fondling me, "and you're really stupid."
His eyes watered when I hurt him but he wanted it so much, I couldn't resist.
"You should never have to go without pain," I said. "You deserve to be reminded always of what you are, a crawling pussyboy."
He laughed again, playing with his cock.
"You turn me on with your dirty talk," he said, kneeling. He sucked my cock for some time then, stroking my balls and pulling at them playfully. He liked to lick; his face always smelt of my balls. "Your mouth is your main sexual organ," I quipped, but he didn't argue. He knew that it was his way of giving pleasure - that and his pussy, which was constantly hot, tight and soggy. I touched his head and praised him. His tongue was wild. He repeatedly took it deep. As his excitement increased he kept it buried in his neck for longer, each time pulling it out with a gasp and seizing a breath before driving his reddening face back on to it. He liked to lick it along its length, adoringly.
I praised him constantly. "I like that you make yourself beautiful for sex." He wore slinky nylon round the house it was good to touch, sliding it on his body felt dirty and clean at the same time.
Marks on his back and neck were still red but I knew he no longer felt the pain, from the way his fingers touched my body-hair, gently, and I wanted to laugh, or cry with pleasure.
His feline qualities were sexy. In bed, his broad angular shoulders contrasted his little paws folded over the sheets at his neck whilst he slept, or curled across his nose; the way he padded about on all fours for me when I wanted to see him as my pet, raising his tail and curving his back, showing me his hole and begging to be screwed, breathing hard - literally purring - and concentrating on my excitement, begging, licking my fingers as if for the taste; smiling seductively, seeming to think his dependency upon my kindness, and my cock, was something he possessed, rather than it being something he was possessed by. I was his owner because I fed him everything he needed and he gave me his devotion in return. But I was being used and over time I resented that. He used me sexually and for lodging; I used him sexually and as a servant, but still felt the deal would always be uneven in his favour and I wanted more.
I don't think he understood the deal in any case - even that there was a deal. He thought this was it. He thought he'd arrived and it was all sorted. I honestly don't understand why he thought that. Did he think I was insane? He put on some clarinet music. Which was ironic considering how, I mean, he liked to play the clarinet, didn't he? When I pointed this out he's smiled roguishly but didn't say another word.
When we drove he always reached across and felt my cock through my trousers, and held it continuously. I realised I have always wanted someone who would give me that kind of attention, always seeking my hardon. It was as if, like he never thought of anything else, and he rubbed his pussy cunt on the leather seats like he was continually imagining it up him fucking his hot tight shitter.
"You make me so passive like I'm your plaything. And you reinforce it continually - like when you touch my bottom in the street."
"What are you saying. You don't like it?"
"I'm just saying. That's all."
"It sounded like a complaint."
"No it's just that ... I don't feel like I belong to myself any more."
"You don't."
"But what does that mean? Can't I do anything, make my own decisions?"
"I think you're making too big a thing of it. What do you want? A man who lets you forget? A man who doesn't touch you? A man who lets you alone and doesn't constantly remind you what you are? Look, I don't get you," I said. He looked surprised. "Are you telling me you don't want this?" I stood with my legs apart. He knew what I meant, and smiled ruefully, put his hand on it to feel if it was stiff.
It was.
"When we're out you're always hard."
"What's wrong with that?"
"People can see."
"They can see if they look." But after that I was somewhat more aware than usual of the attention I was gaining from men and women as we walked along the street. I expected them to be looking, but they seemed now to be looking more than I had been expecting. My balls were huge full of sperm for him and sore from where they'd been thumping hard against his buttocks, I felt them rub my legs sure they must be as visible as my hardon to the passers by. I looked in a shop window to see how obvious I was. I spotted a little wet patch where I'd leaked. He caught me inspecting myself and laughed, "You're so bloke-ish!"
He surprised me - we both knew that he would pay for his comments later - but I asked anyway, "What do you mean?"
"Checkin' you! The way you look at things without seeing," he said.
"What things?"
"All the people ... looking at you."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. But you don't notice, that's all. You just don't notice things. That's bloke-ish."
"I don't really like being called bloke-ish," I said, petulantly. I must have flushed red; I didn't think of myself as bloke-ish in any way shape or form. It seemed disrespectful, to my way of thinking. And then I thought, 'Why wait?' - I'd wanted a pee; so, I said so.
And he snapped, abruptly, "So take one then."
"That's not what I mean," I said. "I don't want to make a mess."
I stared him in the eye.
He looked at me and blinked.
"Over here, in this corner," I said. "Quick kneel. I don't want any spilt."
"I'm not ... a toilet!" he said, bright-eyed; indignant but also realising I was serious.
"You are what I say you are. Now be quick. I'm bustin' to leak."
I didn't wait. I pushed him into a corner, on of those corners you get in the street where the housing line has become uneven and makes a kink that shields you from both directions except to people who are directly passing by. He backed into it and I pushed his shoulder. He slid down as I unbuttoned so he could unzip it to get my dick out. As he did so I took it from him and held it an inch or so from his lips.
"Open. Quick." I told him. He opened his lips and looked at me. (It makes me laugh, the way he looks.) I let a small spurt hit his tongue, gradually building the dose as he got used to it till he was gulping large mouthfuls. He did fine swallowing it, with my help controlling it so he could. I could see he was excited. He wanted to touch himself but needed both his hands to balance and keep his mouth where it needed to be.
When I was satisfied (I flicked the foreskin. I was getting my hardon back.) he said, licking his lips, "Thank you, Sir."
I could tell he really meant it.
"That's for taking the piss," I said with a smile, but I wasn't finished. I wanted him to know he was my toilet, so I let a spurt shoot him in the face and stain his shirt and jeans - a large dark mark that couldn't be disguised as he accompanied me down the street. That would give people something to look at alright. I'd been trying to control it, but then I thought, "Oh what the hell?" stepped forward once more and forced a warm stream of hot piss to drench his face and all over his chest before he could protest. Drinking and coughing, he tried to lap up as much as he could but I was no longer trying to aim - rather I was trying to douse him all over, like a fire that had to be put out. He was soaked. It was an important lesson, I felt, that from now on he did what I wanted him to and wasn't constantly expressing himself like I gave a shit what he thought about anything.
Afterwards he was quiet.
"Do you like it now I'm your toilet?" he said.
"You like it," I said, adjusting myself so that I was slung across my front rather than stuck down one trouser leg.
He reached down and groped. "You've made me so hot," he said, and went to kiss me.
"Eughh ... I don't want piss in my face!" I pushed him off. Then he did something wonderful, he knelt and then he knelt right down, and kissed my shoe. I was so ...
You see, you have to be patient with a guy and let his respect for you develop so that it come to him naturally, not like it's forced and filled with resentment. Once he comes to you like that, like he did, bending his face down so low to lick the dirty surface of my shoe - I didn't ask him to do that. That was all him; him wanting to. I knew then I had him.
I didn't know whether or how to let him know how happy I was, so I didn't say anything.
He continued to lick my foot for some time, there in the street. Several people passed by before I told him to stop. He knelt up and rubbed his teeth against my bulge.
He looked up at me, and said, "Thank you. Sir." He walked home with me, soaking wet with my urine clinging his clothes to his chest.
From then on I always carried a little bottle of my own urine which I would fill discretely, so that it was definitely fresh, and give it to him to drink when we were out and about, just to calm him down and remind him who he was. He'd often ask me for it, even, if he felt uncomfortable for any reason. "Please Sir, I'm thirsty." It gave him reassurance to get some of my juices down inside of him. He liked my smell. After that there was never any doubt and he followed my orders unquestioningly. He washed and cooked and made the bed. He wiped and cleaned. He did everything for me. (I told the company I used for cleaning and service to take a hike.) And when I wanted it, he was my fuck toy. I never had to hit him - though sometimes I couldn't help it and I did. He always thanked me and I knew he didn't mind, even when he said, "What makes you do it?"
He was standing in front of me, a prize bull of a figure, full genitals dangling uselessly, and as I indicated it, turned: Narrow lines, strong legs, but big buttocks deeply, darkly cleft.
(Man! That bent over a chair!)
"Show me."
"Show you what?"
"Your hole, stupid! Bend over. Let me see it. Pull it. Open."
He did as he was told, touched his toes, grabbed his arsecheeks and presented himself to me like a show animal. He was proud of it, I could tell. He wanted appreciation. He wanted to be praised - for his hole?! What a degraded slut! My work was going to be easy. He only wanted praise. I could give him that. But he also needed pain. I would teach him that as well.
"What makes you do it?"
I was seated. I answered with a cane I had by my side for such an occasion which I stung him across his behind with a snap. He yelped and hopped, sucking his lips like he was frozen. It made me smile.
"You are insubordinate," I said with smile. "Bend over for six of the best."
And gave him,
Seven!
Eight!
He was in tears and shook.
"You said six!"
"I don't care what I said!"
It pleased me that I had reduced a full grown man, hairs in his arse-crack, to this snivelling mess.
He held the position whilst I wanked-off over his back - a further punishment was to deny him my seed. Nevertheless I scraped some of my ejaculate from his spine and fed it to him and told him to poke some up his cunt - which he did - and I fucked him. Which he loved.
"What makes you do it?"
"What makes me do what?" (I knew where he was going with this.)
"What makes you ... want to ... hurt me?"
"What makes you want it so bad? What makes me want to fuck you? You want it, that's what. You need it. You love it. You love it when I shove it up you and you love it when I'm angry with you, or want to make you sore. You love that. I can tell. Or like, when you drink my piss in public. What make you do that?"
He knelt down.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I nudged him with my toe. He bent down and licked it.
"That's alright."
But I knew it wasn't. I knew he was going to turn out to be just like all the others who had ended up leaving me.
"This is all a joke to you, isn't it?" I said. "Fag!" I said.
He looked shocked. "No-oo Sir. No it isn't. It isn't a joke. No way!!" and then he laughed uncontrollably, and then just managed to stop himself before I kicked him in the groin. I was that angry. "No! No! Sir! Sorry Sir! I'm sorry!! I really am! I mean it! I mean it Sir! I'm sorry! I just can't help myself, when I'm trying to be serious, I can't help laughing!"
He was about to go off again, but bent double to lick my shoes ferociously and then arose to lick my zip and find the hardness inside and lick that through the cloth so that it was exciting. His teeth rubbed over the expanding tip through the fabric like an electric vibrator, making me wild. I wanted to shoot him, in the face, then, in the arse, then, in the face again. So I shot him in the arse and then told him to clean it because it was shitty.
I think he understood.
Around the house, I made him put these skimpy little leather panties on. They looked sweet, and made his bum look cute, the way it wiggled when he walked. I saw the front, like a soft shell; like a snail, his penis curled up inside. I liked having him wear sex clothes that kept him always thinking what he was there for was being my sex toy. He liked it as well; he said, "It makes me feel cheap!"
He was quiet now. When I wanted his mouth on my cock he was there, always, kneeling, ready. When I wanted his arse it was available.
Introducing him to friends was always going to be difficult, but I had a certain lifestyle and he would have to fit in. People came round, either for parties or for dinner, or sometimes I had to go out, when I'd take him as my guest; and sometimes it was very gay and sometimes, less so. He had to find his place, but also I had to find him his place.
So, for example, if I was entertaining I'd often have him butler - either waiting at table or handing-round canapés. Tight black trousers, tight white shirt of fine cotton (almost transparent), always. If any one commented on him, it was usually to say what a fine figure he was, implying he might be available outside hours. Obviously, that could never happen, but it pleased me to have him admired, and it pleased him to be categorised both as a handsome specimen and as sexually available; a horney guy, recognising he was my property. And as the evening wore on, if it got late, I'd have him come in, sit at my feet and take part in the conversation - if it was something he could follow, or just sit there if it wasn't.
When I was invited or arranged to meet friends outside I'd take him along as my plus-one, suitably attired. He'd wear a suit to the opera, leather to clubs - nothing too slutty, but what people rarely knew, always with a harness beneath when we were out - so he knew, and I knew. His relationship to me, as my boyfriend, or companion, was respected, because I was respected. The same went for business associates. He was always treated with the respectful condescension you would use towards any partner, politely ignoring the possibility he was hired - or for hire.
That all went smoothly. It went well. He knew how to play his part. He didn't know what was being talked about, being from a different world, but no one expected him to. He was, for most of my associates, what you might call a 'palate refresher' between courses of more serious conversation. I always kept an eye on him, but he seemed reliable, trustworthy, most of the time. He was of adequate intelligence. If he ever got out of his depth he had this way of laughing - more high-pitched; gayer, if you will - and I would find some way to rescue the situation. Occasionally he was with some guy or woman I knew would take a fancy to him (his narrow body, his sleek muscularity). If they made advances or suggestions I'd hear him shriek, but I would not go over; it would be to my advantage to have them think they were seducing him. He had no choice but to flirt - it was only polite. The most outrageous comments he treated with silence, allowing this to be interpreted however his assailant wished. Once, a spectacularly dear friend of mine, much older and much more rich, wanted to fuck right there and then. This was in my house and the friend (you have probably heard of him, so I'll call him "Tony") he wanted to use my spare bed - I heard the shriek, followed by the silence, but I didn't want to deny a valuable long-term business partner and confidant a coupling - it would be potentially lucrative: We were negotiating a deal that, due to its delicacy, would go much more smoothly if he could be sexually 'mollified' into a more accommodating frame of mind. He knew of our relationship but was the type of man who relaxed by fucking, and fully intended to relax. He sensed hesitancy and it excited him. I watched as the pair edged towards the relevant door. They both seemed to open it and push it together, and they both went in, practically side by side, without switching the light on.
My dear friend was pretty vanilla, I'd got that impression, so when he re-emerged about half an hour later, red-faced, and he glanced at me furtively, as though he'd done something really bad, I went over, holding my champagne aloft as I wove through other guests.
"Rick," he said to me, "we really need to talk."
"By all means," I said. "What's troubling you?"
"Your slut is," he said, "that's what."
I lowered my voice, "That's not my slut, as well you know. He's my lover and ... spectacularly good at his job. Which I think you also know, judging by the time you have just spent in my spare bedroom!"
He went a deeper shade of red.
"What's that if it's not a slut then?"
"It's a well-deserved treat for a dear and enduring friend," I smiled. "I don't let him do that sort of thing in the usual course of events."
"So you know what he did?"
"I can imagine what YOU did!"
"So you don't know what he did?"
I took a deep breath and sighed, "No. I don't know exactly. I can imagine. I know you and I know him. Now what's this all about, Tony?"
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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART THREE