Summer of Sex with Cowboy

MY SUMMER OF SEX WITH COWBOY

Chapter 9

By Donny Mumford

Finally finished with that absurd inspection, I step outside into the real world. Well, sort of the real world as I am in Atlantic City on the boardwalk among all the casinos and the surreal trappings and people associated with that scene. However, after spending time with Art, the boardwalk is close enough to the real world for me. Ahh, I inhale a couple of lungfuls of the refreshing air smelling of the Atlantic Ocean, its waves crashing on the shoreline thirty-some yards away. Invigorating!

Then I'm shaking my head and shuddering at the same time as the reality of that so-called inspection sets in with a thud. It's hard to believe it happened now that I'm out here among people who are enjoying themselves in a mostly normal fashion. A long wave of humiliation sweeps over me as I recall my submissive behavior.

Yeah, that was not good, but why am I not focusing on the crude things Art put me through that caused my humiliating submissive behavior? I should be outraged about his bogus inspection technique. Perhaps anger and negativity will come later when my head clears. Or maybe it won't because I haven't had any significant negative feelings about Richard bullying and humiliating me last night. None that lasted very long, anyway.

The humiliation isn't over either; I need to deal with my rectum being sticky-wet with my dom's, with Art's cum. It's still drooling out of my ass. And, what the hell? Can I believe I just referred to that loony asshole as my dom? Well, he did dominate the shit out of me, so that qualifies him for the title, I suppose. Last night Richard had that moniker, so now they can take turns being my dom. Swell.

Pulling my shirt away from where it's stuck to the cum on my chest and stomach, one more lingering humiliation, I glance at my cell phone to see how much of the fifteen minutes remain before my appointment with Richard at the bar. Seeing him again was the idiotic reason I kept telling myself to put up with all Art's so-called inspection. God, all that humiliation packed into a forty-five minutes period. Is that all it was, forty-five minutes?

Another thing that's hard to believe is how initially wrong I was in evaluating that unattractive tubby guy, Art Pitcairn. I totally misjudged and underestimated that fucker. Appearances can be very deceiving. I thought he was simply a messenger toad from Richard and, instead, he came on confidently getting in my head and turning me inside/out, and he seemed to get stronger and stronger at it, minute by minute.

So, yeah, he was my dom alright, as stupid-sounding as that is. In my defense, these guys hold all the cards. I'm the one who wants something from them, so I either do what I'm told or, as far as they're concerned... don't let the door hit me in the ass on my way out. Yeah, I'm just honest with myself about that.

Walking across the boardwalk, then leaning against the far railing, I light a cigarette with shaky fingers, then touch my little plastic container of peppermint Tic Tacs in my shirt pocket. It's so nice out here I can actually feel myself emerging from my submissive stupor. Taking a drag off my cigarette, I'm thinking how that's at least an encouraging sign, but fifteen minutes isn't nearly enough time to fully get back to being the real me.

Yeah, well, what difference does it make anyway, as Richard probably will be submerging me right back into a very submissive state of mind. Hmm, it's not hypnosis, is it? Or maybe it is hypnosis. The hypnotist plants a word in a person's subconscious and tells the person when he or she hears that word; they'll quack like a duck or do some kind of dumb-ass thing like that. And it works on some people. That's vaguely similar to how I'm becoming programmed to slip into submissiveness, not when I hear a word, but when I reach a certain humiliation point.

Looking at it another way, perhaps becoming submissive is a defense mechanism my brain provides to make it possible for me to endure the humiliating stuff. Hmm, taking another drag off the cigarette, I'm thinking that's not a bad analysis. It's probably wrong, but it sounds feasible. Right or wrong, what difference does it make anyway?

This negative thinking isn't helping. I need a positive thought like perhaps the worst is behind me. Yeah, maybe the initiation period is over. And, hell, initiations are not unusual. All kinds of initiations happen in clubs and fraternities, and wherever. When considering this nonsense in that light, sure, it still sucks, but it seems less, um, less out of the ordinary. Initiations are going on even on professional sports teams. Rookies on all sports teams from high school to college to the pros have initiations. Hell, Ronny and I went through a brutal initiation in the Navy Seals after basic.

And, yes, obviously, this is different because the initiation process normally comes after a person is admitted to a group, club, or what have you. I'm being put through all this shit to be included in the group. Plus, this is a totally gay-orientated initiation and mostly sexual. Not entirely, but mostly it is sexual, one way or another. So, there are two major differences, but rationalizing all of it as an initiation somehow makes it less disturbing and, um, less sick.

Coming out of my funk faster than I expected, I realize I'm feeling more like myself. Then I think about meeting Art here at noon tomorrow, and that sort of ruins my positivity. Yeah, but is meeting him again all bad? That tub of lard laid a no-lube, no condom, twenty-minute fuck on my ass. I haven't had too many of those. Well, what am I saying? I haven't had any of those. I haven't had any fucks on my ass of any kind for the last four-plus years previous to last night, and then the twenty-minute fuck a little while ago.

Here's another positive thought. While what I'm going through is often outrageously humiliating, these guys have reinvigorated my interest in bottoming. They've reminded me what I've been missing. It's brought back fantastic memories from prep school and college when I took I, as wells as, put it up the ass. Those golden days when the world was young, ya know?

Can I even imagine expect Art to duplicate that twenty-minute fuck on my ass tomorrow? Even if he could, Art's basic, um, unattractiveness is a problem for me. And, yes, I know, that's a snob's attitude and something the humiliation is supposed to eradicate, but it hasn't eradicated it yet. Yes, a twenty-minute chuck with Richard, but I guess I'm dreading it from this Art character. Richard's got his work cut out for him getting me to get excited about taking it up the ass from just anybody. Average-looking overweight or, God forbid, below average-looking weirdo guys simply aren't my cup of tea. They should be fucking each other.

Yeah, that's what Richard's program is about: teaching me to know my place is as not being above bottoming for anyone. I'm all for equality in almost everything except sex. That's personal and needs mutual attraction or at least mutual interest. I mean, unless one is prostituting, ya know? Holy crap, that's not what the pussy boy thing is about, is it?

Hmm, and what the hell does that convoluted term, know my place even mean? I'm beginning to think it's something more than me realizing I'm no better or worse than most guys even though I am bigger than most, stronger than most, and, yeah, better looking than most, and I was a Navy Seal too, which few can qualify to be. It's about not being a snob thinking I'm too good for you, you, and you, but, oh, you might make the grade if you shave your mustache. I agree with that already, except when choosing a sex partner.

I sure as shit hope it's about that and not humiliating me into thinking I'm a nobody, and therefore I should let anybody who feels like it fuck my ass. I don't want to believe that, except sending fat Art to inspect, measure, and fuck me would be a good way to start that nefarious process.

Assuming that's a preposterous stretch, and it's about not thinking pussy boys are superior or inferior, am I a snob? It's almost impossible for someone to see themself the way others see them. Richard and his cohorts just might be doing me a huge favor helping me eliminate that obnoxious personality trait if, in fact, I have it. I'm hoping there are better reasons for what Richard's trying to do other than convincing pussy boy recruits we are all available to fuck each other within this pussy boy club.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but it isn't that. I basically don't have any gay friends, except Cowboy, so I'm hoping to make one or two during this process and then be a member of this, um, fraternity or club assuming there are members like Richard and Art is the exception, but that brings me right back to me thinking I'm too good to have sex with just anyone. Yeah, I do. Still, it's intriguing, interesting, and like nothing I've ever imagined in my life.

Well, after this talk with myself, I'm not sure I know any more than I did before, but that's the whole point... I want to find out. That, and the fact I'm back to bottoming and sucking cock again. That's been an awesome turn of events and worth the abuse and humiliation on its own. And how much more of this crap I'll be willing to put up with is almost immaterial since I've already benefited greatly from rediscovering how hot bottoming and cock sucking used to be and still is for me. I've gone through a lot already, though, so it's a matter of principle now to qualify for Richard's club or, um, whatever it is.

So, with renewed determination and commitment to do what I'm told as long as I can, I start walking toward the hotel bar to meet Richard. For a while, there that dick-head, Art, wasn't even going to qualify me to see Richard again. I can't abide the thought of not qualifying for something, anything. I'm competitive and will bust my ass to qualify and then maybe tell them all to go fuck themselves, but I need to qualify to have that option. Them telling me to go fuck myself is unacceptable. That basic premise was hammered home in me during my four years of Navy Seal training.

The very idea that I barely passed Art's inspection is repugnant to me. That's in the past, though, and now I'm kind of excited and nervous facing Richard's challenges. I'll do what I need to do to qualify, whether it's Richard or another flunky like Art.

I'm uncomfortable because that flunky, Art, filled my rectum with maybe the largest load of cum ever shot up a guy's ass. I feel it still drooling out and accumulating in my underwear. Dammit, I reach back to feel my ass and, yep, as I expected, the wetness has soaked through my tan shorts. Christ, what must these people around me be thinking?

Pulling my shirt front away from my body where it was sticking to the cum on my chest, I hold the shirt away, hoping the cum will finally dry, and the shirt won't stick to it. It must look weird sticking flat on me, but then it looks weird to hold my shirt away from my body. Swell.

As I eat a few Tic Tac, I realize there are things in life I simply need to accept because I can't do anything about them. In this situation, I can't do anything about my wrinkled clothes sticking to my cum-coated body because of the time constraint of needing to meet Richard in less than fifteen minutes. Choosing between being a mess and being late for my appointment with him, the lessor of the two evils is being a mess. I never believed Richard was taking me to dinner anyway. That was just another of his mind games.

Walking in the front door of the hotel, avoiding eye contact as I'm assuming people will be pointing at the wet spot clearly visible at my ass, and they're exchanging 'What the fuck? Expressions with others who see me. I do not need to see that. I walk quickly through the lobby to the bar, checking my phone, and see I have two minutes to get there. I'm a fucked-up mess, but I'm a fucked-up mess who's on time for his appointment.

Stepping into the bar, I spot the handsome/cute Richard immediately. Wow, he stands out, and I see people sneaking glances at him. That Richard is Japanese or half-Japanese, makes him seem sort of exotic to me and, therefore, more intriguing and desirable. He's sitting at the bar with a glow about him, or maybe it only seems there's a glow because he's sitting directly under an overhead spotlight fixture. Hmm, he's also with someone.

I'm thinking the strangely cute young fellow talking with Richard must have an excellent set of fake IDs because he couldn't possibly be twenty-one. He has the same haircut I have, so that's a dead giveaway that he's one of Richard's pussy boys. He looks tall, but because he's sitting next to Richard, it's throwing me off, considering Richard's only five-foot-six. Yeah, five-foot-six, but he comes across as if he's ten feet tall. The new guy is drinking a straight-up martini, and so is Richard. Hopefully, they're both drunk enough that they won't notice what a mess I am.

Shit, I'm just standing here because, now that I'm looking at Richard, I feel timidity and submissiveness creeping up on me. And, I'm not sure what the right thing to do is. Do I just barge in on them and say, 'Hi, wassup?' or stand where Richard can see that I'm here on time and wait for him to wave me over. Or, maybe he won't wave me over when he sees the condition I'm in, but I should give him a choice.

I decide that's the way to go and make my way past a raucous group of men smoking cigars in the aisle between the bar and the tables. Assholes!

Okay, Richard can plainly see I'm here if he'd just look a little to the right of the pussy boy he's with. C'mon, look over here; I'm right here in plain sight. It's at least two minutes of awkwardly just standing here before the pussy boy turns his head and looks right at me. Our eyes lock, then he says something to Richard, who looks over at me with an expression I've become used to seeing. It's the now-familiar what the fuck? Expression. He motions, in an annoyed manner, for me to get over there. Oh, man, I've screwed up again.

Hustling over, I nervously stand next to Richard as the tall underage kid gawks at me with furrowed eyebrows that distort his oddly cute face. Richard says, "You're late, Zachery. Pull that stool over." I'm not late, and I'm also not correcting him.

I pull the stool a little closer to him, and he says, "Closer, right next to me." As I pull it so close the edge of the seats are touching, I think of Cowboy insisting Lee pull his beach chair so close to Cowboy's chair the arms of the chairs are touching.

I've got the stools touching now, and Richard says, "Well, sit the fuck down!" As soon as I sit, Richard grips my thigh, saying, "You passed your inspection, but just barely, and now you owe Art a date. I don't like that one bit!" I didn't hear a question, so I don't say anything, although I drop my eyes. He says, "Look at me when I'm talking to you," and he squeezes my thigh painfully. As I've said, he's little but strong as a bull.

I look into his pretty eyes, eyes the color of jade. Considerately, I'm hunching down so as not to be towering over him, close enough to notice that he smells like he just came off the beach after sunbathing all day. Meanwhile, the underage kid is still gawking at me, holding his martini near his mouth with an expression on his face that now seems full of disapproval, but disapproval of me, or Richard? Or maybe he's just nervous about something? It's a difficult expression to decipher.

Richard says, "Very disappointing performance by you, and now my old roommate Art has something to hold over me." Roommate? He goes on, "Your poor behavior reflects on me because I had you last night and apparently didn't do a good job of indoctrinating you as to what we're looking for in our pussy boy recruits. Or did you intentionally want to make me look bad? Was that it?" Ah-ha, that was a question, so, looking down again, I mumble, "No, Richard."

He takes his hand off my leg and moves it to grip the back of my neck hard enough that I'm hunching down even more now. He's squeezing so hard, I whine, "Ow, please, Richard, don't..." He says, "Stop that! We'll put this sordid business behind us for now, but you'll be punished by Art tomorrow. I'd like to be present for that but, unfortunately, I'll be in New York attending to some, but you don't need to know what I'll be attending to, do you?" I shake my head, which isn't easy with how hard he's gripping my neck, "No, Richard."

He drops his hand to my shoulder and rubs across my shoulders briskly. Then, changing his tone of voice entirely, now sounding friendly, he goes, "Well, enough of that. I want you to meet your mentor. He'll be helping you through the next six weeks. His goal is to get you qualified to join our little fraternity." Richard leans back so I can see the underage kid, and Richard says, "Zachery, meet your mentor, Bruce Dunlop."

Bruce looks confused and a bit nervous. Richard doesn't appear to notice, as he goes, "Bruce, here's your recruit, Zachery McMann." I hold out my hand, saying, "I'm pleased to meet you," and Bruce says, "Likewise, but you aren't qualified to shake my hand, sorry."

Richard says to Bruce, "He doesn't know shit yet, so it's your job to see that he does, and as quickly as possible." Bruce says, "Yes, Richard." Turning back to me, Richard says, "Bruce will give you a schedule of when he's available for mentoring duties, and you'll make whatever necessary adjustment in your schedule to meet with him whatever time of the day or night he chooses. You're bright enough, hopefully, to understand that Bruce represents me, and what he says comes from me with the same authority as if I said it face to face with you. No more screw-ups, Zachery. You're on thin ice as it is."

I'm staring into his jade eyes, nodding my head even more than I did last night. I have this new determination to qualify after the talk I had with myself on the boardwalk. Not qualifying means I won't have the option of telling them I reject their pussy boy club if I chose to do that. I won't let myself fail. Yep, I learned that mindset from Ronny when I wanted to quit during Seal basic training. He looked me in the eyes, saying, 'You will not fail.' And, I didn't then, and I won't now. It has very different objectives, but overcoming whatever it takes to win requires the same; I will not fail! mindset

Richard pats my cheek as if I'm seven years old, saying, "Don't let me down again, Zachery. Do what Bruce tells you, and do it without any backtalk. Okay, now that that's settled, you need to stand up, um, in the aisle there. I want to get a good look at you."

I frown, and he says, "Do it now, Zachery!" Sliding off the stool, I stand in the aisle where most people here can see me. I try not to think about that as I stand tall, at attention! Both Richard and Bruce turn to look at me for a few seconds before Richard says, "Turn completely around, slowly." I take a full minute to slowly turn around for them while hearing murmurings and snickering from the people, mostly men, in the room.

Before starting my second turn, Richard holds onto my wrist, saying, "Stop, once is enough." and then he turns to Bruce, saying, "I've got to make some phone calls that will tie me up for a half-hour at least. I want you to take Zachery back to the lockers and clean him up, do the Fleet thing, and a stretching butt plug too. The butt plug will make our after-dinner fun go a little smoother."

Bruce does what I do; he nods and says, "Yes, Richard." Then Richard adds, "Oh, and see if there are clothes for him to wear. Look in the lost and found basket. And, Bruce, take your time and make some progress with him. I'll meet you two right back here whenever you feel he's presentable, and only after you've brought him down a few pegs if you get my meaning. Have him in the right frame of mind to do what we have in store for him later tonight."

Their business concluded they both get off their stools; Richard drops one of his fifty-dollar bills on the bar and then says to me, "As I've tried to impress upon you from the start, Zachery, just do what you're told! You have hidden potential. Okay?" I nod, "Yes, Richard."

I don't know what a 'fleet' is, but I know about butt plugs. I've never seen one in person, but I saw plenty of them online as a kid messing around giggling with my gay prep school buddies, us threatening each other to buy one and use it on one another. I was just goofing around back then when Ronny was busy doing something else, usually girl-related. Bottom line, I have zero experience with butt plugs, but they don't seem to be the worst thing you can have in your asshole massaging your prostate gland.

Hopefully, I'm right about that, but even if I'm not, I'm going to be Mr. Cooperation with anything Bruce wants me to do. And, I gotta admit, I'm curious as to how old he is, considering he looks like he's fifteen. Whatever his age, he's a qualified pussy boy, and therefore he outranks me. I'm used to being outranked. Hell, during my Navy seal days, I dealt with twenty-two-year-old First Lieutenants who had never been in a firefight but were authorized to tell me what to do. In any case, I've accepted that Bruce will shortly be my next dom.

And, now that we're all standing, I know how tall Bruce is; he's six-feet-one and built pretty good too. I'd rather he be my mentor than someone unattractive like, well, like Art. Yeah, I know! That kind of thinking needs to be humiliated out of me, and I'm pretty sure this group is capable of doing that with one hand tied behind their backs.

All of these dudes use the same dominant technique, it seems, because right off, Bruce gets a firm hold at the back of my neck, saying, "Get moving," and I do. These guys obviously aren't big on letting a guy walk on his own. They insist on assisting in moving me from one place to another. I'm getting used to it by now. I become docile, allowing Bruce to push me out of the hotel onto the boardwalk. Outside, he squeezes my neck harder, saying, "Over to the other side. I want you to go down those steps to the beach. What I don't want is to hear a peep out of you while you're doing that."

I'm a tough guy, but, Goddamn, he's really hurting my friggin' neck. The strength of his fingers squeezing the back of my neck and pushing my head forward is awkward, and it hurts like a motherfucker. Embarrassingly, I let out a pathetic sounding, "Oh, ow! Bruce, please, that hurts." His only response is to drive his knee into my ass, and that hurt too. Then he says, "I'm not going to fuck around with you. Playtime is over for you, so stop your whining and begging. Be a man, or I'll spank your ass purple."

Holy shit, I'm fucked again. Doesn't anyone in this outfit have an ounce of compassion? Are they all sadist? I know it's supposed to be for my own good, and I'm committed to cooperating, but they don't give an inch with this hard-ass shit. What's that term, hard love, tough love, or something like that. Are they under the impression this is the same idea without the 'love' component? Anyway, I do what I'm told and go down the steps to the beach without any additional whining.

He pushes me down the beach toward the ocean and then stops me and lets go of my neck. Goddamn, though, my neck still hurts! I'm moving my head around and rubbing the back of my neck as he makes a gruff sound, then says, "Don't be a cunt, I didn't hurt you that bad. I could hurt you if I need to, but I won't because it's in our bylaws that mentors do not physically harm recruits. If you tell Richard I did, I'll fuck you up so bad you'll be crying for your mommy."

Another psycho threatening to fuck me up. I mutter under my breath, "If you can." He goes, "What'd you say? Was that a threat?" Well, that's a question, right? I can speak now, but what I'd like to say isn't going to further my case of getting qualified, so I say, "No, Bruce." He goes, "You didn't threaten me?" I shake my head, looking him in the eyes, "No, Bruce, I would never threaten you."

He'd taken a step away from me before asking if I'd threatened him, which is interesting. He mutters, "You'd better not try anything, or I won't qualify you." Hmm, I think Bruce is in over his head here. Still, I won't get a merit badge for scaring my mentor, so I raise my hand timidly as if I'm in grade school getting the teacher's attention. Bruce nods his head, approving my timidity, mumbling, "You can speak."

Trying for humble sincerity, I say, "I need to be honest and apologize, Bruce. I let my violent past take over my common sense. Then I lied to you by saying it wasn't a threat. It was, but I know I was wrong. I need your help and experience to get me over myself. I need to stop thinking the best way is a violent way. Again, I'm sorry, and please help me."

Proud of myself for taking the high road, a phony high road, to be sure, but still, it was an apologetic phony high road, and I expected some tiny bit of camaraderie to show through finally. You know, us being on the same mission and all that. Instead, Bruce slaps my face and then slaps it again. He slapped me so fast I didn't know what happened for a second, then my eyes started watering, and the delayed stinging at the side of my face registered. The humiliation for a grown man being slapped by another man is so, um, I don't even have words for it.

And Bruce is screaming at me too, "Don't you ever fucking threaten me, you puke! I'm going to disqualify you right now." He's literally shaking with rage as he rustles his cell phone from a pant's pocket, yelling, "You're done, asshole. Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I'm stunned! After all the shit I've been through, it's going to end like this? It wasn't even a real threat, and I apologized like a mad man as if it was. Thin-skinned? Holy shit, his guy must have the thinnest skin in the world. I can't let this happen. I give a quick thought to drowning Bruce and telling Richard, um, tell him what? Instead, I say, "Bruce, please, be rational. What can I do to make it up to you?" And I don't think he even heard me say, 'If you can''. He just assumed it.

He's holding his phone, but not pushing any buttons, so I mumble, "Please, Bruce, I'll be good. Don't tell Richard, um, I threatened you. Honestly, I didn't mean to threaten you. I like you, and I was telling myself back at the bar how glad I was that a nice-looking cool guy like yourself would mentor me. Seriously, Bruce, please, and I'll be the best recruit you ever mentored."

He looks at me, narrowing his eyes, "Okay, asshole. Right now, look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't threaten me." Could he be slightly retarded? I already admitted I threatened him. Or, perhaps it's just that he's young and naive and, um, stupid.

I put my hands gently on each side of his shoulders and look right into his kinda, nice big brown albeit clueless eyes, and say with fake sincerity, "I didn't mean it, and I will never threaten you again, my handsome mentor, and I like that you'll be my dom for the next six weeks. I desperately need your help, so please don't disqualify me." He mutters, "You're not supposed to touch your mentor."

Dropping my hands, I go, "I didn't know that, so thank you for schooling me. See how much I need your help, Bruce. I don't know very many of the rules." His expression now is one he might use if he just witnessed a spaceship landing, and something alien is now getting out of it.

Well, I'm not supposed to be talking unless asked a question, and I've been talking a blue streak, and I can tell he's not used to anyone groveling to him, but he likes it. I don't think Bruce can think of anything to say, so I brazenly assume my apology was accepted, and ask, "Bruce, is it okay if I smoke?' and hold up my box of Marlboro, adding, "I have Tic Tac for my breath afterward."

With a confused expression on his face, he goes, "How did you know that's the reason I brought you down to the beach?" I'm like, "Sorry, Bruce, I'm not following you." He says, "How did you know I smelled cigarettes on you and wanted to sneak a smoke myself. We're not supposed to smoke, ya know, but I smoke in secret." Well, Bruce, it's no secret now, but I'm not bringing that to his clueless attention.

Instead, I say, "That is so cool of you, Bruce. Shall we?" and I hold the open Marlboro box out to him. He narrows his eyebrow, looks cutely suspiciously of me, then pulls three cigarettes from the box, mumbling, "The other two are for later."

Nodding my head as if there's nothing unusual about him taking three cigarettes, I hold my lit Bic lighter out; he leans his head down, cupping his hands around the lighter, and lights up. As he's inhaling a ginormous drag as though he's needed a nicotine fix for hours, I ask, "Is it okay if I smoke one too?" He exhales through his nose and mouth, then mumbles, "Um, okay, but only as an exception. I forbid you to smoke, and I mean when I'm not with you too. Um, unless you ask me for permission first." Nodding my head, I say, "Yes, Bruce," and light a cigarette, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening here.

I mean, how in the hell could Richard have missed Bruce's cluelessness enough to qualify him in the first place and then promote him to mentor status no less? This is another tricky game he's playing on me. I can't fathom what it is or what I'm supposed to do about it. That fucker is screwing with my head again, but to what end? I don't know.

Unpredictable Bruce, perhaps in an attempt to regain his dominant position, says, "Stand over here so your exhales don't blow by me, and give me that pack of cigarettes. I don't trust you not to smoke when you're at home." I nod, mumbling, "Yes, Bruce," and give him my pack of cigarettes as if that will prevent me from buying another pack to smoke at home or any other fucking place I feel like smoking. Well, it means he won't need to buy a pack himself, haha, so he wins. Bruce is qualified as a pussy boy, but it's unlikely he'll qualify for Mensa.

Smoking his cigarette right down to the filter, then lighting another off the butt of his first, he says, "After my smoke, I have a few things I need to do with you, and I expect you to be good and do exactly as you're told. Are you prepared to do exactly what I say?" I nod and say, "Yes, Bruce." He inhales deeply off his second cigarette, the ash brightly glowing while some of the inhale are drawn from his mouth to go in through his nose. This guy is a serious smoker.

He talks while exhaling, "Me and Richard are both going to fuck your ass once or twice each after dinner. In preparation for that, right after I inspect your body for unsightly hair growth, I'm going to give you a Fleet enema, and you should be grateful it's not a regular full-blown enema. That's what you'll get next time you don't clean your anus and sigmoid colon properly. Your shit got on Richard's condom last night, and more of your shit got on Art's dick an hour ago. He emailed me his full report, so you can't bullshit me about it. Also, Richard and I have big cocks, so after your enema, I'll be inserting an ever-widening butt plug to open you up 'cause we don't want to be inconvenienced by you screaming into the ball gag the way you did last night."

I've finished my cigarette and raise my hand again like I'm in grade school. He goes, "Speak," and, acting timid; I ask, "How should I dispose of my cigarette butt, mentor?" He does his furrowed eyebrows thing again, trying to think, I guess, and then he goes, "Pick up my butt there in the sand, then you're to carry them both to that trash barrel over there," and he points at a trash barrel fifty yards away. I can't help thinking, what a nice-looking idiot he is. Nodding, I say, "Yes, Bruce, um, but should I wait for you to finish that cigarette you're smoking?"

He thinks about that, then mumbles, "Of course, don't be stupid." Hmm, yeah, I'm pretty sure he knows all about 'stupid.' With the cigarette's filter between his teeth and closing the eye, the smoke is drifting up at, Bruce says through his clenched teeth, "Come here, right in front of me." When I do, he grips my crotch tightly, his other hand gripping my left butt cheek, "These belong to me, Zachery, as long as I'm your mentor." I say, "Yes, Bruce, I understand."

Up this close to him, even though the smell of the cigarette smoke, I can smell a personal scent coming from him, and it's shockingly similar to Cowboy's, meaning it's boyishly attractive. To me, it is. Except for Cowboy, it's been years since I've had exposure to a young man of nineteen, or however young Bruce is, and it arouses me a bit. Plus, his hair is as blond as Cowboy's, meaning almost white-blond and cut the same way.

Bruce inhales and exhales without taking his cigarette from his mouth as he continues squeezing my butt cheek and nuts. Then he pulls me fully against his body. In any other circumstance I can imagine, it would take me two seconds to have him screaming in pain, groveling on the sand, but I choose not to do that. Instead, I remain docile the way these people like me best.

When he sees I'm not resisting, he lets go, shoving me back a step, and says, "I can handle you. I'll mentor the shit out of you, and don't think I won't. I was nervous when I first saw you because Richard didn't tell me you were so handsome and perfectly put together. I was praying my first mentoring would be for someone like Billy Dupree. He was the recruit before you. Billy's my age and the same size as Richard. Hell, Billy is smaller than Richard, if anything, and not tough at all. He was mentored by the black guy, Tyron Jones, the lucky fuck. He's Arron's favorite."

I've never heard of any of the names he mentioned, but from what Bruce blabbed out, it seems there are some hard feelings, a touch of jealousy, and maybe even some dissension in the ranks. I wonder if Richard is aware of this? Bruce is telling me things, plus I have names, Billy, Tyron, and Arron, to give validity to what I've learned and what I might squeal to Richard. I'll bet he'd be interested in hearing about it. Yeah, but I'll save this info in case I need to blackmail Bruce with it later.

He takes the cigarette butt from between his teeth. Then, with the butt still smoldering, he gives it to me, and says, "Sprint over to the trash barrel to dump these butts, then sprints back. I'll time you, and if I think you dogged it, I'll spank you with the tennis racket we use to punish recruits. Now, get moving," and he looks at his wristwatch. Tennis racket? What happened to the bylaw about not hurting recruits?

Well, I feel like running my ass off anyway. Maybe it will help reduce my frustration level, and what could be better than a hundred-yard dash letting it all hang out. Running in sand is a bitch, but I tear off running the first fifty yards, circle the trash barrel dumping the butts, and then let it all out on my way back to Bruce, coming up to him with sand flying that I churned up, stopping a foot from him. He's still staring at his watch. He looks up, making a face, saying, "Jesus! Wow, that was ridiculously fast."

I try looking humble and modest as he nods his head, telling me, "Good, you did good. Continue doing what I tell you to do, Zackery, and you might get a qualifying grade from me. We've got a long way to go before that, however." He grips my upper arm and pulls on it, saying, "Get moving." I get moving but raise my hand again like I'm in grade school, and he says, sounding frustrated, "Okay, what do you want to say now? You're not supposed to be talking so much," and then, sounding whiny, he adds, "I'm not supposed to let you talk, and you've basically said more than I have since we left the bar, jeez."

I go, "Sorry, Bruce, but you don't need to pull on my arm. I know you're my mentor, and I promise I'm going to do whatever you say, so the arm pulling, ya know? It's not really necessary." Frowning, he goes, "I'm supposed to do this, or tightly squeeze behind your neck. It shows recruits who's the 'effing boss." I don't raise my hand this time to say, "Yeah, but I've already said I know you're my mentor and boss and that I feel lucky, as I told you earlier, to have a nice-looking mentor like you. Art was my dom, as you know, and please don't tell anyone I said this, but I much prefer you."

He lets go of my arm, muttering, "You're still talking too much, but if you're good and do what I say the instant I give you an order, I won't do the neck or arm squeezing. Um, in my report, I'll say I got you obedient enough early on that I was able to dispense with some of the restraint-holds while transporting you from place to place. That'll look good for me like I got you knuckling under quickly." And I'm so sure Richard will believe that.

We trudge through the sand, then up the steps to the boardwalk where Bruce gently puts his hand behind my neck, whispering, "I'll pretend I'm using the neck hold in case we're being watched." I say, "Yes, Bruce," and he snorts out a chuckle, mumbling, "Richard insists everyone say the 'yes, whoever' thing. I like it when you say it to me." Then he gets a serious expression on his face again, guiding me into the locker room. Probably, in case someone is watching. We go directly into the same office where I had that delightful time with Art.

I've already concluded I'm never going to experience a submissive sense with Bruce, but I don't want to get him in trouble either. Not if I can avoid it because I kind of like him. The Cowboy comparison has something to do with that, I suppose, but he's so obviously not cut out for this job I feel kind of bad for him. Do I have to wonder again what is up with that? What is Richard's mind game this time?

Bruce says, "Now I'm going to be getting rough with you if I need to, so pay attention to what I tell you." I timidly say, "Yes, Bruce," and he tries not to, but he snorts out a short barking laugh anyway. Then, quickly looking serious, he goes, "Stop that, or you'll get spanked." I open my hands in that way that infers, 'What did I do?' He goes, "Don't make me laugh; that's all I'm saying." I start to say, yes, Bruce, getting only the first sound of the word our when he shakes his head and then laughs again, turning his back to me.

Under control, he turns around and goes, "I just need to get used to hearing you say 'yes, Bruce.' You say it so humbly, and you're my first recruit, so... Um, anyway, I want you to repeat 'Yes, Bruce' ten times right now to get me used to hearing it.

What the fuck? Is somebody taping this for a reality TV show? Keeping a neutral expression on my face, I say what he wants me to say ten times as he looks at me, nodding his head each time I say it. Then he goes, "Good, now get undressed and stand tall so I can check for any disgusting body hair. I was emailed Art Pitcarin's inspection report, so, just between you and me, I think this is a way for Richard to double-check the accuracy of Art's inspection."

The chances of me growing any hair on my body in the last hour or so are slim, but I do what he said. When I stand at attention, he goes, "Omigod! That's so awesome! That's like in the Army, right?" He barks out an imitation of a Seargent yelling, "Attention!" Then he chuckles, saying, "Haha, I never stood like that for my mentor. I like that you did it for me. You're showing me respect."

Hmm, whatever, I continue looking straight ahead, but, as I said, I'm feeling kinda sorry for Bruce. Someone, for some reason, is trying to make a fool out of him, or maybe me, or both of us. Maybe I wasn't too far off base joking about us being videotaped. Nah, no one knew Bruce would take me to the beach for a cigarette because smoking isn't allowed.

He begins to undress, saying, "This isn't required of mentors; it's discouraged actually, but not forbidden. When I got promoted and was breaking down a recruit, I always told myself that I'd make him relax a little by doing the mentoring naked. You know, I mean whenever I made my recruit get naked."

His back is to me as he drops his pants, bending forward now, pulling his socks off, showing me his hairless cute ass. Nice body, and then he turns around, showing me a nice frontal body, but one without a lot of muscle tone. Still, it's not bad, and, of course, he's completely hairless in front too. Plus, he wasn't lying about his big cock. It's not as big as Richard's but bigger than mine.

He murmurs to himself, "I'd love to find something Mr. Asshole, Art, overlooked." Undressed now, he steps over in front of me and rubs my cheeks, the ones on my face, checking that I have a close shave. That's something Art didn't do. I have a light beard so, no problem. I'm noticing that Bruce seems very comfortable in his nakedness, very natural, which I find, I don't know, kind of innocent.

He stands too close to me, our dicks lightly touching, his hands rubbing across my shoulders, then he does half a grin, looking me in the eyes, saying, "I'm not supposed to, but I took a cell phone picture of you to show Eli Barns, my pussy boy buddy. I want to show off what a good-looking stud I'm in charge of. Fuck, though, my dick is getting hard from touching you."

He looks startled then, as if he just thought of something that makes him take a step back, saying, "If you try fucking me up with Richard by repeating anything I've told you, he'll believe me when I call you a liar! Remember that!"

Being more business-like now, Bruce says, "Bend over, recruit, and spread 'em wide." I do that, but I'm not spreading my buttocks painfully wide the way I did for Art. Then, I almost turn my head to see if Bruce is okay because I hear a kind of gasp from him. Right away, I feel his finger slowly tracing around my anus, so I assume his gasp was an excited one, or maybe a gasp that he couldn't believe he gets to dominate someone significantly hotter than himself. And that is the exact kind of thinking Richard claims needs to be corrected out of me by humiliating me until I realize that I'm no better or hotter than someone like Bruce. That's the objective, according to Richard, everyone feeling equal attractiveness to one another. Swell.

Something reoccurs to me that I alluded to earlier, and it's... what exactly is this pussy boy thing all about. I mean, I know it's a secret club or association, but how big is it and what are the benefits. When do we have a meeting and so forth? Eventually, I'll probably be able to pry this information from my mentor.

Also, here's another thought... maybe Richard assigned this kid as my mentor because he knows Bruce will appear, um, incompetent and kind of nice at first, but then he'll shortly turn out to be the exact opposite. Is it another mind game, or perhaps Richard made an incompetent assessment of Bruce's capabilities?

We'll see. I mean, this is just the first hour of Bruce's mentoring. Just the first hour of the next six weeks. Maybe it's Bruce who's jerking my chain. Maybe this will turn out to be a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde deal, and Dr. Jekyll is purposely allowing me to relax, so I'll let my guard down, figuring Bruce is no problem, and then he turns into Mr. Hyde and becomes my worst nightmare. That's doubtful in the extreme, but I'm never sure with this crew. Plus, at least I'm not bored anymore or in a rut. I got that going for me, if nothing else.

For the next five minutes, Bruce continues rubbing his hands all over me as Art did, except Bruce's hands aren't damp and puggy. His hands feel good. Oddly, though, Bruce keeps his face close to my body as if he's farsighted, or maybe he's simply doing a closer inspection than Art did. That has me a little bit worried because I'm supposed to be on thin ice as it is, and if I've missed a hair somewhere, perhaps Mr. Hyde will show himself by disqualifying me. After what I've been through so far, I deserve to learn the whole story about this operation. That's one reason I do not want to be disqualified this early by clueless Bruce here. The other thing being, I want the option to reject them should I want to, after being qualified.

Bruce finishes his inspection, saying, "You're perfectly hairless, just as you should be, and, I must say, your body is fucking molten hot. Well, look here," and my eyes, previously looking straight ahead, glance to where he's pointing. I almost gasp as Bruce did three minutes ago. His dick is now a seven-inch fat boner that's so hard it's straight out from his shaved groin, looking as pinkish and perfect as Cowboy's boner. Well, Cowboy's boner is two inches shorter, but other than that, the two are look-a-like brother boners... big brother and little brother. And, yes, there are some penises that are a lot better-looking than others, and this is one of them.

Bruce snickers, adding, "It just sprung up on me. My big boy dick inserted himself into the proceedings. How 'bout that, huh?" He stokes it, muttering, "Feels good too." Letting go of his boner, leaving me speechless again, he picks up his cell phone, murmuring to himself, "Hmm, what's next? Oh, uh-huh," and then he nods and says to me, "Get that ass of yours into the bathroom now, move it!" Haha, I'm guessing there was a reminder in Richard's email that Bruce needs to act tough with me.

I play along by immediately scampering into the bathroom, my dick and balls swinging in the cool air-conditioned air. Bruce comes walking in and gives my ass a hard slap, saying, "Bend over for your Fleet enema." I bend over, my hands on my knees, still not knowing what the fleet part of an enema is. Of course, I know what an enema is, but not what a fleet has to do with it.

Bruce kneels and takes a slim box from the cabinet under the sink, then stands and takes what looks like a smaller version of a calking tube from the box, saying, "I'll lube your asshole, so the end of this slides in nice and easy for you."

Putting the calking lookalike tube on the sink's counter, he dips into the container of KY Jelly that's there, getting a big glob of it on his forefinger. Then, with his other hand on my back, Bruce wipes the lube on my asshole, then pushes his finger in all the way. As he did that, he made his gasping sound again. Putting a lot of weight on the hand, he has on my back; he finger fucks me gasping at each finger thrust, then he makes a low moaning sound as if he's about to climax.

I'm making a 'face' because every finger thrust rubs right on my prostate, and I feel like I'm going to have an orgasm any second. Then, after thirty seconds of constant rubbing, I do have an orgasm... of sorts with a shudder. An orgasm without springing a boner. Cum more or less flops out, qualifying it as a small non-boner climax. My first one ever.

I shudder again because it felt like a climax, sort of, but the worst one I ever had. Bruce pulls his finger out, gasping and asking, "How'd that feel, Zackery?" I'm speechless again, but then I grunt, "Ahh!" as he forces his boner up my ass. It hurt like a motherfucker, although not as bad as when Richard did the same thing the other night. And it continues right on hurting as Bruce humps his boner fast and hard, making desperate sounds of, "Oh, oh, oh, oh," and then I feel my rectum filling with Bruce's semen.

He shot off in thirty seconds, so fast his thrusting never stopped hurting, never allowed my rectum time to adjust to the intrusion. Okay, so now I know what the worst fuck of my life was. It's this one from which I received zero sexual pleasure. My worse climax and my worse fuck, separately happened in the same minute. Simply beyond belief.

Bruce pulls his cock out of my ass, gasping and breathing hard. He turns to lean on the sink as if to hold himself up. I'm totally flummoxed for what must be the tenth time in the past two days, and I'm not sure what I should do.

I've got to do something, though, because Bruce can't catch his breath. I straighten up and put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, asking, "Are you having a heart attack?" I'm not facetious either. His face is red, and his chest is heaving as he gasps oxygen in and out, making rasping sounds. Only for a few seconds longer, though, and then he takes one last huge deep breath as he's pointing at me, saying, "I'll call you a liar if you tell anyone this happened."

I go, "If I tell anyone what? Nothing happened for me to tell anyone about." He nods, "That's right! You got that right! A momentary lack of self-control, that's all. It could happen to any mentor what with the stress of this job and all that." I'm nodding my head, something that's required quite often when dealing with this crew. Bruce nods along with me for a second or two and then says, "Why aren't you bending over? Bend over, hands on your knees. I need to do your Fleet enema." I get back in position, smirking because I looked at the slim box he got the calk-tube-thing out of. It's a brand name; Fleet is a brand name.

Bruce's cum is drooling down the back of my legs, but he ignores it and pushes the plastic tip of the enema tube into my asshole. It went in easily, what with the KY lube and his slimy cum assisting the entry. He squeezes the tube, forcing the liquid into my bowels, mixing with his semen. Perhaps I had an enema in my early days on this planet, but I don't remember it if I did. This is another new experience for me, and it doesn't feel like anything so far, but with more liquid going into my bowels, I notice some cramping, and then it gets worse, and I go, "Ow, fuck." Bruce says, "There's still a third more to go. Deal with it." I'm assuming Richard's email reminder to be tough with me occurred to Bruce again. Swell.

Another thirty seconds, and not only is the cramping becoming a major concern now, but I also feel like I need to piss, and I feel some of the liquid running out from my ass to join the cum on the back of my legs. He says, "Goddammit, Zachery, tighten your ass muscles and hold this enema inside you."

Well, fuck, I'm trying to do that, but there are too many negative things happening here at the same time, and the stuff is leaking out faster than he can squeeze it in." Bruce mumbles, "This isn't working the way it should," and he takes out the tube, then pulls on my shoulder, and I gladly sit on the toilet as a rush of liquid comes screaming from my ass along with, "Plop, plop, plop" sounds of shit chunks hitting the water.

He says, "Flush the toilet! Flush the damn toilet!" I do that, and, Jesus, what a relief it is letting go of the enema liquid. Stinky water and dissolved shit continue to come out for like twenty seconds before the stream reduces to a trickle. Bruce drops the enema tube in the little bathroom trash can, saying, "Flush the toilet again." I do that and, Bruce, seemingly relieved it's over, mutters, "You need to sit there for fifteen minutes to let it all drain out." He then begins vigorously washing his hands, mumbling, "Phew, phew, phew." While drying his hands, he leaves the bathroom, saying over his shoulder, "Fifteen minutes, Zachery," and the bathroom door slams, "Slam!" leaving me wrinkling my nose at the shit smell in the air.

Flushing the toilet again, I'm thinking how it was a very unpleasant experience, but I admit I'm beginning to feel good about being cleaned out like that. Luckily, when the light switch is on, it also turns on the exhaust fan. By the time Bruce opens the door and comes back in here, the smell has dissipated entirely.

He says, "I wouldn't have needed to do that disgusting enema if you cleaned yourself properly." Then, as I remain on the toilet, he swats my head twice, adding, "I've been too easy on you," and I get another swat on my head with his open hand, not that the swats hurt at all because I don't think he had his heart in the swatting. He probably reread Richard's email about being tough, but he doesn't have it in him.

He says, "Okay, you can get up now." As soon as I do that, my hand starts to get toilet paper, but Bruce yells, "No! That's my job as your mentor. I'm hard on you while teaching you how to know your place, but job one is, I need to take care of you too. Lean over, hands on your knees, and don't move." This is beyond awkward. He unrolls big batches of toilet paper, over and over, wiping my ass. Satisfied, he says, "Stand up now and, um, can you to do that thing, the standing at attention thing again?"

I stand at attention, and he wets a washcloth and begins wiping down my body, muttering, "Richard wants me to clean you up because, as I already told you, we'll both be fucking you after dinner. I'll have sloppy seconds, I'm sure, but that's never bothered me before. I'm looking forward big time to fucking an ass like yours on a body like yours." He either is purposely forgetting the thirty-second fuck he laid on my ass twenty minutes ago, or he's totally erased it from his mind altogether. Of course, I don't remind him of it.

After two or three minutes of washcloth washing, he stops and says, "This is stupid! Get your ass in the shower stall right now! You should have mentioned something. We'll both get cleaner in a shower."

He opens the shower stall's door, saying, " Get in there right now." I do that, and he turns on the water, then gets in behind me and spends the next fifteen minutes bathing me, using his hands and half a bottle of bath gel. It's an enjoyable time, and we both have hard dicks when he finally says, breathing heavily, "Okay, get out and dry yourself now. Towels are under the sink."

Before opening the stall's door, I mumble, "Bruce, that was wonderful," and he strokes his boner, smiling and saying, sounding girlish, "Thank you so much for saying so." Jeez, how weird is that? But I feel good, I really do. As I'm drying myself, my mentor is washing and happily humming a song I've either never heard before, or he isn't humming the song correctly. If I had to guess, well, I don't have to, so why be mean?

Damn, though, I'm shaking my head and grinning at everything, and knowing I'm going to need to help this kid. Something's up with this situation that doesn't make sense. Yes, but then he did tell me I'm his first recruit, so maybe it's as simple as that. However, that would mean that Richard isn't aware of this kid's abilities, or lack thereof, which I can't believe is the case. Richard's too sharp not to recognize that Bruce is, um, a few spoons short of a place setting. Even so, I find Bruce to be kookily likable, but that can't be the personality trait Richard has in mind for his mentors.

Bruce turns off the shower, gets out, and says, "Get a towel for me, boy!" I almost laugh because he can't pull that off either. He sort of hunched his shoulders and almost laughed right after he said it.

I, of course, say, "Yes, Bruce," and get him a towel from the sink's cabinet. When I hold it out to him, he says, "No, you dry my body." I dry him beginning with his very short hair that, as I said earlier, reminds me of Cowboy's hair, then work down from there. I like his body; it's not muscular at, but he's slim, and everything is in proportion; plus, obviously, he's completely hairless.

When I finish doing that, Bruce says, "Nicely done, and now only two things left to do. One, you need a butt plug in your scorching butt. The other thing is finding you some clothes to wear. First the butt plug," and he rustles through some drawers under the counter next to the cabinet and brings out a clear plastic bag that's filled with various-sized butt plugs. These are the first ones I've ever seen in person, although I'd seen plenty online as a kid.

He looks at a few of the plugs, deciding on one, then puts the rest back where he found them, saying, "Richard will want you opened up quite a bit so later he'll be able to get his huge cock in without a lot of screaming from you." He sticks the corkscrew type end of the plug fully in the KY Jelly and says, "Assume the position," so I bend over with my hands on my knees, weirdly interested in this, but not for long.

He uses a screwing motion inserting the butt plug, saying, "When it's all the way in, this knob I'm using to twist it in gets pushed to the side, and the sleeve at this end is flat, so you'll be able to sit, um, with some discomfort, but don't mention that to Richard."

Going in, it only feels slippery and cold at first, but quite quickly becomes painful, then worse and worse as Bruce tenaciously keeps twisting and twisting it into my ass. I try not to scream, but the sounds I'm making instead are worse-sounding than screams if you ask me. Tears start falling from my eyes as I start whining, "Please, Bruce, that's far enough, please stop!"

He stops and spanks my ass hard with his hand, "Smack, smack, smack," yelling, "Take it! It's no big a deal, you big baby!" Then he's back twisting, and I give up fighting because the pain is fading, and the pressure on my prostate is beginning to reach the point where that unique pleasure equals the stretching pain from my anus--one balancing the other, so I'm not sure if it feels good or bad. Two more twists, and I feel the end-sleeve tightening against my buttocks. I'm all filled up nice and tight, but it feels very, very strange.

I'm sort of making quiet whiny sounds, not sure it's over yet, as Bruce says, "I'm disappointed in you, Zachery," and he spanks me for a full minute, then says, "I only used my hand spanking you because until now you've been a good boy. And, I didn't even use the large size butt plug Richard wanted. This one is smaller, but all you could do was cry and beg. That's the thanks I get from you."

Fuck, I feel bad now and say, "I'm sorry," and saying that, I get the first glimpse of a submissiveness feeling for Bruce. Huh, that's interesting as I didn't expect any submissiveness to surface. It's probably from the way he wouldn't stop twisting the plug, and, now that my rectum is sort of numb, I notice the spanking he gave me left my buttocks stinging painfully. He really wailed on my ass.

Bruce is rewashing his hands, muttering under his breath, "I was told repeatedly that you couldn't be nice to recruits. I guess I learned the truth about that." Clueless, Bruce.

I try standing but don't get too far up before pain surges from my rectum, and I go, "Ooow!" Drying his hands, Bruce says, "Oh, for Christ's sake, are you going to start crying again?" He comes over to me and wipes tears from my face with his fingers, tears from earlier. Not tears from crying 'cause I wasn't crying. My eyes were watering. As he's doing that, he says, "Everybody knows you need to straighten up slowly. Do it a little at a time getting used to your butt plug." My butt plug? How long do I need to, um, wear this thing?

I mumble, "Oh, of course. Um, seriously, Bruce, I'm sorry for making a pussy of myself a couple of minutes ago. I should have trusted that my mentor knew what he was doing, but this is the first butt plug for me, and I didn't know what to expect." He goes, "You need to trust me." I go, "Now I can see that because you did it perfectly, so thank you." He goes, "I accept your apology, Zachery, and we'll forget about you wimping out like a little girl. I won't tell Richard."

He goes off looking for abandoned clothes I can wear, and by the time he's back with a pair of jeans that look too small for me, and what looks to me like a woman's sleeveless sweater that's way too big for me, I'm mostly standing, only slightly bending forward a little. The butt plug feels wicked tight and constantly has me wincing from the pressure it's putting on my prostate. I soon notice the plug makes me walk with my legs spread oddly wide too. Swell.

Looking at the sweater, I think that whoever this belonged to must be really tall and fat. Bruce says, "Good you're standing up. Okay, here are pants and a sweater top for you to wear. They're a little wrinkled and musky-smelling but better than the ones you had on."

He sees me frowning as I hold up the sweater, and he goes, "It was probably a huge woman's sweater, but it's all that was there that would fit you. Oh, and there were no underpants in the lost and found basket, but I found several jockstraps. I brought you the one with the fewest piss and cum stains in the cup." I go, "Ah, um, that's okay," and he looks annoyed, saying, "Put it on. You can't walk around with your junk flopping around."

I shrug, and he stands here raising his eyebrows like, what are you waiting for? So, I put the jockstrap on and then the jeans, but I can't snap the front because the waist is too small. I can pull the zipper up most of the way, though, then I step into my sandals. As I'm pulling the sweater over my head, Bruce mutters, "Good, now come into the office and, as I get dressed, I'll explain what you can and cannot do at dinner. Swell.

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.

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