First, the basics. This is, once again, a work of FICTION. Real-life considerations will take a back seat to erotic pleasure and story-telling; this slave, these Masters do not exist. Wanna change that? Or just wanna share comments/praise/criticism? Fine: Not_your_Typical_Master@yahoo.com
Copyright 2011
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The House Fag, Chapter 1
"See somethin' you're interested in?"
Since I had been staring at the trail of thick blond hair leading from above his navel to the crotch of his jeans, I probably blushed as I lowered my gaze to the ground.
"Thought so. Look, it's no problem. Fags do it all the time. I'm used to it. I'm not gay, though, so don't get your hopes up. We understand each other?"
I nodded my head. I'd just been walking down the street to the corner store. He, a fireman from what I'd heard, had just moved in a few weeks ago and was mowing his lawn. The neighborhood gossip said he'd just gotten divorced and this was his new home.
"Good. Tell ya' what, fag. Give me your phone number, and if I have any use for you, I'll give you a call. OK?"
Fortunately, I had a business card on me. A small business owner always does. I do some IT work, databases, spreadsheets, that kinda shit. Or at least I did.
"OK, fag. Now why don't you get goin' before you cum in your shorts, ok?" He smiled as he waved goodbye, raising his arm and revealing a blond-laced pit. Between that and his breathtakingly dazzling smile, my body quivered as I nodded and walked away.
I left without saying a single goddamn word to the guy. But I guess my eyes said it all. He was fucking gorgeous. A walking statue. Some Greek God living down the block. Not quite 30, I was guessing. Powerful muscles, but not a gym rat. Blond hairy body. Not lean, but not a bear. Just a good strong build. A guy-next-door, if you lived on Mount Olympus. And an amazingly innocent, boyish smile. Friendly enough, though I wasn't sure I liked being called "fag" all the time. I hoped that wasn't going to be the case. After all, he now had my business card -- my name right on the top.
Of course, that was assuming he'd ever decide to call. Smart move on his part -- I could do nothing but wait. He was training me, even back then. But I was too stupid to realize it.
So, who am I?
Well, if you're asking that question, then you're definitely not on the right page. It's not who am I; it's what am I.
I am the house fag.
But back then, I wasn't part of this house. I was still a who, not a what. Or at least, that's how I saw myself. What did I know?
So anyway, I was waiting for his call. Weeks go by. I figure I'm just going to spend my life sneaking glances at his body. And then he calls.
"I feel like having dinner and a couple of beers. Meet you at that downtown steakhouse. 6PM." Click. I guess it wouldn't matter if I had other plans. He knew I'd be there.
And I was. Waiting for him. 6 o'clock. Quarter past. Twenty past. I figured this was just some sort of game he was playing on me. I decide that I'll leave if he doesn't show by 6:30.
He walks in, all smiles, at 6:25. "Hey there. Where's my beer?" I guess that was his way of apologizing for being late. I ordered him a bottle and he sat next to me at the bar.
"So let me explain how this works, fag." He didn't say it in any insulting way. It was like it had been my name all my life.
I nodded. I mean, what could I possibly say? At least here he was, talking to me. Allowing me to drink him in. His beautiful body. His disarming smile. His beautiful blue eyes.
"Like I said before, I got no problem with fags, but I'm not one myself. The way I see it, your job is to keep me entertained and happy. The happier I am around you, the more often I'll call you to keep me happy. Makes sense?"
"Yes. I understand."
"Great, fag."
"Um, does it entertain you to call me that?"
"Fuck yeah, fag. Is that a problem?"
"I guess not, Sir."
"Good fag. I'm glad we got the formalities out of the way. Hell, I guess I was pretty thirsty. My bottle's empty. Hand me your beer, would ya?"
I did. I didn't really understand why. He wanted it, so I gave it to him. I didn't see it as anything important. But it was, as I'd soon see. He polished that one down as well, talking about how much he liked the neighborhood. I started to make some comments from time to time, but every time I did, he just interrupted me and kept on talking. I finally figured out that he didn't care what I thought. It didn't matter to him. I was just there to listen, to nod in agreement, and to stare into the most handsome, rugged face I'd ever seen.
He finished his second beer, the one I'd been drinking, and told me to order him another as he went into the men's room. The bartender brought back another bottle just as he came back, bottle in hand, from the john. He placed that bottle in front of me.
"Here. You can have it now." I reached over to grab it and felt the warmth inside. And I suddenly understood the wide smile on his face.
"Here's to getting to know each other, fag." He raised his new, fresh beer to a toast. I clinked my bottle against his and swallowed his warm piss from within.
How the fuck did this guy read me so fucking fast? I mean, what were the odds that some gay guy he'd talk to would be into this? And then I fucking figured it out. The whole game plan, from his very first words, were sizing me up. Seeing just what kind of "fag" I was. Apparently I was just what he wanted. Some submissive little bitch hungry for the use of a man like him. No, that's not right. Hungry for the use of a Man like Him.
Our table was soon ready. He took my menu as we sat down. "I'll order for both of us, fag."
"Yes, Sir. Of course. Thank You, Sir." He smiled. Fucking adorable, so warm and friendly. It was impossible to not fall head over heels in love with that face.
Our entrees came, one prime rib and one lobster. As the waiter turned away, He pulled my plate over to Him, pulling off the tail and claws and placing them on His plate. He cut the center part of the prime rib away from the bone. The rest of the steak and lobster were placed on my plate and pushed back to me.
"God, they serve good food here. This place deserves its reputation. Not to mention its prices."
I watched Him enjoy His dinner as I pulled what meat was in the legs and body of the lobster and what was left around the rib of the steak. He was finishing His beer and I called the waiter over for another.
"Nicely done, fag. I'm impressed."
I couldn't believe how my dick throbbed at hearing that compliment. Just because of some sign of approval from this beautiful Man. He went back into the men's room and returned with another drink for me.
"Thank You, Sir, for the drink."
"My pleasure, fag. Drink up." And, again, that seductive smile. I'd have drunk battery acid and not really cared. "Taste good, fag?"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you again."
He leisurely savored his dinner as I ate, watching Him, adoring Him. The waiter came by as He finished and asked if we'd want dessert.
"No thanks, buddy. We're done. Just the check, ok? Thanks." Then he turned to me. "I need to get going. Early day at the firehouse. Thanks for dinner, fag." And He got up and walked out the door.
I didn't know dinner was on me. I should have guessed. The waiter came by with the bill and I gave him a credit card. My dick throbbed as I signed the bill. Fuck.
Once I got home I tore off my clothes and jerked off. Shot all over myself. Twice. And then again, twice more, during the night. This Man was a fucking wet dream. My fucking wet dream come true.
He called a few more times in the coming months for drinks and dinner. I was always eager to meet Him when/where He said. Sometimes He'd be on time. Sometimes He'd be up to an hour late. Sometimes, once in a while, He wouldn't show at all.
I never called him on it. I understood this wasn't a problem. My time was His to waste. If I bitched or complained about it, the calls would stop coming. And I definitely didn't want that.
And it was always on me. No matter what He wanted. My money was His to waste as well. He didn't wipe Me out financially or anything. Maybe money was tight after His divorce; I had no way to know. But I suspected this was just another way that I "entertained" Him, by my letting Him take advantage of me.
I was too dumbstruck . . . or maybe just too dumb . . . to see how His ownership over me was being carefully orchestrated, even back then.
Then came a call on a Thursday evening. "Fag, you know what a wingman is? In terms of dating?"
"Yes, Sir. The wingman keeps the less pretty girl occupied so the lead can pick up the prettier one."
"Great. I want you to be My wingman tomorrow night. Meet Me at the bar at 1st and Chesterson, 9 o'clock." He hung up he phone. The following night I was at the bar and 9PM, and there He was, waving and smiling that knee-weakening smile at me. "Glad to see you. I've got a beer here waiting for you. Nice and warm, the way you like it, fag."
"Thank You, Sir." I started chugging his now-familiar piss down my throat.
He called the bartender over. "You mind setting up a tab for Me, My friend here, and whomever we buy drinks for?" He turned to me. "Give the nice man your credit card."
I forked it over. He got an approval on the card and returned it to me. We were all set up for the night.
It was now time for Him to look over the place and see with whom He wanted to spend the evening. His eyes settled on a breathtaking woman with shoulder length auburn hair. She was, of course, with a girlfriend who was also quite attractive, though not as beautiful as she.
"Go for it, fag, Go talk to the brunette and I'll pick up that fantastic red-haired knockout."
"Yes, Sir." I walked over to the ladies, introduced myself, and started making conversation with them, paying far more attention to the brunette, known as Laura. I responded to her ideas and giving her the bulk of My interest, though I wasn't rude to the auburn-haired beauty, Cindy.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hey there, buddy! Small world, isn't it?" It was Him, coming in for the kill.
"Hey there. Laura, Cindy, this is a neighbor of mine...."
"The name's Tom. Tom King. I just moved into town a couple of months ago. This loser here," poking me in the ribs, "is lowering the property values on the same block."
The girls laughed and the four of us chatted for awhile. His foot kicked me in the heel and I knew it was time to ask the brunette to dance. Thankfully I'm a good dancer. He probably figured it was just part of the qualifications for being a fag.
It wasn't long after that that the two of them came over for a quick dance before they said goodbye and walked out the door together. Leaving me with this very nice woman in whom I had no interest and who was starting to come on to me with brief, suggestive glances and touches. I knew that He was loving every minute of my awkward dilemma, even though He'd already left to bed His conquest.
I had no idea how to get out of this situation. I'd never been wingman for a guy before. What do I do with this woman? I didn't want to have sex with her. After all, I'm a fag.
Yes, that's exactly how it was inside my head. He now had me calling myself a fag without even realizing it. Fucking brilliant.
"Um, Laura, what's the date tomorrow?"
"The 12th. Why?"
"Oh, crap. I'd forgotten. I need to get going. I've got an appointment with a client at 8AM tomorrow and I need to organize my presentation before getting good night's sleep." A total lie, and not all that believable, but it was all I had. "Do you need a ride home?"
"No, it's cool." I could hear her disappointment. "I've got my car here."
"Great. Take care. I had a fantastic evening." Which was true, but it was because of the Man I had been winging for. I was, in some sick way, kind of honored He allowed me to do this for Him. I signed the bill for drinks and drove home. All night I dreamt about Him making love to that woman, romance and smiles. I wondered if she had a clue just how lucky she was. He could have had any woman in the bar. And at least one of the men. Well, one of the fags.