Date: Sat, 7 Oct 2017 14:11:18 +0200 From: s Subject: Even The First - PART SIXTEEN (Revised) +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Even The First - PART SIXTEEN .. THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE. CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com IF YOU LIKE. SEARCH NIFTY FOR sharper@inorbit.com or this link www.bit.ly/1VSsqpI TO READ OTHER TALES BY ME. REMEMBER TO MAKE YOUR DONATION TO WWW.NIFTY.ORG !! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Even The First - PART SIXTEEN In his trackie pockets his hands made two large fist shapes that blended into a bulge covering the ridge of his still fat cock. "So, d'you wanna continue this elsewhere?" he said with a nod towards the path. I rose from the bench, gratefully wordless. He extracted one hand and held it towards me. "Name's Vince Sharkey," he said, shaking my hand firmly. Smiling that he should give me his full name, formally like that, and also glad because it was an indication of trust, I told him my name. He let go of my hand and we walked beside each other through the trees, bumping arms, until he put a hand on my waist and said, "You go first. It's too narrow here ... Man! You're drenched!" "Yeh, I got caught in the rain." "When did it rain? You must be frozen. Man." "I suppose I am..." He stopped me with a concerned smile and hugged me, rubbing his hands up and down my arms and over my back, up to my head and down to my arse. Then he gave me a quick kiss. "That better?" He said. I could feel his body contact me like a blanket - his chest, his cock, his thighs, his arms, his face, the warm smell of his smoker's breath. "Yes Sir, thanks." I grinned and let my arms slip around him, like it was the first time I'd ever held a man. "Hey, hold on soldier, we're going somewhere warm before any of that!" "Sorry." "I mean, it's just that, we need to get back ..." but he continued to hold me and hug me and let me hug him back for ages, there in the silent woods, until we both wanted to get on, to whatever and wherever he was taking me. We continued walking and when the path widened he grabbed my hand, pressing the back of it with his thumb, and led me through the trees to a muddy clearing where his car - a practical town 5-door - was waiting for us. Before he beeped the locks he snogged me, pressing his crotch and his chest against me, and my back against the car. When he'd done that, he said, "Get in the car, we're going to my place, it's not far. You can warm yourself up. We can have some fun ... There's a lot I want to do with you, like get your clothes off and see you naked for starters! There's so much I'd like to do with you. I like you," he said. The car smelt of cigarettes. "Are we going to have some fun," he said. It wasn't a question. "You like the sound of that?" I did. - - - - He lived in a flat in an estate of modern low-rise blocks set amongst lawns and trees and flowerbeds. We ran up the stairs to the first floor where he opened the door and pulled me into its darkened interior, immediately pulling my shirt up and my pants down, snogging and groping. It was frantic. I was frantic too. By the time we were both naked he had dragged me into the main room - with a sofa, a tv and coffee table, where the curtains were drawn as if in readiness for some dark intimacy - and pushed me into a kneel, down to his ready to be swallowed hardon. As he leant the sharp tip of his dick deep into my neck, threatening to choke me, I pressed the fingertips of my open palm on his freckled abdomen, loving the way his hair and soft skin overlay a sheer wall of hard muscle. I really do worship that. I really do. That wall contained for me all of his strength, power, authority, trustworthiness and safety. I suppose I'd trust any man who knows clearly and firmly and can communicate what he wants but that wall of muscle seemed to exude a new level of dependability. I felt it stress beneath my hand as he pushed his cockhead deeper and deeper into me, letting me experience the calm suffocation of it until my struggles became uncontrollable, then smoothly withdrawing himself he calmly stepped back to let me catch my breath (I had been pushing against the wall involuntarily as I choked) and waited until I was ready, begging with my eyes and open mouth, at which point he said quietly, "OK," before fucking it back in and ramming it repeatedly between my juiced lips. The next time he held it in I was less breathless and could tolerate the long draw of it pushing past my gag reflex. "Yea, you like that," he said, stroking my head. His manner was kind, using my throat as it was supposed to be used, without cruelty, giving it to me like a reward, letting me bury my nose in his pubic hair, letting me feel his balls beat my chin, letting me be the kind of slave I needed to be. I suppose the thing to say about Paul and Nigel is, they taught me to know the kind of slave I needed to be. And he gave me the opportunity and the freedom to become that kind of slave. After he came - roping my face with spurts - he said, "You know, you c'd make money giving blowjobs, you really c'd. Serious. You're a seriously fuckable face! Seriously. Fuck." I wondered if he was thinking about pimping me and felt that thrill of exotic fear, pleasure and disgust that humiliation and abuse always awakened in me. He saw it. "Ohhh you like that?" he laughed. "You are so depraved. How did you get like that?" I didn't know how to answer. "I didn't mean it," he continued, "I just mean you're very good at taking my dick; natural technique. Other guys, they think they got it but I have to instruct. Even then, they don't ... it's like, you're expert at dick," he smiled. "You're expert too, Sir," I answered, and meant it. He laughed, "Good answer, boy, good answer." "It's true Sir," I said, blushing and for once averted my eyes briefly to blink. He didn't answer. He went out to the kitchen, made some tea and brought it through to the room. He looked silly, completely naked, holding a tray; from where I was, on the floor, naked, wiping his cum off my face and chest and licking it, I was looking up at his prick swinging all pink beneath the tray like a subterranean animal. Illumination came from the kitchen, between his legs. He put the tray down carefully on the table and dropped into the sofa, adjusting his tackle to one side. I stayed where I was in the floor, kneeling. He didn't say anything. There were two brown mugs on the tray, two spoons, a plate with some biscuits (chocolate hobnobs) and a large brown bowl of white sugar. For me, the two mugs were like two boyfriends, somehow, matching and ordinary. I wanted to be like that. "You take sugar?" "No, Sir, thanks," I said. "Thought not." He spooned some sugar from the bowl into one mug and stirred it. "Got to keep my strength up," he said with a smile. "So should you - Hobnob?" "Thanks," I said taking a biscuit and the other mug, "Sir." He had a quick sip, looking at me over the rim of his mug. Then he put it down and stared at me for some time, his darkly intelligent eyes probing for a crevice in my character through which he could make me out. "Does ... anyone own you?" he said at last. I didn't want to answer. "... it's just that, I don't believe you could just be walking around and free. Someone must be looking for you. Either worried sick or mad as hell." I tried not respond. "If you aren't owned, you should be. You shouldn't be wandering around without a master. You're not up to it." "I cope," I said, moodily. "You'll get raped," he said. "Guys like cute vulnerable slaves like you. They'll gang up and leave you for dead. Do you have any marks to tell the authorities where to take your body?" "What authorities, Sir?" I said, suddenly frightened that Paul might find me and drag me back. Vince threw back his head and laughed. "You know, the slave authorities! Surely there must be slave authorities who run around with stun guns and great big butterfly nets catching runaways and returning them to their masters or auctioning them if the master can't be found!" "No Sir," I said, with a smile, relieved he was joking, relaxing just a little bit more, "there aren't any slave authorities like that 'n' I know how to take care of myself." "You do," said Vince with a twinkle in his eye. And in any case, I thought, Paul had never tattooed me - I suppose because that would have forced me to understand, confront and perhaps to question the relationship I had got tricked into. I'd read Paul's book "Foundations of Enslavement" - his sex-slavery manual - from cover to cover by the time I left. Its focus was totally on controlling, owning and enjoying a slave through erasing its sense of individuality. Paul had almost completely wiped my brain in order to establish control; to devastate my sense of selfhood he had used all the tricks and techniques the book recommended: Mind domination and bullying, guilt trips and punishment, constant criticism and the encouragement of self-denigration with petting, small rewards and only employing praise where it would reinforce his prison cell of humiliation and servitude. "But," I swore to myself, "I'm never going to let that happen again." Vince dipped his finger in the bowl of sugar and gave it to me to lick off. "Good boy," he said with a look of extreme seriousness. Licking his finger I also felt confused as to why I felt this was good and normal and a natural way of behaving. I had automatically adopted the best posture for carrying out the task: On hands and knees. I had planted my fists firmly down on the carpet; lifting my head to reach the sugar my back naturally arched, bringing my backside up smartly. My genitals swung between my slightly parted legs, my knees pressed the carpet. When I had finished licking the sugar he brushed his cleaned fingertip up over my lips, touching my nose affectionately, across my forehead, as though to adjust a non-existent fringe of hair from my face, and then, always looking at me, patted my scalp. Always looking. He withdrew his hand and placed it on the muscular, woven sinews of his right thigh. I was watching his face for any signal and he was watching mine. I licked my lips and placed my chin on his kneecap, trying not to glance at the mass of hair and his beautiful cock occupying a large part of my peripheral vision. He smiled when he flexed it and it jumped up before falling to rest once more on the cushion of his hard nuts. When he did it again he laughed and I couldn't stop a grin. When he did it again and it leapt up and bounced off his stomach we both laughed and when he said, "Go on then!" Almost with a yelp, I pushed my mouth forwards, lavishing his prick with my tongue, giving it adoring attention. "Good dog," he said with a grin. Whilst I busily licked his private parts, Vince petted my head. Then with both hands he massaged my ears, neck tendons and shoulders. Then he leaned forward to exploring the wide muscular breadth of my back, down the line of my arching spine to finally extend one hand across my hard backside, and a finger that touched my hole and then poked into it. "Oh yeh," he said, " ... I think we're going to have to do something about that next ..." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ END OF Even The First - PART SIXTEEN