This story may be the first in a series if there's enough interest for me to continue it.  Let me know what you think at boymaster1980 at
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A soft, wet sensation woke me. I stretched, opening my eyes just in time to see the brown mop at my crotch tilt upwards. My half-hard cock was between his lips, his deep blue eyes signaling lust and need. They also pled. They begged me to understand that while he’d broken two rules—first, waking me on a Saturday morning; second, initiating sex of any kind—he’d done it to please me, to serve me, to make me feel good. I did understand, but I also knew that pleasing me, serving me, and making me feel good was the life he’d chosen, was what he needed most deeply in his core, and was the closest thing to sex he’d ever get on his own.

I closed my eyes and slid my hands palms up between my head and the pillow, relaxing. I could feel the mistaken sense of relief wash over him as he abandoned his earlier tentativeness and began to suck in earnest. My cock quickly thickened and grew to its eight-plus inches. He alternated between rapidly bobbing up and down on it and just sheathing it deep inside his throat, swallowing around it, until his need for oxygen forced him up. I let him go for I dunno, five, maybe ten minutes. I was getting close and he could tell. That’s when I opened my eyes and looked down at him again. The mop had turned back down, his eyes hidden behind the veil of bangs. I knew from experience that they were closed in concentration, so he had no warning as the first slap caught him full on the face, stretching from his ear to his chin, leaving a burning red mark across his cheek and a ringing in his ear drum.

He stopped sucking immediately. I knew his reflex would be to bite down, not consciously of course, just instinct. I also knew that he understood the punishment that would inevitably follow if I ever felt teeth on my cock. Overcoming instinct was his problem, not mine. He succeeded, but the mop quickly turned upwards, the eyes showed surprise, pain, tears filling the lids. There was no protest, no complaint, only disappointment. In himself.

“That was for waking me up,” I announced. He braced himself, face screwed up and eyes clenched shut, as the second blow fell across the other side, making the scalding red handprints symmetrical. “That was because you didn’t get permission.” He sobbed softly and as he opened his eyes, the tears flowed freely. The physical pain was real, but the intended effect was psychological: with my evident displeasure I’d deprived him of what he’d wanted most, my approval, my pleasure, my (surely he didn’t dare so far?) gratitude.

I beckoned him up from my crotch with two fingers. He released my cock—he also knew what punishment would follow if ever he let loose without permission—kissed the head gently, and moved up to rest his head on my breastbone. As he rose from kneeling between my knees, I looked down his body, hairless from the sideburns down. The last time he’d lapsed and grown stubble, I’d shaved him myself. I’d been gentle, taking him off-guard and he’d mistaken it for forgiveness. The next day, I’d staked him out spread eagle in the back yard under the summer sun, four hours a side, until his normally cream-colored, almost albino, skin had turned deep red. That night as the whimpering inevitably ensued, I’d thrown him face down on the bed and fucked him, making sure to grind my front into his back, and his front into the mattress. Then, I’d rammed the vibrating plug up into his ass, clamped his nipples, and mummified him in plastic wrap and duct tape. He simmered in his own sweat, sipping water as he needed from an old enema tube I’d left hanging out of a five-gallon bucket. He had never missed shaving again.

Now, he straddled my thighs, wedging my cock into and along the cleft in his ass, and rested on me, propping his crotch up with his knees to keep his CB3000 from pressing too hard into my abdomen. He kissed my sternum before turning his face to the side. I tousled his hair idly as he whispered his apology over and over between sobs. Sometimes—most often like this, in the early morning, when lovers wake and share a kiss before perhaps moving on to more primal consort—I allow myself to regret having to hurt him. I remember with wistful nostalgia, albeit passing, of the days three years ago when he’d just been Seay. We’d had mornings like those in my dorm room when I’d been the exchange students’ senior advisor and he’d been the freshman from Ireland. Then, his skin had been perfect, unblemished and alabaster. I found my hand leaving his hair to trace over the three-inch tattoo at the base of his neck. The Chinese ideograph for slave. Beneath it were my initials. It was identical to the one in 1:3 scale on the sole of his left foot. But he’d asked for this, I always reminded myself. Begged me for it, really.

So it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault that I had to punish him when he strayed. It wasn’t my fault that I’d learned how much I loved to hurt him, to hear him sniveling, to feel his tears. I’d been happy before, ignorant of my perverted dark side, wrong in my assumption that I was just an ordinary gay guy. Sure, I knew now that the grudging reluctance to agree occasionally to bottom or suck some guy, just in the name of reciprocation, just in the spirit of a relationship, was born of my naturally dominant tendencies coupled with (mild?) sadism. But three years ago, I hadn’t even suspected. The self-revelation had initially been as shocking and fearsome as admitting to myself at 16 that I was gay. Now, I was past the denial, past concern about social disapprobation, past noticing the looks or comments, whether about being gay or about owning my boy. It still amused me, though, the number of fags who would hurl insults at me or my slave with the same mouth that chanted for tolerance at some queer pride event.

The sobbing had tapered off. My erection hadn’t. “Ride it,” I said, flexing and making it throb in his crack. He pushed himself up from my chest and looked down, forlorn.

“It’ll be dry now, Sir,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to catch the lilting accent. I stared up at him blankly until the eyes began to fill again and his bottom lip quivered. He nodded wordlessly, brows knitting and the corners of his lips turning down. He moved back, straddling my cock, before raising himself onto his feet. He closed his eyes again, the long-lashed lids barely visible under the fringe of the mop, and as he forced himself onto the dry head, he bit his bottom lip and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He gasped in a breath and held it in pain. I indulged him. I relished the look of his pale white body, lean at 5’8”, 130 pounds, the muscles in his abs and chest taut, his legs almost visibly shaking, face contorted in anguish. I indulged him not for old times’ sake, not because I didn’t want it to hurt, but because my cock was dry and I didn’t want him to go so fast the friction was uncomfortable for me.

With a long sigh, he slowly lowered himself, impaling his guts on my cock. When his ass came to a rest on my trimmed pubes, he whimpered. I flexed my cock inside him as a reward for his effort. His eyelids fluttered open as he looked down at me. He must have seen my contentment because he smiled weakly before sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He swept the mop back from his forehead. He brushed the moisture from his cheeks and then planted his palms on his knees and began to ride.

I can’t lie. The boy fucks like a concertmaster plays a Strad. It’s not just the things he does with his ass muscles that I can’t even begin to describe. I mean, it’s like how I imagine the caterpillar drive must have worked in the Red October, the way his ass ripples along, milking my cock. The boy was built to be fucked, from the perpetually tight hole that just clings to my shaft as it pillages his ass to the hot, smooth, velvet glove of his intestines. But it’s more. It’s the way he reacts to cock in his ass.

By the time he’d raised back up until only the head was inside him, his nipples were hard. By the time he’d come back down, his dick had swelled to fill the CB3000 completely, and his clear juice was flowing out over it. The pain was still there, the burning friction, but it had been superseded by the pleasure he felt—the only pleasure he was allowed to feel. It showed on his face, the way his eyebrows were raised over his closed eyes, his lips slightly parted to expose the tip of his tongue.

He took his time, using long, slow strokes, and I let him. He moaned, and I slid my hands back behind my head. After a few minutes, he’d loosened up enough and I arched my back to thrust up into him. The first one caught him by surprise, and his eyes flew open. They met mine vacantly, confused, tearing him from his own universe of pain and pleasure. After a few seconds, never breaking his rhythm, they cleared and focused, he looked down at my own rippling abs, and he began to chant thank you as he closed his eyes again. We worked in tandem, I pulled down as he rose, I arched up as he sank, and each time our bodies slapped together he muttered his thanks.

I reached down between his knees, stroking his inner thighs as I grabbed his balls, one between each thumb and forefinger. I’d begun stretching them recently, so there was plenty of slack between the rings of the chastity device. He knew the signal and accelerated his tempo. The harder I squeezed, the faster he’d go. I began by gently rolling them around, slowly applying more pressure. His balls were like a clutch—at a certain point, the pressure on them would trigger complete abandon in him and he’d go into high gear. I was gradually working up to that point as he face turned red and he began to sweat profusely. His head rolled sideways in invisible figure eights; the bangs of the mop had fallen back into place, covering his eyebrows.

I knew the exact moment I hit his clutch point. I always did. He sucked in his breath sharply and his abs flexed until they were concave. His eyes flew open again and he fell forward, catching himself on his hands on either side of my arms. He stared into my eyes, pain, desperation, lust, desire, pleasure, all whirling in his submissive, masochistic mind, as he took over, pistoning his ass over my cock. It was like Wild Kingdom, his primal, animalistic fucking. I continued to apply pressure on his poor balls, but he loved it, grunting “Yes, Sir!” in that beautiful fucking brogue. We both knew it would only be a matter of minutes once he hit this phase. For me, not for him. He hadn’t cum in—what was it now?—72 days. In the basement, there hung from a peg a bucket of marbles. Seventy-two days ago, I’d put in one red marble and six black. Each day, he’d go to the bucket, reach up, and pull out a marble, show it to me, and put it back in the bucket. Every day, it had been black and he had been prohibited from cumming. Each Sunday, I added seven more marbles, all black. Each week the lottery failed to award an orgasm, the odds grew worse in his favor. He might never cum again.

My lower torso was covered in his precum though, oozing out from his confined slave dick. I closed my eyes to concentrate myself now, trying to hold off the inevitable. This was the moment when he derived his vicarious orgasm, watching me fight it off. I felt my own face contort, my teeth gnashing. “Fuck,” I muttered, “fuck you, you fucking cunt.” My balls were boiling over. I knew his ass would be sore. Fuck! Thinking about it brought me closer.

I writhed under him and heard him, almost gleeful, “Please, Sir, please fuck me full of your cum. I know I’m a pathetic pussy boy and your cum is too good for me, but please Sir, please! I can never earn your cum, I can never work hard enough to please you, I’m just your bitch, Sir. Please, grace me with that which I am unworthy to receive.” He had been an altar boy, and no one knows supplication like a gay Catholic steeped in catechism. Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but say the word and I shall be healed.

“Fuck!” I answered as I felt myself tensing. I squeezed his balls harder, almost flattening them between my fingers as I felt my back arch and my breath stop and I teetered on the brink for a second, then two, as he clenched his hole around me, never slowing his frantic pace, and I felt distinctly in that pause of time as an inexplicable massage rolled up my cock from base to tip as it was buried inside him. That ass was made by Satan. My lungs exploded at the instant my nuts did, and I gasped for air even as my sperm pumped into him. Even as I fired a dozen rounds, he slowly rode on, no doubt savoring the lubrication my spunk provided on his burning hole.

As I collapsed back onto the mattress, I opened my eyes to find his waiting. They were full of sincere gratitude. “Thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you,” he murmured as he bent down to kiss my nose and chin. Exhausted, I raised one hand to his hair and maneuvered his face to kiss him. I do love him, more than a man can love mere chattel. I make no apology if that makes me weak.

As I rest almost lifeless, I order him to clean me. As I feel his tongue licking at our sweat on my chest, on its way down my precum soaked abs to remove the last residue of cum from my cock, I waver indecisively between falling back to sleep and the need to go to piss. What the hell, he did a lot of work, he’s probably thirsty. I guess he’s earned a drink.