Seay
Chapter Two

Sunday through Thursday nights, he sleeps on the floor at the foot of the bed. His left ankle is chained to a bed post. He has a small blanket, about 4’ square, and he’s allowed to keep it summer and winter. This means he gets to make a pillow roughly six months out of the year, and gets to choose between comfort and cold the other six. He sleeps naked except for the CB3000, as indeed he remains at all times unless he’s sent on an errand or assigned outdoor chores. (The lawn is mowed weekly, the trees and bushes pruned monthly, and the leaves raked seasonably. For these, he gets an old pair of my gym shorts, a crew-neck t-shirt emblazoned “Fuck me, I’m Irish,” a pair of ancient boat shoes, and a Braves ball cap to keep the mop under control and the sweat out of his eyes. For errands, he has one pair of khaki shorts, a polo shirt in a color that matches his eyes, and a pair of sandals.)

Friday and Saturday nights, he sleeps with me, unless I’ve gone out and someone foolishly wanted to come home with me. This is rare because, although I’m attractive at 6’2”, 165, with blond hair and green eyes, I know I don’t need to score with anyone to get the kind of sex I want and I’m not ashamed to set the flirtatious back on their heels with a smirking, frank description of how they’d be used. There is no alarm on Saturday or Sunday morning. He wakes, rises, cleans himself, and waits by the bed for his instructions. He knows that if I should wake before he’s finished—and especially if he’s not in the room—he’ll be beaten. And not in the good way, a spanking across the knee or a paddling with the ping pong paddle, but tied to the crossbeam in the basement and flogged.

Monday through Friday morning, the alarm sounds at 6:00. I rise, unchain him, and dress for my run. He ties my shoes. I’m gone fifteen to twenty minutes, depending on the weather and how far I decide to go. In that time, he cleans himself, pours a glass of grapefruit juice and makes toast from honey wheat bread, generously smeared with peanut butter. The plate and glass are on the small table by the door, with him kneeling in front, by the time I return. When I do, he unties and removes my shoes, then my socks, and I shuck off my running kit. I have breakfast while standing by the door as he cleans my balls with his tongue. Sometimes, I wipe a little peanut butter off the toast and feed it to him by applying it to my sack.

When I’m finished, I turn, grab the sides of the table, bending slightly, and he licks and sucks the sweat from my crack. Once I decide he’s finished, I turn again, resting against the table, as he sucks my dick. He’s well trained now, and knows better than to release it without permission, so it rests idly on his tongue, softening, after I feed him his breakfast of cum. Naturally, I wash it down with my piss. He’s ordered to release, he kisses the head, and we go take a shower. He bathes me and massages the shampoo into my scalp before rinsing and drying me.

I instruct him on what I’ll wear to work, and he goes to lay out the clothes while I shave and brush my hair. I dress and he acts as valet. If the suit has lint, or the shoes aren’t perfectly polished and scuff-free, if the shirt isn’t starched and pressed, if the collar stays are bent, if anything is below specification, he will be punished. We descend to the basement, where he draws his marble for the day. It’s black. It always is. No red marble, no orgasm. There’s only one red marble and seventy-six black ones. Next week, it will be 1:83. He used to tremble as he reached up to draw. His cock would fill the CB3000 with anticipation. I think he still had hope then. Now, it’s just routine. One day, I’ll give him permission to beg me not to have to draw the marble at all. Not today, though.

In the basement, I write his chore list on the whiteboard. If there have been any violations of procedure, I add a punishment hash to the talley. He’s been a slave for over two years now, though, and there haven’t been any violations of morning procedure in a long time. I ascend and go to the office job my father arranged—not because I’m stupid and couldn’t get one on my own, but because even with my degree, I wouldn’t be making this much this young otherwise—where I’ll be for the next nine to ten hours. His chores will occupy no more than four to five hours of the day. In his leisure, he’s free to read, nap, work out in the basement, or groom himself. He may not watch television or use the computer, and the V-chip on the one and the BIOS password on the other enforce this prohibition. There is no phone other than my cell, which I carry with me, so he may not make calls. He may not leave, but he couldn’t really anyway: His bike is locked up unless he’s assigned errands, and we live a respectable distance away from town. He wouldn’t leave if he could. He’s not here, enslaved, because I force him. He’s here because his own psyche compels it.

He can hear my car in the gravel drive when I return from work, assuming he’s awake and in the right part of the house at the time. When I open the front door, he’s to be kneeling in front of the small table again. If he’s not, for whatever reason, he’ll be punished. Sometimes, I make him blow me, right there, through the fly in my trousers. Other times, I just save my afternoon piss for him. At any rate, he kneels there, looking up at me with those beautiful blue eyes, waiting either for the nod that signals him to crawl over and unzip me or my order that he rise. He’s always disappointed if I don’t nod.

After the benediction, whatever form it takes, we inspect his work together to make sure his chores were done properly. He almost never lets me down anymore. I change clothes—well, take off the work clothes anyway; I may not put anything else on. I instruct him on what he’s to make for dinner, and he scampers off while I finish any work from the office, watch television, surf the internet, or whatever else I decide to do. I don’t see him until dinner is ready, at which point he comes and finds me and kneels silently beside me.

When I’m ready, I go to the dining room, and he brings in the meal course by course, waiting silently behind my chair. He keeps it warm in the oven because he can’t predict how quickly I’ll come eat after it’s finished. I react with disappointment to tepid dinner, and a master’s disappointment is a cruel punishment for a slave. And there’s a physical pain to be inflicted, too, of course. After I eat, I return to my work or leisure and he cleans up. He’s then at liberty to feed himself. He has a multi-vitamin, tap water, and as much canned tuna fish as he wants. If dinner was good, he can put sweet pickle relish in the tuna. Later, if I ask him to bring me dessert, he gets to have a yogurt.

Once he’s fed himself and cleaned the kitchen, he finds me and kneels beside me again. He rests his cheek against my thigh contentedly. I’ve never ordered him to do this, and the first time he tried it he cringed, expecting a blow, as I lowered my hand to tousle the mop. I’ve never given him permission to do it, I guess, but I was new to being a master when it happened the first time and it’s just become part of the routine now. And I do rather like it, feeling him against me, purring as I pet his hair.

If I watch television on the sofa, I occasionally let him lie on it with his head in my lap. This gives me easy access not only to stroke his hair, but his upper body as well. The choice is his between lying on his side and watching television with me, or lying on his back and watching me for the moment when I glance down at him, deliberate for a moment, then nod my permission for him to start licking my cock and balls. He hasn’t watched television in a very long time.

He had the mop when I met him, that humid August day so long ago. The medium brown hair hung shaggily over his forehead, spilling down over his brow. An inch longer and it would have concealed his eyes, like the bangs of a sheep dog. The tops of his ears were buried in it, and in the back it swept the rim of his buttoned-down collar. It was naturally straight, but that day the humidity had made it slightly wavy. Like water, it resisted any attempt at a part, whether on either side or down the middle. It never tangled. It was soft, thick, and full. His sideburns ran down the length of his earlobes, closely trimmed, framing his face. His nose was long, almost pointed; his lips red and full, soft, usually glistening from his repeated, feline, subtle licking of them with just the tip of his tongue.

He had a coy way of grinning, mischievously, tilting his head down and away, keeping eye contact by rolling his eyes up and towards the side. When he laughed, his lips parted to reveal perfect teeth, round dimples formed in his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires. His fair complexion blushed beautifully, red flaming up from under the collar, along his neck, over his cheeks. I hadn’t done more than flirt with him the first month. I kept beer in my fridge, he was Irish, and the drinking age was 21. Although he wasn’t effeminate, the frat jocks knew he was gay and the sorority girls lamented it, so the Greek scene didn’t welcome him into their alcoholic social circle. Unlike me, he’d come to the conservative Southern school alone. I’d had friends with me my freshman year, and had proven myself on the soccer field and tennis courts, so my sexuality had faded as an issue among my peers. And then, as an upperclassman, I was too high on the social ladder for any bigoted underclassmen to matter.

So, he’d been isolated. He was foreign, but unlike the exchange students from Africa or Asia, he didn’t have an ethnic support group. He was gay. He was too scrawny for sports, maybe only 115 or 120 then. He was shy. He didn’t have a car, so he couldn’t get away. I was nice to him, not because I wanted him (though I’d have fucked him—and ultimately did), not because I felt sorry for him, but because it’s who I was then. I shared beer not to get him drunk, but because I figured he could deal with it, because it was legal where he was from, because he was a good kid, because otherwise it would have just been one more thing he’d gotten screwed out of by coming here.

I hadn’t been prepared on the night he made his move. We’d been watching television in the lounge. It had been late, two or three in the morning. We’d been drinking, but not enough to get drunk. Just enough to relax. We were the only ones left in the room. I’d turned to find him staring at me, his gaze moving up and down the side of my face. His lips had parted and his face moved towards mine, his eyes on my mouth. I’d pulled back just I felt the heat of him. My motion had stopped him, and his eyes had moved up to mine, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. He had been lonely. So had I, but not as utterly as he. “Please,” he whispered. It’s easy to see now that that one word had been the seed. At the time, I’d dismissed it as simple loneliness, the need for a friend. For more than a friend.

I’d moved my head forward and we’d kissed. He’d trembled. Still reaching for my lips, he rose from the sofa to sit astride my lap. He’d put his fingers in my hair as my hands closed on his bony buttocks. We’d both gotten hard in seconds, and my dick pressed up through my shorts into his ass. He’d grinded into it, rocking forward and back as we made out. I don’t know even now how long we made out, or who might have seen us from the corridor, but I know that’s the night I took him upstairs to my room and fucked him, my hand jerking his uncut little dick.

He’d gasped as I slid the head of my cock inside him. He was no virgin, but it had been a while. His eyes rolled back in his head as I used the slimy hand I’d lubricated his hole and my head with to stroke his leaking erection. He’d held his own legs aloft on my bed as I fucked him gently, leaning over to kiss him, listening to his lilting accent as he moaned breathless, filthy words.

But all that had happened so long ago. Now, turning off the television, with another day of work to look forward to tomorrow, there’s no time, no patience, no need, no care, to be gentle. To show love. I want to get off. He can’t. He heels without needing a word from me as I move to the bedroom. He waits patiently as I brush my teeth and wash my face. I tell him how I want to fuck him. He bends over the mattress, supporting his upper body with his arms as he turns his head to watch. I pull his ass open with my hands and make a show of contempt as I hork a wad of spit dead-on, bull’s eye, right onto his hole. I repeat, taking aim at the head of my dick. I move forward, lining myself up, and then thrust hard, sinking balls-deep in the first push. He cries out, face red, dropping his head. I take his hip in one hand and begin slapping his ass with the other as I plow him. I know he’s hard in his CB3000. I know he can’t cum, even as I pound his prostate, even as his hole burns, even as I churn his guts.

I reach down and cup his balls in my hand. I make a loose fist and pull them down, stretching them in their sack. He groans, rooting his face around in the mattress, trying to suck up my scent from the bedclothes, as he works his ass—inside, milking my shaft; outside, thrusting back to meet me as I piston. Eventually, I release his balls and lean over him. I order him to stretch his own fucking worthless nuts. I tell him that if they’re not purple and swollen when I pull out of him, I’ll whip them with my belt. He knows from experience that it’s not an idle threat. I know from experience that he’s teetering on the edge of indecision: does he want the whipping? I know that some nights he does, and he gets it, and his shrieks echo off the walls as I thrash his nuts and he writhes, hands and feet bound to the bed. Tonight isn’t one of those nights, though—can he sense I’m too tired to whip them well? what a good boy—and I feel his ass tighten and his body shake as he tortures them himself. I can’t help but smile as I reach up, hands now free, and grasp his nipples between the nails of my thumbs and forefingers.

He sobs into the sheets, his wails and whimpers muffled as I plumb his ass over and over. I sweat. He sweats. In and out the inches of my cock piston. His ass will be sore. So will his nuts and nipples. But he’s a slave. He begged for it. I suck a flap of flesh into my mouth from where his neck and shoulder meet. I bite it, hard, but not enough to draw blood. His ass works its evil magic, and I feel my cum boiling in my balls too soon. I release his tender nubs, stand erect, grab his hips, and slam into him over and over, almost ripping my dick out of him on each withdrawal. My face twists, eyes clenching, and I just can’t hold back any more. I pull his ass back to my crotch hard, burying myself inside him, and I feel my spunk erupt down my cum tube and empty into his ass. My abs buckle as I involuntarily twitch, sliding my sensitive head in shallow strokes inside him. “Fuck, fuck fuck,” I chant under my breath. He milks me, the fucking whore, his ass muscles ripple from the root of my dick all the way up its length, and I hiss for breath.

Drained, I collapse onto the bed beside him. “Show me,” I order wearily. He releases his balls and rises up from the mattress, his burgundy face streaked with tears and snot. Again, I can’t help but smile seeing his abused orbs. I barely drag my legs up onto the bed as I order him to clean me and go to bed. He’ll set the alarm and chain his ankle to the bed on his own. I drift off to sleep feeling that soft, wet, pink tongue dance across my cock head, licking up whatever it finds.