I apologize for this
chapter’s delay. I inadvertently
neglected to post it timely and it has waited impatiently, forgotten
came across it in preparing the next installment (which will
commemorate a special
event and is imminently forthcoming). I
encourage readers to revisit chapters one and two to reacquaint
us. Let me know what you think at boymaster1980 at yahoo dot com.
All rights reserved.
He’s allowed to wear clothes at home and we pretend our relationship is “normal” four days each year. Three of these are holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas, which we spend with my family, and Fourth of July, when I entertain friends. Behind the woods enclosing my back yard is a lake, owned communally by the owners of the properties littoral to it. One such owner is the local school system, which every year sponsors a fireworks display over the lake for the public to observe from the high school athletic field. I invite friends for a barbeque, which culminates as dusk falls in a short walk to the lake to watch the display.
A handful of friends know exactly what Seay and I are because their interests are similar to mine. Few things arouse my pride more than flaunting my slave in front of friends who would like to be masters and who envy me. He learned quickly that the pleasure I derive from using and humiliating him in front of these friends more than compensated for his displeasure at the use and humiliation, which conflicted with his natural shyness. He slowly grew comfortable with the idea once he realized the benefits my pleasure afforded him, and once he realized that I’m too stingy to actually share my toys with others.
Not all the friends I invite for the Fourth are quite as open-minded, however, so some modesty is in order—not because I’m ashamed but because I am genteel. While not mentioned outright, his submission is obvious: he cooks, serves, and cleans while I socialize and supervise. His station is the elephant in the room, and those present who are uncomfortable acknowledging that he is, in fact, property are given every opportunity to persuade themselves that what obviously is happening is not happening—that the elephant isn’t there. Anyone unable to reconcile fact with pretense declines my invitation the following year.
It’s actually rather hellish for him. Calling me Sir 361 days a year makes it reflexive and he has to concentrate to remember to use my name when around my family and friends. If he slips, he not only humiliates himself, he shatters the opportunity for self-delusion I allow my . . . less open-minded . . . friends. It’s even worse around my family, where our true relationship is more closely guarded. But even here, if he slips, he understands that the punishment will be severe, although certainly not immediate. He therefore has to be self-conscious of every word he says, which only compounds his natural shyness to make him seem more socially awkward.
This year, the sunlight filtering through the Venetian blinds and curtains in my bedroom woke me. Eyes closed, I stretched, groping over the side of the bed. It was Sunday morning, so he had slept with me the night before, as opposed to sleeping on the floor chained to the bed as on weeknights, but his orders require him to awake before me, clean himself, and return to kneel beside the bed until I awake. Feeling the mop when I stretched my fingers pleased me on a subconscious level but was by now far too routine to register consciously. I gently pulled him up into bed with me, pushing his head down into my crotch in a sixty-nine position, his knees straddling my neck as he wrapped his mouth around my half-hard cock.
If I’d bothered to open my eyes, I’d have seen his own cock quickly swell to fill his CB3000, precum oozing freely. 100 days. Yesterday had been his 100th day without an orgasm. Today would be the day I’d add seven more black marbles to the bucket hanging in the basement. I add seven black marbles every Sunday, just before he reaches in, stirs them around, and tries to draw out the single red marble that means he can cum. After today, when I add the seven he’s due, the odds will be 1:111 against him.
I grabbed his ass and pulled his crotch down towards me. He moved his knees accordingly, until the CB3000 barely grazed my smooth chest. Reluctantly in the morning light, I opened my eyes and looked at the source of so much of my pleasure: his hairless cunt. Pulling his left cheek aside with one hand, I began toying with his hole with the middle finger of my right. Not penetrating, mind you, just toying—swirling the finger around the lips still puffy from the vigorous fuck I’d given him the night before, the lips still barely moist from washing after the enema he’d given himself while I still slept. He moaned uselessly around my cock, sinking all the way down on it and sucking frantically. He’d learned ages ago better than to try to back onto my fingertip when I teased him this way. He hadn’t walked properly for two days after I’d tied his ankles to the legs of the workout bench in the basement and made him hold his own ass open for me as I’d whipped his crack with a riding crop while sitting on his back to hold his chest in place. He was begging me to stop after the first stroke, begging in that adorable Irish accent between screams. So, after a half-dozen, I gave in. And fucked him. Dry. No backing onto anything I teased his hole with anymore.
“Stop,” I ordered. He immediately stopped sucking and bobbing, frozen, holding the head and half the shaft in his mouth. I began pushing my fingertip inside him, eliciting a moan of pleasure. I kept pushing until my finger was buried inside him, probing leisurely for his gland. The instant I made contact, his whole body quivered over me. He began whimpering plaintively as I stroked his prostate, torn with desperation to ride back onto my finger. It didn’t take long. Not after a week since the last milking. Glistening strands of clear precum streamed down onto my chest. “Release,” I ordered, and he pulled his head of my cock completely, kissing the head briefly before releasing it to slap down to my abs. “Do my nuts now.” He obeyed, licking the sack feverishly. He could smell my musk pretty intensely in this position, his nose between my thighs, under my sack, as he licked and sucked my balls. It was enough.
Without any sign of pleasure from him—in fact, he was oblivious to it—the clear precum became first cloudy, then thick and white, as the cum boiled over in his balls. Only his ass and dick throbbed slightly as the sperm dribbled out of his cock. He, like I, was capable of shooting cum onto and past his own face when he masturbated to orgasm. This was a milking, though, not an orgasm. Just a pleasureless extraction of semen to keep his internal plumbing healthy. What little he’d have felt from it was more than overshadowed by his enraptured ball worship, lost in the taste and smell of me. He first realized I had finished when he felt my finger pull free from his ass. He knew what would come next, but he obediently continued licking until I countermanded the last order he’d received.
“Come clean this crap off my chest.” Instantly, he rose and turned, looking down with a hint of sorrow in his eyes to see the pool of cum nestled between my pecs. He lowered himself, wrapping his arms around me as he barely propped himself on his knees and elbows, and sucked down his juices, licking with respectful hesitation. When I was clean, I put my fingers in the mop and turned his head, allowing him to rest on me and enjoying how the warmth of his body shielded me from the ceiling fan in the overly air-conditioned room.
“Thank you, Sir,” he murmured as I stroked his back and tousled the mop. I closed my eyes again. I toyed with the idea of making him get me off, but dismissed it because I had other plans. I asked him the time; I’d slept late—I usually do on the weekends—and it was after 10. I groaned and stretched under him, and he turned his face to kiss my chest as he felt the lean muscle flexing under him.
“Go get to work downstairs, and if I’m not down by 11, come wake me up again.” The deck furniture needed to be taken out of the storage shed and washed, and we’d set up the volleyball net together, but his primary task was food prep. He kissed my sternum before acknowledging the order and rising from bed.
I did doze off. I felt a hand on my hair, brushing gently. “Sir? You told me to wake you,” he whispered softly. His face was next to mine on the pillow; he’d climbed beside me on the mattress, still naked. I rolled onto my side, facing him, and ran my hand down his hairless body. I opened my eyes and looked at him. His lower lip was sucked between his teeth, his eyes hopeful. He wanted me to use him. He looked down the sheet that separated us, his eyes stopping at the bulge made by my half-hard cock, which hadn’t been satisfied since the night before. I lifted my head and looked past his to the clock. 11:03. My friends would begin to arrive at .
“What have you finished?” I asked.
“I’ve done the furniture and started on the kebobs and burgers, Sir.” I watched his face, his eyes still fixed on my shrouded dick. I flexed it for him and smiled as he subconsciously licked his lips.
“In the shower. Let’s go.”
“Yes, Sir!” He leapt from my side and collected my keys from the dresser. He brought them to me as I rolled up and sat on the bed. Quickly, before his cock swelled to fill it, I unlocked and removed the chastity device. Part of the Sunday routine was a proper shower for him, to allow him to shave the hairs that the CB3000 denied him access to during the week and to allow him to slide back his foreskin and wash under it. He did both under my supervision to make sure he didn’t lose control of himself and get carried away with his brief genital freedom.
He washed me before himself. The feeling of the warm water, the soft washcloth in his hands, the sight of his beautifully ivory skin glistening in the shower, made me want him. I was still covered in soap when I pulled him from his knees as he knelt to wash my calves, threw him against the tile, and slid home inside his ass. I caught him by surprise; he’d only hoped to suck me off. He yelped as I entered quickly, in a single stroke, but immediately began to respond by rocking back into me.
“Don’t you fucking cum!” I warned him. He hadn’t been fucked with his cock free in more than three months. The anal stimulation, plus the friction of his wet dick on the smooth tile, the tile he himself kept spotless with regular scouring, would make it difficult to obey. He flattened both hands on the wall beside his head to counter the temptation to reach down for it. I slipped one arm around his neck, crooking it in my elbow and pulling his head back, and the other hand pressed his hip into the cold tile. I kissed and bit my way up his neck to his earlobe, feeling him writhing in frustration under me as I covered his sensitive spots, pushing him closer and closer to the forbidden edge, never breaking my rhythm as I fucked him. I wanted him to beg. And he did.
“Please! Please, oh God, Sir, I’m going to cum. Please don’t make me cum, Sir, oh God please!”
“You cum and you’ll be grilling your nuts and eating them for dinner tonight,” I growled.
“Oh fuck! Please, oh fuck, please help not to cum, Sir! Oh God, I’m so close, please help me, Sir!”
I pitied him. I moved my hand from his hip, around his thigh, and grabbed his balls. He loved ball pain, so I had to be brutal in order to hurt him rather than contribute to his dilemma. Surely, it would have been far crueler to continue to prohibit his orgasm and administer only enough pain that it pushed him over into disobedience. So, I pulled and squeezed hard. So hard he almost hit his head on the tile wall, despite my arm around his neck, as he reflexively tried to double over. His breath caught in his throat as he almost strangled himself in my elbow for a brief second. His ass clamped on my shaft like a vise, but I still had the leverage to plow in and out of it. When he finally overcame his reflex to curl up, his head moving back away from my arm so he could gasp for breath, he shrieked. His ribs vibrated against my chest, he shrieked so beautifully. It echoed in the shower as he refilled his lungs.
I released him and placed both my hands on his shoulders, pressing him into the tile to keep him from sinking to his knees, still ramming my cock through his churning guts. He coughed in that deep, nauseous way, as I held him to the tile and had my way with him. He didn’t want to cum anymore. He didn’t rock back against me, he didn’t slide his cock through the moisture on the tiles, he hung there, limp, murmuring “Thank you, Sir,” each time my trimmed pubes pressed into his cheeks. The water was nearly cold when I came, spewing my semen deep inside him. I didn’t give a fuck. The cold water would be good for him. I backed away, rinsing the soap off my body and cum off my dick in the last of the warm water. I moved to the back of the shower to watch him as he peeled himself off the wall and inched into the icy flow.
We were in the kitchen when we heard the first car pull into the drive. He was quartering and cleaning the last bell pepper and I was pulling beers from the fridge into a cooler to leave on the deck. Once he started grilling, I didn’t want him to have to leave the food to run inside for beer. He turned to me at the same time I turned to him. I nodded, and that’s all he needed. We were now in public mode.
The remainder of the day passed unremarkably, with two exceptions. The first was a ten minute interlude we spent together after the charcoal had been lit in the grill, as he returned to the kitchen to collect the kebobs and burgers from the refrigerator. I’d followed him stealthily inside, closing only the screen of the sliding glass door behind me. The flimsy metal mesh was all that separated us from the congregation of my invited colleagues, friends, and former college classmates—mine and his—as I surprised him by forcing his chest down on the countertop. I rapidly tugged his khaki shorts down by their hem and buggered him ruthlessly with a raw zucchini. We both knew the risk, that at any moment any one of the guests might depart the volleyball game or idle conversation outside and come to the door. To use the bathroom. To find me or Seay. To escape the heat of the sun.
It gave me a raging hard on, feeling him writhing beneath the hand I used to hold him in place as I plowed his rectum with the vegetable. I badly wanted to fuck him, but craved the delicious anticipation of doing so later, once we were alone, after hours of containing my lust. His beautiful, stifled whimpers; the red that erupted over his face; the drool that I knew streamed freely from his swollen, unused dick, bound within its plastic cage; the tears of embarrassment, fear of discovery, pain, and frustrated orgasm; they all conspired against me, tempting me to take him, but I stood fast in my conviction—though I’d punish him the following day for his attempted seduction.
When, at last, I ripped the zucchini from his abused hole, I left wordlessly through the screen door, leaving him to compose himself alone. I couldn’t help, though, but to chuckle to myself as I watched him walking gingerly back onto the deck several minutes later, arms laden with food for the grill.
The second exception came hours later, after dusk, as our whole party had moved to the lake. I and my guests sat in canvass chairs, and Seay sat in my lap. As my friends looked aloft to see the multi-colored explosions bloom in the starry sky, he turned around and faced me, straddling my thighs. He moved his face to mine and, as we had so often before—before we knew what we truly were—we kissed openly in the cool night air. He lowered his head to my shoulder, face against my neck and arms wrapped loosely around me. “I love you, Dennis,” he lilted. I petted the mop.
“I know, Seay. I love you, too.”