Date: Thu, 27 Oct 2011 19:56:46 -0600 From: "the boy, rook" Subject: Submitted: An Erotic Novella - Chapter 1 Prologue Thus begins our tale. Over the next several chapters we'll set the stage for a journey of self-discovery, of learning what it means to submit, and occasionally, raw unadulerated sex. It's a journey of becoming a boy who longs and loves to serve his Master. We may start slow, but chapters are coming, and there's a great stuff to come. As always, feedback, comments and new friends are welcome at rook@theboyrook.com. Chapter 1: A Necessary Introduction of the Players When we first met, we were colleagues in a technology services firm. That's fancy speak for consulting, which itself is fancy speak for con artists. But the fact was we did good work, and were both damn good at our jobs. I was in charge of the technologists - the programmers, the architects, the nerds. I was a master at getting computers to do whatever our customers wanted them to do, and I commanded a team of others who were almost as good. His reputation preceded him as one of the top sales guys in our little niche of the industry; and when he came to work for our company, everyone was dazzled by dreams of riches that would surely follow. I hated him. Of course, I don't really like any sales people. I'm quiet, calm, thoughtful; boisterous egomaniacs who pretend to be friends with everyone annoy the hell out of me. When they open their mouths all I hear is the prattling of a frat boy who never grew up. They're insufferable before they make their big sale, and when they do, I'm left to meet the impossible demands of a client stupid enough to believe the salesman's lies in the first place. It was good work. Like I said, I was damn good at what I did. So was he, and once he'd learned the ropes of the company (he caught on pretty quick), the bosses upstairs set upon a new target. A big client, a big project, and one that required all the finesse of a master salesman with the experience of someone who could explain how it all worked. We were made a team. And despite my natural aversion to sales people, I was glad for it. I enjoyed working with big ideas and smart people, and I wasn't immune to the thrill of the chase when it came to winning new business. Long meetings and late nights were soon to follow. Strategy sessions, research, client meetings, mock-up designs, proof of concepts, prototypes ... so much work goes into this kind of pitch that we might as well just build the thing and ask for a donation later. But throughout the process, we actually had a lot of fun. He was likable for a reason, and actually did have a good sense of humor. It didn't hurt that he was easily on the eyes, too. He was cocky, sure, but that was because he really was having fun and was good at his job. I was guilty of the same thing, so between shouting questions across the office at each other (and annoying my fellow introverts), we grew to respect each other, and enjoyed working together. We won that business, and so we continued as a team. He did his sales thing, scouting out new business, making calls, schmoozing, all that nonsense. But when it came time to talk turkey, I was his sales engineer of choice, and by then, we were sure to win the hearts and wallets of the customers. Christmas and the new year came and went, and we were headed into President's Day Weekend. I was meeting friends at a museum bar that night, then intended to go home to my little New York apartment, open a bottle of wine, and slip into a happy Star Trek coma while clicking through porn. Clearly, I'm easily entertained and generally solitary. Come 7pm, I'd finally wrapped my work for the week and was ready for a conference in the Windy City next week. I packed up, locked up, and aimed for the elevator. "What the hell is a sales monkey doing here after 4 on a Friday?" I was surprised to see Ethan was still at his desk. "Would you prefer I take a half day like you're doing?" "Prefer it? No. But at least that would be normal for you. Big plans for the three-day weekend?" "Oh the usual ... tutoring disadvantaged children, cooking at a soup kitchen, visiting the elderly, doing my spring cleaning." "It's not spring." "Oh, well then probably just getting drunk at a sports bar and trying to pick up straight guys." "Good luck with that." "See you in Chicago." We sorta knew each other was gay, but neither of us talked about it much. I have my regular life and friends, and my work life and friends, and rarely will the two meet. It's just ... cleaner that way. But I don't bring dates to the office and I don't bring the office on my dates. The last time I blurred the lines too much, my then-boyfriend chucked my Blackberry out his 12th-story window. I got the point. * * * Saturday was spent like most others. I puttered about the apartment, worked on a couple of side projects, went to the gym, watched television. That night was a second night of booze and society -- a rare double feature for an introvert like me. We hit up some trendy gay bar which, while filled with eye candy and the groping hands of flirty friends, wasn't my kind of place. But then, I didn't go to my kind of place. I'd never been to my kind of place. My kind of place existed, from what I read online, was found on the fringes of the city. There was the Eagle on the far side. The men I pictured there scared the bejeezus out of me; big strong leathermen who would take what they wanted and leave me bruised & broken. Sure, I wouldn't mind being bruised and broken, but I'm not just in it for the sex. I never have been. I like to get off as much as the next guy, but my loins were stirred by other kinky notions. I longed to be tied up, gagged, blindfolded, hooded, then poked, prodded, and used as a plaything. I was turned on by kink, by the illusion of danger, by losing control. I wanted to serve. Even before I was the boss at work, I was one of the best at work. By the time the weekend came around, I grew tired of leading. I cooked dinner and imagined serving it to someone. I cleaned and imagined doing it while collared. What I wanted, was someone who would take control away, someone to whom I could resign my own will and power. But I'm also a coward. There were kinky groups and events like NY Bondage Club or MaST or TES, but I'd be damned if I'd go alone. But how was I to meet anyone if I didn't? So when the urge to serve struck most strongly, I dug into the porn, read the stories on Nifty, and perused local profiles on Recon. I let my imagination run wild, and that was that. I woke up with a hangover on Sunday. I skipped the gym. I got steadily more horny as the day wore on. I watched television, I exhausted all the porn-o-blogs I followed. I started downloading a video and clicked over to Recon. No messages waited for my scant profile and unflattering photo. I searched, I looked, I "Cruised." I imagined all the possibilities. I got hard, I played with myself a bit. And then I stopped cold and my dick deflated. "What the hell? Oh shit." Staring back at me was a shirtless Ethan with a leather arm band. For a split second I considered how hot he really was, with a nice chest dusted with hair, well-built arms, hard little nipples and strikingly good in leather. Simultaneously, I realized my privacy settings would betray me. With Recon's listing of who's viewed your profile, he could very well click through and learn what no one else knew about me. It would be disastrous. The only logical thing to do would be to delete my profile, or at least remove my photo. But at the same time, I realized I'd just seen my "100% active" colleague in gear with a remarkably scandalous list of activities, more-so than mine by far. Was there really anything to be afraid of? And for the first time, I embraced that fear. (But my cock stayed soft for the rest of the weekend.)