Date: Tue, 17 Jul 2007 22:37:57 -0400
From: Christian Gartrip <christianxgartrip@gmail.com>
Subject: The Gentleman, Ben - Part 4

The Unlikely Conclusion of The Gentleman, Ben

By: Christian X. Gartrip

(christianxgartrip@gmail.com)


So there I stood... but why?  That was the question that ran haphazardly
through my head for the next few minutes.  Trying to describe all that I
was thinking in those moments would be difficult, so I'll be brief.  I
guess it had something to do with the emptiness and lack of purpose my
"real life" had for me.  As I said earlier, I'm about 40 years old, still a
bit of a kid at heart, and I've never really been comfortable with the
whole "grown-up" lifestyle of relationships, mortgages, career, and the
daily grind of adult responsibility.  Yes, I do work with college students,
but it's more of a job than a "calling," and although I've been in this
line of work for about 15 years, I'm still trying to answer the question
"what do I want to be when I grow up."  I've never really enjoyed going to
work every day; I've never fallen in love with anyone... or even lived with
a lover; I don't own a house or a complicated stock portfolio.  Basically,
I've never really been passionate about anything except sex, and lately,
even that had left me feeling a bit bored.

Maybe that was why I'd been so attracted to Ben (part gentleman, part
sadist).  I wanted to experience something "new," and Ben, being a black
man, had fit the bill.  Of course, as you now know, Ben had been more than
I had bargained for.  He had ripped me from my boring and restless life,
used me, and then "sold me" to his buddies.  They were gone now, and the
motel's manager (who seemed nice enough) would surely have helped me to
find my way back home, but I had begged him to let me stay.  In a few short
hours, three men had teamed together to break me, leaving me to question
everything.  I had gone from being a happy-go-lucky top to a willingly
abused masochist.  Was this what I'd needed in my life all along?
Discipline?  Servitude?  Maybe.  So I stayed, hoping that this fourth man,
a 60 year old Army vet turned seedy motel manager, would help me find
something that I desperately craved: A Purpose.

Finally, someone had come into the room.  I heard the door close and then
lock, and a noise indicating that the drapes had been pulled shut again.
It was the motel manager.  He placed an old metal bucket and a black
overnight bag on the foot of the bed about two feet from my face.  He
quietly opened the bag and began emptying it, one item at a time. Ropes,
several old leather belts of different widths, a large jar of Crisco, a
carved wooden paddle, jock straps, underwear, duct tape (!), and an
assortment of other household items all started to pile up around me.  I
noticed him catching an occasional glance to judge my reactions to his
supplies. He picked up the bucket and walked behind me and placed it on the
floor.

"I need to clean you up.  If I'm going to have a boy for the night, he
needs to be clean.  You smell like someone else's piss-whore.  Now you're
my piss-whore."

He placed a coat hanger on the light fixture above the bed and then filled
an enema bag with warm water from the sink.  He hooked the bag on the
hanger and then connected a long plastic tube to the bottom of the bag and
inserted the other end of the tube inside my ass.  A few seconds later, my
bowels started to fill with a warm rush of fresh water.  He emptied the
entire bag and removed the hanger when he finished.

"Hold it in until I decide you're clean enough for me."  I tightened my ass
as if my life somehow hinged on my success (maybe it did, actually) and
waited for him to let me release it.

He walked to the foot of the bed to inspect the various belts he'd brought
with him.  He chose a thick black leather strip with a silver buckle that
looked as if it had been polished by hand every week for years.  Maybe from
his days in the Army, I thought.

After he'd selected his belt of choice, he stood in front of the mirror and
stripped off his shirt, his pants, and his boots.  His chest was very well
defined for a man old enough to be my father, and his butt was large and
shapely to match his heavy thighs.  He wore only a white jock strap now,
which shined brightly against his dark black flesh. His whole body
glistened with a fresh layer of sweat.

He stood behind me and inspected my hole for leaks and then patted my
bottom as if to tell me how pleased he was.  He then stepped back and
lifted his arm into the air, swinging the black strap down across the
center of my ass, "CRRRACK!" "CRRRACK!" CRRRACK!" CRRRACK!" CRRRACK!"  The
stinging was almost unbearable.  My flesh burned, and my legs began to
buckle when he unleashed the thick strap on my thighs and calves:
"CRRACKCRRACKCRRACKCRRACK!"

He had taught me, and in no uncertain terms, that I belonged to him now,
and that he would do to me whatever he pleased, as often as he pleased, and
without question.  My gut of water felt like it would explode, and I feared
that if it did, he might do something worse.  He then adjusted the bucket
on the floor between my legs.

"Squat there and empty your bowels."

In the middle of the hotel room, I squatted onto the makeshift toilet and
relaxed my sphincter.  The warm liquid shot out of my ass and filled the
bucket.  The act of releasing the contents of my bowels into a bucket in
the middle of a cheap motel room was so humiliating.  I felt like a child
being forced into his first act of potty training.

"Now drink my piss for me."  He lowered his jock and removed his dark cock,
shoved it in my mouth, and released another load of his piss.  "Swallow
it."  I swallowed every drop.

"Stand on your knees and hold the handle of the toilet in your mouth.  Pick
it up and follow me."  On my knees, I crawled gently across the floor and
met him at the door of the small closet next to the sink.  He opened the
door and instructed me to place my bucket inside.

"The bathroom behind me is mine.  This one is yours.  When I decide that I
want you to relieve yourself, this is where you will come.  You will not
enter my bathroom unless I tell you to, and you will never use it.  I will
not share a toilet with a whore.  It isn't right."

"Now, sit on the counter.  I want to see your what's between your legs."  I
stood up and lifted myself onto the aged laminate countertop and spread my
legs so that he could see my cock.  He studied it without really touching
it, and then retrieved his shaving kit from his bag.  He covered my crotch
with cream and stripped me of every hair that I had.  He did it with great
care, but without ceremony.  He simply removed it, as if it were somehow
wrong for me to have ever had it at all.  He lifted my legs and placed them
over his shoulders to repeat the procedure on my asshole.  As he worked, I
stared at my "naked" groin and was reminded of a time, many years ago, when
I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror, pants around my knees,
wondering why my pubic hairs wouldn't grow like those of my shower mates in
gym class.  I was embarrassed then, and I was humiliated now, but I let him
do it anyway.  I just had no idea why.

"Never been a fan of hair on a whore.  You never know what it might be
hiding."

To finish me off, he soaked a hand towel with the contents of a large
bottle of rubbing alcohol.  He quietly wiped the cloth over every inch of
my body.  When he wiped down my pubic area, the alcohol stung my skin like
a swarm of bees, but I was very good and remained still, biting my lip.  He
needed me to be clean for him.  I did feel ashamed for how filthy I was
when he met me, but somehow it seemed wrong that he should have to be the
one to remove the filth.

"Go sit on the bed and wait for me."

I sat on the bed and waited as he tidied the sink area.  When he walked
over and stood in front of me, he slid his jock strap from his waist and
pushed it to the floor.  He was naked, and for the first time I had the
opportunity to see him completely.

He is a dark-skinned black man nearing 60 years of age.  He stands 6 feet
tall and has broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a barrel-like chest with a
pair of naturally masculine pecs that are tipped with large chocolate
nipples.  A thin patch of curly grey hair sits nicely in the center of his
chest.  Below is the stomach of an aging athlete.  It's no longer "cut" or
sculpted, but its bear-like fullness is as stimulating to me as any 6-pak
on the block.  His thighs are thick and his calves are full and shapely.  A
curvaceous and muscled butt balances his hyper-masculine girth.  His face
is a mix of simple gentleness and quiet determination.  He is a naturally
handsome man, with a chiseled jaw line, black eyes, and a straight nose,
but his face rarely reveals emotion.  He doesn't yell at me or scream at
me, in fact, he really doesn't speak much to me at all.  I am not in love
with him, not yet anyway, but I am in love with his cock.  As cocks go,
it's not that unusual.  It is naturally long, about 7 inches in its flaccid
state, and only grows to about 8 inches when it is erect.  His cock is very
dark in color, darker than the flesh on his chest or face.  Its shaft is
thick and veiny and commands tremendous respect just from its appearance.
Behind it hangs a fleshy sac and two perfectly formed spheres that only
further enhance his virility.  Above it sprouts a thick bush of frizzy grey
hair that surrounds his entire package, like a halo.

"Lay back on my bed, so I can sit on your face."  I stretched out for him
and he stepped up and lowered his beautiful black ass onto my mouth.
"Clean up my ass, but don't put your tongue inside my shitter.  You will
never be allowed to do that."  I licked every inch of his crack, slowly and
efficiently, until I had removed a day's build-up of sweat and grime.  I
wanted to clean him with the same care that he had used to clean me.  I
hoped that he knew that I would always be willing to wipe his ass with my
tongue.  I would never refuse him.  I knew that this pleased him because
his cock was erect now, and its tip had spit pre-cum onto my forehead.

"Roll over and spread your legs."  He opened the can of lard that he had
brought with him and scooped up a large cold glob of it and smeared it onto
my asshole.  He used his fingers to push it inside of me, and then spread
the remainder across my cheeks.  He placed the head of his cock on my hole
and slowly pushed its entire length inside without pausing to let me
adjust.  His hips locked down firmly against my greasy backside.  He
pressed his chest against my back and wrapped his arms around my torso and
squeezed our bodies together into one single unit, trapping my shackled
wrists against his stomach.  Now, the only movement between us came from
his hips fucking his large cock into my ass, ...slowly, ...deeply,
...forcefully, ...mercilessly.  The assault shook the entire bed and caused
the large wooden headboard to crash loudly against the wall, again and
again.  It made me wonder if there might be someone on the other side of
that wall listening to him pounding his cock into the ass of a worthless
whore.  He, however, seemed unconcerned.

His whole body froze when he slammed into me one last time.  His hips and
thighs shook violently as he shot his load into my gut.  He forced us flat
onto the bed and continued grinding his cock into my hole until he had
emptied everything that he had to give me.  He breathed in deeply and then
removed his cock from of my butt.

"Hold my cum inside your ass until I let you go to the toilet.  Now open
your mouth and clean off my dick."  I lifted my head from the bed and
accepted his cock.  I sucked away the grease and the cum stains and licked
the sweat that dripped from his sac.

My own cock had been ignored all night, not by one man, but by four.  I was
so desperate to cum that I was rubbing my crotch into the bed hoping for
some release as well.  None came.  He realized what I was trying to do.  He
reached over and slapped my ass hard several times to indicate his
displeasure with me.  My bodily functions, orgasms included, were
apparently not in my control; the sudden spanking established that point
rather quickly.

"Don't ever try that again, because you will regret it.  You don't cum
unless I choose for you to cum."

"Yes, Sir."

"It's after midnight, and I need to go to bed.  I'm going to remove your
cuffs, but I'll secure you... so you don't run away."

"Yes, Sir."

I won't even begin to try to describe how it felt to have those cuffs off
of me.  He let me stretch my arms and shoulders and flex my wrists until I
felt comfortable.  He removed my dog collar and leash and washed the stains
from around my neck with another quick alcohol rub.  I appreciated how
attentive he was, but understood that he was only maintaining what was his.

As punishment for trying to masturbate, I was denied a visit to my toilet
and was told to hold his cum in my ass until the morning.  He placed me
across the bed, spread eagle, and secured each of my wrists and each of my
ankles with soft ropes that were then tied to the base of the bed frame.
He then excused himself and showered, alone, in his bathroom as I drifted
off to sleep, oddly content with where I was and how I had gotten there.

I was awakened the following morning, Sunday, by the bright sun shining
through the room's large undraped picture window.  The torture and
excitement from the previous night had caught up with me, especially my
ass, shoulders, arms, and wrists, which felt as if they'd been run over.
Everything ached.  He had tied me to the bed frame the night before, and I
woke up the same way except for a small navy colored blanket that he had
tossed over me.  As sore as my ass was, it was nothing compared to my
bladder, which was so close to rupturing that it seemed to be in need of
medical attention.  Please, I thought, just let me pee.

The motel manager was seated under the large window, watching me sleep as
he read his morning paper, enjoyed his coffee, and smoked a long thin brown
cigarette.  He was completely naked except for a skintight wife-beater tee
shirt that was clearly three sizes too small.  Directly above him, through
the window, I could see a couple of Mexican construction workers pass by on
their way to breakfast.  One of them looked through the glass, grinned at
me, and kept moving.  I assumed that a sight like this one must be more
common than I realized.  He seemed totally unconcerned.  I, on the other
hand, was horrified, but was powerless to do anything about it.

My captor noticed that I was awake, but seemed to be in no hurry to engage.
He put down his paper and leaned forward on the couch, letting his long
cock dangle freely off the edge.  He reached down and scratched his balls
and then pulled on the long shaft as if he were rearranging it inside a
pair a tight jeans.  He put down his coffee cup and spent a few silent
moments watching me.

"I'm sure you've got to take a piss, so I'm going to let you use your
toilet.  Don't try anything you'll regret later."  (Like what?)  He removed
the blanket and dropped it on the floor, then proceeded to inspect me for
damages.  As soon as he approached me, I knew that I was going to be in
trouble.  I had apparently blown a huge load on the bed while I slept.  To
make things worse, I sensed from the stickiness in the crack of my ass that
I had "allowed" his cum to leak from my hole.  He had warned me not to cum,
and had ordered me to hold his load 'til morning, but I had failed to do
either one.  I hated myself for knowing that I had done something that
would surely disappoint him.  I never wanted to disappoint him!  I felt the
need to beg, to begin apologizing even before he noticed, but I feared
speaking without first being addressed would only make things worse, so I
just remained still and waited for the inevitable.

It didn't take long.  He noticed how badly I had failed as soon as he
inspected my backside.

"I told you last night to hold my cum in your ass, but here it is.  I told
you last night that you could not cum until I said so, but you did it
anyway, and without my permission.  A slave is supposed to obey his Master.
It's clear to me that you don't know how to obey a Master, so now I'm going
to have to show you what happens to a slave who fails.  You've disappointed
me."

He called me his slave and referred to himself as my Master.  Was that what
he thought of me?  Was that what I wanted to be?  The sadness in his voice
was devastating.  I wanted to cry, and I would not have blamed him if he
had thrown me out on the sidewalk at that very moment.  He was right, of
course.  I HAD disappointed him, and I was willing to live through whatever
he felt he needed to do.  I wanted him to forgive me.  I was desperate to
make sure that this man was never upset with me again.

"I pray that God will forgive me for what I have to do, and I pray that you
too will understand."  Truth be told... I actually did.

He untied the ropes from my ankles and retied them around each of my knees.
He climbed onto the bed and lifted me on all fours and then tied the ends
of the ropes to the base of the bed in the same place that the ropes
holding my wrists were tied.  I was now locked into a doggy-style position
with my upper legs perpendicular to the mattress and my ass fully exposed
and hovering about two feet in the air.  As he secured me, I noticed that
his hands were shaking slightly.  His bleached and stained wife-beater was
clinging to his pecs and belly, soaked from fresh sweat.  Was this what my
father meant when he said, "this is going to hurt me more than it hurts
you" just seconds before he would wale on my bare bottom for some childhood
infraction?  And like a child, I started to cry.  Only this time, my tears
were not really for myself, they were for him.  It was, after all, my fault
that he was doing this to me.

He picked a different belt this time from his collection.  It was braided,
narrow in width, and made of thin black leather.  It didn't shine like the
first one from the night before, and it was obviously old, and well worn.
To calm himself, he backed away from the bed and from me and walked quietly
toward the bright open window.  He lit another brown cigarette and inhaled
it deeply, holding it for several seconds before exhaling.  The belt he
held firmly in his hand hung motionless by his side.  He was clearly
unconcerned with his own appearance, still basically naked himself; he
stared blankly out the window at a few more passing motel guests, mostly
working class men, heading off to breakfast, church, or the next available
job, I supposed.  They nodded somewhat uncomfortably at the man they surely
recognized as the motel's manager, but he ignored them.  He waited a few
more moments and then reached for the lock on the sliding glass window.  He
slowly slid the large single pane of glass and opened it.  A morning breeze
rushed in along with the sounds of the parking lot, the stirring guests,
and beyond that, the distant highway.  I felt as if he had just rolled the
bed out onto the sidewalk for all of his tenants to see.  I wanted to turn
away and face the mirror on the opposite wall, but something in my gut told
me to resist this particular temptation.

He finished his cigarette, pushed the butt into a black plastic ashtray,
and then turned to face me.  His expression was without emotion.  He had a
task to perform, an unfortunate one, but a task nonetheless: nothing more,
nothing less.  He released one end of the belt letting the tip of it drop
to the floor.  He held its buckle in his fist, wielding it like a whip in
his right hand.

He approached quickly and extended his arm out wide.  The belt flew out
over the bed and landed hard against my thighs.  "THWACK!"  He paused and
let the length of belt fall around my knees, letting the full impact burn
my flesh.  He then repeated the motion, slowly lifting up his arm and then
swinging his whip swiftly toward the back of my legs.  "THWACK!"  After the
second lashing my body quivered during another pause.  Then, "THWACK!" a
third and even sharper strike against the same target, just below my
cheeks.

"I told you..."

"THWACK!"

"not to disobey me."

"THWACK!"

  "I told you..."

"THWACK!"

"not to disobey me."

"THWACK!"

"I told you..."

"THWACK!"

"not to disobey me."

"THWACK!"

  "I told you..."

"THWACK!"

"not to disobey me."

He finally stopped and tossed the belt onto the floor and walked to the
sink.  I heard him turn on the tap and then splash water on his face and
head.  I could hear him breathing heavily, trying to calm himself.

I would be lying if I said I didn't cry.  The whipping was horrific.  My
thighs weren't just numb; they were on fire.  My chest heaved as I tried to
catch my breath.  Did I really deserve all of this?  I couldn't answer my
own question, because I knew that someone else had established the
standards for discipline.  I was not allowed to debate them.  So I accepted
the whipping as a just punishment and prayed for the strength to do better.
I prayed to be a better slave.

After he had composed himself, he came back and rubbed his hand lightly
over my tender flesh (admiring his work, I thought).

"I've bedded a lot of whores in my day, but I paid for that.  A slave is
different.  A slave obeys his Master and asks for nothing in return.  He
just wants to be owned.  You did not obey me.  You now have to decide: are
you just my whore?  If so, then I've had my fun.  I'll pay you what you're
worth, which isn't much, so you can get the hell out.  Or, are you my
slave?  If you are, you're not a very good one.  I'm willing to train you,
but you have to be willing to make an effort.  I don't need another whore,
but I do need a slave."

"I..."

"No.  You're not allowed to speak.  You have more work to do today.  You
have to prove to me that you are worthy enough to be owned.  You're showing
heavy wood, so I assume you're still in need of that piss.  We both
probably need to visit the can.  I know I do.  Just make sure that you
follow my instructions today.  My patience with you has run thin."

He had chosen to give me another chance, probably the first of several, but
I was oddly grateful to hear that he was willing to keep me for the time
being.  I don't know why I suddenly wanted to be owned by a 60 year old
black man, but I actually felt safe with him, and I wanted to please him
more than I wanted anything else in the world. He removed the ropes that
had held my thighs in place and then untied all of the ropes from the bed.
He left them around my wrists and motioned for me to crawl to my toilet.  I
waited as he opened the door.  Inside was the bucket, turned upside down,
indicating that he had emptied it while I'd been sleeping.  He picked up
the bucket and placed it in the sink and filled it half-full with tap
water.  He then returned it to the closet.

"Sit on your toilet and raise your arms."  I did what he asked and let him
knot the ropes around the clothing rod above me.

"When your wood goes down, you can piss, but not until.  I don't want any
of it on my carpets.  After that, you can move your bowels if you need to."
Oh God.

From my seat in the closet, I could hear a car door slam just outside the
window and the voices of several men passing by the room.  Did they see any
of this?  He didn't seem to care.  He's Army, I thought.  In the barracks,
he probably lived 24/7 with no privacy at all.  Wandering around with your
cock hanging out was something you just got used to.  Thank God for
closets.

He walked away and left me alone on my toilet.  My cock was as hard as a
rock and standing straight up, like my arms.  I had a gallon of piss ready
to spew out like a fountain, but I knew better than to let it.  I closed my
eyes and tried to think of something normal (yeah, I know) with the hope
that it would kill my hard-on long enough to let my cock fall into the
bucket.

From the john I could smell the smoke from a fresh cigarette and could hear
the sounds of him putting on his trousers.  The door opened and then closed
behind him.  When he returned a few minutes later he stood in front of me
with a fresh cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a newspaper under his
arm, the sports section.  He looked down at the hopeless sight in front of
him, but chose not to comment on his slave's inability to even piss
correctly.

He placed the coffee cup on the side of the tub with the newspaper and
returned to the sink, where he removed his pants and laid them on the
counter, folded once.  He walked into his bathroom and sat down on the
toilet and released his piss into the bowl with a heavy sigh.  He was
taunting me now.  He wanted me to see how easy it was for him.

He then relaxed and proceeded to take his morning shit as I sat across from
him in my closet, anxious for the same relief.  He sat quietly, reading the
box scores and flipping through the pages in search of articles that
interested him.  Time passed slowly for us as he enjoyed his morning ritual
without interruption.  When he had emptied his bowels to his satisfaction,
he finished off his coffee, and then tossed the newspaper onto the floor.
He collected a strip of toilet paper from the roll and positioned it in his
hand, then stood up and turned his back to me and lifted his leg onto the
seat.  He bent forward, with his shit-stained ass in full view, and wiped
away the remains.  He repeated this act with exact precision two more
times, and then moistened the folds of paper for a more thorough final
cleaning, then he flushed everything with a quick flip of his hand.

He removed his soiled wife-beater and bathed his black chest, underarms,
and crotch with a warm soapy cloth as he stood in front of the sink.  He
turned toward me and winced slightly at the sight of his slave still trying
to take a piss.

"Raise up."  I stood slightly, and my cock bounced up and down like a
spring, causing me even more discomfort.  He lifted his foot and placed in
on the head of my dick and pushed it down into the bucket.  "Sit.  Now get
on with it."

I relaxed every muscle I had and finally shot a highly pressurized piss
stream that seemed as if it might not end for a while.  I was still not
flaccid, so I had to force it through until finally my cock started to
soften, allowing the rest of it to flow freely.

"Go ahead and take a shit while you're in there."

I hesitated just long enough to upset him.  He leaned forward and said very
slowly, pausing slightly after each word, "I said take your shit.  I won't
say it again." He reached into the closet and tugged at the ropes that held
my arms in place above me.  I knew that this was my last chance, so I
followed his instructions and moved my bowels.  He said nothing more and
just stood over me as I sat there and degraded myself even further on
command.

"Now you can sit there for a while and think about your continued
resistance to basic requests.  I'll come back for you later when I've
decided that you're ready to do what I ask you to do without me having to
repeat myself."  He closed the door to my bathroom and left me there, in
the dark, to sit and think about why I had refused to shit on cue.

Through the closet door, I heard him dress again and then leave the room
with a loud slamming of the door.  I could also hear the sounds of the
parking lot, so I assumed that the window was still open.  Fortunately the
closet was closed, so I was at least safely hidden from the prying eyes of
the "neighbors."

Again, no clock, but I think I sat there for at least an hour.  I did
pretty much the only thing I could do in a situation like that.  I pissed
again and then emptied the remaining contents of my gut.  The room was now
heating up with the onset of the afternoon sun, made worse from the failed
air conditioner I'd noticed the night before.  One can only imagine the
odors that were now beginning to permeate my immediate atmosphere.

The motel manager (I still didn't know his name) returned finally, but he
ignored me initially.  I could hear him moving about the room, cleaning I
supposed, like a good seedy motel manager probably does on a Sunday
afternoon.  When he finally opened the closet, I had had plenty of time to
"think" about things and had come to some startling conclusions (none of
which I shared with him, so I will put them down here).

As I mentioned, I had no real passion in my life and no direction.  Being
with this man, servicing him, failing occasionally, and then enduring his
punishments had awakened me to a completely different way of thinking about
myself.  I liked knowing that someone else, someone in charge, could script
my every move.  I had avoided the trappings of adult life for decades.
Here was this man who seemed interested in letting me do just that.  He
WANTED to be in charge.  He WANTED me to surrender, like a child, to his
authority.  He WANTED to define for me what my purpose in life was to be,
and I WANTED to let him.  I knew, of course, that being a slave to anyone
wouldn't be easy, but I also knew that there would be comfort in having
someone else take on the responsibility of defining me.  I hadn't really
worked out the details or anything, but if he wanted to control my life, on
his own terms, I would be willing to let him.  I could be a boy again; I
could be his slave.

He was fully dressed now, in his "manager's uniform," but he was still
every bit in charge.  In his hand he held a pair of dingy white briefs.
They were clearly not new.  The elastic band looked as if is had seen
better days, and a few loose threads hung from the openings around the leg.
The fabric had a few small holes in them from wear.  They had probably been
left behind by a former guest and had been sitting in a lost and found box
for years in the motel office.  He tossed them on the floor in front of
him, unzipped his trousers, and then pulled out his long black cock.  He
aimed it at the white fabric and shot a load of piss onto them, doing his
best to avoid the old carpeting.

"Stand up."

I did, quickly, but my knees were a little stiff from sitting, and my hands
were still tied to the rod above me.  He picked up the wet briefs and
opened them in front of me.

"Step into these.  You have some work to do."

As best I could, I stepped into the wet worn-out underpants, which were a
little baggy and probably looked ridiculous, considering my position.  He
untied my wrists and left the ropes hanging from the closet rod.

"Get down on your knees."

He placed a new black leather collar around my neck and fastened it in the
back.  It wasn't very tight, and I appreciated the fact that he was taking
the time to dress me.  He then reached into the closet and pulled out my
bucket and sat it in front of me, then closed the door to the closet.

"Take this outside to the wooded area on the other side of the parking lot.
Step into the woods a few feet and empty the bucket under a bush.  Around
the corner, next to the maid's closet, is a faucet with a hose attached.
Use that to rinse out your shit can.  Don't return until it's clean.  I
will inspect it, don't worry."

Oh God. It was one thing to degrade myself in the room, even with others
looking in occasionally, but it was quite another thing to be asked to step
out into the real world dressed in a pair of piss-drenched briefs and a dog
collar, lugging a bucket of my own excrement.  Fortunately, my body wasn't
hesitating the way my mind was, and before I knew it, I was standing in the
doorway waiting for him to open it for me.

As self-conscious as I was, I tried to normalize the situation as best I
could by acting as if this was something everyone did every day.  I looked
straight ahead, crossed the lot with my bucket, and dumped the foul
contents into the woods.  I then turned and made my way to the maid's
closet door as quickly as possible.  I rinsed the bucket, inside and out,
sniffed it to ensure cleanliness, and then shook the water from it as best
I could.  The whole thing took no more than 4 minutes, tops, but I hated
being out there like that.  I felt so vulnerable, and was relieved to cross
again through the threshold of room 12.

He took the bucket from me and sat it on the carpet under the sink..

"Your ass needs to be cleaned, I suspect.  Come here.  Crawl."

I crawled across the carpet and stopped at his feet near the sink.  He put
his fingers under my collar and pushed my head to the floor so that my face
was directed toward the front of the room.  He soaked a rag with warm soapy
water and then squatted on one knee behind me.  He pulled down the back of
my briefs so that the elastic waistband rested tightly around my thighs,
making me all the more aware of how this looked.

He sighed and then proceeded to wipe away the filth from the crack of my
ass.  He was thorough and a little rough, but he seemed to care a great
deal about his responsibility, and so I relaxed a little and let him do his
job.

"It's time for you to go.  I'll be taking you home soon, but you have a
question to answer, I think you know what it is, and when I'm ready, I'll
need an answer, but not until.  In the meantime, crawl over to the front
door and wait for me there.  You're probably thirsty, so I'll bring some
water for you."

From the other side of the room, I could see him retrieve my bucket.  He
filled it to the rim with water from the bathtub and then carried it to
where he had me waiting.  He placed it on the floor in front of me.

"You can drink from this.  Let's hope you did a good job cleaning it
earlier."

As I lapped up the fresh (and hopefully clean) water, he sat on the edge of
the bed and enjoyed one of his long brown cigarettes, staring out of the
window in silence.  When I was through, I was told to stand and face the
wall.  He stood close behind me and removed the briefs and the dog collar.

"My car is sitting outside.  You'll need to tell me where to take you, but
not until we're on the road.  Follow me."

Naked, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and climbed into the backseat of an
older tan SUV, which he kept meticulously clean.  Was he just going to drop
me off in the parking lot next to my car and leave?  Jeez, what was I going
to do then?  Before I could answer my own question, he tossed a grocery bag
onto the seat next to me.

"These are the clothes you had on when Ben brought you here yesterday.  He
left them at the desk when he checked out.  He's a prick, but he's not a
thief.  Everything's still there.  He's moving to Minnesota for some
hospital job, so you probably won't see him again."  (Well, if nothing
else, that was a relief!)

I got dressed, and then I told him where my car was located.  A few minutes
later, we were sitting in the parking lot of the bookstore.  I waited,
because I knew that he wanted to ask me something: "The Question."

"Tell me, Chris, if that's really your name," he started, "about your life.
Not your whole life, just the one you have now."

I spent the next few minutes describing the boring details of a life lived
by a misguided, almost middle-aged, man.  I told him about my unfulfilling
job, my stylish apartment and its superficial decor that impressed the
tricks I fucked but not me, my spending habits, the books I read, and, of
course, how I'd come to know Ben in the previous few weeks.  He asked me a
couple of follow-up questions, but never offered any information about his
own life in exchange.

 "I've decided that I'm willing to take you on as my slave.  I'm willing to
train you, to punish you, to reward you, and to let you be my property.
I'll be your Master, but you have to accept everything that I'll demand of
you.  I have a set of terms that are non-negotiable.  I'll list them, but
only once, and if you want to serve me, you'll have to agree to live by my
rules.  I'll be the only authority figure in your life from now on.  You
should know, however, that this arrangement would be a permanent one.  I
don't play games.  If you sign on, you sign on for good.  If it ends, it
ends only because I no longer desire to own you.  You'll never have a
choice in the matter.  Now, shall I list my terms?"

"Yes.  Please."

"One: My home is my home.  As a slave, you will have no access to it.
Ever.  I will never discuss with you anything that happens there, who
visits, or for what reason."

"Two: My life is my life.  You will have no right to know anything about it
unless I choose to share it with you.  You will accept that and make no
attempt to learn anything about me that I don't want you to know."

"Three: During the week, your life is your life, but with certain
exceptions.  You will have sex with no one else.  Ever.  Say goodbye to
your regulars, because you won't see them again.  You can work and hang out
as you always do, as long as it doesn't interfere."

"Four: I will own you 24/7.  Know that I can and will check up on you
during the week, as I see fit, and I will punish you for any
transgressions.  I will need a key to your apartment and your exact
address.  You will provide that for me at our next meeting."

"Five: When we are together, you will provide me with any sexual favors I
desire.  You will have no choice, and you can never refuse me for any
reason.  I may choose to rent you out or have you service someone else.  If
I do, you will do it without question or hesitation."

"Six: When we are together, your sexual pleasures, your hungers, your
thirst, and your waste are under my control.  I determine when, where, and
if."

"Seven: You will trust that I will never hurt you.  In exchange, we will
have no limits, except for those that I set.  You will have no
'safe-word'."

"Eight: You will never, for any reason, contact me on your own."

"Nine: You will bathe on Thursday night, prior to bed.  On Friday you will
leave your office and drive straight to my motel.  You will park your car
next to the office and wait for me to approach.  I will hand you a key to
room 12 along with any additional instructions.  You will then park your
car across the lot, next to the wood where you empty your toilet.  You will
step out of your car, open your trunk and remove every item of clothing and
jewelry that you are wearing, including your phone.  You will place those
things inside the trunk and close it.  You will then walk to room 12,
enter, and immediately spread your legs and bend over the bed with your ass
pointing in the direction of the window.  You will leave your keys on the
bed, and I will keep them until I am ready for you to leave.  Then, you
will wait for me to arrive.  You will stay in that room, under my control,
until early Sunday afternoon.  40 hours of work per week for your boss, 40
hours of servitude per week for your Master."

"Ten: If you ever attempt to terminate our arrangement, or if you ever
attempt to leave town without my knowledge, I will find you.  I will take
you from the life you have now, and I will lock you away in a place so
secure that no one will ever see you again.  You will then live out your
life in a prison of my design, and you will not escape.  I realize that
this sounds harsh.  I don't mean to imply that I would hurt you.  I say it
to remind you again that this is permanent.  If your current life, which is
of secondary concern, begins to interfere with our arrangement, we will
change the life you now have, not the life you have as a my slave."

"Now as I've said, these terms are non-negotiable.  I, however, am free to
change them if I need to.  We won't be lovers; so don't ever think that we
are.  That's not to say that I won't keep a lover if I chose to, it just
won't be you.  Everything will remain as it is until I chose to terminate
the arrangement.  I assume that you'll need a few minutes to think about
this.  It's a lot to think about.  I know that.  So I'm going to go inside
and pick up a few magazines, and you sit here, until I'm done.  You can
give me your answer then.  If it's no, I'll respect that and we can both
move on... no problem."

"Ok.  Thank you."

When he left to buy his magazines, I sat in the back of his SUV and thought
about it.  I really thought about.  I answered "The Question" by thinking
about what I would be doing next weekend.  I'd already made plans to attend
a cookout at a friend's house.  One of the guests would be this guy Eric,
on whom I'd had my eye for a while.  There was also a new All Male Strip
Show booked to appear at the local gay bar.  I had penciled that in as a
back up plan if Eric fell through.  There was also some shopping, cleaning,
and reading on the agenda: In short, fun but standard stuff.  Contrast that
with a weekend of painful servitude, unspeakable humiliations, and at least
one whipping, and the choice was clear enough.  So I just sat there until
he returned and thought about Eric's cock and whether or not he might enjoy
a good hard butt fucking next weekend.

When he returned, he climbed into the front seat and with a bag of
magazines and a coffee cup.  He lit a cigarette, popped the sunroof, and
waited.

 "I'll see you next weekend," I said.

"Yes." he said, "Yes, you will."

I climbed out of the SUV and drove home.

The following weekend, I followed Master's instructions and arrived at the
appointed hour.  He handed me the key, and after stripping off my clothes
in full view of three young Sudanese refugees, I hung my head a bit and
made my way, naked, to room 12.  When I entered, I dropped the keys on the
bed and took my position in front of the open window.  The Africans walked
by and spent a few moments ogling me from the sidewalk until a taxi pulled
up to whisk them away.  Hearing them snicker at me made me want to rethink
the whole arrangement, but then again, that was the point, right?

Master had been busy this week preparing for the arrival of his new slave.
The room was now painted a dark shade of the-bowels-of-hell burgundy, which
matched the carpet he'd used to replace what had been there before.  The
king sized bed was gone, replaced by a standard double that was pushed
further toward the opposite wall, leaving more floor space.  Gone too was
the loveseat and mismatched motel furniture.  In their place sat a black
leather recliner, a few simple side tables, and a long low bureau opposite
the bed.  A square card table and four wooden folding chairs finished off
the furnishings.  There was no art on the walls, but plenty of mirrors.  On
the wall behind the door was a long wooden strip lined with nails from
which hung an assorted collection of belts, ropes, cuffs, straps, and
paddles.  In the corner, next to my closet, was a large metal tub.  Above
me, and throughout the room, was a series of large hooks that had been
screwed into the ceiling joists.  Yep, he had certainly been busy!

The End.

(A Final Note: My Master's name is Paulus, but I'm forbidden to refer to
him by any name other than "Sir."  I've spent the past few weekends in
servitude to him.  I admit that it hasn't been easy, and his punishments
are always swift and painful.  But my life has purpose now, and I really
only feel "alive" when I'm in room 12, living the life of a slave.  Master
has given me permission to write about our weekends together and post them
here, with a new title, providing that he edits them first to ensure that
no one knows who we are or where we live.  Check me out again in a month or
so.  If you are a fan of this story, I'll make sure you hear about the next
one, too.  Wish me luck.)