The reception area had that air of understated elegance that said “money” – a lot of it had gone into the dark panelling on the walls, the chrome and glass tables, leather couches, and large reception desk. The flowers alone, which must have needed to be changed twice a week at least, looked as if they cost hundreds of dollars.
The slave behind the desk called out a cheery “Hi, Gary, back already? And welcome, Steve!” I could see from his tattoos that he was called Brad. Actually, having guys’ names prominently displayed like this isn’t a bad idea, especially if you’re bad at names, like me: you don’t have to remember what a guy is called, when you can read his chest or his back (no, I’m joking – it’s fucking demeaning, actually, to have a guy labelled as if he’s just some piece of property).
“Scoot straight along to Master Brett’s suite”, Brad went on. “He told me to tell you not to keep him waiting, once you got back.”
Gary nodded, and led me off. We went down a long corridor panelled in the same expensive hardwood as the reception area, and the carpet under our feet had that kind of “spring” to it that said it was thick, rich, and laid on expensive underlay. The lighting was concealed, except for antique tables with lamps on them at intervals, and through the panelled doors I could see people working away, and a conference room. It was all like some very high-priced lawyer’s offices.
We stopped outside one of the panelled doors, and Gary knocked, then stood there respectfully – hands clasped behind his back, and head bowed. He motioned me to do the same, whispering “Master Brett might want us to wait, and he likes his slaves to look smart and slave-like here in the corridor, in case clients come past.”
I wanted to ask him about it, but he kind of shushed me, reminding me that slaves were not really supposed to talk, and so I did as he did – it felt odd standing there, almost naked, in these plush “corporate” surroundings. Again, I’ve no real idea how long we waited – no clocks were visible and I’d long since had my watch removed – but it must have been some time as I needed to tense my legs occasionally to stop them cramping. Then we heard an “enter” from inside, and Gary opened the door and ushered me in.
Given the outside appearance of the building I was kind of expecting a really modern office, with big windows, etc. But it was more like a gentleman’s club: the same dark panelling and thick carpet, and the windows were hung about with huge, rich swagged curtains in burgundy silk. Master Brett sat behind a big dark oak desk with a single telephone and a PC screen on it, and there were two big leather couches in front a a fire in a big stone fireplace! Yes, a real fire, here on the tenth floor of a downtown building. With the rows of leather-bound books in the bookcases on another wall, the whole thing had the air of an old-time gentlemen’s club.
The man, who I recognised as the fat guy from the two who has so humiliatingly inspected me at the auction room, was sitting behind the desk. He wore a suit, but again it was not like a regular business suit – this one was a kind of hairy green tweed, overlaid with a shadow pattern of darker squares. He still had on an immaculate shirt, and a silk handkerchief in green and yellow stripes flopping out of his top pocket matched his expensive-looking silk tie. I came to learn that men in his profession were supposed to dress rather flamboyantly, although, at the top end of the trade, it also had to be expensively. Clients could therefore understand that they were getting “quality”, but at the same time could be faintly contemptuous of men who would dress so garishly.
“Ah, yes, the new slave”, he said. “How’s it going , Steve?”
“Fucking awful… You’ve had me skinned, tattooed, ringed….”
“Shut the fuck up, slave boy, unless you want to be punished! You sound as if you’re criticising me….”
“Well it’s not right! When they made the indentured servant laws they didn’t mean for you to treat a guy like this…”
“OK, that’s it! You were warned! A slave does not criticise his owner, even obliquely. Any more of that and I will punish you. Now, let’s try again. When I ask you how it’s going, the polite, slave-like response is ‘Fine, thank you, master.’ So, Steve, how’s it going so far?”
I didn’t want to be punished with the prod again, of course. But I am a bit hot-headed, and once my anger is up, I just can’t resist having my say. I was right, and he was wrong, whether he was my owner or not, after all. So I said, managing to be both sarcastic and contemptuous at the same time, “Fucking great!”
“Right, that’s it! I warned you”, he snapped. “Get over to the horse, and take up the position. Gary… Show him how.”
I stood there, not really knowing what he meant, and he turned almost apoplectic with rage. “You fucking college-educated slaves! You think you can do things your way, and ignore your owner’s commands. Well, you’ll soon learn! Now, unless you want me to get the guards in here and have you prodded, get over to the horse, and get on it!”
Gary reached out and tugged at me, indicating that I should follow him. I guess I really didn’t fancy being prodded again, so I forced myself to try to calm down, and moved after him. My body language would have given me away though, as I was so angry that my shoulders were kind of hunched, and my arms hung down loosely, ready to fight.
Standing alone in the far corner of the room was something I’d kind of noticed as I entered, but had ignored as I scanned the rest of the luxurious furniture and drapes. It looked a bit like a saw horse, except that the top was about a foot wide and was covered in leather, and the legs were made of the same dark oak, beautifully turned, like the rest of the furniture.
“It’s a punishment and fucking horse, Steve”, Gary whispered to me. “Haven’t you seen one before?” When I shook my head, he carried on in the same low voice “Lie on it on your belly, ass over the end, with your head at the top where that ring is…”
Well, I didn’t want to get into any more trouble, so I did as he said, and he came and knelt by my head. The next moment I was held there, unable to move – Gary had opened the ring thing in some way, slipped it through my nose ring, and closed it up again: my head was now held down on to the horse.
“Reach down and grab the legs, Steve… I don’t think Master Brett is going to tie your arms down this time, but you’ll find anchoring points down there. Grab hold of them and brace yourself – pull yourself right down onto the horse, as it’s best if your body has no movement, or else you might jerk your head suddenly and rip your nose apart. And that’s really painful, believe me!”
As he was saying this to me, Master Brett had got up from behind his desk and was now standing next to me. “Right, slave, your first time riding the horse, and on your first day here, too. Not a good sign! And I thought you were a sensible kind of chap. Still, perhaps you’ll learn.”
Turning to Gary, he went on “Get his shorts off.”
Gary came around behind me, and I felt him fumbling at the waistband of my shorts, then pulling them down. “Step out of them, Steve”, he said quietly, as I felt the satin fall over my feet. Jesus Christ! How fucking much more humiliated could I be? I mean, it’s bad enough having to go around naked, but being tied down naked, when someone else has taken down your shorts… Well! I felt at once embarrassed, and angry, very angry. And slightly ashamed – I mean, through my opened legs, as my ass was hanging over the end, I knew they could look at my balls and dick hanging there in-between my thighs – somehow seeing them from behind is worse, isn’t it?
“This isn’t right!”, I shouted at the world in general.
“Enough, slave! I was just going to give you two strokes, as a taster of the horse, but you’ve just doubled that to four. Say one more word, and you’ll double it again, to eight…. Now…..”
I heard a swishing noise, and then my ass exploded with pain. I actually screamed out loud, and if I hadn’t been holding the handles as Gary had suggested, I’m sure I would have jerked upwards so violently that my nose would indeed have been torn. Swish again, and another explosion of pain, and another scream.
Master Brett came around to the front, and stood there, flexing a long, light cane in his hands. “See, Steve? This is what we do to disobedient or uppity slaves on the horse. Sometimes we use a paddle, but personally I prefer the cane. Now, if you hadn’t been such an insolent boy, we’d have been finished… But as it is, two more strokes….”
He went around behind me and I got two more. You’d have thought that the pain would have diminished with each stroke as the nerves in my ass got desensitised, wouldn’t you? But as those of you who have received a punishment caning will know, it just isn’t so – each one actually feels worse than its predecessor.
I lay there, my whole ass feeling as if it was on fire, and I’m ashamed to say that tears, tears of pain, rather than anger, were making their way down my cheeks.
“Release him, Gary. And you, slave, put your shorts back on, and come and sit next to me on the couch.”
Gary fumbled with the ring holding my nose down, and I moved – only to get a fresh torrent of sensation going through me as my ass moved. And, of course, when I had to bend down to pick up my shorts, and then as the tight material clung to my ass, it went on, and on.
“Get over here, slave!”, Master Brett snapped, seeing that I was moving very slowly, trying to minimise my discomfort. “…unless, that is, you’re so fond of that horse that you’d like another ride?”
He patted the seat immediately next to him on one of the big leather couches, but I lowered myself, gingerly as I knew my ass would hurt so much, at the other end. The leather felt cold against my bare skin – I suppose you’re not used to sitting on leather without much clothing, are you?
“No, Steve, here, right next to me. Owner and slave need to get to know each other, and I can’t do that if you’re four feet away from me. Get over here, boy!”
Again, ever so carefully, I moved along the couch, and sat next to him.
“Right, good. You’re not afraid of me, are you, Steve?”
“No, sir!” Actually, I suppose, I was. I knew what he could order to have done to me. But no man will publicly admit to being afraid of another, will he?
“Well you should be, Steve. For the next ten years of your life I have a pretty good control over you – what you can eat, where you can go, what you do… And, of course, I can order punishments for you. You’ve already experienced the prod, at the auction centre – we tend not to go much for that here, as although it’s pretty good at stopping a wild slave in his tracks, there and then, immediately, it doesn’t have much lasting effect… A caning on the horse gives the slave something to remember for a day or so – as you’re noticing, the pain hangs around, and you get fresh reminders of it all the time, as you move. When you’re working, of course, we tend to use the paddle, as clients don’t like to see those ugly striped weals across a slave’s butt. That’s not to say we don’t do it in severe cases – and don’t even think about being bad enough to deserve a caning on the back, thighs and calves – that’s real pain for you! And finally, in almost hopeless cases, we do have a whipping frame: it’s in a soundproof room at the end of the corridor, as no slave can help but make such a dreadful noise during a whipping that any clients here would be disturbed!”
“But let’s not dwell on that. With proper training, I’m sure you’ll adjust well and do a really great job, and we won’t have to think about any of that – just remember, though, that even really good slaves, like young Gary here, occasionally feel the paddle or cane if they are less than enthusiastic. Anyway, Steve, what do you think we do here?”
“Well, sir, in reception it says you ‘serve travellers’.”
“Quite right. Now, what sort of services, do you think?”
I thought hard about the kind of stuff people need when they’re on business trips, and replied “Well, secretarial services, that kind of thing. Then concierges – booking restaurants and so on. And chauffeur-driven cars….”
“Quite. I’m sure business travellers need all those things, but they’re catered for elsewhere: most businessmen now do their own e-mail and so on, their expensive hotels offer a concierge service, and specialised companies do cars with drivers…. So that only leaves our speciality: it has to be something that pays well, doesn’t it, to enable us to have these nice offices, to buy prime man flesh like you, and to make master Jed and I a very good living?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it would.”
“So you can’t even speculate, can you? Well, I’ll tell you: we sell sex to the business traveller. And after proper training, you’ll be one of our operatives, using your body to please them. You’ll be the twenty-fifth slave on the operative staff here, and we have an excellent reputation, which you’ll need to work hard and well to preserve. We won the President’s award for customer service (small business section) last year, and we’re aiming for it again. So no mistakes, no slipping of standards.”
I was surprised – well, I mean, I suppose I’d heard of slaves being bought as sex toys – there was a popular TV comedy series where three old matrons retired to Florida, sharing a house. It was an update of something that ran last century, “The Golden” something or other. They bought a good-looking slave to do the yard work, and the whole point of it was how they all schemed to keep it secret from the others that they used the guy for sex! It was hugely popular, as the women were very funny, and, I suppose, we all got a laugh from the way that the poor young guy, in his early twenties, seemed to be constantly exhausted from the yard work, and from satisfying the three old crones. But the more I thought about it, the more it made me feel almost sick – I mean, fancy having to fuck a really old woman! With my looks I’d never had any difficulty in getting women of my own age.
“Sir, I’m not sure I’d be able to fuck a really old woman, but it sounds kind of fun otherwise….”
Master Brett threw back his head and roared with laughter, and Gary started to smile, too.
“Steve, where have you been all your life? How many women executives are there, do you think, who travel regularly? I bet that tonight there aren’t more than ten or twelve in this whole city, and I’ve got twenty five pleasure slaves here in my business alone, and we’re not the only ones! No, since the arrival of really good quality video conferencing, it’s only really senior executives who travel, and only then when a face to face meeting is unavoidable. And they’re almost all men, as you’d expect. Our business is providing pleasure slaves for the male executive, and that’s what you’ll be doing…”
“Sir, I can’t…. I can’ go with guys… I don’t go with men. I don’t even fancy them….”
“Nonsense, Steve! Now look, I can’t stand prejudice. Have you ever tried sex with another guy?”
“NO! ….sir.”
“No experiments with jacking off with a buddy around puberty? No fumbling in the showers at high school? No circle jerks with your buddies on the football team? No mutual jerking off when you ask a buddy around for a beer and to watch a porno movie?”
“No, of course not….”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Steve. But, anyway, if you’ve never tried it, how do you know you won’t like it?”
I shook my head, not knowing what to say. I kind of muttered “But it’s unnatural, sir…”
“How can anything that two men choose to do together be ‘unnatural’? Haven’t you ever wondered, when you’re jerking yourself off, or playing with your nips, or fingering your asshole, what it would be like to have another guy do that to you, or what it would feel like to do that to another guy? And why do you think all those pleasure points are in your body anyway – most women don’t like playing with men’s bodies, after all. So they must have been designed for other guys to use.”
“NO, sir. I was always taught that it was wrong. Our local minister used to lecture all of us, when we were kids, about the evils of sex…. I mean, the bible…”
“Oh, come on, Steve! You know, ministers are probably responsible for spoiling the fun of more guys in this world than anyone else – we wouldn’t tolerate them spreading their lies and half-truths in any other walk of life. I thought you’d got a proper education, and that you weren’t some superstitious hillbilly who can barely read, let alone think for himself! Didn’t they teach you anything at college about looking at the evidence, and making a rational judgement? .”
“Of course, sir, the scientific method…”
“Quite! So you look at the bible, and it has all this stuff about people rising from the dead, giving birth without sex, walking on water…. Did you look at that evidence, and make a judgement, or are you just going along with that superstitious nonsense that ministers use to fool the ignorant and irrational?”
“Well, of course, that stuff is probably just stories…”
“So if those bits, which I guess are pretty central to the whole pack of lies, are ‘just stories’, why do you place any credence in the rest of it? Or, to take another argument, if you do actually believe some of these fairy tales, why don’t you also go for all the other bits as well, like ‘doing unto others as you’ be done unto’ – that’s surely about mutual jerk-offs, isn’t it? And ‘loving thy neighbour as thyself’ – aren’t you therefore allowed to make love to the guy next door? And Doesn’t it always go on about loving your fellow men?”
“Yes, but…”
“Look, Steve, interesting though this debate on your curiously irrational view of the world is, I don’t really have time. The plain fact of the matter is that you are here as a pleasure slave, you will be servicing men – rich, powerful, men – and you will do it well, or else you will be punished. We have strict quality control here, and you’ll soon learn that you meet the clients’ exacting standards, or you’ll be punished, and punished hard. But before we let you loose on the clients, you have to be properly trained – after all, when a man is paying two thousand or more for your services, they have the right to expect the best.”
“Two thousand, sir? Who can afford that…?” I was genuinely shocked – I’d always imagined that prostitutes got a hundred or so, and that was for “regular” sex, man and woman (or, at least, that’s the kind of stuff that was reported in the papers when a guy was fond out, and prosecuted). I couldn’t believe that anyone would pay that much to go with a guy.
“Right, Steve, just a few words on the economics of this thing, before we start your training. I’ve told you that it’s only really senior people who travel now, because of video conferencing, and they need to do so because there are some meetings you just have to have face to face – really key negotiations, for example. One of the oddities of modern life is that therefore the higher you are in the corporation, the more you travel – quite the opposite of the way it used to be, when guys at board level used to mostly stayed in corporate headquarters, and it was lower-level people who charged all over the country. So if these guys are all travelling a lot, what do they want? Answer: all the comforts of home! That’s why these very expensive hotels flourish in all the big cities, and they’re mostly suites, too, not just a normal room. That’s what senior people expect. And when a guy has been without sex for a day or so, he wants that, too, doesn’t he? So we’re here to fulfil that need, and that’s why we’re right here, downtown, in the middle of all the expensive hotels. After all, a senior businessman with his mansion in Scarsdale, used to eating at all the best restaurants, staying in his expensive suite, doesn’t want to have to go to some cheap, tatty, hole-in-the-wall kind of place for sex, does he? No, he wants to be able to call a respectable company, one where he feels comfortable if he comes through the doors, and know that he’ll get the very best. And, of course, it’s his company that pays – our fees are just a drop in the ocean, compared to all the other expenses of these guys.”
He finished this exposition with such an air of certainty, that I knew that it must be mostly correct. Anyway, I guess his whole business plan was predicated on those assumptions. But there was still something I didn’t understand, so I asked “But sir, why guys? Surely most of these men are straight…?”
He just laughed at me. Then, continuing to smile, he said “You really are the innocent, aren’t you, Steve? Look, all men really want to fuck other men, it’s just that old-fashioned ideas hold them back. Men all want power, and the ultimate exercise of power is to fuck another guy, right? So when these men have sat in meetings all day, where they’ve had to negotiate and maybe give way on things, can you imagine how great it is to get back to their suite, and then be able to exercise total domination and control over another guy? Millions of years of human evolution have taught men that the proper, manly thing to do is to be top, the leader, the boss man, the guy in charge – you can’t just sweep aside all that history that’s programmed into your genes: men need to dominate other men.”
“But they must be married, surely…?”
“Of course they are, mostly, Steve. Our society is still very odd, in that executives are supposed to have a nice wife, and two point four children. So the wife sits at home in Scarsdale, the guy can brag about her, show that he’s struggled hard enough to be able to provide her with the mansion, the cars, the maid, and probably a slave or two…. That’s another reason for him needing to relax in the natural way, with another guy – he can give up for a few hours on the need to keep struggling to make more and more money for the wife: guys are much more likely to accept other guys for what they are. And then think about the wife: what are her needs?”
“I really don’t know, sir!” And I genuinely didn’t. This all sounded so bizarre, but I couldn’t pick holes in it, as it all seemed to hang together.
“Well, if you’re the wife, there in Scarsdale, wouldn’t you worry that your man might go off on one of these trips and find another woman? Before you knew where you were there might be an unwanted pregnancy, or divorce…. So they’re much happier if their man is fucking another guy – no possibility of disruption to the lifestyle, and, of course, the man comes home properly satisfied… You’ll learn that only another guy can properly satisfy you in sex: after all, what can a woman really know about how a guy’s dick feels? It needs another guy to know that. And then, too, a lot of these men probably have slaves around the house anyway, and it’s only natural to dick your slave for a bit of fun, isn’t it?”
I wanted to ask another question, but he hushed me, and went on “Don’t interrupt a master, when he’s philosophising, Steve! Most of your clients want to talk, as well as fuck. That’s why we have premium class man flesh, like you. After all, if these men just wanted an ass to use, it is available a lot cheaper elsewhere – they can just hook up with another guy in most cities, via the Internet. But then, of course, they’ll never know what they’re getting, and it might be a wasted evening – some pitiful inadequate who doesn’t really know about sex, a guy who can’t string two words together properly, disease…. It might all be a trap, even, and they’d get robbed. A lot of these men travel with bodyguards, you know, and they can hardly have them stand around whilst they fuck some cheap rent boy from the gutter, can they? So they come to us, their company pays the money – or, rather, Uncle Sam pays a lot of it, as it’s a business expense, off the profits, – and they get a good-looking guy, who can hold a good conversation if they want, and who’s been properly trained to give pleasure! And, of course, you’re tested constantly, so there’s no risk of them catching anything…”
“But sir, I still don’t think I can do it…”
“Nonsense, Steve! We train lots of guys here, and some of them have the same odd ideas about real sex as you when they arrive. But they all soon learn to be natural, to let their bodies do the thinking, rather than silly social conditioning. Some of the guys who enjoy sex most – and I mean real, proper, man-to-man sex, came in here initially as rabid heterosexuals. You’ll soon learn the error of your ways, and get to enjoy what a man’s body is designed for – sex with other guys.”
I went to say something else, but his mood changed, and he was much harsher when he said “I’ve warned you once – don’t interrupt a master when he’s speaking! The horse is always looking for another rider, remember! Anyway, what you think, what you want, what you believe, doesn’t matter, does it? You’re a slave, remember, and for the next ten years you’ll say, do and think what I and master Jed want you to! Now, time’s money, as they say, so let’s stop wasting it and start the first lesson.”
As he said this, he put his arm around my shoulders, and pulled me to him. I could feel the rough, scratch hairs of his tweed jacket on my naked body. I stiffened my muscles, to resist.
“No, Steve, that’s not the way… When a master pulls you to him, don’t even try to stop him. Help him. Move closer. The horse, remember?”
Well, what was the harm, really, just sitting close to another guy? I relaxed, and let him pull me close to him. But then his hand came up, and he took my left nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
I’ve always had sensitive nipples – in the winter, especially, I have a lot of problems with my running vest scraping over them. As his fingers touched, I made a little involuntary noise, tried to pull away, and put my hand up to take his off my tit.
“NO!”, he snapped. “Look, I’ll not warn you again about interrupting a master! Do you want another ride on the horse? And, if you were a trained slave and did what you just did, I’d actually schedule you for a whipping. A slave never, I repeat – never – touches a master as you just tried to do, in order to prevent a master from playing with the slave’s body. Now, relax…”
His fingers returned, and he started to gently pinch and stroke my nipple, which responded, of course, by going hard. And I also felt my dick beginning to erect: I don’t know why! But as he continued to play with me, I felt his other hand touch my belly, lie there for a few moments as his fingers explored my muscles, then slide down to my crotch, over my shorts. I was almost panting with apprehension as his warm fingers slid over my skin – what the fuck was going on? And I could feel the weight of his hand lying on tip of my hard dick, crammed into the shorts.
“Ah”, he murmured. “I like that in a man. It often happens – a guy with sensitive tits, as you have, I can feel, often has a direct line between them and his dick! Play with his nipples, and his dick goes hard.”
As he finished speaking, he plunged his head down and took my right nipple in his moth. I felt his warm, wet tongue start to flick at it and tease it. It looked so odd, as I could see the top of his head as he sucked at me, but what he was doing to me was definitely having effects on me – my whole body tensed, I sort of thrust myself towards him, and I heard myself moaning and groaning, with enjoyment.
He carried on toying with one nipple and sucking the other, but now his hand was worming its way through the open fly of my shorts. I felt his warm fingers touch my dick – something I’d never experienced before – and he fumbled around a bit before managing to extract it through the fly: actually, it was a real relief, as it had been straining away against the fabric of the shorts, and having it loose was much better.
He broke off, and sat up. He was smiling as he looked at me, and he stared into my eyes as his fingers ran lightly up and down my dick. But it hurt, and I winced.
“Oh yes, of course, we had to have you ‘skinned, didn’t we? That’s kind of what our clients expect, as most of them don’t have foreskins and they want their pleasure slaves to look the same. And, of course, it’s nicer: although we keep you clean, and always prepare you properly, if there’s a lapse of a few hours whilst you talk or play cards or something, any pre-cum you leak can start to smell bad even in that time, if it’s trapped under a ‘skin.”
Oh, so they’d cut me like that, taken away part of my body, just to please their clients! It was awful – I realised now, as he was doing these things to me and speaking like this, that there was more to being a slave than just losing some of my freedoms, and having to work hard: this guy really could control me.
But he went on “I can feel some of the scabs still, and I guess you’re still a bit tender and painful down there?”
“Yes, sir…”
“Well I usually like to get straight on with introducing a new slave to the pleasures of being jerked off by another man, but we’ll keep that for later. So let’s skip forwards, to cock sucking 101. But you’re still tense and nervous, and I don’t want you to do anything that would mean that I absolutely had to order a punishment for you, so for your own good, I’m going to take a few precautions.”
Turning aside, he said, quietly and authoritatively, “Gary – clip his wrists. And put the training handles on.”
Gary came up to us, and I saw that he, too was erect – well, I mean, I couldn’t help noticing: his dick had burst out through the open fly of his shorts, and was sticking straight out in front of him like some sort of handle! He took my left wrist and raised it, with only a bit of resistance from me, at which he shook his head a little to show me that I must not do it, put it behind my neck and I heard a “snick”. When I tried to move, I realised that the wrist cuff had been attached to my collar, and as I was understanding this, Gary was raising my other hand, and did the same. As I sat there, my hands both now behind my neck, immovable, he went to the desk and came back with two leather things – they looked like quite big circles of stiff leather, with short chains attached. He deftly snapped the ends of those chains to my collar, one on either side, and the leather rings hung down, brushing my shoulders.
“Right, Steve. Now, don’t panic. Just relax, and you’ll enjoy the whole thing, believe me!”.
As he said this, Master Brett put his hand behind my head and started to pull me down towards him. Even with my hands cuffed, I could easily resist as I’ve got a strong body, but he whispered “No, Steve…. Let go… Do what I want you to, don’t try to fight it….”
He pushed my head down into his crotch, and the rough tweed of his trousers started to tickle my face. I caught that smell of stale piss that always clings to trousers – how ever careful you are, there’s always some leakage, isn’t there? And I knew that my own trousers always smelled faintly of piss, even after only two or three days of wear. There was nothing I could do about it, though – the firm pressure of his hand on my head was keeping my face pressed firmly down, and so I had to breathe in the scent of him. And then I felt something else – his dick moving around through the fabric, as it evidently got hard.
To be continued …
