I remain kneeling, ass dripping with Master Rob’s precious juice, for a few moments, almost as if I am waiting for his car to leave the building’s parking lot before I get up. The biggest problem I have when faced with a lot of things to do is spending too much time thinking about all of them and not actually doing them, but I feel incredible pressure to make his Super Bowl party a success.
So late afternoon Saturday I get up off the floor, feeling sore from two lube-less poundings, and I decide I had better be fresh and clean before I handle food for Master Rob and his friends. I get in the shower and let the hot water just hit me for a little while. I think for just a moment about jacking it, but tonight is supposed to be spent getting ready for Master Rob’s party, and while he does not keep me in chastity — he’s not interested in anything resembling a relationship, he just wants a faggot he can use whenever he wants — I never do that on days I am in his service, and this counts. Cleaning my ass hurts a bit, reminding me of how Nick and Master Rob abused my pussy, and I’m sure knowing he had a lingering effect would please my awesome master. (And if you remember, he’s the one who told Nick I would be at the grocery store and encouraged him to rape me without lube.)
I won’t bore you with the details of food prep, but I will tell you I was pretty busy for the next few hours, making burger patties, preparing toppings for burgers and hot dogs, making chili for them, making a marinade for Master Rob’s steak, making salsa, potato salad, cole slaw — yes, I bought pre-sliced cabbage. Not even SuperFag can do everything from scratch overnight, and who knew how early Master Rob would come over? — a ranch dip and running the dishwasher to make sure every available plate, glass and beer mug was clean for the party. I cleared the refrigerator to make room for beer and soda, throwing out some of my own things in the process.
By about 3 a.m. I couldn’t do much more and I dragged myself over to the bed. Don’t be surprised that Master Rob didn’t stay over; he rarely does. I email him my work schedule for the week each Sunday night, and he’ll use his key to come over whenever he wants, an arrangement that suits both of us. But any subtle hint of relationship might send him running, even a relationship with a faggot slave. So every time he’s over in the evening I just do as I’m told, wishing he would spend the night and trying not to be too disappointed when he doesn’t. Sometimes I get lucky and he will crash on my bed, and I will happily drift off to sleep on my dog bed with his snoring as my sound machine. It doesn’t get any better than that.
I am usually not a sound sleeper, but I drank some Z-Quil, figuring I might need to be well rested for the party, and it’s not until just before noon that I wake up. I started sleeping naked when I gave Master Rob a key, because on several occasions he would come over in the middle of the night, pull off the covers and shove that beautiful dick into me without warning — at least he used a lot of lube, but a couple of times I did not wake up until the head of his dick was brushing against my cunt. It was hot knowing he could exercise his fag-raping privilege at any time, so I slept naked.
I realize the television is on and, knowing I turned it off before going to sleep, realize I am not alone. Master Rob is in the recliner. This has never happened before. He never comes over when I’m asleep and fails to wake me up to service him one way or another. I get up and walk over to the recliner and drop to my knees. “Good morning, Master Rob,” I say to this figure who looks absolutely magnificent in a tank top and basketball shorts. “Hey fag,” he says. “I need another beer.” “Yes, Sir,” and I take the empty bottle and bring him a fresh Sam Adams. “I had nothing else to do before the party, so I figured I would just hang out here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to use you until the party. Wouldn’t be fair to my guests to get a head start.”
That sounds odd. I’m sure all of the guests know I am his faggot, but that’s none of my business. “Yes, Sir. It’s an honor to have you in my home, as always.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Why don’t you take a shower and put on your uniform for the day?” “Yes, Sir.” I start to head into the bathroom (I left the panties and the apron on hooks behind the door) when he says, “Wait a minute, fag. I didn’t kiss you good morning.” I turn back and kneel again, tilting my head back and opening my mouth wide. Unlike last night’s drool, today I get nice juicy wad. I hold my mouth open so he can see it sitting on my tongue, which is good because he then started a drool stream that eventually reached my tongue as well. I close my eyes, close my mouth and savor his fluids. He gently slaps me across the face and says, “Get ready.”
Fifteen minutes later I am fresh and clean and dressed in the pink panties and purple apron. I present myself to Master Rob, who doesn’t usually make me dress like this, but I know he’s showing off his dominance of his fagslave to his guests. In a way, it makes me feel good, but I also know I have to be near perfect today, not knowing exactly how much would be expected of me. I still had no idea if I was going to just blow everybody, get gang banged or just be their server for the day.
Turns out it was yes, yes and yes, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.
“We have some time before the guests arrive,” he says, not telling me exactly when that is. “I do want to save my dick, but I don’t need to save that tight pussy of yours. Lap dog time. Get your cunt cream and get over here.”
Lap dog time is just what it sounds like: I lie across Master Rob’s ass so my ass is easily accessible. Cunt cream is one of his many phrases for lube; maybe it makes it sound like he’s not about to have sex with a guy the way “Get your lube” would. Or maybe it just allows him to remind me that my ass isn’t mine, it’s his cunt to use as he sees fit. “Pussy lotion” is another phrase. Anyway, he puts the recliner upright, I take my position, and he reclines again. Between the pink panties and the apron my cheeks are totally exposed, so all he has to do is pull the skimpy back side of the panties away from my crack and my hole, by whatever name, is available to him.
“This pussy did good service yesterday, but that was like practice. Today is the real game, and it starts now,” he says. I only can imagine what the fuck that means, but the pregame show, to stretch the analogy, begins quickly. He squeezes lube onto my ass crack and some in his hand, but from my position I can’t see how much. Within seconds I can guess it’s three fingers, because that’s what it felt like as he violates me slowly and steadily, going in up to the knuckles in one steady movement. I whimper in pain, partly because I know that’s one of his favorite sounds and partly because, well, I am in pain. Master Rob doesn’t care about letting my pussy slowly accommodate more and more, he wants to make sure I know he’s in charge. (I’m wearing pink panties and lying across his lap, what other conclusion could I reach?)
“Damn, fag, your ass is hungry today. I would have thought that after yesterday you might be satisfied, but you really are a slut, aren’t you? Always wanting more. Well, today’s your lucky day.”
The three fingers begin twisting around in my hole, still sore from the double lube-less raping I took yesterday, and then he slides out, squeezes out a bit more lube, and starts working four in. He gets more wordless whimpering out of me, and I hear a satisfied, “uh-huh, mmmm” out of him. It’s strange, but hearing him react positively to my reaction to pain is a turn on, and I start squeezing my cunt muscles around his masculine fingers. “Like I said, always wanting more. Stupid faggot bitch.” “Yes, Master Rob,” is all I can mutter in response as he starts prodding my taint with his thumb while the four fingers are inside.
“I think I’ll be fisting you pretty soon, bitch. That will be one for the video recorder.” Master Rob occasionally records our sessions, another subtle reminder that I need to stay in line. But since he knows damn well I won’t cross him and that I crave being in his presence and am grateful for every tiny hint of approval I get, it’s really just more for his amusement. And that’s fine with me.
He slides the four fingers out and then starts slowly fucking with me with them. But by the time I’m starting to enjoy it, he stops. “I wanted to make sure you were ready, just in case. I haven’t decided exactly what’s going to happen to you today, but in case the boys didn’t feel like lubing themselves, they’ll have a nice pre-lubed faggot pussy waiting for them. Now get off me.”
He pushes me off of him and I tumble to the floor. I immediately get up on my knees and ask if needs anything before I start getting things ready. “You are ready, fag. I checked the fridge before you woke up. Burgers are ready to be cooked, my steak is marinating, the snacks are already in bowls with lids to stay fresh, what the fuck do you think you have to do?”
I just keep staring into his gorgeous eyes with the puppy-dog look he likes so much. “Yeah, just what I figured. OK, go ahead. Lick my pits.”
He raises and arm and one of my favorite parts of him is right there for me. I dive in, licking up and down, back and forth, sometimes in a swirling motion. Showered but without deodorant, I get Master Rob at his best. And I love it. “Other one, faggot.” So I crawl around to the other side of the chair and shove my face into his right armpit. I barely get started when there’s a knock at the door.
“OK, bitch, first guest is here. Go over by the door and kneel.”
I do as I’m told, and Master Rob opens the door. It’s Nick the produce guy. They greet each other, followed by Master Rob saying, “And you remember my faggot.” “Fuck yeah I do. Tightest pussy I’ve ever had.” “Well, thank him with a kiss hello,” Master Rob says. Stunned that Master Rob told anyone about what I thought was our little secret — one of many, of course — I tilt my head back and open wide. Nick hocks a good one up and lands it squarely on my tongue. I hold the position so he can enjoy watching his yellowish wad float on my tongue a bit before I close my mouth and savor it before swallowing. “Why is that so hot to me?” Nick asks Master Rob. “Because degrading faggot give you an adrenaline rush. Makes you want to use them.”
Master Rob then clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Oh yeah,” Nick says, and then pulls out his wallet and hands Master Rob a $20 bill. “Go have a seat,” Master Robert tells him. After he does, I quietly look up at Master Rob and say, “You’re charging them?” Big mistake. Master Rob grabs me by the apron and pulls me to my feet. He spits in my face without telling me to open first, holds my head in place with one hand and then slaps me — and I mean slaps me hard — with the other. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, you worthless piece of faggot shit?” I stay silent and look at the floor, regretting my obvious transgression. Rob uses one hand to push my chin back up so I’m looking at him and slaps me on the other cheek. He rarely does this, so obviously he is truly angry. “Dumbfuck. Back down and wait for the other guests.”
Soon, the other three have arrived, and each one, as instructed, “kisses” me hello and hands Master Rob $20. One is very tall with a dark tan and a swimmer’s build, one is built solid, like a guy who played football and has gotten out of shape but not so much where he’s not still hot, and the third looks like a college student. So Master Rob, Nick, Swimmer Guy, Former Jock and College Boy are all seated in my living area (well, maybe “my” doesn’t apply any more) and, except for the colors, they are all dressed alike: basketball shorts and no sleeves. I have to admit, each one was hot in his own way, and if I had any say in the matter, each would have had a chance to make the cut for whatever is going to happen to me today.
When they are all seated, Master Rob takes his place in the recliner and I go over and kneel before him. “Cute outfit your fag has, Rob,” Former Jock says. “A French maid’s outfit is such a cliché. This is much better.” “Sure is, and feel free to grope that faggot ass — or anything else — any time you want. Faggot, bring out the chips and salsa and the crudites.”
I do as I am told, of course, and offer each guest one, then the other, before placing the chips, salsa and veggies and dip on the coffee table. “There is a large, folded piece of paper in the top desk drawer. Fetch it and a pen, faggot.”
Turns out it’s one of those football betting things with squares, 10 by 10. The idea is people select a square, and if your square is lined up with the last digit of each team’s score, you win. They take turns claiming squares until they are all filled. “This is not for money, gentlemen,” Master Rob says. “This is for the postgame show.” I get a nervous feeling as I put the paper on top of the desk. “We will have winners after each quarter, and the later in the game you win, the better position you will be in after the game.” I have no idea what that means, and before I can give it much thought, Master Rob makes another announcement. “Before the game starts, we’re going to play another game for another prize. You boys ever play Spit Golf?” They all shake their heads, but I know exactly what he means.
“The fag will kneel with his head tilted back. We’ll stand here, even with the table. The idea is to land your spit right in his mouth. No waste. First two to do that will win the prize.”
As each of them already has spit in my mouth once, this doesn’t shock anybody. At least one — I think it was Swimmer Guy — says, “What a fucking faggot,” almost under his breath. They each line up, and in short order there is saliva from five men all over my face. “I love the way it drips into his eyes,” Former Jock says. “Almost makes me want to lose just to watch him get totally covered in spit. You got yourself a nice, submissive one there, Rob.”
By the time they have each had three chances, only College Boy has earned a place in whatever “prize” Master Rob has in mind. “OK, boys, you can’t have too much left, so this is the last round. Closest to the pin joins Danny as the winner.” OK, so College Boy has a name. And nice pecs. And awesome pits. The others take a turn, and from what I can feel Swimmer Guy is the closest. “Nice job, Garrett, you and Danny win. You get the halftime show.”
OK, so now there is a halftime show with two of them and a postgame show with all of them in different positions. I’m both very excited and very scared about this — a feeling I’ve had dozens of times since meeting Master Rob.
To be continued …
