A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 15 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.


After that evening of utter humiliation, at least I got to sleep by myself.  I then discovered just how slickly the whole operation really worked:  the next morning, as I had been with a client, I had to line up with the other guys and a nurse from some sort of private slave medicine organisation arrived and took blood from each of us, and then a penis swab.  If you’ve ever had one of these, you’ll know how unpleasant this is – she had something that looked a bit like a cotton bud, took my dick in her hand, pressed the head to get my piss slit to open up, and swabbed around with the cotton bud – I squirmed with the sensation, which is pretty unpleasant as those of you who have had to have a dick swab will know, and asked Ray, who was standing next to me in line, if it was always like this.

“Yes, Steve.  But you do get used to it as it happens after every time you’ve been with a client – and it’s nice to have a chick handling your dick for a change, isn’t it?”

After that, the whole day was “free time” as we weren’t allowed to go with another client until the results of the blood test and penis swab were available, which wasn’t until the next day.  Of course the time wasn’t really “free”, as I had to keep up my quota of working out in the gym and topping up my tan, but I used the morning to go for a really long run. On the way back I stopped by the Post Office, as I wanted to pay my fifty in before it got lost – or, I suppose, spent, although there was nothing I needed to buy:  clothes were obviously pointless, and we were strictly forbidden to eat anything other than the slave chow, for health reasons, and so the food stores were out too.

I bounded up the steps of the Post Office, and a guard at once stepped in front of me, blocking the way. “Where are you going, fucking slave?”

I knew enough to be polite to any free man by now, especially those in a uniform, so I said “Sir, just to make a deposit in the savings bank…”

“Slaves enter by the rear door, even if they’re on business for their masters!”, he snapped.

“But surely the postal service is open to everyone, you can’t discriminate….”

“Boy, you heard me!  Get your ass off these steps where decent folk are entering, and take yourself off around to the rear.  The great US postal service is of course available to everyone, and it absolutely doesn’t discriminate:  we’re proud of our minorities, disabled and equal opportunities records.  But you’re a fucking slave, and you don’t count!  We treat all men equally, without discrimination, but you should know by now that slaves are not men – we don’t serve dogs, or horses, either!”

I was beginning to understand just how deep seated this “slavery” thing had gone – I guess that back in the nineteenth century the US postal service said it didn’t discriminate, either, but it didn’t serve black guys as they were not “proper people”.  Now it was treating me differently because I was a “slave”, and I reckoned someone ought to tell them that I wasn’t a “slave”, that’s just the popular usage – I was, after all, an indentured servant and I would become a free man again in ten years.  But the guard was beginning to look cross as I stood there, and snapped “Boy, if you don’t stop obstructing the decent folk who want to use the service, I’ll cuff you, take you around the back myself, and give you a few stripes across that ass of yours – you can then tell your owner when you get home about your bad behaviour.”

He looked serious, so I kind of shrugged, went down the steps, and around to the rear.  Unlike the front, where the wide steps ran up to big double doors set in bronze frames, the rear entrance was small and miserable.  A queue of five slaves was already waiting there, and I realised soon enough that only one slave at a time was let into the building:  in the middle of winter queuing here would be pretty uncomfortable, as it would if it were raining.  It seemed to move at a snail’s pace, and it must have taken thirty minutes before I was finally allowed to enter.

Behind the counter was one of those late middle aged women with a hard face who have nothing in life to enjoy except causing misery to others.  She glared at me, and I said “I’d like to make a deposit in the special social servant savings account, please.”

“Boy, it’s not a question of what you’d like!  Here at this US Post Office we expect slaves to be respectful to the employees – we have the power to order the guards to punish you if you’re not.  Slaves ask permission of free people, and they don’t make demands!  You should ask me if you could make a deposit, not tell me that you’d like to make one. Now, get out of here, and don’t come back until you’ve learned some respect.”

“But I only wanted….”

“Do I need to call the guard, boy?”  She was glaring at me, and the only thing I could do was to slink away and leave.  I spoke to some of the slaves in the queue, and learned the correct form. Then I had another thirty minute wait before I was again inside and at the counter.

“Please, ma’am, I began, and waited until she acknowledged me.  “May I make a deposit into my social servant savings account?”

“That’s better, boy!  What’s your number?”

“Please, ma’am, I don’t remember… Can you look it up?  I’m Steve Masters…..”

“You slaves are always trying to cause work for free people!  Just this once I’ll get your number, but in future you had better know it off by heart.  And you’re not ‘Steve Masters’ or any other name like that – the Social Servant Savings System only records your SIN, as many masters choose to re-name their social servants during their servitude, and the names they were known by before are irrelevant.  Now, lift up your arm….”

I’d forgotten almost, as the trauma of having the giant “Slave” and “Steve” tattooed on me had been so great, but at the same time they’d tattooed my ten-digit Servant Identification Number under my arm, high up in my pit.  The idea was, I suppose, that masters who didn’t want their servants visibly tattooed need never see it normally, but that police or members of the Servant Security Corps could always identify a slave quickly and easily.  I suppose I’d noticed it on the other guys as we’d showered together, or I was right close to, sniffing or licking their pits, but it was  so much “part of life” that it was easy to overlook it.  Actually, they didn’t just tattoo your number there – underneath it was another one, being those kind of barcodes that they put on all the stuff in stores and markets.

The woman leaned forward holding her portable barcode reader, and “scanned” me.  It made me feel just like some sort of piece of merchandise, rather than a human being.  They had no right to mark men like animals or stuff in stores!  But, on the other hand, I guess it was convenient – I’d always had problems remembering my Social Security number when I was free, and had to have it on a slip of paper in my wallet – at least this way there was no way I could go out without it or forget it!

The clerk’s screen beeped, she looked at it and said “Yes, I believe you’re the slave I have here….”  I could see the screen, obliquely, and at once started to blush:  my SIN had called up the pictures from the central database, and of course those picture were the ones of my full frontal back and front shots.  I could see the woman’s eyes raking my body in its skimpy shorts and tight top, and she went on “You’re one handsome buck, I must say!  But perhaps I’d better check completely, as the US Postal Service can’t be too careful in its trusteeship of Social Servants’ funds – we have a responsibility to keep them safe, for when your period of indenture is over.  Perhaps I’d better check your body completely against the picture…. So just drop those shorts, boy, so I can get a proper look…”

“Please, ma’am…. I’m sure I am the guy you have there…. Surely the US Postal Service doesn’t require men to be humiliated….”

“Boy, you’re in serious danger of having me call the guard to punish you!  Your reluctance to present yourself for a positive identity check makes me think that you might be trying to impersonate a slave…. ”

“Look, forget it….”

“Not so fast, boy!  You can’t just walk out of here now.  In fact, wanting to implies that you are up to no good.  Now, drop those shorts whilst I check….”

“NO, ma’am, I’m out of here….”

She reached down and pressed something, and a siren started.  Two guards rushed in, holding those prod things in front of them.  They looked at me and held them pointed towards me, as the woman said “Officers, this boy here is potentially trying to defraud the US Post Office… He refuses to strip so that I can properly verify his identity against the Social Servant database…”

“Is that so, boy?”, one of the guards growled.  “We don’t like uppity slaves here.  This is US Government property, and slave scum needs to behave….   Now, hands behind your head….”

He waved his prod at me as he said this, so I stood there and did as he’d said.  The other guard came and stood behind me, then just pulled my shorts down to my knees. I felt utterly humiliated by this, having  a man strip me like that in front of this middle-aged woman, but worse was to come… He casually reached around my body and sort of “flipped up” my dick, from where it had been pressing against my balls.  Only I had ever done that, and even in a public changing room I’d kind of turned away from the other guys as I did it.

All three of them were clearly enjoying the spectacle, and the first guard said “So, is he an impostor, or have you seen enough?”

The woman laughed.  “Yes, I’ve seen enough.  And I guess that’s all I’m going to do, get a look at him! He looks like some high-class piece of slave flesh to me, so I don’t suppose his owner would lend him out to a bored, lonely lady like me….”

“…. Or a bored, lonely guy like me, either!”, the guard added.

“Right, boy, how much do you want to deposit?”  The woman asked.

I went to pull up my shorts, but the guard put out a hand to stop me.  “Fucking slave, answer a free person when she asks you a question!”

“Please, ma’am, fifty.”

I had to stand there whilst she tapped away into her screen.  In my free life I’d sometimes seethed with rage as I’d had to queue in a Post Office then had surly officials deal with my business in a way that no commercial organisation would allow its staff to do, but this really was the end – as a slave I knew I had no rights, and there wasn’t even anyone I could complain to about their attitude.

All three of them were enjoying my evident discomfort, and the guard asked “Do you need him erect, to make a final check?”

The woman peered at me, then told the guard “No, the size of that thing – it’s scary enough like that.  If you erected him, there’d be no room in here for all of us!”

They all laughed, and with a gesture of dismissal I knew I could pull up my shorts, and still blushing, but now seething with anger inside, too,  I was able to leave.  Back at base I told some of the other guys about this, and they all laughed.  “Don’t worry, Steve – it’s just a little ritual hazing”, Ray told me. “The first time we all went in there to add to our accounts we had to strip, but it’s only a bit of fun for her – it’s not great just doing a job like that, day in and day out, you know.  She’s OK, actually – be properly respectful next time you go in, and she’ll just take the money and you’ll be straight out.”

“Yes, but why…?”  I asked.  I wished I could be as calm and placid as Ray!

“Why not?  Look, Steve, you forget:  she’s a free woman, the guards are free men:  people in those kinds of position in government service often exercise petty little tyrannies over ordinary citizens at the best of times – give them a bit of power, a set of rules, and a uniform, and they’re off!  But when they’re presented with a Social Servant, one with no power, no rights… Well, what do you expect?  Just learn to put up with it – nothing you or I can do can change the system, you know.”

Ray didn’t seem particularly worried about it, and most of the other guys seemed to expect to be treated this way, so I kind of forgot it for the time being – but it didn’t seem right, somehow: I mean, guys have to be punished, sure.  And Social Service is a whole lot better way of making the guilty serve society, rather than have theme locked up in prison.  But why all this humiliation too?  I guess I hadn’t yet understood that it’s a basic thing in the human personality – those in charge get a bigger kick if they can also humiliate the people they’re in charge of – being able to order things just isn’t enough for some people, they have to rub your nose in it, too.


I guess I was lucky with my first few clients.  None of them wanted to do anything particularly kinky, and I didn’t even get fucked.  They were mostly older guys, who just wanted to play with my body a bit, then do some mutual jerking off.  Then one night the receptionist told me that I’d been booked for a new client, and when I asked who he’d been with before so I could go and ask the guys what he was like, I was told that he had not done business before.  “Mind you”, the slave told me, “He must be fairly high-up in his corporation, as he’s on the executive floor of the Towers – and you usually have to be a senior VP to justify that kind of expenditure.”

I therefore went off expecting another easy ride – senior VPs were probably older, and  he’d be like my first few clients.  A bit of fumbling around, a quick jerk off, and I’d be back before ten, I thought.  The doorman and concierge at the Towers were pretty snooty as usual – it wasn’t my fault, after all, that one of their guests had decided he wanted to call in a pleasure slave!  They insisted that I take the fire stairs up to the  thirty-sixth floor, as slaves were not allowed to mingle with the guests in the elevators, and I had to be pretty forceful on insisting that they let me through to use the service elevators instead, pointing out their guest would hardly be pleased if I couldn’t perform!  (well, I was as insistent  as a slave could be when dealing with a free man – you could tell that the Towers was a real swanky place, as the doorman and concierge were both free men and not slaves, as you might expect in these kind of jobs).

I knocked at the door of the suite, and it was opened.  There was a guy in his mid-thirties there, talking on the phone.   He waved me in, still talking, and carried on with his conversation for what must have been at least thirty minutes.  I guessed I was going to be in trouble:  he sounded pretty forceful as he harangued and snapped at the people at the other end of the line, and he sounded as if he was used to giving orders, and to being obeyed.  And he was in pretty good shape, too:  he was wearing a loose sweat top and as he spoke, he occasionally reached up under it to stroke his belly, revealing a pretty firm six pack.  This was not going to be an easy jerk-off session:  this guy would, I thought, expect to fuck, and to fuck hard.  I kind of tried to push these thoughts from my brain – after all, it was going to happen one day, sooner rather than later, that I was going to get fucked, and he looked a nice enough guy at least.

I’d been standing up, trying not to look nervous, and trying not to look as if I was prying into his affairs as he was speaking – you know how it is, you can focus your eyes on the mid-distance and not keep staring around:  that way it doesn’t look as if you’re prying, or listening.  When he did finish he did something none of the other clients had done – he almost strode across the room, with tremendous vitality, put out his hand and said “Hi, I’m Scott.”

“Steve, Sir.”

“Hey, Steve, no need for formality here – bearing in mind what we’re going to do, calling me ‘sir’ is a bit unnecessary!  Scott will do.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

“So what’s the form here, Steve?  I’m pretty new to all of this.  What do we do?”

“Whatever you want, Scott.  You’ve paid for me until tomorrow morning, so we can do what ever you like. You just tell me what you want to do, then we do it. You’re the client, you’ve paid the money, and you get to do what you want.”


“Well, I guess so, yes.  Except violent stuff – you can’t beat me up, break an arm, anything like that. But anything else, I guess you can mostly do what you want:  fuck me, piss on me, whatever….”

“I don’t know, Steve – look, help me out here, buddy. What do clients usually do?  I’m new to it all… I’ve mostly worked overseas for the last few years, and have just come back to my company for a job in the US as the next career step.  All this ideas of hiring slaves for sex – male slaves, that is – is a bit strange.  You wouldn’t be here now if my PA hadn’t called ahead and booked one for me, thinking that that’s what all VPs did….”

“Well, Scott, I’m new to it too, relatively.  Until I was convicted and sentenced as a Social Servant – slave, as they say – I’d never had sex with another guy.  And it never occurred to me that you could hire a slave for sex, either.  I thought prostitutes were women, and hung around on street corners..  But they told me that a lot of corporations now buy our services for their executives ,as it avoids problems: the executives are less stressed if they have sex whilst they’re having to travel and stay away.  And they use men as otherwise their girl friends and wives would get jealous.  Just hiring a male stud for a night isn’t likely to lead to tangled complicated problems with breaking up relationships.”

“Yes, OK, I know the social theory.  There  have been several articles on it recently in Business Week.  But what do the guys actually do.. You know… How do we start?”

“Well, Scott, I guess we just take our clothes off, sit or lie on the bed, start fooling around… If you want to start kissing, you can, but some guys don’t like kissing slaves, so if you don’t want to do that, that’s OK… Then we mess around with our dicks, feel each others bodies, then you can fuck me if you want…. We just start, and you take it where you want to go.”

“And you don’t mind, Steve?”

“That’s not really the point, is it, Scott?.  You’re the client, you’ve paid the money.  I’m the slave…. I do what ever you want.”

“No, Steve, you’ve got to help me out here… I’ve never been with another guy before….”  Scott was blushing as he said this, as if he was embarrassed somehow, in spite of so evidently being in charge in his business life, and a big executive.   I wondered when had been the last time that anything had embarrassed him!

“Look, Scott, that’s OK.  I hadn’t been with a guy before I was enslaved, either.  But they saw me, saw that I’d got a nice body, and bought my contract to use me as a pleasure salve.”

“So what’s it like?”

“Being a pleasure slave?  Well…”

“No… What’s it like fucking other guys?”

“Better than fucking women, actually.  And I’d never have thought I’d have said that – I was a bit of a stud, you know…. Used to scoff at the fags, all the usual bullshit.  Then I was made to do it as a slave, and now…. Well, as I said, it’s a lot better… You can relate to another guy a lot better, and his body’s nicer….”

“So you think I’ll like it, then?”

“Well you should.. I think I will, as you seem to be in shape… A lot of the guys they sell me off   to are pretty flabby….  You must work out a lot?”

“I like to keep in shape.  And, actually, that’s one of the problems of this place:  nice rooms, great location, good restaurant.  But a crappy gym, and no pool – I guess they think they’re dealing with senior executives who’ve lost the habit of working out!  They only have two running machines, and they’re both useless, and in some small poky space with  no fresh air.   I’d have gone running, but it really put me off.”

“You could run around here, Scott, outside – there are some great parks  wit  trails…”

“No, they warn you against that.   They say there’s a risk of muggers….”

“Not for a stud like you, Scott, if I may say so. Even if you didn’t out run them, you look a pretty fit guy who could show a mugger thing or two.  IF there are any, which  I doubt, they’re usually only kids.  I run around here all the time, and I’ve never had any problems.”

“So, Steve, you know what I’d really like to do?  I’d like to go for a run, a proper run, a real workout”

“Sure, Scott.  No problem….

Scott turned and didn’t seem at all embarrassed at having me watch him as he slipped out of his slacks and boxers and pulled on running shorts – proper running shorts, I noticed, not those kind of casual things you see guys who are not serious about it using.  They were quite high on the sides, made of light silky material, and had a mesh pouch inside to keep his dick and balls safe.  He turned around as he pulled them on, so I didn’t then see his dick, but his butt was nicely rounded and firmly muscled.

We went down in the elevator, and seeing two in-shape guys, both fairly skimpily dressed, the elevator boy at first thought we were both slaves, and went to stop us getting in.

It was great.  The cool night air made running a pleasure, and the trials through the city parks were e all empty of other runners, so we weren’t held up at all.  Scott and I were fairly evenly matched, too, in terms of our stride length and so it was easy to keep up a good pace together without the constant need for little adjustments and the adding of additional steps every now and then – we were able to run in proper synchronisation.  Of course I was, overall, much fitter than him, and after a few miles when he was breathing hard, I was still relatively fresh.

When we got back to the hotel he was drenched in sweat and breathing really hard, and we went over to the elevator bank for the executive floor.  Suddenly, I heard the concierge shout “Hey, you fucking slaves… I’ve told you before that those elevators are for guests.  You slave scum go around to the service elevators, now move, before I come and get a guard to take you outside and give you a good thrashing.”

Scott was slow to react as he stood there breathing hard, or  perhaps it just didn’t occur to him that the concierge could possibly be speaking to him!  He perhaps had not noticed that me in my tiny shorts and singlet that revealed my belly was not so unlike him in his brief running shorts and vest.

“Hey…. You two… Get away from those elevators!”, the concierge shouted again, as the car arrived and we were about to get in.  He came pounding over across the lobby, put his hand on Scott’s shoulder and went to pull him away.  Without even seeming to notice it, Scott whirled around and punched the guy, knocking him to the ground.  The concierge sat there on the marble floor, looking winded, and spluttered “Fucking slave – I’ll have you whipped for that…. ”

“Mind your manners!”, Scott snapped. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life… Being called a slave, and having a hotel employee dare to lay hands on me.  I’ve a good mind to call the manager and have you fired! And when the hotel realises how much damages I’ll be demanding from them for this outrage, I think they’ll come after you, too – manhandling the guests is not part of your formal job description, is it?”

The concierge evidently saw his mistake, and how much trouble he potentially was in, as he started to stammer “Sorry, sir….  But I mistook you for a slave… I’ve already told that slave with you, sir, that he had to use the service elevator…”

Without saying another word, Scott put his arm around my shoulder in a kind of gesture of solidarity, and shepherded me into the elevator.   “Sorry about that, Steve… I didn’t realise they treated slaves like shit…”

“Don’t apologise, Scott – it happens all the time. Just because you’ve been sentenced to Social Service, free men seem to think they can treat you like  treat you like dirt.   You get used to it after a time.”  “Still, I don’t think it’s right, Steve.  You and I, we were running together, just two guys working out, we’re no different really….”

“Oh we are, Scott!  You’ve got a job, money, position… And you know what they call me – slave – well, that’s what I am, for the next ten years.”

The elevator stopped, and we went along the  wide corridor to Scott’s room, which he opened.  As soon as we were inside I sensed he became less confident, more awkward.  The Scott who’d put the concierge in his place was now worried about what to do wit the slave, I sensed.  I remembered about what Ray had said about making sure the client had a good time, though, and clearly a worried, apprehensive client wouldn’t be enjoying it much.  And anyway, I liked Scott, somehow – he’d treated me right, at least so far.  So as he stood there, uncertainly, I pulled off my top and saw his eyes widen as he saw the words tattooed all over me.  Then, before he could stop me, I reached down for the bottom hem of his running vest, and pulled it up over his head.  He really did have a trim body – nice firm pecs with big brown aureoles with nice tits jutting out of them, and a pleasant thatch of hair that gave way to a treasure trail running across is hard belly.    I stepped forward and put my arms around him, pulling us close together so that our bodies were in close contact.  I didn’t know if he was in to kissing guys, and whether it might scare him, so I nuzzled my lips into that area between his neck and his shoulder, pulling his head down to the same area on me.  I got the delicious salty taste of his sweat overlaying the faint taste of the soap he used to shower, and as he started to murmur “Oh, yes….”, I reached down and cupped his dick and balls with my hand, outside his shorts.

I felt him come hard as I was doing, too, so I pushed us apart a little so that I could push his shorts off, following them by mine.  I pulled him close to me again, this time by putting my hands on his butt, and our dicks touched.  Scott was  getting really excited now, as his hands were running up and down my back and butt, and he’d started to moan quietly, as if he was really enjoying it.    I carried on nuzzling his neck a bit, then pushed my head down to one of those fine firm tits of his and started to tease it with my tongue and nibble it, very gently.   Scott’s whole body jerked almost convulsively as he did this, and his erect dick moved almost as if it was connected to his nip by some sort of remote control!  I pushed us gently backwards towards the bed, then down on to it, positioning my body over his but taking most of my weight on my elbows.

Our legs thrashed together, and I pushed my thigh up gently so that his balls and ass hole were resting on my sweaty skin.   Scott was moaning in real ecstasy now, and I stopped,  and pushed myself upwards on my hands, so that I was looking down at him.   He opened his eyes and looked up at me.  “So, Scott.. .this is what guys do together… OK, is it?”

“Fucking great, Steve… Why did you stop?”

“Well you said you’d never been with another guy before… I wanted to make sure you were OK with it” I was lying, of course, as I could tell by the whole way he was acting that he was perfectly OK with it! But I thought it might give him some reassurance…”

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, we could carry on like this, just rubbing and stroking.  Or you could tell me to give you a blow job.  OR you could order me to lie down,  so you could fuck me….  It’s up to you, Scott…”

“No, Steve… You carry on….”  There was something in the tone of his voice that conveyed interest, pleasure, and somehow, worry.  I don’t know why, but something told me that he really did want me to take charge, something that my previous clients had not wanted as they needed to remain in control.    I started playing with his body again, sliding my tongue right down his body, probing his navel with it until he squirmed and squealed with delight, the in taking his dick in my mouth and playing with it until his body started to jerk it almost convulsively up and down, ass if he wanted to fuck it.  But he seemed to be enjoying having my body on top of his, and made no move to taker an active part in proceedings.  Getting bolder by the moment, I  leapt up and straddled his body, my knees on either side of his chest and my dick almost scraping the surface of it.  Then I shuffled forward, pinning his shoulders to the bed, and pushed his hands above his head, where I held them with my own.

“Right, Scott… Open your mouth…. “, I whispered, not loudly, but in a tone which indicated that there was to be no argument.

He did so, opening his eyes wide to look up at me, then as my dick approached, he turned his head sideways, as if to avoid it.  “Stop that!”, I snapped.  “Here comes my dick, you want to taste it, don’t you?”  I reinforced my message by kicking my heels into his ribs, that made his body jerk a little.  It wasn’t enough to really hurt, but I thought it would serve to show him that I was in charge here.  Then, slowly and gently, I lowered the tip of my dick down into his mouth, and was rewarded by feeling his tongue start to tease it, his lips to close around it, and him begin to suck it almost convulsively.

I gently fucked his mouth for a few minutes, not pushing in enough to make him choke or anything.  But with his hands and shoulders pinioned and my dick in him, it was enough to show him that I was in charge and I could do what I liked with him, if I wanted to.   After a time I pulled out and gripped his two hands with one of mine, using the other one to start to stroke my dick..  I then ran it over his face, being gratified to see how he moved his head and tongue as if in a desperate attempt to get it back in his mouth, almost as if it belonged there.  “Do you want to take my dick, again, Scott?  Do you want to suck it, cocksucker?”

“Yes…”, he moaned.

I decided to deny him, so as he opened his eyes to watch, I began to stroke my dick again, and felt myself getting ready to shoot.  At the last moment I pointed my dick down into his mouth, so that it filled with my cum.

In that time after you’ve shot, those moments when the whole world stops and your body relaxes, I started to worry about what I’d done!  I’d started off by wanting to show Scott that I was in charge, but I feared that I’d definitely gone too far!  This guy was a virgin, and I’d filled his mouth with my cum.  I could see myself getting very, very bad feedback from this!  Not really knowing why, I scudded my knees back down the length of his body, freeing his shoulders, then keeping my weight mostly on my elbows again, bend my head to his and kissed him deeply.  He responded instantly, his tongue beating against mine, and I f tasted that unmistakable salt flavour of my cum mixed with his saliva.  My ass was hovering over his dick and I lowered myself as I carried on kissing, and he thrust upwards, so that his dick was rubbing against my hole:  it was evidently very enjoyable for both of us, as the intensity and passion of our kissed intensified.

When I pulled away from his mouth, I moved to kneel on the floor, pulling him towards the edge of the bed a bit, then I put my head down to his dick and started to suck him.  My hands stroked up and down the length of his body, and he was moaning in ecstasy, his pelvis arching up and down as if he was determined to help me make him cum.  I tasted again that salty taste, and, almost as explosively as I had, Scott shot his load into my mouth.

I got up then, and went to lie beside him.  We were both smiling and almost laughing with the fun we’d had, and just lay together for a time, sometimes stroking and caressing each other a little, and sometimes just lying in that companionable closeness that you only get when two guys have just had sex together.

“So how was that for a first time, Scott?”, I finally asked.  I must confess, I was concerned about my user feedback a little!

“Fucking amazing, Steve!  I never knew that doing it with a guy could be so much fun.  I’ve had a blow job before… But with another guy it’s, well, different, so much better.  I guess another guy knows what you want, in a way that a woman can’t as she’s got no ideas how a dick really feels as you get close to climax….”

“So it was OK?

“Yes, better than that…. “.  His voice lowered, he kind of moved closer to me a bit, then went on “Look, Steve, I wouldn’t tell anyone else….”

He went quiet, and I whispered “It’s OK, Scott – you can say anything you like now: we don’t need to have secrets;  you can be honest with a guy you’ve just had sex with, you know.”

“Well, Steve, thank you.  That’s all  I wanted to say.  Thank you – for taking charge…. Look, I was terrified I’d do the wrong thing, somehow.  I didn’t, did I?”

“No, of course not.  You were just natural.  That’s fine, that’s how it should be, that’s the best kind of sex.”

“Well, Steve, it’s like this – all my life I’ve had to take charge of things.  I have to order and direct everything.  It’s always me in charge, I’m responsible.  Even when I’m fucking my girl friend, it’s the same – she wants me to do everything , whilst she just lies there.  I don’t mind…. really.  But this was different… different and better.  You made all the running, Steve.  You took control.,  You were in charge.  I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years.”

“Look, he went on, after a moment or two as he’d had to take a break as he was obviously saying something important and emotional.  “I wouldn’t want you to think I hate my job or anything, but the responsibility is awesome sometimes, and, as I say, it’s always me who has to decide things, always me who plans and manages what’s going on.  Lying here with you is so different, as I can just turn off – well, not turn off, exactly, as I want to experience every second of it, experience it fully…. But I don’t have to decide anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to plan where it’s all going – you do all that, Steve ,and it’s fucking fantastic for me.”

I learned a valuable lesson at that point – that guys who look big and tough and strong and important aren’t necessarily like that all the time.   I guess everyone needs a change from time to time.  We lay there together in silence for about half an hour, then he gently pushed me away, and sat up.  I saw at once that something had happened, that there was the Scott that I’d seen at first, when he was on the phone.  He was back in charge.

“OK, Steve.  Thanks.  They said the bill went directly to my company’s accounts department…”

“Yes, sir.  But I’ve been booked for  all night… Do you want me to stay?”

“No – I’ve got an early start tomorrow, and some stuff I’ve got to get through on my PC.  But thanks for the run… and everything….”  He was being almost brusquely dismissive, almost as if I was an employee of his, and not someone with whom he’d just had intimate man-to-man sex.

“Scott, sir… Would you mind filling in my evaluation sheet, please?”  I asked as I pulled on my tiny short and top.  He took it from me, scanned it quickly, then, to my joy, ticked a “1” and added the one word “superb”.

“Do you get paid on this?  We have an incentive scheme like this for our sales force, and if they get better than a two average, they get a  bonus…”

“Not quite!  If I get worse than a three on average in any moth, I get whipped!”

“Interesting!  I must mention that to my HR department next time they come talking to me about incentive schemes!”.  He was smiling now, ands I smiled back. “But you get nothing else?”

“No.  Some clients give us a tip, and I can save that for when I get my freedom.”

“Of course…. Here…..”  He opened his wallet, and gave me two fifties.

“No, Scott… That’s too much.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Steve!  You don’t look like an idiot to me!  I can’t spend all the money  I earn, as I’m always too busy.. And you’re a nice guy, and you’ll need it one day… Here, take it. ”

I smiled, and without thinking about it, went and hugged him in that kind of guy-to-guy embrace that guys who are friends can do to each other.

“Thanks, Steve…. That was really nice. Now, I’m swinging back through next week – in fact, I’ll be here most weeks as I’ve picked up responsibility for the local plant, which is deep in the shit… How do I get you again?”

“Just make a booking, and the earlier the better, as they take them on ‘first come, first served.'”

“Or should that be ‘first cum’?”, he quipped, as he showed me out of the door.

[columns] [span3]


Pete Brown – the interview with the author



Pleasure Slave (all chapters)



Overview Pete Brown stories



Kinky Art by Theo Blaze