A kinky story written by Pete Brown | Chapter 22
It didn’t take long for the other slaves to catch on that Joe and Andy were an “item”, and there was a lot of ribald joking at first about cradle snatching and stuff like that, which Andy just shrugged off, but where Joe needed to slap some of them (not all that hard) – perhaps he saw there was that ring of truth in what they were saying? Andy’s behaviour improved immeasurably, though – he worked away in the kitchens (I was going to say “worked like a slave”, to give the thing a charming early-in-the century flavour, but we all expect slaves to work hard now, don’t we?). And when he wasn’t needed in the kitchens, Andy spent all his time hovering around Joe, and as Joe spent most of his time exercising the slaves around our assault course, Andy naturally was there an awful lot.
He’d shown considerable prowess in some of the things on the course, as I’ve said, although the stuff that needed raw strength was beyond him. But he seemed to revel in using his wiry body to its best advantage, and he often openly taunted some of the others, saying they could fuck him if they could catch him, and then raced away up a rope, knowing he was so much better than they at that kind of thing.
One night a few weeks later I’d just fucked Joe and we were lying there companionably enjoying those sensations you have after a vigorous bout of sex – feeling the sweat of the other bloke, laughing a bit, touching each other, all that sort of stuff – when Joe stopped “playing”. Inwardly I thought to myself “Oh fuck – something’s gone wrong between him and Andy” and saw problems looming. It’s one of the problems of owning slaves, I suppose – you think they’re going to make life easier for you, but for every bit of effort they take out of the system, there’s a fresh lot of stuff waiting to happen – and much of it is a lot harder to deal with! I mean, training the other slaves is tough, hard work, but if I needed to, I could easily do that myself. But sorting out slaves’ love life is a wholly different, and more complex, ball game. I had enough problems with my own tangled love, after all, without needing Joe’s.
But it turned out not to be that. “Steve”, he said, tickling my balls to make us seem even closer together. “Young Andy….. He’s been really good lately, hasn’t he? Co-operative, hard working, not losing his temper….?”
“I suppose so. You’re a good influence on him, Joe…”
“Well I think he deserves a reward. Look, he adores football, and the one thing that kept him going as he was growing up was to be able to play it, and watch it on TV. Now he’s a slave he can’t do that, as there’s no TV here… And it really makes him miserable. He follows one of those Scottish clubs – Celtic or Rangers, I can never remember which – and he goes through the house rubbish bins every Monday morning to get the Sunday papers to read the football reports, and then Monday nights he and some of the other slaves can be a real pain as they sit around going through the matches, and trying to imagine what they were like.”
“Whoa, Joe. ‘Deserves a reward’? He’s just starting to behave as a slave ought. I don’t reward slaves for behaving properly.”
“You forget what he was like, Steve. But skip Andy for a moment, and think about some of the other slaves – there’s been a real change of attitude from some of them since Andy started talking about football on Mondays. Sure, they were accepting the training, but they could be miserable and moody – and now that they’ve got something to talk about together and be interested in, there’s much more of a kind of esprit de corps, you might call it. And I reckon they all work harder, and they look happier, so they show better. Happy slaves are good for your business, sir.”
“So your point is?”
“If you put a TV in the barn, sir, all the slaves could watch football, and it would make for a happier place, with everyone working even harder….”
“Absolutely not, Joe! Before you know it, they’d all be spending their time watching the soaps, and old movies, and, heaven forbid, all those discussion programmes where they keep banging on about the ethics of slavery and what a bad thing it is, and all that crap. The first lot would make them idle, and the discussions might make them rebellious if they see that not everyone is in favour of it….”
“You trust me, don’t you, sir?”
“You know I do, Joe.”
“Well then, put a lock on it, and let me keep the key! I’ll only let them watch football – and, well, other sport too, I suppose – the Olympics, Wimbledon, perhaps the snooker, and of course Cruft’s.”
“I trust you, Joe, you know I do. But I reckon they’d be constantly be badgering and wheedling you to let them see ‘one more programme’ – I’ve seen how Dan and Julie’s boys are when they know what their bedtime is supposed to be, but they always want to watch a bit more…. And slaves are very much like kids in that respect.”
Joe dug his elbow in my ribs, making me give a little squeal of laughter. “Steve, you’re forgetting one thing – Andy is sports mad, and would want to watch it all. But all the time he’s stuck in front of the TV at night he wouldn’t be with me…. When I’m not with you, that is! So I reckon I’m pretty well motivated to make sure the TV’s off as early as possible every evening….”
We laughed together, and in fact I did install a big TV, and paid the outrageous fees to get the dedicated sports channels. And, indeed, the slaves did appear to be happier, and work harder, and “show” better. I reckon it did wonders for Andy, too – he was always a bit shy deep down and over compensated for it with aggressiveness, and that’s probably also why he was so foul mouthed and abusive. But when it came to football, all that changed – he was “an authority”, knowing all the players, their history, the clubs, their records, and all the stuff they did on the pitch. So before, during and after a match on TV it was Andy who was arguing with the others, Andy leaping about cheering when “his” men won, or when he was proven right about some subtle point of tactics, and him who was at the forefront of the often heated arguments at the end of the matches.
In all this turmoil with Joe and Andy you’ll notice that I haven’t said all that much about Dan and me – it’s not that there’s not anything to say, more that it’s repetitive. We were a bit like a long-married couple: we worked together and had interests in common, and then occasionally, when we could get away, we had sex. And it was good sex, too – well, not passionate and all consuming, as it had been when we first started fucking, but competent and enjoyable. We were so discreet, as we certainly didn’t want to upset Julie – Dan because he loved his wife, and me because I had a huge respect for her, liked her very much, and certainly didn’t want to see her hurt in any way. So I suppose we were in some ways like old-time lovers, conducting our torrid sex in hotel rooms around the country as we moved around from show to show, and then not touching, not stroking, not kissing, when we were “in the world”. In fact, some of the other trainers and people at shows used to joke about the fact that although our business was booming, as we were so successful that we could charge almost what we liked to get a slave in “show winning condition”, and our own owned slaves were consistently pulling in big prize money and could then be sold off at high profits, Dan and I still shared a room in the hotels we stayed at. In the bar, we’d often get comments that they thought funny, but where I felt like going and punching the bloke who made it – you know the kind of thing: “So that wife of yours makes you share a room with Steve, does she, Dan? I suppose she doesn’t trust you, and wants to make sure you don’t ‘pull’ and take the woman back….”. It’s laughable, really, that these men’s prejudices were so deep-seated that they couldn’t even conceive that we might be sharing a room so we could fuck!
We were basically comfortable, settled in our ways, and, some might say “had it all”, or, at least, had all that was readily available without making a major upset in other people’s lives. Funnily enough, Dan and I never talked about this – it was, I suppose, as if we wanted the outside world to go away when we were in bed together.
Life was jogging along, and then one day Joe used the time after sex to make another request. As we lay together, feeling our racing hearts start to slow, Joe said “Can I ask you another favour, Steve?”
“Well, the TV for the slaves was a big success…..”
“…. And now you want to give them a bar, or free women, or….?”
“No, Steve. It’s Andy. He needs something to keep him interested…”
“And that TV and the football isn’t enough?”
“He’s a bright lad, Steve. He just never had the chances. I reckon he’d have done well at school if he hadn’t been constantly moved around and so on. He works hard enough in the kitchen, as you know, but he needs something ‘stimulating’ to do as well.”
“And your cock isn’t ‘stimulating’ enough?”
“No, the sex is great. But a lot of nights I’m here with you. And then he ‘strays’ a bit – he thinks I don’t know that he goes off with some of the other slaves.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“Steve, he’s sixteen! His juices are flowing as fast as they ever will do. It’s natural for men of that age to want to use their cocks, to fuck and fuck and fuck….. There’s no point in trying to oppose mother nature, is there?”
“I think you do care, Joe, and you’re just putting a brave face on it…”
“No, honestly, I don’t. He’s sensible enough not to allow anyone else to fuck him, so he’s always ready for my cock whenever I can get to him. So where’s the harm in him giving his cock some exercise? To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether he just wanks with some of the others, or if he fucks them – but it’s all pretty harmless and natural, isn’t it? It’s not as if he loves them, like he does me: they’re just having sex, not making love.”
“Joe, I think you’re deluding yourself. Some people don’t know the difference, or they think they do, then let the boundaries blur…. But then, you don’t think I know a anything about stuff like this, so I’ll keep quiet. But take care, Joe, take care not to get hurt….. So what the fuck is it you want anyway?”
“Well I reckon he needs a real interest, something that he, Andy, can do, something where he’s better than all the rest. And the obvious thing is ‘agility’ – you’ve seen him go up the ropes and things, like a monkey almost, and I reckon that if he was in the agility competitions he’d win a lot of them…”
“We don’t do that kind of training, you know that. Forget it.”
“But Steve, it wouldn’t be a problem, and it wouldn’t cost much: we’ve got a lot of equipment here, and we could easily make a few bits of stuff like they use in the shows – some hurdles to leap over, a seesaw to run along, one of those sets of square frames to thread yourself through, and a ‘slalom’ set of poles to race around….” Joe was in his stride now, and I let him go on. “And it would be an interest for the other slaves, too – some of them could try it, and they could follow Andy’s progress, just as he takes an interest in them when they go off to shows. And it would do the kid good, Steve, to see a bit more of the world, to travel to the shows, get a broader perspective on life… It wouldn’t cost much, Steve – when we’re at a major show the cook doesn’t need help as so many of the guys are away with us. And Andy could sleep in the slave caravan with me….”
“It’s too much of a distraction for you, Joe. You’d spend all your time training Andy, and forget why I have you – to help train the other slaves.”
“I promise it wouldn’t, sir! Honest! In fact, I don’t know all that much about agility training – but some of the other slaves do, and, as I said, I reckon it would be good for them….”
“I’ll think about it then.”
“So does that mean ‘yes’, Steve?”
“No! It means that I will think about it. Now, what are we going to do about that cock of yours? I don’t want it stabbing into me all night…..”
Actually, of course, it wasn’t a bad idea: the slaves had benefited from the TV, and with another interest, it might improve matters even further. So the next morning I told Joe he could carry out a limited amount of work preparing an “agility” course, providing there was no expense and no time was lost from regular training operations. He beamed all over his face and promised there would be no disruption, but later that afternoon, when the slaves had finished their regular running of the course, I heard shouting – and some complaints – as Joe ordered them to start digging the holes for the posts for the slalom, and so on. The slaves were used to being able to go and shower at the end of their exercise period, and were not at first taking well to the idea that they should start heavy manual labour – Joe had to slap a couple of them to remind them he was boss, but after that they seemed to work away. And as Andy raced around inspecting everything and urging them on, some of them even started to smile a bit.
I never knew where Joe got the heavy posts and stuff from – I warned Dan to look at all the invoices form our suppliers especially carefully, but nothing was ever found. I had my suspicions that Joe “sold” time with some of the handsome young Scandinavians, who Essex blokes seem to particularly fancy, to the truck drivers who made regular deliveries to us, in exchange for goods “falling off their lorries”, but I could never prove anything. Still, most of those younger slaves really appreciated big burly truck drivers to pound it home up them, so no harm was done, I suppose.
Andy started to use all the various features as soon as they were ready, and he was particularly good at the “slalom”, where his wiry body could thread itself between the big posts without scraping his skin or anything. And on the suspended squares, he was fearless: that’s the one where four big wooden beams horizontally and four vertically are bolted together to make nine squares, the whole suspended about eight feet off the ground. The slave has to leap up to catch the bottom beam, haul himself up, and then snake his body through each of the squares in turn, before leaping down.
He began taunting the other slaves to follow him and try to catch him, as he did on the ropes, and most of the older, heavier slaves refused to rise to the bait. But a few of the younger ones, proud of their bodies and their supposedly perfect physiques, took up the challenge: after a time I had to tell Joe to forbid this, as they would bruise and scrape their skin on the slalom poles, and I was concerned that they would fall form the suspended squares as they chased after Andy.
Seeing that he could, uniquely, do some of the stuff that the others couldn’t, even though he was not anywhere as perfect in his physique as them, seemed to do wonders for Andy’s self confidence. Of course he pestered Joe, and me, whenever he got the chance to speak to me, to be allowed to go and compete in one of the local shows. Frankly, I got tired of hearing Joe in turn pressing Andy’s case whenever we were in bed, and although I could have stopped it, it seemed easier to give in.
We were showing some slaves at Manchester (by this time, almost all those we trained and showed were our own stock, who we were “bringing on” to re-sell), and I said that Andy could compete – reminding Joe that he was there not to help Andy, but to groom and prepare our show slaves as usual! I didn’t get to see his Andy’s performance as I was watching our show slaves in the ring and taking the opportunity to talk to dealers and potential buyers, but when we went back to the preparation and grooming area there he was with a certificate saying “First Prize – Agility, Juniors”. They couldn’t clip a rosette to his nipple, though, as it was just too small for the jaws of the clip to get a grip, and so it was attached to his collar. Some of the show slaves, even those who’d got prizes themselves, seemed genuinely delighted and were clustering around him, slapping him on the back and congratulating him: it looked odd to see this slip of a youth, in his tight shorts, surrounded by all those big studs, their cocks bouncing up and down as they moved around him – at this time, “agility” slaves, especially in the novice classes, wore shorts to prevent their cocks getting hurt as they hurled themselves around, whereas show slaves had now moved to be totally nude.
“It’s good to see the other slaves making such a fuss of Andy”, I told Joe. “You were right about the group dynamics thing….”
He just gave a long, slow smile, then added, when he saw me looking curious “Oh, yes. That too. But these blokes are the winners – they’re the ones who bet money on Andy taking a prize first time.”
Joe smiled again. “Well, not as such, as they don’t have money…. But, you know…. If there’s a bloke they fancy, and he won’t take cock as so many of them claim themselves as exclusive ‘tops’, they bet their arses! Some of those lucky blokes there are going to be up the arses of a slave they’ve wanted to fuck, when we get home….”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing….”
“Sir, it all adds interest. And no one makes a slave bet his arse, after all. They need to learn to take responsibility, and if they bet, they’ve got to learn to take the consequences. Anyway, there are very few genuine ‘tops’, are there, sir? I reckon there’s only you who’ll never take it…..”
“Mind you”, he went on, “It’s me that loses really – Andy’s bet on himself with two of the studs he really fancies, and so I’ll only get him crawling into bed with me after he’s had his way with them. And they won’t like it one little bit, as Andy always picks the toughest, older slaves and then makes them kneel for him ‘doggy style’….”
“Joe, I thought you and he….”
“Well we are, Sir. But you’ve got to remember that Andy’s still only seventeen, and he needs to fuck – and I don’t let him fuck me. So I shouldn’t complain if he goes after a good fuck every now and then – it’s only natural. It’s not as if there’s anything to it, after all: I know it’s me he wants to be with, and with the others it’s just sex.”
Well, Joe ran a pretty tight ship out there, so if he didn’t mind slaves betting their bodies, why should I care, I thought. Mind you, it did make me think of something else: I suppose I hadn’t really separated sex and “togetherness” in my mind until now, but I saw the parallels immediately. I loved Dan and fucked him, but he also fucked Julie and seemed to love her as well. So Dan and I had sex, but were we really “together”? Joe loved Andy, but I fucked Joe, and Joe didn’t seem to mind Andy fucking other men. And Andy loved Joe, but fucked other blokes but it “wasn’t serious”. It seemed all kinds of relationships were possible – which was best? Did it matter? Well, you can’t really puzzle stuff like that out in the middle of a crowded show hall, can you? So I stopped thinking about it and went back to watching the activity around me and receiving the congratulations of the other owners and trainers.
Joe looked as proud as a father who’d just seen his son get a place at university or something, and the following day, when we got home, Andy’s prize certificate was pinned to the wall above the bed he usually shared with Joe, and I was amused to see he’s put it above all of Joe’s own certificates (we allowed slaves to show their prize certificates like this as I think it gives them a sense of pride in their achievements, and it encourages them all as none of them want to be seen not to be winners so publicly. I’ve seen it when we’ve visited racing stables, too, where the horses all get to have their rosettes on the door of their stables, although quite why, I can’t imagine, as horses can’t be spurred on to greater competition as slaves can).
Andy had of course spent the night with Joe in our slave caravan after the show, and Dan and I were as usual in bed together in a hotel. We’d undressed, embraced, and kissed passionately, and then rolled around on the bed a bit, hugging each other, grabbing each others cocks, kissing some more, playing with each others nips, and generally “messing around” prior to the serious business of fucking. Remembering my thoughts earlier about “togetherness” and sex, I happened to say something to Dan about how happy I was to be with him, and “almost as happy as Joe seemed to be with Andy’s success”. I felt Dan’s body stiffen, and his whole manner seemed to change abruptly, and an air of sadness came over him.
“Dan, what’s the matter?” I thought about what I’d been thinking about earlier, and added “It’s not that we can’t be together all the time, is it? Can’t we just enjoy this….?”
He kissed me, holding my face tenderly in his hands, and gently rubbing his cock against mine as he knows I like that. “Oh Steve, Steve….. No, of course it’s not you, mate! I don’t want to spoil tonight – fuck knows, we have little enough time like this…. But I’m worried about Shane. And seeing Joe looking so proud about Andy earlier… So pleased with him that even you noticed it…. Oh, Steve, I wish Shane and me could be more like Joe and Andy….”
I fell silent. It was too painful. “Dan, you can’t mean it…. I thought you loved me…. You can’t want to fuck Shane….”
Dan roared with laughter, and grabbed hold of my nips and tweaked them, causing me to try to get away from him, and start laughing too. “No…. I’m always having to tell you how stupid you are, Steve! Of course I don’t want to fuck Shane: he’s my son! And of course I want to be with you, you know that.”
As usual, Dan avoided using the “L” word when talking about us, even though I’d used it. But he went on “It’s just that Julie and I are so worried about Shane: he used to be such a good kid, getting good marks, near the top of the class, popular with the other kids, liked by the teachers, happy, even! But recently he’s gone sullen, he’s not working properly at school and his marks have plummeted, we had a note asking us to go and see his class teacher about his behaviour – he’s apparently withdrawn…. She actually asked us if there was trouble at home that had caused the change in him, and when Julie and I said of course not, she then suggested we keep an eye open for drugs….”
“You don’t think he’s doing drugs, do you, Dan?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he’s drinking….”
“Well that’s OK, then – sounds pretty normal to me. Most sixteen year olds do, after all… I remember getting plastered once or twice when I was that age. It’s just a phase of growing up, like your first fuck.”
“Steve, shut up, will you? It’s not ‘normal’! You may have been the kind of wild kid that drank and fucked and everything, but I certainly wasn’t – my parents were nice middle-class people, like Julie and me, and Shane hasn’t been brought up that way. Anyway, what do you know about it? You don’t have kids.”
“No, Dan. But I train slaves. And a lot of them are just like kids – they can’t understand that there are rules, and if you break them, you get punished….”
“This isn’t about breaking the rules and getting punished! Shane’s unhappy, really unhappy, and I don’t know why. Julie’s tried asking him and he just turns away and goes to his bedroom. And I had him in my study this week for a ‘man to man’ talk, and he just sat there, saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and never volunteering anything…. We used to be so close, Steve, and now it’s as if he’s a stranger almost.”
“I listen to the radio when I’m driving to the shows, Dan, and I hear a lot of those programmes during the day about family life and such. I find myself sitting there thinking ‘silly bitch’ as some mother or other wails on about her son or daughter leaving home – and that’s only to go to university! That’s what’s supposed to happen, Dan: you’re meant to give your kids the self-confidence to go their own way, and I can never understand why the mothers aren’t pleased. I left home at sixteen, joined the army, as you know…. I didn’t ask my parents or anything, it was my decision….”
“As usual, because that’s what you did, that must be the right thing to do….”. Dan paused then, and lay close to me, and I could almost feel his worry and stress. “That’s what’s so good about you, Steve – you always know what’s right, even when it’s not. You don’t ever doubt yourself. You just get in there and start giving opinions, telling people what to do, organising things… But you’re not always right, not that you’d care – and I don’t think Shane wants to leave home or anything… He’s just so very unhappy.”
A wave of sadness swept over me. Dan was right, of course – I do know what’s right, generally. And I don’t suffer from self doubt, well, not openly. But that wasn’t it: I was sad because Dan was able at least to tackle Shane about something like this, whereas my dad and I never could; he and I just argued and fought, from the time I was thirteen until I left home. I suppose we were so alike, so sure we were both right all the time, that living in the same house was tough. And I’d never had the chance to tell him that, all these years later, I understood that he loved me really, even though he’d never said it or showed it. My dad loved me, just as Dan loved Shane, and that I’d loved dad, too, even though I was always rejecting everything he said and did. But neither of us could ever actually say that at the time, we were so wrapped up in “proving” that each of us was better, tougher, smarter, more of a “man” than the other.
“Shane’s so lucky to have you and Julie, Dan. He ought to know that….”
“He probably does, deep down. But this other thing, whatever it is, has taken over. I just hope he remembers Jules and me love him, love him to bits, and that it doesn’t matter what he does, he’ll always be our son….”
“Tell him, Dan. Tell him. I wish my dad….” But I couldn’t go on. A tear was running down my cheek, and I don’t cry.
I don’t think Dan noticed, as he was so wrapped up in his own worries. “Don’t you think I have? But he won’t talk to me, won’t discuss things….”
“I’ll do it then – I’ve know Shane since he was a baby, after all. He and I get on together….”
“No, Steve! You stay out of this. You’re a bit of an emotional cripple, you know! You’ll only make matters worse.”
“I only want to help….”
Dan was deadly serious now. “Steve, I know you do. And thank you. And if things go very wrong, there’s no one I’d rather have there, on our side, trying to fix things. But Jules and me and Shane have to work this out for ourselves. So promise me you won’t interfere, OK?”
Well, I didn’t know what to think. But I hugged Dan, kissed him, and whispered “OK. But if there is ever anything…..”
“Steve, you’re our best friend, you know that. And more than that, much more than that, to me…. I know you’d do anything I asked, and it’s a real comfort, believe me…. But wait, please.”
I hugged him again, and he clung to me as if in desperation. “Steve”, he eventually said in a small voice. “Steve, would you mind if we don’t fuck tonight? My mind’s not on it, mate…. But hold me, hold me tight, will you? When I’m with you the world doesn’t seem such a terrifying place… I just want be near you, Steve, feel you close to me, know you’re there for me….”
I hugged him again, and it didn’t seem as if I needed to say anything else. Having Dan say those things was worth more to me than any “mere” fucking!
Going back home the next day, though, I saw things were just a bit more complicated than “not doing anything”. Now that I’d been alerted to Shane’s behaviour I saw that he was indeed unhappy, or angry, or both. And once you’ve noticed something like that, it’s hard to react normally, and pretend everything’s OK. But I did my best, and I sat there fuming inwardly and impotently as Shane snarled at his mother when she asked him simple things like if he’d got everything ready for school, and when he and Dan had a real stand-up shouting match at each other one day when Dan had read his end of term report and the marks were right down again.
As we were driving together on a way to a show, Dan actually told me that he thought that our time together was one of the few things that enabled him to get through the week! “Every time I see Shane throwing away his chances, Steve, I want to hit him! I’m so furious, and then I’m furious at myself for being furious…. But he’s only got one shot at university, and if he goes on like this he’ll get terrible exam results, then he won’t be able to go….”
“Oh, you worry too much about things like that. He’s pretty bright, and when he’s acting normally, he’s really personable. Blokes like that will always get along…. Look at me!”
“….or get enslaved, like you! It’s harder and harder, Steve, to get a job, any job, without a degree. And no job, no money. No money…. Indenture.”
“You asked me not to interfere, Dan, and I haven’t. But, look, this weekend… Two nights together… Let’s just try to forget Shane, shall we? Let’s just be you and me, and when the door of that hotel room closes we’ll pull the curtains, unplug the phone, turn off our mobiles, and pretend we’re the only two people left on the planet….”
“If only life were that simple, Steve. But I reckon I need a break. So I’ll try. And let’s play the game, shall we? We haven’t done that for years… That might take my mind off things….”
I looked across at him for a moment, and a slow smile spread across my face. “I thought you’d forgotten that…”
Well, “The Slave Game”, as we called it, was what we used to do in the early years, after I’d been freed but when, as it sometimes does, even the greatest sex starts to bore just a bit. And after we’d checked into the hotel once all the slaves had been fed and were locked securely in their caravan, I felt my heart begin to race as we went up the steps into the hotel reception.
Firstly, Dan did all the checking in, and I knew that I had to stand back from the reception desk, and even keep my head bowed, looking at the floor in front of me. Then Dan turned and walked to the stairs, without saying anything to me, and I was expected to pick up his overnight bag as well as my own, and follow him along the corridor. Once we were in the room and the door was closed and locked, Dan snapped “On your knees, slave boy!”
I had to kneel in front of him, and then came the part that I found unbelievably erotic each time it happened – Dan got my old chain collar from his pocket and slipped it around my neck, closing the clasp behind. It could only be removed when Dan used the special key, and as the cold metal touched my bare skin I once again felt that indescribable sensation of being under another man’s control, as I had that first time a collar closed around me. But there was no time to think about that. “You fucking slave”, Dan hissed. “How dare you kneel there in men’s clothing. Get naked, get naked at once! Don’t you know that a slave needs only his collar to wear?”
I got to my feet, and had to stand in front of Dan as I undid the buttons on my polo shirt then stripped it over my head – I knew Dan liked to see my belly stretching as I did this, and I lingered for a moment with my face covered by the shirt, allowing him to drink in the sight of my belly that was still firm and hard, although the treasure trail stretching across it had lost some of the jet blackness that it had once had. I dropped the shirt to the floor, only to have Dan almost shout “Fold it! That’s an expensive shirt, and it belongs to me! Just as you do.”
Then I slipped off my shoes and socks, and stood there, fiddling awkwardly with my belt, as if reluctant to take my jeans off in front of him. I didn’t mind really, of course, as I was used to showering with the slaves when I’d been taking them around the course, and even at my age I had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in my body. But I made a show of reluctance, and then had to stand there in my boxers, neatly folding my jeans, watched by Dan. That done, I assumed the “slave rest” position, with my feet nicely spread and my hands clasped behind my back.
“You fucking slave! I told you to get naked! Are you so stupid that ‘naked’ includes keeping those shorts on? Get them off!”
Actually, there is something strange about stripping in front of another man – well, not when you’re both doing it, of course, but when one of them is standing there fully clothed as you take yours off. In spite of us “playing” at slaves, my cock stiffened as I slipped the shorts down over my hips, then stooped to pick them up. And, of course, I stood there with my cock waving around as I neatly folded the boxers and added them to my other clothes on the chair, knowing that all the time Dan was watching my body, seeing my bum exposed to him as I moved.
“Nice body”, Dan commented. “At rest!”
I assumed the position again, and Dan came and walked around me, inspecting me as he had done all those years ago on the site. Then he ran his hands lightly down over my shoulders and pecs, allowed his hands to linger on my belly. He stopped and went to the back of me. As his hands ran down my back, feeling my ribs and seeing that there was no ring of fat around my waist, my cock rose and became erect. His hands rested on my bum, then he was almost kneading it, feeling the power and strength in there.
“A nice piece of slave flesh!”, he said, to the air, not to me. “Worth taking, I reckon.”
Then his tone changed “On your knees, boy! Get my cock out and get it hard.”
Naked, I knelt in front of Dan, then opened his fly and got his cock out. I’m absolutely no stranger to it, as you know, but kneeling there with him still dressed was so different, so thrilling. I went to suck it – as I often did when we were fooling around in bed – but now Dan put his hands behind my head and pulled me down on to him, so that I started to gag and choke as it touched the back of my throat. Dan let me go, and I looked up at him, staring down at me. “You need training, boy! A master’s cock is the best gift a slave can have! Now, try again.”
I put my arm around Dan’s bum to hold myself steady, and moved onto his cock again, smelling as I did his male scent – that special smell in a man’s crotch, and on the front of his trousers, that special mixture of sweat and dried piss. I ran my tongue all over him, teasing back his ‘skin so I could lick the delicious saltiness of his moist cock head, but he again gripped my head and began to vigorously face fuck me. “I’m fucking you, boy! Fucking your face! How does it feel to have your master’s cock down your throat, boy?”
Dan pulled out, and I knelt there, gasping for air. He slapped my face (as hard as he could, but that’s not as hard as I could have done it, of course!). “How dare you look away! Look up at me, boy!”
As I looked up, Dan began to swing his cock so that it hit my face, then used his hand to guide it all over my cheeks and forehead and nose, so that I was slimed with the pre-cum that was leaking out from it. “As you don’t seem to like taking this cock down your throat, boy, there’s only one thing for it. But first, I need some lube…..”
Dan went and sat on the couch, then commanded me to go and kneel in front of him as I had done so many times before. “Kneel properly!”, he intoned. “Feet together, knees spread apart, back straight, bum resting down on your heels!”
I did as he ordered, assuming that most subservient position when you’re naked and your cock is sticking up in front of you – you’re so exposed o the other guy, who can see all the front of you. “Now wank. And be sure to catch all your cum in that ashtray.”
Even though Dan was my oldest friend, there’s something deeply shaming about being ordered to wank for another man, as he sits and watches you do it in front of him, with you kneeling there as he idly strokes his dick, evidently revelling in his power over you. It took me only a very short time, as usual, before I shot my load, and then he ordered me to stay kneeling and “present” the ashtray to him – I had to have my arms outstretched holding the ashtray, just above head height.
I watched as Dan put his thumb and forefinger in to the creamy white cum in the ashtray, and tested its strength by rubbing them together. “This is satisfactory for an older slave”, he told me, “But there’s not much of it. Most of my slaves produce two or three times this quantity.”
It hurts, actually, to be criticised like that, even in play. And it’s true, of course – as I got older, I stopped shooting the huge loads I used to in my early twenties, and now there was just this tiny pool lying there.
“On the bed, slave. Belly down, feet on the floor, spread apart. I’m going to fuck that arse of yours…”
“Please, master, no, please don’t…. I don’t take cock, master….”
Dan laughed. “You mean you used not to! You’re a slave, boy, and a slave does what his master commands. You belong to me, boy, and your arse belongs to me. Now, do as you’re fucking well told, before I punish you….”
I lay there, feeling the silk of the cover on my torso. In truth, this is the bit of the slave game I like the least – as you know, it’s me who’s on top always, but when we played like this I had to take Dan’s cock, just as I first had had to, all those years ago.
He stood behind me, and I heard the rustle of his trousers falling to the floor and the clink of his belt buckle as it hit the ground. Then his hands were on my bum again, now spreading my cheeks apart, and then having a finger training down my crack and tickling my pucker. I knew he’d taken some of my cum, as his finger was wriggling and forcing its way into me, and on and on it went, as he stretched and lubricated me. As he was really opening me up with three fingers, I cried out “Please, master, no…. It hurts, master…. Please, no, stop…..”
“Fucking slave! I’ll show you what hurts!”
My whole body jerked forward as Dan’s belt slammed across my bum, and I shouted out as it really is painful. “Shut up, boy! Any more noise and I’ll gag you….”
The belt slammed down on me again, making that great “crack” noise, and I bit into the covers to try to keep myself from screaming – I wasn’t going to let Dan know I was weak!
Four more strokes, then the coolness of his hands again, stroking and caressing my bum, which felt as if it was on fire. “Now you’re nicely warmed up, boy, it’s time for the main act…..”
Somewhere in all of this, as I always did, I’d forgotten that we were playing. I was once again the helpless young slave who was being fucked by his master, and as Dan thrust in and out of me I gripped the bed, and pushed my face deep into it to contain my cries: cries not just of the pain and hurt I was suffering, but of the indignity and injustice of what was being done to me. I was a man, a man just like Dan, and he was turning me into a slave. Or perhaps I was really crying for the past, for a return of those times when I’d been young.
Of course the best part of the slave game is when Dan has shot his load. Then he lies forward on me, and he’s laughing and crying all at once, and he nibbles my ears, holds my hands out at the side of me, and rubs his hot sweaty body over mine. Then slowly and languorously I roll over and pull him down to lie on top of me, and we kiss and laugh and hold each other and are just…. Just so “close” that I can’t describe it – not only physically, but emotionally.
We lie there, feeling the warmth of each other and at the same time the chill of the room as our sweat evaporates from our naked bodies. And then it’s the second best part of the game.
“You fucked me, you bastard!”
“No, I only did what a master has a right to do….”
“And I have rights, too. The rights that a strong man has over a weak one. Now, lie back, and get your legs in the air…”
“No, please…. Please don’t fuck me…..”
Generally I wrestle with Dan a bit at this point, to demonstrate that I am, as I always was, physically so much stronger than he is – not so much to hurt him, of course, but to get him on his back, pinioned to the bed, so I can force my cock into him.
And afterwards, we sleep in each others arms, each of us having fulfilled some different and personal part in this strange game we know as love.
To be continued …
Click here to see all published chapters