Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2011 09:51:21 -0700
From: A R <avunculous@gmail.com>
Subject: A Number Of Nights: Chapter 3

This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are
over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male
participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is
illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. If possible, go back in
time and don't click on the link that led to this file; that's probably
illegal too. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.

A Number Of Nights
Chapter 03

"Master, this slave regrets to interrupt its telling, but it is perilously
close to midnight by that clock beside the bed, Sir."

Master Ryan shook his head, as if awakening. "Dammit, so it is, boy. How
much of the story is left?"

The slave considered. "Perhaps half as much as I've already said. This slave
would be happy to sum up what happened to Davey in a sentence or two, if
Master would like..."

The Master was out of bed, and starting to get dressed. He paused a while,
pulling his jeans on, then went over to the bed where the boy still lay,
naked. While the slave watched, he unbuckled and removed the cuffs from the
boy's wrists, then the one from his right ankle.

Master Ryan slapped the cuff on the boy's left ankle. "Bring that one back
to me at nine tomorrow night," he said.

The slave leapt off the bed and knelt at Master Ryan's feet, kissing them
vigorously. "Thank you, Sir! This slave is grateful to serve Master Ryan,
this slave is eternally grateful to have a chance to be Master Ryan's for
one more night..."

The Master pushed the boy over with his foot, and placed his foot on the
boy's face, where the boy nuzzled it eagerly. "One more night is right, boy.
I'll use you, you'll finish your story, and that's it."

"Thank you Sir," came the muffled voice from beneath his bare sole. "Thank
you, Sir..."

At precisely nine o'clock the next night there was a timid knock on Master
Ryan's door. He let the boy wait outside a while, and then let him in, where
the boy immediately fell to his knees as soon as the door was shut behind
him. He put his hands behind his head, looked down at the Master's feet, and
waited.

"Stay," said Master Ryan. He returned to his computer desk and started
working on something. The slave waited, as immobile as he could be. His
knees started hurting first, then his shoulders, but he kept his posture as
well as possible. Finally, after what he guessed was fifteen minutes, he saw
the Master push his chair back from the desk out of the corner of his eye,
and then the Master approached him, and stood before him. The boy gazed down
at the Master's sneakers, doing his best to stay still as he'd been ordered.

"Strip."

The slave boy shucked out of his clothes, never rising to his feet; all that
was left when he'd finished was the leather ankle shackle around his left
leg.

"Beg to serve me. Kiss my feet."

At these words from the Master, the boy dropped his face down to the
Master's shoes and started licking, his words coming out when his tongue
wasn't caressing the leather. "Thank you, Master, for the opportunity to
worship at your magnificent feet. This unworthy slave is grateful beyond
measure for Master's beneficence, and wishes nothing more than to please
Master in whatever way Master wishes. Praise be to Master, to Master's
powerful cock, from which the bountiful cum does flow. Please, Master, allow
this unworthy slave to attempt to draw the cum from that magnificent member,
so that this slave can know that it has been touched by Master's cum, and
its mark will be seared on this slave's soul forever..."

He heard the fly of the Master's jeans being unzipped above him, and then
his Master's voice said, "Okay, boy. Well begged. Come get it."

Remembering his instructions from the day before, the boy rose up from the
Master's feet and began licking the Master's balls, gently, before moving on
to his cock. He replicated as best he could what he'd done the day before,
adding a few creative touches here and there; this time, with his hands
free, he was able to fondle the Master's balls while sucking him off, and
use his hands on the shaft while he concentrated on the head.

"Jack your cock, boy, but don't cum." the Master ordered.

The slave boy started fondling his own hard dick with one hand, while trying
to maintain full concentration on the Master's needs at the same time. He
did his best to keep looking up at the Master while he sucked. When the
Master looked down at him, the expression on his face was unreadable.

"You can cum if you spurt within the first minute after I do," the Master
told the slave.

Surprised, the slave boy redoubled his efforts at both cocks, but it
apparently wasn't enough for Master Ryan. The Master reached down and took
hold of the boy's head, and started pushing his cock firmly and slowly into
his mouth, deeper and deeper each time. The boy tried to open wide and let
the Master use his mouth however he wanted; he stroked his cock lightly,
trying hard not to cum as his face was abused by the thrusting cock.

Soon the Master's cock head was penetrating deep enough that the boy was
struggling not to gag, and then Master Ryan speeded up his rhythm. The boy
heard the same growl as the Master had given out last night building, and
redoubled his efforts with his tongue on the underside of the Master's cock.
A few more thrusts, and the Master stopped, the slave's face held tight
against him, nose squashed against his pubes, cock down his throat, as the
Master's hips bucked once, twice, and thrice, and then the Master's cum
started spilling down the boy's open throat. A couple of spurts, and the
Master pulled out enough to let the slave breathe, while coating his mouth
with jizz. The boy sucked it all down eagerly, frantically working at his
own cock.

"Cum now, boy," the Master ordered.

The boy came, the Master's cock still hard in his mouth, the taste and smell
of the Master's spunk consuming him. He struggled to keep himself upright as
the orgasm washed over him. The Master pulled the boy's head back off his
cock as the last weak spurts dribbled out of the slave's dick, and frowned
at him.

"Clean it up, boy. Use your tongue."

The slave looked confused for a moment, then looked down in horror. His cum
was splashed on the Master's jeans and sneakers.

"I'm sorry, Master!" The boy dove for the Master's legs, and started sucking
his cum out of the jeans, following along as Master Ryan sat down in a
recliner. He worked his way down to the Master's sneakers, and spent a bit
more time than was totally necessary enjoying the taste of his cum and the
leather of the Master's sneakers as he licked them clean.

"All right boy, you're getting them soaked now. Come here."

The boy stood, and the Master beckoned him to sit in his lap; in a moment
the boy was arranged so his head was on the Master's shoulder, his legs over
the arm of the chair. Master Ryan took a moment to fondle the boy's cock,
still hot and sticky from his orgasm, and he played idly with the boy's
nipples a while. He may or may not have noticed the adoration on the boy's
face as he gazed up at the Master he served.

The moment, in detail. The Master's long, lean form leaning back in the
recliner; big well-worn sneakers on the footrest. He's still clothed; jeans,
button-down shirt open at the collar, chest hair showing in the V. His face
is still a bit flushed from fucking the boy's face; he looks happy, with an
undertone of concern. His big, veined hand is resting on the chest of the
boy who's reclined across his lap, and his fingers are pinching one of the
boy's nipples.

The boy is naked except for a single ankle cuff; he lays with his head
against the man's shoulder, leaving a little bit of sweat on the shirt's
thick fabric. His arms are down at his side, his knees are over the armrest
of the chair, his feet hanging limp, slightly crossed. He looks up at the
man worshipfully.

"If I recall, you owe me an ending."

The boy snorted with suppressed laughter, and the man smiled. "Yeah, in
addition to the one you just gave me."

"Yes, Master. When last we left our hero, such as he is, he was bound to a
bed in a luxury suite, captured by the hotel manager, and was about to have
the cops called and be hauled off to jail..."

The Tale of the Boy Who Gave Up And Just Stopped Living (Anywhere)
Part Two

Davey yelled, and started struggling, but the handcuffs that he'd thought
were just toys were police-issue steel with some feather boa padding, and
there was no way for Davey to escape. He was surprised, though, that the man
had left him on the bed, and was putting his clothes back on.

"What are you doing?" Davey asked.

"I'm going to respond to a call from a maid," the man explained. "I'll show
up, find you tied to the bed, call the cops, and they'll cart you off.
You're going to spend a while in jail, I'd imagine. But you'll be out of my
hair for good."

The manager talked about the time that his security staff had had to spend
filling out paperwork; the maids that had had to clean up after Davey; the
heat they had taken from Corporate when Davey kept eluding them. When he was
finished, he'd dressed in a good-looking suit, and was smoothing his hair.

Davey was still hard.

"Hey," said Davey. "You're not even going to finish me off?"

The man shook his head. "What?"

"If I'm going to jail, this might be my last chance at decent sex for a
while. And as long as we're here..." Davey wriggled his hips a bit.

"I'm not letting you go." The man took out his cell phone.

"So keep the cuffs on. But fuck me."

The man looked, undecided, between his cell phone and the bound boy on the
bed, and then started dialing.

Davey said the magic words.

"Please, Sir. I'll do anything."

The hotel manager shook his head. "Kid, you have no idea what you're
offering."

Now, Davy hadn't lived off the land, so to speak, for as long as he had
without being able to spot an opening. He dove in.

"Sir, if I go to jail, I'm fucked anyway. What they do to me there is going
to be a lot worse than whatever you want. And it's going to go on a lot
longer."

"And if you don't go to jail," the man said, "I'll have to deal with you
freeloading around here again."

"I swear, Sir, I swear that if you let me go, I won't set foot in this hotel
until I can pay for my room." The boy had thought he was faking the passion
with which he was begging, but found himself blinking back tears. "I
swear..."

The man flipped his cell phone closed. "And having you mooch off the other
hotels in town is no skin off my nose. Hmm." The man pulled a chair up next
to the bed and sat down. "I do happen to have the next couple of days off.
Okay. Here's the deal.

"You're going to be my slave for the next forty-eight hours. You'll do
anything that I tell you to, immediately and without question. I like giving
out pain; you'll take it, and thank me for it. I won't do any permanent
damage, or any damage that won't wear off within a week at most, but it's
going to hurt like hell. You're going to get fucked, you're going to suck me
off, and do whatever other twisted things I want you to. You still want to
do this?"

Davy was harder now than before; he was also terrified.

"Yes, Sir."

The man stood up, took out his keys, and undid Davey's cuffs.

"Stay here. I have to go finish things up for the night. I'll be back within
an hour."

He left the room.

Davey was left naked, alone, in the vast Presidential suite, knowing that if
he stayed there, he was about to experience two days of sexual torment.

The way I've heard it told, Davey thought about a lot of things right then,
sitting on soft, downy covers, rubbing the marks around his wrists where the
handcuffs had been. He thought about getting the hell out of there, mostly.
Now that he'd been trapped once, he figured maybe the game was up. Maybe he
should leave town, try the hotel game somewhere else; he had enough, maybe,
for a bus ticket somewhere, to a place where everybody didn't know his name.
Maybe he should just get out of the hotel and figure out his options later.
Maybe he should just tell the guy he could turn him over to the cops; after
all, his record was clean, and what were the chances that he'd really get
jail time for sleeping in an empty hotel room now and then?

But... you know how, when you're waiting in the dentist's office, there's
that feeling, like you know what's coming down the pike when the nurse calls
you in, you know it's going to hurt, you just don't know how bad... but you
know it's for your own good, so you sit there in that plastic chair, and
stare hypnotized at the dumb magazines, and you wait?

Davey just waited.

There wasn't a TV channel that he didn't see in the next hour or so, and not
one that he spent more than twenty seconds on. He just lay there, naked,
trembling inside, watching the images flash by meaninglessly, not even sure
what he himself was thinking.

The hotel manager came back in, and started taking his clothes off. Davey
got up, went over, and knelt before him.

For two days, they stayed in that hotel room, and both they and the
neighbors around them were glad, whether they knew it or not, of that
suite's soundproofing. Davey was enslaved for those two days, completely at
the whim of his Master, and his Master rode Davey hard. From the first, the
hotel manager made it a goal to see how many times Davey could cum in 48
hours; to that end, Davey got fucked, sucked, jacked himself off, got
spanked, milked, and spunked.
He got humiliated, pissed on, tied up, abused, fucked some more, and treated
like a dog. He licked cock, and balls, and pits and feet and asshole, and
there was no part of him that went unexamined or unexplored.

They ate room service and pizza, they watched a dumb comedy together, Davey
curled in his Master's arms, licking at his chest from time to time, trying
not to put his weight on the welts across his back and his ass. He spent an
hour playing fetch with the man's socks; he spent another learning how to
deep-throat the man's big cock without choking.

And when the forty-eight hours were up, it was a different Davey that
wobbled out of that room than had sauntered into it just two days before.

For a while, to anyone who might have been watching, which nobody was,
Davey's life remained the same. He lost his job, but got another, slinging
boxes on a loading dock a few hours a day. He slept at the houses of friends
with benefits, and Craigslist tricks, and of course, hotel rooms. Some guys
might have been able to go through a couple of days of that kind of
servitude, and chalk it all up to experience, and get on with their lives.
Some would probably need a good dose of therapy to cope. Davey was trying to
make as if he was the same carefree, happy-go-lucky ne'er-do-well he'd
always been, but it wasn't working out that way.

A hunger had awoken inside Davey, you see. He'd never known what it was like
to live entirely for someone else; how powerful a thing it is to give your
will over to another. He'd never belonged to anything, not really, and for
two days, he'd been owned completely. His life now was like an endless
search for some sort of purpose, some direction, something to fill the hole
that had suddenly opened inside him.

And so one night, Davey found himself sneaking through the halls of the
self-same hotel he and the manager had occupied a few weeks back; the scene
of his captivity. This time he had no backpack; he'd given his laptop away,
burned whatever papers he had left, and thrown out everything else. He snuck
in over the gates behind the pool house with only the clothes on his back.
In the locker room, he took off all his clothes, and put them in the trash.
He took a long hot shower then, toweled off, wrapped the towel around his
waist, and padded into the hotel.

To the staff and the legitimate guests, he looked like just another guest
headed back from a swim. Davey cruised the halls of the hotel a while, until
he spotted a maid's cart; she'd left her passkey hanging from a lanyard on
the back. He grabbed it, and took the elevator all the way to the top of the
hotel.

The presidential suite was empty. Davey hung up his towel in the bathroom
neatly, and then leapt onto the big four-poster bed. He took just a minute
to enjoy the comfort and splendor around him, and then reached for the phone
and dialed the front desk.

"Yes, this is the Presidential suite. There's something very wrong up here,
and I'll need to see the manager immediately."

Now, if this story weren't true, it might have all sorts of endings. If it
was a comedy, then a whole different manager might have shown up; some
wrinkled old matron, maybe, shocked out of her wits at Davey's engorged
nudity. If it was one of those misery porn lit-fic pieces, it would turn out
the manager was married, and had left town or killed himself because of
guilt at cheating on his wife with Davey, and Davey would have gone all emo
for life. If it was horror... well, you know.

As it was, this really happened, and so the ending isn't really quite an
ending; in real life, endings just don't satisfy like they do in stories.
The manager showed up, and he wasn't too surprised to find our Davey there,
but he was pretty shocked when he found out that he was the proud new owner
of a teenaged slave. It took him a while to get used to the idea, but in the
time it took to put one load down Davey's throat and one up his ass, the
manager had figured out a plan. He put Davey up in a less-conspicuous room
for the night, and got things in his life arranged a bit.

The next day the manager arrived with new clothes for the boy, and took him
to his apartment. It wasn't the Presidential suite, perhaps, but it was
comfortable, and warm, lined with books and paintings. And Davey's lived
there since. slave dave, his Master calls him.

On the one hand, it might be seen as being incredibly presumptuous on
Davey's part, I suppose, to have simply flung himself at a Master who he'd
been with for two nights. It was the BDSM equivalent of throwing yourself
off a building and yelling 'Catch me!' on the way down. On the other hand,
it could be seen as an act of commitment, a gesture of faith, Davey
divesting himself of his past that way, and arriving naked and ready to be
owned. Whatever the case, he was damned lucky that his Master wasn't married
with three kids, or just a moonlighting vanilla guy; he was lucky that there
was someone there to catch him.

"I'm tempted," the slave told the Master, "To end it with 'And they lived
happily ever after.' But this story, as I mentioned, is real, and endings
are very seldom happy in real life. Instead, let me say that they found a
way to live that made both of them happy most of the time. From time to
time, you can see a figure running free around downtown, moving catlike
between the roofs of buildings, leaping up fences and off walls, and you'd
think he was the freest creature you ever did see. The more astute observer,
though, would note the collar around his neck, and perhaps they'd wonder a
bit about what it truly means to be free."

The slave waited while the Master thought. "Where'd you learn to tell a
story, boy?"

The slave smiled. "This slave has always had a way of spinning yarns,
Master. It was privileged to once know, for a time, with one of the best
storytellers he'd ever heard, a man who, from hearing him talk, was
half-legend, half-yeti, and completely full of it. And yet, there was
something about the way he told a story that made everyone want, more than
anything, to believe it to be true. Honest John, they called him, and it
might have been in irony, or it might not have, and no-one knew for sure."

"Was he your Master?"

The slave shook his head. "Honest John had no interest in sex, it seemed. At
least, no-one who knew him could recall him ever having an attraction, or
fetish, or even a crush; he seemed like he might have been a rare example of
that elusive species, the true, happy, asexual. I suppose we could have been
more wrong, but it's hard to imagine how." The boy gave a low chuckle. "If
only the circus hadn't come to town..."

"The circus?" Master Randy shook his head, and pushed the boy off his lap;
the boy gracefully slid onto the floor, on his knees. "This is another
story, isn't it?"

"Yes, Master." The boy kept his eyes on the carpet before him, his hands
clasped as if in prayer.

"Is it a long story?" The Master asked.

"It doesn't take nearly as long to tell, Master, as it does to forget."

The Master got up, and smacked the boy's cheek lightly. "Is it a true
story?"

"As true as Honest John was honest, Master."

The Master sighed. "Tell me as I get ready for work, then."

"Yes, Master. This tale is called...