Date: Thu, 20 Oct 2005 00:24:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 27

Dad And Me by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 27

When we got back to the apartment I had a few quiet
words with my nigga butler Henry and told him to show
Jeff to the spare slave kennel on the lower floor
where I had used to live, and to make sure that he was
s shown the communal showers and so on.

"We'll dine as soon as you're ready", I said to Jeff,
and turned and went into my study to pick up any last
minute business of the day.

A very few minutes later Jeff burst in, and stood
there, fuming with rage.  "I'm not sleeping there..."

"Why not?  It's warm, dry, and better than sleeping on
the streets.... No danger of the cops picking you up
and sending you for enslavement."

"I'd already be like a fucking slave!  Your nigga even
called it a 'kennel'!"

I pretended to be outraged, and turned on Henry, who
had followed Jeff into the room.  "Did you show Master
Jeff down to the slave kennels?"

"Yes, Master", he said, his voice puzzled as this is
of course what I'd ordered.

"You stupid fucking slave!  How dare you even think
Master Jeff is like a slave!  Take him up to one of
the spare bedrooms - the green room, I think."

I saw Jeff looking oddly at me, not sure about what
was going on.   I knew, though - he'd passed a test
that I'd failed when Mr Hawthorne had brought me to
the apartment - I should have protested and argued,
and not have allowed myself to be treated like some
sort of quasi-slave.  Jeff clearly had more spirit, or
more sense of his own self-worth.  I thought for an
instant, and decided to make it clear to him that I
was not part of the "plot" to treat him like a slave.

"Henry, you deserve punishment!", I snapped at him.
"Bend over the back of the couch."

Henry looked really surprised, as I never routinely
punished him as I relied on him for the smooth running
of the household, and he knew that in this case the
punishment was entirely unjustified anyway.  But
that's not really important, is it?  I mean, an owner
can punish a slave when he chooses, even if the slave
has done nothing wrong:  that's the nature of the
owner/slave relationship.

Even though he was my butler, around the house Henry
only wore the tunic that all the house slaves wore,
although his was a little longer than most as I didn't
particularly want to see an old dick flashing at me as
he went about his business, unlike the waiters where I
thought the occasional sight of their dicks added that
little something to the enjoyment of the meal.  It was
easy therefore for me just to pull up the tunic to
expose his butt as he stood there, bent over, and I
picked up the punishment cane and gave it an
experimental swish through the air (I keep a medium
weight punishment cane in every room in case a slave
needs disciplining.  A thin one is of course much more
painful, but I don't like to break the skin of the
butt of an indoor slave as it makes such a mess on the
carpets).  The next minute Henry was howling as I gave
him two swift strokes, both of which landed nice and
square across his muscles.

Jeff looked really horrified, but I said simply
"Henry, show Master Jeff to his proper room now.", and
to Jeff "...and hurry up, as I'm hungry."

Look, I know you'll all think me harsh, but I was
pursuing a plan to get Jeff to understand that I was
the boss around here - it ought to have been apparent,
given that I owned the place, and that I'd rescued him
from slavery, but I was sure that he did not truly
accept this yet.  I doubted that he would cane a slave
as I had just done, and wanted him to see that I was
capable of dishing out real punishment if necessary.
It's a pity that Henry had to suffer, I suppose, but
there you are, and please do remember that he's only a
slave!

I turned to my PC and flicked into the house security
display - as in most expensive apartments, all the
rooms have concealed surveillance so that the owners
can keep an eye on what the slaves are doing - and
selected the green bedroom (so called because the silk
wallpaper is a pale eau-de-nil colour - nothing
garish, of course!).  Jeff had stripped off and was
entering the shower, and I watched as he almost jumped
out of his skin as the slave entered:  I suppose those
who are not accustomed to it find the seemingly
mysterious presence of slaves whenever you need them
somewhat disconcerting, but there's no secret really -
just motion sensors in places like bathrooms, to alert
the slave to the presence of a master who may need
service.

Jeff looked really uneasy as the young nigga deftly
pulled his tunic over his head and went to help Jeff
by getting into the shower so he could soap him and
shampoo his hair, and Jeff pushed the slave out.  The
young nigga - slaves in bathrooms and so on are
generally under twenty three so that they are fresh
and attractive - seemed not to understand why Jeff was
bothered by his presence as he knew that he was
perfectly clean and wholesome (Henry required all the
bath slaves to shower themselves at least six or seven
times a day so that they should always be
sweet-smelling and fresh when called in to service),
so he just stood there.  And then when Jeff finally
did come out of the shower and the slave tried to wrap
him in one of the luxurious fluffy white bath wraps so
that he could dry Jeff, Jeff again rebuffed him.

I watched as Jeff rummaged in his bag to find clean
boxers - he wasn't shy about being naked in front of
the slave, as I supposed he was used to dressing with
a lot of other men - and so it was clear that it was
the thought of the young nigga touching him that had
bothered him.  He pulled them on, and a fresh pair of
jeans, and a T, then stood there rummaging again to
find a pair of socks.  I couldn't help but like the
way his jeans emphasised the curve of his butt and his
narrow waist, and somehow I find the sight of men
wriggling their toes in a thick pile carpet to be
strangely sensual.    Just as Jeff was leaving he
asked the slave if there was a Laundromat or something
around as he'd used the last of his clean clothes, and
the slave again looked startled.  He told Jeff that of
course he was there to deal with all that sort of
thing, and told Jeff that all would be fresh and clean
when he was back from dinner.

I saw Jeff give a little shrug and then leave the
room, and I quickly switched the display back to my
e-mail, so that as Jeff entered, I was working.  I
kept him standing there by the door for some moments,
knowing that it was making him feel awkward as he
didn't know whether to interrupt me, but then I turned
and faced him having sent off a note.

"You must be hungry!  I doubt they fed you, down in
the cells...."

"Yes.... Sir."  He sounded hesitant, but at least he'd
used a "sir".

I nodded, and led the way into the dining room and at
once the waiters pulled away our chairs so that we
could sit comfortably.   "It's only a simple pheasant
ragout - the birds are shot at Manderleigh and
freighted up here", I explained.  "I don't usually
bother with anything to start unless I'm entertaining
formally, and dessert is always fruit, again grown
properly at Manderleigh, for maximum flavour.  But
there's as much of it as you want, and if you have
specific likes or dislikes, just tell the slaves and
they can make arrangements to serve whatever you
want."

Jeff nodded, and I went on "Wine?  This is a rather
good Crozes Hermitage that I import from the chateau
of a special client in France...."

I poured him a glass, and he sat there, looking at it
suspiciously. I raised my glass and said casually "So
here's to a happy working relationship...."

He raised his glass and took a sip of the wine, that
didn't seem to be to his taste.

I had a mouthful of mine - the wonderful complex
flavours were perfect - and said "Are you OK?  It
looked as if there was something wrong with the wine,
but mine's perfect.  Perhaps your glass was not
clean....  Here, pass it to me, and if the slaves have
fucked up again, we'll cane them before the meal is
served."

I sipped at his glass, looked curiously at him and
said "No, this is perfect!  Don't you like it?"

"I'm not much of a one for wine, sir.  Especially not
red wine.", he said almost shyly, his head slightly
bowed and his eyes on the table.  "It's mostly beer in
the service...  Or sometimes if ladies are present, a
Chardonnay."

"Ah yes, I suppose so.  Still, New York is a little
more sophisticated.  Will you stay with the Crozes
Hermitage then, or would you prefer something less
complex... I'm sure we have most things in the
cellars.   Just name what you'd like."

I doubted he could, of course, and he shuffled a
little uneasily as he finally muttered "Perhaps I
could just stick to beer?"

"Bud, Miller, something imported from Belgium, or
Germany.... Just tell the slave and if it's not in the
cellar it can be sent out for."

I was pleased to be able to demonstrate the
superiority of my style of living, and when the thick
heavy casserole appeared, served with freshly made
tagiatelle, he picked at it nervously.  "Manderleigh
is famed for the quality of the shooting", I told him.
 "Mind you, I don't indulge in the sport  myself, so
it's mostly the neighbours who use my covers and
drives and I just take some of the bag.  I rarely
entertain except in restaurants, and so I only have a
small part of the bag - the slaves all eat chow, of
course."

He continued to pick at the rich savoury mixture
nervously, and I increased his discomfort deliberately
by adding "Of course they shoot the pheasant in the
traditional way, and although the slaves who prepare
the food are supposed to get all the shot out, do be
careful.  I've tried one stroke of the cane for every
piece of lead I find in game, but even so, every now
and then, a piece slips through."

I have to say that the conversation wasn't great - he
hardly initiated any topics throughout the meal.  He
must have been hungry, though, as he willingly had a
second big plateful of the delicious stew, and almost
emptied the fruit bowl afterwards.  And all the time I
noticed him looking uneasily at the four young slaves
who were waiters - they're fine-looking niggas, of
course, as they're on public display, and were just
wearing the normal short, loose tunic that all house
slaves wore.  As is the fashion, their tunics were cut
especially short so that unless they were absolutely
motionless their dicks and balls were exposed - they
say it's so that diners  can be certain that the
slaves are shaved totally clean (as those who are
waiters and who work in the kitchens in my apartment
are), and thus not likely to drop pubic hairs into the
food!

He continued to look uneasy as we sat with coffee
(another European habit which I find most civilised,
to end the meal this way).  Finally, he began "Sir, I
don't like the slave in the bathroom...."

"Oh, they kind of rotate.  I doubt you'll get the same
one tonight.  But if he displeases you in some way,
just tell Henry to have him punished."

"No... I mean.... Well, he tried to get into the
shower with me, and wanted to wash my body and shampoo
my hair..."

"That's what bath slaves do.  You're not embarrassed
about your body, are you?  I thought you guys in the
forces all lived in barracks, shared showers, that
sort of stuff...."

"No, sir, it's not that.  It's just... Well, sir, I'm
not used to being touched by other men in the showers.
 Of course we showered together in the barracks, but
you don't wash your buddies..."

"Oh, I see.  I'll tell Henry to change the slave
roster and make sure that your bath slaves are women.
Some men are funny like that."

"No, sir..."

"I won't hear of it.  Consider it done.  And  you are
of course free to use them any way you want - we
select the bath slaves, and indeed all the domestic
servants, to be easy on the eye and really young and
biddable."

"Oh no, sir..."

"Hey, Jeff, is there something wrong with you?  I
thought you were a real fit, virile kind of guy...
Don't you like to fuck?"

"Yes, of course...."

"Didn't they have slaves in your barracks?  Were you
expected to go with your buddies?"

"NO!  No, sir.  You don't fuck with your buddies!"

"Just a bit of jerking off, then?  Surely a bunch of
fit guys living together would do that?"

"No, sir!  I mean, we all jerked off, of course, as
you'd expect, but by ourselves, at night, in our
bunks.  You didn't jerk off with the other guys.
Fucking was for the weekends and on leave...."

"So you had a girlfriend, then?  What happened?"

"No, sir.  It's not like that in the special forces.
It's difficult, as you're always being sent on
missions..."

"So no girl friends... So it was a guy, or one of your
buddies?"

He blushed, and went on "No, it's not like that...
Around the base there were lots of women who would
kind of... 'oblige'.... for a few bucks."

"Ah, so you're used to using prostitutes! Well it's
much more civilised here!  You can fuck whenever you
like - that's what the slaves are for, and it's free."
 As I said this, I got up from the table, to clearly
indicate that the topic was closed.  Poor Jeff looked
really uncomfortable, and I could see that he just
wasn't used to this openness in discussing sex.  Or
perhaps it was that my plan to make him feel inferior
was working - I'd deliberately given him unusual food
and fine wine which he'd have had little experience
of, and I suspected that the surroundings in the vast
apartment, with all the slaves, was far beyond his
normal expectations.

"Anyway", I continued.  "I'm going to turn in now.
Make yourself at home - use the TV or tell the slaves
to run you something in the cinema.  And, of course,
have a good night's sleep - fuck any of the slave you
want, they kind of expect it.  I suppose you're tired
after today - all that worry about ending up like
these poor niggas here - but I'd like to go for a run
tomorrow morning, early.  They'll call you in plenty
of time."

I'm a bit of a morning person, so it's not hard for me
to get up early - it's almost as if I have an in-built
alarm clock, as the moment I need to, my eyes flick
open and I'm wide awake, ready to go.  It's hard on
the slaves as I spring out of bed, as I hate just
lying there, and I want to have all my clothes and
stuff immediately ready.  The young nigger on duty
outside my door that night must have fallen asleep,
but as I was in a good mood I didn't call for Henry to
punish him, but he was still sort of rubbing his eyes
and trying not to yawn as he handed me my jock,
running shorts and T, then knelt to help me into my
running shoes and tie the laces.

Down in the entrance hall Jeff looked tired, too.  Was
he an "evening" person, I wondered, or had he just sat
there half the night watching porn on the TV?  Or had
he taken one of the niggas to his bed, perhaps?  In
any case he was hardly dressed for a run - he was in
jeans and a T - and I told him so:  I wanted to run
hard and far, and jeans just wouldn't do.

"Well, sir, that's all I've got.... You know, sleeping
rough... most of my gear was sold to help make ends
meet, or lost..."

"Well we can fix that later today, as you can go
shopping.  But for now, you'd better borrow some
shorts...."

I snapped at the slaves standing around to go and
fetch a pair of shorts, and they came back with a pair
of the standard slave ones.  I'd kind of imagined they
might race to my room and get a pair of mine, which
were of a decent, "free man's" length, and was about
to admonish them when the thought occurred to me that
getting Jeff to wear "slave" shorts, cut short, as was
usual for slaves, might further my plan to control
him.

He looked at the things as the slave held them out,
and was about to protest, but  I said "Come on,
man.... I haven't all that much time, as I've got an
early morning meeting...."

He looked around, his eyes seeming almost panicky, and
I wondered if he thought of going back to his room to
change.  But instead he gave a little shrug, and
dropped his jeans right there.  Well, I suppose it's
only like changing in front of your buddy at a sports
club or something, and it's not as if he was naked
underneath - I was pleased to see that he had a good
plain white "sports" jock, and as he bent to pull up
the shorts, I got that interesting view of his butt
nicely framed by the waistband and elastic straps
around his thighs.  And when he'd pulled up the silky
shorts, he looked even better:  his strong muscular
thighs seemed to strain the thin material, and from
the back you could almost discern the dark shadow of
his ass crack.

He tugged at the shorts a it, as if that might make
them bigger, somehow, but slave shorts are, as you
know, cut so that they emphasise the contours of the
slave's body, so it was no use.  He couldn't pull the
waist up any higher as they were designed to be
low-slung, so there was no way of bridging the gap
between it and the bottom of his  T - there was that
lovely stripe of his hard belly just in view.  In
spite of his jock, his bulge at the front told of his
above average endowment, and, as I've told you, the
very short legs revealed his thighs to perfection -
although this was somewhat spoiled by the fact that
his tan line started just at the knee, leaving a
rather unpleasant white area above it:  I wondered how
I was going to persuade him to get a good all-over
tan, as I rather dislike the "white band" effect on a
man around his middle, especially when it goes right
down the thighs.  I mean, a stark white areas where
there's been a very small Speedo is OK, perhaps even
enhancing the look of the guy, and I also like a body
that's white all over that shows its owner never goes
into the sun:  it's just the wide band that some men
have that I find less than aesthetically satisfying.

We set out then, and to the world in general it might
have looked at first sight as if I was a rich owner
with a personal trainer slave, and it was probably
only when they got closer and saw that he wasn't
collared that they'd realise that Jeff was a free man,
In spite of wearing "slave" clothes.  But once we got
into the exercise seriously, they would have not been
fooled!

Look, I was still fit, as these things go, for a guy
who was mostly in the office.  But nothing like in as
good condition as I used to be when I was a slave at
Manderleigh.  So after a few blocks, when we crossed
into the park, I was beginning to feel my breathing
labouring a bit:  this was no "jog", mind, but a
serious, fast "run".  I slowed, and at once Jeff
showed his true nature, running back to me, going
behind me, and then shouting at me to "get a move on,
you lazy fucker!  Are you a man, or a wimp?".  I
realised that this is how he'd have treated the new
recruits, and somehow his whole stance, his tone, and
the words he used just brooked no argument:  in spite
of the stitch I was developing in my side, and my
pounding heart, I picked up my pace again.

We ran on and on, far further than I had intended, all
the time Jeff shouting and swearing at me to keep the
pace up, in a way that no personal trainer slave would
dare to do.  And then, mercifully, he allowed us to
stop - but only so that we could do press-ups -  I
watched him doing them "properly" as I struggled, but
then he noticed me "cheating" by bending my body and
he began to scream at me to keep straight.  I was glad
it was over, but he didn't allow any rest - we were
off again, running, until we came to one of those
frame things they have at places around the park, and
I had to do "chin raises" on them until it felt as if
my ribs and biceps were going to break.

He let me have a rest then, and I sat there on a
bench, head sunk between my knees.  He remained
standing, vaguely in motion, shifting from foot to
foot, as if to emphasise that he was in good shape
still, and with a touch of a smile he muttered "Not
bad, sir... There's not a lot of guys your age could
do that... I thought I ought to give you a tough time
the first time out, so I could see how you really
could cope... We can go slower on the way back."

I realised then that Jeff's tongue lashing was on
exactly the same principle as the tawse and cane we
used at Manderleigh to "encourage" the slaves to give
that little extra:  in the world of the free men, in
the forces, they couldn't get that final few percent
by physical means, so used the verbal abuse and
natural desire of a man to not appear to be a wimp to
achieve the same thing!  How alike the treatment of
slaves and the treatment of soldiers must be, I mused,
and wondered how  I could use this insight to my
further advantage in "breaking" Jeff.

Although he said we could go at a slower pace as we
went back to the apartment, I'm not that sort of
person, as you know.  So I raced ahead of Jeff, which
caused him to catch up, and then I had to go faster,
as if  I was determined to beat him.  And then I
couldn't slow down, could I?  It was fortunate, I
suppose, that we could take a more direct route, and
by the time we got back to the door of our building, I
was almost at the point of collapse!

As the slave washed and shampooed me in the shower I
could feel my limbs trembling from the effort they'd
made, and even though I usually found this particular
slave enticing and sometimes had him suck me off as I
stood there under the warm water, this morning I was
just too tired!  The slaves helped me dress, and I
think  I was somewhat irritated when I went into the
dining room to see Jeff already there, looking totally
relaxed and not at all strained:  he was wolfing down
a huge pile of sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns and
pancakes, and when I took my customary bowl of fruit,
he grinned and said "You can stop all that now,
sir.... If you're going to exercise properly, you can
eat properly:  as much as you like.  When your body's
properly fit, you won't put on any fat, however much
you eat!"

As he said that, he slapped his belly so that the hard
sound rang around the room.  I don't know if he was
trying to make me feel deliberately bad about the
shape I was in, but I couldn't let him get away with
it, could I?  "Oh, sure.  Now, I'm off to the office.
I may want to work out at lunch time, or when I've
finished my meetings this afternoon, so be available
there.  And go out and but some proper workout clothes
this morning:  I don't want people to think that it's
a slave who's exercising with me!  That's what you
look like, you know, unless you dress properly."  He
just nodded - the bastard evidently was so sure of his
status and image that he didn't care about being
mistaken for a slave!

I have to say that the exercise did me good!  It never
got any easier, though, as each day Jeff just went
further and further when we ran, or did more
press-ups, or more chin-stretches... It seemed as if
his muscled, almost wiry body was tireless.  I added
in a big daily swim to my routine - I could always do
it between the end of my last meeting of the day and
any evening engagement I needed to do - although it
was difficult, with Jeff watching, to keep my brand
concealed as we changed afterwards.  As it was, I
hated having to wear big, baggy swimming shorts to
cover my butt and thighs completely, when Jeff had
sensibly  bough "proper" exercise Speedos.   Still,
try as he might, he couldn't beat me in the pool:  all
those years at school in the swimming team had left me
with a proper technique (and now I had a strong desire
to show him that he might be fit and tough, but not as
fit and tough as me!).

So determined was I to get back into proper shape that
we stayed in New York on the weekends and I spent a
lot of time with Jeff running in the park, exercising
in the gym in the apartment, and swimming in the pool
at the bank.  I watched him in his room from time to
time, and saw that he lost his shighness about having
slaves help him, and then, one evening, when we'd gone
up relatively early and he was lying on his bed
flicking TV channels (a part of the security display
showed me what he was watching in a small window on my
screen), he fixed on one of the porno channels and as
some guy sweated and grunted as he attempted to
satisfy two vilely overdeveloped women, he began to
jerk off as he lay there.  I watched with interest as
he slid his 'skin on and off his dick head, and
adjusted the remote on the camera in his room to zoom
in on it as best I could.  He seemed to be on the
point of shooting, when the microphone picked up him
saying "oh fuck it....", then he rolled half over on
to his side and pressed the button to summon a slave.

I suppose that if you like women, she wasn't bad
looking:  Jeff said something to her and as she pulled
her tunic up over her head you could see her breasts
were firm and strong, not like the repulsive things on
the TV.  And then the next minute he was fucking her -
doggy fashion, and I wished there had been enough
cameras in the room to have been ale to focus in on
his ass as he pounded away, accompanied by the sounds
of passion coming still from the TV.

He looked embarrassed, or ashamed, when he'd shot, and
sent the slave away and settled down to sleep, and
when we met for our usual morning exercise he seemed
kind of sheepish - although I of course did not even
make any allusion to his having "used" a slave, as
there was no way I could have that information without
revealing the cameras.  But after that first time it
seemed to get easier and easier for him:  he summoned
a slave the next night, too, and then it as if he
couldn't take a shower, or change clothes, without
taking a few moments out to plunge his dick into some
nigga bitch or other from the staff.

I'd been so busy getting into shape that I'd rather
neglected Tony and Miles, and one afternoon my
secretary asked me if I was available that evening as
they'd called to say they wanted to get together.  I
told her to get them on a conference call - one of the
advantages of being the chief honcho is that no one in
the bank is ever "unavailable" or "in a meeting" when
you want to speak to them - and explained that I'd
like to spend an evening with them, but I wanted to
keep an eye on Jeff and so our usual sexual frolics
were out, as he wasn't yet "ready".

"Oh", Miles commented, "So you think you will get him
to the point of riding his ass, do you?"

"Of course, Miles.  You can get up any guy's ass with
proper preparation and planning...."

"Is that a bet, Steve?", Tony cut in.  "Are you
forgetting all your training when you worked for me as
a trader?  What's the odds, man?"

"One hundred percent!  I'm just not sure of the
timing.  But every man secretly wants to know what sex
with another man is like - even someone like Jeff, who
has been fucking the female slaves like sex is about
to go out of fashion!  It's just that he's not ready
for it.... Yet."

"So you'll put money on it?"  Tony was an inveterate
gambler, and I did sometimes wonder whether his
business dealings were truly sound.  But on the other
hand the audit and compliance officers had never found
anything to complain about, so he must know what's he
was doing.

I nodded, and he said "Five hundred, then.... Five
hundred says you won't fuck this Jeff within a year."

It wasn't the money that made me hesitate - it meant
nothing to me, after all, and we only bet like this as
it was kind of "convention".  But both Tony and Miles
saw my slight hesitation, and at once Tony said "Ah!
Not so sure, are you, Steve?"

"Yes, of course.... But the timing..."

"Timing's everything, Steve!", Miles cut in.  "You
know that - all the agreements the bank makes are
always time sensitive.  Are you saying you're not
confident?"

"No, of course not...."

"And there's another  thing", Miles continued.
"Performance!  It's important that the parties to a
contract can always determine that proper performance
has taken place.  It's no good you just betting with
Tony that you'll fuck this Jeff within one year from
today.... We'll need to be certain, and we can hardly
send in a 'due diligence' team to check it out, can
we?"

"You're right, Miles", Tony added. "Trust a lawyer to
be concerned about the contracts!  But there's an easy
way, if Steve is so confident he can so it.  You are
certain, aren't you, Steve?"

Look, I wasn't going to back down, was I?  So I smiled
and said "Tony, you might bullshit when you're setting
up deals, but you know me:  I'm always certain I can
do what I say.  So of course I'm sure I can do it.
It's a pleasure to be able to take your five hundred
off you - you might as well pay me now."

Even in the small screen on my phone I could see that
smile flicker across Tony's face, that smile I'd seen
so many times before when he knew he'd won a tough
deal and the opponent had committed some error that
handed the spoils to Tony.  He was too good a
negotiator to show this openly, and the smile never
lasted more than an instant, and was probably
indiscernible to those who had not worked with him,
but I knew there was a killer shot about to land!
"So, Steve, why don't you arrange to bring him to one
of our little evenings together... Three's fun, but if
he's as handsome as you say, and his body is as
fantastic, four would be even better!"

"Hey, no... That's complicating it too much...."

"Oh come on, Steve.  If you've fucked him, and it's a
'proper' fuck, not just a casual one-off when you got
him drunk and pushed him over the arm of the couch or
something, then he'd be happy to come along and join
in, surely.  It's every guy's dream, to have totally
uninhibited sex with a fun group of others....  Or are
you not sure you can really show him that he's a
proper man and that he needs real sex, not just the
breeding he's doing now?"

"OK, you're on, Tony!"  The bastard had trapped me,
and I smiled inwardly:  he was a good man to head up
our trading divisions.

"Look, Steve, I know you wouldn't think of doing it,
but we must be careful of a switch", Miles now joined
in, having seen how Tony had manoeuvred me.  "So I
think you'd better bring this Jeff along tonight - you
need a bit of a break, and to spend some time with
your buddies.  That way we can meet him, feast our
eyes on him, and dream about him until you bring it
off.  So let's just have a poker evening - he must
play, surely, having been  in the forces?"

"I guess so.  I'll ask."

"OK, Steve... My place, eight o'clock?"

"Sure, Tony", I relied, and broke the connection.
This could be interesting.

End Of Part Twenty Seven.