Date: Mon, 11 Jul 2016 20:54:17 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Story : Even The First - PART TEN

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Even The First - PART TEN

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Even The First - PART TEN

I stood still in the dark, waiting for Paul's return from work. Paul has a
clock here, so he can time it. It was getting late. Then I heard the phone.

I listened. After a few blurps it clicked off. The answer machine cut in
and then I heard Paul's voice.

Why hasn't he rung the mobile?

I ran upstairs. I wasn't supposed to answer; it might be his mother. She
never knew about me. When she visited, Paul put me behind the locked door
of the cellar. That was the same when more or less anyone came round, if
they didn't know about me. The neighbours sometimes visited for something,
but that was very rare. They saw me working the garden and they saw me go
out running or to get stuff, so there was no hiding my existence from
them. They said hello when I was working in the garden, but I avoided
conversation. They didn't know how I lived. They didn't know I was a slave.

But there again, I didn't know I was a slave, until I found Paul's book and
it fell into place in my stupid brain.

I'm not going to look in that stupid book anymore. It was stupid to look in
it in the first place. I shouldn't be looking through Paul's private
stuff. I wouldn't normally, but I was curious... I wanted to find out
something about the man who has adopted me, who has looked after me and
protected me and fucked me all the past seven years. I wanted to find out
something about myself. I wanted to find out if I'm safe.

Well, I suppose I am safe.

I pressed the play button on the answer machine. Pauls voice, "I'll be
late." That's all he said.

That meant I had to wait.

---

I never saw Paul's mother, but I heard her and I heard what Paul said about
her. It was as if he didn't like her but he respected her. The independence
of his feelings for her in this way, by which I mean the coldness of them,
added to my impression of admiration for him, and increased my levels of
trust. That's not something he got from the book; it was simply a part of
his character. Let's face it, Paul was a classic Alpha: He knew his own
mind and sentiment did not interfere with him doing exactly what he wanted.

Once, he seemed to be pretty upset after one of her visits and I wondered
what she could have said that might have had this effect on him. He was
angry and stormed down the stairs into the cellar. He didn't turn the light
on. He just stormed down and called me, in the dark. I scrambled over and
started to kiss his feet and he just kicked me. He carried on kicking me
until he didn't want to kick me anymore. Then he just walked off. He didn't
fuck me that night. As he ascended the stairs he mumbled, "Sleep here." So
I slept in the cellar. I'm used to that. In the morning I went to prepare
his coffee and breakfast but his bed was empty. Then he came back, later,
and then he fucked me and acted normal. I never found out what she had
said.

Christ, it makes me so hard to remember that.

When I once asked how his mother was, once when she had visited and left
and things seemed fine, he got so angry I thought he was going to kill
me. He seemed to need that release. The next day he was fine and as he was
fucking me he seemed to really enjoy it in a way I'd not really seen
before. He put me on my back and while he was giving it he looked into my
eyes as if he wanted to know what I was feeling, like it was important to
him.

While he was fucking me he was stroking my face and putting his fingers in
my mouth to suck. He dropped a long silvery gob of his saliva into my mouth
and I remember it tasted sweet. When I caught it and swallowed it all up,
he smiled like he was looking at his own baby.

He touched where he had bruised me and pressed and said, "Does that hurt?"
and when I said, "Not really..." he said, "Awww baby. You're so cute." Then
he returned to his normal self.

---

I found the mobile in the kitchen. I hadn't heard it. Paul would want to
know why, but I didn't know why. One message.  The message was Paul. It
said, "Where the fuck are you?"  "I'm going to be punished tonight," I
thought.  "I'm going to be late," it said.  And then I thought, "I'm sick
of this."

What does it mean when you don't know what to do? I didn't know what to
do. I waited in the dark. I stood in the cellar darkness waiting for the
sound of Paul's return. I thought about my future. I was glad it was dark;
I didn't want to see anything. I held my hands behind my back. When I got
cold I did some press-ups and weights and then resumed my position. The
food upstairs was ready. As time progressed, I was ready also: When Paul
returned I would confront him. I would demand my freedom; manumission. I
would insist on a new status. I had it all worked out. I'd tell him to
forget it. I'd tell him I had had enough and I wanted out. I'd make him pay
for the past, literally, with money, and I'd use it to go away and start a
new life. I still had time. I'd take his payment and get a place and a job
and I'd make friends, a special friend even, someone who cared for me and
respected me and wanted me to be all I could be... I'd find love. I'd find
life and love.

The thought of it made me pant with anger. I gripped my wrists together. I
grabbed the bar and did some chin-ups. I was covered in sweat and
showered. The cold water bouncing off my skin made me shout. I was cold and
hot.

I remembered Nigel. He said I could phone him if I needed to talk. Perhaps
I needed to talk now. I didn't fancy it. I'd rather phone Rodder. He was a
good fuck. I felt my anus blink at the thought of him. But Rodder hadn't
given me his number. No such luck.

The only people I knew were men Paul had given me to for his own
pleasure. He like to see me being used. There were a few, but mainly they
had treated me as a toy and not taken any further interest; they knew it
was pointless, Paul didn't let them get too close. He was no fool. If they
got too much they wanted more and fancied they could take Paul's
place. That was silly. Paul was a unique guy. He knew what he had. He
didn't intend to lose it by giving it away; he wanted it too much. The
other men were nothing in comparison. They could see the set up. They
wanted in, but Paul was the one who made everything happen. Without him
they'd not get anywhere. Without him, I'd still be a vagrant military drop
out. I'd probably be on the street, on drugs, or in prison, or a corpse in
a bag. Christ, what would I be without Paul? Paul saw the use of
everything. He was a man of vision. He understood what things were for and
how to use them. He understood me and what I was good for and he understood
one vital thing: that if you use things according to their proper uses, you
use them the way they were meant to be used, then everybody's happy. If you
treat your people they way they are suited to be treated, then it's
comfortable, and everything feels right. It's when people get the wrong
idea and don't understand their place you get ideas that hurt. For Paul it
means, if you do what's right for you, treat everything as your property,
then not only will you be happy but so also will those you control. You are
doing them a favour.

Paul treated everything as if it had been placed there by some benevolent
god solely for him to use as he saw fit. It was almost as if he even
thought of God as his subordinate, responding obediently and subtly
preempting his selfish demands. And it hadn't all come from Paul's book,
"The Foundations of Enslavement". Being an Alpha was natural to Paul's
brain. I can imagine he never knew how to take no for an answer.

Oh why am I going on about it?

I wished I could stop thinking. I wished I could stop everything - but I
started to see: I depended upon Paul for everything. He owned me, but in
return he gave me ownership. If I wasn't owned, I'd fall apart. If I wasn't
obedient, I'd be nothing. What a fag!

---

Standing in the dark, this has happened before, the sensation of being a
man in a man's body builds and becomes overwhelming. I can feel the heave
of my chest and tautness in my stomach as I struggle to overcome my
emotions. I can feel the weight of my hands against the smooth mounds of my
buttocks. I can feel the pulse in my ears, a quick rush that echoes through
my body and lifts my cock. I can feel the soles of my feet cold on the wet
concrete. I can feel my physical strength and my vulnerable nakedness and
the sensation grows, "I am a man in a man's body." I have the power to be
myself.

Whatever that means.

I did not move. My cock was standing up.

I remembered gunfire. I remembered the desert. I remembered the silence of
the night, sky thick with a quilt of stars, with Squigger; he sat on the
front of a Land Rover and I sat on the ground, between his feet. He brushed
my head with his fingers, my head filled with empty thoughtless
nothing. Yes, there was suddenly gunfire.

The locals often emptied a mag into the air; that was their way of
celebrating. What were they celebrating? Fuck knows. Like the cockerel
squawking: they just did. Then there was silence. Squigger nudged my
shoulder with his boot, but we didn't move. "We can't stay here," I
thought. "We can't stay here."

I lifted my hand and grabbed his leg. I just wanted to feel it. I just
wanted him to feel my hand. I wanted him to know that I loved him. I
gripped the familiar, hard calf. My other hand I put around the ankle of
the same leg and touched the exposed hair above his sock. He put his finger
in my ear and traced the corkscrew grooves with its tip.

I knew we couldn't stay, but now so much has gone I wonder ... just how
much I could have held on to had I just held on?

That was the night before.

By the next night I had already lost everything. And I knew it was
deliberate. He hadn't made a mistake. It was a set up. It wasn't enemy
action. It was the others ... who just couldn't accept ... what was
happening.

---

Christ, my cock was so hard now. I really wanted Paul to come home and fuck
me. Paul liked me like that. I could feel my anus sweating. I knew he'd
want it after a long day. I knew he'd want to have my cunt quickly the
moment I opened the door. I'd drop at his feet and lick them urgently; that
would please him. He'd push the door to, pull it out, "Face the wall," and
have it immediately before 30 seconds was up.

He always thought about fucking me.

When he was at work he thought about fucking me. In meetings. Sitting in
the car. Queued on the motorway, listening to the radio, watching the boys
on motorcycles speeding past, their agile bums twisting on their seats, he
thought about fucking them and then he thought about fucking me. I knew he
was thinking about fucking me right now, wherever he was. He always thought
about it.

Sometimes I think that's all he ever thinks about.

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END OF Even The First - PART TEN