Date: Sat, 3 Sep 2016 02:50:05 -0400
From: Joe Justice <lexdude34@gmail.com>
Subject: "His Chaste Servant"/Chapter 3
Author's rights: All rights to this story, or any parts of it, belong to
the author. No use other than what is specified on Nifty is permitted
without the author's advance written permission.
Disclaimer: What follows is a work of fiction, one chapter in a series to
appear here on Nifty. Any similarities to actual events -- past, present
or future - or actual persons, locations, landmarks, brands or products -
is entirely coincidental. This story contains explicit scenes of
consensual sex between men. All characters depicted are well above 18
years of age. If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too
young to be reading such material, or you are in a place where it is
illegal view such material, leave immediately. If this material offends
you, save yourself the heartache and go elsewhere.
Nifty is an important resource to our community, and needs your support to
keep it available, maintained and free. Consider making a donation via
Paypal.
His Chaste Servant/Chapter 3
With the plug up me and the cage on me, sleep was tough. After the
usual get-out-of-the-house morning chaos, complete with expired MetroCard
and no cash on hand, I managed to get to work on time. I was tired. I
stood the whole way on the subway ride uptown, consumed with images of Max
and Tomlinson playing racquetball, and swapping stories in the locker room
afterward. Okay, yes, naked with swinging dicks, swapping sexual-conquest
stories. Would Max really tell him about me? Or what we did? I mean,
Tomlinson is straight, right? So tales of a using and subduing his faggot
could not be a turn-on for him, right? I mean, could they? That would be...I
couldn't even imagine what that would mean.
Riding up the escalators through rush hour at Grand Central, I was
intensely self-conscious about my cage and my plug. What if there were
leak stains on my work chinos, and everybody was too embarrassed to point
them out? What if the NYPD decided I was the perfect target for a random
bag check and frisk? "Danny, I'm in jail...don't ask...you need to come bail
me out...," is how that script was still flowing when the elevator doors
opened on my floor at the firm. My throat was still irritated from last
night's throatfuck, and the usual "Mornings!" as I walked to my desk
evoked a few questions about whether I' gotten that summer cold going
around the office.
Sitting down in my chair the first time of the day was a negotiation
process. My ass was still a bit tender from the tanning Max had
administered last night, and the plug and cage meant my guts got
rearranged, my hole got stretched more and my junk had to be maneuvered
into a position where the cage didn't pinch. All to be done without
showing anyone anything different.
Tomlinson walked by at 9:15, looked at me strangely, went to his
desk and kept casting occasional strange looks at me, from his desk. What
the hell? At about 10:30, I got an URGENT email from Gail Pennske, in
Human Resources. Come up now. Oh my god. I had no savings. I could not
afford to lose this job. The landlady might tolerate the late rent
payments, but no way would she put up with me falling behind. She'd sent
up Krahulik, the Neanderthal super, to deal with me.
Gail was a 30-something, nice enough person when she introduced
herself. She called me in and closed the door.
"You know why we're here, don't you?" Oh my god, Max had told
Tomlinson everything, and now I was in H.R. I nodded no. I felt so
exposed. I was in a metal cock cage. I was wearing a large butt plug. If
this were airport security, I wouldn't make it through the scanner."
"Your boss called me this morning...he told me...
"Uh oh..."
"You sound like you have a cold. You all right?" I blushed and
nodded no again. "Look, before you get all upset, you're not getting
fired. You're not even getting formally reprimanded." I stared in shock.
"Look, the firm wants you to succeed. You're the fourth person in your
position in two years, and we'd like to have this work out, with you. Your
boss is a powerful person here, so we're trying to work with him." Uh oh.
"He said you're getting better. Believe me, that is very different
from what I've heard him say about your predecessors. He says you're kinda
stiff sometimes, and he wished you'd loosen up. He said you walk around
sometimes...I need to be careful here...may I use his words?" Uh oh. I nodded
yes. Boy, this plug sure could chafe sometimes.
"He said you walk around like you have a big stick up your...up
your....up your, uh, well, you know what."
"He said that?"
"Yes he did. This morning. It's an unusual remark from a boss, in my
experience. But I thought I'd pass it on. Maybe it makes sense to you."
Max had to have said something. What else could it be? How humiliating.
Their private joke. Or maybe I was walking funny. "In any case," Gail went
on, changing to her "upbeat professional" tone, "your annual review is up
in two months. And the firm wants to give you an increase that reflects
our appreciation for your effort. So hang in there. And no more sticks,
okay?"
That last one caught me by surprise, and I flushed and looked down,
before meeting her I'm-being-warm-and-supportive, bright-eyes gaze with a
weak smile. I was sure my plug was pushing out against my pants, and
everybody saw it. I went back to my desk, with that delivered-from-the-
hangman look on my face.
Within 10 minutes, Becca Grubman swept by, heading for my boss's
office. Becca was the firm's event planner, pretty, with amazing long
blonde hair that swept nearly to her waist and must have cost several
hundred a month in salon maintenance. She was dressed usually, which is to
say very well: today, a tight wool skirt that showed off her butt, a white
silk blouse with plenty of cleavage, and high heels. I didn't see anything
on his calendar, and Tomlinson had told me I had to be a better
gatekeeper.
"Becca, I don't see an appointment, and he's booked all day," I said
in my best attempt at firmness. She paused, looked at me curiously, like
you would an insect, and kept going.
"You need to be thinking about that cold, Jimmy. He'll see me, don't
worry your little head about it," she called out behind her, as she walked
right in. Tomlinson was on the phone, fiddling with his crotch in his
chair, as he sometimes did. He sat right up. Standing, she put her hands
on the desk and leaned a bit. The smiles and laughs started, including one
at my expense, as they both looked at my knowingly and then back to the
flirt. She closed his door. He closed the interior blinds. Here we go...
About ten minutes went by, when the door opened and she flounced
out, her face a bit flushed, her hair a bit mussed. Tomlinson came to the
door to see her walk away, with a highly satisfied grin on his face. Wow.
He called me in. The office smelled of sex. His vibe and hard look were
pure "I don't give a fuck what you think, you little faggot." He had his
signed World Series baseball in his hand.
"This'll be quick. Set up my racquetball game for Wednesday. I want
the Japanese guy in today at four for a one-hour massage," he started, and
pointed to his bathroom door. "There." The firm had kicked an "of counsel"
partner out of his office last year to expand Tomlinson's lair, even
installing a large private bath suite, complete with shower, closets and a
massage table.
Ahh, the perks of controlling $58 million a year in client
billings! "Reschedule my later meetings around that. Call my cleaners and
tell them to send my clothes here. I'm staying in town tonight, so no car
service. Lunch tomorrow at Per Se with Icahn. Table for four. One o'clock.
Tomorrow morning, let's review the arrangements for the Montana trip. Got
all that? You got a cold or something?" He was pacing, tossing the
baseball from one hand to the other. That's what Tomlinson did when he was
revved up, pace and toss. And bark orders.
Stephanie, my work neighbor, main ally in the assistant pool and co-
sharer of firm gossip, caught my eye as I walked out. My cage was sure
doing its job, because the call-in with Tomlinson had gotten me all hard,
well I guess as hard as I could get now, which was very little. It was
almost painful.
"You okay? You're walking like you sprained a muscle."
"I'm fine." Sitting down pushed the plug back in, fully. Max crossed
my mind. And Christof.
Steph and I had our own little system of talking all day. Sometimes
a text. Sometimes, a tap on the glass. Sometimes a little wad of paper
over the partition, with a note. Sometimes, when something major went on,
one of us would stand to stretch, meaning, "Did you just see that?" As
Tomlinson called me in, I saw Becca stop at Steph's desk to chit-chat, in
that woman-to-woman, whispery way. I stood up, which caused a quick twinge
in my hole as the plug adjusted. She stood up - pow-wow time.
"So?," I said.
"I'll tell you at lunch," she whispered, with an all-knowing, you-
will-definitely-want-to-hear-this look.
"Okaaay, torturer!" We both sat down. Another twinge of the plug. I
was learning that I had to re-lube every so often; the full stretching
further in was one thing, the chafing against my asslips was different. I
could not get Max out of my mind. I couldn't get Tomlinson's snarky remark
out of my mind either. "Stick up my ass?" That had to be a coincidence. I
mean, didn't it? But why tell it to HR? My boss, tightly controlled so
much of the time, regularly went "no filters" with me. I dropped a wadded
over the partition to Steph. "Lunch. 1:00. Salad place?" She rapped on the
glass, got my attention, and nodded "yes."
"So, nu?," I asked again, when we got to our table. We chuckled.
"You got a cold. Emma and Sher-lynn have one too. I have some cough-
drops if you want one..." I gave her the "nah" headshake. "Suit yourself."
And now she leaned in, always the sign something good was coming, dirt-
wise. "So, ready? Becca says CT keeps a fuckpad, downtown." "CT" was our
shorthand for "Carey Tomlinson." And "cock tease," too.
"You're kidding. You mean, like, a secret apartment?" My pulse
quickened.
"Yeah. Down on Wooster Street. Like that guy, the English chef...Todd
Eng..."
"Todd English? Really? Todd English has a secret fuckpad? How do you
know this shit? I see all CT's expense reports and I've never seen any sign
of this. Anyway, I don't get it. Why is Becca telling you all this?" My
dick was straining against its cage.
"She hasn't been there yet. But CT told her he wants to take her
there." Ah yes, to be taken to the fuckpad with a naked Carey Tomlinson!
Dayyum! I pretended to be interested in my salad.
"Where are they fucking now? I mean, how does he keep this from his
wife?'
"I dunno. Becca says his wife knows what she signed up for, and
she's happy to stay in the suburbs with the kids, as long as the money
keeps coming. Tomlinson jokes that he keeps his wife very satisfied. You
know, super very satisfied. Wink wink nod nod." I hoped I wasn't beet red.
"Put your tongue back in your mouth."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Well, yeah. You do cruise him every time he walks by your desk, you
know. You should be careful. He knows you check him out."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I see him sometimes smile, or roll his eyes when he walks
by, after he's caught you staring." Oh boy. Now I blushed again.
"Back to CT."
"Yes, back to CT..."
"What else does she say? I can't believe she tells you all this."
"She thinks she's protected. Says CT will protect her if the firm
tries anything. Probably right. Anyway, here's the other thing..."
"Yessss?"
"It's as big as her forearm." My eyes widened. "That's what she
says. 'It's the size of Brazil. Like a baby's leg.'" My heart was beating
very fast. "I know you don't care about stuff like that..." We both laughed.
My hole spasmed a bit, around the plug. My mouth was dry. I took a sip of
my soda, reeling with this bit of information.
"Becca's into that kind of thing? She's into big ones?"
"You mean, just because she's female? You mean, like, women don't
care about size, that kind of thing? Jimmy, Becca's like a man, with a
vagina. It's a head trip for her -- banging the firm's top lawyer, who
happens to have a huge one, and happens to be married, and happens to be
rich." I was picturing Tomlinson on top of Becca, big back rippling,
glutes flexing as he pounded her. I couldn't picture him as the
"lovemaking" type. Kinda like Max, that way...
"And you expect me to get work done today, after you tell me this?"
We both laughed again. "Well, keep up the good work, Lois Lane." Lois Lane
and Jimmy Olsen were one set of nicknames we had for each other when we
discovered some juicy bit of news. As common sense as Steph was, she was a
writer on the side, and we batted around pop-culture jokes.
"Thanks. By the way, what if CT is actually Superma...?"
"Do not even go there. Back to the salt mines..."."
"But really, "Lois Lane"? You're dating yourself, Jimmy Olsen. Can't
I be Kalinda Sharma? Jessica Jones?" We walked back to the office, but not
before I noticed a wet spot on my pants. This conversation about
Tomlinson's third limb had made me produce a lot of pre-, even with the
cage. I grabbed a copy of the Daily Planet left on one of the tables, and
tried to maintain a semblance of a normal stride.
Joking aside, it was going to be hard to concentrate this afternoon.
The plug and cage were constant reminders of Max and my last session with
him. The summons from HR told me Tomlinson was concerned about my
performance and watching me like a hawk. Or a sadist. Or all of the above.
Now, the new...uh, anatomical details from Steph only intensified the
tingling and fear and lust I felt in my boss's presence. I was nervous I'd
be fantasizing all afternoon about being taken to the secret fuckpad, when
I had some serious filing to catch up on.
At 3:55, the front desk told me Hiroshi was here for Mr. Tomlinson,
and I had them send him in. The lobby security said a dry cleaning
delivery was here, and I also sent them up. Hiroshi was the masseur, lean
and wiry, maybe in his mid-40s, definitely straight. The firm let some
partners have this kind of service, though Tomlinson had been banned from
having females because, well, you know. I guess Hiroshi was doing his
Comme de Garcons look today, all black togs, black turtleneck, black
shoes, black beret. Tomlinson had him here a lot.
I figured I could use the next hour to catch up on filing and maybe
get out by 6. Moments after Hiroshi headed in, my cell rang RESTRICTED.
Max. "You on time today?, he asked, chuckling.
"Yes." I wasn't sure what I was supposed to call Max yet, and he
hadn't said.
"You need to go back to the store. Tonight. They close at 9. Get
there just before then. Christof will take of you."
"Okay. May I ask how your racquetball game went? This morning?"
"What do you think I'm going to say?"
"You'll say, 'I ask the questions.'"
"Correct. Here's one answer: You're lucky to have the boss you have.
Very lucky. He's just right for someone like you." What did that mean? "So
go to the store. Don't be late. And I want to see you tomorrow night. At
9:30."
"Yes. Of course."
"See you then. And by the way, you're doing good, boy." Click. Max's
encouragement was enough to warm me.
It was too good to last. Right after Max hung up, Tomlinson called
out from his bathroom, telling me to bring the dry cleaning into him. This
had been a loopy day. What...ever.
I stopped short when I entered Tomlinson's bathroom. The table was
out, ready. Hiroshi was facing a corner, setting up his oils, it looked
like. And Carey Tomlinson was stark naked. I was chattering about what
clothes went where, and came to a dead halt. Time stopped. I took it all
in, from top to bottom, in the kind of detail that you hear goes on when
someone's life passes before their eyes. There was my boss, 6'3", probably
225 pounds, wide shoulders, bowling ball deltoids, big guns, massive slabs
of pectoral muscle, hair everywhere, a tight stomach and the kind of legs
you'd expect on a professional athlete. Forty-three years old, at the
height of his physical powers. In his clothes, he was impressive. Naked,
he was overwhelming.
And that cock. Becca wasn't exaggerating. It seemed to hang down at
least seven inches, cut, uniformly fat from base to head. It was
completely soft. I was in a heightened state of awareness, and I know
cocks even in a dulled state of awareness, and Tomlinson's cock was
hanging more than seven inches, completely slack. How big would it get,
hard? I could hear my heart pounding. My hole began to spasm around the
plug. Precum started leaking through my cage, and down my leg. I couldn't
speak. As the proverbial rabbit in front of a snake, I couldn't move, and
just stared fixedly at the huge dick.
Even in my somnambulist state, I knew the two of us had just passed
beyond our professional roles as supervisor and subordinate. The thought
of taking an episode like this to HR was preposterous. "Well, Gail, he was
just standing there, naked." "Okay Jimmy, I'm listening, but did he also
cause the saliva to drip from your mouth, and your spontaneous
ejaculation?" It was like neurons were rewiring themselves, without effort
on my part, in patterns of instinctive submission to a clearly superior
being.
Tomlinson had no intention of making this easy. Let me rephrase: he
had every intention of imprinting the differences between us on my brain,
in as indelible and humiliating a way as possible. He stood, arms relaxed
at this side, breathing relaxedly, looking right into my eyes, predator
and prey, for what seemed like minutes. And he didn't move. Hiroshi might
as well have been on Mars, as far as either of us were concerned.
"You have something to give me," he was speaking in a low, calm
voice. This was some kind of "whisperer" voice like you'd see on TV, used
to calm unruly pets. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Jimmy. You're
white as a sheet. Are you hearing me, Jimmy?" That broke my spell. "You
can put the hanging stuff on the hooks over there, and the boxes on the
floor."
Pulling together all my composure, I silently did as Tomlinson
ordered, while he got onto the table. I left and walked past my desk,
though I don't remember much except Steph asking, "What happened?" In the
men's room, I took a stall and sat, fully dressed. Then burst into heaving
sobs. "I give up," is the kind of thought that passed through me. "I can't
do it. I'm not like them."
The images cascaded: Max fucking my face last night while I impaled
myself on that big toy. Tomlinson standing there like an emperor while I
babbled. The fuckpad. They were a different species. They were men. Real
men. Even Christof putting on my cage and showing me off to his co-
workers. And by contrast my crappy apartment, with the clothes all over
the floor. The maxed-out credit cards. Life at the bookstore, blowing an
endless parade of faceless cocks. "I'm just a faggot." I must've cried for
a few hours, and I have no idea whether anyone came in or out while I did
it.
When I "came to," it was after 6:30. I was oddly calm. I walked back
to my desk, past empty offices and desks. The cage and plug were neither
pleasant nor unpleasant. They were facts of my life. Tomlinson's door was
closed and locked. I gathered my things, and headed home.
There, just sitting at the messy kitchen table, I didn't return
calls from Danny and Pete. My phone told me Amazon was scheduled to
deliver my new Andrew Christian underwear, another impulse purchase I
couldn't afford. I opened another extortionist credit card mail offer,
specially made for marginal-credit types like me, then tossed it. With
just stale Chinese takeout and some fresh milk in my fridge, I settled for
a big bowl of cornflakes, in a surreally calm state.
All I knew was that I was showing up at New York Leatherman just
before nine tonight, to do whatever Christof told me to do. I was showing
up at work tomorrow at nine, to do whatever my living-god-bastard-of-a-
boss told me to do. I was showing up at Max's tomorrow night at 9:30, to
have him violate and use me however he wanted. I was encircled, with no
room for anything else. I was okay with that.
At the store, the metal grille had already been pulled in front of
the display window, but the lights were still on. That skinny guy who ran
the register answered the bell. Again the knowing smile. "Christof is in
the back." I came in and started to walk back. "Hold up." Uh oh. I paused
and turned around. "Clothes in the basket," he said, nodding to the hamper
basket he'd just put in the aisle. "Everything."
Christof was in the workshop, in cutaway leather chaps over a black
jockstrap, chain and keys hanging left, with lace up Wesco boots. "It's
our favorite faggot, fellas!," he exclaimed, all fake heartiness. This
time around, I was impervious to taunts and still in strange acceptance of
all of this. Two guys were still left in the workshop, one clearly a sub
by his outfit, and the other a lumberjack-y type. Christof picked up the
house phone: "He's here." And then to me: "Jake's coming up. Let's check
things out." Christof heft my caged junk roughly, producing a small yelp
from me. It seemed he wanted to try pulling the cage off. "Good, it's on
tight. You got chafing?"
"Yeah, some, especially when I sit down."
"You used the cream I gave you?" I nodded yes.
"The chafing will calm down. You'll get used to it. You got no
choice but to get used to it," he said, then laughing. "I'm glad it's
tight. When you start to shrink, we refit you."
"Can I ask much will it shrink?"
"We hope like this," he said, holding up his thumb and indicating
from the second knuckle to the tip. An inch and a half long! My eyes must
have widened a bit, because he added, "But you got a long way to go before
we get there." Christof took my left arm and swung me around, back to him.
"Bend over and grab your ankles." I felt his fingers reaching around the
knob of the plug, and pulling. "Open your hole, bitch. I wanna check this
too." I groaned as he forced me to dilate the width of the plug, and
pulled it out with a plop. "Stay down." I could see the feet of the two
other co-workers come around. "Check this out. Well, at least the bitch is
clean. Maybe we go up a size. Stand up."
Jake came in, in Nasty Pig t-shirt and tight jeans that showed off
his bulge. Jake reached over and ran his hand over my stubbly hair. "We
need to crop you again, by the end of the week." I nodded blankly.
"So, fellas, the second order of business is these," Christof
announced, holding up a pair of kneepads. Turning to the sub, he said,
"Why don't you put these on him." And so the nameless guy knelt in front
and buckled the kneepads. Looking at me, he said, "You'll be spending a
lot of time on your knees." They all smiled at each other.
Now Christof paused, theatrically, and looked at me. "You notice the
kneepads were the second order of business. So now we can take care of the
first order of business," and he unbuckled the front waist of his chaps,
hooked his thumbs into his jock to pull it down, and hauled his nuts and a
hard, pierced cock out. "You owe Jake and me blowjobs for the last visit.
So get to work."
I knelt in front of Christof, a healthy seven-inch piece of meat
bobbing in front of me, with what looked like a 10-guage Prince Albert.
I'd serviced men with piercings, and it'd always given me pride in my
cocksucking skills to handle them smoothly. I looked up into his eyes,
then to his cock, opened my lips wide, and took him to the root in a
single inhale. Max had really loosened up my throat last night. "Niiiccce,
faggot," Christof hissed, as he put both hands on my head and locked my
face into his pubes for a little breathplay hold. "Hands behind your
back." I complied. This was gonna be show-off sex for Christof, showing
his buds how hard he could skullfuck. And skullfuck is what he did,
grunting and loving the rare choke or gag. The kneepads really did make
things easier.
I could see that Jake had hauled out his cock, an uncut six-plus
incher, and was stroking it while he watched the action. The other two
were looking on too.
So here I was, naked and kneeling in the back of a store after
closing, a decent size dick in my mouth. Not Max-sized or Tomlinson-sized,
but decent. All I had to do was focus on arranging my lips, tongue, teeth
and throat around it. This was good. I was absolved of responsibility. I
didn't have to pretend to be like a Max. I was something different. A
faggot. A non-man, as Christof or Max might say. This - sucking any cock
presented to me - was my purpose right now. I was okay with that. Christof
wasn't much of a talker, so I knew he was getting close when his balls
started pulling up. Then blam! He poured what had to be a week's worth of
spooge onto my tongue, as I struggle to swallow fast. I'd kept my hands
entwined behind me the whole time.
Jake let me use my hands to brace myself on his surprisingly firm
ass and legs. He'd been primed to go watching Christof, and was quick to
come to the edge. "Look at me," he barked, "and don't take your eyes off
me until I tell you to." I didn't. But I could still see Christof filming
me from his phone, out of my peripheral vision. A group suck-off, filmed
to be sent god-knows-where. I focused on pleasing Jake, to keep my mind
off anything troubling. Like "the future." Tonight, I was okay with that.
Jake blew soon enough, all across my face.
"Leave it on 'til you get home, faggot. Got it?" I nodded, awaiting
permission to stand.
"So now that that's done," Christof announced, "we have the third
order of business. Get up!" I did. Christof got on his phone. "We're in
the back." A minute later, a tall, heavily tattooed Goth came in with what
looked like a doctor's bag.
"He's the one, right?"
"Good guess, Woody," joked Christof, who I guess knew this man. "The
naked one, with the load on his face. Yep, that's the one." And they all
laughed. "We're gonna start piercing you," said Christof, suddenly
serious. "Eventually tits, septum, ears, eyebrow, taint, belly button. Not
all at once. We'll just do a navel ring tonight. But just giving you a
heads up. Your man's gonna want those nipples huge, I mean humongous, with
big rings in 'em. Show 'em, Sparks." And the house sub took off his
leather vest and t-shirt to reveal a pair of swollen nips that must've
stuck out a half-inch, with big circular barbells pulling them down a bit.
Okaaaaaay.
"Are those 6-gauge?" I asked.
"Four-gauge. Tonight I'm only going to do your navel. That's what
you man wants, and I know you work in a law firm." Did they all talk among
each other? He took out his needle and sterilization kit.
"Now your man wants it without anesthesia, okay?" I nodded, either
surprisingly okay or in some PTSD impaired-perception episode. "So
Christof's gonna hold you still while I'll do the piercing with the
needle, and put a gold ring in. This'll take about five minutes. Gold is
the safest. After a few weeks, you skin will heal up totally, and while it
may get irritated, you won't get infected. Before then, you need to be a
little careful. I'm gonna give you this little instruction sheet, about
how to wash yourself. I see you probably already got other instructions...,"
he continued, nodding to my cage. "You ready?," he asked.
Christof came around behind me, and locked his arms around my chest,
immobilizing my arms. He couldn't resist grinding his basket into my
crack, and licking the back of my neck. "Ok, here we go," said Woody. I
closed my eyes, winced at the sting and then it was done. "Ok, mister,
you're good to go. Here's the instructions. Take some Advil, or an Ambien.
If you have questions, call Christof."
"Sparks, get his clothes," said Christof. "We're gonna keep you at
the same size plug for now. You've done enough for a night, boy." He
mussed my crew cut, with a smile. "Turn around." I did, and felt the cool
touch of lube being pushed up my hole. And then the plug, which he had to
push hard to get in. Sparks, or Sparky I guess, helped dress me, and
walked me all the way to the curb, and put me in a cab. Just before I got
in, he put something in my hand.
"It's Ambien. You need to sleep," he said sweetly.
"Yes, just keep telling yourself you're okay with this," is what I
thought. Actually, I was okay with it. I went home, took the pills,
stripped, waded through the other clothes on the bed, and plopped on my
back. I couldn't be bothered to wipe the cum off my face.
The bedside alarm said 10:43. I'd met Max online 18 days ago. In
that time, I'd taken loads from Max six times, and from Christof, Jake and
eight strangers once each. I agreed to abstain from orgasm a week ago. Two
days ago, Max had my dick locked up. Today, I stopped being Carey
Tomlinson's employee and became...I don't know what. It had been an intense
24 hours, and I fell asleep in seconds.
(to be continued)
If you like this story, you can ready my other Nifty story, "I Like Head,"
posted May 11, 2016 under the "Authoritarian" section. As a longtime Nifty
reader and sometime commentator on the work of other Nifty writers, I
welcome your thoughts, opinions and suggestions. Contact me at
lexdude34@gmail.com.