Date: Sat, 21 Feb 2009 16:15:54 +0000
From: Martin Tawber <martintawber@hotmail.com>
Subject: I Could Never Leave Him -- authoritarian story

He likes my legs and underarms and chest shaved, and there was a time when
he would do it himself. He'd put some Coltrane on the stereo, light a
couple of squat, f at candles in the bathroom and the soft light would
flicker while I lay in the hot bath among the bubbles, my hands cuffed
together and hung on a hook above my head in the tile wall. He would have a
snifter of brandy and he'd give me a sip and I would close my eyes and
savor the warmth it brought and he would reach into the suds and pull my
leg out and cock it gently over the rim of the tub while I lay there, all
languid helplessness.

He would get the safety razor from a drawer and the tube of baby lotion and
squeeze fat drops all the way up my leg and rub them in, him still fully
clothed, gentle and sensuous enough to almost make me swoon. Long soft
strokes up the length of my legs against the hairs, and then he would dip
the blade in the bath water to clean it; I watched him concentrate on his
work, and soon my cock was peeking up through the suds too. He noticed it,
like a little submarine periscope, and looked down and smiled at me. I went
all moony on him, sighing like a little girl. But the truth is, I had never
felt safer or more pampered or, in fact, sexier and sleeker and more
alluring than in those baths.

He would help me out of the tub, my hands still tied, all pink and smooth
and glistening like a shrimp, and rub me dry with a big, thick towel and
take me down the hall and throw me on the big bed, where he would hook my
cuffed hands over a hook in the headboard. He would reach into a drawer and
come out with a quirt, which he used on my thighs and stomach and breasts.

"Do you like it?" he would ask.

"No, master. Not really," I would say. "But if you want it, I want it."

And so it went. At the bank I was an executive in a suit; at home I was his
hot little bitch, horny as a rabbit and ready to jump in bed with him
anytime he wanted me.

He was still shaving my legs himself when he met Darren.  Darren was
younger than both of us, a little sullen Goth boy with black fingernail
polish and lank hair and a scraggly Van Dyke and a row of small metal
earrings around his left ear. He was skinny and his body was pale and
hairless and he looked almost delicate, with his scrawny chest and bony
shanks, and I actually felt sorry for him when Ernesto brought him home one
night, because Ernesto liked to hurt boys, and this one seemed especially
vulnerable.  He never came harder than when he was squeezing your balls so
hard it brought tears to your eyes or when he hadn't used quite enough lube
to fuck you.

Ernesto often brought strange men home, doms who beat and fucked me while I
blew him and subs with whom he humiliated me by making me suck them off
while he watched.

But Darren was different. First, he was sexy, for all his skinniness. You
could tell right away. He might be wearing nothing but stretched out,
graying underpants, just brushing his teeth or eating a bowl of cereal, but
you couldn't take your eyes off him. He reeked of sex, but seemed at the
same time unconscious of the heat he gave off when he, say, licked his
milky lips after finishing the cereal. You wanted to take his little cock
right into your mouth and love it and make him feel so good. You wanted to
kiss his pale little nipples and play with the sparse curly hair under his
arms and around his little penis. Or just sit there and adore him. And he
could kiss. He could kiss for days.

Ernesto did the drama thing with Darren the first time he brought him home,
flipping on the harsh basement lights and leading the boy down the stairs
to show me tied, naked, to a rack and squinting furiously at the bright
light. He made the boy strip in his stern voice, and then had him suck
me. The boy was good, experienced, but without passion. Then Ernesto made
him stand up and tied his hands and put the rope in a pulley and cranked
the boy's arms over his head.

The boy didn't move, didn't writhe or stretch, but he didn't have to. Damn
he was sexy. His dick started to get a little hard. Ernesto untied me from
the rack, led me over and tied me, hands over my head, face to face with
the boy. Then he tied a rope tight around our waists. I looked in the boy's
eyes, so near my own, but he revealed nothing. I wet my dry lips with my
tongue. I didn't care if he was another submissive – humiliatingly, I
wanted him in my pussy.

Ernesto took a riding crop from the wall and swung it, hard, against the
concrete wall. It cracked. The boy flinched only slightly. I think it
frightened me more than him. I knew what Ernesto was capable of. Ernesto
walked around behind the boy and hit him hard on the ass with the crop and
the boy moaned. Ernesto hit him again, harder, and the boy moaned
again. But he didn't try to dance away.

His pain turned me on. I began to writhe against him, my hard cock against
his. As the blows fell and I felt him jerk, I whispered in his ear "It's
okay, baby. It's okay. I'm right here. You can do it. You can do it. Do it
for me, little slave."

Then he seemed to smolder. He started to respond, nuzzling my neck, little
kisses between the blows. I rubbed against him like a cheap whore.  Helping
him transcend the pain, feeling every blow through him every time he
jerked, I couldn't remember when I had felt so close to someone other than
my master.

"Stick your ass out," Ernesto said. The boy did. Ernesto hit him again, and
again, ten more whacks in all. By the end the boy was crying a little,
silently, his shoulders shaking, but he hadn't screamed. Ernesto hadn't hit
me once. I felt a little slighted. I would of course never have dared to
actually express that sentiment. I kissed the boy on the mouth and cheeks
and nose and tasted salty tears.

Ernesto untied us both and took us to bed with him.

In the morning, the boy stayed. And the next morning. And the next. I would
make breakfast naked – or in nothing more than a frilly apron when I was
cooking – for Ernesto every morning and wait on him before he went to
the construction site, pouring him more juice and trying to stand still
while he groped and squeezed my balls, and he had me make the boy
breakfast, too. I got a little jealous. His ass and cock and mouth were too
delicious, it's true, but what was he still doing here? When Ernesto had
gone to work every morning, I put my suit on and went to the office. The
boy stayed, naked but untied, all day, and I have no idea what he did. The
television or radio were not on when Ernesto came home, and there was no
sign the boy had picked up a book or a magazine.

Days became months, and the three of us settled into a rhythm. We both
slept in the big bed with him each night, each tied hand and foot, one of
the last things Ernesto did every night. Sometimes we would lie in the dark
beside him and listen to him talk about his day, me hanging on every word,
anxious to hear what clever thing the master had said to his construction
crew today, while the boy sometimes began to snore softly.

After a few weeks, they started disappearing at night. It didn't take me
long to figure out Ernesto had turned the boy out. (A boy who was 19, and
obviously fairly precocious. I had been a slut and a submissive as long as
I could remember, but I had never sold myself.) Ernesto had always
advertised his own services as a dom on Craig's List and the local
alternative paper, and he would get a client maybe once a week. After all,
why would someone pay for what he could get at any leather bar in the city?

But there were men, middle-aged, well-off men like me, who loved the boy's
picture and the thought of tying him up and violating the innocence that
even in the blurry Web site photo shone through the black nail polish and
Goth attitude. And they did tie him up and they did fuck him. And he
learned like me to do what Ernesto told him to do.

They never came to the house, these men. These johns. Ernesto sometimes
took me with him and Darren to meet these men in cheap motel rooms. I found
the idea of the degradation, of being sold to some stranger for an hour of
rough, anonymous sex was incredibly hot. But, alas, I was far too
middle-aged to be attractive to most of the clients, except for the
occasional threesome with Darren, but for Ernesto's own amusement he made
me strip and tied my hands behind my back and made me watch some paunchy,
hairy man crouch on Darren's face and use a little quirt on the boy's
thighs while I sat on Ernesto's lap and tried to interest him in fucking me
by squirming like a little eel and grinding my bare ass into the crotch of
his pants. Instead he would usually whisper to me something like "Look at
that, you stupid pig. Look at that kid eat ass.  Holy Christ. He's driving
that guy nuts, he eats ass so good And the twat on him? Sweet, like
butter. Nice and tight. Best fuck I've ever had. Look, that guy's gonna
turn him over now and fuck it. Look at the guy. He's getting the best lay
he's ever gotten. He's got a hot tight juicy pussy to fuck. You used to be
that good. I used to get hard just thinking about what I was going to do to
you when I got home. Now you're just a fucking cow. You disgust me."

He would keep talking until he could see I was starting to cry, then he
would laugh at me while I sobbed. Meanwhile some rich guy was tying
Darren's hands together and turning the boy on his stomach and oiling him
up and fucking him. When it was over, and the man had counted the two
hundred-dollar bills into Ernesto's hands, Ernesto would trundle his little
harem out to the car. He would be moody after these sessions, and he would
often slap Darren for seemingly no reason, just lean across the stick shift
and hit him. Like me, Darren had learned not to protest or ask why.  He was
just another prized possession, like the Tag Heuer watch I had bought
Ernesto and the Porsche in our driveway (that Ernesto mostly drove) and the
huge television in the den. Like he was about everything else that touched
his life, Darren could take it or leave being a thing, something that was
owned, something that spent much of its time naked, bound and waiting to be
fucked.

More and more, as we all lived together, Darren and Ernesto mostly ignored
me. Often I lay on the floor, hands and feet tied, trussed like a turkey
and trying to fall asleep while he fucked Darren right above me in the
bed. Darren grunted theatrically – I suspect mostly for my benefit –
and I grew even more miserable. I felt like one of the middle-aged women my
colleagues had all been married to before finding the second, younger, more
beautiful trophy wife. I was pathetic. When I watched them make love,
Darren would look over at me and smirk. And I would pout and get miserable
and sniffle and hate myself and Darren and even Ernesto, the man whose
collar I wore and whose tattoo was on my ass: "Property of Ernesto." (When
he made me get the rings in my penis and scrotum and navel was when I
finally had to stop showering at my club. I bought a Stairmaster instead
and put it in the basement and Ernesto made me work out every night naked
on the thing.) The rings fascinated him for weeks; he loved tugging on them
and making me wince.

I shouldn't have put up with it, the neglect and especially the beatings as
they got more ferocious, but I loved him and, more important, I was still
his slave. I had made a pact with him, taken an oath that I took as
seriously as paying taxes or getting married. He owned me, for as long as
he wanted me. I no longer had a say; I had given that up, knowingly and
gladly, when I signed the contract.

I worried that he would leave me (he, of course, was free to break our
contract any time), or that somebody I knew from the office would see me,
Darren and him in a restaurant, the two of them giggling and feeding each
other the olives in their martinis and groping each other and flirting with
the waiter outrageously. I sat there, alternately seething and mortified,
while the manager and waiters looked at our table with contempt (except at
La Forchet, where Ernesto made Darren and I blow the entire wait staff in a
little storage room off the kitchen to pay for the meal while he and the
owner watched and made jokes about the waiters' penises.) Ernesto didn't
care about the contempt or being barred from restaurants. He would just as
soon have eaten at McDonald's, as far as food went; his tastes weren't
complicated. What he liked about good restaurants was that it mattered very
much that he dressed for them.  He liked to dress up very much. And I had
bought him a lot of nice suits so he could indulge this habit.

I stayed with him because I wanted to, then. And because I felt
obligated. But I was also more than a little afraid of Ernesto. He had
always hit me, almost from the beginning. Our first night together was
unforgettable, but pretty conventional love-making; he was one of the best
lovers I had ever had, and I cried out in pleasure in the dim light as he
entered me for the very first time and I hoped and prayed and vowed to
myself it would not be the last time. The second night he wanted to
blindfold me and tie my hands with a silk scarf. The third night he was a
little rough, and at one point he tipped me over his knee and spanked me
with his hand and then a hairbrush. The fourth night he tied me face down
on the bed and hit my ass and thighs and the soles of my feet hard with a
shoe. The fifth night he tied me up and beat me with a riding crop and
when, angry, I refused him, he raped me.

I surprised the hell out of myself by throwing myself at him and covering
him with kisses the moment he untied me the next morning, and then by
letting him back into my house the next night, and the next. I was
perplexed, but it was really simple. He kissed me and I melted. It became
common, as I mentioned, for him to slap me or even punch me, and
occasionally I had to go to work and explain a bruise on my face. This was
not a game. He hurt me. And yet the worse he was to me, the more I felt
owned and reassured. I gave all of myself to him. I willingly became his
slave

And then came Darren and set our little world spinning. And Ernesto became
even more frightening. You would think having not one but two boys around
the house all the time to serve his every wish would have made him happy. A
blow job? Merely point to a boy and command and the boy would drop to his
knees in front of you; or leap up to fix you a drink, or scrub the bathroom
floor because it doesn't gleam. But it didn't.

After a couple of months he didn't waste much time on me anymore, even to
beat me, although when he did, it was one of the few remaining things
concerning me about which he had still not grown indifferent. He laid into
me hard and furious, as if he was somehow angry at me, even though I was
careful to give him no cause for offense as I did the household chores; but
he would hit me so hard he had to gag me so I didn't frighten the neighbors
with my screams and to tie me tight to one of his machines in the basement
to keep me from dancing away from his whip.


Once when I tried to talk to him about Darren, he knocked me down and
kicked me. My hands flew to my naked balls while his construction boot
tried to find its way past my hands and stomp my balls. Finally, I looked
in his eyes and realized I would pay for this, and it was probably better
to get it over now then wait, frightened, for the lightning to strike. I
relaxed and opened up and sprawled on the floor for him and threw my arms
back over my head, utterly defenseless. He ground his heel into my balls. I
screamed (my big house was fairly well sound-proofed, thank god, but I was
pretty loud.) My squeals only made him press down harder.

"Don't," he said softly as he pushed down with his boot, "ever deny
yourself to me again. I will fucking beat you senseless, you little
cunt. And then I'll do what I want anyway."

Even Darren, across the room and, like me, naked, looked frightened. I
didn't know about him, but I started to feel like one of those battered
wives you read about it, who stay because they can't imagine life without
the man who is beating them, or because they simply crave any kind of
attention, even violence. Like them, I should leave, I thought, but I
couldn't find a way to break free. The intensity of his rage instead drew
me to him. I thought about his cock all the time, whether it was nestled
snugly in his jeans or whether it was in some young tart's mouth while he
crouched in some dirty men's room stall with his hands all over Ernesto's
balls; I imagined how they would sound and what Ernesto would say to him;
or I thought about the way he laughed, and how tender he could be, and how
he had once liked shaving my legs.

&&&

How did I get here? In the long watches of the night, listening to them
both breathe in their sleep, I have had a lot of time to think about it.

I had been sexual as long as I could remember, even as a very little
boy. At puberty I was sexually precocious, seducing older boys, making out
with them in my dark basement and letting them take off my pants and
underwear and fondle me while we were supposed to be listening to
records. I got a reputation as a boy who would put out for anyone. I let
them get to Third Base, but nobody even knew where home plate was until
Stephen. He came to the basement with a tube of lube, pulled my pants down
roughly and bent me over a wooden table and had me. Until then I had
thought there was only one way two boys could make love.

I thought I was in love, until he brought three friends the next day. I
didn't refuse them, but I was sad. He was beautiful and 17 and all dewy, a
scrumptious piece, someone I would always remember for taking my cherry.
And I was learning rapidly how to please boys like him.

When my mother divorced my father and married Doug, I was already a
shameless vamp, a lewd little thing, just sixteen years old and wanton as a
whore, all tongue wetting parted lips, legs spread wide so you could easily
ogle or fondle my penis and the little trimmed triangle of pubic hair above
it, kneeling and looking up at you with eyes that were all invitation.  One
boy even took an instant photo, me naked from the waist up, looking up at
him with an obvious come-hither look. I still have it.

By now, to put it crudely, more boys had been inside me than the gym. And
some men, too. I had got very good at what I did.  Now, though, I wanted
something different. Something crazy. It had been building in me for
months, and I hadn't even realized what it was until a month or so ago. I
wanted my stepfather. I wanted to kneel at his feet and unbuckle his belt
and let his pants fall and he would put a hand on my head to steady himself
while he stepped out of the pants and slipped his cock and my mouth and I
started to suck. I wanted to get on all fours like an animal and have him
fuck me.

It was possible, I thought. He had a dissatisfied air about him, like
something – my mother, his job, life, me – had let him down. He
wasn't mean or whiney about whatever it was, just sort of...distracted. He
seemed like someone who would shut down as he had and then someday do
something so totally unexpected, so radically different, something that had
been secretly building inside, so that the right person or thing could turn
it into an unstoppable flood. There had to be something that could push him
off-balance, I thought. Maybe it would be me.  It was that thought that
made me want him, that and the fact that at 42 he was still hard and lean
and handsome.

My mom was gone for two weeks that summer, visiting her sister. Doug and I
batched it. He worked all day, I mostly lounged around the pool, seeing if
the cute postman would nail me (no, despite my flashing him every other
day) and cooking for Doug when he got home. He'd have a glass of wine and
while my mother was gone he let me have one too, and one night, after a
couple more, he as much as admitted that my mother did not satisfy
him. Each night he would watch the news and then turn in – except for
his twice-monthly poker game on Monday nights. That would be my opening. If
it didn't work, it could be horribly embarrassing. But, little slut that I
was, I had come to the point where I didn't care.

Monday night I heard the car stop, the door open and shut, and then the
kitchen door open as he returned from the poker game. I lay on my bed naked
and started to masturbate slowly in the low light, a little towel
underneath my ass.

I heard him come upstairs, and I moaned loudly. I closed my eyes.

"Bobby?" he called. He came down the hall. The footsteps stopped.

"Holy Christ," he said. Me eyes and mouth flew open theatrically and there
he was at the door, watching, astonished, as I pumped my penis with one
hand and worked the middle finger of my other into my ass. "What the hell?"

"Doug!" I shouted in mock exasperation. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Your door was open. And didn't you hear me come in?"

"No, I was busy, as you can see," I said, sitting and propped up on my
hands now, looking up at him indignantly, legs still wide open.

"Well, get some pajamas on and get into bed."

"No, Doug," I said, leaping up and going after him down the hall, just as I
had planned it. "Let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain," he said over his shoulder as he
retreated. "It's fairly clear what's going on."

"Please," I said. "Just listen."

"Okay," he said. He turned to face me in the hall, studiously avoiding
looking at my penis, which was getting hard as I stood there showing off
for him. "Look, there's no harm in it," he said. "It's just embarrassing
the hell out of me that I walked in on you."

"I know, and I'm embarrassed, too," I said. "It's just, sometimes I start
thinking about things..."

"Well, that's only natural at 16," he said as my coy little pause lingered
in the air. "Look, really it's not a problem." He started to turn away,
anxious to be anywhere but here.

"Well, it is kind of a problem," I said. "Because the thing I think about,
I can't stop thinking about it. It makes me want to do this all the
time. You know what it is?"

"No," he said in a thick voice, like he very much didn't want to know the
answer.

"It's you," I said.

He seemed stunned.

"Don't you want me?" I pouted. I ran my hands up over my chest and held
them over my head and turned around slowly so that he could see my ass, as
if I was being sold at auction like some dancing girl. With my back to him,
I could almost feel him looking at it. I took a step back into him. I
reached up above and behind my head with both arms and circled his neck.

"Hey," he said, alarmed, as he tried to remove my arms.

"It's true," I said, and I writhed against him like some vamp. "I think
about you all the time. I want to do things with you. Sex things."

"Jesus," he yelped. There was real panic in his voice. Sweet little me. I
had frightened him. "Kid, you've gotta cut this out."

Instead I pushed my naked bottom against him and was rewarded with his
sudden hardness.  He started to sputter, but he wasn't trying to break away
anymore. This would be even easier than I had thought. I hadn't misread
those looks I thought I had caught him giving me, after all. I turned
slowly so that my chest was against his and put my arms around his neck. He
looked astonished. I put my head against his chest. "It's alright," I
crooned in a small voice. "It's okay. It's alright. Daddy."

He moaned and threw his arms around me and held me tight. I could feel the
hardness now in front. "Oh, Daddy," I said again. "You feel so good,
Daddy. I like it that your peenie's hard." He thrust now, one strong one
that left the hard tip of him resting against my groin, meaning business. I
wriggled against him, shameless thing that I was.

"I, uh, I shouldn't be doing this," he said, his arms still around
me. "This isn't right."

"No," I said, "this is very right." I looked him in the eye.  "This is very
right."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. And then he astonished me. He
leaned down and kissed me, a long kiss, first on the lips and then as my
tongue darted out and traced his closed lips, he pushed back and entered my
mouth. I kissed him harder, smashing my lips against his, mewling like a
kitten. He groaned. I wriggled. I wanted every part of our bodies to touch
the other everywhere. I wanted to taste him, all of him, down there and
under his arms and his toes and everywhere, and solve the mystery I had
pondered for a month.

"Fuck me," I whispered to him, my arms still around his neck. "Please, do
it. Fuck me. Fuck me now."

He hesitated a minute. Just a minute. Then one arm went under my thighs and
he was carrying me down the hall to the bedroom he shared with my
mother. He let me down gently on the chenille comforter. Because it felt so
good and cool on my naked ass, and because I didn't want to give him even a
second to think about what he was doing, I wriggled like a fish,
unbelievably wanton, so abandoned, so inviting, and I stretched languidly
and even put a hand on my hip, like a cheesecake photo, and when I reached
up for him he came into my arms and climbed on top of me without
hesitation. Something felt so right about being naked while he was
clothed. His nubbly wool turtleneck scratched my breasts and nipples. I
didn't care. I kissed him again.  A long time.

"Holy shit," he said, coming up for breath, his breathing a little
ragged. "I mean, Christ, you're hot. I mean, for a teenaged boy and all.
Do you do this a lot?"

I paused coyly. "No," I lied.

"Nobody can know about what we're doing. Especially not your mother," he
said. A picture of her, naked, with her legs thrown in the air for him,
came to me suddenly.

"I would never tell her," I whispered into his neck.  "Because then I
couldn't have you and I couldn't have your big cock in my mouth."


 He groaned and hugged me tighter.

"Have you ever had a boy before?" I asked.

"No," he said, a little breathless. "Honestly, Never. I never even thought
about it. You do something...strange to me. I don't know. When you walked
up to me naked just now, showing off your cock, flaunting yourself, it --
oh, man, I'm lost for good now – I just suddenly knew I had to touch
you, as sure as my name is Douglas. And as you can see, I didn't worry
about anything else."

"I want you to put your cock in my ass and fuck me," I said – now,
strangely, in control of things. "I know you keep the lube for mom in this
drawer," I nodded at a bedside table with a single drawer.  "You have to
put it way up it in my asshole."  It felt strange saying these words to
him. "Use a lot, please. Can I take your clothes off? Can I see you? I want
to see your cock and your ass and I want to lick them."

"Yes, of course," he said, and he climbed off me and stood by the bed and
looked down at me, sprawled naked, the little slut in Daddy's bed. He
reached down and peeled off the scratchy sweater. The undershirt. He kicked
off the loafers. The belt.  The corduroy pants unbuckled and sliding
down. Finally the tight white underpants, the long sleek curve of his penis
taut against the cotton. And then there he was, naked and no longer
nervous. He looked down at his erection, as if surprised, and glad, to see
it. It sprung out from a thicket of hair that – strange things you
notice when you're looking at a cock – was already starting to go gray.

"You lube it," he said, standing over me. I rolled over and reached for the
lube in the drawer. Then I reached for his cock, short and uncut and thick
as a Coke bottle in one place. "But first," he said, "blow me, you little
cocksucker."



We were lovers for the next two years. He would sneak down the hall to my
room, and in the moonlight I would watch him quietly close my door and turn
and step out of his underpants and tee shirt and slip under the blankets
next to me and I would reach for him and cover him in kisses and we'd make
love slowly and quietly and him moving inside me and his long slow thrusts
and even time seemed to slow in the wee hours of the morning and his low
animal grunts as he filled me up with himself me whispering in his ear
"Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me nice and slow, Daddy" and that would make him buck
and thrust and I wrapped my legs around his waist and pushed against him
and he would tell me in a low voice "I'm coming, you little slut. I'm going
to fill your little cunt with me. I'm going to leave my cum all up inside
you" and I would whisper Daddy Daddy Daddy faster and faster and held him
so tight.

One last thrust, and each time he seemed to go in a little further than he
had before, and then he collapsed on my chest. We held each other, listened
to the sound of our breathing in the dark. I wouldn't want him to, but
eventually he'd make me unlock my legs and let him up and he would stand
over me so I could lick the taste of the inside of me off his penis and he
would put his underwear back on and lean over and kiss me one last time and
pad down the hall and I would lie in my bed wishing he were still holding
me. I fantasized about falling asleep every night with his cock in my
mouth, like a baby's pacifier. I began to wish he would divorce my mother
and keep me instead.

And so it went. I didn't let another boy fuck me while I was with him,
quite an accomplishment for me. He never tied me up, but he liked to show
his mastery in other ways, and even then I was only too happy to let him,
to bow to his will. I thought at the time it was because he was older, but
now I know the real reason.

One time he took me to an all-night truck stop on the Interstate and had me
pick up a trucker in the men's room and the three of us climbed into the
back of the cab and my stepfather jacked off while he watched me unzip and
fellate this stranger, my face buried in his lap and the stranger moaning
and no doubt marveling at his good luck.

Another time he took me to Chicago on a business trip and picked up a
handsome boy not much older than me in a gay bar and brought him back to
the room and he and I both had our first real threesome. My stepfather
fucked the handsome boy while the boy, on all fours, blew me. Then I danced
slowly with the boy for my stepfather, who sat on the bed naked and watched
us kiss and undulate against each other in the dim light from a single lamp
and my hands slipped up and down his back and then down to his cock and I
teased it into hardness. I slid to my knees and blew the boy, and by then
my stepfather was ready again and he put me on the hotel bed and fucked me
while I tongued the boy's ass and played with myself. We finally stopped,
all three of us in a pile of limbs and bodies all entwined, a few hours
before dawn and fell asleep in the big bed just like that. I know I woke up
at one point and somebody's balls were in my face. I leaned in and gently
kissed them and went back to sleep.

I thought I was in love with Douglas, too, and maybe I was.

But I went off to college and only saw him on the holidays when I went
home, and somehow the lust didn't burn nearly as hot for either of us. I
was dating a professor at school, a young German professor who took very
tasteful nude black-and-white photos of me (I wish I still had those!) and
liked eating vanilla frosting from between my legs. And the rumor on
Douglas was that he was having a secret affair with a teacher, too, a young
driving instructor who apparently adored him and let my stepfather fuck him
in the back seat of the driver's ed car. My mother began to suspect he was
having an affair, but never caught him, probably because she never
suspected he was having the fling with a man. I miss Douglas.  He was my
first real love.

&&

One night I overcooked Ernesto's salmon and he hit me hard across the
face. I tasted blood on my lips. Darren, sitting naked at the table, looked
up, interested.

"You little cunt," Ernesto said in a quiet voice. "I don't know why I keep
you around. Your cooking tastes like linoleum. The place isn't clean. And I
can't think who in their right mind would want to fuck you. Maybe some old
blind guy. Or a homeless. Maybe that's what I'll do, take you down under
the tracks tonight and give you to some of the guys living in boxes down
there. Make you blow `em. Bet they smell really good. You better not pick
up the fucking crabs, though, or I really will beat the shit out of
you. Let you get out of the car and stand there naked and see what those
guys do to you. Bet they throw you across the hood of the Porsche and fuck
you good, one in your mouth and one in your ass and a couple in your
hands. Maybe they'll give you a taste of cheap wine, pour it over you while
they're fucking you. Maybe they'll piss on you. Or maybe they'll turn you
down; say `bring us back something good, mister, not this dried-up old
pussy, this old fucking maid."

He got the nearest thing he could find – some duct tape from a kitchen
drawer – and yanked my arms behind my back and taped my hands together
tightly with a big wad of tape. Then he grabbed a rolling pin and hit me in
the balls with it. I collapsed. He pushed me face down on the floor and
began hitting my ass with the pin. I curled into a ball, so he hit me
wherever I was open. I grew hysterical; he was screaming at me. Even Darren
looked like the passivity had been shocked out of him.

He left me there on the floor crying while he rustled around the kitchen,
got a box of crackers from a cupboard, sat at the table and began eating
them, feeding one occasionally to Darren, whose hands were tied. They both
watched me while they ate.

Finally he untied me. I didn't say a word. I got to my feet.  I was
frightened to death. I had to get out of here. He watched me as I went
upstairs to the bedroom and did something I hadn't done for months: Put
clothes on at night. I found the keys to the Porsche and walked downstairs
and screwing up all my courage walked by him to the back door.

"Where are you going, you little cunt?" Ernesto asked. I didn't say
anything. He followed me to the door and watched me get in the Porsche and
drive to the police station. Walked in to find a desk sergeant.  Pulled up
my shirt and showed him some of the bruises. He tried not to look disgusted
at first and then he actually seemed interested as I finished explaining
what had happened. He picked up a phone, spoke in a low voice to someone,
and told me to sit down in one of the hard wooden chairs.

Twenty minutes later a detective came not from upstairs, where uniforms and
plainclothes were trooping up and down. This guy came in from the
street. He was over six feet, big – most of it muscle – and dressed
in an expensive-looking suit and gleaming shoes. He was black, and his
shaved head glistened in the florescent lights and his Van Dyke was trimmed
neatly. He showed me a badge.

"The officer tells me you got beat up," he said.

I nodded, suddenly shy.

"Come with me," he said. We went outside and got into an unmarked car.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked nervously.

"Don't worry," he said nonchalantly. "I got something I want to show you."

I put my head back and closed my eyes, bone-tired. But as he drove my mind
drifted back and tried to tell me something. I opened my eyes to see a
familiar street under the streetlamps. We pulled into my driveway.

"No," I murmured.

"Yeah," he said. "And if you make a fuss in front of the neighbors, and get
everyone out here on their front porches, I'm gonna take out my gun and
give you a pistol whipping like you never had before and tell everybody
it's for fucking a kid."

"What? No!"

"Then get the fuck inside."

I went in. Ernesto, who had been watching from a window, came at me with a
thick, rolled-up magazine. I put my hands over my head to protect myself.

"Get the fuck out of those clothes," Ernesto sputtered as he smacked me
with the magazine over and over. I hastened to obey while he continued to
hit me. The detective watched, a gleam in his eyes. Soon I was standing
naked in the middle of the kitchen, my crumpled clothes around my
feet. Darren snickered, and without looking at him Ernesto said "Shut the
fuck up or you'll be next."

He reached into his pocket and gave the policeman a hundred-dollar bill.

"Thanks, Ray," he said.

"Look," Ray said, "you better control your little faggot here. I don't need
you getting busted. It's lucky for you the desk guy is a friend. In fact,
it's about time to give him your other little bitch there for a night, let
him put the lipstick and garter belt on the little cunt and do whatever he
does."

"You want a blowjob?" Ernesto asked him, as if he was proffering a drink.

"Sure, why not?"

Ernesto motioned to Darren.

"No," the detective said. "I want the bitch you been beating on. I never
had an executive before."

Ernesto nodded to me and I hesitated just a minute and his look told me I
would regret this very much later. Finally I went to the policeman and sank
to my knees and unzipped him and pulled an enormous cock from inside the
gabardine trousers and took it in my mouth. After a few minutes he was
hard, and he pulled me off his mouth and stood me up. He shoved me to the
kitchen table and bent me over. He reached across the table to a butter
dish, took the soft stick in his hand and rubbed it, dripping, on my
asshole. Threw what was left on the floor. Then he was inside me, a big,
butter-greasy hand around each of my hips. Despite myself – god help me
– I was soon pushing back at him.


When he is done, gets off me and lets me up, I am quiet. I look at him
hard. "That's rape," I said.

"That was consensual," he said. "I didn't put a finger on you. You liked
it. What was that opera you were singing there at the end?"

"Besides," Ernesto jumped in, "if you put him in jail, he takes me with
him. And then where would you be? Your paychecks already get deposited into
my bank account; I closed yours. The house, the car; they're all in my
name. I'm the master, right? You signed all that good shit over between
sucking my cock. And yeah, in addition to bringing charges on Detective
Delson here, you can sue me for all this stuff back. And you'd probably get
it. But what a stink that would be. Whatever would they think of it down at
the bank, while you're trying to run your division and the secretaries are
giggling behind your back and imagining you all tied up with a cock in your
mouth while the men won't even look at you? The newspapers would love it,
too."

All my calm courage fled. I slumped to the kitchen floor. I curled up in a
ball, my eyes closed.

"Alright, everything under control?" the detective asked Ernesto.

"Very much so," Ernesto said. "Very much so indeed."

He prodded my ass with his steel-toed construction boot. He took out his
cock and started peeing on me, right there on the kitchen floor, knowing he
would make me clean it up later, probably with my mouth. The detective and
Darren watched.

After a minute, the piss splattering on my face, I opened my mouth without
being asked, accepting him.