Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2005 12:05:53 -0800 (PST)
From: muse97 <muse97@gay.com>
Subject: Identity Volume 1

     The moment had come, would he back out like before,
bogging himself down in the sexual rut that had frustrated
him since puberty, or would he finally realize his most base
sexual needs.  He had been to the threshold before; only to
pitifully withdraw into his self imposed isolation.  The
feelings of inadequacy that he got whenever he couldn't go
through with a meeting only piled onto his already
substantial desires.  But he knew he needed this, his libido
had taken over his life;  His free time was centered on his
search.  He drove with a sense of urgency, yet he was
uncharacteristically relaxed, completely at peace with his
present circumstances.  The whole drive he was climbing into
thoughts about a sense of feminine self-beauty in the act of
letting something powerfully grounded in ugliness use him.
The sexual act itself, for him, was rooted internally,
having absolutely nothing to do with love or any sexual
compatibility.  He enjoyed thinking about himself as an
object.  He craved the nectar of their pleasure; he hoped to
find himself in the humiliation.  His heart felt as though
it were scraping his ribs on every beat, his hands were
shaking a bit as he found the street and slowly crept down
looking for the address he had been given.  He still wanted
this.  He was resolved to spin his fantasies into the fabric
of his life.  Then he saw it, up ahead on the left, it was a
typical suburban home, two storied with a rather large yard.
As he approached the door, he felt almost calm, relishing
the femininity of his circumstances.  It hit him, he could
finally let go and be himself;  Here he didn't have to act
macho, or prove himself superior to anyone.  He ate up this
feeling of liberty, only then realizing that his whole life
had been spent pretending to be someone he wasn't.  Then he
knocked, and waited, and thought about the possibilities
that lay behind the closed door.  Then the door opened, and
there was his, well his, he didn't quite know what this man
was to him but he hoped to find out.  The first thing he
focused on was the mans stubble.  He had dark-graying hair,
with a rather dark complexion.  The man greeted him with a
smile and a hello.  The man was quite large, probably about
6'3, and about 220 pounds, and looked to be in his late
forties.  The man introduced himself as John and invited him
inside.  The inside of his house was sparse, wood floors,
white walls, stainless steel lamp, black leather furniture
in the living room that he could see beyond the foyer.
Turner meekly introduced himself, as John had turned his
back and was heading for the kitchen.  They had chatted
online for a month or so, but Turner felt uncomfortable in
the intimacy of the quiet house.  John went to the fridge
and got out two bottles of beer, handing one to Turner
saying "here boy".   Leading Turner to speculate whether or
not John had heard him introduce himself, only adding to his
anxiety about the situation.  As John drank his beer he
stared across the island at Turner, who tried to look at
anything but the imposing man opposite of himself.  Then
Turner heard a zipper noise and looked up.  John was still
staring, but had changed his expression into a sort of
smirk.  Turner knew this was the moment, the door to his
inner sanctuary, he got up off the stool and made his way
around the island to where John was standing.  There it was
a cock.  His first impressions of it were a sense of its'
paleness in relation to its' owner, and admiration at its'
girth.  It had been snaked through underwear and the fly of
the Jeans, and lay with sensual masculinity on the left leg.
This was a man.  Nothing had gone wrong in this man's head
to make him want to be more feminine, he was a man, and this
cock his scepter to the throne of masculinity.  Turner knew
this was a superior being.  He knew his lot in life was
below this man.  He didn't know what John wanted but he
approached him anyway, drawn to his cock, reaching with both
hands for it.  In a frozen moment in time as he reached for
that slab of masculinity John reached out his hand and
guided Turner down to his knees.  Somewhere in the middle of
this action Turner had stripped away every layer of anxiety
and ego.  He knelt into his comfort zone of unquestionable
servitude.  The hardwood on his knees made him feel his
place of worship both psychologically and physically.  Then
he started drinking in the sight of John flaccid penis.  The
head was wide and meaty, with a bit of an upturn, giving the
cock an appearance of a blunt hammer.  The head by no ways
overshadowed the shaft though, it was also thick, and with a
bit more foreskin than he himself had.  In Turner's mind
this cock throbbed power and dominance.  He was mesmerized
enough by it to lean forward and try to touch it with his
mouth, although this attempt was thwarted by John.
     John broke the silence with, "do you think you deserve
my cock"
     Turner startled, quickly looks up from his knees into
     Johns face.  John shows
no signs of  humor, but continues to stare into Turner's
eyes.
     "Take my pants off, Bitch."
     The Bitch hits Turner like a slap to the face.  His
world has been forever changed by this word that he has
heard countless times before, in reference to women, as an
insult to a man, but he knows that this word directed at him
in this context is completely new.  He likes the thought of
himself being a bitch, with the connotations of female
inferiority mixed with his wiliness to serve a man.
     "Yes Sir" it comes out before he has a chance to grasp
what he is saying.
     Reaching out Turner unbuttons the button and begins to
work the jeans off John's hips.  An act as simple as
unbuttoning another mans fly, an act women do everyday, is
the most exciting event of Turner's life.  All his senses
are tuned into the act and each other.  He slides the pants
down to John's ankles, allowing him to step out off the
jeans.
     "Now fold them." John commands from somewhere far
above.
     Turner folds the jeans as best as he can, knowing this
man-god deserves his utmost efforts.
     "Now my boxers, Bitch," John says.
     Turner's heart begins to beat hard again.  He reaches
out and swoops the boxers down.  As John steps out of them
Turner begins his divine journey up John's thick hairy legs
towards his temple.  John's cock is still semi-flaccid but
has grown considerably. He also has unveiled John's mass of
pubic hair, that leads down to his large, low-hanging balls.
The balls stretch the sac into vertical ridges of skin,
sparsely populated with hair.  The balls themselves are like
nothing Turner has ever seen.  They are a window into the
essence of masculinity.  They are the size of eggs.  In a
blur the balls are gone, they are no longer inches from
Turner's face.  He refocuses to see Johns hairy ass cheeks
walking away.
     "Follow me, slut" barks John as he strides away.
     Turner obediently gets up off his knees and follows
John into the living room. John is sitting on the leather
couch, as the silent TV comes to life.  Hesitant, not
knowing what this man expects Turner sits down on the couch.
     "Go upstairs to my bathroom and get changed." John says
without glancing Turner's direction.
     Turner, reluctant to absent himself from a room with
everything he desire in it, silently makes his way back into
the foyer and up the stairs.  Turner finds a rather large
master bedroom, and makes his way through it into the
adjoining bathroom.  There is no door between the bedroom
and bathroom and the same carpet stretches into both, giving
the effect of one room. On the vanity Turner finds a leather
collar with a large metal loop.  Nothing else is obviously
out for him to put on, so he stripes nude and buttons the
collar tightly onto his neck.  As he is about to head back
downstairs, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the
mirror.  It sends multiple chills up and down his spine as
he comes to grips with what he sees in the mirror.  His
skinny athletic body looks almost pitiful in the lighting,
he is no longer the masculine college guy he has been
portraying his whole life.  He is an object.  He feels a
sense of fraternity with all the girls he has ever slept
with.  He suddenly sees their vulnerability, their devotion,
their weakness, in himself.  He understands women and their
idiosyncrasies, now that he has aligned himself as one of
them.  Then he sees his boner.  He is hard.  His penis gets
in the way of this fantasy, he doesn't want it seen,
touched, or relieved.  It is much smaller than the John's,
but the most striking difference is the balls, his being
rather tight and small.  Then the light is switched off and
he is heading back downstairs, to his man.
     John is lounging, nude from the waist down, in the same
spot he was when Turner left the room.  John doesn't even
glance his way as he renters the room.
     "Down on your knees, bitch"  John barks without taking
his eyes off the TV.
     Turner Obeys, lowering himself into a kneeling
position.
     "Now crawl over here and beg me to let you lick my
balls."
     Turner is now in a frenzy of excitement and
trepidation.  He crawls over until he is positioned between
John's massive spread legs.  Now what, he thinks, I've never
begged for anything before, yet as these thoughts race
through his mind his mouth opens and says, "may I please
lick your balls?"  It comes out squeaky, and he cringes at
the sound of his own voice.
     "What was that you little faggot?" John answers back.
     "May I please suck on your lovely balls, Sir?" Turner
replies, feeling more at home with the situation.
     "Keep begging until I say enough." John retorts dryly.
     "I need to lick your hairy balls Sir.  They are
superior to everything I am or could every hope to be.  I
need to service you, a real man.  I will treat your balls
like they are my deities.  I want to lick every area of your
balls.  I want to taste them in my mouth always, I will
devote my whole being..."
     "Shut up bitch, start licking them." John says cutting
Turner's pitiful speech off.
     Instantly Turner touches the hairy sac with his tongue.
The pungent aroma is the first thing that enters his mind.
Turner is gripped by this smell.  It excites him like
nothing in his life ever has.  It is the smell of man, real
man.  The balls hang enticingly down between John's muscular
thighs.  Turner is in heaven, he is licking and sucking and
licking and tasting and smelling and trying to extract every
bit of marrow he can out of his experience.
     "Awww, you're a hungry little bitch.  It just took a
real man to put you in your place.  You're the lowest form
of human, a cocksucking little faggot.  Oh, you love my big
ol' sweaty balls."  John says in a stream of profanities
directed at the pitiful form between his legs, working on
his nuts.
     Turner is in his element.  His true identity has shown
through, he has found himself in a world of masks.  He has
bared his soul to the underside of a hairy scrotum and found
truth.  He continues his service of John's balls for what
seems like hours.  He stops for a second to catch his breath
and look up at John, who is engrossed in the football game
on TV, only to be pushed back down to John's nuts.