Date: Thu, 11 Jan 2007 10:38:49 -0800
From: bamaboi2serve@charter.net
Subject: Masterman, Part ONE

Masterman
Part One
Discovery

(Yes, this is fiction, or friction if you prefer, and it depicts some
activities that are unsafe. People in these stories don't really get hurt
or sick. People in real life do. PLAY SAFE!)

Bamaboi2serve@charter.net


     It was about a year ago when I picked him up at one of the bars here
in Atlanta, a low-rent kinda place, not at all where you would expect to
meet a cutie like him. But there he was, and it wasn't long after I had
bought him a second beer that he was following me in his car across town on
the way to my loft.
     I kept glancing back in the rearview mirror to see if he would take an
exit and leave me flat. He didn't, and soon we arrived at my loft in old
factory building transformed into a nest of residences, shops and
restaurants.
   He told me his name was Paul, though I doubted it. He wore his straight,
blue/black hair longish, below his collar, and it looked hot against his
pale white skin. When he took off his jacket and shoes without asking in
the living room, I could see he was a runner...or at least an athlete. Nice
toned long muscles pushing his short-sleeved shirt outward. Even his feet
were sexy, and I'm usually into that sort of thing.
     But let me cut to the chase, cause there's more than sex to this story
(though there's plenty of that too!). When "Paul" and I had moved from
making out on the couch to serious play in the bedroom, I noticed something
unusual in the way he was moving around on the bed.
     He asked and I agreed to turn off a bed-side lamp. He kept licking and
nibbling, but all above the waste, though there lots of rubbing down
below. I could tell he was turned on and had a nice sized tool, but he
seemed to want to restrict our heads to our upper bodies. It was as if he
was trying to hide something. Finally I managed to get my head down to do
some serious cocksucking...one of my specialties.
     When I was face to face with his package I was shocked to see his
pubes. They were orange. Not redhead reddish...bright, juice-container
orange...despite his very black hair elsewhere.
   "Hey, let me explain about the hair color," he started to say, but I
just rolled over onto my back into a pool of light coming in through one of
the big old factory sized windows. It illuminated my own hard-on. And my
bright-orange pubes. Paul looked at me open-mouthed.
     "Masterman?" he asked, saying the word with the same reverence I had
learned the hard way to say it.
    "Masterman," I confirmed, explaining how my deep brunette body hair
was, like his, orange around my cock.
    It seems we had both gone through the curious, life-changing experience
of serving the same mysterious, demanding top. And considering how his hair
was the same tone a mine, not washed out at all, his experience had been
recent. There hadn't been time for the pubes to grow back in black.
     As for my own orange pubes, I kept them orange, using dye, because I
hadn't given myself permission to emotionally break away from Him yet. And
I wasn't sure I wanted to.
   Without asking, "Paul" started telling me about his experience with the
most dominant, demanding Top in the city, maybe in the South.
    He said had been hanging out in a sleazy leather and rubber bar at the
time. Always a bottom, Paul was looking for someone to show him the ropes
in real raunchy S&M. Most of the people he met at that particular bar were
posers, but he kept coming back because it was the only place he's found
with the feel of real slaves and masters. That particular night he was
wearing black rubber chaps, a tight yellow boy-beater, and a black leather
collar and black sketchers. He wore a pair of tit clamps as a necklace, one
end gripping the other.
    He had been there an hour or so, getting a buzz, but bored with the
same old crowd when from behind him, inches from his right ear, came a deep
voice: "Slut, I'm gonna give you one chance to be the real slave you need
to be. Don't turn around! If you want to show you can submit to a real man,
it shouldn't matter what I look like. From the crap you're wearing, I
suspect you want a Master. Well that's who I am. You can call me Sir right
now. Later, if you earn it, perhaps I'll let you call me "Masterman".
   Paul was shaking slightly; he felt drips of sweat falling from his pits
and that wasn't the only liquid dripping off him. He was rock-hard, more
turned on that he had been in a very long time. The man behind him wasn't
saying anything else, and he was unsure what to do but decided on a simple
acknowledgement.
     "Yes, Sir."
     "Good slut. You're learning. Give me your beer can."
     Paul held the can behind him and felt it taken from his hand. In the
noise of the bar, he couldn't hear anything for a moment, but then came the
aroma drifting up to his nose... the can was handed back to him with an
order. "Drink. Chug it."
     Paul knew the man has used the darkness of the corner they were in to
piss in the can. He lifted the can to his lips and upended it, spilling
some of the piss on his shirt but getting the majority of the foamy warm
yellow liquid into his mouth, swallowing in big gulps that he hoped would
be acceptable. Paul had tried drinking his own piss once, "training for a
future master" he called it, but never in quantity like this!
     When he had finished drinking the contents, he handed the can back
behind him and the stranger took it, tossing it into a nearby trashcan.
     The man leaned forward and pressed his crotch into Paul's ass. No
doubt about it, thought Paul, this is a real man. The cock was very hard,
and very big. The man reached around Paul's neck and unfastened the tit
clamps. Then, gripping one tit after the other through the piss soaked tank
top, he fastened them to the ends of Paul's nubs. One of his hands reached
to Paul's collar and attached a leash. Without asking or warning he pulled
Paul along with him through the crowded smoke-filled bar to the outside. He
paused just outside the door and wrapped a blindfold around the boy's
eyes. Then they continued into the parking lot. In that gay Atlanta
neighborhood, the sight of a man leading a blindfolded leather clad smelly
boi by a leash didn't cause even the slightest stir.
     Paul stumbled along, trying not to fall on the uneven asphalt in the
old bar lot. One he tripped on a pothole, and the man leading him dragged
him back up by his leash. Despite the cushioning of the shirt, the tit
clamps were biting into the ends of his tender nips. But the pain only
increased Paul's desire and the stiffness of his hard-on.
     Suddenly Paul was pulled sideways and found himself up against a
vehicle of some kind.
    "This is my truck, fuck-boi. If you get in it, you're handing yourself
over to me for the long weekend...or longer. You'll need to give me your
car keys and let me come back for it later."
    Paul told him he had taken a cab to the bar, so there was no car to
worry about. Then he gave himself over to the stranger.
   "Will you teach me please, Sir?" He didn't need to elaborate; they both
knew what kind of lessons he was asking for.
   "Get in, scum," he ordered, opening the truck door. After Paul was
seated, he closed the door and got in on the drivers' side. Without warning
he removed the clamps and ripped the shirt off Paul, replacing the clamps
on the bare tits.
     Paul was still blindfolded, but he heard the stranger open the glove
compartment and pull something out. Next came the sound and smell of
pissing, and then he was being handed a bottle of some kind.
    This is a baby bottle filled with my piss, which you may eventually
earn the right to drink without the nipple on the bottle. But right now as
we drive along downtown, I want that nipple in your mouth and I want you
sucking to get my juice. Anybody looking in will know what's up...it part
of your training. Now suck!" He turned on the visor light on the passenger
side, illuminating Paul, his torso, his tit-clamps, and the clear baby
bottle from which he was drinking piss.
   The truck engine started and they moved off into early Sunday morning
bar traffic. The driver used his control to lower the window next to Paul,
who could hear jeers and taunts from late night bar patrons on the sidewalk
and in other cars. The spectators instantly knew what was in the
bottle. Paul sensed they were driving out of downtown and getting onto the
interstate. The window rolled up, and the Master ordered Paul to turn
around with his ass in the air facing the windshield. The next order was to
pull his rubber chaps down to his knees. Then Paul felt a large plug being
forced quickly into this ass. He loved being fucked, but this was so sudden
he had not time to adjust to the big tool and it hurt! The pressure
increased and then the plug popped past Paul's ring and deep into his
gut. Even this was a source of embarrassment...he could hear a car next to
them, then a horn honking and laughter. Paul blushed, and yet he was still
hard.
    A while later the car left the interstate and pulled into the almost
deserted parking area of a rest-stop known for cruising. A few cars and
truck were there, motors idling.
   The man got out, opened the passenger door, and pulled Paul along,
giving him only a moment to pull up his chaps. Then they were in the
restroom and the man was placing Paul kneeling on the filthy floor between
two urinals. He used rope to tie Paul's hands to the pipes above, and
another piece to tie his legs together. Although Paul couldn't see it, he
also taped a sign above the boi's head. It read: "Please give me your
piss."
    The man forced Paul's mouth open and inserted a tube, securing it with
a strap around the head and two pieces of electrical tape. From the weight,
Paul guessed, correctly, that there was a large mouth funnel attached to
the tube. Paul heard footsteps and the bathroom door opening and
closing. Then there was silence.
     It seemed like half an hour passed before Paul heard the door open and
the footsteps of two or three people enter. There was silence, and then:
"Holy Shit! Will you look at this!"
     It was the voice of a young male, perhaps Hispanic, and the snickers
and laughs of two or three others mixed in. Paul's throat was dry. It
wouldn't be for long.

---To be continued---
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Bamaboi2serve@charter.net