Tag: houseboy

Tips on baking a cake? Because I can’t follow simple instructions on a cardboard box T.T

Tips on baking a cake? Because I can’t follow simple instructions on a cardboard box T.T

by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

bookofbaitnate-deactivated20181:

Don’t smoke Marijuana while baking a cake. My roommate and her BFF were baking a cake for her husband’s birthday, and they decided to toke up before getting down to the baking. They ended up getting the munchies pretty bad and ate all the batter before it could reach the oven. >.<

LUCKILY, I bought him a $65 bottle of Jack Daniel’s and last minute said it was from the two of us. And then we ordered pizza. 😛

So yeah, don’t do drugs while baking, unless you want to buy alcohol for the person you’re baking for. And order a pizza. Problem solved!

Rick snapped his fingers and summoned his houseboy to the kitchen. His houseboy came bouncing in immediately. “Yes, Richard, what may I do for you?”
“I invited a couple friends for dinner. I want you to make this before you get started on dinner.” Rick pointed to a plastic bag on the counter.
The houseboy fished in it and picked up a box of cake mix. He scoffed, rolling his eyes back into his skull. “You expect me to make cake from a box? Do I look like Betty Crocker to you sweetheart?” He tossed it onto the counter. “Well, the sprinkles are the only redeemable thing in this bag. Honey there is a reason I do the shopping.”
Rick stared at him, speechless at his houseboy’s catty attitude.
“No no…” the houseboy threw open the pantry door. “We need flour, and vanilla, and salt. Baking powder. Oil. Where is the bag of cane sugar? There it is. Oooo and there is the cocoa powder too. Chocolate cake is the best.”
The houseboy organized the items on the counter and went to the fridge. “Oh good we have eggs. You know you don’t really need eggs, but they’re an easy binder, so whatever.”

The houseboy straightened up and caught Rick staring at his bare ass. “Are you going to help me with this or just gawk at my butt?”
“I think I’m going to fuck you against the counter wearing an apron, then I’m going to leave you to your kitchen sorcery. Are you sure it’s not easier to just make it from a box?”
The houseboy huffed. “Don’t insult me. Only an amateur makes dinner from scratch and dessert from a box. The only thing you should ever use from a box in the kitchen is condoms.” He smirked.
Rick grinned. “Yes, I agree with that for sure.”
“You want coconut in this cake?”
“I don’t care, just bend over, I want your ass right goddamn now. I love it when you’re bitchy.”

His houseboy smiled and bent over the counter. “This is step 1 to baking, you know.”
“Good, I’m learning something,” Rick muttered, searching for a condom in the junk drawer and happily finding several. They went through them all by the time they got to frosting the damn thing.

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Moral of the story: Have your houseboy or boyfriend bake it. That said, making cake is pretty easy though: mix the dry goods, mix in the wet goods, mix it all, then pop it into the oven. Pre-heat the oven before starting. Stick a toothpick in it when done; a clean one will tell you the inside is cooked.

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I yawn, ruffling my hair as I amble into the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, slightly startled to see a slightly older man cooking in the buff. His focus is on a pot on the stove. I tilt my head and rub my eyes. I didn’t think anyone else was home. George didn’t mention he had a houseboy. Well, some men don’t think to, they get so used to having them around.
“Morning, how about some coffee?” I say, sounding sluggish.
He glances in my direction, but doesn’t say anything back. I shrug it off, figuring he’s a silent type, then go about pouring some cereal into a bowl. I add the milk and sit down to read the paper. Halfway through on article on an all male ballet revue, I realize I still don’t smell coffee.
“Hey, do you mind making some c-” I tilt the paper back. The houseboy isn’t there. I look left and look right. I began to feel odd and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. The stove is clear; the towel is hanging on the oven.

I put the paper down and glance out of the window toward the driveway; not a soul. I wander around the house, hoping to find him there or in the backyard. Feeling slightly frightened, I launched myself up the stairs to George’s room and find him safe and shaving in the bathroom.

“Hey um, George?” I pant.
“Hey is everything alright?” he asks, mid stroke.
“I …I don’t know. I ran into your houseboy downstairs and now he’s vanished. I was wondering if maybe I was wrong in thinking he’s your houseboy and someone broke in the house and….George why are you looking at me that way?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t have a houseboy.”
“….What?”
George’s eyes are wide. “Well, I mean…I did, but he…he passed away a couple years ago.”
“Christ,” I gasp and lean against the door-frame. “I swear, there was a guy I saw downstairs. He was cooking something on the stove.”
George finishes shaving as quickly as he can. He washes his face off and we scramble downstairs to the kitchen. The towel is on the floor when we get there.

George kneels and picks it up. “Ivan always used to wear this over his shoulder when cooking. I used to chide him when it fell off, which was often…” his voice catches in his throat.
“Jesus, George.”
George walks to the living room, clutching the towel, and gestures to a photo on the mantel. “That was us.”
My skin breaks out in small bumps. “That’s him!” I squeak, “That was him. He looked at me!”
“His name is Ivan,” George says, sniffling. “Oh god, why is this happening. Ivan passed away two years ago. He had cancer, it got into his brain. Why did he show himself to you and not me?”
Suddenly, George is crying and I’m embracing him, trying to comfort my new boyfriend. I’m soothing him and stroking the back of his head as he mourns when I smell it.

I sniff the air. George holds his breath and sniffs too.
“Do you smell that?” he asks, hesitant.
“Yeah I do,” I reply, swallowing my fear in my throat again. “It’s the smell of fresh coffee.”

We both look at each other and bolt to the kitchen. The scent is fading. There aren’t any full cups on the counter. No steam comes from the pot. However…the cupboard revealing the cups is open.

George and I are speechless.
“I …I think he wants me to make coffee,” I volunteer.
“Why would he want you to do that?”
I think. “Maybe he wants me to take care of you.”
George face lights up. “You think so? You think it’s his way of approving of you?”
“Perhaps so,” I say with a smile. I go about making coffee and a nice breakfast, looking over my shoulder the entire time.

George and I were on edge all morning, but there were no other traces of Ivan on that day or any other day. I kept dating George and eventually moved into his house. I mostly assumed Ivan had moved on. Although, once in a while, I would come into the kitchen to make dinner and find the towel on the floor, and I would wonder…

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Text is fictional. Happy Halloween. Be nice to have a source for this.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

neweygn:

I need a houseboy to do my ironing. Don’t we all?

Hamal presses a cup of tea into his hand. “Come upstairs, I gotta finish the ironing.”
Dan nods and follows him, still trying to get used to the fact that his friend is a nudist. They go up the stairs and into the secondary bedroom, everything in pause from when Hamal went downstairs to greet Dan at the door.
“So how’s your brother?” Hamal asks, turning on the iron again.
“He’s doing a lot better, thankfully. Working out in the country has done more for him than any city rehab clinic did. Mom wants to see him for Christmas but we’re not sure bringing him back to Springfield is a good idea, cause it’s where all his drug contacts are. We might have Christmas in the country.”
“That actually sounds better than Springfield.”
Dan chuckles. “Yeah it does. I’m happy for him though. I hated seeing my Dad worry about him.”
“I hope he stays sober too. Are you still working for that accounting firm?”
“Yeah, I am. I am up for a promotion next year. I think I’ll get it, considering the last audit I did for a client turned up a couple hundred thousand in extra money.”
Hamal smiles. “Way to go, Dan! You must be their favorite person in the world right now.”
“Considering the bear hug their CFO gave me, I would say so.”
“You were always good with numbers.”
“Mhm.”

The conversation hit a dead end. The hiss of the iron and the sound of the metal plate swishing over fabric was the only noise in the room.

“What happened to you man?” Dan blurts out, watching Hamal iron.
“Excuse me?” Hamal replies, looking up from working on a shirt sleeve.
“You’re standing there, butt naked, ironing some guy’s workshirts in the middle of a Sunday afternoon like you’re his servant girl. What does he got on you to make you do this?”
Hamal sets the iron down with a bang, making Dan jump. “What does he got on me? William doesn’t have a thing on me. Are you implying he’s blackmailing me into doing his laundry?”
“Well, it’s the only explanation I can think of. You used to get higher grades in class than I did – you were like the top student in our engineer department. You could have been at JPL or Boeing by now, instead of…” Dan gestures. “This. What gives? Everyone wonders what happened to you after graduation.”

Hamal presses his lips together until they were a thin line. “You’re just like my parents. Ever since I was little, it was study study study study. Science camps in the summer, tutors in the fall, flashcards before bed. My father wanted me to be an engineer or a doctor or a lawyer. Those were the only choices they gave me. They sent me to a magnet high school. They never let me take an extracurricular that wasn’t somehow "good for me”. I never even owned my own soccer ball, Dan. You bet that I had very little choice over where to apply for college, or what program I applied to.“
"But you were good at it! You were good at numbers, and at math and science. You can’t blame your parents for trying to nurture that,” Dan counters.
“But no one ever asked me what I wanted!” Hamal nearly yells, pointing at himself. “No one EVER asked me if I wanted to be an engineer! If I wanted to spend my life stuck in a cubicle doing math and science for big faceless corporations. Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I have to have a career in it. I wanted to take home ec and learn how to bake. You know, once I tried to take a quilting class at the local YMCA but when my dad found the papers, he beat me and threatened to kick me out of the house.”
“….What?”
Hamal huffs. “Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. It’s ~gay~ or whatever you deem it to be. But I liked it. I like sewing, I like cooking. You know, fifty, sixty years ago, it was expected of a woman to do these things for her husband. We all just assumed they were all repressed now. My grandmother was a housewife. She loved being a housewife. You know, when we were downsizing her house before she died, we found this album of old photos. She was a tennis whiz. She won all these trophies. Could have easily gone pro. She chose to get pregnant and stay home…. and we all pitied her, you know, because we thought she sacrificed her career after an accidental pregnancy. She always insisted she got pregnant on purpose. When she was 90, and half senile, her home aid would find her in the kitchen at 3 am trying to bake apple tarts for her kids. She just wanted to be a mother and housewife, and no one could understand that.” Hamal continues ironing angrily. “I don’t see why a man can’t want the same thing.”

“….And that’s …what you want?” Dan asks slowly.
“Yes,” Hamal replies firmly. “I find it much more satisfying. I would go insane in a cubicle.”
“I just…” Dan puffs his cheeks and runs his fingers through his hair. “I just had no idea. It’s hard to fathom that what people consider tedious chores, you prefer over anything in the world.”
“But it’s not just chores,” Hamid explains patiently. “It’s because I do them for William. William was the first one who really understood me. I made him cookies once, when we started dating, and he thought it was awesome that I liked to bake. I did his laundry once and the look on his face told me he was thinking of marrying me right then. William loves his job in the DA’s office, and has no time for like, life stuff. He hates chores, cause he grew up in a family of eight. So the fact I anticipate what he needs and do it for him is hugely flattering. Makes him feel like a million dollars. I like that.” Hamal smiles.

“But …I mean…what comes after? I mean, this has to wear off sometime. Are you still going to be a houseboy when you’re 50?” Dan asks. “You’re gonna get bored.”
Hamal moves on to another shirt. “Don’t think I’m so simple, Dan. I tutor low-income kids struggling with math skills. I keep busy. I volunteer at animal shelters. William and are talking about fostering or adopting soon, so I’m dreaming of a house full of kids. Then after? Who knows. I’ll get a part time job until William retires, then we will travel the world together. We already travel a lot. We also go to the ballet, movies-”
“Kids? You never mentioned wanting kids.”
“I always wanted kids,” Hamal says, sounding a bit sad. “Just no one ever asked me what I wanted. Being a stay-at-home dad sounds so much fun.”

Dan looks at his old college friend sideways, trying to see the real Hamal instead of the one he thought he knew his entire life. “So you’re…really happy just…ironing? You’re happy being his houseboy? His, um, naked houseboy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you want?”
“Yes. And I like being naked. It’s comfortable. Plus, William likes it, and when he’s wound up the sex is amazing,” Hamal mutters.
Dan turns red.
Hamal smirks.
Dan sips his ignored tea and watches Hamal iron. “Well if that’s…what you want, then I’ll try and support that.”
Hamal’s face softens. “Thank you. That means so much to me Dan. I know it’s hard to comprehend, but thank you for at least trying. Also, when the kids arrive, I am totally making you babysit.”
“Hey!”
Hamal chuckles. “I’m just about done here, and I gotta get the towels off the line outside. But if you want to stick around…I am baking chocolate chip cookies afterwards.”
“…Chocolate chip cookies?” Dan perks up. “Any chance we could put peanut butter in them?”
“Oh, I think that is definitely doable. William loves peanut butter too.”

William comes home that afternoon and finds two cute boys making cookies in his kitchen. He nibbles one and wonders why on Earth more people didn’t have houseboys. He watches Dan and Hamal lick the beaters clean, and admired how happy they were. It is a relief for William to see that Hamal still has companions outside his own circle. It also makes William a little jealous though, and he smothers down his lust for Hamal in an apron for hours until Dan finally leaves after dinner.

William and Hamal don’t even make it to the stairs before the lust overwhelms them. Hamal still smells like cookies, and William devours him.

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Text is fictional. Long ranting houseboy story, ahoy. Also JPL stands for Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

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“I can’t sleep,” he said, messing with his toes. “I dozed off but I had this bad dream and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
I exhaled through my nose and sit down on the edge of the bed. I awoke due to his cries, which echoed through-out the entire house.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you,” he added in that soft, delicate tone of his, sweet as treacle and fragile as the skin on top of cocoa.
“It’s quite alright, Caleb. I expected there to be a period of adjustment.”
He looked down and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t quite believe me. After a moment, he spoke again. “Everything is different here. The bed is higher, the night sounds are strange, the sheets smell different.” He sniffed. “I miss home.”
“Oh sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you homesick?”
“Yes,” he replied, big crocodile tears sliding down his pale cheeks. “I want to sleep in my old room again. I’m so far from home!”
“Caleb…” I scooted across the bed and opened my arms. He crawled to me, sitting half in my lap, legs all over the bed. I enfolded him in my arms as he cries into my bathrobe. I rocked him, soothing him.

“I know it’s scary. But you have to be brave.”
“I don’t want to be brave!”
“I’m sure in the next couple of days you will learn a lot about my house, you’ll adjust, and discover Yellow Ridge is not a terrible place to live and I’m not a terrible person to live with.”
He sniffled again. “I’m not going to be a good husband to anyone.”
“Oh that’s not true, that’s not true. Shhh… relax. Breathe now.”

I continued to rock him, feeling more that I was rocking a little boy than the young man who was betrothed to me. It was, on paper, a good match. My family blood line is one of the upper seven or so distinct names, a historical name of wide influence in society and business. Caleb was from a lesser family line. Heterosexual marriage between blood lines is not encouraged amongst our people due to blood mixing. The only way for a family to gain a higher standing is to be lucky enough to have a gay son or daughter to offer to an upper family for their own homosexual son or daughter to marry. From the perspective of Caleb’s parents, he was a golden child. They were eager to abide by even the most conservative traditions. They had insisted Caleb be sent here to be my houseboy until the wedding, when he turned 18.

Even calling it a wedding was a broad term – it was more of a political ceremony. I had heard about wedded couples that each kept their own lovers; I however was a traditionalist, and hoped my bride and I would be true to each-other and monogamous.

I began to suspect that Caleb wasn’t going to be ready at 18 though. His parents had mollycoddled him and babied him. Freshly 16, he was still very much a sheltered child. I glanced down at the bundle in my arms. It was difficult to imagine that in two years, I was expected to consummate that marriage. Our five year difference suddenly felt wide as a chasm. His parents had likely taught him nothing about sex. I wondered if Caleb ever played with himself at all before his chastity device was affixed. He was still probably adjusting to that too. I pondered if it would be better to have it removed and let him explore.

More than anything, I felt pity for my bride. Thrust into a strange world, into strange arms, at a time when his body and its hormones were transforming in the most awkward ways. I also felt a bit of anger and disgust that the temple elders had clearly not sensed Caleb was a vulnerable creature – if I had been a man of lesser morals, I could have violated Caleb terribly. I made a note to call the Temple Counsel in the morning to file a complaint.

I would not send him back though. It would not benefit Caleb to go back into the womb at his age. As he got older, this behavior would be more difficult to correct. He was going to be a man soon. There were going to be expectations of him. I hoped keeping house and receiving home schooled lessons would keep his mind occupied. I kissed the top of his head and tried to remove Caleb but he’d worked his fingers into my bathrobe.

“Are you going to send me back?” he whispered.
I wondered if the boy could read minds. “No,” I said firmly, “You need to fledge from the nest. Every duckling and songbird falls a little when learning to fly. You’ll get used to things. You’ll find happiness in your work. Once you turn old enough, I will teach you the most wondrous pleasure your body is capable of. Are you feeling pain in your device?”
I felt the heat of his cheeks through my clothes. “No,” he says. “It’s snug, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Ok, let me know if it does.”
He nodded.
“Will you try to sleep now?”
Caleb eyed the bed warily. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
I thought. “Just this time, duckling”
He seemed satisfied with that. I cleaned his face, made him blow his nose, and have a sip of water. I then tucked him in lovingly and then spooned up next to him, me on top of the covers. Caleb had exhausted himself and was asleep within minutes. I lingered a moment, watching his eyes move under his eyelids, marveling at how long his lashes were. His face still possessed some of its babyfat, especially in the cheeks. He was going to be stunning all grown up.

I just had to make sure he would grow up. I was sure once he got a taste of his new found freedom he would thrive. Tomorrow would be a most interesting day.
“Good night, duckling,” I murmured, as I turned off the light and went back to my room.

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Text is fictional. This is model Graeme Metz photographed by Cecilie Harris for Boys by Girls magazine issue 6, titled “The Truth About Boys”. The T-Shirt by American Apparel and Underwear by Calvin Klein. This caption is not a projection or assumption of Graeme’s personality or sexuality.

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As he put away my coat, a bing came from the kitchen. “Ohhh the roast is ready.”
Before I could say anything my houseboy jogged back to the kitchen, his pert butt bouncing behind him. I followed him there. “Henry, what is that smell?”
“Roast chicken,” he replied, matter of factly. “I put a lot of butter on the potatoes this time cause I know you like that.” He pulled out an impressive looking dinner and set it on the stove.
“Damn, that looks amazing. But no I mean, the other smell. It smells like a candle factory exploded.”
My boy pulls off his oven mitts and blinks at me. “Ohhh that.” He moves to the cabinet and begins to make me a vodka cranberry. “It’s spices. I thought since we live in a climate where we actually get seasons now that it would be appropriate to get into the mood of things.”

“Things…?” I repeat.
“You know, fall! Autumn! Pumpkins. Pies. Cinnamon. Apples. The leaves outside are turning colors! Here’s your drink Sir.”
I accept it, and sip it. “Thank you, boy.” I enjoy watching him move about the kitchen, fussing over the chicken and setting the table. “So you lit a candle?”
“No Sir, I had to change the air filters so I rubbed a mix of cinnamon and allspice and cloves on them.”
“How did you come up with that?”
“Well they were at the grocery store, but they were expensive, so I just decided to do it myself.”
I stare at him. “Well that’s quite intelligent.”
“Is it? Thank you Sir.” Henry frumps around with making gravy. “You know, I was thinking, why don’t we have a little house warming party?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Boy, I don’t think that’s a great idea. People are avoiding me at work because I was upfront that I was gay. I just moved here, I don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

Henry pauses and tilts his head. “Forgive me for saying this Sir, but I think having a housewarming party would be even more useful this way. Perhaps the people you work with aren’t used to ‘homosexuals’, or whatever they call us. It’s a perfect opportunity to show them that you’re a normal person, you live in a normal house, have a normal life. We don’t have a dungeon in the basement… well, yet. Plus, I’m a damn good cook.”
I smile. “That you are. You know, you might be right.”
“Ooo that means I can decorate the house. I could carve a pumpkin. Make that cinnamon apple cake I like… god I love parties.”

I set the drink down on the kitchen table and sink into a chair. “Come here for a moment, Henry.”
He sets a serving spoon down on the counter, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks over to me. “Yes sir?”
“Sit on my lap, boy.”
He lifts up the apron and straddles my thighs. I give him a kiss on the lips and squeeze his ass with my hands.
“God I love it when you’re domestic,” I admit, low and husky in his ear.
“Do you Sir?”
“I have no idea why, but it makes me want you. You just get this glow about you when you get into one of your moods…”
“Well, I am happy when serving the man I love.”
I capture his mouth with another kiss. My right hand moves forward, under his apron. I give his locked cock a proper tug, then cup his balls in his hand and massage them as I kiss him. Henry moans against me and grinds into my hand.
“You must really like buttered potatoes,” he breathes.
“Mmnn…I think I just really like autumn,” I say. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes Sir. I always lube up right before you get home, just in case you want to relieve some stress.”
“That’s a good boy,” I murmur. “Stand up a minute.”
He does so, so I can unzip my pants and extract my cock. I groan when the wet tip touches cool air. Henry takes over and strokes me with his hand, his eyes fixated on me. He’s flushed, but I can’t tell if it’s from cooking or from stimulation. When I’m breathing slow and properly stiff, Henry crawls back into my lap. He holds onto my shoulders so he can raise his ass up and position my cock in the right spot. I bite off a cry when I feel his body envelope me, a slow, tight heat around me, down to the hilt. I plunder his mouth again and push his waist downward so he’s sitting on my lap once more.

“God that’s it, Henry,” I murmur. He rides me, without even asking. I watch in fascination as his pelvis and hips roll while his shoulders stay mostly still. His eyes are glazed over now. I notice there’s a wet spot flourishing on the apron. Soon, I cannot stay still any longer and drive up into him. Henry cries out, begging me to keep moving. We collide over and over until he’s squeezing my shaft so hard I can’t even breathe.

I shout and explode inside of him. Henry whines, a loud needy noise, and then I feel something hot and wet pool through my work pants. I realized I haven’t breathed in what seems like forever and so I inhale, sharply. The world spins around me, and I cling to my houseboy. He is staring me with love all over his face, looking completely blissed out. I bless him with a few more kisses, then we slide apart. He looks upset at the loss, but enjoys playing with my softening cock after settling back down without it inside of him. My seed drips out of his hole and back onto my legs too. Instead of feeling filthy, I feel deeply possessive and horny again.

“That – that was a wonderful surprise Sir,” he says, his sternum heaving.
“Mnnnh…you were divine. Did I trigger something? You made a mess on my leg.”
Henry lifts up the apron corner. “I think you triggered a small anal orgasm, Sir…I felt like someone was blowing up a balloon in me and it popped and then it just felt wonderful. I feel so light.”
I smirk. “That is how it should be. That is the joy I give you.” I plant a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Thank you Sir, for that gift then.” Henry nuzzles my cheek. “I am afraid I have soiled your pants Sir.”
“You can scrub the semen stains out after dinner. I don’t think I can get up right now Henry, fetch me a clear pair of slacks would you?”

I watch in great amusement as a pouting Henry dismounts me and wobbles off like a baby deer, one hand pressed between those round ass cheeks. I sip my cranberry vodka and look over at the chicken roast. I must be the luckiest man in the world. 

As I sip, my thoughts drift back to that idea of a housewarming party. I like the idea more and more. I want every homophobe in that office to be jealous of what I have with Henry. I want them to see our chemistry, our happiness. I also want them to see hickeys. I swirl the ice in my glass. Yes, yes, for sure. I can hear Henry approaching with my pants. After dinner, after he’s scrubbed my pants and done the dishes, I will fuck him silly and give him those lovebites for the week.

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Text is fictional. I pulled this image from this post.

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“So…let me get this straight.”
“There’s nothing straight about this, boy.”
“Ok, well then, let me see if I can make this clear.”
“Go on.”
“So this job of cleaning your house naked was actually an interview?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to move out of my shitty apartment in to your awesome house and be your houseboy and poolboy?”
“Yes.”
“Naked.”
“Yes.”
“And when I finish my degree in massage therapy, you’re going to probably expect me to massage your impossibly-hot-for-48-year-old-body out by the pool?”
“Yes.”
“And you want access to my cock and want me to fuck you when you demand it? and will sometimes fuck me in return?”
“Of course. It is a long, beautiful uncut cock, I intend to enjoy it.”
“Uh ok, just…clarifying a few things.”
“Any other questions, boy?”
“….Uh, yeah, when can I start, Sir?”

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Text is fictional.

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His balls were soft and squishy like pink marshmallows warm from being close to a fire. His ass felt like silk wrapped over two loaves of leavened bread dough – round and risen, puffy and thick. Every inch of Sacha was as virgin and innocent as fresh snow; even his nipples colored his chest like new rosebuds in spring. Kelley was enamored by his ethereal face and wisps of blond hair. He was best displayed on white shag and feather mattresses, ass up, his chubby cock tucked under him. It was too much to take in his seductive form at once. Kelley found it most erotic to simply caress the boy, gently ghosting his fingers over the most intimate curves and swells until Sacha was thoroughly hot and bothered and his balls were swollen as choux pastries fresh out of the oven. Then, Kelley would coax out the boy’s raspberry red erection from under him and watch it drip white pearls.

At times, sexing Sacha felt like a violation, like he’d crossed the red rope in front of a fine art piece, or like he had been forced to eat a dessert that had been gorgeously plated. Yet, Kelley always gave in to the temptation. He only had to put a hand anywhere near Sacha’s entrance and it would relax and open to receive Kelley. He’d never directly ask or beg for sex, but the soft mews of need from Sacha told Kelley all he needed to know. Once Kelley slid his cock into the velvet walls to the hilt and nestled it in the confines of the boy’s bottom, the lingering guilt slid away. Kelley would lose himself, become detached from time itself and float away as he rocked and thrust. Sacha needed the stimulus, he needed the release; masturbation was too rough a game for a tender boy as him. He could only empty those plump balls through internal stimulation, of which Kelley was now the sole provider.

It had been like this for almost a year.

Kelley found Sacha at a high-end adult club for gay men. While trying to find the bathroom in the VIP section, he heard a boy crying. He wandered into the “employee only” area and found Sacha crying in a ball on the floor after accidentally having caught his fingers in a closing door. Kelly soothed him and iced his fingers, then inquired as to why he was not on stage with the other boys. He was beautiful enough. Through his tears, Sacha explained that he was too nervous around the customers and became emotional when handled too aggressively; the house mistress had banished him to the dressing rooms to clean up after the more successful performers and to sew shut the holes in the boys’ costumes. Yet, she was still deducting money from his non-existent paychecks for room and board.
Kelley had been furious; he paid the debt and whisked Sacha off to his yacht in the Mediterranean as a gift to his beloved slave and houseboy, Jules. Jules had a lot of chores – especially when tending to the villa Kelley shared with his brother and socialite wife. He was often times, lonely, so Kelley had brought him a pet to keep him company during the day. The boys had become best of friends.

Jules was not a delicate flower. He was the son of Slavic farmers, meaty and substantial. He was a voyeur and terribly slutty. He could take a lot of cock and plenty of strikes from a whip, and he was quite proud of his own endurance. Jules liked leather. He liked humiliation; he liked it rough and sudden. Yet, Jules was delighted by his new pet; he enjoyed spoiling him greatly, sneaking him pastries from the kitchen or washing him by hand in the bath. Sacha’s milk tasted like the sea and they would pass the time together when their Master was away. His Master approved of their play, knowing a chastity cage kept Sacha safe from Jules’s rough lust.

As Master Kelley rode Sacha to his orgasm, he was more convinced than ever heaven existed right here on Earth. Forget collecting fine art or vases or whatever rich people did – he had all he could every want right here in his bed for any mood or whim: one angel and one devil.

Under him, Sacha moaned and his bones trembled as his nervous system overloaded from the sensitive tip rubbing against the sheets. He never dreamed intimacy could feel this wonderful. He loved being full of Master Kelley, to know the Master he worshiped and adored was was fully using his body and exploring all its potential. Master Kelley’s cock never hurt him, it only drove him to sweet madness and divine bliss. Sacha pushed back against the man dividing him and gasped as the blunt tip pushed into his gland. He whimpered, close to peaking. Master Kelley often left him horny and needing, choosing to spill his boy’s seed when he deemed it fit. By the time he reached the exact second of penetration, Sacha was often near delirious with heat.

Just as he felt as if he would burn up from the inside out, Master Kelley pushed him over the edge and the fever broke. Sacha wailed like gale winds and his spine and thighs cramped from holding a tight arch. He gasped and a cascade of his seed gushed out onto the bed. Master Kelley grunted, dripping with sweat; he pulled Sacha’s hips up and held him in place as he delivered a few intense thrusts and spilled. Besides them, Jules moaned and continued to masturbate with a large rubber toy.

Master Kelley dropped his weight onto Sacha and flexed his ass, nudging his cock up as far as he could go as the orgasm crested and began to fade. Sounds of three men panting filled the small bedroom on the yacht. Master Kelley remained buried in Sacha for as long as he could, making sure every tiny little drop of seed was out of his pet. When he withdrew, Sacha cried a little at the loss. Master Kelley instantly swept him into his arms and cuddled him, kissing his cherubic cheeks and rubbing circles onto his hip with his palm.

Once the hormones and emotions dispersed, Sacha was left exhausted and drained and wet. The ache of the loss not so great now, and in truth he was quite happy. Jules however, was angry and frustrated, so Master Kelley took a moment to clean his cock, relubed, and then pounded Jules into the mattress until he triggered an anal orgasm and gave his locked boy some relief. Sacha didn’t mind watching; he found it all fascinating how so much cum could come out of such a trapped little penis. Jules, of course, loved it when Sacha watched. He’d thank him by parting his legs and licking him clean under his Master’s approving gaze.

Afterwards, the three would have a rest, talking and giggling. When it got chilly, there would be a hot bath together, with sparkling water and finger foods. Master Kelley would normally pinch himself at least once to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Then he would draw the bath and the yacht named Paradise would sail off in the night toward the Almafi Coast.

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Text is fictional. One source says the name of this owner’s ass is Brandon from Sean Cody but he’s in too many videos to pin down a specific one. Goddamn, that ass though.

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The moment I collapse into bed at night, I never want to get up again. Taking care of my Master as his houseboy and personal assistant is exhausting, and at that point in the evening I am always relieved that my duties for the day are over. Six days a week, I get up before him, I go to bed after him, and for those nine hours between the two I am content for about five minutes before I get lonely. He is my lover and my best friend; my boss and my owner. He nourishes me, fulfills me, drains me. Without him, I forget how to be a human. I get so caught up in his own happiness I often forgot how to feel my own.

But…I like it that way. As I curl up into my pillow, I bask in the satisfaction that he told me he loves me before passing out. I recall the compliments on the wine I selected for the equally complimented steak, his note on the shine to his boots, and his praise for getting rid of a particularly meddlesome client. I chide myself over not making enough carrots for dinner, and for not getting to the post office today, but there is tomorrow and endless days after where I can right all the wrongs from today.

I no longer care that I am in chastity as there is no time for myself – my time is his time. When he pushes aside hours or even minutes in his busy day to focus on draining me, filling me, bending me over and fucking my brains out while I drip on the floor, I am reminded exactly why I do this job – because I worship that perfect, rigid cock. The money is good, yeah but oh the sex! the special privilege of sucking his erection in the morning! The rare bliss of an orgasm! He gives that gift to no one but me. His balls and their cum are mine, and he knows not to let anyone else have them but me. I groan and adjust the position of my hips. I just had his cock between my lips but now I want it again, and my cock feels tight in its cage. My thighs will be sticky from leaks in the morning. 

Sometime I wish I could sleep snuggled up next to him and press my leaking cage against his butt, but my Master insists that I have some time alone. I think it’s kind of silly. All I do is think about him anyway. Eventually, my thoughts drift to tomorrow’s breakfast menu and my mind just gives up from fatigue. I’m slipping away now, my body made of lead….just so fucking’ tired. Sleep will be here any second so that I may rest and heal, but seriously – if he came in right at this moment to fuck me I would not protest one bit.

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Text is fictional.

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“Next up is a fine young lad of mixed stock – Germanic, Portuguese, and Algerian – aged 18 years, by name of Alec. Alec joined our Home Host Program because he recently aged out of foster care and has no where to go. What he is seeks for his two year contract through the Program is a stable home and a Master to serve under. He ideal for houseboy or fram work – cooking, cleaning, and sexual service. Alec has laid with a woman, but is a virgin with men, and will provide hours of fun exploration in bedroom settings. In exchange for Hosting Alec, he intends to take classes and learn a trade. He is open to considering renewing the contract after two years if the fit is good.

As you can see, Alec is healthy, he vaccinated, and has milky white skin from an indoor life. His penis uncut and is 4 inches soft, 7 hard. He has a strong back, and knows when to keep his mouth shut. A good investment for a newer Master or a Master getting back into keeping after a break. Master Ryes, if you could help Alec strip down to his underwear please? …Thank you. And now we will start the bidding at 400 pieces. 405? 415! Do I see 450 in the back? 450 ..450…475! 500! 510! 550!..”

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Text is fictional. In a rush, no source right now.

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I step into the library to return my completed book and replace it with a new one for my beach-side reading. I hear a sigh and walk toward the back of the crisp, modern styled library, seeking the owner of the sound. I find the houseboy back there, glancing forlornly out the window. He doesn’t notice me at first; my leather soled shoes make little noise on the floor. The natural sunlight illuminates his skin, basking his attractive form in a healthy glow. He is a sight – a slender neck emerging from the sharp lines of his collar bone, gently rolling pecs float above the valley of his lined abs. His skin is so taut, his health and vigor so evident, that there is hardly an ounce of fat on him from hard work and I can see grand veins running under his flesh.

His balls are generous and full, and his cock is soft and hidden but the perfect length for his form. He’s as if a painting come to life. I make the usual noises of putting a book away and he twists his head to look at me. He seems a bit surprised to see me. 

“Are you waiting for your Master to return, lad?”
“Yes sir,” he says, his voice wistful. “I miss him.”
“He shall return from visiting his sister within the hour, do not fret.”
The houseboy nods, but not satisfied. “I hope you have enjoyed your stay here, Sir, and weren’t inconvenienced by his sudden departure two days ago.”
“How could I not enjoy my stay here? I got a week off from that stuffy law office to stay with an old, dear friend at his manor by the beach and be attended to by the most beautiful nude boys. There is nary an inconvenience there. Babies come when they want to come, it isn’t your Master’s fault your sister delivered this weekend.”

The houseboy looks a bit relieved. “Thank you Sir for saying so. Yes, the baby was due last week, but they don’t mind anyone’s schedule but their own.”
“Indeed.” I rifle through the bookcases. “Oh Yukio Mishima…an eccentric, but a great author.” I select The Sound of the Sea and flip through it. When I glance up, I see the houseboy has returned to staring out the window once more.

“Lad,” I say gently, “Perhaps you need a distraction? Come to the beach with me.”
“I …” he begins. “I would like to, but if I am not here to greet my Master upon his return he will be cross with me.”
“Mm, well perhaps we can go there after lunch. Would you like me to suck you? Perhaps it’ll help you relax?”
The boy thought a moment. “Master said I am to please his guest while he is gone. It would please you?”
“Yes, you in any fashion would.”
The houseboy lowers his gaze to the bulge in my trousers, then to the floor. “My Master will also been in need of proper release after two days away too Sir, and I want to offer him a hole that has not been spoiled in his absence.”
“Then just a suck then,” I say with a reassuring smile. The houseboy looks content with our compromise.

The boy turns around and put his palms on the windowsill. I set my book on a shelf and kneel between his legs. His cock is soft, but warm and clean-scented. I take him between my lips – a perfect mouthful – and he gasps softly at the sensation of my tongue on him. I make a suction lock and bob my head, encouraging it to stiffen. Through my lips, I feel the throb of his awakened veins as blood rushes to his sex organs. I cup his pouch below and roll them between my fingers. His cock swells, filling my mouth from cheek to cheek and challenging my jaw.

The pink knob soon pushes out of his foreskin and strains, dripping seed against my tongue. Each little taste of the houseboy’s salty fluid makes my own cock ache in my trousers. I reach down with one hand to massage it until I fear I will spend in my pants; I unbutton myself and let the erect thing spring up into the air. I moan and began to stroke myself as I nurse the houseboy’s upright cock. His lids are half-closed, his lower lip quivers. The houseboy’s testicles are full and low. He is in much need of a proper fuck, but that is not part of my role as a guest in this house. I wonder if I would be allowed to watch that.

I sense his body spasming and the boy whimpers. “I feel I will cum soon, you are too skilled with your tongue!”
I answer him by pushing the tip of it into the slit and swirling it about; the houseboy’s knees buckle and I catch him by pushing upwards on his shins. He regains his posture and tosses back his head. I suck deeply and quickly, one hand on myself, the other making a circular path with my fingertips around his shaft, down to his balls, then back around to stroke any skin I can find.

The houseboy keens and his thighs tense; he cries out an ‘Oh sweet fuck!“ and his balls hitch high. I consume all his seed, feasting on his modest cock as he shoots against my throat. He is pent up. I do not fuss that I have spoiled his appetite for when his Master calls; in fact, I am even more sure now that I have taken off the edge and so he will be virile and patient for longer service when taken into bed.

When his organ begins to soften, I suckle and clean it with patience. It is no chore, and it would be disrespectful to leave another man’s property sullied. As he vocalizes and twitches in my grip, I dedicate a moment to pump my own aching organ. The climax swells over me in an instant and my hot seed splashes on the floor and on the house boy’s feet. I groan around his organ, lost in the pinnacle of masturbation. He grows too sensitive and begins to squirm; I nuzzle his balls and tug on myself, allowing the afterglow to settle and evaporate. There is no sound but for the houseboy’s soft panting.

After a moment, I pull away from the houseboy completely. I can almost see the the tension and anticipation melt off his shoulders. I leave my flaccid cock out, then signal for "one moment” before leaving the library to find a bathroom. When I return with a damp cloth, I find the houseboy perched halfway on the windowsill, head titled back against the window glass. His eyes are closed. When he hears my footfalls, he opens his eyes.

He motions to take the cloth away from me, but I give him a “tut” and hold it out of reach. This is my fun. I wrap his genitals in the warm terry cloth and clean them. He seems to enjoy this as much as I do. After I clean my own, I fold the towel anew and gently wipe his feet. It is a bit scandalous to be cleaning a houseboy’s feet, but I find the act a bit erotic. After the task is done, I give him a little kiss, tuck my book under my arm, and hold the towel at a distance. “Thank you for the suck, boy. You are most enjoyable. I hope to see you on the beach later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hartman. It was immensely pleasurable.” He is still flushed. I must walk away or I will lose my will to resist fucking him. I nod, but as I turn away, the houseboy makes a sharp turn toward the window.

“It’s him! My Master is home! Oh I must go greet him at once. Thank you Mr. Hartman, the distraction did the trick. Please excuse me." 
I nod, dismissing him.
He flashes me a happy smile and jogs off, and I’m momentarily struck still by his bliss. It’s always wonderful and heart-warming to see a boy in service so enamored with his keeper.

I do not bother them. I return to my room and pick up my bag, then go to the beach a short walk from the manor. I lay out a towel and enjoy my book. About an hour later, Master Dunn and his houseboy come and join me, carrying a picnic basket and pale ale. The houseboy has fresh lovebites and there are red marks on his hips. I’m sure if I parted the globes of his ass, I would find a hole pink and wet and open from being fucked. The ocean will wash him clean. 

We dine and snack. Master Dunn discusses in length his new nephew and his status as an uncle. The topic soon changes to more domestic matters. We tidy up the spread and prepare for a swim. Just as I am removing my clothes, Master Dunn speaks up. "Glen, I have an inquiry for you.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“After dinner tonight, would you be interested in coming to my room? My houseboy says you were a wonderful companion while I was gone, and I feel as if I must reward you. I hate to know my boy is lonely. You must join us, or at least watch as I take him. It would be rude other wise.”
Glen felt a stir in his loins. “I did not do anything unique, but make sure the houseboy had a guest to serve and work to do. He is a fine boy and so easy on the eyes. I would hate to insert my horny self between your intimate relationship, but I will certainty watch. Not often does one receive an invitation to watch a houseboy writhe under his Master. I would find it to be most exciting.”
A dark look of lust and satisfaction shows on Master Dunn’s face. “Oh, he excites me a good deal.”
The houseboy blushes.
Master Dunn clears his throat and reveals a bit of a smirk. “That will be for later, though. I must take a swim first or my cock will harden even more.”
I grin. “Oh, I do feel the same way. I want to save my seed for when I can watch. I want to last for hours.”

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Text is fictional. Model is Dominick Juneau, photographed by Adam Webster.

===delete below if reblogging====

I hadn’t meant to post this when I did – I never post between 4-5 am PST. However, somehow when I went to reblog this hours ago, I somehow managed to highlight a different frame and the reblog button was inaccessible. I was dicking around with deselect keyboard shortcuts and it magically reblogged! It took me seven hours to fix this, so yaaaay. I was reading this rather bizarrely-worded collection of Victorian-themed short stories involving gay sex, and they inspired this. Nice that it got saved.