Tag: kept boy

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

gayboykink:

That moment when you feel Sir’s cock hard-on inside your mouth, he puts his hand on your head and tells you you’re a good boy. 

Even if his erection is in your mouth, you don’t dare start to orally pleasure him without the command. Perhaps He simply wishes to remind you of your place to Him. It is not your duty to assume your Master’s intent. Contentment floods through as you hear his praise: good boy. You live for those words and will not prove him wrong. The fear of disappointing him is worse than any punishment He could imagine.

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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.

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

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

“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.

_______________________________________________________
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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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

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.

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

Remote Control

Remote Control

by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

slave2766:

2 weeks 2 days and counting..1 week 5 days and counting…

When Sir travels it’s tough. He isn’t just heading to another town he is continents or countries away. This time is different this time he left me wearing his collar and with my cock locked away. Technology means we are in contact but it doesn’t change the distance and the lack of physical contact.

Work can’t fill the space, gym is only a minor distraction its like part of me is in a holding pattern.

Sometimes I wonder if Masters’ understand the level of disconnect subs and slaves feel?

This slave is lucky because Master knows. When he travels he leaves me tasks to complete take care of his boots, sort out the play equipment, a schedule for gym, working naked and collard.

None of it is big stuff but it helps me keep my head on straight it reminds me of his care.

The tasks help but they cant get me over the building sexual need. A few days are easy,  week not so much, 2 weeks and I’m crawling the walls. This time I’m locked even if I wanted to and he had given permission I cant cum. It has created a roller coaster of emotions.

Some days its a slow burn, others a burning ache, now I drip when he sends a message. My cock throbs and my cunt twitches at even the simplest sexual thought. He knows and winds me up even more when we chat online. What is funny when he is in town becomes torture when he is away. He talks about what he will do when he gets back, he lets me tell him about the pictures in my head.

The truth is I could go online and hook up take care of the physical need. I could but I won’t.

Once the choice was made I knew control of my sexual expression was no longer mine. The choice was made freely and with full understanding of the reality his career imposed. Being locked added to his control.

A consequence of the choice is that for now I suffer. Master can get sexual release knowing I can’t, he can experience his power and control over the miles.

This reality is far harder than I ever imagined. First he allows me to re-engage my deepest sexual needs, then he teaches me how they can be met in service to him, after what seems an age he collared me then just when I have settled he ups and goes for a month.

He said I would “learn my place” its hard to know that you are not the first priority. It goes against the messages that our culture sends us. He said he would become the center of my sexual life and he has.

Submission is not for sissies, its hard work every day. He is the single most important relationship in my life, he gets to set the rules, I mold my needs to his.

None of this changes when he travels his control might be remote but it is as concrete and complete as if he was sitting in front of me as I’m writing. 

For now I will deal with crashing hormones and emotional swings. I will look after my tasks and communicate when we can. I will spend my night imagining what he is doing and dream of how this slave will show it’s devotion when he gets back.

Because he is Master and I am slave.

The slave learns that the night of relief that will follow when his Master returns will be worth all the waiting. His Master will use his body and obtain pleasure from his slave, and in return the slave will benefit from his Master’s happiness to his obedience.

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chastepup:

slaveboy13:

I have a beautiful 4MB version of this GIF… But I bought a harness today and decided to celebrate my playing the piano.

Ahhhhh! This is adorable!

I was sitting on my sofa, reading a romance novel and drinking my tea, when I noticed it. I watched him quite intently, although I was afraid he would sense my eyes boring holes into him and stop. Although the playing happens in the front, his long fingers sweeping over the keys with hypnotic grace, I prefer to watch him from the back. My eyes were first attracted to the bunching of his muscles moving under his skin and the new harness he wears all the time. Then, my gaze slid own to his stiff back, pausing to admire his excellent posture, before resting on his butt. He has a cute butt. It’s one of my favorite parts of him. Well, all of him really. There isn’t a part of him that isn’t adorable – even his toes are frankly, adorable.

But that’s not what I noticed. What caught my attention to the point that I lost focus on my book was his tail. It was moving in sync with the metronome on the piano. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. I smiled, privately. I feel privileged to see my boy wrapped up so entirely in the music that’s playing. It seems to be a part of him; the muscles moving and bunching under his skin show striking similarity to the way the the hammers and actions move in waves under the wooden lid.

I also realize that I’ve never seen him play piano without some sort of gear on. After we have a session, like tonight, we cuddle, we shower, and then he gravitates toward the bench after supping. I wonder what he’s feeling. I wonder if this is just a way for him to unwind, or if he’s pouring love and passion into the music which is why it sounds so beautiful.

I feel lucky that he’s mine. I set my book aside and clutch my tea cup in my hands, sipping it patiently as I watch his tail bob back and forth. It never falls out of sync.

______________________________
Text is fictional. This is slaveboy13.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I had gone to the dungeon as a last resort. Years of psychological damage from childhood and poor self esteem had left me fragmented and hollow, and therapy could not touch it. I wanted release. I wanted to break through. I wanted to crumple and die and be reborn on the other side.

I was terrified when they tied me to the A frame with ropes and cuffs and chains, spread eagle and naked for a handful of naked and leather-clad spectators. I wanted to use the safe word. It was on the tip of my tongue. Instead I used “yellow”, over and over and over again, until I was sure the man in the mask would frustrated with me and tell me to get out. He did not.

Instead, he listened. He went slow. He spanked me and whipped me until I screamed and my muscles shuddered after each strike. I saw nothing but stars. Over and over until I lost track of them all. I could hear the others murmuring but could not make out what they were saying. I could hear him heaving from the effort. Then, he said, “Good boy,"  and gave one final strike. At that moment, I felt myself come apart. I ejaculated all over the floor. That gross, ugly, dirty shadow of shame that had clung to me ripped away and left me fresh and new and exposed on the frame.

"Stop” crossed my lips as I burst into tears. It hurt to cry – my face ached, my throat hurt. It felt as if my body had sweated out all its liquid and was pulling water from deep inside of me. The masked man and his assistant immediately untied me. The masked man set aside the whip and brought me to the floor and wrapped me into his strong arms. I did not care about his scent, or that his biceps were damp from sweat. I clung to him like a buoy as if I were deep out in dark waters. He rocked me and shh’ed me. His assistant brought me water; I drank it so fast I got hiccups.

The masked man chuckled and soothed me through my hysteria, cleaning my nose and my eyes with a handkerchief.
“There there…it’s alright. Come down now. That was very intense for your first session. I was impressed by your stamina. Alright, breathe for me. Yes, that’s a good boy now.”
“Am – Am I really – good?” I stammered.
He blinked down at me. ‘Yes. You’re a good boy,“ he said, petting my hair.

At that moment, I fell in love with him. I didn’t know his name. I hadn’t seen his face. But I loved him. I curled up against his broad chest and just breathed. No one had ever called me a ‘good boy’ before. No one had ever told me they’d loved me and meant it. No one had held me like this in my life.

I heard a new voice at that moment and realized it was the voice of his assistant. "Master Beaumont, I must say, I think he’s yours.” I looked up at him through swollen eyes, but I did not understand the expression on his face or the sentence he just said. I didn’t care. I fell asleep.

I woke up in the nurse’s office in the dungeon, under a blanket. My back felt hot, but numb. They must have put something on it. I was on my side. I tried to sit up. The noise of the blanket gave me away and a man came into the room.
“You’re up,” he said, relieved.
When I heard his voice, I realized it was Master Beaumont. His face was like a charcoal sketch, angles and lines with a sweeping jaw and bright curious eyes. My love for him did not weaken.
“No – no don’t sit,” Master Beaumont instructed. “Your bottom is still quite tender.”
I reclined back down to the pillow. “Yes sir.”
“Good boy,” he said, almost on reflex.

I tried not to weep more. I was completely dry. He gave me more water with a straw in it and had me drink. I felt better.
Master Beaumont said down on a chair next to me. “Peter said to me – that he’s never seen a session like that before. When I was rocking you at the end, he also said you the same expression his dog had when he adopted her from the pound.”
I gazde up at him, smitten, although I didn’t know what to say exactly. “Keep me,” I said.
He let out a slow breath. I knew he wanted to say something, but instead he said nothing and just thought.

I live in his house now. I serve his needs. I serve his body. I care not for my clothing or the importance of a career or some resemblance of identity. All I seek is for him to seek me. Even an offer of his warm hand stretching forward to cup my cheek makes me melt away. I love these simple moments, these delicate caresses when he shows me the same love I feel for him. And if he wants to make me the happiest person in the world, he will add “Good boy” for a job well done. It’s all I’ll need for the rest of my life.

I have broken through, and here, on this side, there is peace.

_________________________________
Text is fictional. Still looking for source.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

A slave waits patiently for the auction to start. He’s just been photographed and in a moment will be taken to the holding area. He was worried about getting an erection, as some of the other slaves have, but thankfully he’s too nervous to get it up so it just remains soft. He hasn’t seen the audience yet either, so all he can do is imagine what the men look like and what their personalities will be… and the slave wonders what they’re going to think of him too. He looks down at himself, nude and shorn. Well, if anything, he thinks, I’m a blank canvas. I hope they see my potential. I have a lot of skills. I have to remember that if I want to be valuable to someone, I have to have confidence in myself that I am valuable, even as a slave. The Headmaster barks at him to join the others in the holding area. The slave says a clear “Yes sir” and moves quickly to that direction with his head up and eyes forward. Even if I am a slave, he also thinks, there’s no shame in being in my natural place.

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Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Jonathan arrived home promptly at 6:45. He came through the front door, took off his shoes, then went to find his Master. Master Kipling was in the bedroom, so there Jonathan kneeled and greeted him. Kipling acknowledged his greeting, then took out his cock to be serviced. Jonathan obediently sucked him until he climaxed, then cleaned his Master’s cock appropriately. Kipling enjoyed every second of it. He then commanded his boy to strip and dress in his proper pup attire for the evening. Jonathan was relieved to hear this, and with a sigh of contentment, removed his pants and restricting underwear. It felt nice to let his chaste cock have some air.

As he was about to unbutton his shirt, Jonathan heard a noise. His Master watched as his pup scrambled up into the chair to see better out the window. He was admiring his pup’s long feet and even toes when his pup began to whimper. Jonathan craned his neck and wiggled his butt, forgetting the tail plug wasn’t in. The whimpers intensified. His Master was about to ask what was going on when he heard it – the distinct jingle of an ice cream truck.

The whimpering grew to a loud, insisting volume and Jonathan looked at his Master with big pleading eyes. It was a warm summer today, just perfect for ice cream. His Master stared at his pup with an eyebrow raised, watching him become more and more agitated as the truck drew closer. Well, his pup had been behaving lately. He couldn’t think of a single reason to deny him his request. The blowjob had been deeply satisfying too.

“Ohhh alright boy,” he said, trying to hide a smile in his beard. “I’ll give you some change.”
Jonathan made a happy bark. “Thank you Sir!”
“Put on some shorts first.”
Jonathan quickly unbuttoned his shirt and tie, removing them and throwing them over the chair. He went to the chest where he kept his pup clothes and found a pair of white shorts he wore when in service. The ice cream truck was nearly on them now. Kipling dug into his pocket and found a five dollar bill. Jonathan kissed the back of his Master’s hand in thanks before bolting out of the bedroom.

He returned a short while later, looking incredibly pleased with himself, flushed from his sprint. He was licking a creamsicle and holding a fudgesicle in his other hand.
“Two…?” His Master asked.
Jonathan nodded. “For you, Sir. I know you like chocolate.”
Kipling blinked at him. “What a considerate puppy, thank you boy.”
Jonathan beamed and handed it over, along with the change. His Master patted the bed and Jonathan hopped up, snuggling up to his owner as they enjoyed their ice cream together.

When their treat break dissolved into a kissing session, his Master was glad he gave in to Jonathan’s begging. Kissing a creamsicle flavored puppy was like having dessert after dessert.

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Text is fictional.