Tag: kept boy

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“You see, we’re doing you a favor. We could have easily turned you over to the cops for raiding our drug cache. I know you intended to sell all of it to pay off that loan shark, but you were stupid and got caught. Shame. Well. we spoke to your debt collector and settled it for you, but now you owe us – both the debt and for stealing. You have no value, no goods to barter, just your very sweet handsome body. We are going to enjoy having you here to serve us now. We’re very busy men with a local, lucrative business, and you will treat us with respect. Correct?”
“Y…yes.”
“Yes what, boy?” he slapped the boy’s bare pectoral.
“Yes Sir!”
“Good boy. A quick learner, I like that. Rocco, remove his underwear. He won’t be needing them for a while.”

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Text is fictional. Source is:

PETO COAST,BEN TAYLOR + JUAN_CAZZOCLUB

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“What is your houseboy doing?” Reginald asks, twisting in his patio chair to get a look at the source of the sound of someone making loud raspberries.
I crane my neck to find Oren through the guests mingling in my spacious backyard. “…I have no idea. Whatever it is, it’s not what he’s supposed to be doing. He knows better, what on Earth is he up to?”
Will, who is standing off to the side behind Reginald starts snickering, then as he watches Oren dissolves into laughter.
“What is so funny Will?” Reginald insists. “You know something don’t you? …You do! What is it?”
“Will, what did you do my boy?” I rise from my chair.

It takes Will a few moments to compose himself, because every time he looks at me he loses it again. I’m about to throw a shoe at him when he finally spits it out. “I gave him one of the pot brownies! The strong ones, that Linda made for your brother.”

Color rises in my face. “What? What? You DRUGGED him?” Reginald rushes to his feet to keep me from punching Will. “YOU DRUGGED Oren? You asshole. Those weren’t your brownies, those were for Dean! And you gave him drugs for the first time without any supervision, and you violated the rule of not feeding him! I told you he’s hypoglycemic – sweets have to be – ..why am I talking to you about this? You have 30 seconds to leave my property of you will be escorted off.”

I turn my back to him and rush over to Oren. It’s quite obvious he’s gotten something in his system – the dopey look on his face, the vague sheen to his eyes. “Hey Sir.” He drawls. “Look how green this is…it’s like really green. And it vibrates when I do this.” He blows a raspberry on it again. “Pretty cool,” he giggles.

A couple guests stare. I gently work the balloon from his fingers and sigh. “Oren, did you eat a brownie?”
He looks confused, and shuffles his feet. “Will said you wanted me to eat it, Sir. Said you said to keep my blood sugar up.”
“Will is a lying bastard, and those brownies had pot in them.”
“Ohh…that explains why I feel weird.” He pokes the balloon in my hands and starts giggling.
“Are you going to faint?”
Oren doesn’t answer, he just keeps petting the balloon.
Reginald chimes in. “He’s bloody useless.”
“Great,” I sigh. “My houseboy is high, and there is no one to watch my guests.”
Reginald puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take care of them, make sure everyone is watered and the trash is cleared. You take care of Oren.”
I give him a grateful look. “Many thanks Reginald. Is Will gone?”
He glances around. “Yes. That bastard. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have invited him.”
“You can’t always know how people will act, Reg, don’t worry. I’m just…concerned, mostly. Alright, Oren, come with me.”
“But,….it’s so pretty out here.”

I take a deep breath and count to 3. Apparently being high has made him completely disregard all his training. I’m both furious at being disrespected and irritated because it’s not entirely his fault. “Ok, why don’t I take you around to the garden and have you rest in the hammock?”
“Ooo….hammock.”
He’s allowed to nap there when he’s good, but the rules are moot now – I just need him to cooperate. I get him some water, and to my relief, he allows me to escort him away from the party and to somewhere more quiet.

When I come back, I’m deeply relieved to see Reginald making nice with everyone and the catering tables look flawless. I host questions from concerned guests for several minutes before I have another moment alone with Reginald.

“Is he alright?” my best friend inquires.
“Yes, just napping, thankfully. Thank you so much for covering, Reg, I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem at all. Least I can do.”
He hands me a glass of lemonade and I sip it. “…It’s kind of funny though isn’t it?” I chuckle.
“Oh my god, when he was blowing raspberries on the balloon I was trying so hard not to lose it,” Reginald admits.
I can’t help but smile about this silliness now that the anger has passed. “You missed that when I got him into the hammock, I wouldn’t give him the balloon back at first and he said to me – ‘Dude, why you hating on my balloon?’ in this super indignant voice.”
Reginald covers his face with one hand and cracks up. “Oh god, I’m never going to look at Oren straight-faced again!”
“YOU?” I gasp. His laughter is contagious and I’m catching up. “Tomorrow I have to explained to a very disciplined and soon to be very horrified houseboy that he nearly left me for a balloon – and he called his Sir ‘dude’.”

We both dissolve into hysterics and have to sit down in the patio chairs again to recover.

When Oren emerged from the gardens later after the party ended, Reginald and I sat with him on the grass and fed him munchies off paper plates. In the end, I wasn’t able to bring myself to punish Oren. We figured that Oren’s eventual embarrassment toward his behavior was punishment enough – and it was. I still tease him about calling me ‘dude’ though, which makes him squirm in the most adorable way.

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Text is fictional. Photographs by Richard Rothstein. More from the set here.

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When my Sir – I call him Sir because I respect him – comes home from working hard all day, I feel it is my obligation to guide him to back to sanity. He works in the emergency room of our county hospital, dealing with things I can’t even begin to imagine. Home is his sanctuary, so it’s inconsiderate to bother him immediately with annoying things from my day or to pester him helplessly that I’m hungry. I take initiative around here. I make dinner and keep the house clean so all he has to do is come through the door, accept his plate and his glass of wine, undo his tie, and sink into his favorite chair.

I’ll often rub his shoulders or his feet as well. Sometimes, when he’s finished he sets the tray aside, leans back, and undoes his pants for me. I take the hint immediately and blow him for dessert.

I know my Sir. I can tell by the tone of voice when he calls me, or texts me, that sometimes he needs something more than just being spoiled during dinner.

He’ll come home, exhausted after a brutal shift, headachy from florescent lights and a belly full of greasy cafeteria pizza and energy drinks. He’ll climb the stairs like it’s Mt. Everest, dragging his feet. The look of sheer appreciation when he comes through our bedroom door and finds me spread open and anticipating his cock makes my crazy happy. He just groans, so grateful I read his mind. My ass is his, my balls are full for him, all he has to do is grab the lube and bury his meat between the cleft of my ass. Instant stress relief, just insert tab a into slot b. He’ll pound out all his frustrations and failures of the day away and shoot the negative energy out into a condom. I always discard it with a smirk.

Yup, I definitely know what my Sir needs and desires. They say he has the lowest fatality rate in his ER, despite how over-worked and fatigued he often gets. His co-workers think of him as a god-like figure, the master of the crash cart, the wizard of intubation. Let them wonder. I’m sure they’d be surprised to know that it is a naked boy who aurifies Dr. Ashcroft’s talent for medicine.

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Text is fictional. Source is an original photo by inside-the-wardrobe. I have notified him that I am using his photo for a caption.

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You can only tame a feral slave so much. He was neglected by his parents, and was considered unmanageable by the foster care system. They were also scared of him, the things that turned him on and the pain he liked. You found him on the side of the road, skinny and filthy and offering an ass for meal. He just wanted a permanent home, somewhere he could live out his sexual fantasies safely and feel like he belonged. So you trained him and sculpted him, defined the lines, set rules for him. You made sure he was housebroken and didn’t horde food. You beat him cause he loved it, and introduced him to everything in your dungeon. You took him into your bed and collared him. And he was a better boy for it, a happier boy, less reactive and more malleable. More sated.

Yet, there is a limit to how much you can do for the wild ones. They will eventually feel the call of the wild, especially on those warm summer nights when the wind blows in past the curtains. The urge to roam, the urge to seek prey, the urge to seek other men, it calls to them. The collar helps, cause people know he’s owned. His RFID chip has your information on it. Sometimes you let him go, knowing he’ll be back by morning, filthy and reeking of sex and piss and alcohol. You scrub him, examine him, give him a swat, and give him his morning chores.

When he starts to come home in a police car, covered in scratches, bite marks, and wearing a muzzle, then it’s time to put the safety locks back on the windows. Of course, you know he’ll try it again, and when he does, you’ll catch him and drag him off to your dungeon. You’ll gag him and truss him up like a Christmas turkey. He’ll grunt at you, spitting mad, his eyes shooting daggers at you. You eye him with a sigh, then haul him up and strap him to the milking machine. An hour or so of penetration and low e-stim will help get most of the pent up frustration out of the system. By the end, he’ll be too drained to run off. You’ll cuddle him and put him to bed. He’ll be docile in the morning as a lamb.

You’ll tolerate it all summer. You do the best you can. You socialize him and run him, and let him have supervised sessions at the local dungeon. It’ll be over once fall comes. He’ll want to settle and hibernate, be happy with just your cock there. And you’ll give it to him, as often as he’ll take it, until spring comes and you can open the windows again.

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Text is fictional. Source is here, and used without his knowledge.

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The stud’s cock wasn’t hard enough, so his Master decided to tenderize those balls until things were more up to His standards. He has friends coming over soon and it would look bad if he had a soft, uninterested slave boy strapped into place for nothing.

“You keep that dick up, boy, or else you’re getting the nipple clamps with spikes on em and electricity up your dick. You haven’t come in a couple days, shouldn’t be a problem for you. Don’t be nervous, now. My friends are good men and experienced Masters. They will take such excellent care of your horny, naked body while I’m at my little sister’s birthday party.”

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Text is fictional. The video is Back Alley; the dom is Felix Barca; the sub is Race Cooper. Just a warning though before you click the link to the trailer – it’s a fisting video.

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I walk past the kitchen, back up, then walk past it again. I let my eyes rove over his small ass peeking out between the apron’s sides and admire just how long his legs look when he’s naked.
“Jackson?”
He startles a little as if deep into his own thoughts. “Wha- oh hello. I thought you were watching that TV show you like.”
“I was… er…what are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” he turns and raises an eyebrow at me. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re making dinner,” I repeat, in disbelief.
“Yeah I found this recipe involving stuffed bell peppers and orzo – we have to use up all that parsley and you bought that ground bison, so I thought it wasn’t a bad idea. Plus, there was some spinach on sale at the grocery store, and I’ve been wanting to try this walnut strawberry salad I saw on a low carb blog-”
“Woah woah woah.” I take off my glasses, wipe them on my shirt, and then put them back on. “What happened to Jackson? What did you do with him?”

He chuckles. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s Friday night! Normally you beg me to go out with you to the clubs, take drugs you can’t identify, get totally plastered, then call me to rescue you after you’ve wandered off with some hot blokes and come home with a black eye and a wet dick.”
He scoffs while rolling his eyes. “I don’t always do that…”
“Yes, yes you do. Three weeks ago, you left on a Friday and came home on a Sunday – you told me you woke up in Berlin.”
“…Berlin isn’t that far.”
“We live in Denmark.”

He coughs and turns his attention back to the garlic he’s dicing. “Well you know it’s just – I’m horny as fuck, and yeah, I wanna go out, but ever since you put me in chastity, I’ve felt different. Like, once my friends see the bulge of my cage under my tight-ass leather pants, they’re gonna strip me naked and fuck me in front of the entire club. They’re kind of rough blokes, you know? And I’m very particular about who I bottom for. You being the exception.” He punctuates this by pointing the knife in my direction.
“Plus, I’d be so frustrated by not being able to fuck those club boys, and I don’t wanna be seen there as a helpless bitch. Also, I don’t wanna get cum stains on my leather pants.” He shrugs. “I was hungry anyway so I thought I’d just make dinner and maybe you could milk me after? I wanna learn how to do that hands-free thing you talked about earlier.”
“The hands free orgasm?” I ask, dully, still stunned.
“Yeah that! Seems hot.”

I stand there stupidly and watch him prep food. I don’t recall putting a magic spell on that chastity cage. It was supposed to be a 48 hour kink thing we were doing. Since he’s such a fuck up of a boyfriend, if you could even call him that, he often relents out of guilt when I want to try kinkier shit. Still, I had no idea it would be this effective. I thought he’d be giving me a tongue thrashing trying to get the key from me so he could go party with his cock swinging free.

“Um, well,” I begin. “I’m thrilled, to be honest, and damn curious what you’re gonna be making here. Can I help in any way…?”
“You could wash the strawberries and um, maybe play with my ass a little?”
“Oooh that is a reasonable request for a very good boy.” I walk up behind him and give him a hug from the back, wrapping my arms around his waist. I drop one hand to cup his cage between his legs.
“Mmm that’s not what I asked. If you do that, I’m going to get a huge erection and then it’ll hurt.”
I kiss his shoulder and give his ass a little pat. “Alright, alright, sorry, I just …,” I begin, then drop the sentence as I release him and head toward the fridge.
“You just what?” Jackson asks, furrowing his brow.
I bite my lip. “You know what? Nothing. It’s fine. I’m just grateful you’re here.” I hold up the strawberries. “Washed berries and a rim job coming right up.”

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Text is fictional.

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We’re so sympatico. Right as I glance down, he glances up and our eyes meet; he pauses mid-lick. I grab my phone off the nightstand and snap a photo of my adorable sub. For a moment, his pup side melts away at the sound of the shutter; he’s Gustavo again, and suddenly self-aware of what he’s doing on all fours. A sheepish smiles blooms on his face and blush comes to his cheeks. Then, he catches the scent of my crotch and nuzzles it with his eyes closed. When he opens his lids again, his pup side is back and his tongue goes to work. He loves to lick my crotch in the morning to get me horny, right before he tugs down the band with his teeth and sucks me dry.

I later printed a wallet size version of that shot so I could always have a bit of my boy with me, where-ever I go.

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Text is fictional. Pup’s name is unknown.