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Even The First - PART TEN
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Even The First - PART TEN
I stood still in the dark, waiting for Paul's return from work. Paul has a clock here, so he can time it. It was getting late. Then I heard the phone.
I listened. After a few blurps it clicked off. The answer machine cut in and then I heard Paul's voice.
Why hasn't he rung the mobile?
I ran upstairs. I wasn't supposed to answer; it might be his mother. She never knew about me. When she visited, Paul put me behind the locked door of the cellar. That was the same when more or less anyone came round, if they didn't know about me. The neighbours sometimes visited for something, but that was very rare. They saw me working the garden and they saw me go out running or to get stuff, so there was no hiding my existence from them. They said hello when I was working in the garden, but I avoided conversation. They didn't know how I lived. They didn't know I was a slave.
But there again, I didn't know I was a slave, until I found Paul's book and it fell into place in my stupid brain.
I'm not going to look in that stupid book anymore. It was stupid to look in it in the first place. I shouldn't be looking through Paul's private stuff. I wouldn't normally, but I was curious... I wanted to find out something about the man who has adopted me, who has looked after me and protected me and fucked me all the past seven years. I wanted to find out something about myself. I wanted to find out if I'm safe.
Well, I suppose I am safe.
I pressed the play button on the answer machine. Pauls voice, "I'll be late." That's all he said.
That meant I had to wait.
I never saw Paul's mother, but I heard her and I heard what Paul said about her. It was as if he didn't like her but he respected her. The independence of his feelings for her in this way, by which I mean the coldness of them, added to my impression of admiration for him, and increased my levels of trust. That's not something he got from the book; it was simply a part of his character. Let's face it, Paul was a classic Alpha: He knew his own mind and sentiment did not interfere with him doing exactly what he wanted.
Once, he seemed to be pretty upset after one of her visits and I wondered what she could have said that might have had this effect on him. He was angry and stormed down the stairs into the cellar. He didn't turn the light on. He just stormed down and called me, in the dark. I scrambled over and started to kiss his feet and he just kicked me. He carried on kicking me until he didn't want to kick me anymore. Then he just walked off. He didn't fuck me that night. As he ascended the stairs he mumbled, "Sleep here." So I slept in the cellar. I'm used to that. In the morning I went to prepare his coffee and breakfast but his bed was empty. Then he came back, later, and then he fucked me and acted normal. I never found out what she had said.
Christ, it makes me so hard to remember that.
When I once asked how his mother was, once when she had visited and left and things seemed fine, he got so angry I thought he was going to kill me. He seemed to need that release. The next day he was fine and as he was fucking me he seemed to really enjoy it in a way I'd not really seen before. He put me on my back and while he was giving it he looked into my eyes as if he wanted to know what I was feeling, like it was important to him.
While he was fucking me he was stroking my face and putting his fingers in my mouth to suck. He dropped a long silvery gob of his saliva into my mouth and I remember it tasted sweet. When I caught it and swallowed it all up, he smiled like he was looking at his own baby.
He touched where he had bruised me and pressed and said, "Does that hurt?" and when I said, "Not really..." he said, "Awww baby. You're so cute." Then he returned to his normal self.
I found the mobile in the kitchen. I hadn't heard it. Paul would want to know why, but I didn't know why. One message. The message was Paul. It said, "Where the fuck are you?" "I'm going to be punished tonight," I thought. "I'm going to be late," it said. And then I thought, "I'm sick of this."
What does it mean when you don't know what to do? I didn't know what to do. I waited in the dark. I stood in the cellar darkness waiting for the sound of Paul's return. I thought about my future. I was glad it was dark; I didn't want to see anything. I held my hands behind my back. When I got cold I did some press-ups and weights and then resumed my position. The food upstairs was ready. As time progressed, I was ready also: When Paul returned I would confront him. I would demand my freedom; manumission. I would insist on a new status. I had it all worked out. I'd tell him to forget it. I'd tell him I had had enough and I wanted out. I'd make him pay for the past, literally, with money, and I'd use it to go away and start a new life. I still had time. I'd take his payment and get a place and a job and I'd make friends, a special friend even, someone who cared for me and respected me and wanted me to be all I could be... I'd find love. I'd find life and love.
The thought of it made me pant with anger. I gripped my wrists together. I grabbed the bar and did some chin-ups. I was covered in sweat and showered. The cold water bouncing off my skin made me shout. I was cold and hot.
I remembered Nigel. He said I could phone him if I needed to talk. Perhaps I needed to talk now. I didn't fancy it. I'd rather phone Rodder. He was a good fuck. I felt my anus blink at the thought of him. But Rodder hadn't given me his number. No such luck.
The only people I knew were men Paul had given me to for his own pleasure. He like to see me being used. There were a few, but mainly they had treated me as a toy and not taken any further interest; they knew it was pointless, Paul didn't let them get too close. He was no fool. If they got too much they wanted more and fancied they could take Paul's place. That was silly. Paul was a unique guy. He knew what he had. He didn't intend to lose it by giving it away; he wanted it too much. The other men were nothing in comparison. They could see the set up. They wanted in, but Paul was the one who made everything happen. Without him they'd not get anywhere. Without him, I'd still be a vagrant military drop out. I'd probably be on the street, on drugs, or in prison, or a corpse in a bag. Christ, what would I be without Paul? Paul saw the use of everything. He was a man of vision. He understood what things were for and how to use them. He understood me and what I was good for and he understood one vital thing: that if you use things according to their proper uses, you use them the way they were meant to be used, then everybody's happy. If you treat your people they way they are suited to be treated, then it's comfortable, and everything feels right. It's when people get the wrong idea and don't understand their place you get ideas that hurt. For Paul it means, if you do what's right for you, treat everything as your property, then not only will you be happy but so also will those you control. You are doing them a favour.
Paul treated everything as if it had been placed there by some benevolent god solely for him to use as he saw fit. It was almost as if he even thought of God as his subordinate, responding obediently and subtly preempting his selfish demands. And it hadn't all come from Paul's book, "The Foundations of Enslavement". Being an Alpha was natural to Paul's brain. I can imagine he never knew how to take no for an answer.
Oh why am I going on about it?
I wished I could stop thinking. I wished I could stop everything - but I started to see: I depended upon Paul for everything. He owned me, but in return he gave me ownership. If I wasn't owned, I'd fall apart. If I wasn't obedient, I'd be nothing. What a fag!
Standing in the dark, this has happened before, the sensation of being a man in a man's body builds and becomes overwhelming. I can feel the heave of my chest and tautness in my stomach as I struggle to overcome my emotions. I can feel the weight of my hands against the smooth mounds of my buttocks. I can feel the pulse in my ears, a quick rush that echoes through my body and lifts my cock. I can feel the soles of my feet cold on the wet concrete. I can feel my physical strength and my vulnerable nakedness and the sensation grows, "I am a man in a man's body." I have the power to be myself.
Whatever that means.
I did not move. My cock was standing up.
I remembered gunfire. I remembered the desert. I remembered the silence of the night, sky thick with a quilt of stars, with Squigger; he sat on the front of a Land Rover and I sat on the ground, between his feet. He brushed my head with his fingers, my head filled with empty thoughtless nothing. Yes, there was suddenly gunfire.
The locals often emptied a mag into the air; that was their way of celebrating. What were they celebrating? Fuck knows. Like the cockerel squawking: they just did. Then there was silence. Squigger nudged my shoulder with his boot, but we didn't move. "We can't stay here," I thought. "We can't stay here."
I lifted my hand and grabbed his leg. I just wanted to feel it. I just wanted him to feel my hand. I wanted him to know that I loved him. I gripped the familiar, hard calf. My other hand I put around the ankle of the same leg and touched the exposed hair above his sock. He put his finger in my ear and traced the corkscrew grooves with its tip.
I knew we couldn't stay, but now so much has gone I wonder ... just how much I could have held on to had I just held on?
That was the night before.
By the next night I had already lost everything. And I knew it was deliberate. He hadn't made a mistake. It was a set up. It wasn't enemy action. It was the others ... who just couldn't accept ... what was happening.
Christ, my cock was so hard now. I really wanted Paul to come home and fuck me. Paul liked me like that. I could feel my anus sweating. I knew he'd want it after a long day. I knew he'd want to have my cunt quickly the moment I opened the door. I'd drop at his feet and lick them urgently; that would please him. He'd push the door to, pull it out, "Face the wall," and have it immediately before 30 seconds was up.
He always thought about fucking me.
When he was at work he thought about fucking me. In meetings. Sitting in the car. Queued on the motorway, listening to the radio, watching the boys on motorcycles speeding past, their agile bums twisting on their seats, he thought about fucking them and then he thought about fucking me. I knew he was thinking about fucking me right now, wherever he was. He always thought about it.
Sometimes I think that's all he ever thinks about.
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END OF Even The First - PART TEN