The moment had come, would he back out like before, bogging himself down in the sexual rut that had frustrated him since puberty, or would he finally realize his most base sexual needs. He had been to the threshold before; only to pitifully withdraw into his self imposed isolation. The feelings of inadequacy that he got whenever he couldn't go through with a meeting only piled onto his already substantial desires. But he knew he needed this, his libido had taken over his life; His free time was centered on his search. He drove with a sense of urgency, yet he was uncharacteristically relaxed, completely at peace with his present circumstances. The whole drive he was climbing into thoughts about a sense of feminine self-beauty in the act of letting something powerfully grounded in ugliness use him. The sexual act itself, for him, was rooted internally, having absolutely nothing to do with love or any sexual compatibility. He enjoyed thinking about himself as an object. He craved the nectar of their pleasure; he hoped to find himself in the humiliation. His heart felt as though it were scraping his ribs on every beat, his hands were shaking a bit as he found the street and slowly crept down looking for the address he had been given. He still wanted this. He was resolved to spin his fantasies into the fabric of his life. Then he saw it, up ahead on the left, it was a typical suburban home, two storied with a rather large yard. As he approached the door, he felt almost calm, relishing the femininity of his circumstances. It hit him, he could finally let go and be himself; Here he didn't have to act macho, or prove himself superior to anyone. He ate up this feeling of liberty, only then realizing that his whole life had been spent pretending to be someone he wasn't. Then he knocked, and waited, and thought about the possibilities that lay behind the closed door. Then the door opened, and there was his, well his, he didn't quite know what this man was to him but he hoped to find out. The first thing he focused on was the mans stubble. He had dark-graying hair, with a rather dark complexion. The man greeted him with a smile and a hello. The man was quite large, probably about 6'3, and about 220 pounds, and looked to be in his late forties. The man introduced himself as John and invited him inside. The inside of his house was sparse, wood floors, white walls, stainless steel lamp, black leather furniture in the living room that he could see beyond the foyer. Turner meekly introduced himself, as John had turned his back and was heading for the kitchen. They had chatted online for a month or so, but Turner felt uncomfortable in the intimacy of the quiet house. John went to the fridge and got out two bottles of beer, handing one to Turner saying "here boy". Leading Turner to speculate whether or not John had heard him introduce himself, only adding to his anxiety about the situation. As John drank his beer he stared across the island at Turner, who tried to look at anything but the imposing man opposite of himself. Then Turner heard a zipper noise and looked up. John was still staring, but had changed his expression into a sort of smirk. Turner knew this was the moment, the door to his inner sanctuary, he got up off the stool and made his way around the island to where John was standing. There it was a cock. His first impressions of it were a sense of its' paleness in relation to its' owner, and admiration at its' girth. It had been snaked through underwear and the fly of the Jeans, and lay with sensual masculinity on the left leg. This was a man. Nothing had gone wrong in this man's head to make him want to be more feminine, he was a man, and this cock his scepter to the throne of masculinity. Turner knew this was a superior being. He knew his lot in life was below this man. He didn't know what John wanted but he approached him anyway, drawn to his cock, reaching with both hands for it. In a frozen moment in time as he reached for that slab of masculinity John reached out his hand and guided Turner down to his knees. Somewhere in the middle of this action Turner had stripped away every layer of anxiety and ego. He knelt into his comfort zone of unquestionable servitude. The hardwood on his knees made him feel his place of worship both psychologically and physically. Then he started drinking in the sight of John flaccid penis. The head was wide and meaty, with a bit of an upturn, giving the cock an appearance of a blunt hammer. The head by no ways overshadowed the shaft though, it was also thick, and with a bit more foreskin than he himself had. In Turner's mind this cock throbbed power and dominance. He was mesmerized enough by it to lean forward and try to touch it with his mouth, although this attempt was thwarted by John.
John broke the silence with, "do you think you deserve my cock"
Turner startled, quickly looks up from his knees into
Johns face. John shows no signs of humor, but continues to stare into Turner's eyes.
"Take my pants off, Bitch."
The Bitch hits Turner like a slap to the face. His world has been forever changed by this word that he has heard countless times before, in reference to women, as an insult to a man, but he knows that this word directed at him in this context is completely new. He likes the thought of himself being a bitch, with the connotations of female inferiority mixed with his wiliness to serve a man.
"Yes Sir" it comes out before he has a chance to grasp what he is saying.
Reaching out Turner unbuttons the button and begins to work the jeans off John's hips. An act as simple as unbuttoning another mans fly, an act women do everyday, is the most exciting event of Turner's life. All his senses are tuned into the act and each other. He slides the pants down to John's ankles, allowing him to step out off the jeans.
"Now fold them." John commands from somewhere far above.
Turner folds the jeans as best as he can, knowing this man-god deserves his utmost efforts.
"Now my boxers, Bitch," John says.
Turner's heart begins to beat hard again. He reaches out and swoops the boxers down. As John steps out of them Turner begins his divine journey up John's thick hairy legs towards his temple. John's cock is still semi-flaccid but has grown considerably. He also has unveiled John's mass of pubic hair, that leads down to his large, low-hanging balls. The balls stretch the sac into vertical ridges of skin, sparsely populated with hair. The balls themselves are like nothing Turner has ever seen. They are a window into the essence of masculinity. They are the size of eggs. In a blur the balls are gone, they are no longer inches from Turner's face. He refocuses to see Johns hairy ass cheeks walking away.
"Follow me, slut" barks John as he strides away.
Turner obediently gets up off his knees and follows John into the living room. John is sitting on the leather couch, as the silent TV comes to life. Hesitant, not knowing what this man expects Turner sits down on the couch.
"Go upstairs to my bathroom and get changed." John says without glancing Turner's direction.
Turner, reluctant to absent himself from a room with everything he desire in it, silently makes his way back into the foyer and up the stairs. Turner finds a rather large master bedroom, and makes his way through it into the adjoining bathroom. There is no door between the bedroom and bathroom and the same carpet stretches into both, giving the effect of one room. On the vanity Turner finds a leather collar with a large metal loop. Nothing else is obviously out for him to put on, so he stripes nude and buttons the collar tightly onto his neck. As he is about to head back downstairs, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It sends multiple chills up and down his spine as he comes to grips with what he sees in the mirror. His skinny athletic body looks almost pitiful in the lighting, he is no longer the masculine college guy he has been portraying his whole life. He is an object. He feels a sense of fraternity with all the girls he has ever slept with. He suddenly sees their vulnerability, their devotion, their weakness, in himself. He understands women and their idiosyncrasies, now that he has aligned himself as one of them. Then he sees his boner. He is hard. His penis gets in the way of this fantasy, he doesn't want it seen, touched, or relieved. It is much smaller than the John's, but the most striking difference is the balls, his being rather tight and small. Then the light is switched off and he is heading back downstairs, to his man.
John is lounging, nude from the waist down, in the same spot he was when Turner left the room. John doesn't even glance his way as he renters the room.
"Down on your knees, bitch" John barks without taking his eyes off the TV.
Turner Obeys, lowering himself into a kneeling position.
"Now crawl over here and beg me to let you lick my balls."
Turner is now in a frenzy of excitement and trepidation. He crawls over until he is positioned between John's massive spread legs. Now what, he thinks, I've never begged for anything before, yet as these thoughts race through his mind his mouth opens and says, "may I please lick your balls?" It comes out squeaky, and he cringes at the sound of his own voice.
"What was that you little faggot?" John answers back.
"May I please suck on your lovely balls, Sir?" Turner replies, feeling more at home with the situation.
"Keep begging until I say enough." John retorts dryly.
"I need to lick your hairy balls Sir. They are superior to everything I am or could every hope to be. I need to service you, a real man. I will treat your balls like they are my deities. I want to lick every area of your balls. I want to taste them in my mouth always, I will devote my whole being..."
"Shut up bitch, start licking them." John says cutting Turner's pitiful speech off.
Instantly Turner touches the hairy sac with his tongue. The pungent aroma is the first thing that enters his mind. Turner is gripped by this smell. It excites him like nothing in his life ever has. It is the smell of man, real man. The balls hang enticingly down between John's muscular thighs. Turner is in heaven, he is licking and sucking and licking and tasting and smelling and trying to extract every bit of marrow he can out of his experience.
"Awww, you're a hungry little bitch. It just took a real man to put you in your place. You're the lowest form of human, a cocksucking little faggot. Oh, you love my big ol' sweaty balls." John says in a stream of profanities directed at the pitiful form between his legs, working on his nuts.
Turner is in his element. His true identity has shown through, he has found himself in a world of masks. He has bared his soul to the underside of a hairy scrotum and found truth. He continues his service of John's balls for what seems like hours. He stops for a second to catch his breath and look up at John, who is engrossed in the football game on TV, only to be pushed back down to John's nuts.