Masterman Part One Discovery
(Yes, this is fiction, or friction if you prefer, and it depicts some activities that are unsafe. People in these stories don't really get hurt or sick. People in real life do. PLAY SAFE!)
Bamaboi2serve@charter.net
It was about a year ago when I picked him up at one of the bars here in Atlanta, a low-rent kinda place, not at all where you would expect to meet a cutie like him. But there he was, and it wasn't long after I had bought him a second beer that he was following me in his car across town on the way to my loft.
I kept glancing back in the rearview mirror to see if he would take an exit and leave me flat. He didn't, and soon we arrived at my loft in old factory building transformed into a nest of residences, shops and restaurants.
He told me his name was Paul, though I doubted it. He wore his straight, blue/black hair longish, below his collar, and it looked hot against his pale white skin. When he took off his jacket and shoes without asking in the living room, I could see he was a runner...or at least an athlete. Nice toned long muscles pushing his short-sleeved shirt outward. Even his feet were sexy, and I'm usually into that sort of thing.
But let me cut to the chase, cause there's more than sex to this story (though there's plenty of that too!). When "Paul" and I had moved from making out on the couch to serious play in the bedroom, I noticed something unusual in the way he was moving around on the bed.
He asked and I agreed to turn off a bed-side lamp. He kept licking and nibbling, but all above the waste, though there lots of rubbing down below. I could tell he was turned on and had a nice sized tool, but he seemed to want to restrict our heads to our upper bodies. It was as if he was trying to hide something. Finally I managed to get my head down to do some serious cocksucking...one of my specialties.
When I was face to face with his package I was shocked to see his pubes. They were orange. Not redhead reddish...bright, juice-container orange...despite his very black hair elsewhere.
"Hey, let me explain about the hair color," he started to say, but I just rolled over onto my back into a pool of light coming in through one of the big old factory sized windows. It illuminated my own hard-on. And my bright-orange pubes. Paul looked at me open-mouthed.
"Masterman?" he asked, saying the word with the same reverence I had learned the hard way to say it.
"Masterman," I confirmed, explaining how my deep brunette body hair was, like his, orange around my cock.
It seems we had both gone through the curious, life-changing experience of serving the same mysterious, demanding top. And considering how his hair was the same tone a mine, not washed out at all, his experience had been recent. There hadn't been time for the pubes to grow back in black.
As for my own orange pubes, I kept them orange, using dye, because I hadn't given myself permission to emotionally break away from Him yet. And I wasn't sure I wanted to.
Without asking, "Paul" started telling me about his experience with the most dominant, demanding Top in the city, maybe in the South.
He said had been hanging out in a sleazy leather and rubber bar at the time. Always a bottom, Paul was looking for someone to show him the ropes in real raunchy S&M. Most of the people he met at that particular bar were posers, but he kept coming back because it was the only place he's found with the feel of real slaves and masters. That particular night he was wearing black rubber chaps, a tight yellow boy-beater, and a black leather collar and black sketchers. He wore a pair of tit clamps as a necklace, one end gripping the other.
He had been there an hour or so, getting a buzz, but bored with the same old crowd when from behind him, inches from his right ear, came a deep voice: "Slut, I'm gonna give you one chance to be the real slave you need to be. Don't turn around! If you want to show you can submit to a real man, it shouldn't matter what I look like. From the crap you're wearing, I suspect you want a Master. Well that's who I am. You can call me Sir right now. Later, if you earn it, perhaps I'll let you call me "Masterman".
Paul was shaking slightly; he felt drips of sweat falling from his pits and that wasn't the only liquid dripping off him. He was rock-hard, more turned on that he had been in a very long time. The man behind him wasn't saying anything else, and he was unsure what to do but decided on a simple acknowledgement.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good slut. You're learning. Give me your beer can."
Paul held the can behind him and felt it taken from his hand. In the noise of the bar, he couldn't hear anything for a moment, but then came the aroma drifting up to his nose... the can was handed back to him with an order. "Drink. Chug it."
Paul knew the man has used the darkness of the corner they were in to piss in the can. He lifted the can to his lips and upended it, spilling some of the piss on his shirt but getting the majority of the foamy warm yellow liquid into his mouth, swallowing in big gulps that he hoped would be acceptable. Paul had tried drinking his own piss once, "training for a future master" he called it, but never in quantity like this!
When he had finished drinking the contents, he handed the can back behind him and the stranger took it, tossing it into a nearby trashcan.
The man leaned forward and pressed his crotch into Paul's ass. No doubt about it, thought Paul, this is a real man. The cock was very hard, and very big. The man reached around Paul's neck and unfastened the tit clamps. Then, gripping one tit after the other through the piss soaked tank top, he fastened them to the ends of Paul's nubs. One of his hands reached to Paul's collar and attached a leash. Without asking or warning he pulled Paul along with him through the crowded smoke-filled bar to the outside. He paused just outside the door and wrapped a blindfold around the boy's eyes. Then they continued into the parking lot. In that gay Atlanta neighborhood, the sight of a man leading a blindfolded leather clad smelly boi by a leash didn't cause even the slightest stir.
Paul stumbled along, trying not to fall on the uneven asphalt in the old bar lot. One he tripped on a pothole, and the man leading him dragged him back up by his leash. Despite the cushioning of the shirt, the tit clamps were biting into the ends of his tender nips. But the pain only increased Paul's desire and the stiffness of his hard-on.
Suddenly Paul was pulled sideways and found himself up against a vehicle of some kind.
"This is my truck, fuck-boi. If you get in it, you're handing yourself over to me for the long weekend...or longer. You'll need to give me your car keys and let me come back for it later."
Paul told him he had taken a cab to the bar, so there was no car to worry about. Then he gave himself over to the stranger.
"Will you teach me please, Sir?" He didn't need to elaborate; they both knew what kind of lessons he was asking for.
"Get in, scum," he ordered, opening the truck door. After Paul was seated, he closed the door and got in on the drivers' side. Without warning he removed the clamps and ripped the shirt off Paul, replacing the clamps on the bare tits.
Paul was still blindfolded, but he heard the stranger open the glove compartment and pull something out. Next came the sound and smell of pissing, and then he was being handed a bottle of some kind.
This is a baby bottle filled with my piss, which you may eventually earn the right to drink without the nipple on the bottle. But right now as we drive along downtown, I want that nipple in your mouth and I want you sucking to get my juice. Anybody looking in will know what's up...it part of your training. Now suck!" He turned on the visor light on the passenger side, illuminating Paul, his torso, his tit-clamps, and the clear baby bottle from which he was drinking piss.
The truck engine started and they moved off into early Sunday morning bar traffic. The driver used his control to lower the window next to Paul, who could hear jeers and taunts from late night bar patrons on the sidewalk and in other cars. The spectators instantly knew what was in the bottle. Paul sensed they were driving out of downtown and getting onto the interstate. The window rolled up, and the Master ordered Paul to turn around with his ass in the air facing the windshield. The next order was to pull his rubber chaps down to his knees. Then Paul felt a large plug being forced quickly into this ass. He loved being fucked, but this was so sudden he had not time to adjust to the big tool and it hurt! The pressure increased and then the plug popped past Paul's ring and deep into his gut. Even this was a source of embarrassment...he could hear a car next to them, then a horn honking and laughter. Paul blushed, and yet he was still hard.
A while later the car left the interstate and pulled into the almost deserted parking area of a rest-stop known for cruising. A few cars and truck were there, motors idling.
The man got out, opened the passenger door, and pulled Paul along, giving him only a moment to pull up his chaps. Then they were in the restroom and the man was placing Paul kneeling on the filthy floor between two urinals. He used rope to tie Paul's hands to the pipes above, and another piece to tie his legs together. Although Paul couldn't see it, he also taped a sign above the boi's head. It read: "Please give me your piss."
The man forced Paul's mouth open and inserted a tube, securing it with a strap around the head and two pieces of electrical tape. From the weight, Paul guessed, correctly, that there was a large mouth funnel attached to the tube. Paul heard footsteps and the bathroom door opening and closing. Then there was silence.
It seemed like half an hour passed before Paul heard the door open and the footsteps of two or three people enter. There was silence, and then: "Holy Shit! Will you look at this!"
It was the voice of a young male, perhaps Hispanic, and the snickers and laughs of two or three others mixed in. Paul's throat was dry. It wouldn't be for long.
---To be continued--- Suggestions? I do respond to all legit e-mails! Let me hear from you!
Bamaboi2serve@charter.net