MR. KONIG'S SUB
My name is Danny, and the following is the first line I've ever written since I became an owned sub: "Last night, after my Sir hosted a party, I was given a reward."
The reward I've been given is permission to write for half an hour everyday. I know that "permission" to do something really means I MUST do it, and that I will do it, since to not take advantage of something I've been given permission to do it is disrespectful; a waste of an opportunity. To reject any gift from my Sir is unacceptable.
I haven't written since I dropped out of college and started hustling. To be honest, I have my doubts about how capable I am. But, orders are orders, so...
Last night the den was still heavy with the smell of cigar smoke when Sir gave permission to write again. I had cleared the den of the bourbon glasses and emptied the ashtrays. I'd stood at attention in the hallway and given the men their coats, some of them rubbing my shaved head or patting my bare ass as they left the room. Mr. Coleman was last to leave, and after he'd zipped up his motorcycle jacket he playfully rubbed my nipples with his gloved hands. Then he reached down and wiped the tip of my stiff cock with his thumb, catching the bead of precum that hung there. He put his hand up to my mouth and smiled as I sucked his thumb, savoring the sweet syrup combined with the taste of leather. "Good boy," he laughed, and smacked my ass and strutted outside. I closed the front door. I could her Mr. Coleman fire up his motorcycle outside as I returned to the study, where only me Sir remained.
Mr. Konig was still in his gear, sitting in his dark brown upholstered leather chair with his legs spread, a drink in his hand. He took a sip of bourbon without looking at me and said, "Kneel." His tone was firm, and I suddenly worried that I'd crossed a line. My mind raced, recalling the evening: had I neglected anything? All four guests had left smiling, all four men had shot their loads into my mouth. I had made sure to take every drop, just as I had been trained to do. And Mr. Coleman had come twice, forcing his thick black cock into my cummy moth, giving me a second serving, my fifth in total, as the other guests were zipping up and reattaching their codpieces. I had gone so far into my sub headspace that I'd lost rack of time. All I could remember was opening myself up to accept the cocks and the come that was shot into me. Had someone complained? Had I crossed any lines? I worried I had done poorly, or displeased my owner.
Instinctively I dropped before my Sir. I put my hands behind my back as I'd been trained to do, and put my head down. Silence. I was drunk with come, and the lingering smell of bourbon, leather, and cigars in the room was intoxicating. I felt like I might lose my balance. Although it was lightheaded from being fed five loads, my cock was still swollen. I heard my Sir lift his boot, the thick leather of his pants creaking against the upholstery. The sound of leather rubbing leather made my aching cock twitch--how I loved the erotic music of creaking leather! My Sir rubbed his square-toed boot under my ball sack. I groaned. Was he displeased? Was I about to be punished?
"Eyes on me, boy."
I looked him in the eyes and my fear melted. He had a slight smile, and warm eyes in his chiseled, handsome face.
"You made me proud tonight. You were a good boy. A good whore. MY whore. You made those men very happy. And you made me happy."
He set his drink on the end table and opened a drawer. He took out a book and set it next to me.
"You've earned some private time. After your morning chores are complete, you have permission to write it this journal, for one half hour."
"Yes, Sir." I looked down at the book. "Thank you, Sir."
"Write every day. And know that whatever you write will be read."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"After writing, you will then go on to your usual training session. Mr. Stark knows to expect you at the new time."
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you have any questions, boy?"
"Yes, Sir: What should I write?"
"The truth."
It's a handsome blank book: a black leather cover, the same leather as my cuff, and lined, cream colored pages. Pages that I need to fill for a half hour this morning. A half hour spent writing wouldn't be my first choice for free time privileges. I'd rather be outside, hiking. But, like I said, orders are orders.
I'm sitting here having trouble thinking of what to say next. What should I say? "The truth," Sir said. The truth. Well, the truth is, I'm sitting staring at a page. I'm sitting at my little desk in my room by my bed. My room: a servant's room behind the kitchen. Mr room: a desk, a lamp, a chair, a bed, sheets, a pillow and blanket, a small dresser with a few clothes. There are no pictures, no mirror, no computer or television. There is a clock on the desk, and a small window above it. The window doesn't open, but the morning sun is shining through, warming my body. I'm naked, except for the cuff that I wear on my right wrist--my favorite possession, my favorite reward. My Sir gave it to me to mark me, to remind me of who I belong to, who I serve.
Every morning I get up at seven, make my bed, then go into the kitchen and make coffee and breakfast for my Sir, and any other guests in the house, and serve the food in the dining room. After breakfast is served I am allowed to eat, alone in the kitchen. When Sir has finished eating, he goes into his office and closes the door. That is my signal to clear the breakfast and do the morning chores. I am never allowed in his office. Normally, after I've done the chores, I would then be allowed to dress in my gym clothes and leave the house, going directly to the trainer's for an eleven o'clock session. But not today. Today I will see Mr. Stark at noon. And until I go, I am siting, writing in my room, trying my best to tell the truth.
The truth is my cock is rock hard. The truth is I haven't come in a month. The truth is I ache to jack as I remember the five loads I took last night, sucking cock on my knees as the members of my Sir's motorcycle club, four manly, leather-clad tops, lined up to fuck my face and pump their loads into me while my Sir sat watching and giving directions. "Open up, boy. Relax your throat. Don't spill a drop." I'd done as I was told, naked and on my knees as streams of cum were pumped into me. The truth is precum is oozing out my cockhead, just like it was when Mr. Coleman said good night. The truth is I would love to have come, too, and that I would love to right now. The truth is I'm not allowed to come. Orders are orders.
My name is Danny. But more imprtantly, I am Mr. Konig's sub.
I'm very excited to be part of the Nifty archive! If you enjoy reading Nifty as much as I'm enjoying telling my story, please make a donation to the website: http://donate.nifty.org/
This is my first story ever, and I welcome feedback from other subs like me, or from doms who have something to teach us. I will respectfully respond to any and all messages. Humbly, Danny. mrkonigssub@gmail.com