Uprooted

Uprooted by sbmssvbttm

Copyright 2011. This work is copyright and remains the intellectual property of the author. Any reproduction, either in part or in whole, without the express, written permission of the author is strictly forbidden.

Feedback: sbmssvbttm@gmail.com

Disclaimers:

1. This a work of sexual fantasy. In real life, I advocate safer, consensual sex.

2. If you are underage, object to gay erotic fiction, or it's illegal where you are, do not read this story.

It began simply enough, really. After our Wednesday evening session, Master told me I was to come to his nursery on Sunday afternoon rather than to his home Saturday. I had known he owned a gardening business and I had helped him in his yard a couple times in the evening just before sunset, after which he'd taken me to his basement and well equipped BDSM playroom.

I acknowledged his instructions. He would email me the address and expected me to come prepared to work for a few hours, 2 p.m. till closing at 6 p.m.

I went home tired and sore from the session, didn't think much more of it, and went to bed. The next day, at the office where I worked as a system administrator, my mind drifted to the session the night before when I was bored. Fixing print spool issues and troubleshooting remote access problems don't make for an exciting day, but I'd gotten used to working boned when I could sit and my desk and do my job at a keyboard.

But for whatever reason, I don't think I thought much of the upcoming session until Friday afternoon. I'd be at his nursery? Doing work for him? I could hardly leave my desk, my khakis not hiding my leaky cock very well. What had he told me? To wear boots, jeans, a jock, a T-shirt, and sunscreen all over. And to bring a pair of work gloves. I made a note to fish my work gloves out of the heap of tools and yard equipment in my garage.

I had nothing to do Saturday night. I'd drifted away from the few buddies I'd made by going out to bars on Saturday nights. For the past few months, I'd served Master on Saturday nights. That's when I really first served him. We'd clicked well. He genuinely dominated me. It hadn't ever been role playing. He pushed and I gave. The intensity of my arousal obeying and servicing him was like crack. Upping the dose to two sessions a week hadn't occurred quickly enough and I would be yearning for the next session two days in advance.

Not cumming between sessions, though, was more challenging. Saturday night, staying in my two-bedroom house and gaming on my PC, I was very tempted to jack off. I sat nude and boned, nude at his orders, boned because it had been three days since I'd gotten off and I wouldn't get off again until the next night, maybe. And I was glad to be nude all the time at home because at least my cock wasn't trapped by tight underwear when it was throbbing hard and oozing precum. Without cloth to absorb the precum, though, the thick, clear liquid would roll down the shaft of my cock. Master had told me to let it be, not to eat it or wipe it off, but to let it drip off me as it would.

Sunday morning, I tried to sleep in late, and succeeded, having gamed until 3 a.m. I awoke at noon, which gave me just enough time to clean out, have a little to eat, shower, and dress. In the bathroom mirror, I watched my boner bob around while I was drying off. Six thick inches with a round head and big slit that leaked easily. It fit my general build. I'm 5'9" and at the time, I probably weighed 150, with a little extra weight because I'd taken a desk job right out of college, so for the past four years, I'd been a bit out of shape and food was now very affordable unlike my undergrad days. Per Master, I kept my hair very short and wore no facial hair. I was mostly smooth elsewhere still but I kept my bush trimmed down, too.

I had to stuff my rigid cock into my jockstrap. By the time I had followed the instructions to Master's nursery, the pouch was damp and sticky from precum. I parked behind the low building that faced the street, as I'd been told, and went to the office.

Master met me at the door. He stood several inches taller than me. In his 40s, he had a powerful build, a handsome, unfathomable face, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a T-shirt with the nursery's name on it, Greentown Nursery.

"Good, you're on time," he said in his deep voice. He glanced down at my crotch and gave me a smile. Then he introduced me to a woman behind the counter of the office, Margie, who'd worked sales for him for 12 years. "Eric's going to help out on the weekends at first," he told her. "He's new to the business, so we'll see how he does."

Weekends at first?

Margie gave me a knowing smile. She understood what I was already. I was Master's piece of ass, which he was now starting to keep closer and to work into his life. There must have been others before me, I knew.

Master gave me a tour of the grounds. The nursery sprawled on several acres. He'd bought it from the previous owners, having worked for them the first several years after he'd left the army. I could tell he was proud of the place even though he didn't gush or talk too much about all he'd accomplished here.

The place was worn in. The greenhouses showed their age and repairs that kept them standing. Here and there were abandoned pieces of equipment and the aisles between rows of plants were gravel on the ground. Near the back of the big lot were some sheds. Master brought me to the last one, which was padlocked.

He unlocked it and ushered me in. The wooden shed had heated up over the afternoon. I was sweating quickly. He turned on the overhead light and closed the door behind himself. The shed held nothing but two wooden benches and a trunk.

"Take your shirt off."

I stripped it off and hung it up when he pointed to a nail in the wall.

He fished something out of his pocket, a plastic baggie, and he opened it, dumping a hand-rolled cigarette into his palm. Or rather, a joint. Our Saturday sessions often included getting stoned together. I'd really gotten into it and I'd told him so. I thought too much and it would make it hard for me to go with a session sometimes, hard to submit without an inner struggle. He wanted me more pliable and being stoned did that to me.

He dropped the joint and a book of matches into my hands. "Smoke up. When you're done, come to the office again. Bring me the roach, and it had better be small." He left, closing the door as he did.

It wasn't a huge joint, which was good, because I get stoned easily. In fact, it was a thin joint and burned fairly fast, but I'd had about ten hits before it was a roach. Feeling nervous, the high still coming on, I left the shed, locking it up again, and wandered back toward the office.

"Hey, you the new kid?"

The voice was Hispanic. I stopped and turned, feeling like I did it really slowly.

Indeed, the man staring at me was Hispanic. He wore orange work boots and cut off jeans. His shirt showed sweat under his arms and around his neck. He was built but a bit shorter than me.

"Yeah," I said. "You work here? I'm Eric." I walked over, hand extended.

He looked me up and down. "Jorge. John said you'd do whatever I said."

I nodded. Master's name is John. "I want to work here," I offered.

"Good. I need some help." He touched his crotch. He had a sizeable basket and I thought I could see his cock snaking out to one side.

I licked my lips without thinking.

"Come on, puto." He turned and walked away, back towards the sheds. But he went behind them. I followed him, found him leaning his back against a shed.

"Take it out, puto." Clearly hard, his cock pushed at the waistband of his denim shorts, near his left pocket.

I stepped up to him, feeling entranced and now very stoned. When he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed, I knelt without thought, my eyes glued to his bulge.

I undid his fly and his cock slipped out. He wasn't wearing underwear.

He pushed his cock down and pulled me onto it. In an instant, he was fucking my face, a hand on the top of my head.

"Yeah, bitch. My wife won't do this no more. Gonna be you now, every day you work here, bitch."

In my jock, my cock felt like it would split open, it was so hard. I was moaning around his cock, slobbering everywhere, running my hands over his powerful thighs. I lost track of time, into the rhythm of things, until he started grunting. Soon after, he shot a huge load in my mouth. I swallowed eagerly.

"Good work, puto. You want me to be nice to you? You take my dick when I want. John's waiting for you." He zipped up and was gone.

"Get lost?" John asked.

"No sir. I was talking to Jorge."

Master led me out of the office and into the yard again. "You do what he tells you. He has my permission to use you. Did he?"

"Yes sir. Behind the sheds."

Master grunted.

About four hours later, I was worn out. A nursery has heavy lifting to be done on a daily basis, and there was enough to keep me busy for the afternoon. Moving bags of peat moss and potting soil; shoveling to neaten the bins of loose bark, gravel, sand, and even manure; moving potted plants and flats of small plants; and so forth.

Master escorted me to the shed where my shirt still hung. In that dark, sweaty room, he stripped me, bound my wrists to a post with restraints he got from the locked trunk, gagged me, and then beat me. I was hard throughout, still stoned though I'd come down a lot. He fucked me there, standing, pressed by him into the wood of the post and the wall. He came twice, laying into me between fuckings with a flogger from the trunk.

Before he fucked me the second time, he stroked my cock as he belted my ass. When I came, I nearly fell from the intensity of the orgasm. He smeared my load on his cock and then entered me again.

In a few minutes, long before he shot his second load in me, I was hard and dripping again, but I knew he wouldn't let me cum.

He sent me home like that, and there, I washed up and got into bed, worn out.

Within a month, Master had me working all day Saturday and Sunday at his nursery. I'd met most of his employees by that time and they all knew I was his boy. Only Jorge used me to get off, but more than once, one of the other guys who worked there had stumbled upon us while I was on my knees with Jorge's cock in my mouth. Everyone knew and everyone either ignored it or laughed about it. I squirmed inside when I thought about my position at the nursery, but truth be told, it was a turn on and the humiliating situation felt oddly comfortable. It felt right, being his lowest employee.

I'd filled out a job application and the necessary payroll and tax forms. Master was paying me minimum wage. He'd explained at first that I had to be on the books in order to be covered by the insurance policy that protected his several employees from on-the-job accidents.

He'd kept me doing the most menial tasks, and he kept me stoned. My days at the nursery started with a joint. He'd find me for my lunch break, wherever I happened to be on the lot, and have me smoke another one in the empty shed. On the job, he never smoked with me, just made sure that I was very stoned most of the time.

After I'd had my midday joint, Master would keep me with him the rest of my break. Sometimes this meant going with him offsite for lunch, but he'd always leave me in his truck, like I was his dog. Since it was summer, I was always shirtless and soon quite tan. I often sat in the truck boned and sweating, head spinning from the joint I'd just smoked, looking for Master to return and bring me whatever he felt like giving me for lunch that day. Usually it was the leftovers of whatever he'd had for lunch but if there wouldn't be enough, I'd get a to- go order of something small.

Once or twice a day at the nursery, Jorge would demand head. I was always eager, too stoned to have any subtlety about how much I'd gotten into pleasing the muscular Mexican. I didn't care if anyone saw me following him behind the shed.

"Fucking whore," Jorge liked to call me. One time, he asked me, "You'd be happy sucking down my load right in front of everyone, wouldn't you?" I shuddered with lust and sucked him harder, so hungry for his load.

Master was keeping me overnight on Saturday nights by then, too. And Friday nights soon after I'd been working at the nursery a month. I'd drive to his place as soon as I'd run home from my office job and prepped. I'd park on the street, surrender my keys and wallet to Master, and not use them again until he sent me home on Sunday night.

I think it was six weeks after I'd started at the nursery, after work on a Sunday, that he brought me to his playroom, stripped me, restrained me to a table, and held a joint to my lips. He never got me stoned before sending me home in my car, so I knew I'd be there several hours more. He left me there, tied down, hard and leaking because he hadn't let me cum on Friday night or Saturday. I'd taken several of his loads and swallowed three of Jorge's but hadn't shot a load since Wednesday night.

When he came back, maybe an hour later, maybe 15 minutes later, he fed me yet another joint before he started a long session. I don't remember much of it. It was intense, with much pain, many different bondage positions, more fucking. I shot twice and he let me pass out after the second load.

When he woke me up in the morning, I was confused. I was in his bed, naked and collared. He had never had me sleep in his bed before. Instead, he'd kept me tied down to a cot in his playroom.

Standing beside the bed, fully dressed, he handed me yet another joint. Without thinking, I started toking, holding the tip of joint in the flame of the lighter that he held for me. When I'd finished, he tossed my clothing to me.

"Better get dressed. You'll be late for work."

It took me a moment but then I remembered: it was Monday morning, not Sunday. Fuck!

I leaped out of bed and dressed in a hurry. I needed to get home, shower, get my laptop, and drive to the office.

All of this stoned. It had been a bigger joint than usual, too. . . .

Master stopped me at the door and took off the collar. He grinned, smacked me on the ass, and told me to be very careful driving.

I was nervous driving, being paranoid to watch my speed, not tailgate, stay between the lines, signal for every turn and lane change, and check and recheck my blind spots.

At home, I showered quickly. I was going to be late but there was no help for it. The drive to the office was equally nerve wracking. Master always fed me good weed, so this buzz was not going away soon.

Why didn't I call in sick? I wasn't thinking. I'd been kept stoned since Friday night. I didn't think. I just did. And what I was doing was going to work, because Master had dumped my clothes on me and had told me to go to work.

My manager always had his weekly staff meeting Mondays. I made it in time for that. Maybe I'd have pulled it off if I'd been able to sit in my cube and pretend to be productive. But in the staff meeting, everyone must have known I was fucked up.

My manager came for me within 15 minutes after the meeting ended. In his office was an HR rep. In another 15 minutes, I was in a cab, headed for a drug test. I was busted, I knew. The HR rep had explained the consequences if the drug test results came back positive for anything. I would be suspended for 30 days without pay and only be reinstated if I passed a second drug test at the end of the 30 days. I would be on sick time until the test results were back.

There was no way I'd pass and I knew it. I felt sick during that cab ride. Like an idiot, I'd trotted to work and gotten in trouble. I thought of Master and how he'd grinned when he sent me on my way. I shivered and my cock rose, even then. I felt degraded but as it occurred to me that Master had set me up, I grew immensely horny. I knew what I had to do after the test. My throbbing cock, so close to shooting in my underwear, told me I had no choice in the matter. Or, more truthfully, there was one thing I wanted to do so badly that I could never keep myself from doing it.

"He's at lunch, hon," Margie told me.

"Oh, well, I'll wait outside," I told her. I couldn't look her in the eye. My heart was pounding and my hardon had come right back as soon as I'd exited the hospital. I'd come right to the nursery, taking the bus to get here. At least I hadn't tried driving again. The buzz had backed off but I was still decidedly stoned.

The place wasn't very busy on weekdays. Either it was retired folks or small-scale commercial landscapers. I sat on the half-log bench outside the office door and leaned back against the wall. Closing my eyes, I saw muted patterns swirling about and felt a little dizzy but I was also worn out from the stress of the morning. I worried that Master wouldn't want me here but I also felt sure he would. I would beg him, I had already decided. As soon as it had occurred to me, I knew I would, because my cock throbbed and leaked when I imagined it.

"Puto, what the fuck are you doing here?" Jorge stood in front of me, hands on his hips, his shirt soaked with sweat.

"Got suspended at my other job," I said quietly.

He grinned. "They find out what a dirty pig you are?"

I said nothing. I could meet his eye.

"Come on, then. John will be back from lunch soon. I'll give you something to do till he's back."

I was sucking Jorge when John found me. He watched until Jorge got off and left us alone.

"Why are you here? Did I tell you to come here today?"

"I got drug tested. I'm suspended, Sir." I turned on my knees to face him. "Please, may I work for you full time while I'm suspended?"

He said nothing for a while. "You can work here six days a week, like me. You'll be here every hour I am. Get your shirt off and ask Jorge what you can do to help this afternoon." He walked away.

Still on my knees, I pulled my shirt off. I so badly wanted to open my pants and jack off. I'd just delivered myself into Master's hands for every day of the week and I would have cum with just a few strokes.

I kept to my instructions, though, and did not give in to the urge. Instead, I was soon moving plants from the back of the lot to where they were needed to fill in our stock. It felt good to be working, doing something with my hands.

Master found me perhaps an hour later, took me to the shed where he sometimes fucked me, and had me smoke again. At the end of the day, he took me to my car at my office and then followed me to my house. There, I garaged the car and got into Master's truck, handing over my keys, cell phone, and wallet again.

I didn't see my house again until Thursday night. By then, I'd received voicemail on my cell phone about the failure of my drug test. Master had had me check voicemail daily while he'd kept me and allowed me to return the calls, ensuring I was very baked when I did.

When I considered all that had changed so suddenly, I felt like I was on rails, gliding effortlessly closer to Master, more and more under his control. He used me daily for rough sex, having me sleep in his bed collared and restrained Monday through Wednesday nights. He locked a choker chain on my neck sometime those first few days of my suspension, too. I wore it all the time, work at the nursery included.

I wore the same pair of jeans every day. I washed them that Thursday night and got a change of socks, but was restricted to wearing a jock or nothing under the jeans. I noticed about then how the jeans hung on my hips. In the several weeks I'd been working at the nursery, I'd lost 10 pounds, it turned out, and now it was showing in how my jeans fit.

I dutifully smoked the joint Master had given me Thursday night and smoked again before leaving for work the next morning, riding the bus to the nursery. That I would need to pass another drug test in about 27 days did cross my mind but I dismissed it quickly as too far away to worry about. And I had grown accustomed to passing my days at the nursery stoned, to being stoned in Master's presence all night.

Getting stoned at home alone felt like a way to be close to Master, a way to remind myself that he controlled me. Sitting there Thursday night, naked and horny, toking away, I felt very much like his plaything, even though he wasn't nearby.

And being stoned made me forget my normal life, the routine of my IT support career. It was a job, it paid well enough to have let me buy a house soon out of college. I'd laid my plans, invested in 401k and more heavily in my company's stock plan. And everything had been moving along well, with a promotion a couple years after college.

Except I couldn't work hard enough to shake my craving to be a cock-sucking, cum-hungry slut for a somewhat older, dominant man. It was all I fantasized about. I never dated, had never actually had a boyfriend, just fuck buddies and hookups, for whom I'd become more and more a total bottom. And now, Master had found me and I kept wanting more and more.

The smoking fed this. The thoughts that blazed in my mind while I was stoned were thoughts about sex, about cock and getting fucked, about Master and Jorge. About how far along Master's control over me had progressed and where it was going. When I allowed myself to think briefly about the path I was following and what the repercussions would be in less than a month, I was torn between intense arousal and gut wrenching fear. What tipped the scale was that the conflict itself aroused me. And so I couldn't bring myself to choose to do anything but obey, obey, obey, because it felt so fucking good, every act of obedience as mindlessly self-pleasuring as pushing my sloppy hole down Master's thick cock.

Friday morning was payday, and Jorge and the other couple of guys who worked the nursery would go to the office and collect a check. Master had been giving me my small checks, too. So when I arrived Friday, I went to the office rather than right to report to Jorge.

Master called me into his office when Margie announced I'd come in for my paycheck. I closed the door behind me when he said to do so. He pulled my pay envelope out of his desk drawer. Usually Margie just handed it to me. I mean, my weekly pay was less than a hundred bucks a week, nothing special. Master got my check out of its envelope, turned it over, and pushed it toward me on the desk top.

"Sign it," he told me.

"Sir?"

"You can't burden me, boy. Do you think I grow all that weed for free? I have to pay for it. And I'm feeding you now. So you're paying me back."

The money, as small as it was, would help. I was going without pay from my system admin job, for a month. Making the mortgage would be tight. So I hesitated still.

"You work FOR me, Eric. Got it? Your work is mine. Sign it."

I nodded, picked up the pen where he'd laid it on the desk, and signed. As I handed the check back to him, I glanced at the front of the check. The amount was the same as for every other week.

Except I'd worked every day.

"But this--"

"Is all you're getting. 16 hours a week, at minimum wage. What do you think a stoner is worth? All you do is work like a dumb mule, walking around high and horny constantly."

I gave him the check.

By lunch, I'd sucked off Jorge twice. He had muttered something about his wife not putting out since the previous Sunday. Master found me restacking bales of peat moss neatly and told me to follow him. I smoked in his truck and then he drove us off the lot. I didn't pay attention to where we were going, but after a while, we pulled up at a curb.

"Get out of the truck," he told me, tossing my T-shirt to me. I obeyed, pulling on my T-shirt once I stood at the curb, waiting for him to lock up the pickup. He led me into a shop and I could barely focus on the words on the window, I was so high. Parlor? What sort of lunch would we get?

Master greeted a big man behind a glass counter and the two of them shook hands. I tried to focus on the items under the glass counter. They were steel mostly, body jewelry. It was a piercing parlor we were in.

Master put a hand on my upper arm and steered me around the counter and down the hallway beyond, to a small room with a table like a doctor's examination table. The shopkeeper came along.

"Shirt off," Master told me.

"Am I getting pierced?" I asked.

The shopkeeper laughed and was unrolling a set of tools on a tray table.

"Pants, too," Master said. "And that jock."

I fumbled with my shoes and was soon naked, despite being shaky. What the hell were they going to do to me?

The shopkeeper told me to sit on the edge of the exam table, and then to lie back. He moved behind the table and I heard some rattling. Master lifted my arms over my head and the two of them restrained me by my wrists.

Next they gagged me with a buckling leather gag.

"Be good," Master told me. "You aren't going to be harmed, just pierced. Little girls get this done."

To their ears! I thought.

The shopkeeper, my piercer, cleaned my nipples and then sprayed them with something that made them feel cold and then numb. He worked swiftly, and soon, metal rings adorned first my left nipple and then my right nipple.

I could feel it as a dull ache in both tits but it hadn't really hurt too badly. Because I was focusing on my nipples, I didn't pay attention to what the piercer was doing next, until he lifted my cock and began swabbing around my piss slit and under it. I grunted into my gag but Master put a hand on my forehead, holding my head down. He repeated that I was to be good.

I felt another spray of the numbing stuff, there was a pause, and then I felt a brief tugging on my soft cock. Master let me lift my head and the piercer was just removing some bloody gauze from the underside of my penis. I had a Prince Albert now, and the ache from this fresh piercing was making me hard.

The piercer explained some care instructions to Master as they let me up. I got off the table and started to reach for my jock, but Master told me to kneel.

The shopkeeper, a bearish man, undid his belt and fly. He hauled out a half-hard dick and shoved it in my mouth.

"Pay the man, Eric."

Despite the ache in my cock, I grew completely hard. The weight of the PA made the fresh piercing hurt even more. It felt a lot bigger than it was. My nipples throbbed along with my cock and I found that, in my stoned haze, I was enjoying the piercer's stubby, freely leaking cock. I was leaking and bleeding. I got to the usual place where I so badly wanted to stroke so I could cum, but the pain, it dragged me further and further to the edge, was dragging me over it inexorably. I was going to shoot.

Just then, the piercer grunted and unloaded in my mouth. I shuddered and began spurting and spasming.

Master laughed. He pulled my head back by my hair, looked me in the eye, and told me to clean up my mess. After I'd licked my bloody cum off the shins of the piercer, Master allowed me to dress, and then he took me back to the nursery.

The soreness wore away over the next week as I healed. I worked a lot, remaining stoned every day, smoking when I woke, at lunch, after work, later in the evening. Master had me smoking larger joints. At his home, I was toking from a small bong several times a night. I lost track of the days, this new routine settling into me while I had no mental resistance. By bedtime, I'd pass out. Often I couldn't recall much of the previous evening. I think he'd been giving me the pills for a few days before I remembered that he'd urge me to swallow them before falling asleep each night.

I worried a couple days before asking him about the pills. I figured they were likely another thing to keep me high. On the way to work in his truck, I asked Master quietly if I could ask him about the pills.

He chuckled. "Been hornier lately?"

"Yes sir." I had, too. I mean, weed made me horny anyway but I'd gotten used to being stoned all the time. Master only let me cum about two or three times a week. Before I'd met him, I was jacking off that many times a day.

Even so, yes, I had been hornier, it seemed like. I attributed it to many things, including the PA that hung from the head of my cock and made it tingle when some motion tugged at it. Or the nipple rings, which made my tits seem permanently connected to my cock now. Whatever the cause, it seemed like this sort of tingling came more often, had spread to all of my groin, even into my inner thighs, into my hole. It was like all those areas were as sensitive as my cock itself.

"Then they're working."

"May I ask what they are?"

"Yohimbe extract. Pharmaceutical grade. Keeps you wired for sex, doesn't it?"

"Yes sir." Even as we spoke, I was hard, my cock pushing on my stained jockstrap. It seemed like, as I did my sweaty labor at the nursery, my cock was hard more than it was soft. It would be hard long enough that it got uncomfortable and about that time, I'd lose the erection. But before I knew it, it was throbbing again, with the PA transmitting those throbs to tits through my nipple rings.

I explained this to Master. He chuckled and put a hand on the back of my neck, left it there for the rest of the drive. I stayed hard, daydreaming of putting my head in his lap and going down on his cock.

I think it was only a few days later that, after work and back at his house, Master handed me my cell phone. I was naked, sitting cross-legged on

the floor of his living room, collared, smoking from the bong. I had a voicemail. I fumbled trying to use the phone. He wasn't giving it to me

daily anymore. Maybe twice a week, he'd see if there were messages, so I felt out of practice.

The voice on the message was a woman, from the clinic where I'd had my urine test. She had called two days earlier, to remind me that I was scheduled for my 30-day follow up appointment in four days.

My heart began to race. It was one thing to let the weed keep me oblivious and horny, another to discover that I'd toked away most of a month and there was surely no way I would pass that test. I must have said something out loud.

"What's the message?" Master asked, staring down at me.

"My second test, the 30-day one, I'm going to fail it. It's the day after tomorrow!"

He nodded. "You made your bed, boy. Time to lie in it."

"But I didn't mean to lose my job!"

"Like hell you didn't. You came to me immediately after you got suspended, remember? Besides, you have a job. You work for me."

"Yeah, yes Sir. But I can't afford my house now."

"You're never there. You live here now."

"Shit," I said. I disconnected from the call. "Shit."

He pulled the phone out of my hand. I heard him walk away. Anxiety kept growing with in me. What had I done? I'd made myself such a dumb, stoned slut that my job was gone, or effectively was. And with it, I was going to lose my house. What the hell would I do with my things? And my car? I couldn't afford that, either. I was giving Master back everything he paid me. Even if I kept my checks, I could barely cover my car payment and nothing else, not without dipping into the savings I'd built up after college.

"Here." He was over me again, with a glass of water and a pill. "Take this." It was a pink pill with a V-shaped hole in the middle. Valium, I realized dimly. I obeyed, swallowing the pill and downing the glass of water.

He kept me close to him awhile, having me stand beside him in the kitchen while he prepared dinner. He would always eat at the table, and if I wasn't restrained somewhere, he'd have me sit on the floor. This day, he had me stand beside his chair, like I was a little boy who needed to be close to an adult to feel safe. It was during his dinner that the valium kicked in. I didn't mind at all when I was on all fours eating his leftovers off the plate he'd set on the floor.

When I was done, he had me finish the bong bowl that I'd been smoking before listening to my voicemail. And later, I was especially vocal when he fucked me while I was bound and sweating in his playroom. I begged him for more. Wherever that voice came from, the Valium had let it out. I had no self-restraint and I didn't care about losing a job I'd hated anyway. I just wanted him to fuck me and fuck me and fuck me. He did, too. Although I was higher than usual due to the Valium, I remembered that night better than some. He came in me three times and he let me shoot a load before his last one, too, so that his third fuck of my loose and cummy hole drove my cock into dripping hardness again. It didn't soften in the shower he shoved me into or in his bed, but I was soon asleep.

In the morning, I smoked again, knowing full well that I was beyond saving the system administration job. I didn't struggle at all. I'd thrown away that job to be with Master. And he'd tightened his grip on me.

I could have walked away. I had enough savings to weather nearly a year of unemployment, maybe more if I were especially frugal or took on a roommate. I could have spent a month getting myself cleaned up, relaxing, readying my resume, calling some friends, maybe even planning a move elsewhere for a fresh start. After all, I'd only moved to the city four years ago for the job I'd just lost.

Instead, I took comfort in my obedience to Master. My anxiety over losing the job made me crave his control even more. It sheltered me. And honestly, I was high all the time, and horny. I couldn't think well and I didn't want to. My hazy brain could imagine how horrific I'd find my situation were I to be clearheaded and I retreated from the idea of it.

When Master continued to push me to smoke more over the next few days, I obeyed. Smoking itself felt like a sexual act. I would be boned and throbbing whenever I smoked.

This all meant that I was less useful on the job. Jorge yelled at me more than usual. I was his assistant primarily and he had long ago taken to calling me stupid in addition to his favorite nickname for me: Puto. He would slap the back of my head when I was doing something incorrectly. The more stoned I was on the job, the more of a burden I was to him, which he took out on me by yelling. And by demanding long, good head once or twice a day.

When I sat in front of Master's desk a few days later, the taste of Jorge's load still in my mouth, his scent in my nose, I could barely concentrate on what Master was telling me. Jorge's praise still rang in my ears.

"Good Puto. Damn, you suck cock so well. Makes up for what a fucking dumb ass you are, Puto."

Master was holding out a pen to me. I took it from him.

"These are what?" I asked, about to start signing the papers.

"To help you with your house and car," he said flatly.

I signed them and initialed them. I couldn't really read them. Master had given me my midday joint right before Jorge had fucked my mouth. Jorge had been waiting for me and he'd brought me right back to Master's office. I just couldn't really make my mind read through the words. Fuck, I could barely understand where to sign. Master would point on each page where I was to sign.

"Go find Jorge," he told me when he pulled the pen out of my hand. "Go on, before I beat your ass."

Another several days slipped by. I didn't have lunch with Master during these days. Instead, Jorge made sure I had my midday weed, something for lunch, and usually a chance to slurp on his cock.

Finally, one morning Master slept in and I lay with him in his bed, my hands cuffed and tied off to the headboard. He got me stoned before he released me, and then took me into the bathroom. There, kneeling in the shower, I obediently took his cock in my mouth. He held still a long while, his stiff cock throbbing, but eventually he had relaxed enough that his urine flowed into my mouth. He'd never done this to me before and I grimaced but kept up, swallowing and swallowing as my cock bobbed and bobbed to the beat of my heart. What sort of humiliation could he heap on me without making me horny? I cried a little, feeling fucked in the head by this new use of me, all without a word from him, no warning, and certainly no checking if I was okay with it or wanted it. How twisted was I to be yearning to tug on my cock the few times it would take to shoot?

When we left in the truck, I didn't know where we were headed until we neared my house. I hadn't been there in. . . I couldn't recall. It had been weeks, hadn't it? The small front yard looked great, though, like someone had just mowed it and weeded the flower beds. No leaves littered the lawn or the driveway, where Master parked his truck, backing in.

He opened the garage door with remove control. Where had he gotten it, I wondered? But then I noticed, my car wasn't in my garage.

"Hey, my car. I didn't drive it to your place, did I, Sir?"

"You gave up your car, Eric. I didn't need it, so I sold it."

I looked at him, mouth open. "You sold it?"

"What would I do with a car? I keep you at home at night, keep you at work, drive you there and home again. You don't need a car, boy. I don't want to waste money on you."

The garage had moving boxes stacked in it, each stack five deep.

"Get those in the back of my truck," Master told me. He unlocked the door from the garage to the back of the kitchen.

"What are these?" There was writing on each one, scribbled. I could read it slowly. Books, kitchen misc., DVDs/CDs, and so forth.

"The best of the crap you'd been holding onto. I'll store it awhile."

I stared at the stacks of boxes. The rest of the garage was cleaned out. Gone was the heap of tools on the workbench. Nothing else remained either of the mess that had been my garage.

Master hit the button and the garage door began to close. "Come on. You've gotten so stupid, boy and I'm proud of you for coming so far so fast. But you still think too fucking much, and it makes you a pain in the ass." He grabbed me by the arm and led me into the house.

Nothing remained. The rooms were empty.

"Oh my god!" I had slowed and he pulled on my arm.

"Have a look around, boy. It's done, not coming back."

"This was my stuff, my furniture, my things!"

He slapped me. "Lower your voice, bitch."

My eyes watered from the slap. What had he done?

"But you had no right," I kept on.

"Of course I did. You signed the papers, remember? I have power of attorney for you in all financial matters, including disposition of your belongings, such as your car and this house."

I was breathing fast, just looking at the barren rooms.

Master pulled me closer. "Slip off your shoes and pants," he told me.

I obeyed, clumsily following his orders with my one free hand.

He pushed me down on my knees and then pulled my head against his legs, push me down below his groin. "Put your arms around my legs," he told me. He stood there a long while, stroking my hair, not talking to me, letting me calm down.

And it was reassuring to be in that position, even knowing he had gotten rid of nearly all my belongings. How many boxes were in the garage? Maybe 40? How had he managed this? His absence at lunch time suggested he'd been busy. He'd had to have called in professional movers and perhaps the pickup service from charities to empty the house so quickly. He'd also found time to sell my car, probably as fast as he could, to a dealer maybe.

I had calmed down by the time I heard him undoing his belt and pull it out of the loops of his pants. He moved to my side and knelt on one knee, his other knee in front of me.

"Bend over my leg," he told me. "Put your hands behind your head. Lace your fingers together."

I did as he said and he put a hand over mine, gripping tightly so I couldn't really move my hands off my head easily.

Then he began to hit my ass with his doubled-over leather belt.

"Do you know why I'm beating you, bitch?"

"For disobeying you, Sir?" His strikes stung like hell. This was not a symbolic beating. He meant it to hurt.

"For the crying and all the bullshit. You know you deserve this. You're mine now, bitch."

I was sobbing when he finished, snot running from my nose. He was right. I had been next to useless when he'd shown me the house, the same as I'd been when I'd learned I would fail my follow-up drug test. Nothing he said to me could compare to the belittling voice in my head, telling me I was becoming the slave I had always been meant to be. I hadn't used the word, but he was my Master, not just some dom top. He had assumed control of me, responsibility for me.

He dragged me to a wall, still on my knees. Behind me, he pushed his pants down to his thighs, spit on his cock a few times, and pushed it into me. Beating my ass had turned him on. I still cried and my nose still ran, but I too was rock hard from this fuck. He didn't last long, but it made his point even more clear.

The boxes we unloaded into the unused shed at the back of the nursery, where he'd had me smoke my first on-the-job joint. He fucked me again in the shed, while I stood bent over the boxes of what had been my belongings.

"Your cell phone is disconnected. You paid for the early termination fee and I made sure the phone was recycled. It's gone."

He told me this as he humped me and I thought of all the contacts I'd had only in that phone. Gone. No phone, no way for anyone who'd known me to reach me.

"Your credit cards are all canceled, including your Macy's card. You have no open credit accounts now."

He flipped me over, putting me on my back on the boxes, my legs over his shoulders.

"The house goes on the market tomorrow. The agent says it won't take long to sell, not in this market. The profits become mine."

I was moaning. He had stripped me of everything! I thought I was going to cum without touching myself.

"All your money? You gave it to me. You have no checking account or savings. Your stocks are sold, too. And the profits are mine."

It was going to happen. My eyes rolled back in my head.

"You've given me the means to afford whatever it takes to keep you in my possession, bitch."

"Yes Master! Thank you, Sir!" And I yelled, my body stiffening as the orgasm crashed upon me and then finally released. I shot cum on my face, throat, and chest. Then my abs.

He growled as he pounded my spasming hole and shot his second load of the day into me.

"Take care of Jorge and then come to the office," Master told me and left me naked in the shed.

"Hey Puto," Jorge greeted me, entering as Master left. He closed the door. "You're really fucked now, aren't you?" He laughed and came to me, where I lay panting.

I started to get up. He pushed me back. "No, baby." He lifted my legs onto his shoulders, too. "John says I can fuck you now, too." He pushed down his shorts and slapped his hard cock against my nuts. He wiped up my cum, smeared it on his cock, and then pushed it into my already sore and tired hole.

"Oh, fuck, Puto! Nice fuckin' hole. No wonder he wants you for his full time bitch."

Resigned to take Jorge's cock and cum, I was soon hard again. He pulled out, to stroke himself and shoot an enormous load onto my abs and thighs. He left and I got up, stuffed my hard cock into my jockstrap and pants, and left the shed, my T-shirt now a very wet cum rag in my hand.

In the office, Margie waved me through, busy with ringing up customers.

Master looked up from his computer and smiled upon seeing me. He logged off the computer and then drove us to his house.

Inside his house, he ordered me to strip, as I'd expected. He had me smoke up, twice as much as usual. And then he led me to his bedroom, where he tied my hands together over my head and my ankles together to the footboard.

He got on the bed with me, turning me onto my side and pulling my butt back against his groin. I could feel through his jeans that he was hard again.

But he surprised me one more time that day. He turned my head towards him and, for the first time ever, he kissed me.

"You're mine, my boy, my possession, my slave," he told me as we made out. "I own you and I own everything that you used to call yours."

I was achingly hard, eager for him to fuck me yet again. I hadn't ever felt so safe and free in my life.