This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. Or, read it, then go ahead and turn yourself in to the appropriate authorities. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.
A Number Of Nights Chapter 09
At precisely nine o'clock the next night, there was a knock on Master Ryan's door. He opened it, and let Alf enter. "Sit down, boy," he said, gesturing to the couch.
"Sir?" The slave asked, puzzled.
"You're not mine yet. I need you to make this decision of your own free will."
"Yes, Sir," the boy answered. He sat perched at the edge of the couch.
"Okay. Do you have any questions for me before you enter into this?" Master Ryan sat in a nearby armchair.
"Sir, how long do you think you'll be needing this slave's services? I mean, is this like the time with Sir's old Master, where it's only for a limited period?"
"Good question, boy. What do you want?" Master Ryan looked intently at the boy.
"I want... I want more than that. I hope that I can stay as long as I serve Master's needs. I hope that Master will have use for me forever."
Master Ryan laughed. "All right, boy. I hope it lasts longer than that, too, but I'll see what you turn into as time goes on. If I ever feel it will be to either of our benefit to free you; if ever I think one of our lives would improve if you didn't belong to me, I will free you.
"In the meantime, keep in mind that this, what you're entering into tonight, is a trial period; you're being tested. I'm trying to see if you're suitable to be my slave, and whether I think this arrangement will work for the both of us. It will feel at times that you're constantly being tested. That feeling is correct. The times that you think I'm not even paying attention to you will be tests too. I need to know everything about you if I'm going to really own you, boy, and you're going to have to give everything over to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir."
"Very well, then. Stand up."
The boy stood before him, his eyes downcast. Master Ryan stood, and began by stripping off the slave's shirt. He threw it in the corner. Then he pushed the slave back down onto the couch, and pulled off his sneakers and socks; they were thrown aside too, and then Master Ryan stripped off the boy's jeans and shorts in one motion.
"Kneel," the Master said.
The boy knelt before him, intensely aware of the carpet under his knees, the feel of the air on his skin, still warm from his clothes, the sound of the refrigerator in the next room starting up. He felt the moment burn itself into his memory.
Master Ryan put the thin chain collar around his neck, and snapped the padlock shut. "Now you're mine."
The slave threw himself at his Master's feet, and began kissing them. "Thank you, Master! Thank you, thank you..."
Master Ryan let him go on for a little while, and then said, "Stand."
The Master grabbed the back of the slave's head, and pulled his face toward him; he kissed him on his opened lips, and it felt to the slave as if his Master was taking full possession of him. The Master's other hand grabbed his bare ass cheek, kneading it as he pressed the slave close to him.
He pushed the slave backwards until his young body was trapped between a wall and the Master, and the Master's tongue continued to invade his mouth. The boy's cock was hard against the Master's jeans, his hands hanging limp at his sides.
The Master broke the kiss, stepped back, and quickly took off his own clothes. "Suck me, boy." The slave boy went to his knees, and sucked the Master's cock into his mouth; he started working furiously, giving the Master as many sensations as he could, as fast as possible.
"Play with yourself, boy, but do not cum." Master Ryan's head was back, his legs spread wide, his hands running over the back of the boy's head.
The slave lost himself for a while in the taste and feel of the man's cock, in trying to keep focused on giving his Master pleasure while not succumbing to the feeling of his hand on his own throbbing prick. Soon, though, the Master's hands pulled the slave's mouth off of the throbbing cock that was the center of his existence,
"On your feet, boy," the Master said.
Then Master Ryan pushed his slave ahead of him, into the bedroom, and shoved him down on the bed. Then he knelt over the boy, his ass over the boy's face, and lowered his ass to the boy's waiting tongue.
"Mmm... that's good. Keep playing with yourself, boy."
The Master's command was muffled, but the boy understood it well enough. His hands began playing with his own cock as his tongue played over the Master's ass, lapping broadly at first and then focusing on his Master's asshole. His tongue traced circles around it, and then started to push into it, the taste and smell getting the boy even more excited. He felt the Master's fingers playing with his nipples, working them until they were hard, then pinching at them, pulling, working him harder as the slave rimmed his Master's ass as well as he possibly could.
The Master slapped the boy's stomach once, hard, and dismounted the boy's face. He lay down on the bed as the boy was catching his breath.
"Lick my nuts, slaveboy," the Master said.
The slave moved quickly to comply. He started by licking his Master's big hairy balls, all over, and then focused his attention on one of them at a time, putting gentle pressure on each as his tongue moved over their surface. He took first one ball, then the other, into his mouth, and sucked gently, the tip of his tongue playing lightly over the skin. Then he tried to get them both into his mouth; he looked up to see his Master smiling down at him.
"Up to the cock now, boy. Get your Master good and hard. I'm going to fuck the hell out of your ass."
The slave started licking and sucking at the Master's cock, never sticking with any one motion for very long. The Master's thick prick grew longer snd harder as the boy worked, enthusiastically, concentrating his efforts on the head of his Master's cock, his fingers playing with his Master's balls.
After a while, the Master reached up and grabbed a bottle of lube off the nightstand. "You've got thirty seconds to get your ass ready."
The boy lubed his ass up as the Master pulled a condom over his rock-hard tool. "Three months, we both get tested, and we can do away with these."
The boy looked up, surprised at what his Master had implied. "Yes, Master."
"Hands and knees, slave," Master Ryan said. The boy scrambled to comply, presenting his ass to his Master.
Master Ryan guided his cock to the boy's asshole, and pushed his way into the boy firmly, steadily, and without stopping. He felt the boy's back tense under his hand, reacting to the pain of being entered, and he pressed the boy's chest into the bed, continuing until he was completely buried in his slave's ass.
He held him there, then, reveling in the feeling of the boy's sphincter clenching sporadically around his cock, the feeling of the boy's smooth skin under his hands, trembling.
He pulled back all the way, until his cock was almost totally out of the boy, then re-entered, just as slowly. The boy moaned. A third time, all the way out and back in again.
And then he began fucking his slave, hard. The long slow strokes gave way to long, hard strokes, and he gave in to his urge to just batter the boy's ass with his cock. The boy gripped the sheets, but as his ass was assaulted, he was being pushed up the bed until he was pressed up against the headboard. The Master grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back.
"Grab the headboard, boy," the Master said, and the boy did so; now he could feel the Master's breath on his neck and his chest against his back as his Master continued to pound his cock up into his slave's ass, hard. Each thrust now elicited a sound from the boy, somewhere between a cry and a gasp.
Then he felt the Master's teeth on his shoulder; he was bitten, firmly, enough to cause him to cry out in pain, enough to leave a bruise that wouldn't fade for days. The Master bit him again, cock thrusting in and out of his ass, and again, leaving the marks of his teeth in the slave's shoulders.
Then Master Ryan pulled out of the boy's ass, moved aside, and pushed his slave over onto his back. He pushed the boy's legs back and up, moved between them, and poised his cock to re-enter his slave's ravaged asshole.
He looked at the boy's face intently as he entered into him, and the slave met his gaze, his expression dazed and adoring.
"Jack your cock, slave. Don't cum unless you're ordered to," the Master said.
The boy's hand went to his cock, and played there distractedly, while the Master started pistoning in and out of his ass. The Master set up a solid, punishing rhythm, his hands wrapped around the boy's hairless thighs, pulling the boy's ass into him as his cock rose up to thrust into him. The boy's legs were thrown over the Master's shoulders, and the Master's eyes were locked on the boy's face.
Master Ryan pushed further into the boy, moved further forward until his hands were on the bed by the boy's shoulders, the boy's legs wrapped around him; he could feel his slave's fist moving between them, jacking his own prick as he'd been instructed to. Gradually, an expression came over the slave's face; he went from simple lust, excitement, and a little bit of fear at his Master's ferocity, to a look of surrender, and bliss. The Master fucked him more rapidly, seeing the boy quiver as his prostate was punched with each thrust. And when the boy started to thrash underneath him, the Master growled, "Cum now, slave."
The slave's hand sped up between them, his back arched; his ass clenched around the Master's cock inside him. He started crying out, wordless, almost cries of pain, as the Master's cock plowed into him again and again, and as he started to spurt, the Master came as well, the boy's spasming ass bringing the Master off powerfully. The Master let out a roar, made up of triumph and lust and fulfillment, digging the fingers of one hand deep into the boy's shoulder, his cock driven deep into his slave's ass.
That's not the moment.
The Master pulled his cock slowly out of his slave's ass, peeled off the condom and tossed it away, and then collapsed next to the boy, breathing heavily. The boy lay beside him for a few moments, and then curled up, laying his head on his Master's chest timidly.
Master Ryan put his arm around the boy.
That's the moment. The Master is laid out on the bed, one hand behind his head, hairy legs apart, completely relaxed. He's looking down at the slave on his chest, his expression a mix of bliss, contentment, and a little bit of awe. His hand touches the smooth skin of the boy's shoulder gently. The slave boy is curled up, legs together, a sheen of lube showing on the pale skin of his perfect ass, a sheen of sweat on his back, one hand on his Master's thigh. His head rests on his Master's chest, his eyes are half-closed, and his expression is one of complete peace.
They're like that for a few moments; for a little while, the Master strokes the slave's hair. Eventually, the Master says, "Go clean up, boy, then come back."
The boy is gone for a few minutes, taking the discarded condom with him. The Master gets more comfortable under covers, and the boy returns to find the bedclothes turned down. He looks at his Master expectantly, and the Master pats the mattress next to him. The boy climbs into bed, and, smiling, puts his head back on his Master's chest.
"Good boy." The Master's voice rumbled in his chest under the slave's ear.
"Thank you, Master."
"Okay, boy. Tell me a story."
The Tale Of The Prodigal Father
Once upon a time, in a land not very much unlike this one, there was a man. Though that would have surprised him to hear. He didn't consider himself to be much of a man, whatever bluster he might have put up to the contrary. He was constantly questing for something to make him feel as if he was a man; some manly obstacle to conquer, some achievement that might delineate the boundary between the time when he was a child and his adulthood.
He started getting in fights when he was still very much a youth; he pitted himself against all comers, no matter how much bigger than him they were, and got his ass handed to him more than once. He kept at it; he developed a reputation as the crazy kid who'd fight even after his arm was broken, the one kid you didn't mess with.
But still he was a kid.
His quests took him next to a bottle, to pills, to drugs of various sorts; if he could handle those, if he could do as many of them as anyone, then surely he'd be acknowledged as the man he thought he was. He found that if he had drugs he was always popular, and the one way he could afford them was to sell them, and so he did that. At first a few joints here and there, and then a bag, and then on merrily towards other things. His popularity widened as his client base did, and if the people who orbited him were only held in place by the drugs he could procure, then he was none the wiser.
But still he sensed that he was being seen with some contempt by those around him; he felt as if his manhood still needed proving. He learned that the women in his broadening social circle were made considerably more pliable when drugs and drink were involved, and he began with what he would earnestly refer to as a series of conquests. The women he slept with were mountains to climb, steps to be taken in a path towards greatness, and if they resented him afterwards that was their problem.
Needless to say, what with all of the drink and the drugs and the women, he didn't pay much regard to safety, and as he was spreading himself thin, he was spreading some other things as well. When he was confronted by one of his conquests, a year underage, who claimed that he had left her with a case of gonorrhea, the crabs, and pregnancy, he wasn't quite sure what to do.
He asked himself how a man should handle things, and the answer came to him forthwith. He told the girl that he'd take care of her, that she and the baby were his, and he'd make things okay. She left clutching onto the hope that he gave her, and he stayed with an uncertain feeling of dread.
For the circles he traveled in had grown very large, and people were starting to talk. A drug dealer must maintain a large group of friends, and those friends are his very best business, and the source of his clients; the wider your circle, the bigger the gain. Up to, of course, a point. And this man had reached that very point, and he felt it; he felt things beginning to spin out of control, he heard people starting to talk, but in ways that made him distinctly uneasy.
A wiser man might have packed up and run; a braver man might have pulled back his circles, battened the hatches, and fought. This man decided that he would wait, and see what happened.
What happened was that rumors started to circulate that there was a narc in the group; that one of the people who'd recently joined the innermost circle of friends was a cop. When he heard that, the man knew that he had to take action. To his credit, he thought of someone else first; he talked to the woman now bearing his baby, now five months along, and told her to get out of town. He gave her some money, some weed, and a car, and told her to head to a friend's house and wait. He'd come for her, and everything would be all right.
One of his friends was sure that he'd spotted the narc in their midst, and the man went to work right away. He set up a trap, a meeting far out where no-one would find them, and set up a small private party, just the inner circle, he said, just the few who were really trusted. And so they all converged on a house out in the sticks, and got down to some serious partying. And if the suspect was drinking more, and if they made sure he got more wasted, than any of the rest of them, the suspect didn't notice. He was high, he was happy, he was fitting right in.
As the evening wore on, they started asking the guy questions, and he answered, stoned, flip answers that were designed to amuse, not to deflect suspicion. And so, of course, the group grew more suspicious, more dangerous, and the suspect didn't notice until way too late. Soon they were pushing him around, demanding to know if he was a narc; soon after that, he was tied to a chair, and they were beating him.
It was when one of them had broken a bottle, and was about to do irreparable damage to the suspect with it that the windows lit up with the light from a helicopter, and the voice from above announced their doom. They'd had the wrong guy from the beginning; a friend that they never suspected, who was in on the whole scene, turned them in and then testified against them. Not a narc; just a guy looking to get out of some jail time.
And jail time rained down upon the man, and all the inner circle; they had half a century between them, all told. Assault, attempted murder, possession, intent to distribute, etcetera. And the man found himself doing time.
The less that is said about prison the better. Suffice it to say that he began by sending letters to people, the mother of his child included, about what he would do when he got out of jail, about how soon they could expect to see them. As he ceased to believe in the outside world, his letters became scarcer, and stopped.
Six years later, he was paroled. His first thoughts when he saw the light of the world again were of his son, who he'd never met, and of the boy's mother. Quickly, he rounded up the resources he needed to go see them; the little money he could scrounge, the car he'd lent for the duration, now battered and well-used, the few things he'd left in storage at a friend's. The people he was glad to see were less than thrilled to see him; he didn't pause to find out why. He was driven.
So he drove. He arrived at the home he'd been dreaming of but had never seen early one morning, and his son ran out to meet him. How he swung the boy around in his arms; how he played out all his fantasies about fatherhood that day, all the cliches that it seemed his father had never had time for. They played catch, for god's sake, his son clumsy but eager to please, chasing the ball around the barren yard.
And that afternoon, he had his first beer in forever, and it was glorious, and so he had another. The boy, his son, was desperate to do things for him, so he sent the kid back to the fridge for more beers frequently, and watched TV in the living room, seeing hope for the future for the first time in forever. There was a moment there, with his son sitting at his feet, his girl near his side, a cold beer in his hand, where he understood the appeal of a normal, safe life.
He started talking to his girlfriend about the future, and she started asking questions; it became clear, even to him, that he had no idea what he was about to do. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. It turned into an argument when he mentioned the possibility of looking up some old friends from his drug-dealing days, to see if they might have work for him.
She didn't want that around the kid, he understood that, but he was going to have a lot of trouble finding real work, and he could make enough there to get started...
The kid fled the room as the argument started, and then escalated, and then somehow it had turned into sex, and the man and his girl went at it like animals.
The subject resurfaced after dinner, and this time he decided that, as the man, he got to say what was what. The beers may have made him say a lot of things without thinking about them, but truth be told, he wasn't thinking a lot right then. Prison had left him a hollow shell around a core of rage and need.
They were screaming at each other when he pushed her down, and in his memories of the event, he can hear her wrist fracture. She was calling him every name she'd ever heard, then, yelling at him to get out, and he came to a realization.
He'd caught a glimpse of the promised land, and it wasn't for him.
He'd seen what it meant to be a man. To not only father a child, but to be a father to them. To not only incur responsibilities, but to take responsibility for them. To stand up for the ones you love, and not let them down. To build a home, a place of safety and love and warmth. To love, and be loved in return.
And he could do none of those things. Not then. Maybe not anymore.
His apologies were lost in her screams. He gathered up what things he'd brought, the girl screaming, the boy crying, and put them in his car and left.
For the next few years, he wandered. The life of a felon is hard; there are few places you can get work, and fewer still where any sane person could work for any period of time. He tried to go straight, at least a little, at first. He washed dishes, swept parking lots, washed windows, washed cars. The misery of the life dug into him, though, and he sought a little solace in drinking, which lowered his resistance to solace in weed, and the people with weed knew how to get coke...
And the only way he could afford the coke was by dealing it. Except he didn't have the network anymore, he didn't have anyone to trust. He sold a little in clubs, and parking lots, he sold a little more online; there are codewords you can use, even out in public, where you can find people who want to party with you.
Then he found that even more of those people could be found on the gay side of the message boards. He had nothing against gay people; he'd done some gay stuff in prison. And they had money, right? So he started looking for guys who wanted to party, and hard.
And if it turned out that in addition to his supplies, the men he dealt with wanted to service him as well, well, so be it. The combination was irresistible to him; he had money, he had drugs, he had sexual release whenever he wanted. His clients wanted to remain as anonymous as possible, for a variety of reasons, so he didn't have to worry much about discretion. The beauty that had been his when he was young had been toughened by his time in jail, hardened into something remarkable; his clients found that it was worth worshiping.
And if sometimes, money changed hands even though drugs did not, he told himself that didn't make him a whore. It just made his customers suckers.
The man found himself the center point in a large and scattered distribution network. He didn't think much about it, but each of his clients knew him, knew how to contact him, and none of them had any particular loyalty, to each other, or to him. It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart.
He responded to a call one night, one of his regular clients, wanting the regular things, and he stopped by there first, on his way towards others. Which meant he arrived with enough merchandise for four clients in his backpack, all neatly divided for sale.
The client seemed nervous, and gave him cash quickly, and then the man asked if he wanted anything else, and named a price. At which point the cops walked in.
Facing a bust for possession with intent to distribute, as well as solicitation, which would put him back into prison for the rest of his usable life put the man in a position where he was easily manipulable. Pressure was brought to bear, and soon he was rolling over on all of his suppliers; he named names, helped set them up, and then was let go with a slap on the wrist. Paroled.
Which meant that leaving the city was problematic. Staying was problematic as well; there were quite a few people who wanted him dead. Living in general was problematic, now that his source of income had gone; the apartment he'd lived in was no longer his, and his car had gotten trashed late one night in the midst of all this.
Once again, the man was ruined.
He considered the options he had; there weren't many, and all of them were dire. Many of them pointed, in a less than subtle fashion, to his destruction. To his credit, he recognized this, perhaps as the result of having failed to this depth in the past. He reviewed what he could do, and then what had led him here, and came gradually to a conclusion. He did not know how to live. He had no idea how to be anything other than what he was, and he hated what he was. He wanted to change, but had no idea how.
There was one possibility that kept occurring to him. One of his old clients had taken a liking to him, in a paternal kind of way; he had joked about taking the man under his wing. Needing a wing to be under, the man took the possessions he had left in a backpack, and took a bus to the man's address.
He begged to be taken in.
A deal was struck. For the time of his probation, he was to serve his old client, in whatever capacity the client desired. In return, he'd be given shelter, and taken care of, and taught to be a better man.
Two and a half years later, the man emerged from his period of servitude. He hadn't done drugs or had a drink in that time; his hands were steady, his gaze as well. He stood taller than he had, he spoke more carefully and more quietly. He had learned humility, and had substituted pride for bravado.
His Master had been banking pay for him since they began, and it totaled several thousand dollars upon his emancipation. His old self would have blown through it in days; the person he was now turned it into a small apartment, and turned that into a job. That became a better job, and that led to a promotion, and soon there was a girl, and a ring, and a child, and a house.
And when he looked up his son, age seventeen, rebellious and angry and wild with abandonment and unfulfilled needs, this is the tale he told him, edited for the boy's young ears. He did his best to apologize; he knew by then he couldn't make it right. He did whatever he could do to help.
That just made things worse. You see, for years now, ever since his only visit with the boy, the boy had been growing a conviction that his father was, in fact, a demon. Based on his mother's perception of the man, the effects of his broken promises, and a deep sense of fantasy, the boy had cast his father as a demon from hell, and himself as some sort of demon-human mongrel. He used this belief both to fuel himself, to drive himself despite the despair he often felt, and to explain the void that was within him. His fictional father was useful, as a model of what to struggle against, as a doom that he could bear.
His real father, in a small house, with a small family and a small quiet life, struggling to be a good father to his new child... that father didn't explain anything. That wasn't a man to struggle against. It wasn't someone he could hate.
At first, the boy celebrated his father's arrival, but then he came to the realization that his fictional father, the demon-father, had been his anchor. With his real father in place, and the illusion dispelled, the darkness inside him wasn't his father's; it was his own.
The man did what he could as he watched his son spiral further out of control in the next couple of years. He loaned what money he could, did what fatherly things he could to reach out to the boy, but the boy seemed hell-bent on his own self-destruction. It was in the midst of the boy's abortive college career that the man did the last, unthinkable thing that he could to try to get to the boy. He told him this story, in its entirety, slavery and all.
And the boy slammed the door in his face, quite literally, and continued on his path unabashed.
The man made a choice; the time and effort he spent in reaching out to the boy was wasted, and was taking him away from his own new family, and so he made a choice to let contact with his grown son go in order to better be a father, and to protect them from the fallout the boy created in his wake.
And in doing so, in making the choice to abandon an old dream, and be the father his family needed, he took the final steps in his quest for manhood. He wasn't the man he had dreamed of being, perhaps, but he was a man nonetheless.