As I’m lubricating the sound, I glance over at the clock and realize I’ve only been here for 20 minutes. We haven’t talked about the length of the session, but given the wad of cash he threw down, I should probably stick around for a couple of hours, at least if I want to see him again.
I survey the array of toys laid out on the dresser and realize that I’m probably going about things in the wrong order. Sounding shouldn’t be the beginning of the scene. It should be the climax.
He returns to the room silently and stands naked in the same spot as before, his eyes on the floor. I turn to him and grab his nipples again. I squeeze them, twisting in a way that must be causing pain, but he doesn’t flinch. Along with reducing his inhibitions, the coke is probably impeding his pain receptors.
Besides the sexual spread he laid out in advance and his declaration that he wants a Master, we haven’t discussed anything about his desires or his limits. Given that his judgment is likely to erode further as he gets higher, I decide now would be a good moment to initiate the conversation.
“So,” I say. “What would you like Master to do you?”
“Anything Master wants,” he replies.
“Yes, Master. Anything.”
I twist his nipples even harder, and lean in closer to him.
“You like that boy?”
“So Master can do whatever he wants to you?”
I press my lips to his ear.
“If anything gets too much for you, and you need Master to stop, you will say the word ‘red.’ Do you understand?”
“And if you say anything other than that, Master won’t stop what he’s doing.”
The pressure I’m putting on his nipples still hasn’t produced much of a response, so I release them slightly, dig my nails in and twist again. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. I continue to twist, watching his eyes, looking for a hint that he’s going to give in and call ‘red.’ But his nipples seem almost impervious to pain and I can feel my fingers beginning to cramp, so I decide it’s time to change tactics and release him.
He lets out a gasp and his body relaxes a bit. It wasn’t that he wasn’t feeling it — he was just working hard not to show it. I glance down at his cock, which has softened a bit but is still partially erect. I grasp it, jerking gently, feeling it harden in my hand.
“You feel good boy?”
“You like what Master is doing to you?”
“Would you like Master to punish your balls boy?”
“Yes, Master. If you want, Master.”
“Would you like to go to the kitchen again first?”
I release his dick and he shuffles out to top-up his high.
When he comes back, I instruct him to lie on the bed spread-eagle and I attach his wrists and ankles by the restraints. I take the case off of one of the pillows on the floor and pull it over his head. I give each of the restraints a tug to see that they’re secure and then lean in close to his ear again, speaking through the fabric.
“Master can do whatever he wants to you?”
“Good boy,” I say, patting the top of his head.
The moment once a sub has been restrained and blindfolded is often a good point for me to take a break. He’s obviously not going anywhere and forcing someone to wait in darkness, not knowing what you’re going to do or when you’re going to come at them is an excellent means of psychological manipulation. I decide to use it as an opportunity to check out the rest of his place.
The bathroom betrays the same college guy aesthetic as the rest of the apartment. A mildewed blue shower curtain partially obscures a bathtub that hasn’t been cleaned for months. A toothbrush and a razor lie next to the sink. The medicine cabinet is empty save for a stick of deodorant and a canister of shaving cream. A stack of sports magazines sit in a rack opposite the toilet.
He hasn’t told me a single thing about himself, and it suddenly occurs to me that I didn’t even bother to ask his name before we left the bar. He’s obviously big into sports and uninterested in interior design. But besides that, I have no idea who he is as a person.
I walk back into the living room, glancing into the bedroom as I pass, just to make sure he’s alright. He’s still exactly where I left him obviously, though his hard-on has subsided. The kitchen is tiny, galley-style. There are three cases of empty beer bottles stacked next to the refrigerator and a box of Raisin Bran on the counter. It’s surprisingly clean, but that’s mostly likely because he never eats at home.
I walk cautiously back into the bedroom, my socks silent on the floor. Standing next to the bed, I watch his breathing, wonder what’s going through his mind. His dick is soft now and but still big. I’m debating between two options with how to proceed.
A glance at the clock shows we’ve been here just under an hour, so I decide to go for stretching things out. I spit silently in my palm and grasp his dick. His whole body stiffens slightly as I begin to stroke him.
He’s hard in less than 30 seconds and I release the shaft, continuing to tease the tip with one finger. After about a minute, I drop my hand to my side and count silently to 30 before giving the shaft a few more strokes. I pause again, this time for about 10 seconds, then haul back and deliver a hard slap to his balls . . .
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