How I became an unsuspecting Master (Part 4)

Suddenly, I notice a small serrated kitchen knife in his left hand

He lets out a grunt and his body stiffens pulling at the restraints.

“Do you like that boy?”

“Yes, Master,” he gasps.

I grab his balls and begin to squeeze, waiting for a reaction, but that doesn’t seem to faze him.

Having someone tied up presents an odd challenge as a Dom. You can do anything you want to them provided it’s within their established limits. But at the same time, the range of possibilities is limited by the fact they’re tied up. I continue squeezing his balls, thinking about what else to do.

I glance over at the array on the dresser and wonder about using the dildos. That’s possible, but I’d need to release him and flip him over. There are the sounds of course, lying there, the shiny stainless steel reflecting the bedside lamp, but I’d like to hold off as long as possible before I shove something into his dick.

I spot a pair of hockey skates inside the open closet door and go over to inspect them. Without thinking much, I slowly pull the laces out of one. Back at the bed, I begin wrapping them around his balls, forcing them apart, tight in the sack. When his balls are fully tied up, I begin slapping them, alternately hard and soft, sometimes hitting both, other times alternating sides.

The rhythm gradually picks up and he’s starting to squirm. I ease off a bit because I want to let him go as long as possible. But I also want that feeling of him calling ‘red.’

I continue to deliver hard slaps with more time in between but at irregular intervals so he doesn’t know when they’re coming. Finally, after one particularly hard slap, his whole body stiffens and he blurts out, “RED, SIR!”

I gently stroke his balls for a moment before I begin to untie them. His cock is totally soft at this point. I gently run my fingers over him, letting him relax and allowing him to experience a different kind of touch. Once his breathing has returned to normal, I begin to stroke his dick again, feeling it get hard.

“Do you need a little break, boy?”

“Yes, Sir. I’d like to go to the kitchen, Sir.”

I release the restraints, allowing a pause between each so he can feel the freedom of his limbs one at a time. Once untied, he stays lying on the bed, not moving.

“Sit up boy.”


He sits on the edge of the bed, the pillowcase still over his head. I run my fingers over his body, for a few moments before taking it off. For the first time since we started the session, he makes eye contact.

“That was intense, Sir,” he says.

“Do you want to continue boy?”

“Yes, Sir. But I want to go to the kitchen first.”

When he returns a few minutes later, there’s something different about his demeanour. He’s still slightly hunched over with his eyes on the floor, but his energy has shifted.

Maybe he’s just nervous about what’s to come. Maybe he took more coke than last time. Until now, he’s been resolutely calm. But for the first moment since we met in the bar, he seems tense.

“Master would like to use the sounds on you.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Would you like to lie on the bed for this?”

“Yes, Master.”

He returns to the bed. I ponder for a moment restraining him again but then realize I want his hands free. Sounding is a totally new thing for me and despite the fact that it will mess with our Dom/sub dynamic, I may need his help to put them in.

I take one of the sounds off the dresser and hold it out to him.

“Put this in your cock for Master.”

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but it just slides in. I take it in my fingers and feel it’s hit a natural point of resistance. Am I supposed to push it further? Probably not. The situation feels sort of medical, as if I’m going to swab his urethra for sexually transmitted infections or something.

I was expecting it to be an unbearably intense sensation for him, but he doesn’t seem to be feeling anything at all. I instruct him to lie back on the bed and continue to pinch his nipples and deliver tiny slaps to his balls while he holds the sound. The whole thing seems a bit anti-climactic.

“Is there anything else you want to do with Master?” I ask tentatively.

“May I go to the kitchen again, Master?”

“Yes, boy.”

He retracts the sound, tosses it on the bed, and departs again for the kitchen. I stare around the room, feeling like a bit of a failure. I’m sure he enjoyed parts of the experience, not the least of which being that he was able to cruise me in a bar and get me to come back to his place.

But the goal of any session is always to build to a climax that’s going to make the person want me to come back again, and right now that doesn’t feel like it’s going to happen. I’ve already got my money so I guess the best bet is just to get him off and get out.

After what seems like an inordinately long time, he returns to the bedroom. His demeanour is definitely different and he seems kind of unbalanced as if he can’t stand up. He must have done a lot of blow this last round. Suddenly, I notice a small serrated kitchen knife in his left hand.

I take a step back. Is he going to stab me? I make a quick scan of the tiny room thinking about how I might get away from him, but there’s barely any space beyond the bed and the dresser, and he’s blocking the door.

I take a deep breath. Maybe this isn’t what I think.

“What’s the knife for, boy?”

“Master,” he sputters, his words slurring. “I want you . . . to be my . . . Master.”

“And what is the knife for, boy?” I say again, more forcefully.

He crawls onto the bed, still holding the knife, lying face down.

“Master,” he murmurs. “I want you to be my . . . my Master.”

I move closer to the bedroom door, still not sure how the situation might erupt. At least for the moment, he seems too inebriated to take an effective swipe at me but that could change.

I debate just making a run for it, but that provides a different set of complications because I have no way of knowing what might happen to him. If he has a heart attack and is found dead, that’s not going to bode well either.

“Can you sit up, boy?”

He doesn’t move.

“Sit up boy. NOW!”

He manages to get himself into an upright position, perched on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. He still has the knife in his hand.

“Put the knife down, boy.”

He obediently drops the knife onto the bed. I lean in and grab it. I walk around the bed so that I’m in front of him. He’s still looking down, visibly shaking.

“What do you want from Master?”

“Whatever Master wants.”

“You brought this knife,” I say, holding it up. “Did you want to do something with it?”

“Yes . . . Master . . . ” he says, slurring his words again. “I want . . . Master . . . want you to . . . ”

“What boy?”

“I want you to . . . to . . . put it . . . in my cock, Sir.”

A certain kind of calm comes over me, now that I’m clear on what’s happening, even though I have no intention of giving him what he wants. The prospect of sounding was nerve-wracking, but I did it knowing he has experience and that it’s also safe when done properly.

But there’s no way you could possibly stick a serrated knife into someone’s urethra without serious damage. It’s clear that no matter what he’s paid me, it’s time for me to make my exit.

“Lie down boy,” I say, and he obliges. I grab the discarded pillowcase and put it over his head again. I begin stroking his dick once more, but he seems to have passed the point where he can get hard. I watch his chest rise and fall with his breathing, the occasional shudder going through his body.

I take one final look at him on the bed, before I walk softly out into the living room. I grab the stack of bills off the coffee table where he’d left them and step into the hallway of his building, closing the door silently behind me.

I walk briskly to the stairwell and take the steps down two at a time. I know he’s not going to follow me, but I still want to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Walking out into the night, the rain has stopped and the streetlights are reflecting off the wet pavement. I don’t even know where I am, but I can hear the sound of traffic in the distance so I begin walking towards it.

Next: A client wanted me to hold a knife to his throat (Part 1) >

Follow Devon on Twitter @devondelacroix

Devon Delacroix is a writer, filmmaker and sex worker, hailing from suburban Toronto. His writing has appeared in magazines across Canada (a few of which you may have even heard of) and his films have been screened widely at festivals and galleries (most of which you haven’t). He's bad at Twitter, but trying to improve. Reach him at

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