I’m lying in a king-size bed in a room 31 floors above the ground, staring out at the New York skyline. A cute 30-something guy dozes next to me, his arm across my body, his head resting on my chest. A glance at the clock on the side table indicates I’ve been here two and a half hours, an hour and a half longer than I was supposed to be.
As gently as possible, I try to extricate myself from his arm, hoping I might slip out without waking him. He stirs, but seems to go back to sleep as I grab my pants. This is not how I thought this night would go. I wasn’t even supposed to see his face.
He only contacted me the day before. But there’d been at least a dozen emails back and forth to clarify the details of the session. He was nervous about meeting, which I thought was odd since he seemed very clear about what he wanted. His list of dos and don’ts was quite precise, suggesting he had ample experience with the kind of scene he was proposing. And he already had the mask.
Two and a half hours earlier, I’m standing in the hallway outside his hotel room. I knock and, after what feels like almost a minute, the door slowly opens, a figure obscured behind it, hidden from anyone who might be passing in the hallway.
As I step in, the door closes behind me to reveal a tall, slim guy with a nicely toned body and a small patch of black hair on his chest. He’s totally naked except for the studded collar around his neck and the leather hood over his head.
We stare at each other through the eyeholes of the hood. A sub usually evades your gaze, but he looks directly into my eyes, defiant almost. He’s not ready to give up control so easily. I’m going to have to break him.
“On the floor!” I bark.
He jumps slightly, and then quickly takes up a position on all fours, his head a few inches from my feet. I begin kneading the side of his face with the toe of my sneaker. He presses back, like a cat arching into a back scratch. I push harder, expecting him to relinquish, but he doesn’t. He’s strong. He wants me to push him to his limit. I release my foot from his face, put it back on the floor, and order him to take my shoes off.
I turn abruptly and stride down the hall into the main body of the room. It’s larger than I imagined, complete with a full kitchen, living room, and a bedroom off to the side. It’s a standard version of generic contemporary living you find in mid-range places; clean lines, shades of white and cream, punctuated occasionally with dark brown and hints of black.
I turn back to my host. He’s still crouched on all fours next to the door, though he’s looking up at me.
I tap my thigh like you would to a dog, and he hurriedly crawls on his hands and knees to join me. In the living room, I sit in one of the matching brown leather armchairs. On the table between them there’s a large can of Rolling Rock, a stack of $20 bills underneath. I realized that I should have specified a better brand.
I pat my thigh again and he crawls in front of me. I push his head away, turning his body sideways, put both legs on his back like he’s a footstool and open the can. We sit like that for a few minutes, him motionless, me occasionally taking a swig of beer. Leaving one foot on his back, I bring the other one to his mouth, my big toe brushing his lips through my sock. He starts to suck it. I quickly pull it away and stand.
“Did Master say you could suck?” I say.
“No, Master,” he says, softly.
“No I didn’t, did I? You only do what Master tells you to do when Master tells you to do it. Understood?”
“Yes Master.”
I deliver a light slap to his ass (heavy pain is on among his Don’ts), and return to sitting with my feet on his back. After a minute or so, I return my foot to his lips again. He nuzzles it slightly, but doesn’t start to suck it.
“Would you like to suck Master’s toe, slave?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you deserve to suck Master’s toe?”
“No, Master.”
“Because you’re worthless, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master.”
I order him to start sucking my toe through the sock. As he continues to wet the fabric it occurs to me that I don’t have an extra pair. Hopefully it’ll be dry by the time I leave.
I instruct him to take it off and then use my other foot to push his ass away from me, so he turns on this hands and knees to face me. After making him to remove my other sock, I press his face down towards my feet and he begins licking them all over.
“Good boy. Get them nice and clean.”
After a few minutes of this, I stand and walk to the kitchen. He starts to follow me, and I turn and order him to stop.
I deliver another slap to his ass, a little harder this time.
“You don’t do anything unless Master tells you to do it, understood?”
“Yes. Master.”
I walk back to the kitchen, turn and stare at him. He remains motionless, now looking towards the floor. After roughly counting two minutes in my head (enough time to leaving him squirming), I tap my thigh again and order him to come over. He crawls to my feet and pauses there, his lips a few inches from my toes. I order him to start licking again.
“You like that slave?”
“Yes, Master,” he says, his tongue still running up and down between my toes.
I spit on his back.
“Pathetic!” I say. “Worthless piece of shit.”
He keeps licking, more enthusiastically. I spit again.
“Worthless pathetic cocksucker faggot,” I yell. “You don’t deserve to lick my feet, do you?”
“No, Master.”
“Why not?
“Because I’m worthless, Master.”
“Worthless what?”
“Worthless . . . ” he trails off, seemingly not sure what to say.
“You’re a worthless faggot!” I yell. “Aren’t you?”
He pauses licking, but keeps his head down.
“It’s not about being gay . . . Master,” he says, his tone suddenly confident. “It’s about being worthless.”
A sub is always the one in control of a scene. They set the limits. They have the safe words. They can pause things when it’s not working for them. Still, it’s a little weird when it happens, because it means you have to regroup and take your authority back while at the same time acknowledging that you’re deferring to their desires.
I walk around behind him, leaving him in the same position on the floor. I begin stroking the underside of his dick with my foot.
“I see being worthless gets you hard,” I say.
“Yes, Master.”
I keep running my toes up and down his dick, occasionally nudging his balls. He doesn’t respond but stays hard. I begin tapping at it with my foot.
“Pathetic worthless cock,” I say. “You call that a cock? That’s nothing.”
He remains silent.
“What’s that, slave?” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”
He’s still silent.
“Tell me your cock is worthless slave,” I say. “Tell me it’s pathetic.”
Still silent. What is going on? I begin to press against his balls again with my foot, not enough to hurt him, but enough to show him I can. I spit on his back again.
“Are you worthless slave?”
Silence.
I walk in front of him and look down at him.
“Something wrong, slave?”
He looks up at me, his deep brown eyes piercing through the holes in the mask. We remain like that, for nearly a minute. I shift slightly, starting to feel uncomfortable. Suddenly he stands.
“Sorry,” he says. “This isn’t working for me.”
“Okay. Did you wanna try something else?”
“No,” he says. “I’m done.”
Without warning he pulls off the mask, revealing his face. I hadn’t expected to see what he looked like since he’d stipulated it would be on the entire time. He looks to be in his late 30s, smooth skin with close-cropped dark hair and a chiseled jaw. He’s got the look of a banker or maybe a corporate lawyer, clean-cut and respectable. In our emails leading up to the meeting, he’d said something vaguely about being “high profile,” but I don’t recognize him.
He walks over to the kitchen counter, where there’s a pack of Marlboro Golds. He takes one, lights it, and removes his leather collar as he takes a drag. He stands naked, looking at me. I suddenly find myself studying the floor.
“Uh . . . okay,” I say. “So that’s it? You don’t want to do anything else?”
“No,” he says, assuredly. “I’m good.”
I’ve only been there a half hour and I feel weird about leaving early, having failed at my job.
“Well, should I get going then?” I ask tentatively.
“You can hang out for a bit, if you want,” he says, with a terse smile.
He stubs out his cigarette even though it’s only halfway done, and walks past me to the bedroom. I follow him wordlessly. He pulls back the plush duvet on the king size bed and slides in between the sheets. I crawl in next to him and he nestles into me, one arm across my body, his head on my chest.
I’m so curious about who he is but I don’t want to ask. It may be that he’s high profile in his world, where that is, but not someone who’d ever enter mine. His post-domination demeanour suggests he’s usually in control of things, typical for a sub. It’s inevitably the high-powered types who want to be on their hands and knees licking your feet, not because it’s about giving up control but because it’s about having it in a different way.
We lie there, cuddled next to each other, the New York skyline lighting up as the sun fades behind it. I didn’t really feel tired when I got into bed, but before I realize, I find myself fading into a sort of half-sleep.
At some point, I stir slightly, unaware of how much time as passed. The clock next to the bed says I’ve been here two and a half hours. I guess I must have actually fallen asleep. I don’t have anyone else booked tonight, thankfully, but I also don’t want to spend the night here. I can’t imagine facing him in the morning.
As I release myself from his grasp, he stirs a bit, but stays asleep. I put on my jeans, pull my T-shirt over my head and walk out to the living room where I find my socks and shoes. A quick feel shows that the sock that was in his mouth is totally dry. I slide them on, lace up my shoes, and collect my money from the table next to the half-empty beer.
Walking past the bedroom, I glance him sleeping. I think about giving him a kiss before I leave. But I don’t. He’s not looking for intimacy — he’s looking for control. And I don’t know if he got it or not, but I don’t feel like discussing it with him right now. I walk softly to the door, step out into the hallway, and close it behind me.
Why you can trust Xtra
