Bill UnderhillA Slave is a SlaveStories from the Comfort ComplexI. SleepoverChapters 21-Chapter 21Roger wasn't really asleep when he felt the big, strong hand on his bottom cheek, squeezing and kinda kneading the muscle there, but he didn't more than half wake up as it slid smoothly up his back, then slowly down again to close on his backside and work the rounded flesh almost painfully. When he turned his head a little to look up, he saw that it was Mr. Chriswell. Mistress Julia was all the way asleep. Well, she oughtta be. Roger had lost count of how many times he'd made the good feelings in her. Mr. Chriswell's other hand went to Roger's shoulder, and gently Roger was rolled away from Mistress Julia. He was taken up in Mr. Chriswell's arms and held belly-up against the client's body, like a little kid being carried to bed. It was definitely nice. The man was sweaty, but he was naked again, and Roger could see where some of the exercise clothes had been thrown on the floor. Roger held his arms folded against his chest on either side as he blinked sleepily up at Mr. Chriswell's face, liking the way the grown-up was looking at him. Mr. Chriswell obviously wasn't mad at Roger for doing the sex to his special girlslave. Neither of them said anything as the man carried Roger over the table. One of the chairs had been turned away from it, and Mr. Chriswell shifted Roger so that the boy's belly was snug against Mr. Chriswell's chest and they were looking each other right in the eyes. When Mr. Chriswell kissed him over one eyebrow and then started giving him kisses all over his face, Roger kinda hummed happily. Mr. Chriswell smelled the way lots of grown-up men smell after they've finished their conditioning exercises, but Roger liked that. It made someone like Mr. Chriswell smell even more like a big, strong man than he had before. When Mr. Chriswell sat down on the chair, Roger's legs kinda naturally went on either side, and the boy was sitting in Mr. Chriswell's lap, belly-to-belly, with his head snuggled against the man's chest. Mr. Chriswell wasn't what Roger would call a hairy bear of a man, but there was hair on his chest, and it was nice. Silky, y'know? Nice for a boy to rub his face against, and Roger indulged, murmuring his pleasure. He was conscious of Mr. Chriswell's hands on his shoulders, the big male body firm against his groin and crotch, liking the feel of Mr. Chriswell's ribs and muscles as Roger moved his own hands up and down the man's sides. And there was the sensation of a big, hard dickie against Roger's tailbone, which ought to have been scary but was just really pleasing somehow. Roger's own dickie was ever so stiff between their bodies. He's gonna use me now, Roger thought. And even though it's gonna hurt, I kinda want it. He gave a soft little moan A good little boy wasn't supposed to want the penis-pushing inside him, but Roger did want it from this grown-up, and wasn't that just awful? Looking up at Mr. Chriswell, Roger felt his heart thudding as he saw the man looking down, those dark eyes just locked on Roger's face, studying him, as if Mr. Chriswell thought Roger was the most important person in the whole world, instead of just a piece-of-filth sex slave that the man had to take in order to get Room 12 for the night.
"You've never known much love anywhere in your life, have you, boy?" Roger really didn't want to open his eyes at that particular moment, but he pushed himself back from Mr. Chriswell's chest far enough to look up at the man's face. He couldn't help giving a kind of a shrug as he shook his head. "I, I guess not, sir. I haven't been here very long, but there are some clients who seem to like me." And some clients who like to hurt me, too! he thought. Roger hadn't exactly been taught about those 'saddest' people, but you couldn't help learning something about grown-ups who went nuts over brand-new slaveboys for the sex because those kids were really easy to scare. Why the heck did they get called 'saddest' when every one of them who'd used Roger had been really happy to get him into a sex room and start using him? Jeez, I've been the guy with the reason to get sad about it! Mr. Chriswell smiled, though. "They have reason to like you. You're a very endearing child." At Roger's inadvertent look of confusion, the man clarified: "You're cute." Roger could feel his face going hot, and couldn't help that, either. He sincerely hated being called 'cute'. Even his mother's great-aunt had figured that out when Roger had been a little kid, and Tantie had quit that 'Isn't he the cutest thing?' stuff way before he'd been in Kindergarten. When Mr. Chriswell chuckled and ran his fingers through Roger's hair to catch the boy's uncollared neck in a firm but not painful grasp, Roger had blushed even harder, but he wasn't trying to look away. The man nodded just a little. "I understand," he said. "But you can't help it. It's in your nature, boy. A survival trait for any child. The ones who aren't 'cute' don't appeal to adults, and are more likely to be neglected." Mr. Chriswell got a thoughtful look on his face. "Though you've been neglected most grievously, haven't you?" Roger frowned defensively. "My mom took good care of me, sir. She just didn't have much time, what with her business and everything 3;" Mr. Chriswell shook his head. "You were her business, boy." The man's own frown unconsciously mirrored Roger's, though neither realized it. "Parents aren't Masters." He checked. "Well, not most of them. Very few of them, actually." His attention focused again on Roger. "You've been beaten over the head 3;" The man flashed a rueful grin. "Indeed, you've been beaten quite literally – to impress upon you the duty of slaves to those who own them. In your case, your duty to the officers of the Slave Authority, and the clients who come to this place to use you." Roger nodded, belatedly remembering to say: "Yes, sir." "A Master," continued Mr. Chriswell, "has a duty to the slaves he owns." The man looked grim. "This is one reason why I prefer that you not call me 'Master'. Do you understand this, boy?" "I, I think so, sir. Mistress Julia – I mean, Julia – she belongs to you. You're her Master." Roger swallowed hard. "You're not my Master, even for pretend." "Indeed. What you do not understand – yet – is that a Master has a duty to each slave he owns. A very real duty, though many who claim the title of Master don't seem to appreciate this." "S-sir?" "If I were a commanding officer in the military – even in the Militia – I would have the power to control the people under my command, including civilians within the scope of my responsibilities, and they would have to obey. You understand that?" Roger nodded. Every regular boy knew all about the Army and stuff like that. "But I would also have a duty to those men and women." He seemed to soften a little. "And children. The soldiers or sailors or Militiamen serving under me would have the most explicit claim on me, because they depend upon me for everything they need to fulfill their duties. I have to make it possible for them to serve, and to serve effectively, without wasting their efforts. Or their lives." Somehow, Roger got the feeling that Mr. Chriswell had been an officer, maybe in the Army or someplace else, and in one of those places where they were doing real fighting in the long, long 'War Against Terror'. "The Master has an even greater responsibility for his slaves. Their bodies, their minds – everything about a slave – is in the control and at the command of a Master, and the Master must care for each slave with proper understanding of the slave's value as a human being." Roger felt himself going all stiff and cold with something he didn't understand. He whispered (maybe he didn't want to wake up Mistress Julia?): "But I'm not a human being, sir! They told me! I'm, I'm not a person anymore. Just a piece-of-filth slaveboy!" Roger could feel the tears on his face, but he didn't try to rub them away. "Somebody the regular people can hate, and, and do the sex to, and not feel bad about hurting me." "I understand," said the man, and Roger sensed something in the big, strong body that told him Mr. Chriswell was having a sudden surge of the sex feelings, and that made Roger kind of shudder with sex feelings himself, his dickie almost throbbing with them. "You lost whatever illusion of freedom you'd ever been allowed," Mr. Chriswell continued, "and the protections of personhood the instant that the judge's gavel fell. They stripped you naked in the courtroom – to your shame, yes? and your shock – to impress upon every witness the fact that you were no longer to be considered sacrosanct, that your flesh and your form and the very breath of your life belonged to anyone given leave to use you." "L-like you, sir?" Roger's voice was very small. The man's eyes held such intensity that Roger wondered if his own heart had suddenly stopped. What was he thinking? Without saying another word, Mr. Chriswell had reached over onto the table – not looking away from Roger's face – and came back with the little red rubber ball gag that had been part of Roger's 'packaging'. He brought the ball to Roger's lips and with a little sob of despair, the boy opened his mouth to receive it. The taste of the thing between his teeth was horrible for all its familiarity as Roger felt Mr. Chriswell fastening the leather strap snug at the back of the boy's head. Roger hadn't understood exactly why pictures of people wearing gags had always made him feel so 3; well, sexy 3; in such a strange way, even when those people weren't naked or almost naked or supposed to be getting anything sexy done to them. What was it about somebody who had been made unable to talk that made a guy's dickie go stiff, anyway? The boys in Roger's neighborhood had done the 'gagging' thing to each other in their tie-up games, and Roger had always thought it was stupid when it got to be his turn to get gagged. When it was just part of the 'packaging' thing here, it had quit bothering him. Much. But right now 3; Roger looked up at Mr. Chriswell. It wasn't stupid. It wasn't funny. It was awful! But it was special, too, wasn't it? The man reached for something else on the table, and when Mr. Chriswell brought it into Roger's field of view – 'cause he couldn't take his eyes off the man's face for some reason – Roger realized that it was a length of that red cord clients used for tying up slaveboys 3; for tying up animals! 3; to make them helpless for the sex, to make sure the little pieces-of-filth couldn't get away from the things that the clients were going to do, to keep the slaves in control 3; Roger started crying then, as Mr. Chriswell started wrapping the cord around the boy's right wrist, making a kind of a pattern of it, and Roger realized that the man had had a lot of practice at doing the binding thing to, to little boys. To slave boys. He blinked up at the man. To slave boys for the sex. In bondage. These ball gags were kinda better than the rags that Roger and his friends had used when they'd played tie-up games back home. Even though these gags always seemed to make you slobber (and that was embarrassing), you could always breathe around a ball gag when your nose was getting runny, the way it did when you were crying like a baby – and why was he crying? Roger looked up from the pattern the cord was making around his wrist just as Mr. Chriswell tied the knot, leaving the long tails he'd need to tie it to Roger's other wrist, and he blinked back his tears to see Mr. Chriswell's face. He liked Mr. Chriswell. A lot. And now the man was tying Roger up for the sex, tying him up to do the sex to a helpless, speechless, worthless little animal, which was all Roger could be to Mr. Chriswell, and didn't Roger already know that? I'm not even his slave, the boy thought. I'm somebody else's slave, a slave he's got permission to use, just a piece of filth that came with the room! Mr. Chriswell wasn't holding Roger's arm after he'd tied that knot, and without thinking, Roger reached up with his right hand to touch Mr. Chriswell's face, just with his fingertips, sliding them down along the man's eyebrow to his cheek and then along Mr. Chriswell's jaw to the grown-up's mouth, feeling the almost invisible stubble of a man who had shaved at the beginning of the day, but would have to shave in the morning tomorrow, touching the lips and then the nostrils and then the lips again, and the man kissed Roger's fingertips, making the boy ache all through his chest for just an instant before Mr. Chriswell had gently (but powerfully) taken control of Roger's wrist again and brought Roger's hand up firm against the man's mouth, to kiss each knuckle and then the boy's palm before pulling Roger up snug against himself and kissing the slaveboy's face all over, kinda slowly and emphatically. With the ball gag in his mouth, of course, Roger couldn't kiss back, but he knew somehow that Mr. Chriswell didn't want him doing that. The man just wanted Roger to get kissed, like it was important that Roger couldn't really do anything to tell Mr. Chriswell how much Roger liked the man. It wasn't fair, but Roger figured that because it was what Mr. Chriswell wanted, he shouldn't feel bad about it. So he tried not to. But he can see my eyes, thought Roger. Can't I tell him with my eyes? Darn this crying! I'm such a baby! When Mr. Chriswell took Roger's hands to pull them slowly behind the boy's back, Roger didn't either resist or cooperate. I'm a slave, he thought. Let him use me like a slave. The red cord went around Roger's left wrist almost like magic. The man reached around him without taking his eyes off Roger's face, again proving that Mr. Chriswell had a lot of practice at this stuff. The boy felt the final knot going home, and he tested the work without trying to hide what he was doing. After all, the people who tied up little boys for the sex wanted to see a kid prove that he really was tied up. Mr. Chriswell had done a good job. The patterns weren't so tight that they made your hands numb, but Roger could feel that if anybody was stupid enough to try to get out of the wrappings, they'd snug right up to hold you. I guess I'm not stupid, Roger thought. Or I don't want him to think I am. W-what do I want him to think about me? Holding Roger's upper arms on either side, Mr. Chriswell did the kissing again, and Roger didn't try to turn his face away, sort of lifting it up, whimpering a little as the man raised and lowered his own head, bending his neck, kissing Roger on one side, then the other, then down the boy's neck and back up again, not sloppy kisses but not the sort of 'peck' kisses Roger had gotten from Tantie and his mother's friends when he'd been little. No, these were all pretty good kisses. The kinds of kisses a slaveboy got from some of the nice clients, after they'd done the penis-pushing inside you and they were tired in that really good way that sex made a grown-up man tired, and made him felt really grateful to the little boy who'd helped him have those really good sex feelings 3; The kinds of kisses Mistress Julia had given him, weren't they? And Mistress Julia was a really nice girl. As the man did the kissing to him, Roger couldn't help moaning a little. He felt himself going kinda melty inside, and he slumped just a bit, not being able to help rutting his dickie against Mr. Chriswell's belly, his legs trying to do the hugging of the man's hips that he needed to move that way. It was like getting his hands tied behind his back made Roger want to do the sex with this grown-up. Not just give up and get it done to him, but want it. That was 3; weird! Mr. Chriswell's big body was a very comfortable place to be, and Roger knew that it would be comfortable even if both Roger and the man weren't all sexed up about each other. Roger couldn't remember thinking about being comfortable with a grown-up of any kind. Even his mother. Maybe when he'd been a baby 3; The only times Roger had been comfortable with anybody had been when he'd been sleeping over with some of his friends. Especially Jackie Tedesco, and even Jackie hadn't had a hard-on all the time they were cuddling. Jackie's nice to wake up next to. Or he had been, back before Roger had gotten slaved. Roger wondered for an instant who was sleeping over with Jackie now. There had been plenty of other boys who'd liked Jackie, too. But would Roger be allowed to wake up next to Mr. Chriswell? Gulping air because he'd kinda forgotten to breathe for a minute there, Roger opened his eyes to look up at the man, wondering. Being tied up like this, being gagged, there was no way that Roger could do or say anything that might make the sex really good for Mr. Chriswell. None of the stuff he had learned in the indoctrination center, or here in the comfort complex. None of his hard-won experience, not even his imagination. This was awful! I'm just, kinda meat, he thought in an agony of frustration. I could be doing all kinds of stuff to make him want me, to get him crazy with the sex feelings for me, but I can't even tell him how big and strong and sexy he looks to me. Which wouldn't be a lie, the way they taught you to fib when a client was a skinny teenager with pimples or a big fat bald guy with not much of a penis. I mean, Mr. Chriswell is what the gay guys call a hunk, isn't he? Jeez! thought Roger suddenly. Am I a gay guy? He gave a mental headshake. No way! I just like doing sex stuff with other boys, and anybody would want to do sex with Mr. Chriswell. Sighing as the kissing ended, Roger let himself slump forward, his face getting tickled by the man's nice chest hair again, working his nose in it, back and forth just a little. Roger decided that he'd be liking this even if he'd never been slaved, never got indoctrinated, had never even seen the inside of a comfort complex. Mr. Chriswell wouldn't have had to rape me,, he decided. Once he got my clothes off like this, I woulda just given in. There was absolute certainty in Roger's mind.
TO BE CONTINUED
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