Bill Underhill

A Slave is a Slave

Stories from the Comfort Complex

I. Sleepover

Chapters 21-

Chapter 21

Roger 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.

One of maybe the few good things about having been slaved for sex was that Roger had learned how to tell that a grown-up was horny even when you couldn't see his dickie. More pointedly, when a grown-up was horny for Roger.

It made him remember the strange looks he'd gotten from some of the big teenagers in his home neighborhood, and from grown-up men in the conditioning center. They'd made him feel funny, and sometimes he'd gotten a stiffie in spite of the fact that he never knew quite why his dickie had gone all hard like that.

Now he knew. There was something like a force field that came from grown-up men when they wanted to do the sex to you, and a kid could kinda sense it even if he was too dumb to realize what it was.

He hadn't felt it from Mr. Chriswell at all before, and Roger realized that the lack had been bugging him. Even lots of the DMs had that 'I-wanna-do-you,-little-boy!' kinda thing going when they looked at Roger, and while it had made him nervous at first, Roger had gotten used to it.

Kinda nice in a scary-sexy way. It was better than the feeling that somebody hated you, the way lots of regular people hated sex slaves all over the country, even though being a sex slave really wasn't most little kids' fault, was it?

But that look was coming from Mr. Chriswell now, and Roger decided right then and there that he wasn't gonna try to play the 'rape game' with this man. That wouldn't be fair, or right, would it? For doing the rape, Mr. Chriswell only wanted a regular boy, a kid who'd never had sex before, maybe even hadn't ever imagined what sex with a grown-up man might be like. Roger couldn't be that kind of a boy now, and it would be stupid even to try and pretend that he was.

I guess I'm just like one of those prostitute ladies who does sex for the money, he thought to himself. Only I don't get paid for having clients do the sex to me.

Jeez, what would it be like to get paid for what the grown-ups did to him? Y'know, like those pegboys in the old-timey 'house' places. Could you make as much money as you could mowing lawns or shoveling snow?

Mr. Chriswell was cuddling Roger specially nice, those big, strong hands holding the boy close against the sweaty body of the man. The client had been cooling down after his conditioning exercises, and Roger shuddered with the feeling of it, but he could also feel Mr. Chriswell getting warm again, kind of using the young redhead to do that.

Hey, I don't mind, Roger thought. Anything Mr. Chriswell likes. After all, the man was a special client, wasn't he? He went back to rubbing his face against Mr. Chriswell's chest, really enjoying the feel and smell of those hairs as the man's hands kept sliding up and down over Roger's back and shoulders and even pressing Roger's head snug against the guy's muscles every now and then.

Boy, it was great to do this with a man and not one of those big-booby'd ladies. Sure, those things were warm, but balloons full of warm Jell-O were still balloons full of Jell-O.

Muscles were a lot better. Besides, ladies didn't smell like a grown-up man did, even when they were all sweaty.

The way Mr. Chriswell was cuddling Roger – very patiently, not like all the man wanted to do was put that big stiffie right up inside Roger's bottom – kinda told Roger that what was happening had to be more of that 'making love' stuff Mistress Julia had talked about. This was what Roger had always thought of as 'friendly' sex, the kind you didn't do really fast and frantically when you thought somebody was gonna bust in any minute and catch you doing it.

No, this was more like the stuff you did when you were sleeping over, and your friend woke you up in the middle of the night – when you were sure that everybody else in the house was sound asleep – and the two of you started messing around kinda lazy-like, just enjoying your friend's way of touching you, and even kissing a little because, heck, he was your friend, and you could do stuff like that with a friend and not be faggy or mushy.

Remembering that, Roger nuzzled against Mr. Chriswell's chest and kissed it a couple of times, just to let the man know that Roger wanted to be friendly with him. Y'know, more than just a slaveboy being 'submissive'.

If this were rape-for-real, Roger thought, I'd be all stupid and scared. I'd be squirming and crying and cussing and fighting to get away. Not that a kid Roger's size could get away from a big, strong man like Mr. Chriswell. I mean, you could really feel those muscles, couldn't you? No, it wouldn't be nice and friendly like this 'making love' stuff.

Jeez, was this 'making love' business the reason why the unofficial secret slaves of the order didn't try to get away? 'Cause they liked what their Masters were doing to them?

Okay, so would 5-5-2-9 and 1-0-3-8 get to liking how the order's Masters did the 'making love' sex to them, and that would make them be better slaveboys?

Hm. Would it make Roger a better slaveboy? Mr. Chriswell was sure doing it nice right now, wasn't he?

When you thought about it, just about every kid Roger had known back when he'd been a real boy would probably like this 'making love' business, specially if the 'making love' got done like a nice, handsome man like Mr. Chriswell.

Heck, maybe even by an ugly fat man, like some of Roger's clients. Not all of those men were like those rotten golfer guys, and some were just plain 3; uh, what was the word he wanted? Comfortable. Yeah. Comfortable.

If you thought about it, just about every boy was an almost-slaveboy, kind of waiting to get himself 'spiritually murdered'. What did they say about that? A 'fate worse than death'?

Yeah, right.

If Mr. Chriswell were able to take Roger away and be Roger's Master – to honest-to-gosh own Roger like he owned Mistress Julia, but in the way an order Master owned one of those illegal slaveboys – wouldn't that be great? Roger felt that aching inside his tummy, that sad feeling he hated so much but knew so well, even from when he'd been a regular boy and his mom had looked at him like he was, well, nothing.

To be something, a kid had to belong to somebody. Why the heck couldn't Roger belong to a somebody like Mr. Chriswell? A grown-up who could do 'making love' to a little kid was the best kind of owner a slaveboy could ever want.

It was feeling like Mr. Chriswell was going to do his penis in Roger's bottom using one of the 'sit-on-it' methods. Roger got that done to him sometimes, probably more often than with the other slaveboys in the comfort complex because Roger was the second-smallest kid there.

(That darned seven-year-old beat him out in that category, if only by maybe a kilo.)

That made Roger think about those pegboys in the olden days, how the guys had to sit on those things just the way slaveboys had to have buttplugs in their bottoms most of the time, and thinking about that made Roger wonder whether the old-timey kids had it better or worse. I mean, stuck in one place with one of those things up your butt had to be uncomfortable, but at least you got it out of you just by standing up, and nobody could yell at you for standing up.

I mean, that was only polite if you had a customer say hello, wasn't it?

Roger had never had a client do the 'sit-on-it' business first thing, though the Discipline Masters had used him that way. All the clients – even the ones who'd become his 'regulars' – were kinda leery of having even a good, submissive slaveboy lowering his bottom on their big dickies until after they'd sort of opened the kid up with the penis-pushing in a more kinda usual position, as if having one of those plugs in your butt made a guy any less loose down there than he was gonna be after a grown-up dickie had been shoved up inside him.

You could hardly blame them, of course. Roger tried really hard not to imagine what it would be like for a grown-up with a big, hard dickie to have a kid's bottom come down 'wrong' on it and, and 3; omigawd! 3; break it somehow.

Jeez, could any guy – no matter how old – think about that and still keep a stiffie?

But Roger had gotten the sperms in his bottom a bunch of times with the client sitting in a chair this way and pulling Roger down on it almost like a dirty old pervert uncle holding his cute six-year-old nephew on his lap to do 'spiritual murder' to the kid like you couldn't do to boys who got to be taller, heavier ten- and eleven-year-old sizes.

Roger had actually sort of seen it done that way before he'd gotten slaved, in one little vid clip he'd gotten to watch when he'd been sleeping over at Tommy Rettinger's house.

Tommy's big brother – who was almost old enough to go off the 'no-grow' shots – had hacked into the 'Net to sneak access to some of the grown-up stuff, and Tommy had sneaked this bit off his brother's pad. It was only maybe twenty or thirty seconds out of a vid story that Roger had already seen.

Well, the 'clean' version, anyway. But Tommy had called this the 'payoff scene', where you could tell that the boy actor playing one of the most important parts wasn't a free kid at all, but really a slaveboy because they showed the grown-up actor's big thing going right directly into his bottom.

"H-how come he doesn't have a tattoo mark on his leg?" Roger had asked, gaping as the boy in the vid jumped a little, gasping, when the tip of the man's thing kinda popped into him from underneath.

"'Cause they take it out with computers after they shoot the scene," Tommy had explained. Tommy was really smart about this stuff, getting to watch these kinds of vids more than Roger ever could because Tommy's brother was so smart.

Roger had watched the little it of vid clip go back to the beginning and play over again, and then again.

"So how come they don't just do the whole thing – dickie and bottom and all – in the computer, and pretend that the boy actor is getting it inside him?"

Tommy had blinked at Roger, then blinked at the screen of his pad, then scowled at his guest, and Roger had realized that Tommy was mad at him for casting doubt upon Tommy's treasured little bit of forbidden video.

Oops.

"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.