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December 12, 2005
Slave
I went to the Club Body Center about two weeks before Thanksgiving on a Sunday. It was a cold night and there wasn’t much going on. I considered leaving but decided to do one last cruise through the place. I saw a guy leaving his room two doors down from mine who I thought was kind of interesting and I followed him into the TV lounge. I sat in an empty space on the bench and he didn’t see me there at first. He tried to get another guy interested but he was rebuffed. Then he turned around and I caught his eye. He stood in front of me and I began to play with his nipples. He leaned down and stroked my cock while we kissed. I asked him if he wanted to go to my room and he followed me downstairs.
We sucked each other and did the usual stuff. He said he didn’t get fucked. When I felt the prolapsed condition of his hole I realized that couldn’t have been true. Then he said he was usually a top but he'd bottom for me anytime—except tonight, of course. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before. We played and talked and played and talked and things got even more interesting. He asked me if I knew what “seeding a hole” meant. Well, doh! For those of you who don’t know, he is HIV negative and is looking to be pozzed (converted) by “the right man.” That wasn’t very surprising to me either. (I get asked for that all the time online. I always say I'll do it. In the five years or so that I’ve indulged their fantasies not a single one of them has shown up for the actual act so I figure it’s harmless.)
He finally got to the point: he’s been a top all his life and he’s recently felt an uncontrollable urge to not only bottom but to be owned 24/7 as a slave by a sadistic master. He meant me. (Stop laughing! NOW!!) And he was obviously offering his ass as the reward for my accepting the position.
I never seriously considered the idea but I told him it wasn’t something I could decide on that night. Besides, I live in a studio apartment that’s barely big enough for me. Having another person there, slave or not, just wouldn’t work for me. Sorry, dude. On the other hand, he said he’d cook, clean and hand over his pay check. Not a bad deal except that he wanted me to respect him as well. Not a fucking chance.
I didn’t ask for it but he was quite a talker so I got an earful of his recent exploits. And what a tale it was! It seems the slave formerly lived in the Philly burbs, somewhere near Norristown. Some time ago he met a man from Vegas at The Lark, a typical VFW Hall-like gay bar in nearby Bridgeport PA. Apparently this fellow sparked something in the slave and his formerly latent need to serve started to bloom. After a lengthy period of online correspondence he quit his job, left his apartment and moved to Lost Wages to be with his shiny new Master. Two weeks later he was told to leave. He said the whole scene was really ugly with law enforcement getting involved and his boss at a leather store having to mediate and still storing his crap. The Master even bought him a plane ticket home! For some reason I forget he had no ID to get on the plane and ended up taking a bus. He insisted he was dumbfounded when his Master shoved him out onto the street so suddenly. Uh-huh.
When he got back to Philly none of his friends would take him in. He managed to snag a job with a gay housecleaning service in West Philly. I asked him where he was staying and he said, “Here for now.” I thought he meant in Philly but I realized he was actually being much more specific: he was living two cubicles away at the baths! He said he’d worked out some kind of deal with them and gave them a load of cash up front but he wasn’t sure how long it would last. I bet he didn’t.
Anyone who’s been around for any length of time has heard stories like this one. The internets only make it easier for lonely people to make these huge mistakes. It’s even more pathetic when the guy is 57 years old like this loser. Yes, that’s right, he’s 57!
We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses before he left my room. (He was going to therapy on Fridays at the William Way Center and using their computers to check his email.) And that was that—for a few days.
The sex we had was really fun and I wanted to do it again so I sent him an email later that week. He called on Sunday afternoon before Thanksgiving and came over. He left the same message three times, saying he wasn’t sure if I got the previous ones or not. This would happen nearly every time he called me. Multiple messages.
I got to fuck him that day but I didn’t unload inside him since he was saving that until I would commit to be his Master—or at least give him a place to live. I wasn’t about to do either of those things. I did tie his hands behind his back and beat his ass with a belt at his request. It made me rock hard. Hell, I could really get into this.
Before he left he said that his residency at the baths was hanging by a thread and he wasn’t sure if he’d even have a room when he returned. He didn’t say why and I didn’t ask. I don’t think he’s a liar but I’m sure he skillfully edits the truth to his advantage. He was very good at playing the victim. Too bad for him that I’m not a very sympathetic audience. I told him he could call me only as a last resort and, even then, I wouldn’t promise anything, not even one night. There was no call from him that night.
He called on Thursday and said they were finally kicking him out of the baths because he’d run up quite a bill. I was running late for a train to the boy’s place for Thanksgiving dinner so I said I’d call back later. I didn’t. I felt a little guilty but the boy said I shouldn’t. (I think I have a clue where he’s coming from these days, though.) The slave called again and I didn’t answer. I realize I had no obligation to answer the phone or do anything at all for this ridiculous sucker but I still felt like a coward. I was really expecting him to be waiting on my steps with his belongings when I got back home that night, Thankfully, he wasn’t.
He called every day after that. I never answered. Every time my doorbell rang I thought it was him. When I went to The William Way Center to volunteer in the archives as I do every Wednesday, Cathleen handed me a note from our mail slot that had been addressed to me. “SIR: boy is still very much interested in being yours. Tom. We met at Clubs Baths Wed nite 11/15” It was just a piece of paper folded in half, not even sealed or in an envelope. Luckily, I had already told the story to the people I work with there. Imagine if it had been my real job or something. I know he was desperate but please. After two weeks I finally picked up the phone. “Tom. Don’t. Call. Me. Again.” And that was the end of it.
I would wonder why I attract freaks like this but I already know.
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Posted by HighStrungLoner in Online at 11:19 PM
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