Darius & I

Home Alone

I was nervous. Darius would be home any minute. I’d never been left alone in his condo before, with a list of chores to do. Plus he’d sent me that text about two hours ago: Prepare yourself. I had, but…

If there was one thing I’d learned about Darius over the past few days it was this: he was a perfectionist; a control freak. He taught you things, yes; but it was essential you learn quickly from him and get it right. Also, he could not abide any uncleanliness; any untidiness. His luxurious condo already resembled an art museum with all its abstract paintings and nude male sculptures. Had I put anything in the wrong place? Had I left anything undone? Undusted?

Darius told me he’d gone through a half dozen house cleaners before he found the right one. Then he fired her after I moved in. The pressure on me was enormous.

Something Darius had not spelled out was how he wanted me dressed when he arrived home. Or did he want me dressed at all? Should I greet him at the door naked? It was hard to imagine he would object to that, but…Would he declare it showed a lack of imagination on my part? Ingratitude, even? “After all the lovely things I bought you…”

In addition to the panoply of cute little panties Darius had stocked my bedroom with, he’d supplied me with stockings, garters, even training bras. There was a makeup kit on my bathroom counter the size of a Monopoly box. In the final analysis, on this, my first day greeting Darius upon his arrival home from work, I opted for simplicity. The minimalist look. A pair of pink lace panties coupled with a matching shade of lipstick. My only other bodily decoration being…the heavy swaths of blue coating my eyelids, and matching my eye color. I brushed out my long golden locks. I awaited him with a (nervous) smile. That was it.

To my disappointment Darius, upon arriving, and though he gave me a quick once over, didn’t comment. Our only physical contact was for him to hand me his attaché case. His only words: “No, not there. Put it over on the table.” Then: “So what have you been getting up to?”

Darius’s question was almost a rhetorical one. He answered it himself—by glancing around his condo as if, chin in the air, Caesar surveying the City of Rome after a long absence. Still ignoring me, he went in the kitchen. Glanced around some more. Ran his hand over the center island’s marble counter top. Sniffed.

To my relief, at last, he smiled. “Place looks exquisite. Pristine.” Then the questions started: “Did you clean the bathrooms?”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Change the sheets? Make my bed?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“You had school this morning.”

“Yes.”

“How many classes?”

“Two. World History and…”

“How’d you do?”

I shrugged bony shoulders. Should I have worn one of my bras? I liked the feel of the thin straps. “Fine. They were just lectures.”

“Homework?”

“A little. Some reading. I’ll do it after we…”

Darius at last looked at me again. Looked my slender body up and down. “You got my text.”

He waited for my reply. None came. I was mortified. “You didn’t text me back.”

I felt my body tensing. “I…?”

“I expect an immediate reply to anything I send you. Texts, emails, phone calls…understand?”

“Yessir. I…”

“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ You make me feel old,” Darius said, again raising an imperious chin in the air.

“Sorry…”

“But you prepared yourself for me?” Darius asked.

“Yes,” my eager reply. Now I was on solid ground. “I douched myself, twice, just like you showed me. Then I opened myself up for you in the shower.”

Darius was running a finger along the front lip of the his Viking stove. As if looking for dust, or grease or…some—any—imperfection. “Did you use that rose-scented body wash I got you?”

I started to reply. But Darius had raised the very same inquiring index finger. “No. Wait.” He sniffed the air again. “I can smell it. I can smell you.” He smiled. “Good,” he concluded.

I was pleased with myself. I felt like I’d checked the right boxes, all three of them.

There was a fourth, however.

“After your shower, did you insert a tampon like I showed you?”

I nodded. I had. I’d opened the cabinet door below the sink, removed one, shed it of its thin paper. Lubed up the white plastic applicator, put one foot on the toilet seat lid, bent over and blindly pushed it up my rectum. Oddly, despite its slim dimensions relative, say, to the jelly dildo in the shower, or Darius’s or other men’s cocks I’d experienced, and perhaps because it was hard plastic, it hurt, a little, going in.

I pulled the applicator out hoping it was empty. I bent over and looked over my shoulder and examined myself in the wide bathroom mirror, while pulling my narrow cheeks apart.

I was pleased. It was in. The only telltale being the little white string that was now, owing to the lube, matted to my crack below my hole, my accommodating anus, inches above my little balls. It was beautiful, I thought. Sexy. Very fem. Mission accomplished!

I went about applying my makeup—in the same mirror.

I pulled my pink panties on and went to work on my face. Darius, I thought, would be pleased. I’d learned another lesson well.

Now Darius came forward a step. “Let’s see,” he said. “Take those little panties off. Turn around, bend over. Spread those sweet cheeks of yours.” Adding, even before I stood nude in front of him, “You’re starting to turn me on.”

I obeyed. At first my hands were on my knees. But this wasn’t low enough for Darius. He told me to grasp my ankles. I did, awkwardly.

Darius came over. Finding the little telltale string in the wide expanse of my crack, and finding it amusing seemingly, he pulled on it. Gave it a tug. Nothing happened. He pulled harder saying, “It’s sure in there isn’t it?” He yanked it. And finally my body yielded it up, the rough gauze-like material of the tampon, the coarse friction of it, making me wince as it exited my tender hole.

Triumphantly, Darius held the thing up head-high, like a dead white mouse he’d just liberated from a trap. “It’s pristine,” he declared, employing one of his favorite adjectives. “Good job,” he told me, before, to my everlasting surprise, flinging the used tampon end over end toward, and into, kitchen’s double stainless steel sink. Two points! “You can clean that up later,” he informed me.

I would have risen but now Darius’s middle finger was up my rectum to the knuckle. It had gone in, thanks to all my preparatory work in the shower, far easier than the tampon had come out. He wiggled it around as if his thickish finger were a snake seeking escape. Another tunnel it could turn down. After a few moments of finger play Darius repeated, a tad breathlessly, “You’ve made me hard. I want to fuck you. Stay here. I’ll go get some lube.”

“I’ll get it!” I offered, well aware of my servant-like status inside the confines of Darius’s condo, and ever-eager to please him.

“No! Stay here. Bend over.” Adding, incompletely, as he hurried off in master bedroom’s direction, “I used to fuck my ex-wife…”

I waited. Reflecting that it was a good thing I was so thin and limber. I’d been on the gymnastics team in highschool, though I hadn’t been talented enough to make the college team. I’d lost muscle-mass over the intervening two years, and when I’d first come for my interview with Darius, and I stood naked in front of him, he’d even remarked, with a spank: “I prefer someone with a little meat on his bones. Though we can fatten you up. I’m a gourmet chef by the way,” Darius could not resist adding. “If I choose you to come live with me one of the things I’ll teach you is how to cook. Then, after a time, and when I feel confident of your talents, you can cook for me, among the many other things you’ll be doing around here to earn your keep.”

Darius now returned sans clothing and sporting a by-now familiar hard-on. He had a beautiful one, a near-perfect, to my eye, penis: one uniformly thick from his nest of light-brown pubic hair up until just behind its flower—his rosy, bulbous, exquisitely sculpted prepuce. It delighted me to know that this gorgeous, swollen end to its length had been seven inches’ deep in me on four occasions now. Soon to be five.

The first having been at that initial interview. The second when I returned a week later to finalize things. The third on my first night sharing Darius’s condo with him (and it was on this memorable occasion he’d shown me how to properly prepare myself for him—for sex). And the fourth over the weekend, three days ago. Darius had a formidable pair of balls—like ripe plums—and by now, I knew, they offered up a full load. “I’m not of an age anymore,” he’d informed me at some point, “when I can get it up every day…but my limit is three days. Four max. So prepare yourself accordingly…”

Aside from finger-fucking me moments earlier, there were preliminaries. No blowjob necessary. My Master merely bent his stiff, glossy cock down, found sync with my willing hole and shoved in.

It was mildly painful, this first deep thrust. But I did not let on.

In order to stabilize my doubled-over body, Darius grasped me by the meager flesh of my hips and, while keeping his own body statue-still, pushed mine forward and back, along the axis of his cock. Forward and back. Forward and back…

“I used to fuck my then-wife like this,” Darius gloated, completing his full thought this time. At least, to my lowered ears, it sounded like he was gloating. “We used to do it in the the shower, though. You and I…we’ll have to do it in the shower sometime. Standing up, too. We’ll do it everywhere, in every…position by the time I’m done with you.” Adding, “We’ll write a book. An illustrated book. I know an…artist.”

Everywhere, I was thinking, while watching the tile floor at kitchen’s edge blur below me. Oh!

“You were…married?” I managed to get out.

“Oh, yeah…Twice…Two grown kids by my first…wife. Older’n you. Maybe you’ll…meet ‘em someday…”

This last proposition causing my hole to tighten in fright around Darius’s relentlessly sliding cock. I’ll pass, I thought.

But god it was good! Different. A unique set of sensations. Although I’d told Darius at our first meeting—my interview—I was experienced sexually, an experienced submissive and bottom…the truth was I’d only had gay sex three times, with other college boys, before I visited Darius. And between that first time and now, I’d only ever been fucked on my hands and knees and, once, by Darius, while lying on my back, skinny stockinged legs in the air, “So I can look at your pretty face,” my new roommate had declared.

This, however, was leagues removed from those typical, mundane forms of sex. Those all-too familiar positions. There was something raw and primal and hyper-sensitive about this. This was a kind of wild rollercoaster ride compared to, well, mere bumper cars.

Oh!

“You like it like this. Admit it,” Darius said through clenched teeth, as my flattish buttocks (“I prefer a boy with more meat on his bones…”) slammed against his taut abdomen.

“Yes! Oh, yes…,” my cry.

“You like it every way, don’t you you little slut? Admit it!”

“I—”

“We’re gonna have so much fun together…you and me,” Darius’s grammar momentarily lapsing. “You’re gonna be my sex slave and…I’m gonna fuck you every way in every…”

“Yes!” I concurred, shouting at the tile.

“Anytime I want it.”

Only in later life, with vastly more experience of men under my naked belt, would I look back and come to realize that Darius’s stamina leaved something to be desired. He had a perfectly formed cock, yes. And a beautiful, full, firm pair of balls. But despite his measured, God-like, perfectionist’s approach in all other areas…he, I would say, allowed himself to get too caught up in the pleasure, the emotions of the moment. As a consequence, and somewhat to his shock and consternation, he shot his considerable wad too soon.

Not too soon for someone like me, you understand. I was his mere servant at the time, his virtual slave. His pleasure instrument. I had no say in the matter. My job was to welcome anything he offered. To obey and perform. Even so…

…on this memorable occasion, as Darius’s wilting cock left my body, I, overcome by so many pleasure sensations it was like mortar fire of a virtuous kind…I lost balance, fell over forward to the floor, a straight-arm preventing my poor knees from crashing onto the tile.

“Oh!” I continued to moan, as if Darius’s penis were still in me, pumping away. “Oh!” as if our bodies were still tenuously connected. “Oh,” I exhaled, down on the floor, now on a hand and one knee, before coming to my senses.

Darius, meanwhile, towered above me, behind me. Breathless. “You…OK?”

“Fine,” I nodded.

Sex over, rather quickly I might add, Darius returned to his old self. “Get up. Go get me a towel. Wipe me clean,” he ordered. I headed for the kitchen sink, the dish towels.

“No!” he barked. “A proper hand towel. From the bathroom. Do it right!”

“Yessir,” I said, forgetting myself as I abruptly changed course. Forgetting, that is, Darius’s need not to be reminded of his greying middle age.

I returned. Sank to my knees before him, his beautiful penis, still thick and glossy, drooping down before me. A prominent blue vein awaiting.

I could not help myself. I hoped Darius wouldn’t mind. I kissed its bowed surface. I lifted it. Took it in my mouth. It smelled—tasted—of sweet lube. I began sucking it, gently. The cock that had just been up my ass. The cock that had just finished ejaculating in me.

“Easy,” Darius said, towering over me like a demigod. Then: “That’s right. Worship it…slave.”