Darius & I

Loaning Me Out

My Master Darius told me a friend of his was coming over. A dear old friend he hadn’t seen in some time. They would be sitting, chatting and sipping wine—catching up. My job was to play the role of a good waiter, and a good waiter, Darius informed me, was one who was “both there and not there.” There the second he is needed; gone the moment he is not. “But always within reach,” Darius added, though by this I didn’t know if Darius was speaking literally or figuratively. I didn’t ask.

Darius, as always, wanted everything just right. He even picked out the clothes he wanted me to wear. It was the virginal look: white stockings (thigh-highs) and white lace panties. No bra. For contrast he told me to paint my lips bright red. He also took time to complain because he found a garter belt mixed in with my panties. “Your dresser has six drawers,” Darius scolded while I stood in the shower shaving my pubes smooth, touching up. “There’s no need to mix things up. A garter belt belongs in the stockings drawer, does it not?”

“Sorry,” I said, through the spray. Since moving in with Darius weeks before I’d found myself saying “sorry” a lot. But in the process I was learning how to make everything just right. And I was living in Darius’s condo for free and he was paying my tuition (admittedly not much—it was a community college) and he did give me a (small) weekly allowance. All that for having to deal with a landlord’s fastidiousness and in return for pleasuring him (and myself) with my mouth and my ass three or four times a week. It seemed to me a fair bargain.

Darius’s guest was to arrive, punctually it was hoped, at 11:30. Darius had already prepared lunch salads on clear glass leaf-shaped plates, the lettuce and tomato mixture sprinkled with fresh pink baby shrimp and sunflower seeds. The dressing would stand off to the side. All I had to do, when the time came, was remove the plastic wrap and serve the plates, and the silverware of course, along with the small pitcher of dressing. Fool-proof. The loaf of French bread and hard cheese, along with a cutting knife, already sat in the middle of the marble-topped table they would share, just off the kitchen and in front of the balcony’s sliding-glass doors. I was to keep their water glasses topped off and their globe-shaped wine glasses discreetly filled with the expensive Napa Valley Chardonnay Darius had chosen for the occasion. The cork had already been removed. All I had to do was extract the rubber stopper and pour. With a last-second twist of the wrist as Darius had showed me.

When I wasn’t serving them I was to remain off to the side, within kitchen’s perimeter. When I asked Darius if he wanted me out of view altogether, he said no, he wanted my pretty face—and body—within his friend’s field of vision, and to that end he would be seating Alan—Darius spelled the name out to me: A-L-A-N—on the side of the table facing the kitchen. “Be there but don’t be there,” Darius reminded me, with a smile and a pat on my pantied bottom.

“I will,” I assured him, somewhat ambiguously.

To Darius’s floor-pacing consternation, it was nearly 11:45 before Alan finally arrived. The two men embraced, however—old friends. Unlike my Master, who was tall and statuesque—Demi-god-like in build—Alan was rather short and, well, pudgy. He had a round, odd-looking face. Somewhat creepy, in fact. Only much later in life, looking back, would I remember him as looking a bit like the famous actor Peter Lorre.

Alan looked at me, looked me up and down, and said, as he approached, “So what do we have here?”

Darius told him my name. Explained, euphemistically, that I was his roommate.

“Lucky you…,” Alan said dreamily, while giving my little pantied balls a fondle—more like a pinch. “Where’d you find him?”

“By chance,” Darius lied, for some reason. It was as if he didn’t want his friend to know he’d gone the desperate, pedestrian route of running an ad in the sex personals: “Wealthy man seeks 18+ boy to share my luxury condo with. Must be neat, clean, uninhibited and take direction well.” Etc.

“You are lucky then,” Alan dubiously concluded, while running an inquiring hand up and over my ribcage. “All she needs is a pair of tits…”

“I’m working on that,” Darius declared.

My eyes widened—and not just because Alan was pinching my rosy left nipple. Working on WHAT? Was this merely another of Darius’s lies? Evasions? Telling his friend what he wanted him to think?

“I know a doctor…,” Darius went on.

“I bet you do,” Alan now stroking my curls, my golden locks.

“One of the best in the country.”

“Oh?” Alan had gone back to fondling my balls, feeling me in my panty. “That would be fun. Being able to reach under while you’re fucking him and…squeeze a nice pair of tits.”

The sudden overtness—vulgarity—of Alan’s language surprised me. On the other hand I barely knew the man. And his words were no more sexually outrageous than his roaming right hand.

“Nothing quite that dramatic, I’m afraid,” Darius informed him. “But…”

“I know. There’s not much to work with. My first wife…Remember Kathy? A-cups. They were barely able to get her up to size B’s…,” Alan said, giving my flat left tit a final squeeze before turning away.

“Something’s different,” he observed, glancing around the room.

“Not really.”

“No, definitely something. More of something, anyway.”

“More…objets d’art,” Darius said, spitting out the French.

“More nude boys…,” Alan smiled, while giving me a wink. “Do you dust them for him, all these little brass sculptures?”

Forgetting myself—“Be seen and not heard”—I started to answer. “I—”

“He does most of the housework for me, yes.”

“Oh? And what else does he do for you, Darius?”

I watched as my Master started to speak; stopped. Instead he held an arm out, palm up. “Why don’t we sit by the balcony. It’s a beautiful day. Cold but beautiful. Just toss your coat there.”

Darius snapped his fingers—at me. “Hang Alan’s coat up will you?”

I watched as Darius put his arm around his friend’s rolly-polly waist and steered him toward the sunlight, and the marble-topped table.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, my friend. Let’s sit down and relax and have a glass of wine…”

That was my cue.

Throughout their desultory conversation, and especially after I pulled the cork—Darius had taught me how—on a second bottle of Grgich Hills, if Alan’s bulgy eyes ever left my painted face, my effeminate body, I was unaware of it. So constant was his distant stare I began—had to fight off—getting an erection in my panties.

His steady gaze said: I want you. But it was more layered than that, more complex. It said…I want you and I usually get what I want. So don’t even try to resist. Resistance is, as they say, futile.

I looked back—beneath my blue-swathed eyelids. It was odd. He was, on the one hand, ostensibly carrying on an intimate conversation with my Master, while at the same time, usually over the rim of his goblet, making slit-eyed contact with me. Of a distant sort.

Abruptly he said, after putting down his wine glass, and while Darius, I think, was dryly discussing the intricacies of a recessionary stock market: “I think I’m in love.”

Pause.

“What?”

“In lust at any rate,” Alan said, as Darius glanced behind himself.

“What are you…?”

“Your boy. Your girl. Whatever he is…”

Darius sounded oddly jealous. As if the attention had just been taken from him. “What about him?”

“Is he of age?”

“Of course he’s of age. He’s 19.”

“Ah. Looks much younger.”

“We keep his body shaved,” Darius allowed.

“We?”

“I do my part.”

“I bet you do, darling.” Then: “Do you ever loan him out?”

“Loan…?”

Darius kept acting surprised by this sudden turn of verbal events. But I could not help but get the feeling he was indeed…acting. There was something fishy about the whole thing. Factitious, to use one of Darius’s big words.

Alan glanced at his gold Rolex. “It’s only one o’clock. We’ve had a nice chat, a delicious lunch, fabulous wine…,” gesturing toward his glass. “Thank you. It’s been wonderful, Darius, don’t get me wrong, but…”

We both—Darius and I—waited.

And it was at this moment I came to understand, that while my Master was a wealthy man—quite wealthy, it seemed—despite the downturn in the market, his friend Alan was far wealthier. And therefore his superior.

“But,” Alan went on, “the day is still young—and night—and I could take him back to my house, and we could swim in my heated pool, and…”

Alan took a last sip of wine.

“What do you say? And then I could return him back to you, no harm done, tomorrow about this same time?”

There was another pause. A heavy, ominous, pregnant one.

“We could negotiate terms,” Alan added. “You know I’m a reasonable man.”

“Of course.”

Darius looked around, at me, and said, as if to a chastised ten-year-old: “Go to your room. The adults need to talk. I’ll call you when we’re done. Go. Did you hang Alan’s coat up?”

I went. Head down, I gladly retreated.

And while my tail was not exactly between my stockinged legs, it definitely was standing upright in my panties.

I was wanted!

And while Darius might be—I was taking a sophomore course in psychology—the dad I never had; Alan would surely, it seemed, serve as the surrogate uncle. The crazy one.

Alan kept coming back for more. He’d tied me to his headboard, with my skinny ass in the air, and after the briefest of interludes, he would return to stick his cock in my well-used, dilated hole and fuck me again, and again, and shoot his load.

I’d taken so many of the little man’s surprisingly fruitful loads his semen was now running down my balls; dripping from them. Forming a wetspot below on the bedsheet. Darius would have minded but Alan didn’t seem to.

When he discovered I got hard between fucks, he would reach under and jack me off and shoot my own youthful load as far as the pillows. Over the course of several hours he jacked me off four times and must’ve fucked me twice that many times. The surprising little man was insatiable.

After he shot his apparent last he slapped my bottom and said, “How ‘bout if we rinse off?”

I was ready. Ready for a shower. Ready to be untied and stand up again. Be human again, on two legs. My knees were killing me.

I assumed Alan meant showering together, as Darius would have. But instead he led me to his aforementioned, heated pool, outside sliding-glass doors. With its dazzling blue surface and sparkling heaven of lights.

We descended into its bath-like warmth. Alan put his arms around me. We hugged; held each other, our bodies swaying.

“I hope you didn’t mind a little bondage,” he said.

“No.”

“It enhances things, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Does Darius ever tie you up.”

“Not yet,” my reply.

“Pity…”

Then:

“So Darius pays you for letting him fuck you?”

“No. It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then?”

“Free room and board…,” I said.

“That’s something. Where were you living before you met Darius?”

I shrugged bare, cold shoulders. For while the pool water came up nearly to Alan’s armpits, I was only in to my waist. His plump arms around me helped, however. “With a couple of other guys. Off-campus.”

“Gay?”

“No. Just me.”

“It must’ve been liberating to meet Darius.”

“It was.”

“Be your fem self…”

“Yes.”

“What else does he do for you?”

“Else?”

“Free rent…”

“Oh. He paid my tuition for this semester.”

“How much was that?”

“Not much. A few hundred…”

“For an entire semester?”

“It’s just the community college.”

“What are you studying?” while kneading my flattish buttocks beneath the water.

“This semester? World history. Psychology. Economics…”

“That’s a good mix. And what have you learned?”

“That they’re all interconnected. And with psychology…you can see through people.”

Alan laughed. “And have you seen through whatshisname, Lord of the Realm, Darius?”

It shocked me that Darius’s supposed best friend had forgotten his name, as I pressed my swelling penis against Alan’s prominent belly. It was happening again. It was amazing, this drug!

“It’s mainly about me,” I said.

“What is?”

“The insights. I’m an only child. Raised by my mother, no father around…”

“And what does that tell you, sweetheart?”

“I’m needy.”

Another laugh. “I like your honesty. This drug is amazing, isn’t it?”

“The pill?”

“Capsule. Once I discovered it, by chance, I obtained the exclusive rights to import it. From China of course. It turns the average man into…well, a nymphomaniac, as you’ve discovered today. And it’s not just the erections,” Alan continued, “it’s the sperm count. You’ve seen first hand how much cum I can generate over the course of…a few hours. The drug’s amazing! It even turns a college boy into a sex machine—as if you needed it!”

We swayed. I shivered. Alan said:

“I take two capsules a day. With breakfast and at night, with dinner. And this is the effect. Does my friend Darius give you an allowance? Spending money?”

I nodded at the non sequitur. “Yes. Fifty dollars.”

“A month?”

“A week.”

“I’d quadruple that,” Alan said without hesitation. “With bonuses. If,” he added, “you came and lived with me. Does Darius fuck you five or six times in a single afternoon?”

No, I stood there thinking. Thank god. Darius’s penis is nearly twice the length of yours, little man. And much thicker. He’d wear my poor hole out, tear my tender flesh apart…

“Does he drive a Bentley convertible?”

“No,” I replied. “A Mercedes AMG.”

“Well there you go,” my surrogate uncle concluded. He’d reached down and was elevating his own fledging—yet again—erection. “I want to fuck you on the stairs.”

I looked to my left, into the house. The mansion. Its warm, welcoming lights. “The stairs?”

“The pool steps, I mean,” already pushing me toward them. “I want to fuck you on the steps.”

“OK,” I agreed, every day of my life, seemingly every hour, a new adventure now. What did they call boys like me? Sex toys? No—rent boys was it?

My Master Darius stood over me in my black-lacquer, Japanese-themed bedroom—his choice, of course. My little valise was open and I was putting things away.

“You didn’t wear much,” he observed.

“No, I was naked most of the time.”

“He fucked you?”

I nodded. Why lie about it? “Many, many times. He’s taking this drug he imported.”

“Oh, that,” Darius said doubtfully. “I read about it. It’s been pulled off the market, you know. Contains nitrates…”

“Nitrates?”

“His empire is in the shit-can,” Darius said. “Yeah, if you have a heart condition…nitrates can be, like, fatal.”

“Oh. Well he was always rubbing his chest.”

“Was he?” Darius asked somewhat gleefully. “He drove you here? He didn’t bother coming up?”

“No,” I replied, “his driver did. He wasn’t feeling well. He—”

“The Bentley?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Did he tip you?”

“Tip me?” The chauffeur, I was thinking?

“Asshole Alan?”

Your best friend, I thought. “No.”

“Fucker.”

Darius was fishing around in my panty drawer. Had I left an errant garter belt in there? Was I about to be reprimanded? (His friend Alan had said to me: “I’m not a control-freak like him. We’d have more fun together. I’d tie you up a lot, punish you. But in a friendly way. We’d fuck all the time, non-stop. I…”)

Darius grinned. A baby-blue thigh garter in hand. “Put this on.”

“This?”

“For being such a good boy to my…friend.”

“Now?”

I squirmed for some reason as Darius tucked a Franklin, a hundred dollar bill under the crinkly elastic on my thigh. “For you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Giving my old friend a thrill.”

I thanked him—Darius.

Because I knew for a fact, direct from the horse’s mouth, Darius had loaned me out to Alan for a grand. The prick.

The pricks.

Although, not all had been in vain. The limo driver, on the way home, had parked the Bentley and climbed in the back seat and fucked me on the cream-colored leather, my skinny legs gloriously in the air. He was only a few years my senior and he’d fucked me—hard—until his semen exploded inside me.

“I had a good time,” I told my Master, Darius.

“Did you?”

“It was worth it,” I said.