My summer of sex with Cowboy

Chapter  16

Waking up, I'm feeling fine Friday morning, although I do kinda miss Cowboy's hot young body lying all over me. He's been sleeping at Lee's house because he says it's sexy sleeping in Lee's bed. Lee's parents were in Maine last week, and this week, they go from Maine to Atlanta, Georgia, for a convention of old-time barbers. I suppose they'll commiserate about women barbers taking over their profession. 

That, however, is not what I'm thinking about. I'm lying here in bed wondering how long I can continue my secret life as Bruce's pussy boy recruit? Realistically, the next three weeks are the last weeks I can play this game. I've been thinking up a convoluted scenario where it appears I'm on the street doing blowjobs in cars, although I'm not doing that. I'd give Bruce money out of my pocket that supposedly I earned as a prostitute. Even if I could pull that off, it has a short shelf life, only temporarily delaying the inevitable split with Bruce.

In my mind, I'm not in a pussy boy recruit situation anyway. I'm in a Bruce situation. He gets my dick throbbing the hardest when he gets me in the submissive part of our sub/dom relationship. I can hardly believe how sexually arousing that is for me. He doesn't see it like that at all, of course. He sees it as a serious mentor/recruit relationship. He sees it as his profession with me, the first of several male escorts he'll eventually have hooking for money that he'll take a big percentage of.

Well, why wouldn't he think that? I'm deceiving him into believing it. Selfishly, I'm continuing my deceit because I am infatuated with him, plus the whole bottoming experience I find sexually molten hot. I also like the consistency and the daily routine, and I like Bruce telling me what to do.

It's amusing in a way because I know something they don't know, and it's that I'm capable of fucking them all up physically instead of doing what I'm told. Knowing that satisfies my ego. Of course, heh-heh, I'm assuming I can fuck them all up if I wanted to, while perhaps I've been programmed not to want to, which is the same as me not being able to. 

Yeah, well, that thinking right there is a good example of how my brain gets twisted when I think about why I'm doing all this bizarre stuff. I think of it as the game I'm playing, but maybe I'm not playing. Shaking my head to clear it, I jump out of bed.

Whatever, I'm invigorated at the thought of being with Bruce—that's what keeps me going. Touching my dog collar, I must wear it constantly, along with my jockstrap. See, the fact I need to wear the dog collar gives me a shiver of submissiveness, which is exactly what I find intriguing and sexually exciting. Plus, I like having something I need to do today and tomorrow and so forth.

For as long as I can remember, there was always something I knew I had to do. For years, it was checking with Ronny to find out what we would do that day. I mean, after we did the things we both had to do in prep school and college. The same scenario happened when we were in the Navy Seals. And, it's the same basic situation I'm in now, except it's Bruce taking Ronny's place, um, with extra benefits.

And there's good news for my pretend position of being a pussy boy recruit, as the next couple of weeks supposedly will be easier than the first ones. That's according to what I heard Eli and Bruce talking about yesterday. Talking among themselves, not to me. I was just there to run errands getting them beers or lighting cigarettes for Bruce, or being the fuckee for their entertainment. I also like that there's nothing I need to decide as Bruce's recruit; he decides everything, and I like that... most of it anyway.

So, for now, I will stop trying to decipher what I'll do in the future and concentrate on today.  I'll figure out what comes after that later. After taking care of everything I need to do in the bathroom, I have coffee at the hotel's cafe while texting with Cowboy. He appears to be quite happy with his and Lee's oral sex life and his continuing efforts to take Lee's cherry.

Heh-heh, I'm happy that Cowboy and Lee are experiencing a more or less normal nineteen-year-old gay boys' summer together. In a lot of ways, I feel bad for my nineteen-year-old mentor, who has never experienced anything resembling a normal summer. Not from what he's told me, and certainly, his nineteenth year's experience isn't remotely what most would call normal. As someone said, we all must play the hand we're dealt. I've never heard or read anyone claiming life was fair, so there's that.

I drive to Bruce's apartment with that last thought in my head, and when he opens his apartment's front door for me, I lose it and hug him as if he's my answer to happiness. He goes, "Okay, come on now, that's enough, Zach. It is a nice greeting but not an appropriate one."  

Of course, it isn't, but you know what? During the hug, I realized another thing I like about Bruce. It's that he's almost as tall as me. It makes for a better hug and also better sex. Anyway, Bruce tolerated the hug for five seconds before saying, "Stop it!" I back away, grinning, and he mumbles, "I'm at a loss. What should I do about your extreme affection for me? It isn't covered in the manual." 

I wonder if that's true.

Anyway, I can't help my pathetic self around Bruce, so I'm either totally brainwashed by his mentoring, which I don't believe, or I'm simply into this guy so much I don't know what to do next. I've never felt this way about anyone else in my life. Ronny was my idol, but I never had sexual fantasies about him. He was way too macho to even fantasize about doing anything sexual with him.

As I undress, Bruce says, "It's a compliment that you've fallen for me romantically, but it complicates matters. According to the manual, many recruits become very attached to their mentor, but it says nothing about a romantic attachment. You know it can't be reciprocal, right? I'm your man, Zach. In a way, I own you. I will be your man, and you will be my boy on the streets, earning us money. That's if you qualify, and Richard decides that."

Am I romantically into Bruce? I never think of it like that. I've never in my life been romantically involved with anyone. Wait, that's not true. When I was fourteen, I was in puppy love with a prep school classmate, Jose Ortiz. I loved him so much I could hardly breathe. He was my earliest dominant sex buddy, although I didn't know the concept of dominant and submissive back then. I'd do whatever he said, though; it was a no-brainer. It meant I was with the boy I loved when he was telling me to lick his balls or fetch his Lucky Strikes from his dorm room or carry his backpack, or whatever. He was the only sex buddy I've ever been in love with. That is unless Bruce is right, and I'm in love with him.

You'd think I'd know if I was, and I don't know.

When I don't respond, Bruce says, "You do want to be a pussy boy, don't you, Zach?"

I mumble, "Oh, yes, of course I do, Bruce."

He shows me his palms, like 'There you go then.' In other words, forget being romantically involved with me...

When I'm naked except for my dog collar and jockstrap, I stand at attention, and he says," "You'll be disappointed if you expected being romantically engaged with me will change my plans for what we're going to do today because it doesn't." He walks around me, then puts his finger between my dog collar and neck to see how tight it is.

Oh no, he will tell me to tighten it another notch. He doesn't, though. Instead, he pats my jockstrap cup and goes into his goofy-Bruce mode laughing out loud and saying, "That was so funny yesterday when Eli asked you which dumpster you found your jock in. Jesus, that made me laugh!"

I grin, and he goes, "Oh, fuck, where's my tea mug?"

Turning around, he sees it on the coffee table. Picking up the mug, he goes, "Hugging me won't change what I have planned for you, but you wouldn't want it changed anyway because it will be an easy day of training. Mentors often give their recruits a break. Actually," and he snickers, "I wish hugging were required as I quite liked it. However, your super attractiveness needs to be put to money-making use, so that's what we'll both keep in mind. Right?"

I nod, mumbling, "Yes, Bruce."

His repute for my foolishly overdone hugging should be humiliating for me, but I'm not humiliated. Bruce, by now, has eliminated that awkward emotion from me. He drops his shorts, saying, "You can be at ease now. I want you to take my clothing the rest of the way off me and neatly put them on the sofa." He lifts his arms so I can pull his t-shirt off, and then he lifts one foot and then the other as I'm taking his shorts off. I pull his underpants down, a different pair of girlie underpants from yesterday, and he does the foot lifting so that I can take that off, too. I stare for a second at his pretty seven-inch penis, then I fold his clothes and lay them on the couch.

That done, I lean over with my hands on my knees, waiting for Bruce to twist in my butt plug, hoping it's not a big one. Bruce rubs my head, saying, "No butt plug today."

I gulp, not daring to believe I heard him correctly. He says, "And, take that dumpster jockstrap off too. We'll do the sexual exercise, starting with rimming and ending with you deep-throating my cock as you did yesterday for Eli. Let's see how you handle a long cock. Not everyone has a five-inch one."

"Yes, Bruce," as I'm stepping out of the jockstrap. Now I want to hug him even more than earlier; no butt plug and no jockstrap! Dropping to my knees, I feel my mouth filling with saliva because, like Pavlov's dog, the thought of rimming and sucking Bruce gets saliva flowing. Omigod, rimming and sucking his cock, and no butt plug today. A perfect start for today's training. 

The best way to get the most out of the rimming, Bruce is bending over with his hands on his knees, saying, "Take the rimming up a notch, Zake. You're doing it well; I'm not saying you're not. It's that you're not progressing; that's my concern. Good rimming jobs put $150 in our pocket, and excellent rimming gets the suckers coming back, again and again, requesting my boy for their ass rimming. Got it?"

"Yes, Bruce," and I lick all over his butt cheeks, enjoying the clean scent of the smooth hairless tight skin of his plump, firm buttocks. Spreading his buttocks, I get my face tightly into his ass crack, my nose pressed at the top, my neck craned back so that my tongue can cover his anus. I press my tongue against his tight rosy-colored anus, and it feels sexy on my tongue as my cock tightens up. After two seconds of pressure, I drag my tongue past his asshole and move my head to push my tongue over the skin to the back of his balls, lifting them and holding them up for a full second before retreating, going back the way I came, and again dragging my tongue tightly against his skin up to the top of his ass crack, then do it all over again.

Bruce moves a little, making a groaning sound as I begin licking over his asshole slowly and repeatedly until, finally, the lips of his asshole are quivering as if they're trying to get a grip on my moving tongue. After maybe three minutes of that, I begin poking the tip of my tongue at the center of his asshole, loosening the tight rosebud-like configuration that most assholes steadfastly maintain except when opening for the purpose they're intended.

It takes patience to get the tip of my tongue inside, but once I get it opened slightly, the tightness gives way to my probing, and I get my tongue inside Bruce's rectum an inch and maybe a little more than that. Now it's a miniature fucking of his asshole with my thrusting tongue. In and out, back and forth, his anus loose now, conquered by my tongue. Meanwhile, my cock is a steel rod against my belly, drooling pre-cum. My arousal is pretty much as high as it gets, and I groan, hump my hips, and blow my load onto my stomach and chest, squealing into Bruce's ass, "Eiiie," my whole body shaking with shivers of intense pleasure streaking out all over me.

Bruce is accustomed to me climaxing while doing oral sex on him, and he waits ten seconds before saying, "I'm the one who's supposed to get off, Zach."

Shuddering again, I get my tongue moving and begin fucking his ass with it again. Thirty seconds later, Bruce steps away, and I sit back on my heels, saying, "I'm sorry, Bruce. You arouse me tremendously. Yesterday when I was rimming Eli, I didn't even get a boner." 

Bruce goes, "Oh, so it's my fault, huh?" Then he chuckles, rubs my head, and adds, "That's okay. It's flattering, I suppose. You splattered your orgasm all over yourself, I see. Go clean yourself up, and then you can suck my cock and deep throat it."

I hop up immediately and do what I'm told while Bruce drinks some tea, still chuckling. Eli's visit showed Bruce that it's okay to laugh occasionally. He showed Bruce that everything shouldn't be as serious as death and taxes. Lighten up a little appears to be what Bruce learned from Eli. That bodes well for me. After cleaning my gooey semen off myself, I hurry back to Bruce.

He's standing there with an ironic expression, like, 'Now that you've had your fun, how about doing what you're here for.' Before yesterday, Bruce would have been frowning, showing his disapproval at something like this.

I mutter again, "I'm sorry, Bruce," and he nods, "Uh-huh. You may not know this, but I was right there at the tipping point of blowing my load when you decided to blow yours instead."

I try looking appropriately chastised, and he goes, "I'm glad you find me so sexy, but let's get on with this." 

Sexy? Christ, that's an understatement. Bruce is eatable. His long, slim body, his taut pale skin without a single blemish, as if he were brand new. His hairless chest, stomach, and buttocks are as streamlined and glabrous as a Ken doll. He does not have a bodybuilder's body, but his body is better than that, in my opinion. As I've thought before, Bruce had the right combination of genes handed down to him, so his body has all kinds of subtle definitions everywhere you'd want. Being hairless highlights that. His short-cropped, pretty blond hair and big brown eyes, plus goofy-cute facial features, all add up to more than simply 'sexy.'

Everyone has a different idea of what an ideal person, male or female, would look like. For me, Bruce fits my ideal person. I liked his appearance as soon as I met him, but I've come to appreciate every aspect of him more every day since then. The intimacy with him sexually and the total familiarity I have with every inch of his awesome body have cemented in my brain that... he's perfection. And perhaps he's hardwired that concept in me, but I don't believe that. I'm also glad he's not crazily cute or handsome; his flaws make him more real. Still, I don't think I've become romantically attracted to him, as he said. On the other hand, I don't know how to describe what I feel for him other than I'm very fond of him and like being with him, but is that romance? I don't believe it is, but...

Bruce points to the floor, so I drop to my knees again, trying not to appear as eager as I am to do this. For the hell of it, I do the nutty scent-familiarization exercise Bruce agreed was useless, and push my whole face against his groin, cock, and balls, then do a noisy inhale. Bruce conversationally says, "I check off this box on your progress report every day as if we do it every day."

He smells good, so I do another noisy inhale as he rubs my head and chuckles, mumbling, "Jesus, I wish I could find a boyfriend who is as attracted to me as you are."

I'm pretty sure Bruce would choose to forego the boyfriend by putting him on the street if he had his choice between a boyfriend and a guy to put on the street, and that makes me sad for him. 
That thought makes me stop messing around.

Pulling my face away, his scent still swirling around in my head, I gently pick up his long penis, again thinking he has the nicest-looking penis I've ever seen. There is no bulging big ugly vein; the vein is there but nicely encased in the shaft.

Sighing contentedly, I lick the head a few times, then begin doing long licks from the root to the head and do that all around the shaft until it's shiny and wet with my spit. Then I suck on the head until the whole thing is a stiff boner. I hold his boner, pointing up and against his belly with my fingers so I have full access to lick his balls. I'm doing everything deliberately, taking my time because I want this oral sex to last as long as possible.

My head bent way back, I get my tongue on his asshole again and drag it as I'm exerting pressure over to his scrotum and up and over the top, moving his balls around as much as possible, then drag my tongue to the root of his cock. Bruce moans a little and holds my head between both hands, his fingers rubbing my short hair against the grain. I'll bet he doesn't even realize he's doing that. 

I've slipped into a pleasurable haze, my cock squirming but not motivated to bone up yet. The recent huge orgasm my cock played a big part in is why it's taking its time. After half a dozen laps that move from Bryce's asshole up and over his scrotum, I put his cock, now even harder, back in my mouth, and here we go. I bob my head forward until the head of his hard cock goes past my gag reflex area and into my throat. It isn't as fat a boner as Eli's, but it feels huge in my throat.

Hearing Bruce gasp, I pull my head forward to his groin, my nose squished against his shaved crotch, his cock going two inches or more into my throat. It isn't a pleasant experience because I can't breathe, but Bruce pushes my head back until the head of his boner comes out of my throat. He mumbles, "Holy shit," and pulls my head to him again, and when my nose is against his belly again, his cock is in my throat over two inches again, and when he pushes my head away, it's lying on my tongue again. Bruce says, "Holy shit," again, and this time holds my head steady and moves his hips fucking my throat.

There was a guy in the Seals who would open his throat and let whatever he was drinking run down it without swallowing. This is the same basic thing... open my throat and don't think about it too much.

The fifth time Bruce humps his hips, deep-throating me; his hip spastically humps twice, once forward and once pulling back, then he blows his load with his cock on my tongue. The stream of cum shoots down my throat just as I'm gasping for oxygen, and I suck some cum into my sinuses.

Bruce is stumbling back, bumping into the threadbare armchair, and sitting down, holding his boner with cum dripping out as he's, moaning, "Ahhh, oh, fuck. Ummm."

Meanwhile, I'm snorting through my nose as hard as I can, spraying cum and mucus out of both nostrils. It takes four hard snorts to mostly clear my sinuses of cum. Wiping my nose on my arm, I'm like, "Holy shit," and sit back on my heels. Jesus, I hope we don't do that very often, but I'm glad we did it this time because Bruce can check off a box on my progress report. The disappointing thing is I didn't get the thrill I normally get from sucking Bruce's cock, so that's a bummer. It's usually one of my favorite things to do.

Bruce motions with his fingers for me to come over to where he's sitting. I walk over on my knees, get between his knees, pick up his messy cock, and start cleaning the cum off with my tongue. That gets my dick stretching out, and I'm plenty aroused by the time I've cleaned his nice-looking dick. I cleaned it and sucked on it, then licked it some more to be sure I hadn't missed anything.

Heavy breathing from Bruce finally subsides, and he murmurs, "No more, please, Zach. My pecker is getting sensitive from all the sucking you're doing on it. Um, not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm for sucking my dick 'cause I do."

Sitting back on my heels again, I have a moment of clarity, free from the normal exhilaration of an explosive climax; I'm wondering again if he has somehow hardwired into my brain this strong attraction I have for him. I can't think of anything he's done that could do that, but maybe it was some combination of things thought up by Richard's stepdad or Richard himself.

I mean, it is curious I'd have strong positive feelings for Bruce even though he's done many humiliating things to me. Embarrassing things to the degree that humiliation now seems routine and warrants merely a shrug of my shoulders. Plus, he's doing these things to qualify me to be his first male prostitute. 

That's not fair, though. Bruce believes he's helping me get what I want, plus he believes he's making it as easy as possible for me to qualify for the goal I'm deceiving him into believing is mutual to his. From that perspective, he's almost like my benefactor. Then there's the fact his face, his overall appearance, and his body are appealing to me, whether he's hardwired anything into my brain or not. I thought he was attractive that first night I met him. 

Then there's the fact that until recently, I wasn't interested in young gay guys. My interest in them was fueled by my exposure to Cowboy, who, coincidentally, has a similar body to Bruce's and is even more attractive. Bruce didn't have anything to do with any of that. And while Bruce isn't as attractive as Cowboy, he is a cute kid.

So, yeah, Bruce believes he's just doing his job. A shitty excuse for a job, sure, but his upbringing limits his prospects, and his dropping out of school certainly didn't help his situation. None of these factors add up to why I think Bruce is perfect, though, so I fall back on my conclusion earlier, which is...  who knows why we are attracted to a certain person and not another? Too many subconscious influences are involved for us consciously to know. So, we make up reasons to justify how we feel about someone.

During the fifteen seconds it took to think all that, still sitting back on my heels, Bruce stared at me, apparently contented and relaxed. He goes, "Would you like a mug of instant coffee, Zach?"

That baffles me as it's such an unexpected question, totally out of the ordinary. So much so, I wondered if it might be a trick question. Surprising myself, I ask, "May I have a cup of tea instead?"

What the fuck? I never drink tea. Well, iced tea occasionally. Bruce grins, mumbling, "What a brown-noser you are," we laugh the way he and Eli laughed yesterday, like two buddies.

In the kitchen, Bruce fills his tea kettle, saying, "We'll be two nudists having a spot of tea." Ah, the goofy side of Bruce. I like all his sides. He gets a fire under the kettle and says, "We're going to be doing everything we did last Friday. You know, in preparation for seeing our boss, the tyrant Richard. We'll use the MAN creme on each other and get haircuts again, then we see Bret and get the right drug to fool Richard into thinking you're humble."

I'm nodding like a bobblehead doll at everything he says and saying, "Yes, Bruce." 

When I started the obsequious rote reply, "Yes, Bruce," he was uncomfortable with me saying it, but not anymore. He expects me to be obsequious to him now, and frankly, it'd be awkward if I didn't respond to him in that manner. I was the same way in the Navy for four long years, saying, "Yes, First Seargent," or "Yes, Captain," or the like, twenty times a day. It's nothing new to me.

I suppose I'm programmable. And I'm a follower. I never thought I was, although, in hindsight, I see I've always been a follower. It's so obvious to me now that Ronny and I weren't two equal buddies; I followed him as his wingman, doing what he wanted me to do. I'm still resisting the concept of being Ronny's flunky, as Richard accused me of being.

Hot tea, it turns out, tastes just like iced tea without the lemon wedge, and it's, um, hot, not cold. Bruce, sitting across from me, says, "After we do those errands I mentioned, we'll have an afternoon on the beach. You'll see moving forward that the first four weeks for a recruit are by far the worst. In the next couple of weeks, a little longer than two weeks, to be honest, we'll concentrate primarily on perfecting your escort skills. This is where pussy boy escorts shine above the homeless runaways who end up hooking to survive. We train our boys to excel so you'll feel confident you can provide the sexual pleasure our clients are looking for."

Oh, this is a pep talk! Undoubtedly, 'give a pep talk' is in the manual for the Friday, part of week four. Doing everything in the manual ahead of schedule confuses the week we're working. 

We drink some tea, and Bruce says, "I'll help you form an ambitious first-year gameplan for how much money you want to make during your first month, then for the second month, and so on, plus how much of it you want me to save for you.

"Yes, Bruce."

"You're going to be in demand right from the start. In demand for the entire three or four months, you'll be on the street, and then even more so when you go online. I've given it a lot of thought, and I believe, if you persevere and do what I tell you, in four years, you could have enough saved that you could quit and start a small business—one that could set you up for the rest of your life being your own boss."

I'm trying not to cross my eyes mocking that lying, horseshit nonsense while, at the same time, I can see how a misguided homeless youth on the streets with no options might think this a grand plan. Bruce sincerely does. Plus, he is naive enough to actually believe what he's saying.

Goddamn, Richard and his stepdad know it's wildly unlikely, as working out like that as it is winning the lottery.

Bruce believes what's in the manual. He smiles a smile that's almost as good as Cowboy's, and he touches my arm, asking, "Whaddya think, Zach? Can we do this together?"

Christ, I almost wish I was a street kid with limited options so I could enthusiastically endorse this bullshit pie-in-the-sky scheme, which I'm positive, as I said,  directly from that evil mentoring manual.

Do I want to stay with Bruce for a few more weeks badly enough to continue deceiving him? I do as I say, "Yes, Bruce."

He says, "I understand why you can't get as excited about it as I am because, at this point, more weeks of training seem a mountain to climb, and you want to get out there making money today, but this is where you need to trust your mentor. You do trust me, don't you, Zach?"

I nod enthusiastically, "Oh, yes, Bruce."

"Good boy."

Done our mugs of tea, Bruce says, "Get the MAN creme. You know where it is." Pumped up by the pep talk, I hustle to get the creme with an overriding feeling of sadness for Bruce, as well as a bizarrely optimistic new feeling that I'll save him somehow. If all it takes is money, I can probably save him—two problems, though. One, I've got to get home to the family lawyer to find out how much money I can expect from the trust fund now that I'm twenty-eight. That's one factor, and the other is, does Bruce want to be saved? That could be a big obstacle because I don't believe he feels he needs saving.

Spreading the MAN creme on Bruce's body and then him spreading it on me reminds me why I want to continue doing the pussy boy shit. I find it ridiculously pleasurable doing this kind of thing with Bruce. Hell, I like being with him, period.

Then, we're showering together as we did last Friday; bathing one another is so fucking sexy. I'm praying he'll reach out for KY Jelly to fuck me in the shower as he did last time. He doesn't, but he is as turned on by this as I am because we both have hard boners as we're rinsing off. 

It's an extremely sexual experience, our bodies touching as the water pours down on us. I'm biting my lip, trying not to moan, but I moan with arousal anyway. Bruce hugs my slippery body against him, murmuring, "Shhh, it's all good. You and I will be working together, sort of, for four or five years. I'm not abandoning you after the training is over."

I feel like a cunt for acting like this, but I'm hopelessly attracted to him. I've never felt like this for anyone since that bad boy I loved with a passion when I was fourteen. Oops, the love word sneaked out there. That was puppy love, and I don't believe real love is involved here, although I don't know what is involved if not love.

After drying ourselves, my earlier observation that Bruce seemed as aroused in the shower as I was is confirmed when he says, "Before we get dressed and hit the barbershop, give my cock a good suck, and I'll fuck you real quick so I can check off that block on your progress report."

"Yes, Bruce," as I'm already dipping my finger in the KY Jelly, then start lubing my ass well.
That's done in fifteen seconds. We're still in the bathroom when I drop to my knees and gently pick up his clean-as-a-whistle seven-inch penis and then slowly slide it into my mouth on my eager tongue.

Bruce's hands go to my head as he stifles a moan, but I hear, "Umm," slip out from him anyway. My lips close on his cock just below the head, my tongue lapping and swirling around it. The frequency of my sucking cocks over the past three weeks has loosened my tongue to do things with it I've never been able to do before. This will serve me well doing blow jobs in cars. I mean, if I were to do that, which I'm not.

Bruce's penis has recovered from the earlier sensitivity problem because his hips are gently humping his cock back and forth on my tongue. He begins quietly moaning, "Mmm. mmm, nice... feels good."

I sucked a hard boner on him in less than forty-five seconds. Stepping back, he says, "Get up, then lean over and grab hold of the sink."

Doing that, I then push up my ass for mounting. Bruce gets right at it. His boner spreads my anus, then punching into my rectum creates an explosion of pain at first. I grit my teeth, keeping my ass up for Bruce, and almost instantly, his groin smacks into my buttocks, all seven inches of hard cock inside me in one second, as he goes, "Ahh, umm," and withdraws to slam it back in.

As hard as I try, the pain makes me go, "Aiii, ooh!" Bruce pays no attention to that and continues withdrawing and deliberately slamming his cock back inside me until, maybe a minute later, the pain subsides noticeably. Surprised, I open my eyes and moan, "Aah, umm, Bruce..."

There is no question that the pain subsides much faster now than it did three weeks ago or even last week. Bruce is fucking me so often my rectum is being programmed to quickly accommodate his long, hard cock. Wow, this is nice.

In a steady rhythm now, the slapping sounds of Bruce's body smacking against my buttocks with pleasure building in my rectum turns my cock into a hard boner, and I can't remember being fucked better or as well. Bruce's cock is now as familiar with my ass as my ass is with it, and it's "Slap, slap, slap," with both of us making a humming sound of deep sexual pleasure that, unfortunately, doesn't last very long. 

What was the foreplay of body massaging, rubbing asses, and fondling our private parts during the twenty-minute shower? That had us both aroused to the degree that three minutes of fucking was all it took before Bruce, with a gasping, breathy sound, humped against my buttocks, leaving his hard boner in me and pumping out lots of cum into my bowels.

Grinding his crotch against my buttocks puts me over the top, and I squeal like a girl with her pussy on fire, blowing my load against the cabinet under the sink. A hard, long shot of cum as I'm feeling splattering spay on my legs. The climax leaves me limply hanging over the sink with Bruce's cock still in my ass. He's leaning his chest against my back, breathing moist exhales on the back of my neck. Then lifting off me, he thrusts his cock a few times, murmurs, "That was good," and steps back, pulling out his penis.

I stay against the sink, shuddering and quietly repeating what Bruce said, "That was good." Same old heavy breathing from both of us, then Bruce unrolls some toilet paper and wipes his dick, saying, "Clean up, and we'll head out to get our haircuts, then pizza for lunch."

Cleaning up, I tell myself... 'You've done enough introspection this morning, so go with the flow and enjoy being with Bruce on an easy training day.'

Getting haircuts a week after getting one seems unnecessary in the extreme. A person's hair grows out about a half-inch every month, so it's stupid to do it every week!

Bruce says we're doing it, so we do. The barber rolls his eyes as he runs the clippers around our heads, cutting off barely eight-inch clippings. Bruce pays the barber, who sarcastically says, "Don't wait so long between haircuts next time."

As we're walking out of Bruce's favorite barbershop, he says, "He thinks that was a waste of my money, but our hair now has that crisp-just-cut look that Richard likes to see on his employees. Pussyboy escorts are known for their clean-cut appearance. It's another advantage you'll have over the bedraggled normal look the other fuck boys display trying to sell their bodies. We can criticize Richard for many things, but he insists we train our boys and have them looking good, thereby putting them in the best position to succeed."

Well, as unsavory a business as this is, I can't argue with that and say, "Yes, Bruce." The pizza lunch of Bruce's favorite pizza struggles to be average, but I eat both slices this time to not hurt Bruce's feelings. So, with our bodies as hairless as a Jonangi dog, the hair on our heads a crisp half-inch, we head to Bret's classy apartment to see about a drug for me to take tomorrow before seeing Richard.

Bret is as outrageous-looking as he was on our first visit, tattoed and pierced to the hilt. He's also as gregarious and upbeat and high as a kite, obviously on some drug or other. They hug and kiss, and then Bret hugs and kisses me, complimenting me on being the best-looking guy he's seen since he was out drinking one night with J.P. Lawrence, whoever he is.

Bret won't take no for an answer, so we have two shots of another absurdly expensive liquor. This time, it's Blanton's Single Barrel bourbon, about the same price as the Blue Label scotch. I haven't had this bourbon before, although I have had even more expensive bourbon. Bret wants to know how I like the joints he sold me, and I assure him they were just as primo as he said they'd be.

Then, when we all have the obligatory beer cans, Bret's ready to hear why we're here. Bruce explains, and Bret suggests the drug Thorazine 25mg, which treats anxiety, depression, and whatnot and can cause hallucinations. He says, "But for sure, it will eliminate Zach's arrogance problem."

I say nothing, although I don't have an arrogance problem in the first place. Bret will only sell one dose at $50, so Bruce asks for a pill bottle to keep it in. He goes, "I don't want to put this motherfucker in my pocket and pull it out, accidentally getting something out, and it drops out too."

Bret goes, "Okay, I can throw in a bill bottle, no charge."

We get hugs and kisses from Bret as we're leaving, and then, off we go back to the apartment. Bruce says, "I'll look this drug up online to be sure Bret knows what the fuck he's talking about."

In my car, I'm driving us back to the apartment, smiling inside that I'm not suffering from the butt plug and jockstrap I'm normally wearing when I'm with Bruce. He says, "Alright, I've put off bringing this up, but I'd be irresponsible if I didn't tell you beforehand. While we were in the shower, I noticed your buttocks look better, losing some of the ugly colors back there. What I'm planning on doing that you won't like, tomorrow I'm going to paddle you five or sex whacks just before we leave to meet Richard. I want to give your butt cheeks that puffy, just paddled look. That plus the drug should ensure that no drop of arrogance seeps out from the look of your eyes." 

Five or six whacks with that paddle? Balls! For Bruce, though, I can take it, so I go, "Yes, Bruce."

"As your mentor, I need to make hard decisions, so there it is."

I mumble, "Yes, Bruce."

The crazy thing is, as I already said, I'm not arrogant in the first place, so Richard won't see any arrogance. That doesn't mean he won't make up some other reason to disqualify Bruce from being my mentor. He can do that, and if he does, my adventure will be over. For good measure, though, I'll smack Richard around just for the hell of it. We'll see.

Before going to the beach, we have a cigarette on the balcony, lying together in the rickety chaise longue, Bruce's arm across my shoulders. After taking some deep drags off his cigarette, Bruce says, "There is a training video scheduled for week four about tongue exercises that I want you to watch today. After our smoke, I mean. You can begin practicing the exercises tonight. You're to spend a half-hour each night doing the exercises that will further limber your tongue for better blowjobs and rimming."

"Yes, Bruce." 

Then, squeezing my shoulders, he gave me his third kiss since we met. It's on the side of my forehead, and then he murmurs, "I'm inappropriately fond of you, Zach. Um, but don't ever mention to anyone I said that."

"Yes, Bruce."

He sets me up to watch the ridiculous tongue exercise video in the living room. I'm sitting next to him on the couch, and he makes me do the exercise with my mouth wide open so he can see if I'm doing it correctly. Just when I think nothing could be more humiliating than the last thing, something more ridiculous shows up. Not that I'm susceptible to being humiliated anymore, you understand. Just saying...

After that, my tongue aching, I collect everything Bruce wants me humping down to the beach, and off we go without my butt plug or jockstrap. I've had my dog collar on all day, but that isn't a problem since Eli loosened it, and Bruce is leaving it that way. We spread sunscreen on each other, and I get shivers at the feel of his palms on me—awesome sexy shivers.

Then the same shivers as I spread the sunscreen onto his almost perfect body. Perfect in my mind, anyhow. Then, Bruce can't help but follow the manual, which means we lie on the beach blanket like lovers, with me draped partially on him. He's lazily rubbing his fingers in my short hair against the grain again, quietly telling me, "I'm proud of the way you didn't whine about me paddling your ass tomorrow. You can take five or six whacks now that I've toughened up your buttocks, and it is important, too. It's insurance that we get what we want from Richard."

Fuck, sure, no problem, as if I have a choice. There is a problem lying against Bruce like this, though, and it's my boner poking up the front of my swimsuit. His body arouses me greatly, and I can't stop myself from snuggling in tighter to him.  Then, the side of my face lying on his chest, without thinking, I kiss his left tit, then put my lips on it and suck it. Bruce's body stiffens, but he doesn't say anything. I suck his tit until the nipple is as hard as my boner. 

Then he says, "Not here, not now, Zach. Maybe tomorrow. I mean, assuming we're successful, I'll let you lie naked with me in my bed, and you can lick and suck on all parts of my body as you wish. It'll be your reward for being cooperative in this Richard matter."

Well, hell, yeah, I'd like to do that, but I respond by rote, "Yes, Bruce," and then add, "I mean, that would be awesome, Bruce!"

He goes, "I thought you'd like that."

He rolls up onto his side, and I slip off him so that we're face to face, his arm over my side exactly like gay boyfriends. He grins and says, "Maybe we'll have a hot make-out too, and then I'll fuck you slowly. I hope you know that your man, meaning me, will put you out on the street, sure, but that doesn't mean I'm done with you. I'll take you in to reinvigorate you with personal attention, showing my appreciation for the job you're doing for me. We'll be a team even after you're fully qualified and working your trade. Don't worry that I'll forget about you."

Ya, know, I've thought this before, but I almost wish I could be who he thinks I'm going to be. As crazy as that sounds, he has a way about him that makes me want to please him. It's hypnotic, actually. 

He flops onto his back, lying quietly for a few minutes, and then tells me, "C'mon, we're going in for a swim." He never asks; he tells me what I'm going to do, and that always gives me the delightful shivers of submission to him.

We swim around and ride some waves into shore for twenty minutes, and it's fun because he almost always is touching me with his hands like I'm a possession, and he doesn't want to be too far away from him. And he's smiling much more than at any earlier point in this fiasco he calls my training. Again, I credit Eli for showing Bruce it's okay to laugh and not take everything so deadly seriously. 

After that, Bruce told me to gather all our stuff, and when it was in my arms, we walked back to the apartment. He's in a good mood, exclaiming what a good day this was and how we accomplished everything he wanted. He brags a bit, saying most mentors wouldn't give their recruit a day as we had, and he hopes I appreciate it and remember it when we're into a tougher routine.

I say, "Yes, Bruce," three or four times, and by now, he's heard that so many times I don't think it even registers with him.

Today, we used the apartment's outdoor hose to rinse the sand off our feet, and then I did my laundry duties, taking Bruce's laundry to the washing machine in the basement while Bruce smoked a cigarette on the balcony. When I'm back from doing that, he sends me for Cokes from the refrigerator, and I sit next to him as we drink them. Then we lie together, I snuggle against him, his arm around me protectively, and we both doze off for a bit.

When we wake up, both a little groggy, Bruce sees we're out of cigarettes, so he sends me to that convenience store on the same block as his apartment building to buy a pack. As I put on my shorts and t-shirt, he mutters, "Use your head, recruit, buy a carton, so you don't need to go every day."

"Yes, Bruce." 

When I returned with the carton of Marlboro cigarettes, he sent me to the basement to move the washed laundry to the dryer. When I returned from that chore, Bruce yawned, stretched, and got off the chaise lounge. He comes in from the balcony and has me rim his ass and suck his cock, but only for a few minutes each, then he fucks me hard for six or seven minutes with me gasping out a squeal as I'm climaxing.

It was an especially violent orgasm because I got very aroused with our intimacy on the beach and chaise lounge. A hot burning climax with cum streaming from my boner, getting me shaking so hard Bruce needs to slap the back of my head to get me to calm down. 

He has me bent over, my ass up high, me holding onto the edge of the coffee table. Yeah, he was aroused from our intimacy, too. He continues fucking me hard enough to make him grunt at each thrust of his long hard boner up my ass, me still shivering from my climax. A minute or so later, Bruce does a final hump and, making his noisy deep breathing sound, fills me up with his cum for the fortieth time since he started his mentoring/training.

I can't recall even one of the fucks he laid on my ass that didn't result in an excellent climax for us both. As I mentioned, by now, his boner and my ass are very familiar with one another, and the pain of entry I'm learning to embrace as another type of pleasure, and I look forward to it now.

When we've collected ourselves and cleaned up in the bathroom, Bruce says, "I've broken your ass in pretty well by now, but my cock isn't as hefty as some, so next week, I've lined up at least two mentors with notoriously fat cocks who have agreed to spare an hour or two from their other duties to get you used to big fat cocks. Not necessarily as long as mine, but much fatter. Ideally, you need to be able to take a fist up your ass but don't worry about that now. That's week six of training. Trust me; I'll have you prepared for street action, which can be almost any size dick."

"Yes, Bruce."

He sends me on my way wearing only my dog collar, so I'm feeling good. Super well-fucked and ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow's Saturday, so that means a four o'clock meeting with Richard, although Bruce wants me at his place no later than three o'clock. That's to give him time to get me ready for the meeting. First, the drug, then the unexpected paddling, which will hurt like fire, but I'm anxious to feel it because my mentor thinks it's necessary.

Eli would probably disagree, but I believe in Bruce's methods for mentoring. Bruce wants to be sure, like the man wearing suspenders and a belt. If he thinks six whacks with that evil paddle will further ensure we'll convince Richard I'm not arrogant, swing away with that paddle, mentor.

See, I trust Bruce more than anyone, and why wouldn't I? But at the same time, I feel so bad for him that I feel like crying sometimes. What a terrible life some guys lead. And in other parts of the world, it's a lot worse, but what can I do about it? And, more relevant, what can I do about my infatuation with him, with Bruce?

Walking into my hotel suite, I touch my dog collar and grin because there's no jockstrap torturing my junk today, and I like the dog collar. I get a beer and, standing in the middle of this opulent suite, I try to remember why I thought Cowboy and I needed a place like this. I guess because I only expected to be here a couple of nights, and, oh yeah, there was a convention of some kind when we checked in, and only suites were available. Plus, I was too lazy to try the hotel a block away.  

Walking out onto the balcony, it occurs to me that money rules and how incredibly spoiled Cowboy and I are, taking for granted that we were born into the right families. Happenstance, nothing more than that, allows me to waste money on a suite. Hell, Cowboy isn't even staying here most nights.

Tonight, Lee, Lee's friend Jake, and Cowboy will go to a Phillies/Yankees game in Philadelphia. That's normal for three teenagers to do. It is good for them to do normal, but being spoiled rich isn't normal, although it isn't stress-free. And, oh fuck, there I go complaining about how hard it is being financially independent.

Not just Cowboy and me, though. I'll never forget Ronny's buddy, his rich neighbor, all pissed off he had to wait a month for his high school graduation present. It was like, ' Oh, too bad you need to wait an entire month for your specially-ordered Mercedes. Incompetence, that salesman is an incompetent idiot.' 

Good, God! Why do I think about that shit? That happened over eight years ago and has nothing to do with me now. Hmm, or maybe I'm comparing that to Bruce's teenage years and his preteen years, too. This pussy boy experience with Bruce makes me rethink things, and I see my life in a very different light. A disturbing one. And why the hell did I think Cowboy was an inconvenience the first month he was traveling with me? It was a blessing he was with me. It wasn't an annoying promise I made in haste to his brother on his deathbed. I needed Cowboy as much as he needed me.

Why did it take me five or six weeks to understand that? Well, I never claimed to be a genius, but I got good enough grades and SAT scores to get into Yale, so I'm not stupid. Yeah, being a legacy helped a little too. My father and uncle graduated from Yale, and they have donated a combined million dollars as graduates. That might have had something to do with my early acceptance letter.

Not that any of that matters now. Ronny's dead, and I'm not, so I need to go on living. Not to be a male prostitute, though. I need to be thinking about the future, not the past. Yeah, except this morning, I decided not to think about the future.

I am staying tonight ordering room service dinner and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Getting drunk after a barely warm steak dinner, I'm dying for a cigarette, although the thought of buying a pack never enters my mind. What never leaves my mind is Bruce. As I'm rubbing my dog collar, I picture Bruce's face, his scent, his cock, his slim body, and I want him. No, I can't do another panic call to him as I did last Friday night. I wish I could, though.

Then, cheering me up, Cowboy texts me pictures of the three of them at the baseball game. Cowboy and Lee's friend are holding up cups of beer, which he is probably using his fake ID to buy, and Lee has an oversized plastic cup of Coke. Cowboy says, 'Wish you were here, Zach!'

Fuck, that's sweet, so I text back, 'Me too!'

I really wish I was nineteen again and knew Bruce growing up so I could do something, I don't know what, but something so he didn't end up where he is now. And what a ludicrous pipedream that is! God, I'd love to see him tonight...

Instead, I get drunk enough to go to bed. Waking up Saturday morning, I'm feeling trepidation. Where is the cockiness I felt yesterday? Jesus, Bruce will paddle me six whacks and then give me a drug I know nothing about, and seeing Richard scares me too. What happened to my boast that I can beat up the whole bunch of them if I want to?

WelI, I'm not going to do that 'cause I'm not some crazed maniac. I guess we were crazed at times in the Seals, but I'm in the real world now. No, I'm not in the real world at all! I'm HALF in the real world. The other half, I'm in the pussy boy world; that's nowhere near the real world.

I'm tying my brain in a knot again, and my trepidation about this afternoon's activities, makes for a shaky beginning today. It's five of nine, so I've got five hours to kill before seeing Bruce. Hmm, I checked my cell phone and scrolled through my telephone contacts to find Lloyd Burnstein, our family lawyer. It's Saturday, but my father gives this dude a lot of business.

I call him, and he answers after two rings, saying, "Zachery McMann, my favorite Navy Seal. How are you doing, buddy?"

Fucking caller ID told him who's calling, but I haven't seen this sixty-year-old guy in person for over four years, yet he acts as if we're tight buddies. Lawyers! He's already got the meter running at $300 an hour.

I say, "Hello, Mr. Burnstein, I'm fine, thank you."

He says, "Please, Zack!  Mr. Burnstein is my father. I'm just plain, Lloyd, to all the McManns."

I'm thinking of a used car salesman, but say, "Sure, um, Lloyd, could I impose on you to take care of the trust paperwork today?"

He mutters, "Today? Ah, well, I've got a firm twelve o'clock tee time at the club for the foursome I'm in, and your old man will impose that fifty bucks fine on me if I'm late for that... heh-heh."

I'm like, "What?"

And he says, "He's on the club's rules committee and, well, never mind. Sure, I can take care of your paperwork if you can get here in the next ninety minutes. Are you home now?"

I bypass that question and anything to do with the country club and agree to meet him at his office at ten-fifteen. Hurridly washing up and throwing some clothes on, I quickly text Cowboy what I'm doing if he was planning breakfast here at the hotel, then jump in the car, and I'm on my way.

Damn, though, this is an excellent idea. I put this off long enough. It's a fifty-five-minute drive, and then it's weird driving through my hometown for the first time in over four years.

It's weird, mostly, because It doesn't ring any bells with me. That's because I was away at prep school or college for much more of my life than here in my so-called hometown. Lloyd is in his office dressed gaudily for a round of golf, and when I walk into his office, he goes, "Zack?" as if he's not sure.

So much for the bonhomie familiarity on the phone. 

Whatever, I smile and say, "Yes, and thank you for doing this on such short notice and a Saturday, no less."

He's got his $300 an hour smile on with his hand out, saying, "Are you kidding? The McMann's get the royal treatment, son."

We shake hands, and he motions for me to have a seat. Then he gets right into it. It's a formality, he says, and he's had the thrust fund paperwork prepared automatically since the date I turned twenty-eight. 

First, though, there's small talk that must be endured so Lloyd can stretch this process to fifty minutes, which is close enough to an hour to qualify as an hour... cha-ching. I could care less about the $300, but I want to get out of here. After hearing about the changes at the club, a country club I've been to exactly twice in my life, and about the brand new firehouse that we share with another town, and a few things about my father that he assumes I know about, but I don't... we get around to the changes in my trust fund.

According to the trust established when I was born, I'd begin receiving monthly payments when I graduated college, which I did receive. The cash accumulated when I was in the Seals, but now that I'm twenty-eight and probably married with children, the fund will now pay out $200,000 tax-free dollars a year. There is a lot of gobbledygook involved in that that I ignored because all I care about is signing the damn thing indicating all the gobbledygook was read to me, and I understand it, which I don't, but don't need to as long as Lloyd understands it. I mean, why are we paying him if not to handle all the gobbledygook for us?

I sign the papers, all eight of them. We shake hands, and he hustles out to make his tee time while I drive back to Atlantic City, smiling all the way. Sure, I expected it would be more, but it's enough. I'll wait until later to feel guilty about getting all that money every year for the rest of my life without earning a penny. For now, I'm ecstatic! I mean, what am I supposed to do, say... no thanks? What would that prove other than I'm an idiot?

I'll get some lunch which will kill some more time. Man, getting that paperwork out of the way was good in two ways. It's off my mind now, plus I didn't think about what's in store for me later today while I was taking care of the trust fund business. However, I'm back to experiencing trepidation as it's only a couple of hours away.

Because it's convenient, I eat in the hotel cafe. I don't dare to have booze on my breath, so I pass up the cocktail I'd love to have before lunch; two or three would be better. Instead, I order a BLT sandwich and, in honor of Bruce, an iced tea. I'm nervous about getting paddled with good reason and about taking a drug; I know very little about and about seeing that tyrant, Richard. 

Wait a second here... Navy Seals aren't nervous about dangerous missions, right? Bullshit, we were all nervous, so it's okay that I'm nervous as long as I overcome it and do the mission. However, it does mean that I don't have much of an appetite, although I force myself to eat the sandwich.

Then, like last Saturday, I walk the boardwalk trying to blank my mind because if I don't, I might realize what a fool I am for willingly going through with this insanity. I'm done rationalizing to myself why I'm doing this pussy boy nonsense; I committed to Bruce I'd do it, and that's enough reason to do it. So, at two-forty, I'm in the suite's bathroom doing one last washing and pissing and brushing my teeth.

As I drive to Bruce's apartment, I finally blank my mind, which is a perfect state of mind for one who only needs to do what he's told. Thinking isn't required. Park your brain at the door before entering. In this moronic frame of mind, I bypass my normal idiotic habit of knocking on Bruce's door at precisely the appointed time and knock ten minutes early.

Bruce opens the door and says the obvious, "You're early."

 I say the obvious, "Yes, Bruce," and he takes hold of my arm, pulling me inside and mumbling, "You're very pale. Are you okay?"

"Yes, Bruce."

He's looking very preppy wearing what he told me is pussy boy's official summer business attire. Tan khaki shorts, a white polo-type short-sleeved shirt, white socks, and clean sneakers. He's so clean-looking he shines.

He notices me staring at his outfit. Pointing at the coffee table, he says, "Yeah, this is Richard's preferred pussy boy outfit. I have the same shorts and shirt for you to wear. We're pulling out all the stops, you might say."

Nodding, I'm like, "Oh, you bought those shorts and shirt for me?"

"Yes, and the socks and sneakers. I'm leaving nothing to chance."

When I start to pull my t-shirt off, he goes, "Not yet. Let's smoke on the balcony and go over our plans."

On the balcony, without being told, I light two cigarettes, pass one to Bruce, then sit close to him on the rickety chaise lounge. We both take ridiculously deep drags off our cigarettes, and while exhaling, Bruce says, "Take your medication," and I look where he's pointing. On the round glass tabletop is a round blue pill and a bottle of water. No hesitation, I pick up the pill, pop it in my mouth, and swallow some water.

Bruce murmurs, "Good boy," then reaches his arm across my shoulders and pulls me against him. I snuggle in and take another deep drag off my cigarette. Bruce takes the cigarette from my fingers and drops both his and mine in the round aluminum ashtray. Usually, I'm naked doing this snuggling, so it's a different feel with clothes on. I prefer being naked with Bruce.

He's doing the usual rubbing of his finger lazily back through my short hair against the grain as he says, "I'm confident that we'll be successful today, Zach. Then it's easy sailing through the last weeks, and we're off to New York City... the Big Apple."

I murmur, "Yes, Bruce."

He goes on to tell me, "The pill was only 25mg, not the 50 mg dosage. I read about it online, and it'll reduce any panic you might be feeling about your paddling and then seeing Richard. It's an antidepressant as well."

"Yes, Bruce." 

He tells me that one of his pimp friends sent him pictures of the apartment we'll share with him and his boy in New York and how excellent the apartment is. His pimp friend's boy and I will have a room with bunk beds. The boy using the bottom bed now will be going online and operating from another location.

I've always enjoyed Bruce's voice, and listening to him talk on and on is hypnotic. Then, I'm not sure how long we were on the rickety chaise lounge when his voice began fading out, and he shook me, saying, "Time to get up, Zach."

I jump up, feeling dizzy and docile. 

Inside, Bruce says, "Strip off everything, and you know what to do in the kitchen. I've put two towels on the table for you, so it'll be a bit softer than before."

In fifteen seconds, I'm naked except for my dog collar. I sway a little, walking into the kitchen, then lie my chest on the tabletop where Bruce has the two bath towels spread out. He says, "Push up your ass," and when I do that, he hands me his phone, saying, "Don't push the play button until I tell you to."

Not being as alert as I should be, I push the play button. Bruce gets the paddle off the table. It was right beside me, but I didn't notice it until he picked it up. He says, "I'll email this video of the paddling to the tyrant right after I do it. It'll appeal to his sadistic nature. I've been paddled, Zach, so I know it hurts, but once we get the go-ahead for me to finish mentoring you, there are no more meetings with Richard and probably no more paddling. I'll be free to mentor you how I think is best." 

I'm not even uptight about the paddling. It feels as if my body is hollow, which I'm thinking about... my hollow body. Bruce says, "Push the play button," and I do, but that inadvertently turns it off.

Then, "Whack!" and I stop thinking about my hollow body and think about how much that 'whack' hurt. Each one hurt worse than the one before it and sounded louder, "Whack!" "Whack!" Six in all, and then Bruce takes the phone and pushes the stop button, which turns on the video feature again.

He puts the phone down and sprays my ass with the sunburn pain relief spray, and I scream like a child. The burning on my buttocks begins subsiding to tolerable levels in a few seconds, but it still is extremely unpleasant. I was docile when I lied on the towels, and now I'm so docile when Bruce twists in the big butt plug I squeal like a girl who stepped in dog shit with bare feet. I didn't think about how humiliating that must have sounded.

Bruce pats my ass, saying, "Just lie there until your anus relaxes. That's not the Bruce-size plug, but it's fairly large."

I'm not thinking about anything except my aching ass. When the aching is a dull ache, Bruce gets me to stand up slowly, and then he walks me around the apartment until I can do it on my own. He says, "Excellent! Be sure to stand tall like this later, too."

It occurs to me that I haven't been saying 'Yes, Bruce' for a while now, and he doesn't care. Huh!
Then, Bruce helps me get the jockstrap on as I mumble, "I didn't know where this was."

He says, "That's okay. You left it here yesterday, remember?"

I mutter, "I'd like to lie down."

He goes, "Sure, in about a half-hour, okay?"

Then he needs to put on the clothes he bought for me. I try to help, but it's mostly Bruce telling me to lift my arms, my right leg, and so on. He's tying my sneakers, saying, "I know I don't need to remind you, but I will anyhow... do not speak unless he asks you a question, which he is unlikely to do. So, be mute until we're done with him." 

I'm not saying shit, but I think I just thought that. I don't think I said it. Bruce dressed me while I stood because sitting on my butt right now would be too painful. He checks me out as I'm swaying slightly.

Frowning, he asks, "How do you feel?"

"I feel bad that you must go through all this trouble. It was me, right? I caused it, and I feel terrible about that."

"That's alright, Zach. I'm interested in how you feel, um, other than that."

"My ass is very sore, and I'm dizzy, and I'd like to lie down somewhere."

He nods, "Uh-huh. I'm going to take a piss. Do you need to do that?"

 I mutter, "I don't think so, no."

He pats my shoulder, "Get the phone from the kitchen. I've got your car keys, and I'll drive. You can lie on the backseat so you don't further irritate your butt."

I don't know what the fuck is going on, so I go in the kitchen for the phone, wondering why my body feels hollow and trying to remember what it is we're doing. Other than that, I feel like lying down. When I pick up the phone, I see the blinking light, so I hit the stop button. Hmm, why was it still recording?

Bruce, finished peeing, asks, "Why are you standing here in the kitchen? It's time to go."

Nodding, I take a deep breath and follow Bruce out the door, asking, "Where are we going?"

He mutters to himself, "Perfect," and then to me, "We're stopping in at the lockers to get something."

The next thing I knew, Bruce was helping me get off the backseat and out of the car. Walking up the boardwalk ramp, he says, "Now you need to remember to walk normally as if you're used to wearing this butt plug."

I'm so relaxed I'm having difficulty standing up, but this thing in the lockers seems important to Bruce, and since I caused us this trouble, I want to do the best I can. Then, ha, it's that asshole, Richard. I'm sure it's him and his flunky recruit whose name I forget. 

Richard laughs about something. I think he's laughing at the clothes Bruce and I have on. Then I'm naked, and then Bruce hands me my underpants and shorts. I managed to put them on. Bruce gave me my shirt, sneakers, and socks, telling me to finish getting dressed in the locker area. Then, he guided me out of the office. People are moving around here, either coming off the beach or going to the beach. I sit at the closest bench and put on my socks and too-big sneakers; Bruce thinks I have bigger feet than I have, which makes me laugh, although I still need to lie down somewhere.

Not here, though, as Bruce is smugly saying, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Struggling to put my shirt on, I say, "I need to lie down, Bruce," and he goes, "You can lie down at the apartment. We beat him at his own game of bullshit. We're home free. Zach. No more interference from Richard. He even told me to lighten up on the paddling. Ha, he didn't even remember telling me that last time too."

I'm lying in the back seat again and then staggering to the apartment. Bruce helps me undress, he takes off the jockstrap, untwists the butt plug, sprays my buttocks with the sunburn spray again, and then I'm lying on my stomach on his bed naked.

When I wake up, I have this frenzied sense of excitement as I walk into the living room yelling, "What's up, Bruce?" He's not here, but he comes right in from the balcony, asking, "How are you feeling?"

I'm feeling excited and confused and dizzy, going, "What the fuck is going on? What happened? We saw Richard. What'd he say?"

It takes a while, maybe half an hour, before I start calming down, with Bruce telling me this is a normal reaction coming down from that drug and blah, blah, blah.

My ass still hurts, and I feel awful, strange, and awful. Bruce asks if I need him to drive me home, but I shake my head and get dressed. I want to get out of here, but then I don't know what. We won; I understand that, but that drug was fucked, or something, and nothing seems as important as getting outside. Bruce won't let me go alone, and he drives us all over, a long ride with the top down and me partially lying in the back seat again. Somehow, it was almost eight o'clock, so I must have slept two hours or more.

Bruce drives us out of Atlantic City, and after a while, I tell him to stop so I can get in the front seat. My ass is still tender but manageable as Bruce tells me everything that went on with Richard. It wasn't a lot, as the so-called inspection/meeting took five minutes. Bruce tells me it was as if Richard had already made up his mind that he'd leave me with Bruce. In other words, we didn't need to do the drug or paddling, but Bruce adds, "He's unpredictable, though. We couldn't take the chance that he'd be fair."

He stops at a restaurant, and we have a few Jack Daniels with a splash of water, Bruce using his fake ID. Then we had a pretty good dinner, after which I felt more like myself. I drive us back to Atlantic City, where Bruce offers me, "Do you want to come in and get your reward?"

I'd forgotten what it was, and he reminds me it's that we lie naked together, and I can lick and suck all over his body. Ha, my reward? As enticing as that sounds, I say, "Would it be alright if we do that tomorrow, please? I'm still a little fucked up from that pill."

That's the deal. Tomorrow it is, and Bruce says he may allow a little making out before he fucks me slowly on his bed. Tomorrow could be a perfect day for me—the opposite of today.

To be continued...