Being Masterful

Ricky

At the beginning of 1985 I set up my own company and that necessitated hiring a few good young men. Naturally, I had my own method of testing them to determine who would be worthy. In so many ways back then Britain was a different country. The labels that are now so important: gay, bi, trans, sub, dom and so on were barely known beyond a limited group of inner-city sexual aesthetes. Though people back then were every bit as bigoted and judgmental, if they weren't 'in the know' about the extent of human perversity, they held no prior opinions on these subjects. The young men I hired were therefore blank canvasses on which to write.

Ricky was, and still is, the most powerfully erotic young man I have ever encountered. My advertisement in the local government-run Job Centre called for fit, talented and ambitious young men. I was now 30 years of age and had spent five years living in central London and transacting business all over Europe. Though I had moved out of town, my new business venture was founded on my continued access to the elite international 'movers and shakers'.

To these country bumpkins I might just have well beamed down from Mars. They didn't know what to make of me. I was knowledgeable in the ways of the world, quick-witted, arrogant and supremely confident - everything they were not.

Ricky turned up for an interview in his one-and-only suit. I'm guessing it was a couple of years old because it was a particularly tight fit. At 22 the lad was apparently still growing. He looked like a junior version of Superman in that his biceps and thighs were straining at the fabric. And that made him look really hot! You could imagine him bursting out of the restraints of his suit at any moment to reveal . . .

Exactly! To reveal what?

He had almost shoulder length very light brown hair which, I think, had blond streaks. He was a couple of inches taller than me, so say about six feet tall, and was good-looking in a masculine way, not a pretty boy. His height and rugged good looks gave him an air of confidence. In his village, in his age group, he would have been 'leader-of-the-pack' unquestionably. He was not without an ego. In his dealings with me, however, he would be out-matched, though still a bit of a handful.

I knew as soon as he walked into my office the interview would be a formality as far as I was concerned. He emanated pent-up sexuality. I also knew jobs were scarce in these parts and all the lads were desperate. The half hour interview, which was primarily about me thinking of ways not to hire him on the spot, elicited the information that his father was a farm labourer and he had gained few useful qualifications at school in spite of more than 12 years of attendance. He was quite obviously intelligent so that begged the question, just how incompetent were his teachers? This was probably another reason for his air of confidence. Qualifications or not, he knew he was smarter than his confederates. This shone through and I knew, if I was to coerce from him the level of control I wanted, I needed to make him beg for the job in some measure.

I sent him away with the words, “I have others to see. Why don't you come back at the end of the week and we'll see.” I pretended I was not fussed either way.

Brave face or not, I could tell he was deflated. He would stew on this now for several days hoping for a break and, maybe, wondering what he could say or do to impress next time to clinch the deal.

The second interview was a re-run of the first, except that I began to stress the level of discipline I would impose - at least at first - and the extreme degree of obedience I would require. I phrased things as though I was doing him a favour by forewarning him. “If you have any doubts then don't put yourself through the ordeal of training. There are lot's of easier jobs out there.” I knew full well there absolutely were not.

By now he was trying not to sound too desperate for the job. He had his self-respect, after all. I intimated that I might hire him and see how well he could be trained. Whether I would make it permanent would depend on his level of commitment. Finally, I said, “OK, stand up. Let's have a proper look at you. Take off your jacket.”

He did so, and then stood in the middle of the room in his best white shirt, tie and grey suit trousers trying to look nonchalant. I walked around him slowly, then felt the muscles on his arms, followed by a pinch of his midriff to check for body fat. I played things as though this was a peremptory basic physical once-over and, because my check on his waistline had been inconclusive, I casually unbuttoned his trousers and in the same movement unzipped them. Obviously, it was an outrageous thing to do, but I judged that if I made it look a normal man-to-man thing, he would interpret it the same way. I think it's called in sales jargon 'a presumptive approval'. There was no objection on his part. The trick is, not to ask, just do it and move on.

I eased his trousers down to his hips and lifted up his shirt so I could see his abdomen, which I felt thoroughly this time, all the while visually checking out the front of his underpants which were now clearly visible. He was wearing fairly skimpy briefs, as was the fashion back then, which had a racy yellow and black leopard pattern. The contrast between his staid outer garments and sexy underwear could not have been more stark. The briefs were faded, clearly well worn and well laundered over time. The fabric was starting to sag, providing little support in the male equipment department, and that caused his appendages to hang low and bundle in the pouch.

His threadbare undies indicated genteel poverty, and this coupled with the way the garment and its contents were precariously hanging from his hips was a hell of a turn on for me. The picture it painted was of a poor but proud country boy. I threw caution to the wind and dropped the front of his briefs. I figured they were about to slide down anyway, the frayed elastic not being up to the job of carrying the load wrapped up in them. His magnificent cock and balls more or less tumbled into the security of my outstretched palm. And what a handful.

Still he was not showing any signs of outward concern. As I weighed and casually fingered his balls his thick cock instantly unfurled. It grew, and grew and grew before my eyes, and I had not yet properly touched it! His foreskin peeled back and the bulbous head now rested against my shirt sleeve. I'm not suggesting it was grotesquely big. Not at all. I am, however, talking about a young man who was tall, noticeably muscular and in tremendous physical condition. Just like the rest of his well-honed body, his cock was at the upper end of the scale of what might be considered 'proportionate' to his body size and condition. All in all, it was the kind of weapon a super-fit wholesome country boy ought to be packing.

I really didn't want to let it go, but this whole exercise relied on my manner of scientific detachment. I was supposed to be checking him out like a vet might perform a cursory examination of a thoroughbred stallion. That was why he was tolerating and accepting it without suspicion or complaint. On the plus side, he was the one who had exhibited a very visual surge of sexual excitement, not me. That put him nicely on the back foot as far as the concept of 'blame' might be concerned.

I folded his gear back into the insubstantial briefs and hauled them back over his hips. He stood motionless, arms at his side, while I also pulled up his trousers. Then I told him to tuck in his shirt and fasten himself up. I had been extremely forward. This young man was still a complete stranger. There was always a scintilla of concern as to whether I had moved too far too fast, even on the occasions when I take things much more slowly and cautiously with a new man, so, when I said, “Report for work on Monday and your training will begin,” there was, in my mind, significant doubt he would show.

Ricky was a nice guy. He was straight and straight-talking and had the confidence to try out new things. He was not afraid to try his hand at being an explorer. That was why he reported for duty and I hired him. I remember him once telling me about his 21st birthday. His mates took him for a pub crawl and then, when he was so drunk he was paralytic, they stripped him naked and left him semi-conscious in a stream. He complained to me, “I could have been drowned!” These are the kind of rough and tumble games farm boys play in the wilderness. Anywhere else and they would call a constable and file for aggravated assault. Though most certainly intelligent, he was an intriguing and exciting mix of innocence and dumb masculine bravery. That was why he was to spend so much time naked, stoically enduring my arduous training sessions.

I have a couple of black and white photographs of him (sadly he is fully clothed). You can take a look here. https://enslaver.uk/flog. Let me know what you think.

Next up: Being Masterful 6.

Ricky is accustomed to being physically strong so I have to teach him what it is like to be helpless in a situation; to be bound and unable to resist whatever abuse is inflicted. I tell him, “The measure of a man is how he copes in an almost impossible situation.” His first training session has him in tears. Not because he is hurt but because he is confused and is losing all the emotional reference points on which he has learned to rely. A lesser man would have chickened out and saved himself the trauma of unconditional defeat.