My phone buzzes with a text as I pull up in front of my new place. It’s from Amazon informing me of different times some of my new furniture should arrive today. I don’t want to move, and my buddies are fucking pissed that I am, but it’s better for me.
I’d moved in with my old college mates not only because it sounded like fun, but out of convenience as well. None of us left school with the greatest jobs. Jack at least got an assistant coach’s position at a nearby high school, and Todd landed the midday shift as a physician’s assistant. Logan had, of course, gone to work for his dad’s company, and pissed and moaned that he didn’t make a shit-ton of money, even though he made almost more than the rest of us combined. Not that I contributed much. Me and my English have been freelancing and editing.
Thirteen months ago, however, things started looking up for me when a pretty decent publishing house offered me a junior editor position. The job doesn’t have the highest pay, but it’s a definite improvement, and I finally feel capable of achieving something in my life. I’m even in the running for a promotion.
Like my buddies, I’ve clung to our college lives as frat brothers. The parties, the sex, the drinking and drugs. Still walking high on the idea that we were kings who ruled the world.
Those years in school, along with these past living together, have been a blast. Rushes, hazing pledges at my leisure, banging all the chicks I could. Drinking all weekend. Showing off at the gym. Laughing at losers trying and failing to score.
My friends have always been right by my side, encouraging and joining in on the fun. They’re the kinds of people I’ve always associated with, so it’d been easy to fall right back into the familiar role after high school. Cat-calling, then insulting the girl if she offered even the slightest bit of rejection, fucking them and not caring if they enjoyed themselves—what did their pleasure matter as long as I got off—not calling them when I said I will, avoiding them afterward, shit-talking beta bitches, and harassing any guy who might have shown the slightest bit of ummasculine traits.
Back in high school, me and my friends were popular jocks. Liked by almost everyone, envied by those few who didn’t. Perfect gentlemen to the teachers and staff, total dicks to the classmates we deemed beneath us. I’d enjoyed those years the most. People kowtowing to me, fearing me and what I could do to them. Pushing fags around because I could, offending annoying femi-nazis, roughing up the weaklings.
I bet people might say I’m a bully, but, seriously, they need to get an actual sense of fucking humor. When I got to college, pledged, made friends with my other brothers, that side of me continued blazing right at the surface, until I realized recently it was starting to leak into my work life.
I’ve definitely made a few of the woman I work with feel uncomfortable with some looks or comments, I’ve pushed around those in lower positions—clerks, the mail guy, assistants—made offensive jokes to other Alphas like me while we laughed at coworkers, and reveled in any chance I get to outdo my rival, especially in front of the big boss.
And I’ve loved every second of it.
But I don’t want to lose my job if some bitch accuses me of sexual harassment—not that complimenting her looks should count as harassment, but whatever—or some loser trying to claim that I’ve been bullying them. I can act better, but not if I stay in the environment that encourages me to be an uncaring asshole. I don’t want to change, I just don’t want to get fired.
I wait until a minute past noon and figure it’s time to head to the door. Deciding to grab a decently heavy box—makes sense to show-off at least a little as I get established with my new roommate—I trot up the front steps and ring the doorbell. I do have a key already, but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot on the first day.
Within thirty seconds, the deadbolt unlocks, the door chain slides, and the door opens all the way, revealing one of the last things I ever expected.
In front of me is a guy of average height who’s wearing a pair of short black P.J. shorts with pink polka dots, a matching silk robe kept open so I can see his hairless chest, arms, and legs, and a rainbow feathered boa around his neck, and the word twink pops into my mind. He has an athletic build, but in a slim way. While all of this catches me off guard, it’s the rest of him that shocks me, like his jet-black, red-tipped mussed up hair, and the two silver hoops in his lips, the rainbow barbell in his nose, the black eyebrow stud, or any of the various piercings up his left ear. He hasn’t quite looked up at me yet, which gives me a chance to fix a more neutral expression on my face before he does, but I can still see the smeared eyeliner around his eyes.
This has to be some fucking joke. Am I really about to move in with this faggot? He didn’t *sound gay over the phone.
When he does glance at me, after a quick rub of his eyes, he does something of a double-take and then looks at me as though I’ve slapped him. He shifts a bit backward, and I think he might even gasp a little. Looks like he might’ve shit himself.
“A-Adam?” he asks, a quiver in his voice.
“Yeah. I’m Adam Wilcox.” Geez, he even pales at the mention of my name. He seems like he might get sick. “You’re, uh, Lucas, right? Lucas…” Oh, shit, what’s his last name again? “Augrust?”
He hesitates before he glances down at his bare feet, saying, in a whisper, “Agreste.”
“Right, right. Sorry.”
Funny. The name sounds a tad familiar, but, for the life of me, I cannot recall ever knowing someone with that last name. Something about his face looks familiar, too, but I’d remember if I’d met this guy. Unless he’s nothing more than a blend of all the fags I’ve seen in the past.
When he continues doing nothing except standing there, looking dumbfounded and shocked and, I daresay, frightened, I shift my weight and clear my throat. This is off to a great start.
“So, uh, I guess I’m a little early,” I say in an attempt to cut through this seemingly unnecessary tension, which isn’t true, anyway. Last time we spoke, we agreed I’d arrive around noon. I suppose Lucas hadn’t been counting on my punctuality.
It takes another few moments before Lucas seems to pull himself together and catch up to what’s happening here. He fixes a pleasant grin on his face, and, since the smeared eyeliner and the overall awkwardness of the situation have distracted me, I get the chance to notice how unbelievably pretty his green eyes are. While I have very little knowledge of color shades, I would say the color reminds me of a precious stone. Emerald or maybe jade? I don’t know the differences between the two; all I know is that Lucas’s green eyes are really nice.
“N-No,” he says. “You’re not early, I just wasn’t…I was expecting someone else, that’s all.”
“What’s that mean?”
As far as I know, I’ve been the only one approved by the landlord to move in for the past month, and Lucas and I have chatted a few times via both text and phone calls.
“Oh, uh, n-nothing.” He shrugs, and some tension eases out of his shoulders. It’s not what I’d call normal, but Lucas even chuckles a little. “I don’t know where my head is at today. Had a late night and I guess I pictured you a little different. Sorry.” He gives me a wobbly, nervous grin and steps aside. “Come on in, A-Adam.”
***
Almost three months have gone by in the blink of an eye, and, honestly, things have been pretty great. Despite our initial strange meeting, I’d consider Lucas something of a friend now. Maybe not full-on friendship, but it’s a little more than two strangers sharing the same space. I never thought I’d say this about a guy who looks like him, but Lucas is a fun dude.
At first, I thought this whole arrangement was doomed from the start. The first few weeks after I moved in, Lucas avoided me like the plague, like my very presence terrified him. When we did interact, he wouldn’t look me in the eye, and if our gazes did meet, he’d quickly look away.
Around the end of that month, he started warming up to me more. I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with my domineering physique and personality intimidating his meek, effeminate nature.
I’m pretty sure we’ve accidentally fallen into designated roles. Lucas has a submissive personality, and I have a dominant one, and we fit well enough together that it’s easy to exert my dominance over him. Which means I word something as a request when it’s really an order, and Lucas happily bounds off to do it. He fetches me drinks and food, does my laundry when he does his, cooks me meals, among other stuff. He’s even given me money for lunch when I hinted I might be short.
This arrangement works better than I could have imagined. Not only do I still get to be the virile Alpha male that I am toward Lucas, but without the guys around, I’ve been behaving better at work. Enough, at least, that no one can accuse me of anything that might lead to disciplinary actions against me.
I’ve caught him once or twice eyeing me, as though expecting me to do something, and sometimes, I catch that gleam of fright in his eyes like on that first day. At first, I thought he was checking me out, even flirting with me, and then feeling embarrassed when I caught him. If Lucas had done so right away, I probably would have kicked his ass. Thankfully, I got to know the guy before I ever noticed, and now I kinda just find it flattering. It’s not all that different from a chick checking me out.
I’m attractive, hot even, so of course people attracted to males might give me a few lingering glances. At six-foot-two, I’m basically two-hundred pounds of muscles with a mop of cinnamon brown hair and cornflower blue eyes. I know nothing about shades of colors, but the girls all say so. After they’ve swooned over my body.
To save him the embarrassment of me rejecting him, I’ve been lauding hot woman around him. Just so he knows that, even if I was into guys, I’d be way out of his league. Maybe I’d use them for a fuck or two, but they’re essentially the ugly chick I take home when there’s no one left.
So, yeah, this move was a great decision.
Except for the dreams.
They started about a month ago, and I’ve been having them every night. I can’t quite remember them in detail, but I know they all feature Lucas. They’re centered on him being happy. When I wake, I find myself thrilled that Dream Lucas left in a pleasant mood. On the off chance that Dream Lucas leaves in a bad mood, I wake feeling shame and guilt.
This morning I woke feeling normal, with no recollection of last night’s dream at all. Maybe this means they’re done, and I don’t have to worry about Dream Lucas anymore. I ponder this while I’m at the stove cooking Saturday breakfast. Pancakes and eggs. Only after flipping the first batch of pancakes, made to Lucas’s specification with a mix of chocolate chips and walnuts—I bet he just *loves all sorts of nuts—do I realize Lucas usually does this.
Every Friday, he texts me what I want for breakfast over the weekend. I tell him. He makes it. But I didn’t get a text last night. So now I’m up early on a Saturday, cooking a great breakfast, but not the way I want it.
In fact, as I plate the food—three pancakes, two sunny side-up eggs, three breakfast sausage links, and two slices of toast cut diagonally and lathered in butter—I haven’t even made enough for me. Before I get the chance to contemplate this, Lucas walks into the kitchen, sporting his usual gay get-up, and smiles upon seeing me.
“Good morning, Adam,” he greets. “What’re you doing up already?”
“I, uh…I don’t know. I guess I wanted breakfast.”
“Oh, yeah? I thought you hated sunny side-up.”
“I do. I don’t eat chocolate either, but I put chips in these.” I lift the plate to show him the stack of pancakes. “I wasn’t really thinking. Here.”
I put the plate on the table, where there’s already silverware and a cloth napkin, but I have no memory of doing that.
“Thanks.” Lucas slides into the seat in front of the place setting and says, “You know what would go great with this? Some butter and syrup. Why don’t you get them for me?”
“Sure.”
Halfway back with the items, it hits me again that I didn’t think before moving. Lucas said. I did. Without question or complaint. And once I finish with that, Lucas says he wants orange juice. There’s none in the fridge, and I find myself heading out of the kitchen with every intention of running to the store and buying juice for Lucas.
“Wait a second, Adam,” Lucas says before I can leave the room. “Water is fine.”
“Yes, Lucas.”
After I get Lucas a fresh glass of ice water, I place the cloth napkin upon his lap, and then stand there like some kind of idiot. In the back of my mind, I know I can make myself breakfast or get some more sleep, but I don’t move from my spot beside the table. Not until Lucas tells me to sit.
“I’d like to have a chat with you, Adam. About your time at Brookside High.”
Eyebrows pulled in, I shake my head, a little confused by that. I don’t ever remember discussing where we went to school.
“How…How’d you know I went to Brookside?”
“I went there with you, Adam. The pride of the Brookside Broncos, right? Star running-back. Captain of the basketball team. Graduated with honors. Did I forget anything?”
Anger surges through me, and I growl, “Yeah. I also made All-American senior year. What the fuck is going on and how do you know so much about me?”
“I already told you how I know so much about you, Adam, but I’ll go slower this time in case thinking hurts too much.” This little piece of shit faggot. Wait until I get my hands on him. “I. Went. There. Too. We were even in the same graduating class.”
“Bullshit!” I shout. “I’d remember a pussy bitch like you!”
A smile breaks across Lucas’s face. Almost like he’s proud of the rise he’s gotten out of me.
“I didn’t look like this back then, my dear. I was all lanky and awkward. No muscle mass at all. Bad acne. Thick glasses. Hand-me-down clothes that never really fit right. Nose always in a book, spent my time buried in academics, which you, for some reason, took as a personal insult.”
“Listen to me, you son-of-a-bitch,” I say through my teeth. “We have never met before. Even if we did go to school together, we had almost eight-hundred kids in our class! You have the wrong guy!”
Eyes rolling, Lucas sniggers to himself and spears a sausage link. He bites into one of the ends, rips off a piece, and makes a show of chewing while not looking at me, even though I can’t tear my gaze away from him for more than a blink. After he swallows, he points the sausage at me and smirks.
“Open your mouth, Adam.”
Inside, my insides boil, I’m seething. I open my mouth with every intention of using it to curse this motherfucker to hell, but I can get no further than opening it. Much to my horror, my jaw won’t do anything else, not even close. I can get noises to rise out of my throat, but I’m unable to form words.
Meanwhile, Lucas cuts up another sausage link into pieces and, after lathering them in syrup, he tosses one. Aimed at my mouth, and though it’s close, it bounces off my face, leaving a sticky patch of syrup on my skin. He pauses. Gives me a long, meaningful look.
“Don’t choke, dumbass. If it gets in, take that sausage and make it yours.”
This time, it’s me who rolls my eyes. While I understand what he means by that—catch it with my mouth and chew on it if he hits his mark—but he definitely worded it that way on purpose.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Adam, it’s disrespectful. I suppose you’d like an explanation to all this, hmm?”
Fire blazes through my eyes, my entire body engulfed in rage-filled flames. Lucas does have a point, though. I do want to know what the fucking is going on, but I can’t respond, and he keeps throwing sausage pieces at me, getting two into my mouth. I catch them, chew, swallow, and then go right back to holding my mouth open for him to keep trying. By now, several spots on my face are gross and sticky.
“Answer me, Adam.”
I try. Since I can’t get my mouth to close, and I’m beyond compelled to do it anyway, I try with my jaw hanging. All this does, of course, is make incoherent noises.
“You really are dumb.” Lucas scoffs. “There is a very common way to answer yes or no questions without speaking.”
I huff; a mistake since I’ve started drooling from having my mouth like this for so long. Since he is right, and I’m getting really sick of him insulting my intelligence, I nod in answer to his question. Yes, damn it, I want to know what’s happening to me.
“Close your mouth, Adam, you’re not a fish. And sit up straight with your palms flat on the table.” I do as I’m told, fixing my posture and planting my hands down before I think to wipe my face clean. “Now, since you probably haven’t paid much attention to our conversations, I’m work in a special division of NIMH.”
“NIMH?”
Lucas rubs between his eyes with a heavy sigh, and then looks back at him with an expression of absolute exasperation.
“The National Institute of Mental Health. You should really read a book sometime. Anyway, I’m a hypnotherapist.”
I snort, which would be a lot more effective if I could roll my eyes, and say, “So you, what, hypnotized me?” I do nothing to mask my sarcasm, letting it drip from every word.
“More like…reprogrammed.”
“You’re out of your mind. That shit’s not real.”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
“LSD? Roofies? Heroin?”
Rather than responding, which leaves ash in my mouth and rot in the pit of my stomach, Lucas tells me to clear the table, wash all the dishes, and then come back over to the table, where I’m to resume my position.
“You’re being absurd,” he says when I return, still with drying syrup on my face. “You’d be very sick if I’d been dosing you with any of that this past month.”
A month. A month, he said. Lucas has been doing this…whatever it is to me for that long already. God, he better pray I don’t break his neck whenever I get out of this shit.
“Then what the fuck did you do to me?”
Another smirk twitches at his lips. Lucas neatly laces his fingers and rests them at the edge of the table. He leans closer and speaks lower.
“Tell me, Adam,” he murmurs. “Have you been having dreams about me?”
My expression must be enough of a confirmation for him because that smirk widens. Blood drains from my face as I reckon with the odds of this being real. How could Lucas possibly know that I’ve been dreaming about him? Why would I be behaving this way at all? What else has he done to me?
“I’ll take that as a yes. We’ll start with the subliminal messages, both audio and visual. The visuals hint at your new, profound desire to please me. The audio encourages you to feel shame if you don’t.”
All done by my phone, he explains. This gay ass loser cracked into my phone and did some stupid hacker shit to it, and I’ve been listening and seeing his bullshit hidden messages without even knowing. For a month. Along with the messages have been something called dream talking. Apparently, that means influencing me to obey his every word without hesitation while I sleep. Then he says something about putting Neoprazil Powder in my muscle builder shakes that he makes me all the time. I’ve never heard that stuff before, but only one thing comes to mind, and my blood runs cold.
“You fucker!” I yell. “You did fucking drug me!”
“No.” Lucas shakes his head. “Not the way you’re implying. Neoprazil is an FDA approved medication that we use with patients recovering from extreme trauma. All it does is make you drowsy, decrease anxiety, lower inhibitions, and bring you deep into a state of total relaxation.” He says this all so matter-of-factly. As if he hasn’t done any of this against my will. “Once the patient is under, I can help them navigate repressed memories, suggest more positive thinking to replace negative intrusive thoughts, and work through PTSD. Same principles here, I simply applied them differently.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me,” I ask with another failed attempt to roll my eyes since that would be disrespectful, “that you rewired my brain? You do know how—”
“Take off all your clothes.”
“—ridiculous this all sounds, right? I think you need some professional help, Lucas.” My shirt hits the floor before I realize I’m on my feet undressing, and can’t seem to stop, even though I’ve noticed and want to keep on the rest of my clothes. “Wait…what…” Gaze flying back to Lucas’s smirking face, his eyes conveying feigned innocence, panic starts to rise in my chest. “What’s happening? Why am I—” I yank off my sweats and step out of them. My hands immediately head for my boxers. “No! Oh my god, please, Lucas, please, stop this! Don’t make me do this!”
Hands clenching around the brim of the last article of clothing on my body, I find that, physically, I am able to resist, though it takes every ounce of willpower that I have, and I doubt it’ll last long. I know that I don’t want to do this, but something in me needs to complete the task unless Lucas says otherwise. This compulsion is overwhelming, and I can already feel myself starting to lose what little control still remains.
“Lose it all.”
Lucas snaps his fingers, and any resistance I have vanishes as I quickly shed my boxers and stand there, buck-ass naked, in the kitchen. A little voice in the back of my head reminds me that I can cover myself with my hands—they even twitch to do so—but a louder voice shouts that it’s not what Lucas wants, so I keep them at my sides.
“Wh-Why are you doing this to me?” My voice trembles. Damn it, I’m actually afraid of this fucking faggot. “What did I ever do to you?”
The smirk and fake innocence gradually melt away, leaving fury on his face. Whatever he thinks I’ve done to him, it’s bad enough that fire blazes through his eyes.
“You still haven’t figured this out yet, you dumb fuck?” he growls, his angry breathing getting faster. Lucas pushes away from the table and turns his chair a little. “Get on your hands and knees, and crawl to me like the bitch you are. Then sit like a dog.”
There’s no time to even think about resisting, let alone trying, and I’m already on my hands and knees, crawling to Lucas and stopping at his feet, where I drop my ass on the floor and plant my hands in front of me. I glance up at him. Like a dog. Naked. And my entire face burns.
“I need you to know, Adam Wilcox, that I did try to give you the benefit of the doubt, I really did. I thought, we’re adults now, maybe he’s different. But, fuck, you immediately started taking advantage of me again the second you knew you could.”
“Bullshit,” I mutter. “What do you mean again? We’ve never fucking met and I never made you do anything.”
“Oh, Adam, you made me do a lot of things. And now *I’m going to make you do a lot of things.”
This guy is fucking delusional. If we went to school together, I’d remember him; there’s no way I wouldn’t. Maybe if I try to reason with him, I can get him to reverse this shit. Once he does, I’ll beat the shit out of him.
“Listen to me, please. I couldn’t’ve ever done anything to you, Lucas, because the first time we met was the day I moved in.” The look in Lucas’s eyes shifts, and I think I might actually have a chance. “And I…I am sorry if I made you feel like I was taking advantage of you.”
Yes, good. Talk the same way I would to a chick I ditched and wanted to fuck again, or to convince a girlfriend I wasn’t cheating on her.
“I didn’t mean to. I thought you wanted to do those things, but we can work this out. We can split the housework a-a-and I can cook, too! We can forget this ever happened and get on with our lives.”
Somewhere during my little speech, Lucas lowered his head and now stares at the ground, which is good because it means his eyes aren’t on my naked body. Gorgeous as it is, I don’t want him ogling it. He sniffles, his shoulders quiver a little, and when he looks back up at me, tears swim through his eyes.
“Y-You promise you won’t be mad?”
Lucas fiddles with his fingers and fidgets in the chair, his voice maintaining that meek and timid quality it had when I first moved in with him. That fright and those nerves swarm all over him, and I know I have him right where I want him. This will be my victory.
“Of course, I promise, Lucas. You have my word.”
A tiny, shaky smile touches his mouth as he wipes at his eyes, his breath hitching and chest rattling. Perfect.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” he says, a small sob in the back of his throat. “I dunno what came over me, please don’t hurt me, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
Oh, this is going better than I could have planned. I have this little bitch right where I want him. Where he’s going to stay. Groveling and begging. To me.
“It’s okay, Lucas, it is. We all make mistakes.”
Lucas nods and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye, and then suggests that I might want to put my clothes back on. I thank him for that, allowing him to remain under the impression that things are going to be fine, and pick up my boxers.
“Adam?” Lucas’s small voice picks up again when I start to pull them up. “Do you remember when you used to call me shit-stain?” Heart plummeting, the question has me fumbling with my boxers, and they fall around my ankles. “Or making me call myself that and lots of other embarrassing names?”
No. Oh, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. A look of abject horror fixes to my face as I turn to him again.
“W-What?”
No longer does Lucas look worried and submissive. The anger, while still present, is overshadowed by some vulgar intrigue.
“Do you remember beating the shit out of me all the time? Pantsing me? Shoving me into the gym without any clothes on? Pissing on me? Humiliating me all throughout high school? Forcing me to do your work for you?”
He pauses there, as if leaving me time to respond, only I can’t. My throat is dry, my runs cold, shards of ice scraping against my veins, and my brain has been firing away a million things at once since Lucas said ‘shit-stain’. No wonder I’d thought he’d looked familiar upon moving in—he’s right. We did go to school together. And, yes. Yes, I fucking remember him quite clearly now, and that little list is just the tip of the iceberg.
When I say nothing, Lucas grins. Says, “You didn’t start out with shit-stain, though, did you? No.” He shakes his head. “There was something before that. When we were even younger, and I wasn’t the main target of your abuse. What was it again?”
I don’t feel any pull to answer, so he must want me to say it on my own, and I whisper, voice still quivering, “Luke the Puke.”
Lucas tries to hide it, but there’s a visible reaction to the sound of that. A flinch and a heavy swallow. All from some stupid childhood nickname.
“All because I got sick once in school when we were little.”
“Not because you got sick,” I say, but the words sound far away from my ears. “Because you stepped in some of it and trailed it back into our classroom.”
“I guess that makes it okay, then.”
Boxers still around my ankles, I shake my head. Not admitting guilt, but to expression my shock at all this.
"I-It was a joke, Luke."
"I wasn't laughing, Adam."
“I was a fucking kid, Luke.”
“So was I, Adam,” he growls. “And I don’t go by Luke anymore, I use my full name. Most memories associated with my nickname are all sorts of fucked up thanks to you. Do not call me that.”
“Fine, I won’t, but, Jesus Christ, Lucas,” I grumble, “it was almost ten years ago. Get some therapy and move on with your life.”
“Oh, I went to therapy.” Lucas’s voice turns hard again. “A lot of therapy. We’ll get into that at another time. For now, we’re gonna lay down some ground rules. Stay undressed and get back over here.”
No need for him to get any more specific than that. Whatever Lucas has done to my brain doesn’t leave room for my own interpretation, and my body acts on its own, responding automatically by dropping back down to all fours and crawling to sit like a dog at his feet again.
“First of all, you’re going to show me respect, understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Wait, what? That’s not what I mean to say. In fact, I hadn’t even thought the response, let alone the word Sir.
“No, not sir. Sir is what you call your boss or your teacher. I’m neither. I'm making you my slave, so I’m much more than that. Try again.”
I try to clench my jaw, I really do, because I know exactly what word he wants me to use, and he’s out of his god-damn mind if he thinks I’m about to use it. But the struggle within me starts right away, and Lucas laughs.
“That’s a dumb idea,” he says. “Resisting is impossible.”
He’s right. Pain invades my mouth, fire burning across my tongue and dancing down my throat, and it’s been no more than ten seconds.
“Yes, Master!”
The words burst from my mouth and the pain immediately recedes. I’m completely back to normal, if not breathing a little harder.
“Good boy.”
A surge of pride runs through me from the compliment, the smile on my face full of bliss. My entire body tingles pleasantly, even in my cock, which actually stirs a bit. War wages in my mind. I’m thrilled to have pleased my Master, but I fucking hate this kid and want to kick the shit out of him. Especially when that knowing smirk pulls up on his lips.
“One of the triggers I programmed. Your objective is to please me. When I tell you have, it’s gonna feel really good, even if you hate it. And if I indicate the opposite, you’ll feel so guilty and shameful, that you’ll beg for forgiveness, no matter how long it takes. With me so far?”
“Yes, Master.”
Fuck, I’m gonna kill this bitch. He’s got me doing this gay, humiliating shit all because of shit that happened almost a decade ago. Yet, at the same time, a part of me hopes he’ll reward me with those two words again: good boy. I may hate every second of this, but that felt amazing.
“Smile for me, Adam.” As stupid as it looks, I end up with a ridiculous grin on my face, even though the rest of my expression very likely contradicts it. “You have other triggers as well, we won’t get into them all now, but you should know that there’s nothing you can do to get out of this. You won’t be able to tell anyone in any way what’s going on, even a subtle hint. No form of communication about this will work at all. You can’t leave, either, as much as you want to. And you do want to, don’t you?”
I nod, seething, but still smiling. “Yes, Master.”
“Well, it won’t work. Even if you try. Go on. You can try. I’ll let you.”
“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”
My first thought is to grab my clothes, so I don’t leave the house naked, and the smile on my face has gone away, presumably because of this chance to escape. But Lucas tells me I won’t need them. Leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor, I hurry to the front door. Better to get out of here naked than to be trapped.
As soon as I get to the door, I reach for the doorknob. Right before I grab it, I freeze, and my mind goes blank. Everything gets all fuzzy, and I can’t remember getting here. What am I doing again? Why am I at the front door? It’s Saturday morning, I’ve nowhere to be.
I shake my head, attempting to clear the brain fog as I make my way back to the kitchen where Lucas waits for me. About halfway back, I remember why I went to the door in the first place: to get the fuck out of here and escape Lucas’s fucking mind games. Spinning on my heels, I rush back to the exit, and when I’m there, I once again forget why.
The process repeats itself. Over and over, for how long, I don’t know, but I can’t seem to stop, as if trapped in some kind of loop. Tears burn behind my eyes as I continue going back and forth with no end in sight. Not until I’m heading back toward the kitchen for the hundredth time or so and Lucas appears in the doorway, sporting that new smirk of his, while he gestures for me to rejoin him.
Only when I settle back in my spot at Lucas’s feet do I realize tear tracks drying on my cheeks. Much to my embarrassment and chagrin, he looks very pleased by this. I’d like to wipe my face clean, but I can’t move out of position. My clothes are also missing.
“So,” Lucas says. “Not that you got that out of your system, do you have any more doubts you’d like to discuss?”
“N-No, Master,” I reply, holding back another round of tears. “But it was a long time ago, Master, please don’t do this.”
“Well, I’m not gonna do this forever, just the same amount of time you did it to me.” My stomach flattens. That means at least four years if he’s only counting high school. “And then, almost a decade after that, why don’t you tell me how you feel? Why don’t you go ahead and get hard for me?”
There’s no way. No, he can’t have done something to me that gives me a hard-on by a simple command. I don’t know why I’m still questioning this, but I’m still shocked when I feel my dick coming to life, straining so hard all I want to do is grab it. I even reach for it to soothe the ache between my legs, but can’t actually touch it. My own cock, filled and erect without my own thoughts, and I’m unable to touch it.
I can’t imagine how pitiful I must look, but Lucas must find it hilarious. His laughter pulls me out of my horrified stupor, and replaces it with utter humiliation.
“If you want to come,” Lucas says, “you’ll have to beg for permission.”
I assume the words are going to pop out of my mouth without the commands of my brain. When they don’t, I wonder if maybe the effects of this shit have started wearing off, and maybe I’ll regain control of my life. The smile on Lucas’s face suggests otherwise, and I realize he hasn’t given me an order, but left the decision to do it up to me.
“I’m not beggin’ you for shit.”
“That’s fine. You will. But, for now, since you’re so stubborn…”
Lucas gets up and steps further than I can see by looking over my shoulder, but I can hear him moving around a bit, the sink turn on, and the microwave starts. Within moments, the kitchen fills with the unmistakable scent of instant oatmeal. Not really my favorite, but Lucas usually eats various flavors throughout the week.
When the microwave dings, I wonder how much of that he can possibly eat after his big breakfast. For another few minutes, I can’t tell what’s planned for me next, but I hear some pots or bowls moving around, and then Lucas comes back to me. What he’s holding in his hands makes me whimper and him grin.
“Come get your breakfast,” he says as he puts two silver dog bowls down by his feet. No matter how degrading it feels to be treated like a dog, I crawl the short distance to the bowls and start eating like a pet. “Play with yourself while you eat.”
If he wasn’t standing over me debasing myself for his enjoyment, I might actually thank him for the chance to touch my own dick. Although it does make for an awkward position—trying to eat and drink from dog dishes hands’ free while using one hand to jerk-off—I’m ready to blow within seconds, and my cock’s already drooling. Only it won’t happen. Every time I think it’s going to, when I’m right about to tip over the edge, it stops. Nothing.
It takes me until I’m almost finished eating—longer than I would like to be in this humiliating position, but it takes a while to eat something I neither hate nor like—to realize that Lucas meant what he said literally. If I want to come, I need to beg him for permission. My body won’t let go without that explicit permission. He must recognize this dawning on me.
Lucas puts his barefoot on the back of my head and shoves my face into the bowl. This causes me to rock off-balance, and I hurry to regain it, quickly resuming the pointless stroking because the order to do so remains in full. Fuck, it feels so good, but without the gratification it’s torture.
“You get it now?” he says. “I own you. Every part of you. So.” He lifts his foot and, gagging a little, I look up at him, oatmeal all over my face and panting from my desperate need to come. “From now on, you’ll be doing the housework. This place will be spick and span by the time I get back.”
Gets back? Where the fuck does he think he’s going? He won’t leave me here like this, will he?
“You will crawl around on your hands and knees unless you can’t avoid standing—or should I say, hand and knees, because you won’t stop that unless you absolutely need the use of two hands. You’ll go right back to touching when you’re finished using it. And when you’re finished, you will face the corner of the living room on your knees and continue edging yourself.”
“Master, wait!” I exclaim when Lucas turns to leave. “M-My clothes. Can I have my clothes back, Master?”
Lucas chuckles as though he’s forgotten all about clothes, and does a silly, innocent facepalm. Mixed in with the lightheartedness of the noise is something else entirely. I doubt it’ll be any good for me.
“How silly of me,” he says. “Hang on. Lemme grab them for you.”
While Lucas goes off to get me something to wear, and I still can’t stop playing with my leaking cock, I replay things over in my head. All this time, he’s been plotting this degrading, humiliating revenge on something that happened so long ago, and now I’m trapped being his…his…fucking slave because of things that happened back when we were kids. This is all his fault for not getting the fuck over it. If he thought I made his life Hell back then, he has something else coming to him whenever I get out of this.
Shame and indignity overwhelm me right now. The thought of anyone catching me like this, especially someone I know, is terrifying, and leaves a hole in my belly.
“Here we are.”
Lucas’s voice grabs my attention. He must’ve been gone longer than I thought since he’s gotten himself made up for the day dressed in tight black shorts and a pink crop top, but when I see what he’s brought back with him, I nearly fall over. On a hanger, made with lace and frills, is a French maid’s outfit. A sexy little number, it’s something that would draw my eye to at a costume party if a hot, busty chick wore it. But I have a sinking suspicion that it’s not going to a girl.
“Oh, no,” I whine. “Please, Master, don’t make me wear that.”
A fake pout. Then, he holds it up higher, and says, “But I got it just for you. Come on, let’s see it on you. With a smile.”
Again, a smile forces its way onto my face as I dress into this ridiculous outfit. At least I’m allowed on my feet and to release my cock from its torture. Long enough to do to this, anyway, since the second it’s on, complete with a little lacy hat, I’m ordered back on my all fours to present myself to him. Which means sticking my barely covered ass up by lowering my beat-red face to the floor.
“Aww, look how cute my sissy boy is in his new uniform.” My skin burns even hotter. “Wiggle that bubble ass for me.” Another whine catches in my throat as I move. “You should thank me for getting you such a pretty outfit.”
The words, as much as I don’t way to say them, spill out of my smiling mouth while I continue to wiggle my ass.
“Thank you, Master. It was so kind and gracious of you to get me such a pretty outfit.” To my horror, I go on talking. “I’m honored to be allowed to wear this gift from you, Master.”
“Oh, there’ll be a lot more than one coming to you,” he says with a swift slap to my ass. The force of it ripples through my body, and makes me grunt. “And if you’re a good boy, maybe you’ll get another. Stop wiggling your ass and smiling now and follow me.”
I turn and crawl behind him until we reach the front door.
“Here is the protocol for you whenever I leave. You will kiss my feet, two times each, beg for a quick and safe return to you, thank me for making you my slave, and promise me you’ll be a good boy while I’m away. And you’ll make it sound genuine.”
I sigh with a nod as I lean down to kiss Lucas’s feet.
“Goodbye, Master. Please, please, come back to me fast and safely, I beg of you.”
Oh, my God, stop, please stop, saying these things, I plead with my body to no avail, all worsened by the fact that if anyone heard, they’d think I mean every word of this.
“Thank you so much for making me your slave, Master, I couldn’t ask for a better master to enslave me. I’ll be a good boy while you’re gone.” Shit, now I have a crave for him to call me that again. It’s so intense that I suddenly feel as though I mean all of this. “Oh, Master, I promise I’ll be good, I swear I will.”
Instead of rewarding me with those two words, leaving a pit of disappointment in my stomach, Lucas sneers and leaves. Once the door locks behind him, the need for him to call me a good boy and the disappointment that he didn’t vanish, and I’m left with fear and shame and humiliation.
Even though all I want to do is get the fuck out of here, far away from Lucas, or at least curl into a ball and sob, I start stroking my dick again and awkwardly crawl back to the kitchen to start my chores.
