Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Thu May 01, 2014 9:38 pm

Hi everyone! It's been a while since I've trolled this site. Thought I'd drop in and add some fiction that's been burning a hole in my fantasy-laden mind lately :) This story is fictional. It's been some time since I've had any true experiences. I came close last summer, but no cigar, I'm afraid. In the mean-time: enjoy! And I'll try and actually finish this time. I have a bad habit of leaving stories dangling...

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One of the best sexual compliments I've ever received came from an odd source (a man in his forties) and under circumstances that were even odder. So odd, in fact, that they defy neat description, hence the reason why I didn't complete the parallelism in the previous sentence and put in in parenthesis.

“You know, you have a really nice ass,” he said. “And you can't say that about the vast majority of men.”

Coming from a man twenty years my senior seated on the sofa in my apartment while my roommate was out of town would have been odd enough, as I said. But when you consider that at the time I was doing the dishes, completely naked, with a big, red, rubber ball strapped in my mouth, things get a lot more interesting. I mean, don't they?

How to describe my relationship to him? He was... what? Certainly not my lover. I'm not gay. I may not know exactly what my sexual orientation is (is “none of the above” a legitimate response?), but I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, I'm just not. So what was he to me then, if not my lover? I mean, who else says “you have a hot ass” when you're alone together in your apartment while you're doing the dishes naked? Oh, and ball gagged too.

Well, to get all legal on you, I might have to just tell it straight: he was by blackmailer. I mean, that's certainly what he was doing to me. But “blackmailer” isn't really a word, now is it, and I don't know that that fully explains everything either. I mean, lots of people get blackmailed, with varying degrees of severity, and during the course of the blackmailing almost none have their assets evaluated while washing the dishes without a stitch of clothing on their ass. And a ball gag in their mouth. I keep wanting to leave that part out, for brevity's sake and because it still makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment, even all these months later. But you can't leave something like that out; that's like omitting half the facts.

Ok, so what was he then, if blackmailer isn't enough? Well he liked me to call him “master,” and in truth I was, for periods of time (including the dishwashing episode, obviously), his slave. But “master” isn't totally accurate, either. Because when I say that word to myself it has a different connotation; it hangs on my tongue like the willing subservience of a slave who loves to be enslaved – who sought his slavery out, in fact. That could not be further from the truth in my case. I was an ordinary twenty-something college student trying to get by on minimal effort and student loans until this random dude – this middle-aged might-as-well-be-old-as-dirt guy I had never met before shows up at my door and calmly presents me with evidence that could bring my world crumbling down on me. So “master” isn't accurate either.

I'm running out of words. Which I ironic, because I didn't use many when we were together. I spent most of the time with a rubber ball in my mouth and when he mercifully ungagged me a stray word could get me sorely punished (including, but usually not limited to, a return of the big ball to its ancestral home between my teeth). So apparently, now that he's not around anymore, his effect on my verbosity remains unchanged.

I guess I'll have to settle for “captor.” I mean, that's really what he did: he used blackmail to capture me; and once he'd made me his captive, he ordered me around like a slave. But to prevent all the BDSM stereotypes and misunderstandings about my sexual orientation or interest in being someone else's “sub” I'll refrain from calling him master. He was my captor.

And boy was he. He captured me in the fullest sense of the word. And by that I mean he had full power over me. Sat me down and basically said, “son, I know you cheated to get in here” (referring to the highly prestigious university I was attending, and on which all my world depended). “And I have the evidence. So it would be the simplest thing to have you thrown out. It would be the right thing, even, some would say.”

I waited for the punchline, uninterested in arguing morality with this guy who clearly had done his homework and could let the axe fall at any moment. My stomach had been kicked out of me; the only thing that kept me from crumbling then was the word “would”. It indicated he had another plan in mind, and I was all ears, waiting for him to dispense my doom.

“I'm sure you're interested to know how I found out?”

I said nothing. You can't blame me, I was still recovering my ability to speak at the time. See? This guy had a way with my words, right from the very start. Even before he used the ball gag on me.

When I showed no sign of encouragement, he continued. “Well, I do my own investigations – for various people, some savory, some less so – and this turned up (gesturing to the evidence on his lap) during the course of one of those.”

“I wasn't investigating you of course,” he clarified. Not that I had given him any sign of alarm; I was still waiting for him to get to the point. “While doing work for someone, I like to poke around a bit, just for fun. You never know what will turn up. And what do you know? You did!”

“Well,” he continued, clearly enjoying telling the tale, “that got me thinking, and I started digging a little. You know, to learn more about you.”

To figure out how much you could get from me, I thought bitterly. But I didn't say this out loud. In fact, I started to wonder at this point why he was here. I mean, what could he hope to get from me? He has clearly done his research – that much is obvious. Which means he knows I'm penniless, and that I come from penniless folk. And that the worst he could do was have me thrown out of school and crush the hopes and dreams and expectations of everyone back home. But that didn't seem his style. He didn't seem the type of man to care about such things.

“And, to my absolute delight,” he positively cackled, “I discovered your interest in bondage!”

Ok, let me clarify: I have always had a kinky streak. I've wanted to be tied up since I was little, and been fascinated by the thought ever since. And it goes further – my fantasies usually (ok, they pretty much always do) have me stripped to my underwear... or worse... by my captors. By I'm not into BDSM. Honest. No whips, no leather, no abject servitude. Just some rope, maybe a gag or two, and me in my underwear.

I've explored this fantasy just a little bit. Mostly online. I'm a member of a couple of websites, contribute the occasional fictional story, and comment on others' posts. That's all. How he found out about this – how he linked my online persona to me – I will never know. Apparently this guy was good. Really good.

Seeing my face go all surprised and worried and confused really had an effect on him. He relaxed; he smiled. He had been cackling just a moment before, but that was half bravado; this was real confidence. He knew he had struck pay dirt and his prey was all his.

“You won't believe it, but I too have a fascination with bondage. Only, my interests are, shall we say, the compliment of yours?”

This was when my soul started to sink. This was more than just my initial “oh, shit! This guy could totally wreck my life.” Now this was “I don't know what's happening, but I don't like it one bit, and there's nothing I can do about it.”

But to be totally fair – and to humiliate myself completely before all of you, my readers, I have to admit that even then there was a part of me (small, but real) that got excited. I mean, I was 65% stunned confusion and 30% fear right about then. But there was this 5% “oh my gosh, my fantasies are about to come true.” Yeah, I'm ashamed of it. But it was there.

Back to our one-sided conversation: “I see by your reaction that you're still interested. Good. Because I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.”

Long pause.

“I've always wanted to act out my fantasies – to really know how it feels, what it's like to do it in real life.”

Stunned silence from me.

“I suppose I should be more specific. I have always wanted the compliment of what you so eloquently write about online: to tie someone up; to tie them down; to have complete control over them; to make them mine and command their obedience unconditionally.” Here he paused, as if embarrassed. The first moment of weakness he had shown since arriving. “And, yes, I too want to have this experience with a slave who is, shall we say, not always fully dressed.” Having said it, he broke into a wide grin that was half sheepish, half excited, and that struck a resonating note within me, like a bell rolling out my doom. It was now fairly clear what I faced. And I still couldn't grasp that this was actually happening to me. Literally a day ago I was just an ordinary struggling student.

“So here's the thing: you realize my fantasies, and I'll realize yours. And no one needs to know about all this.” He gestured at the evidence on his lap.

I let that sink in for a few moments. As far as my mind could process, I was being blackmailed into being this man's bondage bitch. He would do... well... I'm not sure exactly what... to me, in exchange for letting me stay at school.

You know the odd thing? What I felt when I finally forced my brain to get that far was relief. Strange, huh? I mean, given the proposition, you'd think my reaction might have been horror. You'd think I would have just taken a loss and packed my bags. But not when I thought of how soul crushed my father would be. How hideously disappointed, betrayed, he would feel. How our relationship would never be the same again. And don't even get me started on how my mother would react. How much this would devastate her. And then there's the entire community rooting for me. And it's not like they've had much to root for these past years. I couldn't do it. I had to do anything, anything, to prevent that outcome.

“What do you say? It's a lot to take in all of a sudden, I know.” He paused a second while I worked all this out. Mostly now my mind was trying to figure out all the implications of this. “But I'm not super patient, you know. Not with ordinary people I deal with in life; and certainly not with my slaves.”

He really leaned on that word. And that's when it sank in. This guy really means it. He wants me to, you know, be his bitch and all. I thought briefly about me as a bondage bitch. On my hands and knees with a ball gag in my mouth; and not alone in my apartment either, but with some dude standing over me, issuing instructions. My mind reeled at the thought. I really did not like that thought.

I still hadn't said a word since he walked in. And I wasn't about to say a lot more, either – but for different reasons, which I'm sure you can guess.

“I'm still waaaiitiiiing,” he said.

Bitch. Thrown out of school. Bitch. Thrown out of school. My mind whipped back and forth between the two.

“Alright. Fine. Ruin everything for both of us.” He stood up to go, visibly disappointed. And angry.

That snapped me out of my silence. “No, wait! Stop!”

He turned back to me, halfway to my doorway. “I'll do it,” I managed.

“You'll do what?” he asked, pointedly. He wasn't going to give in without a specific response; a clear verbal submission.

“I'll do it,” I repeated. Then, realizing it wasn't good enough, stammered out, “I'll be your... your bitch.”

He smiled at this. He clearly loved the sound of that. “That's not the word I would have used, but I like it!” And with that he turned and headed back into my apartment. And the fun began.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby Jack Roper » Thu May 01, 2014 10:10 pm

Very good beginning Donatello--you set the scene quite well. I could see the "slave" seeking revenge at some point but the next chapter should be very interesting. Thanks!

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Thu May 01, 2014 11:09 pm

I took the liberty of tracing back to your prior story of the bondage in your bedroom. I was very impressed with your ability to "paint a picture" in the reader's mind. An example of this is at the end of this story so far where you are arguing with yourself --- you play that out so nicely, I can almost see him gathering the papers and heading for the door when you likely squeaked your "wait." You see, for example, I added the "squeaked" because my experience with someone in a near shock status who hasn't said anything up to this point usually comes out higher than expected.
I don't know what you majored in or what you are doing now, but you have a way with words that should be exercised as often as possible. You can develop the talent I've seen so far to even higher levels. I truly look forward to hearing a lot more from you and you imagination.

Aloha from Hawaii.

Tony2
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby xtc » Fri May 02, 2014 4:07 am

Nice to see you back again.
I look forward to reading your next chapter.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby mikeybound » Fri May 02, 2014 5:47 am

Nice story. I hope you can keep more detail on the bondage in future updates, but it's good to see more from you!
I'm calling it. He's gonna counter blackmail this guy with all of this bondage stuff to get rid of him. And now you probably won't do that.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Fri May 02, 2014 6:16 am

Aloha Mikey next line I think they blackmailers circumstances not going to be too much different than edgar allan poe the ,Cask of Amontillado
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri May 02, 2014 7:09 am

tony2 wrote:I took the liberty of tracing back to your prior story of the bondage in your bedroom. I was very impressed with your ability to "paint a picture" in the reader's mind. An example of this is at the end of this story so far where you are arguing with yourself --- you play that out so nicely, I can almost see him gathering the papers and heading for the door when you likely squeaked your "wait." You see, for example, I added the "squeaked" because my experience with someone in a near shock status who hasn't said anything up to this point usually comes out higher than expected.
I don't know what you majored in or what you are doing now, but you have a way with words that should be exercised as often as possible. You can develop the talent I've seen so far to even higher levels. I truly look forward to hearing a lot more from you and you imagination.

Aloha from Hawaii.

Tony2


Why, thank you, Tony2! What nice things to say! Which former story of mine were you referring to?

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Fri May 02, 2014 4:41 pm

cheers Friend from college... cheers :tied:
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri May 02, 2014 4:44 pm

tony2 wrote:cheers Friend from college... cheers :tied:


Ah yes, that is a good story. I mean, not that it was a well-written story, but that it was a fun experience. I remember it very clearly; the emotions are still very much there. It was a fantastic night :)

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Fri May 02, 2014 4:54 pm

That is what you captured so well in your narrative. Glad you got the chance to have memories like that.
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby chadmc90 » Fri May 02, 2014 6:34 pm

Good start, donatello. This story should definitely be interesting!
Check out my latest story A Cowboy's Dream!

Feedback highly appreciated! Feel free to Private Message me if you prefer to not post on the public forum!

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby Veracity » Fri May 02, 2014 8:23 pm

Excellent. I'm very impressed by your prose, and greatly looking forward to seeing how the tale proceeds.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri May 09, 2014 12:04 am

Ok, here's the next part!

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“Alright... bitch,” he said, setting his evidence down on the small table that stood between my kitchen and living room. Then he frowned a little.

“I don't think I like that word after all. It's too vulgar.” Then suddenly he grinned and giggled a little. “So I'll probably use it on you on special occasions.”

You can't believe what this was like. A huge part of me was still simply unable to accept that this was actually happening. I mean, there I was, sitting on a chair in my living room, listening to a guy I met literally a few minutes ago talk out loud to himself about how he was going to call me his bitch from time to time.

Oh yeah, and then there's the fact that, seconds earlier, I had promised to be his bitch. I had actually said that out loud. And meant it.

Holy shit.

No time to take it all in, to let the mind catch up with reality, though.

“First things first, though. We need to get you out of all those clothes!” He eyed me up and down as he said this, and his voice was clearly disapproving of all the clothing I was wearing. As if they were inappropriate and offensive.

That wasn't a really a direct order, though. And I sure as hell wasn't going to take the initiative on that one. So I waited – mute as usual – for something more to happen. He did too, as it turned out. But not for too long.

“Stand up!” The order was crisp and clear. I don't like being given orders any more than the average person; but I had only just managed to convince him to stay by promising he could fulfill his wishes on me. So I didn't dare disobey at this point. Resisting his orders would only make him leave; and that would bring the sky down on me.

So I stood up. But boy was it humiliating. A twenty-three year old young man, studying at a world-famous university, obediently following a word of command from a somewhat fat, middle-aged man of no consequence. Like a dog.

Seeing his commands obeyed got to him a little. His face got smugger. I could tell.

“Strip!”

Believe me, I wanted to obey his commands. But this one I just couldn't. Not that I was surprised by it – he had explained enough of his intentions to make clear that some seriously kinky shit was about to go down. But actually obeying that command is hard. Especially when you're a young male. I mean, taking all your clothes off at someone else's command is really submission in its purest form.

I hesitated.

He sighed a little, closing his eyes for a moment. “I'll forgive you this time – you're new to this after all. But I'm not accustomed to being disobeyed. And hesitation is disobedience. So I'm going to be generous and repeat myself this one time. Take off all your clothes. Now!”

At that moment there was a horrible war inside me. Part of me vehemently resisted the idea – the very notion even – of stripping naked in front of this guy. And part of me was terribly afraid of the threat he had just made. A dual threat, actually: that he might leave, withdraw his offer and destroy my life; but also the threat of what he might do to me if he stayed. I mean, if he stays I'm his bitch. And a bitch does not want to make his master angry.

It was a very short, bitter struggle. And at the end of it the pacifists were in control. My hands, on autopilot, went down to my hem of my shirt and began to draw it up over my stomach. In a couple of seconds it was up over my head. I let it fall off my arms and onto the carpet. I now stood bare-chested in front of this stranger – someone I felt I was going to get to know quite well over the next little while. Or, at least, he was going to get to know me pretty darn well.

The sudden burst of rash boldness that swept off my shirt proved insufficient, however, to go any further. Once I bared some skin my embarrassment made me pause.

“Well? I'm waiting!” He seemed genuinely impatient, and stunned that I was having such a hard time with such a simple order.

I hesitated. Again. But the look on his face told me he was not going to give me that “I'll be patient with you this once” speech again. He wasn't going to repeat himself either. It was either obedience or the game ended here and now.

My fingers – again on autopilot – found the button of my jeans and managed, after a snag or two, to work it free. The zipper followed easily. And from there it was all downhill. Literally. My pants slid off my hips and down to the floor, leaving me standing there in my underwear. I bent over and stepped out of my jeans, moving them to the side with my foot.

I suppose I should describe my underwear. They were briefs, not boxers. But they weren't the super skimpy kind, either. They were made of cotton and fairly thick; what I mean is they covered my butt and my junk well, and didn't ride too low on my hips either. Just classic briefs, I suppose.

But I felt horribly embarrassed in them. First off, they were briefs, not boxers, which feels much less manly when you're standing in them in front of someone else. And second, well, I had just shown a lot more skin and I had very little left to shed. I was praying hard right then that he wasn't going to make me go any further; that what he had meant when he said “strip” was really “strip down to your underwear.”

I looked at him, afraid but also pleading, standing there in just my underwear. He looked me up and down. He was taking in his fantasy slave's body for the first time. Examining the goods, so to speak. I felt hideously exposed, and... well... helpless.

He grinned. A greedy grin. A satisfied, excited, this-is-going-to-be-fun grin. Then he grabbed his briefcase from off the table, turned, and walked down the short hallway towards my bedroom.

“Which one is yours?” he called to me.

“The one at the end, straight ahead,” I managed to eek out sheepishly. My voice sounded weak, beaten.

I just stood there. I wasn't sure what to do. My captor was momentarily gone, and I had a clear line to the door. I could make a run for it.

But where would I go? Run outside in my underwear? And do what? Go where? My captor would call me back in and punish me. Or else I would have to stop playing the game altogether and tell him to fuck off. Which meant packing my bags and preparing to face my family as a cheater; and a failure. Paralyzed by those horrible options, I just stood there in my undies and waited.

A few moments later he returned, setting his briefcase – open now – on the table. I could see there was a cloth sack in it that I had not noticed before.

“Go into your room and change into your new attire. I've set them out for you on the bed.”

Again I hesitated. But the hesitation was less this time than last. I walked sheepishly past him toward my room. For some reason, walking past him wearing only my underwear was super embarrassing. Standing there (mostly) naked was one thing. Walking about (mostly) naked was different. It made it functional somehow, like this was my new reality, not just a one-time stunt.

As I passed him, he turned and slapped me sharply on the ass. I jumped forward in surprise, letting out an involuntary “oh!” As soon I did so I regretted it; it made me feel sooo weak. He just chuckled. My cheeks burned; I'm sure they were a deep red. I got to my room, pushed open the door, and closed it behind me. Then I turned to look at the clothes he had said were laid out on my bed.

There they were. Though I wouldn't call them “clothes”. There were two items: first, what looked like a teeny tiny red speedo. It was puny. I wasn't at all sure I would fit into it. He must have gotten the size massively wrong. My cheeks burned even hotter when I saw it. And second, in a red that matched the speedo thingy, or whatever it was, perfectly, was a large rubber ball attached to a black leather strap.

My “clothing” consisted of a teeny weeny red speedo and a ballgag.

Great.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Thu May 22, 2014 10:32 pm

I stared at the bed, my stomach churning. “If I put those on and walk out there,” I thought to myself, “I will be that guy's boy toy.” I mean, come on! Tiny red speedo and matching ball gag? The humiliation was still burning my cheeks and, to my horror, I was getting aroused. Any erection would be completely obvious in that thing, I thought. And if I let this go on much longer I might not even be able to fit in it.

“Boy toy it is, then,” I sighed. Off came my briefs (feeling strangely concealing and large). I picked up the red speedo thing and slipped it on.

The fit was tight. With my junk tightly wrapped in the pouch of the form-fitting fabric, the straps (and that's really all they were) fell so low on my hips that my pubic hair was nearly visible. As for my butt, well, it was covered, but only just so.

“Well? I'm waiting.” My captor's voice called to me from the living room. I dared not respond, knowing that I was supposed to have a ball gag in my mouth by now.

“I can't believe I'm this man's play thing,” I thought as I reluctantly lifted the gag to my lips.

There's nothing quite like plunging a ball gag into your mouth. The sensation of massive rubber pressing down on your tongue; the tightness and feel of the straps along your cheeks; the pressure holding it in; the helplessness as you try to push it out with your tongue and fail.

And then there's the first time you look at yourself in the mirror. That big ball fastened in between your teeth, the collar-like strap: all evidence that someone has done this to you; that you have been bested, and this is their way of proving it to you.

I think when I looked at myself in the full-length mirrors on the sliding doors of my closet something snapped. I saw my naked body (I'm slender and have some muscle definition, though I'm not a body builder or anything), the red garment clinging to my junk and hips, the red ball protruding from my lips. I saw not a young, independent, take-orders-from-no-one college student, but a genuine boy toy; someone dressed up (or down) to look sexy, to look hot, to look pleasing. And I was about to go present myself as such to the man who dressed me this way.

I was humiliated beyond belief, and the thought of walking out there and pleasing this blackmailer as his slave slut was so horribly abhorrent that I couldn't move for a few seconds. I could only stare at my body in the mirror in disbelief. But like I said something snapped. Part of my will to resist dissipated, and in its place came the inevitable duty of submit.

“I'm still waiting out here!”

It was now or never. I turned and walked out into the living room.

========================================

This section was short, I know. The next will be longer and will be posted shortly, I promise :)

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby xtc » Fri May 23, 2014 5:22 am

Don't apologise for posting only short episodes; they have lot to be said for them.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Mon May 26, 2014 6:07 pm

On another occasion – before, I think, the one when the quality of my ass was assessed – I was standing in the kitchen (as on the aforementioned instance) making a late night snack for my captor. He was similarly sitting on the sofa in my living room, watching me. I was wearing – or, more accurately, he had stripped me down to – a pair of small yet stylish swim briefs, spreading butter on an English muffin, when he popped me a sudden question.

“How old are you?”

I was totally surprised. “But you know everything about me.” He had, after all, uncovered a lot more information on me than that.

“Oh, but you lied on your application. So I can't trust what I found out there.”

Still doubtful he truly didn't know, and wary of where he was headed with this, I answered him truthfully. “Twenty-two,” I said.

He paused a short moment, then added, “Have you ever been tied up before?” There was that I'm-driving-at-something-fun look in his expression and in his tone that I really didn't like. By reflex I looked down at my wrists and ankles. I was bound hand and foot with ropes that left several inches of slack between my hands and feet, to leave me adequate freedom to perform tasks for him. I suppose he didn't yet trust that I would obey all his commands completely without needing to tie me up. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed the sight of me hobbled. In any case, when he asked if I had been tied up before I couldn't help looking down and thinking to myself, “Well I'm tied up now. Does this count?”

Ultimately I decided to eschew the sarcasm and again answer truthfully. It almost never pays do be cheeky with the guy who has tied you up. “No.”

I was indeed the truth. For though I had long been interested – fascinated, even – by the thought of it, I had never summoned the courage to tell anyone. If any of my friends or acquaintances were similarly interested, I was none the wiser. Self bondage on occasion was the furthest I had ever gone. Until Mr. Blackmail here showed and turned me into his boy toy, that is.

“Well, how about I give you that chance?” he responded.

Again, I couldn't help noticing that he had given me plenty of opportunity to experience the sensation – including right now! -- but I refrained once again from shooting back a snarky reply. Actually, I was rather horrified by his insinuation. I didn't know what exactly he had in mind, but the thought of escalating this humiliating arrangement between the two of us beyond just the two of us sent dread flooding my stomach.

My fear prevented me from responding. I just looked at him for a few moments, then dropped my eyes and returned to buttering his English muffin.

“Well?” he insisted. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Forced to say something, I managed a neutral-sounding “I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean have you ever done any bondage? Have you ever let anyone tie you up and have their way with you?” After a pause, he added, “And of course I don't mean what we're doing right now. I mean before we met.”

“No.” There was nothing for it but to tell the truth. I wasn't going to be able to make up a story about it, and besides I didn't see how lying would serve any useful purpose.

“Aww, that's a shame.” He sounded genuinely saddened. “You've been into this fetish of ours for far too long for that. I'll see what I can do.”

I wasn't at all sure I was into the same fetish as him, and I wasn't sad at all that he hadn't hooked me up before now, but none of my opinions mattered at the moment. If they did, I wouldn't be tied up making English muffins in a speedo. At least I wasn't gagged, right? Count your blessings, I guess.

Fast forward several days. Two weeks, actually. After all, it's not like this slave thing we had going was a continuous affair. Thank heavens. It depended on our schedules. I quickly learned that saying I was busy didn't have an ounce of effect on how often I played the slave. After all, he had no trouble reminding me that no homework assignment or exam was more important than pleasing him enough to keep the “evidence” from falling into the wrong hands. So the “I have homework to do” excuse was a non-starter.

His schedule, on the other hand, was an issue. But I couldn't know when he was busy or free, so that part was a mystery. Hell, I didn't even know his name, for crying out loud. So the only factor that I could see affecting when I was under his thumb was my roommate. He understandably didn't want me to know here he lived, so he insisted we “play” at my place. But that meant my roommate had to be away.

Unfortunately, this happened often. He had a serious girlfriend and often spent weekends at her home, which was a few hours away by car. And he often went away on business trips for a few days at a time. It was primarily during these periods that my master/blackmailer/captor came over and I transformed in an instant from “college junior at an elite University” to “young male slave.” Quite literally, he would walk in the door (without knocking, of course) and without so much as a greeting tell me to take everything off. And I would obey immediately. It's amazing how fast my clothes became a pile on the floor.

Anyway, it was a week or so later that he announced to me – in person, of course, while I was massaging his feet in a pair of boxer-briefs – that we were going to see some of his friends the coming weekend. The look of fear on my face must have prompted him to provide more information, because he went on after a pause.

“They're throwing a party and I want you to meet them.”

I thought about this. It was very odd, given his desire to keep his identity secret from me. Had he told them of his illegal behavior? Surely they would drop his name during the evening, as well a good deal of references to his personal life? And meeting his friends would allow me to locate him fairly easily. It didn't make sense.

“You don't seem excited.” He was upset, I could tell. Not hurt, or anything, just annoyed at my lack of effort to conceal my lack of enthusiasm.

“No,” I insisted, trying to cover my ass – a very difficult thing with this guy, I was discovering. “Just confused; and surprised.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you're taking me to see your friends? As... what, exactly? Your acquaintance?” I left the other option unspoken, mostly because it was still really hard to say “slave” out loud when referring to myself.

He laughed. The confident, patronizing, in control kind. It made me want to stand up and smack him. Really hard. But I didn't dare. So I just knelt there, massaging his big toes.

“Don't worry, no one will know you from Adam. And these friends of mine are into our kind of thing too, so they won't judge you.”

As usual, his response answered none of my questions. So I let it drop.

He left me written instructions on the table that evening before he departed. I was to drive to a particular address by 5:30 at the latest. I was to walk up to the door of the house wearing nothing but the tiny blue spandex bikini briefs he had left on the table with the note. And I was to introduce myself by saying “I'm here to serve.” Nothing more, nothing less. Any failure to obey completely would constitute an abrogation of our agreement.

I couldn't believe it. He was making me play the bitch to a much wider audience than just himself. He can't get away with this, I thought to myself.

Can he?

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby xtc » Tue May 27, 2014 2:04 am

I suspect he can.

I'm enjoying your writing style and am keen to read the rest of the tale.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri Jun 06, 2014 11:54 pm

Yeah, I know. Hopefully you're not too bored, or disappointed. My stories tend to focus more on the run-up to bondage, and the initial moments of captivity, rather than the details. A reflection of my personal interests, probably. Hopefully some of the next few segments will have some more actual bondage :) But not this next one - it's a short one with more build-up - sorry!

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri Jun 06, 2014 11:56 pm

Author's note: I've switched to the first person here, as if I've been telling the story from this moment the whole time. There may be a couple small inconsistencies with the earlier sections though, as the decision to go into the first person was made very recently, and I've written this in stages. If there are any inconsistencies, resolve them however you see fit! :)

---------------------------

Well, more or less in answer to that question, here I am – sitting in the driver's seat of my car, parked in front of a gorgeous Italian style villa (not home, villa), on a quiet street lined by soaring, beautiful trees. Fancy, expensive cars are parked sparsely along the street, making me wonder where I am, and who I'm going to be hanging out with tonight. But of course “hanging out” is not at all appropriate. One doesn't “hang out” with people this rich. And I'm not a regular invited guest either. I'm a servant. And one who is not permitted to wear more than a tiny, tight fabric around his loins. Which makes me feel like a slave rather than merely a servant. Which is how my captor always makes me feel, so go figure.

I'm wearing shorts and a soccer jersey. And my blue, spandex bikini briefs/tiniest speedo in the world. I take a deep breath, trying to work myself up to doing this. Trying to convince myself I'm actually going to do this. It takes a while. There are a lot of people in there, I think. Or there will be. And I'm not going to be wearing anything. And who knows what they'll make me do. And everyone will be staring at me all evening.

Like I said, I may have a fascination with being tied up – and yes, I have a fascination with being naked while tied up – but that doesn't mean I live for this stuff. On the contrary, I'm humiliated by it. Horrified, even. But even so, I take off my shirt, then unbutton and slide off my shorts. Then I'm almost naked in this extremely respectable neighborhood, and I'm already afraid of being seen, and ashamed of being bare. I look in my mirrors to make sure no one is around, take a deep breath, and open the car door.

I step barefoot out onto the pavement. It feels funny, feeling the asphalt beneath your feet. It's odd how rarely we experience the physical world this closely. I can feel each little groove and pebble intimately. I feel the same way about my body – like everyone could see every groove and curve and shape of my body intimately. I have no idea if anyone is watching from their houses. I can't imagine what they are thinking if so. “College-age boy steps out of car wearing next-to-nothing on tree-lined street in elite neighborhood.” The only logical conclusion to draw is hooker. They must think I'm a prostitute.

I don't intend to wait and give them plenty of time to assess my assets and come to a conclusion, however. I walk swiftly down the street, across the sidewalk, and up the front walkway of the villa in question. I double-check the address. I am poignantly aware of my bare body as the cool air caressed my naked skin as I stand there. My feet switched from reporting warm pavement to cool grass to lukewarm flagstones as I approached the house. I continue up the way and pray someone will answer the door quickly, yet dread with fear and embarrassment the moment the door will open.

As if in reaction to that thought, I glance down at my body. The swell of my penis and balls is nicely visible against the tight fabric of my “clothing.” The bright blue of the thin straps that disappear around my waist contrast starkly against my pasty white skin. I groan internally for the millionth time that I didn't have a six-pack, that my pecs aren't round and taut. I'm not over weight or anything, and I do the occasional pushup and situp. But I'm not buff, or anything. I'm suddenly ashamed of my body.

I knock. And immediately regret it. Someone's going to come to the door! But I have no choice – it's either this or stand naked on this public street forever or retreat back to my car and my house and my anonymity. I can't choose either of those two. So I knock.

And someone opens the door.

It's a woman, in her late 30s probably, dressed in a long black dress that fits her thin frame closely. My humiliation doubles. Or maybe triples. Something about having a hot woman there (and she was hot; she looked Mediterranean, which means her eyes and hair were dark, and her skin was naturally tan) in the moment of my humiliation makes it so much worse. Having my body evaluated by a woman in my helpless state is really something.

“Why, hello,” she says, after looking me up and down briefly. Her eyes meet mine, then drop back down to roam over my body again. Her voice is confidant, like she has been expecting me, and is deciding if I have lived up to her expectations. Her eyes, intonation, and posture indicate that she was in control; and that I am in her control.

It is suddenly hard to get the words out, so three or more seconds pass in silence as she continues to examine my body in detail. I feel the bulge in my speedo grow tighter, which only furthers my humiliation.

“I'm here to serve,” I finally manage, in a small voice.

Her eyes take their time, then rise to meet mine. “Good,” she says, giving the slightest of smiles. She steps back and opens the door wide, indicating I should enter.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Sat Jun 07, 2014 12:46 am

Very nice. Well done on the descriptions and the angst going on inside added tension to the situation. I think you found your medium!
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Thu Jun 19, 2014 12:09 am

I step inside, and suddenly I'm in a grand foyer, perhaps thirty feet tall, just as far to the wall opposite, and extending almost seamlessly into tall, open rooms to the left and the right. A broad, spiral staircase begins directly across from the front door and leads up to the second floor. The dark green marble is cold under my bare feet. I can't believe it: I'm standing inside a grand mansion whose opulence exceeds anything I've seen in person before. And I'm wearing skimpy blue underwear. Nothing else.

Which proves I'm not here as a guest; I'm here as a servant. Figures.

“This way please,” the woman says curtly as she begins walking to the right, then down a hallway. I follow her, feeling really stupid and very vulnerable. I can feel more and more shame as my clothes get further and further away. I'm sure to meet lots of people tonight, and I'm horrified at the prospect; I'm more and more certain that I will meet each of them wearing at most what I have on now. Let me tell you, it's super weird and disconcerting to walk through a stranger's house without clothes.

As I pass, the walls are decorated with fine art; there are frequent Greco-Roman busts in alcoves in the walls, along with ancient-looking vases. My guide says nothing, just keeps walking at a brisk pace. Her tight dress looks fantastic on her and her walk is very sexy.

Finally the long corridor opens up into a large kitchen space. It is evident that this isn't a cozy home-cooking kind of kitchen. It's a professional chef, catering kind of kitchen. As I enter I see a young woman about my age, maybe a year or two older, standing against one of the counters. By her posture I can tell she has been waiting nervously. My “hostess” was probably with her when I knocked.

She is dressed. She is wearing tight black jeans and a tight-fitting tank top. Her hair is short, light brown. She is chewing on her nails. I walk in in my blue briefs and immediately blush as she looks me over. She's really cute, and she's got a look at everything I've got before I even know her name. Damn, I'm humiliated.

My sexy hostess doesn't give me much time to wallow in it though, because she immediately gets down to business.

“Right,” she says matter-of-factly. “Now that you're both here let's get you ready for tonight.” At this she looks over me again, eyes dwelling especially long on my blue speedo underwear. The whole situation has me kind of excited, and the tight bulge isn't helping anything. Finally, after a very long ten seconds or so, she speaks.

“While I like what he was going for and I appreciate his style – especially the fact that he sent you here all stripped down and ready to go (at this she gave a side glance at the other girl) – I'm going to have to have you take that off.”

I'm mortified. Showing up as I did was bad enough – now I have to strip naked in front of this cute girl I haven't even met yet?

“Just...right here?” I ask, sounding clueless.

The hostess tilts her head to one side and gives me this “Really? Are you serious?” look. “No, on the moon. Of course right here! Take it off!”

I must be good at taking orders now because as soon as she says it that way I hook my thumbs under the waist straps of my underwear and pull them down. Now I'm naked; and partly (ok, mostly) erect. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there. I don't dare look over at the girl. I don't even dare make eye contact with my hostess.

You know, I should probably stop calling her “hostess”. She's not “hosting” anyone here. I'm the servant/slave, she's the headmaster. Or mistress. Whatever. She's the domme, I'm the sub – it's that simple.

“Kind of excited already, huh?” She raises an eyebrow and looks amused. I say nothing, of course. I just stand there naked. “Well, that should be fine for what you're wearing.”

She walks over to a small, wooden, antique-looking chest sitting on the counter. She rummages through it for a moment, pulling out various odd pieces of clothing until she draws out one that looks shiny, stringy, and black. She walks back toward me, dangling it over her index finger by one of the strings.

“Put that on.”

It's clearly a thong or a g-string of some kind or another, but it's hard as hell to tell which way is front and which is back. I turn it around in my hands for several seconds trying to figure it out when I notice a little extra cloth – some kind of pouch – on one side and figure that must be the front. I step into it and pull it up to my upper thighs, then pause to guide my junk into the pouch before pulling the waistband up around hips. The strap fits snugly in my crack and I can feel it tight against my ass. Pulling the thong up around my hips has pulled the pouch taut around my junk without pulling it back to my body. Instead, the excess material seems to have folded tightly around my penis, holding it almost perfectly straight out.

I still have an obvious erection sticking out from my body – only now it's wrapped in black fabric. I have never worn anything like this before. The fit kind of caresses my junk, ensuring I won't be losing my erection any time soon.

For several seconds I look down at my waist, trying to get a handle on how I look. Presently I realize I've been staring at myself and glance up at my mistress. She is full-on smiling now – a devious, horny smile.

“Boy, does little horny boy look good. Huh, Katie?” She looks over at the cutie. Who now has a name. “Or should I say 'bitch #1'?”

Katie goes from gazing aimlessly at my body to locking mistress in an angry, contemptuous stare.

“Now, now, that isn't going to get us anywhere, is it?” Mistress replies to the unspoken challenge. “Horny boy's all dressed and ready to go. It's your turn now.” There is a pause as Mistress gazes arrogantly at Katie, one hand lazily resting on her hip. Then she speaks. “Strip, bitch!”

Without changing her look of contempt, Katie obeys – much to my tremendous delight. She pulls her shirt over her head, revealing a slender torso, gorgeous abs, and delicious breasts hiding behind a pink bra. Then off come her pants; she bends over as she pulls them off, half pointing her ass my direction. Her legs are dreamy smooth and ample – no stick legs, thank heaven. I have a thing about stick legs, they ruin many a beautiful girl.

Right as I'm thinking this girl's body is fantastic she reaches back and unhooks her bra. She slides off the straps and there are her two magnificent breasts – not large, but good-sized; firm and round, with large, gorgeous tits pointing straight out, already erect. I wonder to myself if the fact that she's already turned on by this has anything to do with her angry reaction to Mistress.

But then she's stripping off her panties and I can't think about anything else. I'll leave her pussy to your imagination, my friends. Suffice it to say that her ass didn't disappoint either. Finally, a stray thought manages to cross some small portion of my mind: I don't think I've ever seen a hotter body than this girl's.

Now that she's naked, Katie leans back against the counter with her hands on the counter edge on either side, exposing herself to Mistress' gaze – almost as if saying, “See? I don't care if you see me naked.” One or both of these girls is gay, I think to myself. Mistress goes right ahead and takes Katie up on the invitation, drinking in bitch #1's body for a while. Finally, she gives a small smirk and saunters over to the chest again. After digging through it a while she pulls out a small pair of black leather bikini underwear. She holds them up for Katie to see.

“Like these?” she asks with a fake cutesie voice. Then her tone drops to 'imperious' again and she throws the leather underwear at bitch #1 as she says, “put them on!”

Katie catches them against her body and hesitates long enough to show Mistress she isn't a coweringly obedient slave (like me, I think), then obeys anyway and bends over to put them on. They're really snug, and fit so low (and are so tiny) that they barely cover her pussy. If she wasn't shaved, they probably wouldn't cover all her pubic hair.

Having put them on, Katie puts her hands above her head and models them by swinging her hips side to side in a manner that I'm sure she intended to be sarcastic and mocking. I nearly faint from loss of blood to the brain. So much for losing my erection.

“Very nice,” Mistress replies, sounding disgusted. “Put your hands down – you're having an effect on horny boy over here.”

Katie flashes her eyes my way and gives me a sexy half-smile. Her eyes drop to my erection, then up my body to my face again. I'm blushing like crazy.

“It's not your fault,” she says in an airy, confident tone as she walks towards the end of the kitchen and me. “I have that effect on men... and women.”

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Fri Jun 27, 2014 2:11 pm

Here we are, Katie and I, standing side by side; we each have a tray laden with food balanced on our left hands. Our right hands hands are empty; backs are straight, posture professional. Mistress (I still don't know her name and have been warned in dangerous tones of calling her anything but Mistress) stands ahead of us and slightly off to one side. She will enter the dining room ahead of us, announce the meal, and then we enter and serve the guests.

What has happened in the intervening two or so hours? Well, let me see.

We got oiled down. Katie looks magnificent. Oh, and I'm strictly forbidden to call her Katie. Mistress calls her bitch. I'm not sure what to call her, so I avoid it altogether. Anyhow, she is stunning. Her body – already hot – positively glistens. She makes me horny just standing next to her. Which isn't good because neither of us is wearing anything more than we were after Mistress stripped us down. Except for our leather collars. With metal spikes. Those are new. And makeup; black around the eyes, white on the cheeks. I haven't seen myself in a mirror, but Katie – I mean, bitch, whatever – looks even more scandalously sensual.

I'm still trying to figure her out. Why is she here? I know why I'm here – I'm that one dude's slave. But her? Has someone enslaved her in a similar fashion? She seems to know Mistress, and positively detests her. The negative vibe I caught between them has only intensified with time. It got particularly bad while Mistress was oiling her up. Having Mistress' hands on her body got her really riled up, apparently.

Then the best part: Mistress ordered bitch to oil me down. I cannot say enough how fantastic that was. Katie seemed to think it was amusing. Didn't seem to mind. Now that I think of it, it is strange that Mistress didn't have me oil Katie's body. Maybe she worried I couldn't handle the steamy hotness of it – which isn't unreasonable, actually – but something tells me that's not it.

Well, whatever her story, she's standing next to me looking for all the world like a steamy sex goddess in her super low-cut black leather panties, bare breasts and gleaming body.

Oh, and I forgot to mention something else that happened in the previous two hours: I got shaved. Completely. Not my head, of course. But everything else. So I'm pretty gleamy too. And I got a haircut that left everything really short except my bangs. I'm kind of scared to look in a mirror right now. But I can worry about that later. I have a long evening ahead of me.

“Ready, slaves?” Mistress calls out to us. She is looking particularly wicked in a knock-out black silk dress that shows off her curves and her breasts nicely. It has no back at all and barely covers her fine ass. Her hair is pulled back in a long pony tail and her black and purple makeup makes her look quite devilish.

We straighten our posture and look straight ahead. Mistress pauses for a moment longer, then turns and walks through the door into the dining room. We wait the appropriate few seconds, then start walking in ourselves.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the first course will be a tomato and basil bisque with artisan bread and organic goat cheese.”

We enter the room and I notice that our guests (about a dozen of them in all) are dressed very nicely. Some wear masks and many of the women wear feathers in their hair. An old-fashioned costume party, I guess. All are older, except for one who appears to be in her thirties. My captor is among them. I try to avoid his eyes but we make eye contact before I can look away. His appearance is pleased, almost glad to see me. “Probably glad to show me off,” I think to myself in disgust.

Our entrance causes quite a stir, with all eyes fixed on us – or should I say, on our bodies. I feel my nakedness exquisitely, but manage to focus on serving instead. I glance at Katie; her head is held high and she is trying her level best to be aloof and above the humiliation. But I can sense she feels it acutely.

“Lazlo,” I hear one woman exclaim, speaking to a particularly well-dressed man at the head of the table. “You have outdone yourself. Your servants are exquisite.”

“Not at all, Decadence,” Lazlo replies, as I set a bowl of soup in front of him. He turns to look at me, then continues, “these are Espionage and Willow's additions to our party.” His gaze turns to my captor and the woman in her thirties – who are sitting near one another.

“Oh! You don't say!” Decadence turns to my captor and Willow as she says this, looking surprised and disgustedly envious. She is an older lady with several huge feathers sticking out of her hair.

Wait, Decadence? Willow? Espionage? These are clearly fake names – or rather, I'm beginning to suspect, role-play names. I wonder if they know each others' true identities at all.

“Well, you have both certainly done a fine job,” pipes up a white-haired man across from Decadence. “You will both have to tell the group how you found them.” There are small nods and chuckles of approval in response to this from the other guests. “They must not know,” I think to myself.

Katie and I continue our service under the scrutinizing gaze of thirteen pairs of eyes. As I serve the guests, I'm sure that before we finish someone will reach out to grope my junk (it's sticking out there, after all), slap my ass, or fondle Katie's breasts. As she leans over to place bowls of soup in front of the guests, her breasts are just inches from their faces. Yet no one does. A civilized dinner party, I suppose.

We finish serving and retreat to the kitchen. Mistress hangs back to chat with the guests, whom she clearly knows well. We set our trays down and heave sighs. We have a moment to ourselves until Mistress returns, before going back out there to serve wine.

I look over at Katie. My eyes are full of questions that I don't dare ask aloud. Mostly, I just want to know if she is ok. She looks back at me, and we share a brief authentic moment, born of shared adversity. I half expected to see a sliver of weakness surface, but I see none; only fierce defiance. Only she isn't defying anyone; she's serving obediently. I make a mental note to ask her why before the night is over.

Then Mistress returns and yells at us to get the wine ready. We do so, and in a moment are back out there, serving the guests. Once the wine course is over, we move to positions facing one another on opposite sides of the table, standing at attention, waiting for our guests to express a need or for Mistress to give an order. She remains in the room as well, receiving the compliments of the guests and chatting with them amiably.

In silence I look across at Katie. She is so beautiful. But her collar and her lack of clothes make her seem painfully vulnerable and fragile. For a moment my concern for her has me forgetting myself; but then a guest's salacious, covetous stare reminds me that I am almost entirely naked and, for all intents and purposes, enslaved.

But then Espionage, my captor, says something that takes my mind off of even that.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Fri Jun 27, 2014 2:56 pm

D --- congratulations! you've "out-hotted" yourself. Have you thought about renting yourself out for other dinner parties?????
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby xtc » Fri Jun 27, 2014 4:30 pm

". . . a tomato and basil bisque with artisan bread and organic goat cheese."

Tsss . . . yeuchhh!
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Fri Jun 27, 2014 4:57 pm

xtc wrote:". . . a tomato and basil bisque with artisan bread and organic goat cheese."

Tsss . . . yeuchhh!



Sounds great with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar dip....
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Sat Jul 05, 2014 8:49 pm

xtc wrote:". . . a tomato and basil bisque with artisan bread and organic goat cheese."

Tsss . . . yeuchhh!


Hey, I didn't say I planned the menu! I was just part of the entertainment ;)

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Sat Jul 05, 2014 8:51 pm

tony2 wrote:D --- congratulations! you've "out-hotted" yourself. Have you thought about renting yourself out for other dinner parties?????


Why, thanks, Tony! ::blushes:: Actually, I think I would really enjoy renting myself out to dinner parties ;) Not sure how you find out about those kinds of gigs, though. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I would have the guts to actually do it, hehe.

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby NemesisPrime » Sat Jul 05, 2014 10:34 pm

donatello wrote:
tony2 wrote:D --- congratulations! you've "out-hotted" yourself. Have you thought about renting yourself out for other dinner parties?????


Why, thanks, Tony! ::blushes:: Actually, I think I would really enjoy renting myself out to dinner parties ;) Not sure how you find out about those kinds of gigs, though. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I would have the guts to actually do it, hehe.

Well, I'm sure I could help "break you in". Always wanted a dinner boy to serve me my food and drink...
Everyone speaks in multiple languages...But gag talk is universal and a sock in your mouth is the perfect translator!

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby donatello » Sun Jul 06, 2014 7:09 pm

NemesisPrime wrote:
donatello wrote:
tony2 wrote:D --- congratulations! you've "out-hotted" yourself. Have you thought about renting yourself out for other dinner parties?????


Why, thanks, Tony! ::blushes:: Actually, I think I would really enjoy renting myself out to dinner parties ;) Not sure how you find out about those kinds of gigs, though. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I would have the guts to actually do it, hehe.

Well, I'm sure I could help "break you in". Always wanted a dinner boy to serve me my food and drink...


Well I just might have to take you up on that offer ;)

Re: Master, blackmailer, captor...

Postby tony2 » Mon Jul 07, 2014 6:40 pm

There is a "playgirl type" beach bar you would be appropriately dressed for as well. Your only problem might be when a guest orders "sex on the beach" you might not catch on they are not talking about the drink!
If you believe in yourself enough -
nobody else will figure out you're faking it.


ANTS viewtopic.php?f=85&t=22496
Talk is cheap viewtopic.php?f=78&t=21971