My Sex Slave

In dedication to my good friends Jo Bird and Amber Krogh, this is a long time fantasy of mine.

Robert under the desk

sex slave

The sound of piano playing in the background kinda calms me. My glass of wine is half-empty. The sweet haziness of alcohol starts kicking in. Rain is whipping the windows and the storm doesn’t seem to show any signs of clearing. For someone else, this set up would have been almost perfect to start working on his new novel. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case with me.

 

My hand keeps wandering down on my crotch, stroking my dick over my jeans. I’m trying to focus but I can’t get him out of my mind. His wet mouth; his weak fingers squeezing my balls; his hot breath on my skin. No matter how hard I try, he’s always there, the missing piece of the puzzle I call inspiration.

 

And that’s exactly why I hate him and myself for wanting him. He’s a no one, a man I picked up from the streets to fulfill my need for intercourse, just a fuck. However, his wanting eyes are constantly there, in the back of my head, worshiping me as I drill his ass with my dick.

 

Usually, I use these guys once and then toss them aside for the next, shiny new toy. But this one, with his utter submission to my every command, with that mumbling voice that can’t even complete one sentence without muttering with awkwardness, makes me mad.

 

God, I’m hard again.

 

Before I know it, I’m on my feet, heading to the bathroom. Maybe some cold water on my face will be enough to cool me off. Other than making my skin tense, it doesn’t help at all. Instead, when I raise my head and watch myself through the mirror, my black hair full with sprinkles of gray, my dark brown, tired eyes searching the lines on my face, I can’t hold back anymore. Without even realizing it, I’m on my phone, searching my contacts for the name Robert to appear in the long list.

 

I’m only aware of what I’m doing after I hear the distinctive beep of the line connecting.

 

“Yes?” His voice sounds raspy and tired. He must have been sleeping.

 

“It’s Eric. Wake up and come at my place, now,” I command him.

 

“What are you talking about? It’s 3 am in the morning. I have to get to work in three hours. I can’t–”

 

I want to stuff my cock in his mouth to shut him up. “I said…come at my place. Now.”

 

I hear him sigh deeply, but not in a desperate, grave way. He’s just trying to test me, huh?

 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour,” he says. I can hear the rustle of his smile through the phone. My cock jerks.

 

“Call a taxi and be here in half an hour. I’ll pay,” I urge him. I don’t expect him to complain so I hang up the phone and head to my bedroom.

 

I’m wearing tight, black boxers and an undershirt in the same color. I like writing wearing the bare minimum because it helps me arouse my thoughts. Being a successful erotic writer means I have to be constantly turned on. So feeling the leather cushion of the armchair on my skin, it does a good job of maintaining that feeling while I’m working.

 

It also helps that I’m a good looking, fit guy who can nail everyone I want, anytime and anywhere, but that isn’t the point today. Fucking has become an essential part of my everyday routine and Robert is just the latest addition. It’s that I need an extra push to get my creative fluids moving.

 

I put on a plain, white t-shirt and match it with a black cardigan. I choose a pair of casual jeans, nothing too formal for Robert, and head towards the bathroom for one last check before he arrives. After that, I return to my working place and make sure everything is ready under the desk to welcome him. He doesn’t know it yet, but our visit today is strictly professional. I just need his mouth to help me focus. That’s all.

 

Still, owning someone urges, the power to control his moves and decisions, it’s a drug in itself, the most addictive kind.

 

I sit in the living room, waiting for the doorbell to ring, almost counting the minutes in the meantime. Thankfully, half an hour later, Robert is standing outside, patiently knocking the door. Good. Not ringing the doorbell means he doesn’t want to be heard around the neighborhood. He’s ashamed of who is and that’s why his petty presence is so addictive.

 

I get on my feet and slowly head towards the door. I turn the knob and see him standing there, wet and anxious.

 

“Uhm…the driver is waiting…,” he mumbles, as always.

 

I’m sure he wants to get inside as soon as possible, in the warm and dry house, but I don’t invite him in yet. Slowly, I grab my wallet, I pick a $50 bill from inside and give it to him. I simply nod and he understands what he has to do. He hurries back to the driver and pays him. The car vanishes in the distance before Robert has returned to the entrance again. He’s soaking wet now and shaking.

 

“Can I…get inside…please?” he says.

 

Robert is a thirty-six years old man with short, brown hair that is starting to get dangerously thin. He’s skinny but his belly is swollen and ugly. He doesn’t take care of himself, he’s a closeted gay, single and working as an accountant for fifteen years without ever getting a promotion or even receiving a pay raise.

 

Simply put, Robert is the polar opposite of me, a successful writer that has it all. But, that’s exactly why I picked him for this particular job.

 

“Yes,” I say, but when he tries to hurry inside, I stop him. “But first, take off all your clothes. I don’t want you dirtying my house with your filthy clothes.”

 

At first, he’s looking at me with a distressful look. He thinks I’m joking or maybe he’s trying to find a way out of this situation without him removing his clothes out in the dark, rainy night. Truth is, I’ve prepared a towel for him in the living room, but he doesn’t have to know that. What would have been the point after all?

 

“As you wish,” he finally adds with a scornful look. Crushing his last shambles of dignity is turning me on.

 

He clumsily removes his jacket and shirt, revealing his ugly tuft of chest hair and his big, fat, stomach. Next, he takes off his shoes and then his jeans. He folds them up and waits for my next command.

 

“What part of take off all your clothes didn’t you understand?” I ask him again with a plain voice. I’ve discovered that not showing any feelings intimidates people more than showing too much.

 

He’s on the verge of crying now, but I can clearly see his briefs stretching. He enjoys me shaming him, even if that means going over his limits as a man. When he finally removes his white, dirty briefs, he’s staring at me with a pleading expression on his face, trying his best not to touch his dick and start masturbating.

 

“Okay, you can now come in,” I say and stand aside for him pass.

 

He hurries inside, panting in the process. It’s 41 degrees outside, which means is relatively cold for a November night. However, being stark naked out there made him freeze. I walk in the living room, grab the towel, and hand it to him. His face lightens at my generosity, and I can see he’s getting ready to indulge himself into idle chit chat.

 

He pisses me off.

 

“When you’re ready, get under the desk and wait for me there,” I say.

 

Robert seems confused. He’s hanging there with his mouth open, ready to complain. I don’t give him that option, though. Instead, I head towards the armchair before the desk, pull it aside, and start getting naked myself.

 

I can sense Robert’s prying eyes checking my chiseled back and muscled legs. No matter how I enjoy showing off, he has to know that his place is serving me and not the other way around. And tonight he’s here as my personal blowup doll. All he has to do is suck my dick under the desk until I manage to complete today’s work. Either that or I’ll fail to deliver the first draft of my new book in time and that isn’t an option.

 

When I’m in my underwear, I turn and make him watch my bulging dick and lined abs. Foreplay in our relationship relies on the illusion that Robert gets the longest straw of the draw. Thus, seeing the wholeness of the man he serves makes him feel lucky that he even gets that spot under the desk.

 

So, a minute later, Robert shyly walks past me and spreads his towel on the floor. Still naked but not shaking anymore, he forces himself in there and waits for my next command. His face is a blank faucet of lust-induced trance. He’s long lost in the idea of me fucking him, or sucking me, or even touching my body. And that’s how I like him.

 

I sit on the armchair and pull down my boxers to reveal my throbbing dick. It’s the only thing that makes Robert snap out of his deep daze.

 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks me.

 

“Open your mouth and stop speaking. I have work to do,” I say and draw the chair closer to the desk, shutting Robert into a prison of cock and expensive mahogany.

 

He leans forward and starts sucking me willingly. His wet mouth makes me hard quickly, but I make sure I push him back every time I get close to cum. He’s too good of a sucker this bastard, but that’s what makes him so valuable. Robert is just an ugly shit that likes to suck my dick and serve me, but he now has to know what truly means to serve.

 

He’s trying his best to please me, licking the top of my cut cock and sucking it all in when he can. He doesn’t stop until I tell him to, which is not often. I can’t get enough of that tiny mouth of his. I thrust my dick in there and hear him gag and playfully slap my cock on his face so that I can hear him moan. Soon though, I forget that there’s even someone sucking me down there. His lowly presence doesn’t demand more of my attention. The only time I remember that Robert is under my desk, blowing me, is when I cum in his mouth, fucking his face. When he swipes me clean with his tongue, I continue fervently typing my story.

 

The rain has stopped whipping the window now, the wine is over, and the alcohol-heavy stupor is long gone. For another writer, that would mean that it’s time to get to bed and end his day in front of the TV, contemplating the past day’s work. I, on the other hand, don’t give a damn what other writers do to get inspired. If there’s a mouth I can fuck, I can go on the whole night.

 


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