"Adoring Devin" by Gregory Gordon ogt009966@gmail.com
Thursday. 9:36 pm. He summons me by text: "Come."
So much is packed into that one word, so many years, so much devotion, so much heartbreak, so humiliating (my friends tell me), so affirming (I tell myself). Pathetic, isn't it, that my service to Devin is still the most important part of my life despite everything good that's going on all around it. But that's the way it is. It's reached this point where a single word snakes its way through my entire body and soul. I'm being summoned at the Master's convenience.
Okay, sure, I never actually call him Master except when he's really hurting me badly and I'm afraid I can bear no more. Otherwise, he's Devin and I'm "kid." He beats me whenever he wants, whenever he decides "it will do you some good," he tells me. In the midst of my cried I call him "Master"--the closest thing to a safe word I have. Things usually wind down after that. But I can never be completely sure what he'll decide when I cry out in desperation. That hasn't been happening as often as it used to. Usually he just wants me to be in some pain, but nothing too extreme. The way he sees it, I always deserve to be punished simply because I lust after his body.
That's the name of the game and it always has been since school days. I won't mention our ages because I don't want this to turn into kiddie porn. But long before we discovered sex—or, rather, before he discovered sex and decided how he would demand it from me, even before we began to grew pubic hair, he was in charge. Mine started to grow in before his and that angered him. Once a week he's shave me and then punish me by thrashing my cock and balls once he's shaved me bare again. I remember how relieved I was when I saw those first few hairs appear above his gorgeous dick.
He was my only friend. Somehow he managed to let everyone else know I was off limits, that I belonged to him. That suited me just fine. I've always been a terrible loner, so allowing one person to invade my space was all I could handle. When I wasn't with him I went within myself, curled up in some safe space somewhere—my flat was full of them--reading or writing or doodling or even daydreaming of what life would be like if I were a normal type of kid but always finding it dissatisfying. I couldn't comprehend how I would live if I didn't belong to Devin. And yes, I realized that even before any hair grew in. I belonged to him.
I only had one God and his name was Devin. We didn't meet by accident. Devin claimed me. One day a bunch of us were lined up to go get checked out for head lice. He looked up and down the line then walked right up to me. "Come." That was all he said. And I did.
We went for a long walk, getting to know one another, speaking about the kind of things young kids babble on about, him leading the way, sometimes tapping my shoulder to get me to go first when there was too much thicket. At one point we reached a grassy area and he stopped. I stopped as well, wondering what was happening.
"I picked you because I could a look in your eyes that told me you were meant to have someone better than you handle things. So this is the way it's gonna be, kid. I call the shots. You do what I say. That's how things are meant to be. Understand?"
I hesitate. He doesn't move. He waits for my first of many surrenders. "okay, Devin, whatever you say." And with those words I sealed my fate. "Then I'm gonna give you a little test. I want you to do something. Promise me you'll do it."
"I promise, Devin. I'll do what you want me to do."
"Good. Take off your sneakers and socks. I want you barefoot when you're with me."
I hesitated a bit but then got down so I could untie my shoes. I stood up to take them off and my socks and it was kind of awkward. I almost lost my balance once but Devin took hold of the back of my neck and made sure I'd be okay. Not a word was said. Nothing was needed. I learned everything I needed to learn by the feel of his hand taking possession of my entire being.
And there I was. Standing by Devin. Barefoot. Sneakers and socks on the ground. Devin stooped over and picked them up. He buried them in a pile of leaves by a tree. "Leave them here." We kept walking and he started talking to me about some book he'd read where the servants were kept barefoot all the time. "It's cool now, kid, me with shoes on my feet and you bare. That's how we're gonna be. Me big. You bare boy." He starts to laugh and I'm not sure whether he really means that or if he's just being silly—stupid, even. He's starting to scare me now. I stop and turn around and go back to get my stuff.
He comes after me. "Hey, don't be like that. I didn't mean I don't like you. I just mean I like it that you'll go barefoot because I told you I want you to. I have all the power, kid." Then he takes his hand and starts rubbing my back while I'm still bent down to get my sneakers. "Relax, kid. I've got ya. C'mon. Leave them here. Leave the past. Come on this adventure with me. It'll be good for you, I promise."
His hand is now on the back of my neck, just like he was before when I almost fell over. It sends feelings through me that I never had before. Some kind of warm wave starts at my neck where his hand is and then rolls all the way down through my body. He makes me feel wonderful. I understand that this is the way things were meant to be.
We keep walking, a lot slower now because I have to be careful where I step. "Hey, I've got a plan. Whenever you're with me I'm gonna make you take something off. Only when we're alone. And you'll do it to show me your respect."
Respect. Do I still respect him after everything that's happened now that we're already in our thirties and I'm just naked a lot, especially when he wants to beat me. One day we were hanging out and he told me to take my pants off. As usual, there were skid marks in my white bvds and he saw them. He teased me and told me I'd better wipe my ass better from now on. Then he took them down and spanked my bare ass a few times as punishment. From then on, he'd often check to make sure I was clean and when I wasn't, down came my underpants and the spankings got harder as time went on.
Once we got to high school he told me it was time for us to grow up and from now on he'd use his strap on me. I asked me mother to get me colored underpants, hoping to be able to hide if I wasn't clean enough. He got real pissed off about that. After that, I always wore white. It got embarrassing because most of the boys had graduated to boxers by then. Not me. "Tighty whities for boys like you" he insisted.
Don't get me wrong: I love being with him. We had good times. Movies, playing hookey, stripping down and swimming in the creek by our houses, although he'd make me stay naked after swimming a lot longer than he did. I remember the first time I looked at his dick and realized how perfect it was, so much nicer than my own. He eventually caught me looking. He didn't tease me about it, but he did tell me he wasn't surprised, that he always figured I'd turn out to be a faggot. "It will be our secret," he promised. "I don't want anyone else to know that I'm hanging out with a cock-loving faggot." To the best of my knowledge, no one else ever found out about the way things were between the two of us. I wouldn't have cared; everyone could see that I idolized him. But he insisted that no one found out what a queer I was turning out to be.
Now he had even more reason to punish me. I was almost always a little sore. He liked to bend me over a table, pull my pants down himself, always checking for skid marks. He got a thicker belt for his jeans. He started giving me "six of the best"—he'd learned that phrase from a story about boys in a British boarding school and decided it would be good for me to be disciplined that way. He also pointed out that the boys in those schools got their asses whipped by upperclassmen, boys whipping boys, just like us, he said. "It was the right way to keep you in line," he told me. I believed him and never objected. Sure, he really started hurting me, but at the same time that warm feeling usually came over me when he was finished and made me pull my pants back up.
Things changed a lot when we were in college. Whenever we were alone, usually because either his roommate or mine were away. (We never lived together for some reason.) At first he made a whip out of leather shoelaces. "I want you naked. Strip," he tells me. He likes to watch me surrender to him this way, looking into his eyes while I remove my clothing, one thing at a time. It was always the same routine. He never tied me down. He made me get me down on the floor and he'd just start swinging his whip and landing it anywhere on my body. He told me he liked watching me writhe and squirm trying to protect myself, but of course I was never able to escape most of the beating.
It wasn't severe, usually just enough to "make a point," as he said. Some times, though, when he was really upset at me about something he'd really lash me until I was crying and calling him "Master," my way of begging him to have mercy on me. Some times he did. Some times he just beat me harder. I don't know what it was about me, but I almost always got hard when it happened and he'd aim for my dick and balls when I ended up on my back because I didn't want him to his my ass any more.
He graduated from the make-shift whips as time went on and he found a place where he could buy more realistic things. He had a flogger he liked to use and just a few years ago he found a whip which he learned to apply with great skill and accuracy. Sometimes he'd hold me down by standing on my arm or leg or even my back when I was bent over. That was when I always get the worst of it.
You might wonder why I put up with it. The truth was that I turned out to be a real masochist. I craved that kind of attention from him at times. I still do. It's never stopped happening. Especially when he realized that I did a much better job sucking his cock or licking his feet and balls and ass after I'd been whipped. It was true. It did something to me when he beat me. It made me ravenous for his body. Any part of his body. Whatever he wanted. Any time.
And you might find this really bizarre, but the thing was that he took really good care of me whenever it happened. There was nothing that made me feel better than being able to bury my face in his chest and cry out all the pain and humiliation why he held me and touched me gently and talked to me in a way that made my heart break for him and I would fall even more deeply in love with him and grateful for everything he's done for me in my life. He just had this way about him that made it all seem so right and natural, what we had between us.
He's really big on symbolism, ever since he did a study on it for an anthropology independent study one semester and he couldn't stop talking to me about it because a lot of the things he's had me do over the years all mean even more than he thought they did. Everything that happened between us was symbolically powerful, he'd explain. And he always made so much sense. Yes. I needed to be subservient to him.
We didn't use the language but I think most guys into what we came to understand as bdsm would have said I was his slave if they had known what was going on between the two of us. But no. It was always our secret. This is the first time he ever wanted me to write about it, to make it more real, he'd say. He wanted other men to know about this, to encourage them to explore these types of things with their own submissive buddies. He also told me he was thinking of letting others know what kind of a boy I was. He told me he wanted me to be proud of my shame. That made no sense to me. I wore shame well. It was engraved in my entire being. As for pride, I never dared show it or I'd end up n chains in a stone cell, sitting in my own excrement until he came to hose me off then set me free.
One night in the dorm me rammed his hard cock into my mouth and made me choke. It was awful. He'd never done anything like that before. He waited until I recovered, tears still in my eyes. "That was a symbolic act. It's not only about you being my cocksucker or cleaning my filth with your miserable tongue. It's not about me fucking your mouth and ass. I did that so you would understand that when I fuck your holes I'm also fucking your soul. I get all the way in there and take possession of your entire being." What could I say? I bowed my head to the ground in utter surrender. He place his boot on my neck and held me down fast.
We were what, 20? 21? at the time. We never roomed together. He wanted me away from him most of the time, even back then. We sometimes went out together and even our outings were ritualized. He'd take me to dinner after taking his strap to my ass so he could enjoy the sight of me sitting across from him uncomfortably with red-rimmed eyes as he decided what he would order for the both of us while I remained silent with my eyes lowered until the waiter left us. Almost every outing had some element of subjugation built in. He was a master of being my Master.
You might be surprised, but I was allowed to have my own life, my career, a few friends apart from him,even a couple guys I have sex with, always with his approval. He kept me shaved bare at all times and this announced my submissiveness to those who used me. It always seemed to turn out that way. No one ever made love to me; they used me. Even on those rare occasions when a hot guy would suck my cock, he always made it clear that I was to use the experience as a way of learning to become a better cocksucker myself. I never got to fuck anyone. Even my independent sexual activity was subject to his obsession with controlling every bit of my life. I even had to call and beg permission to masturbate. He usually gave permission as long as I admitted that I deserved to be punished next time for being so selfish.
My sex life was subject to Devin's control. I'm well aware that as much as I enjoy sex with others, it paled in comparison to my being with Devin and serving him. I worked from home, usually naked but in a shirt when on Zoom or face-time. I was almost always sore, either from being thrashed or whipped, or because Devin had gotten frisky with clothespins or other toys. I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm just letting you know more about what goes on when Devin orders me to "Come."
We live close by. I really love my flat, especially since I spend almost all my time there since I work remotely, only rarely called in to deal with a problem. And like I told you in the beginning, when not with Devin, I'm just alone, an introverted recluse. Comfortable solitude is what sustains me. In a way, it's medicinal. It keeps me always primed and ready for when Devin summons me. Lately I've been reading a series of mystery novels set in Rome. It's delightful because in addition to the mystery, I'm getting a taste of the culture that I never knew before. Sometimes I wonder about what it must have been like to be a slave of the Romans back then, but afraid I'd probably just end up being a galley slave, and that's out of the question. But then I realize that there were actually real human beings who lived their lives chained to the oars of some ship. There's so much suffering. Mine is trivial compared to so much misery.
Not that I'm complaining. Did I say that already? I'm not telling you this story to get you to feel sorry about me. Actually, I'm writing this now Devin wants me to make it known. Devin wants others to know how I worship him and serve him, hoping to inspire other Masters to exert more intense control over the boys they get to enjoy enslaving the way he has done me.
We've known each other for over half our our lives. We've seen each other grow in every way. He liked for us to get naked together a lot, especially at sleep-overs, always at his place in "his kingdom," as he used to call it. We looked and touched and kept track of the changes that slowly came about over the years. We were together when we discovered boners and what they could feel like, and how I could use my fingers and later my mouth and tongue to give him exquisite pleasure, pleasure which he denied me to experience when with him.
I must confess that I was the one to initiate the practice of sucking his cock. One time, it just came over me that I wanted to do that for him, that I wanted to know what it would feel like to have him in my mouth. Needless to say, it became part of our way of life. He never touched me in those private places except with an implement that caused me pain.
From the very beginning, it was my job to "take care of him" when, where and how he wanted it. Whenever Devin and I talked about that first awkward blow job I gave him, he told me that I got the urge to do it because I was destined to be his cocksucker from the time I was born. And not only cocksucker. When I used the word "worship" before, I meant it. My hands and my mouth frequently serve every inch of him from the bottoms of his feet all the way up and into his armpits as well.
More than once he's summoned me to bathe parts of his body before he showered, emphasizing the fact that I was his personal pig, or simply because he wants the pleasure of knowing he can make me wash his slimy groin and stinky armpits with my mouth and tongue. Sometimes he makes me spend an entire evening worshipping his feet while he watches a movie. He usually gives me a sound thrashing or even a whipping to "season me" to do a good job sucking his feet.
Oh my, how hard it is to keep licking feet despite being exhausted. By the time he lets me stop his feet are usually wet with my tears. But oh how great the reward when he thanks and praises me with his hand on the back of my neck. I need that so much and he knows it.
I mentioned that as a rule Devin kept me shaved bare like a prepubescent child. A few years ago a I had an attack of appendicitis and when the nurse came to "prep" me for the operation he was surprised to discover that I was as bare as a child. Devin made it clear that he had taken care of it himself. He also insisted they put a cot in my room. He stayed with me for my entire stay in the hospital, only leaving my side when I slept and that for only brief periods of time so he could have something to eat and take care of his own bathroom needs. He talked to me, read me stories, held my hand and made promises that we'd go somewhere special for a little vacation as soon as I was able to move around.
So I answered his summons tonight, hoping I would not be whipped again because the last time had been the more severe of all. I had been in a foul mood that night and had dared argue with him about something stupid. You think I would have learned over the years. I'm thirty-five years old now and still he insists I need to be disciplined on a regular basis. Although I'm known to be a responsible professional by colleagues and superiors, in his eyes I am still the same child I was that day he sat me down and scolded me for not wiping my ass well enough, then made me wear my soiled underpants over my face while he took me over his knee and walloped me for being a dirty boy.
That doesn't happen very often any more, of course. After all, I've learned to behave as he wants me to because to this day there is no greater joy in my life than those times when he holds the back of my neck and speaks to me with words that help me understand how much he cherishes me and how he never regrets doing whatever he has to do to keep me well regulated, obedient, docile and above all, grateful for the day he first cast his eyes on me when I stood in line in 4th grade and said to me, "Come."
I have never failed to respond. I have never failed to adore him, no matter what that may mean on any given occasion. I belong to Devin. When all is said and done, I guess I am proud of that after all.
I don't know what Devin plans to do with this now that it's finished. I know that whatever he decides to do with it will end up being for my good.
Thank you for reading about my life as Devin's kid.