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Even The First - PART NINETEEN
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Even The First - PART NINETEEN
As I watched Vince think, his eyes on a spot some distance away at the bottom of the kitchen door, his head sloped forward, his shoulders slumped down, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands folded together between his legs, his knees bent at right-angles and his feet flat on the kitchen floor, his whole body motionless except for the small rise and fall of his chest breathing and the barely visible judder of his flesh with his heartbeat's slow pass - nearly two seconds would elapse between each peak as it moved a vessel located near the frontal lobe, at the side, of his brain - I took the time to think about this person I had happened upon and what he meant to me. I already wanted him to love me, but I didn't know how he could, nor why. And as I sat on the small plastic seat watching him, I wondered if it was love I really wanted, or something else, like freedom, like financial security, like a life without responsibility, like a feeling of safety, or like some other selfish practical or material need.
But before I could tackle this question, in all it's complexity, I realised that his eyes were lifting. He was looking at a higher point on the wall and now, a higher point. It was like watching someone awake from a coma. He turned his head enough to look at his empty plate and said, "Hey, can you fix us a cup of tea, d'y'think, mate?" I got up immediately. When I came back with his drink, I placed it down on the table in front of him. "Two sugars?" I said. The bowl was still in the other room. I went to fetch it. I came back and shovelled two spoonfuls in and stirred. Then I sat down again and watched him drink. He set the tea back down on the table with a satisfied sigh, "Ahh, that's it. You make good tea," he said. I wondered if that had been a test, but then I knew it wasn't. Vince played with one finger in the bowl, drew a spiral in the silvery grains, and then held it up in the air for me to see his fingerprint crusted over with a frost of granulated sugar. "You want this?" he said. I nodded and leaned forward, my lips open, my tongue extended, but as I approached he drew the finger away so that I had to get up from my chair to get near. "Kneel boy," Vince said and gave me his finger to lick as I crouched down on the kitchen Lino at his feet. "Good dog," he smiled, patting my head. "Sit." I didn't know if he meant the floor and began to sink from my kneeling position to go cross-legged. He stopped me with a waggle of the finger I had just cleaned. "Go back to your chair." I did so. "That's your chair now, Doggie" he said, "Doggie. I think that's what I'll call you: Doggie, from now on", which sounds like my real name, which is Douglas.
Once when I was with Squigger in the eastern desert, he put a saucer of milk down on the ground and told me to drink it. "C'mon Dougie!" he said. "Be good!" I remember that moment as one of the happiest of my life, because it made me feel that Squigger understood me, what made me happy, and would be happy if I played myself and didn't pretend. Kneeling in the floor with my face close to his large dusty military boots wasn't pretending. Sipping the milk and then kissing his boot toe like he told me to wasn't pretending. Letting him rest his tough boot heel on my neck, pressing my face into the dirt, wasn't pretending. It was real. Everything from then on was real and felt good. When Squigger slept with his erection inside me, I felt good and real like I never could again after he was lost. It wasn't pretending; it was being the true submissive I am.
But I never thought of him as my owner, my master, or my boyfriend. That never occurred to me, explicitly. And after all, it wasn't exclusive: The other lads had to have their shakes; that was the arrangement - though it was obvious Squigger and I were into each other and they were jealous, he never let it get so they couldn't have a look in; I was a release for anyone in the team. That's what it meant: to be used by anyone. It kept the peace.
"Will they be looking for you?" asked Vince, at long last addressing the situation we were in. I hadn't forgotten Paul and my so-called commitment to him, the service he expected. "I don't know," I said, stupidly. "Will they be looking for you? I need to know," he said. "Tell me. Think!" I tried to think. "I think they'll want me back," I said, "but maybe, Paul might think good riddance." "Fat lot of good that is," said Vince with a smirk. Then he said, "What am I going to do with you, hey?"
I didn't know.
I must have looked so stupid.
"You're cute," said Vince. "Why'd you say that?" I asked. "C's't's true," he smiled. "Are you going to let me stay?" I asked, finally biting the bullet. "Would you want to? I guess ... you can stay the night, certainly. I haven't finished with you by a long chalk. But as for longer than that? It's too early to say." "I'd like that," I said, hopefully, "to stay, I mean." "I guessed that. But I haven't decided yet. I don't know if I can trust you. I don't know you, do I? not really. Jeez, we've only just met and already you're hoping I'd like to own you and offer you free food. What do you think I am? Look around: I'm not rich. I'm nobody's sugar daddy. I make ends meet, that's it." " I'm sorry, Vince. I didn't think."
I started to get upset; "I ... I'm just ... scared." "I know," he said. "I understand. Don't cry. C'm'ere," he pointed at the floor at his feet. I slid off my chair and knelt. Already feeling better. "Put your head on my knee like a good doggie. That's it." He stroked my head, my ears, the tendons in my neck, pinching the skin to relax me, and wiped my face with his palm, letting me lick it.
"That's it doggie. You just need to relax. No more being locked in, you need to run about and chase some sticks!" He grinned. His cock picked up. He grinned. "That's my stick," I thought, smiling. "Look at my cock," he said, making it stand up and wave about, the foreskin peeling back as it grew. "I think he like you, amigo!"
That was funny.
With my head on his knee and my hands and knees on the Lino and his hands fondling my scalp like he would fondle a real pet, I felt safe and happy for the first time in ages. Letting me stare at him, his erection and his hard kickbox bod and his clever intuitive eyes, was the most happiest time I'd spent in as long as I could remember. He played with my head and he played with his prick like they were one and the same thing: His to enjoy, and not like his property but part of him, physically. I liked being part of him. The only worry I had was how long this could last, but I tried to drive that from my head by concentrating on the feeling and staring at him so that if I read anything in his eyes I could react immediately to please him, if there was anything I could do, anything, to please him; I was ready and eager. I was his dog.
"Ha this is so weird," he said. "What is?" "I know you're just being yourself, but this behaviour ... it's not normal. I don't think I've ever met anyone as ... what's the word?" "Passive?" "Doggie, it's beyond passive! It's mental; it's totally subservient; it's mental. I mean," all the while stroking my head, tickling me behind my ears with his fingertips, "other guys accept a role but don't let it get further than that. They like to resume control once in a while; they make decisions and act like they have choices. That doesn't seem to matter with you. You're like you genuinely ... don't exist apart from what I, or some other bloke tells you. It's not normal, man, believe me." I didn't know what to say to that. "I mean, look at your cock. It's decent and you get erections, you get excited, but you never touch it, you never cum. Do you ever cum? Ever?" I didn't know what to say to that either. I noticed that his penis had collapsed across his thigh. What could I do if he wanted to ask awkward questions that I couldn't stop? I'd have to wait. And hope.
When he caught me glance at his droop he touched my left cheek, just on the bone. "Hey! Eyes front!" I returned my stare to his face. He put his fingers in my mouth and rubbed them along my teeth as if counting them. "Better," he said. "Don't worry'bout what's going on down south. You'll get it in due course, you know you will." I smiled, with his hand in my lips. "Good doggie," he said.
Later, he pinched the lobe of my right ear and wiggled it, like it was loose and might come off.
Sometimes his dick was filled with blood and sometimes it wasn't - it varied a lot. When it filled up it rocked like a ship at low tide rocks on its moorings, and when it fell flat it was like a dog asleep, alert but flat.
When the washing machine was finished I helped him get all the stuff out and hang it up. I could feel his eyes on me whilst I bundled it all out and we draped it over a clothes horse, and I was looking at him whenever I got the chance. When he was standing next to me he fondled my bottom with a cupped hand. I wanted to touch him but didn't get the chance, he was always stopped me by grabbing my hands away. He knew I'd hold his dick until it was hard and make him fuck me.
He put my clothes on a tumble cycle - "They'll never get dry otherwise," he said.
I didn't want them to get dry.
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END OF Even The First - PART NINETEEN
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