dirty stories, guest posts

Slave Training, Guest Post by rife

[Content warning: consensual power dynamics, including master/slave language. Blow jobs. Anal sex. Daddy/boy role play. Dirty talk. Cum talk.]


He’s not a twink, not exactly. He lacks the delicate bone structure and fondness for the fabulous. But he is little, and stout, and short; he makes my average height feel tall. Plus, that baby face will keep him getting carded well into his thirties. But his body is compact, tattooed, and still tight with the elasticity of youth that makes me want to break him. What can I say? I’m a pervert.

Most nights, we watch internet shows or craft together, cuddle on the couch, or try a new recipe. That is the reality of a year of marriage and six years of fucking. But tonight is not most nights. Tonight is my time. 

“Get ready for me, boy. You know what to do.” His eyes widen. I know he’s been both anticipating and dreading this since we put it on the calendar two weeks ago. Sometimes ‘slave training’ looks like an hour of meticulously sweeping the bathroom floor while I oversee it with a crop. Sometimes it is all my leathers piled up in a row for his incisive attention. Tonight, it is for me. My dick. This is my time.  

I see his eyes (kind of grey, kind of green tonight) widen slightly at the direct command. We’re out of “baby, would you mind..?” territory. Good. I’ll need him there. He nods quickly and mutters out a barely audible “y-yes, Master,” before scampering off. I can hear the faucet turn on and off, hear the closet door thump open and close, hear his bare feet padding back and forth. I have my own preparations to make. 

I rummage through the dresser of toys, pulling out a spectrum of dicks. I sight down the barrel of each one and carefully line them up by size. I give them a rinse and lay them on a clean towel with the good silicone lube. I throw down the waterproof blanket that is no longer water tight but lets him feel better about letting go anyway. Tonight I am training my boy. 

I hear his razor tap against the sink as he finishes shaving and walk in on him fumbling with some music. My breath hitches in my throat, still, after all these years, to see him bare for me in a simple black jock and nothing else. He is beautiful, curves and muscle and tan and scars. I survey my property like a land owner, remembering the mark I put on his flank, and the tattoo on his arm I picked out. I even feel a little swell of pride at his shoulders, girthing up since I ordered him complete a push up app last year, and his haircut he can’t resist pushing out of his eyes, longer than he’d like it but so cute and youthful on him. Even his wire framed glasses were my choice. He is mine. 

I grumble and steady a little from my belly. Mine. The feminist in me needs to be reminded as much as the monster. These two sides are in a careful detente most days, but tonight, he is mine. And I can have what I want. I reach my hand out to brush across his little bulge, teasing his package into stirring. It doesn’t take much. My boy is so touch hungry, he melts and sighs from the most absent minded of head pets. It is simultaneously one of his most charming and most obnoxious features. 

This much direct attention is too much for him, and he blushes and turns away when I mention his cute little dick. I catch his chin in my hand and search his face. Too much? I make a mental note to ask about it later. But not now.  He is fine, and this is my time. 

He shifts from foot to foot now, meeting my eyes but hiding under lashes. In that moment I want to throw him down and tear him apart, flay into him with my heavy leather lashes and make him cry. It’s nothing personal. He’s just so pretty when he cries. But tonight I have a plan, learning objectives, a goal.

I want his tears, but I want his ass more. 

This need pulls me, reminds me of the swelling in my own pants. I roughly push him onto his knees and draw out my own hard pink prick, sitting on the bench with knees spread, hefting it gently. 

“You want this, boy? Show me how you like Daddy’s cock. That’s it, good boy. Lick it soft, all the way down… Mmm, yeah. That’s a good boy. Worship your master’s dick. Such a nice toy you are, look that fits so perfect in your mouth. Take it deeper, show off for me. I know you can do it.”

He slurps me down faster, eagerly, pushing himself to take on the last inch of me. It’s beautiful, almost too much to watch. His eyes roll back under tightly clenched lids and I can see he’s trying so hard. his glasses are all messed up now and he’s starting to drool. That throat feels so good. His fists start to tighten and he pauses to cough one time. Such a tough guy, I forget he’s getting over a cold. Still. My throat to fuck. My boy, my boy… Fuck. 

“Enough. Get down, slave. On your back. Show me how you touch it.”

“Yes, Master,” he replies, more audibly this time and with a hint of a smile. He sinks gracefully back onto the cushion I’ve provided and stretches out, painted skin a pale contrast to the black velvet blanket. He starts to stroke his package through the fabric of the jock. Good boy, I didn’t tell you to take it off yet. Show me how you touch it. That’s right. 

I like the show, but can’t get distracted. Not when I’m so close and I have a plan to execute. He’s going at it slowly and seductively, but I can already see his hard prick poking out the top of the tight fabric, pulling it tight and constricting his package in a way I know he likes. Good. 

I lube up my fingers and start to press against his hot little hole, probing gently as I can, but my hands are not small and he’s a tight little boy. My own hard dick is getting harder to ignore and I push past that resistance with a little slick sound. He moans instantly and I can see a bit of precum dripping onto his belly. What a slut. 

He keeps pumping that little fist as I work his little hole, plunging in one of my smaller dicks slowly, so slowly. He groans and begs for it, for me to fill him, the way only I ever have. I almost lose it right there, remembering the time I took his ass for the first time. 

I hold myself back. 

Slave training is actually another way of saying Master training. 

I want to tear him open, make him bleed and force it, but I wait an excruciating minute for him to let it in, instead. Don’t say I never gave you nothing, kid. 

He lets out a string of adorable expletives which I take as the gratitude they were intended to be. 

His ass is stretched, so tight I can barely move the dick. I see my row of fat cocks on the counter and realize how ambitious that was. No matter. Plenty of time. This is where we are, now. Right here. 

Both of our attentions are so focused on the full, pulsing portal we barely see the orgasm coming until he is, coming hard across his chest and—fuck, my jeans. I break out in a grin despite myself. He’s supposed to ask permission but we’ll let it slide. He is sobbing with pleasure and writhing and sucking up air, tensing and un-tensing, and it is beautiful.

He is completely wrecked and sinks into an adorable boneless pile of boy flesh, but I’m not done with him yet. 

I take the next biggest cock from the line up and press it into his soft, tender mound. “Can you hold that there?”

He nods, dazed and confused and still more than a little blissed out. I don’t know who was surprised more when I climbed on top of my boy and straddled his hips and lowered myself down onto the silicone prick. It’s not usually a sensation I like, but I’ve been known to dabble when it suits me, and right now I need something. This. 

His wrenched face at the injustice of being soft, having to strap on, not getting to collapse, and feeling that over simulated clit throb with my weight, is just bonus. 

I lower myself slowly, calculatedly, inch by inch, until I am fucking myself on him, using him as prop, furniture, fucktoy, eye candy. 

I am so hard to bursting. I can feel my balls hot and full… I’m in the place of wanting everything and not knowing if everything will be enough. I’m insatiable. 

He tells me dirty stories, works his hips with subtle angles, runs his hands through the short hairs at the back of my neck.

“Yes Daddy, come for me, Daddy. I need it Sir, please, mark me. Come all over your boy. I need it. Please. Give it to me Daddy. Soak me with your seed. I’m yours. I need it. Come on me, please.”

So I do. 

Published by rife

rife is the property of Sinclair Sexsmith. He likes motorcycles, leather, and hiking with dogs. When not serving Master, he serves many other folks in the community through his graphic and web design small business rowdyferretdesign.com.

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