Houseboy: Birthday

Happy Birthday, boy.

Today is your special day and you want to make the most of it. It only happens once a year, after all. 

The box is waiting for you on your night table. It arrived two days ago with a handwritten note ordering you to wait until today to open it. No signature, but you recognize the handwriting anywhere, and the self—assurance of the words that know you wouldn't dare disobeying them. 

If you know, you know.

You jump out of bed and hold the box to open it. You know it's something small and light and you can't wait to find out what it is. 

It's a present.

A present your Master sent to you for your birthday.

Your heart is already pumping fast while you spin the box in your hands and take off the tape and peek inside.

Red. 

Silky, red fabric, that's all you see.

When you take it off you see it's a thong, as small as a piece of underwear can actually get, and it has a piece of paper stuck to it with a pin.

It says "Put this on and report."

It's not easy to put on something so small when your cock is hard like a rock. You need to stop and breathe and try to think of anything else to get your erection down and don't really succeed, but finally you manage to have it on your crotch with your cock pushing it almost up, painfully trapped by that silky, shiny fabric. And then you walk to the mirror and snap a picture and send it to him.

Only a couple minutes later, he calls you.

— Good morning, boy, happy birthday.

There is just something about being called a boy by him that makes you feel different, smaller and simpler and like you completely belong to him. There is only one right way to reply when he calls you that.

— Thank you, Master.

— Let me see you, boy.

You move again in front of the mirror and angle the camera so he can see all of your body. You know how much he likes your body, you know what he likes and you give it to him.

You're getting harder just by the act of showing off for him. His ownership of you is the biggest turn on in your life, and every single thing that shows it or reinforces it touches directly to the erotic center of your brain. In your mind there is almost no difference between sex and submission.

You can't stop yourself, you pull the thong out and begin jerking off for him. You look at his face and how he looks at you and they you look at the mirror and see what he's seeing: your naked body and your hard cock overtaken by your submission to him. 

It's like you're looking at yourself through his eyes and seeing yourself as his property, his slave, and that only turns you on even more. There is nothing you like or want more than being his slave.

You're taking yourself close to the edge, completely immersed in your submission to him, when he raises his hand. 

— Stop right there, boy.

Your body obeys him even before your lust—hazed mind processes the words. You take your hand off your cock and stand there, panting and looking at him. You were almost there, close to cumming, but his control over you is so powerful that if he tells you to stop, you stop.

— Don't cum, boy. Save yourself for me. What plans do you have for tonight? 

— I'm probably going to have something with the boys. Not too late, though, Master.

— Can you be free at midnight?

There is only one right answer.

— Yes, Master.

— Good. I'll see you at your place, then. Midnight sharp.

— Yes, Master.

— And keep that thong on, boy. I want to know that you wore it all day for me.

And he cuts the call.

All day long you're particularly conscious of your body, of that soft fabric holding your cock and balls in place. It's the mark of his ownership over you and you take it everywhere, unseen and unnoticed by everyone around you just like all his control and your enslavement. 

You love being his slave, if it was up to you you would be shouting out from the rooftops, but you know it can't be, for the sake of the both of you. Ever since you decided to become his slave and he accepted you and put his mind under his control, both of you know it's a secret, it's what happens when you two are alone. The rest of the world only sees the other half of you, not the half that only comes out in the hours of flesh and sweat and sex alone with him.

The day passes in a blur. You know what you have waiting for you tonight and that makes the rest of the day seem unimportant. The morning jog and then your job are like a dream, just the background that happens while you wear that red thong. 

That's what you're really doing right now: wearing it for him and waiting for midnight. Everything else doesn't matter.

The boys take you out for pizza and it's nice, and you laugh and rejoice with them and they celebrate your existence with pizza and beer and a couple nice hours, but then it's eleven o'clock and you have to go because you have work tomorrow and they understand because they're the best.

And then you are alone at home and it's thirty minutes to midnight. 

You do a deep cleaning to your body. You know how he likes it and what he likes, and you will give it to him tonight and you hope he will take it.

And then you get dressed again and it's only ten minutes to midnight, and you kneel in front of the door to wait for him.

Five minutes to midnight.

Your cock is hard. Your body knows he's coming and can't wait for him. Your cock is hard, your nipples feel delightfully sensitive against the fabric of your shirt, and your ass is twitching, wanting to feel the pleasure of being taken by him.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Midnight o'clock.

A key slides in your lock and the door opens. 

He's here.

After a whole day and an eternity of ten minutes waiting, he's finally here. You want to talk, you want to look at him, but his presence is so powerful that you can't even do that. You look down in a show of submission, and wait. 

— Happy birthday, boy.

— Thank you, Master.

— Stand up and undress.

You feel that along with your clothes you're taking off layers of your mind. Your thoughts, your free will, your independence, everything is coming off right now, leaving only the submission. Obedience. Servitude. 

If clothes make the man, when you take off the clothes only the slave remains.

And the slave stands there in the middle of your living room wearing only the red thong, while your Master looks at you and smiles inspecting his property. Right now that's all you are: a thing of desire, a toy he can use any way he wants. 

He runs his hands up and down your chest and it's like he's a candle and you're a moth: what's left of your mind is just drifting in circles around him, closer every time until you reach the center and burn. You hear yourself whimper and moan with pleasure, simply because of the magic of his touch in your hands. 

He talks to you. It's the same words you've heard before from him, but they sound brand new every time he says them. Other men have said the same before, but it's different when it's from him, because you want it to be different, because when it's him saying them it's special. Your will, submitting completely to him, makes all the difference. Him, accepting your submission, is all you need to know where you belong and whom you belong to.

He's telling you that he owns you, and you listen and obey.

He walks behind you, out of your sight, and you hear his clothes come off and fall to the ground. He's getting naked, and you're so deeply gone in your own servitude that all you can do is want, and pant, and hope. No matter what happens now, it will be the greatest gift of your life, as long as he gets to do with you whatever he wants.

And then he grabs you from behind and pushes his naked body against yours and you choke a moan. All his body against all of yours, that's all you can know right now. The entire universe, your whole existence is contained in his skin touching yours.

You've never felt smaller or more powerless. And you've never been happier.

This is what you crave, his control over you, reducing you to nothing and taking all of it.

— You want this, boy? — he asks, rubbing his cock on your ass and his breath feeling like fire on the back of your neck. — You want this?

— Yes...! —

— Yes what, boy? Tell me what you want. —

You can barely remember how to make words. Right now you're barely a person.

— Yes, Master! Fuck me, please! —

You can feel his smile on the back of your neck, while he grabs you slightly closer. Just like you're reveling on your submission to him, right now he's working himself up with his control over you. Both of you want the same right now, and he's going to make it happen.

He doesn't ask because your entire body is screaming the answer before he even asks the question. He grabs your waist, pushes your back down to bend you in half, and the next thing you know is that his cock is going inside you, right where it belongs.

He has fucked you before, many times, but can't and never will get used to it. It's just the most amazing thing you've ever felt. Right now, the rest of your body exists only as an extension of your ass, and your ass exists only to get fucked by him. Your blood is on fire. You can't think. All you can do is surrender to his control, submit to his power over you, serve his pleasure.

You can't even stand, the only reason you don't fall is because he's holding you.

Your hands finally reach the ground in front of you and you stand there, bent in half, while he uses you the way he wants you to want to be used.

This is the greatest pleasure and joy you could ever feel or want: Him using you, fucking you, taking pleasure from your body. What your own body feels doesn't matter, all what matters is what he's feeling, and right now he's feeling you. 

Somehow he takes you to your bedroom, you don't even know how. You just know you're laying on your back and your legs are up in the air, and he's going inside you again, thrusting fast, taking you to heaven simply by taking himself to heaven in your body. 

What is better than having a present for your birthday? 

Being the present.

You are his present now and always and forever, and he's panting in your face and grabbing you and kissing you and his pleasure is what you have learned to crave, what you need more than anything in the world, and he's giving it to you right now. This is it, this is the purpose of your life, you have never felt more alive than right now that you're completely under his control.

He's using you. Fucking you. Controlling you.

He's sweating and grabbing your face to kiss you, thrusting wildly on your body, and you recognize the signs of his orgasm. He's almost there, and when you clench your ass to press his cock, he finally loses control and cums inside you.

His cum in your ass: this is your present.

You came at some point during this whole takeover of him on your body, and you don't even know when. The red thong is wet and sticky with your cum, and he takes it off you and embraces you, just to naked bodies sharing a bed, kissing and coming down from the high of his orgasm.

It's three in the morning, but who cares? 

Being here with him, having given him this pleasure, that's what matters. What matters is the feeling of his hairy chest on your cheek when he pulls you closer and makes you rest your head on his body. What matters is his warm breath on your hair. What matters is his cock in your hand, not jerking him off, not doing anything but hold it as the most prized treasure you have. 

You're both falling asleep, and he raises your chin to look at him once more in the dark bedroom, and he smiles at you.

— Happy birthday, boy. 

— Thank you, Master.

And you sleep, in the arms of your Master that just fucked you and used your body for his own pleasure, and this, this is the best present you could ever dream of.