JUST RIGHT
by Wersgor
WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of homosexual acts.
So don't show it to everybody at the office, and DON'T send a copy to
your Mom!
The garage door opens at 5:45 PM, right on schedule, and they
come roaring out onto the street, the fading autumn sun glinting off
the chrome of their bikes and the rows of metal studs across their broad
shoulders. Three burly, bearded guys in leather, the oldest about
forty, the youngest probably no more than nineteen, their motors
making a racket in the still evening air. In a moment they'e gone, heading
west toward the highway.
Across the street, I stretch lazily and rise from my bench in
the little neighborhood park. I make a point of looking casual,
though I know nobody's looking. At this hour everyone else on the block is
about to sit down to dinner, just like the three bikers will when they
get back from their daily ride around 6:30. Everything's routine on
this street, and nobody really notices me, Albert Goldman, 'cause
after three weeks of quietly feeding the squirrels and pigeons, I'm part of
the routine, too.
See, that's one useful thing that I learned in the big house ---
routine, order, discipline. No more dumb impulsive stuff. No
getting cocky and getting caught. Not this time. This time I've
planned
every detail, and everything's going to go just right.
I calmly stroll across Beech Street and halfway up Appleby, then
turn left into the narrow alley that runs back of the houses. The
neighbors on the bikers' other side have a hedge of trees running
between the two houses, so nobody sees me kneel beside the cellar door in the
back yard. It's locked, of course, but to me this simple cylinder
lock is a joke. I've gotten past devices ten times as complicated
---
hell, I used to open and relock my own cell just to show that I
could. They don't call me "Locks" Goldman for nothing.
A minute later I'm hurrying up the cellar stairs and into the
hallway. Huh, they keep the old place pretty neat. I guess you
don't invest in a three-story house like this and then let it run down.
Now where would they keep the cash? It's gotta be here, 'cause the big
guy doesn't even have a bank account. That's how I wound up casing
their place --- I paid good money to have Slick Jimmy Casey
cross-check the city's computer records, looking for property owners with no
matching bank info, for people too suspicious to let anyone else
handle their dough. It was a major investment, but it got me a list of seven
names and addresses. This'll be the third to pay off.
Ah. Big old oil painting above the fireplace. I've burgled
enough old houses to know what that frequently means. I carefully
lift it down, and --- voila! Wall safe!
The combination is a piece of cake for me. And there it all
is, just waiting for me --- piles and piles of cash. Owning your own
construction outfit pays big, I guess. It practically leaps into the
six expandable pockets (four outside, two in the lining) of my nice
puffy jacket, and the six in my baggy cargo pants. Like I said, I plan
every detail --- and I dress for success.
I lock the emptied safe and re-hang the art, and take a quick
look around for any other goodies, but I don't spot anything
special. Didn't really expect to; these guys ain't the jewelry type. I'm
heading back toward the cellar steps, going past the kitchen, when a
familiar yummy smell hits my nose. I turn and look through the doorway.
Yup. It's sitting on top of the stove in a big ol' pot, slowly
cooling with the flame turned off underneath. I got to know that
scent very well in prison, and what can I say? Oatmeal is comfort
food. I never liked it as a kid, but now I love the stuff. And
this pot smells especially good --- someone here is into seasonings.
I glance at my watch and laugh out loud. Twenty minutes or
more before they get back. Why shouldn't they feed me, too? I pull
a bowl from the kitchen cabinet --- leaving no prints through my gloves,
of course --- and scoop myself a heapin' helpin'. Then I saunter
into the dining room, sit myself in a comfy chair at the antique wooden
table, and chow down.
Damn, this IS good! Whatever extra flavoring my chef is using,
it's subtle but delicious. I'm tempted to go back for seconds, but
that would be pushing it. I need to be outta here. I'll just quick
wash and dry the bowl, and they'll never know.
I start to rise, and suddenly my head spins. What the hell?
My legs start to wobble, and I grab onto the table for support.
The taste of what I just ate suddenly seems to fill my nose, my head,
even my ears somehow...
Oh, shit. What did I eat? What are these guys into?
Gotta get out. Can't stay. The bathroom. If I puke real
fast --- and I know I can, the way I'm panicking --- I can still be
gone before they get back. It's getting harder to move, but I stumble
intothe hallway, pulling myself along by hugging the wall, and grope my
way toward the john. I know the layout of houses like this, there's
gotta be one further back...
My vision is blurring as I trip through a doorway, not even sure
which way is which. I topple over and land on my face, but not on
the hard floor. On something soft...
I've stopped thinking about the time, which is fine, 'cause I've
lost all sense of time. There's no past, no future, just now. In
fact, I've pretty much stopped thinking, period. I just lie here on
my
belly, all warm and well-fed. I'm not dizzy any more, and my mind
feels clear --- just empty. There's a vague feeling that I'm
waiting. Waiting to hear something.
At some point, minutes or hours or years later, I hear a door
open. The sound is unnaturally loud and clear. Footsteps seem to
echo, and then there are voices, and they sound loud and echoey too:
"What the fuck? What's this doing out on the table?"
"Oh my god! Someone's been in our house!"
Weird. Just hearing their voices makes me feel... good.
Happy. That's what I've been waiting for. I need them to keep
talking. I need them to talk to me. I don't know why, I just do.
The plaintive, scared voice again: "Oh God, I don't believe
this! Someone came into our house. Sat in my chair. Ate our
food."
A third, youthful voice: "Should we call the cops?"
And then the deepest voice again, slow and thoughtful: "No.
No, if that someone's been eating your dinner..." He starts to
laugh, a deep, throaty chuckle. "Then I'll bet you that someone is still
here!"
More footsteps, so loud, coming closer, closer... I need them
to come to me. I need them to talk to me. To tell me something...
The young voice cries out, "He's sleeping in my bed!"
The deep-throated growl of a laugh again. "Not sleeping. You
know where his head's at. You've both been there."
A strong hand grabs my hair and lifts my head up. I stare
blankly, unblinking, into a young man's bearded face, into his blue,
blue eyes. "Oh, he's cute!" he exclaims with a delighted smile. "Can I
keep him?" His voice fills me, and the words seem to reverberate
through my empty head: Can he keep me? Can he keep me? I suddenly want
that more than I ever wanted anything.
"Hmm," says the deepest voice. "Well, we can't turn him in.
Too many questions. Maybe... Let's see what he's good for."
Powerful hands lift me like a rag doll, my arms hanging limp, my
legs dangling. I love those hands. The kid strokes my slack jaw,
poking his finger inside my mouth, and I love that too. I feel my
jacket tugged off, my jeans yanked down, and then I'm released, to
flopforward onto the bed again. A moment later something huge is shoved
into my exposed butt, thrusting, thrusting... It's TOO big, it hurts like
hell, but I don't make a sound. No one has told me to. And I love
it. Every moment of contact is ecstasy, the sensation crashing
through me like a wave, over and over...
At last the huge cock is withdrawn, and I hear the snap of
fingers. "Your turn, honey." A moment later something is tickling my
ass, but that tickly feeling is as far as it gets. It's just too small to
do anything else. "Honey" tries to make up for it with a lot of
groping. I don't care. Every touch, of any kind, is heaven.
Then the tiny prick is gone, and the fingers snap again. "Now
you, cub." And this time what goes into me fits as if it was made
for my buttcrack. He slides back and forth, smoothly but powerfully,
rocking my helpless body in tune with his. He's perfect. Just
right.
When he finally stops, with an affectionate cuddle, the deep
voice speaks again. "He's ready by now. It's all through his
system.
Stand up, burglar-slave."
My heart leaps. An order! A thought! I have an instant
hard-on. I'm so happy as I lurch to my feet and face the biggest
biker. Speak again. More orders. Please.
He pulls up one of my eyelids and examines the pupil, nodding.
"You are no longer burglar-slave. You are houseboy-slave. That is
your name. That is your whole identity. You have no other. Isn't
that right? Answer."
"Yes," I agree, his orders filling my vacant mind. I am
houseboy-slave. That's my name. A vague half-memory of some other
name winks out.
"You will respond to my commands with 'Yes, Master'. And you
will obey my slaves as well. You are the slave of slaves. Right?"
"Yes, Master." Three men to give me orders! I'm so excited I
could cum right now, but no one has told me to.
He grins, patting my cheek. "You won't stay doped this totally
forever. But you'll eat a fresh dose every day, and very soon you'll
be like the others, cheerfully enslaved for life."
"Yes, Master." My happiness is complete.
"Now, houseboy-slave --- give me a blow job."
"Yes, Master." That's something else I learned... somewhere.
I've forgotten where. But I know I'm really good at it. I fall to
my knees before Master and eagerly lean toward his immense cock, still
engorged from before. In fact, it's TOO hard. I can hardly fit my
lips around it, and it thumps against the sides and roof of my mouth
as I suck. Being already primed, he cums almost at once, flooding my
throat with his juice.
The snap of fingers, and the older of the slaves takes Master's
place in my mouth. He still is limp. I try every trick I know, and
I know a lot, but he's just too soft. Until, with a laugh, Master
orders, "Honey-slave. Hard-on. Cum!" And just like that,
Honey-slave is squirting in my mouth.
The fingers snap again, and now Cub-slave stands before me, his
beautiful piece throbbing with excitement. Hard-muscled hands grip
my head, thumbs sensually stroking my temples, guiding me firmly toward
him. Lean, ripped thighs cradle my cheeks as I go to work, doing
everything I can for his pleasure. He moans his appreciation as we
sway together, me sucking, him thrusting, slipping back and forth in the
same erotic rhythm. He's perfect. He is...just...right.
Cub-slave explodes into me, and I gulp down every drop. Then,
leaning back, he casts lustful eyes down to my own cock, which
trembles helplessly at full erection, unable to perform without someone's
direct command. Cub-slave looks up to Master with a mischievous
smile, and Master nods, grinning, cuddling Honey-slave under one beefy arm.
"Now I'm going to eat you!" cries Cub-slave happily, and amoment later his lips transport me to paradise.