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


 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


 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


    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


    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


    When he finally stops, with an affectionate cuddle, the deep

 voice speaks again. "He's ready by now. It's all through his


 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.