the boy, rook

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 2]

This is part 2, following up from this entry. Read that first!

The next morning I woke to light thwacks of the riding crop through the bars. I opened my eyes to see Ethan in boxers and a wife-beater (boy-beater?). “Get up, boy.”  He unlocked the cage and I crawled out; my limbs were stiff and my cock half-hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, “Position three, right here,” indicating the spot in front of him. I had to think for a second, which one was that? “Now, boy,” Right, attention. Damn, was I groggy.

He slapped my cool skin with the crop – not much more than a tickle, really, paying special attention to my cock and balls. It didn’t take long for them to wake up to full strength – the sight of Ethan’s well-build arms outlined in that tight shirt would have done it alone. “Put this on, you know the drill.” He handed me a condom, and like last night, I put it on and turned my head to the wall, careful not to close my eyes. My mind was still blank. Like before, I could sense him watching him, like a piece of meat, though this time he took greater liberty with the riding crop.

I jacked off, came into the condom, and took it off. I followed him into the bathroom where he stripped and stepped into the shower. “You have two minutes to do whatever you need to,” I relieved myself and brushed my teeth with the provided toiletries. He turned off the water and stood, dripping wet, looking incredibly hot. I’d seen him shirtless on his Recon photo, but everything was ten times more magnificent in person. I’d never seen someone so well built, so handsome, this close. “Wait any longer to dry me off and I’m going to beat you bloody, shit head.” I snapped out of my reverie and grabbed a towel.

When he was sufficiently dry, I was told to grab my scrubs and go make breakfast. Eggs and toast. He came down in gym clothes, I served him. “Position one.” I returned to a corner while he ate and read the paper. I heard him get up and leave the room, calling behind him “eat the leftovers, clean up, then come into the office.”

A few minutes later I appeared at the door and waited while he tapped at his computer. “You talk in your sleep. You’re not supposed to speak, even when unconscious. Clearly I have to reinforce the issue.”

He stood up and came over to me; in his hands was some sort of leather strap contraption, a head harness. He placed it over my head, the straps securing in two places behind my head. A muzzle-like gag could be unbuckled from the harness, and it was fitted with a small pecker-like protrusion, big enough to occupy my mouth but not cause a lot of discomfort from forcing my mouth open too long. He placed it in my mouth and secured it in place.

“I’m going out. While I’m gone, you will clean my house – every room, including downstairs. You’ll find supplies in the laundry room for up here. The dungeon has its own supplies in the front closet.”

He then put foam plugs in my ears. As they slowly expanded and muffled the ambient noise, I heard him say, “I’ll leave you alone with your own thoughts. All rules apply.” And then he left.

In my silent mental cage I went about the work, finding the supplies and scrubbing away. The house was already immaculate; he probably had a maid or something, and now that maid was me. I made the bed, did the laundry, changed the sheets, cleaned the mirrors, dusted. It was actually a lot of work – I wasn’t used to cleaning such a large house. I barely ever cleaned by own apartment.

In the dungeon, I found the mop, bucket, and gallons of some sort of specialty cleaner for sex toys and tools. I scrubbed the table and fucking machine that mock-raped the gimp from yesterday, the chains and stool I was tied to, the bathroom I was locked in. In another room I dusted and cleaned a St. Anthony’s cross and some sort of bondage table. I peeked in the closet, and my eyes widened to take in the rows of leather tools, straps, ropes, gags, floggers, whips, and boxes of other things I didn’t dare explore.

Several hours later I was tired, a bit sweaty, and my freshly shaved skin was starting to itch all over. I finished the work, putting everything away and wondered what to do next. It was the middle of the day, so I made Ethan a sandwich and wrapped it, ready for him when he returns. I figured a little initiative wasn’t a bad thing. With nothing else to do, then, I assumed positioned one and stood there with my thoughts.

I closed my eyes and envisioned my place in this story. A new boy, serving, cleaning, and now stowed in the corner like a vacuum or robot unused. I wondered what this would make me – what kind of person I would become. I wasn’t sure that the person – or tool, really – that I was acting as this weekend was the kind of person I wanted to be for the rest of my life. But at the same time, throughout the day, I really only cared about doing a good job, about cleaning the house well, about doing what I thought would make this Master happy. The thought that I was the plaything to the hottest man I’d ever seen played almost no role in my thoughts. Somehow, the service aspect was fulfilling, so whatever I was to become, would probably be profoundly different from my selfish instinct. At least, maybe.

After a while, I was startled to feel his hand on my shoulder. My mind was off in some other land and time, and my heart raced from the surprise. He took the foam out of my ears. He looked sweaty, he must have been working out. A smile graced his lips. “Good boy, there might be hope for you yet.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Follow me and you’ll have a little reward.” READ MORE

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 1]

Previously: Chapter 5
After a harrowing introduction and demands to commit to real service, Ethan sat me down in a small living room. Weekly he would check in with me, to ensure I was still sane and okay. But at the same time, he demonstrated this was not about sex, not for me anyway, and began the journey of teaching me real service, apart from over-sexualzation. Six rules to follow later, the weekend began.

The six basic rules rattled around in my head. I repeated them over and over so I wouldn’t forget one. Having no idea what punishment would be like, but seeing just how crooked Ethan’s mind could get, I wasn’t eager to find out. When we get upstairs from the dungeon, we enter his living room. I’m guessing we’re in a brownstone – a New York townhouse, though I still have no idea where in the city after driving for what felt like hours, after my “kidnapping.”

I manage a quick glance around the living room before I’m told to go stand in a corner while he makes a phone call. Everything seems normal for a successful sales executive living in (or near) the greatest city in the world. Wood floors, big windows, a comfy-looking leather couch, large TV, and a variety of books, knick knacks, artwork and other decorations neatly ordered. He’s no slob, clearly; and he has good taste, but strikingly, not a single hint of naked man or kink could be seen. No porn, magazines, or Maplethorpe artwork. I don’t know what I expected … matching slings to watch TV from?

I hear him end his call and come back into the room. “Your in position number one. When I tell you to assume this position, you return to this corner with your hands folded behind your back, staring straight ahead like you were looking through the wall.

“Over this weekend you’ll be taught new positions. Do not screw them up.”

“Yes, sir.”

THWACK! went his hand upside my head. “Did I ask you a question?”

I realized that no, he didn’t. Somehow I’d assumed I was supposed to confirm that I understood the instruction, figured a “yes, sir” was respectful, appropriate. I paused too long.

THWACK! went his hand again. “That time I did ask you a question. Do you understand what being seen and not heard means, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

I did not reply. Instead I followed him, as directed, to the main part of the living room, standing between the couch and the television. “Put your feet about shoulder-width apart and bend over to grab your ankles.” I did the best I could, wishing I was a little more flexible. Ethan thought the same, apparently, and placed his hand on my upper back and pushed me down further. I grabbed as tightly to my ankles as I could, trying to stay in the position he wanted. “This is position two. It may be for punishment, it may be for fucking you. It might just be to turn you into furniture. But when I call for it, you assume this position and do not move.”

He left me there a minute, then, “Stand at attention.” READ MORE

Chapter 5: Well, That Was Different

Previously: Chapter 4
Accepted into service, kindnapped, thrown in the back of a van and driven someplace far away. Dropped in a hot, damp room. Questioned under hot lights, heard some poor slave get raped by a machine, whipped, and abused. Forced to reconcile and defend why I wanted to serve, and ultimately, accepted … but only after choking down an immense cock from my tormentor. Needless to say, it’s been an eventful night. Now I wait in the front room near the dungeon, dressed in scrubs, wondering what comes next. 

Pacing.

All I could was pace the little front room I’d been directed to. Back and forth, all 8 or 10 feet of it. There was a small barred window in the upper portion of the wall. We were in a basement, which made sense in a way. Of course Master’s sex dungeon would be in a basement. Where else would you have one? And apparently I’m already calling him Master, in my head. That’s … new.

Too jazzed up to sit, my mind racing, I continue to pace. In this room there’s a small couch, small TV, a couple of end tables, a bookshelf. All pretty standard affordable Swedish fare. I wasn’t sure what it was I’d just experienced. Who was that slave? Where the hell did this Anthony guy come from? Was this what life was going to be like? Mindfucks and sucking off Ethan’s friends? And what if they got bored with blowjobs, I know his threats about tearing open my ass were at least half true. There’s no way in hell I could have taken that monster.

Ethan entered the room holding two bottles of water. It was the first time I’d really gotten to look at him since this whole day began. He was dressed for casual Friday at the office, buttoned shirt and khakis. It was weird, because he doesn’t do casual Fridays. Even on the road, at that fateful conference in Chicago, it was always a dress shirt and tie.

He handed me one of the bottles. “Have a seat, boy.”

I took the bottle and moved over to the couch, gingerly sitting on the edge of the cushion. I was still nervous and not sure what I should do or say or how I should act, and also my ass hurt from that damnable hybrid pole-bike seat I’d been on. But no sooner had my butt hit the cushion than I felt Ethan’s strong, tight grip on the back of my neck, pushing me off the couch and slamming me down on the floor. “On the floor, shit head. Really?! I have to explain that to you? Jesus fucking Christ.”

I’m suddenly ashamed, I should have known better – I’ve never done this but any moron reading protocol on the Internet should where to sit. This isn’t my colleague, this is my Trainer, Tormentor, Master. He closes his eyes holding the bridge of his nose, composes himself, and then looks at me more calmly.

“You belong on the floor, at my feet, always. Unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. So for now, you may come sit on the couch.”

I hesitated a bit, because I was nervous this was a trick, but this was something different – this whole situation. Ethan was being friendly, this room was not a place for torture or punishment. I move up to where I’d started. READ MORE

Chapter 4: Shit Just Got Real (Part 2)

Read Part 1 first!
Ethan would accept me into training whenever he and where ever he wanted. That Friday, after torturing my brain thinking about it, I got home from the gym to find my house burgled. But inside was a very scary man who wanted to very scary things to me, and I found myself bound on my own bed, thrown in the back of a van, driven very far away, and tied up in a dungeon-like room where I just saw a guy get raped at both ends by my kidnapper and a fucking machine, all because I said I enjoyed getting fucked.

“So why are you here?”

“To learn to serve, sir.”

“To learn to serve,” he repeated, incredulously. “I doubt you even know what that means. Sounds kinky. You like it kinky, you little cunt?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Fucker doesn’t even know. You probably don’t even know what kinky is. You probably think it’s jacking off with your left hand instead of your right. Is that so?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what the fuck is kinky?”

“I think of it like flogging, or pain, or watersports, sir.”

“And then you get to cum, is that it?”

“Maybe, sir?”

“Maybe? Do you or don’t you cum? You have the big ass porn collection, shit head. Do you jack off to all this twisted shit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So it’s really about getting you off.”

“Only the porn, sir.”

“The porn. Well then fine. Here, let’s show you what this shit is really like. Anthony? A little demonstration please.”

Big Scary Guy, who is apparently Anthony, stepped into the light from my left, holding a full-blown, Indiana Jones-style whip. In one swift motion he unfurled it and cracked it so the tip slapped the air directly in front of me. My eyes widened and I almost fell off the bike seat, but rebalanced before I did. I wasn’t ready to get beaten. “Bitch, get out here.” The slave from the fucking table waddled out from behind the lights, his legs shackled to a bar that made it hard to walk. His hood had been replaced with something like what Hannibal Lector would wear in prison, giving the impression this diminutive slave was a rabid animal. “Face the wall and grab the ropes. Do not let go until we are done.”  Anthony stepped to my side and whispered, “If he let’s go, you’re next, shit head.” Oh fuck, I thought.

Anthony assumed a stance in front of me and cracked the whip. I heard it smack against the sub’s back before I saw anything move. He cried out a cry of fear, of pain. I let out a soft whimper. Please don’t let go, I begged him in my thoughts. I knew I couldn’t handle one crack of that thing, I certainly wouldn’t be standing.

CRACK went the whip again, and again the slave cried out in pain. It sounded like it hurt.

“Some bitches really do get off on pain,” Ethan said from across the room. “Some bitches are punished to such a point that they can’t even cum, hell they can’t get hard unless they’re being abused. And some mother fuckers, like Anthony here, can’t get hard unless they’re abusing someone. The newer, the better.”

CRACK, then a louder scream. Did the guy’s grip loosen on that one? Please, please, please don’t let go, dude. Three stripes were welting up on his back, growing redder with each passing second.

“Is that you, shit head? How’s your cock? Hard or soft? Because if this is what you want, then guess what? You’re up!”

CRACK for a fourth time but it was almost immediately accompanied by a scream and the swimmer crumpling to his knees. Anthony chuckled; I let out a gasp and a whimper while losing control of my bladder. I felt warm piss trickle down my leg. I hung my head and stared at the floor. Scared, uncomfortable, and now soaking in my own piss, I wondered if I had ever sunk so low before.

“Hey boss, the fucker pissed himself.”

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Chapter 4: Shit Just Got Real (Part 1)

Previously: Chapter 1: Beginnings … Chapter 2: Chicago … Chapter 3: The Application
I stumbled on the Recon profile of a colleague, and soon was forced to admit that I was indeed a wannabe kinkster. Offered the chance to be trained to and to learn, I took the first step towards the biggest adventure I’d ever thought I’d have. And then I waited, and waited, and waited, to hear what was next. It was an application to serve, discovered in a pile of mail at the eleventh hour. Finishing it in the nick of time, I got a letter the following week.

There was no more room for fantasy.

“I’ll train you,” the letter read, “but make no mistake, you’re mine from now until I say you’re not anymore.”

What had I gotten myself into? Surely Ethan was still as sane in his private life as he’d led us all to believe. The doubts, the second-guessing, started to swirl in my head; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Of course you can walk away, even now. If you do, then it’s over and we never talk about again. Ever. No exceptions. This is your only chance to be something more, to become something deeper, and to experience rather than fantasize.”

Was it strange to find reassuring words in a letter from a man who “owns” one’s ass?

“Beginning  big and worthwhile things can be scary, and you can slow or stop any action, scene, or experience with safe words. Use ‘green’ if I ask you how things are and you’re fine. Use ‘yellow’ any time you are feeling pushed so far you feel scared, uneasy, and want to pause. Use ‘red’ to stop, but know this: ‘red’ will stop the scene, it will also end our arrangement for good.

“Try not to over-think what is or isn’t coming. Things will begin in their proper time. In the meantime, start a blog, or something, to start writing your experiences, your thoughts, etc. I’ll want to read it, but I won’t edit it.”

* * *

Friday came and I was tired; I hadn’t slept much the last couple of nights between staying up late writing long pithy blog posts and being unable to sleep well from such pent up nervous energy.  My path didn’t cross with Ethan’s at work, not that it would mean anything. Despite his advice not to over-think things, my mind wouldn’t relax, my legs wouldn’t stop jittering, and my hands were constantly cold. So come Friday it was time for one of the longest, hardest workouts I’d had in months. I changed into my shorts, t-shirt and sweats, left my suit and stuff at work, and jogged right to the gym.

Trudging home from the subway on that wintry March evening, I realized there was nothing left to mull over. I’d twisted this situation around in my head every which way, and the parameters were pretty clear. My thoughts were only going around in circles so I either needed to give it a rest, or pull out of the arrangement, which wasn’t going to happen. But the thought of sticking with it still made my heart race.  A growing need to pee made me walk faster.

My apartment was the first floor of a converted brownstone on a small side street in Queens, about a 10 minute walk from the subway. I’d lived there for a few years, it was the best apartment I’d ever had. I even had a tiny little backyard, complete with an inspiring view of the alley, trash, and the occasional rat fight. But it was still cozy, and it was home.

By the time I’m within a few blocks, I’m usually on autopilot, walking the same steps and taking the same corners as I do countless times every week. I get to the house, I grab the mail, take out my keys, open the storm door, and suddenly realize my front door is already open.

“Well shit,” at first I think I’ve been burgled. Then I remember Ethan has keys to my house and I’m a little more curious than scared, but still kinda scared. I dropped the mail on a table and looked around, realizing that nope, I’ve definitely been burgled. The living room lights don’t work; glass crunches under my feet and I see the light bulbs are shattered. Plants are knocked over, books strewn around. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Stepping into the hall, I see one faint light in the back of the apartment where my bedroom is. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and tiptoed toward the back. I pushed open the door and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, but this room was torn apart too, and my little television was tuned to some spanish channel.

“What the hell?” I said as I moved to shut off the TV. I put down the knife next to the television and resolved to get a handle on this, when all of a sudden I’m grabbed by the neck, yanked over to the foot of the bed and quite literally thrown face down onto it.

I scrambled, trying to get a sense of which way is up, trying to turn myself over, trying to get up, trying to do anything that seemed remotely appropriate when one realizes he’s not just been robbed, but the robber is still in the house. I managed to turn over and start to sit up, when I came face-to-crotch with the scariest mother-fucker I have ever seen in real life.

He was big – I mean fucking big – his muscles had muscles of their own. Tattoos lined his arms and creeped up his neck; he was dressed in black pants and a black wife-beater. The lone working lightbulb cast dark shadows on his unshaven face. The heavy rings on his fingers would leave some nasty marks. He smelled of beer. He was inspecting the knife I’d left by the TV. I was in trouble. “Shit! Fuck!” I garbled and tried to scurry backwards like a wounded crab, just wanting to get away. I may have wet myself.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck were you going to do with this?” he said, just before he flung the knife to the floor where it stuck straight up.

“I … uh … nothing. I … What do you want? Take whatever you want.” he cracked his knuckles.

“Who. The fuck. Are you?”

My fear was dissolving into anger. “I live here. Who the fuck are you?” The look on his face dissolved my anger back into fear.

“Then you’re the pussy I came for. Get over here.” He moved quickly, grabbed my ankles and pulled hard toward the end of the bed. I tried to kick free at first and then, facing his crotch again I tried to push him away, tried to fight, but he just grabbed my wrists. Next thing I knew I was face down on the bed again, this time sideways with his knee firmly between my shoulder blades. I felt plastic bind my wrists.

“Dude, please, what are you doing? Please don’t…”

Things went dark; he’d put some sort of cloth bag over my head, and a cord tighten around my throat to secure it. Despite any last ditch fight my ankles were bound with what felt like the same plastic ties.

“Come on, man, just tell me what you want. I don’t have drugs, but if you want money, the TV … who are you? Just let me go. Take whatever you want but please, don’t hurt me, please don’t do whatever it is you’re doing. I can pay you. I can … whatever you want, man, just please, don’t do this.”  I rambled on. Whatever I actually said that night wasn’t nearly as cogent as this retelling; plus I was starting to cry and my voice probably cracked and God knows what I actually sounded like, if I was even sounding like anything.  Meanwhile this guy, this thug, said nothing.

After a few minutes I heard the back door open and close. “Hey boss, I got him in here,” my captor called out. “Can I fuck him before we do this?” My heart started to race again. “This pussy’s been a real pain in the ass and he deserves to get ripped open.”

“No,” said the new voice from the far side of the room. I heard boots on the floor, and then suddenly in my ear, “I told him his ass was mine.”

* * * READ MORE

Chapter 3: The Application

Previously: Chapter 1: Beginnings … Chapter 2: Chicago
I introduced myself and Ethan, a colleague who I steadily grew to like and respect, to whom I accidentally outed myself as a wanna be kinkster. Just when I thought I’d gotten away with it, he grilled me – hard. But he also gave me the opportunity to really learn what I needed to, if I could man up and commit.

Ethan told me to think long and hard about whether I was really ready to submit. I knew everything he said about me in Chicago was spot on. I was shooting myself in the foot when one minute I could envision being roped down and tortured, and the next minute barely able to smile at the cute guy in the bar. I was a coward.

But I knew this was something I needed. Lately my fantasies were a better turn on than a actual sex. Wasn’t that why I broke up with my last boyfriend? I wasn’t getting what I needed, and what I needed was what Ethan was offering.  Training. Service. The ability to test myself and explore myself and see what I was really made of.

But if I went through with this, so much would change, wouldn’t it? Would I even have my own life anymore? Would I see my friends? What would they ask if I started to disappear and how could I possibly answer? Would I still live at home? Was this the end of eating real food? Had I drank my last glass of wine? Would I ever walk normally?

Clearly my imagination was running wild, and each new question made my cock hard.

But this was more than fantasy fulfilled. What would it mean for life at work? We still had to work together, which would mean having to balance this Dom/sub arrangement with actual projects and other colleagues. He said my career would be safe, but what does that actually mean? Do we just live two lives? Do all the rules go out the window when we board the elevator? Did I trust myself to maintain the same composure that had gotten me where I was in life? Could I be the Director of Technology by day and Ethan’s slave by night? Would that distinction even be allowed and if not, could I fake it to everyone else? READ MORE

Chapter 2: Chicago

Previously: Chapter 1 – A Necessary Introduction of the Players
I introduced myself and Ethan, a colleague who I steadily grew to like and respect. Together we were a dream team at work. One three day weekend in January, though, I was bored and clicking through Recon profiles when I discovered Ethan was more than I thought. Within a split second I realized he could know I saw his profile, then see mine, and the cat would be out of the bag; for some reason, though, I didn’t erase my profile or picture.

My mind was racing. I must have checked Recon every 5 minutes, anxious and eager to know if he knew. The worst part was that I couldn’t just avoid him this week. We had to work a booth at the conference together, and traveling colleagues always socialize in the hotel bar on the company’s dime. With any luck, he was too busy this weekend, or just didn’t care enough, to log into Recon before we left.

As if he wouldn’t have Internet – and the time to use it – in Chicago.

The only way for me to deal with this was to pretend it didn’t happen. Act normal, be professional, just like any other day at work. I don’t bridge work and life on any other day, so these three days in Chicago would be no different. I was a flurry of rationalization and inner conflict. One minute, I resolved to delete my profile. The next, I actually consider that this could be something exciting, something …

No of course not. I couldn’t imagine dating a colleague let alone submitting to one. There were too many impracticalities. In any case, it was moot; all Monday there was no change on my profile. We’d arrive in Chicago and he’d not know. And if he found out while we were there, then I’d see a change in behavior of some kind and know for sure.

Unless, of course, he opted to not appear to those profiles he’s viewed. And with that realization — that he could know and I would never know — I gave up, finished packing and went to bed. I had a fucking flight at fucking 8am and there was nothing I could fucking do about Ethan, Recon, or whether I could ever show my face in the office again.

* * *

Tuesday was less melodramatic.

The alarm went off. The airport was easy. The flight was fine. I arrived at the conference, found my colleagues from other divisions of the company, made small talk, drank bad coffee, then went out into the city to find good coffee. Apparently at some point I’d learned to breathe in and out, again. There was schmoozing and chatting, seminars to attend, customers to see. I’d seen Ethan a couple of times. He said hi, I said hi. He asked how my flight was and I the same. I studied his eyes … but couldn’t see anything that hinted at what he knew (or didn’t know).

By all accounts I had nothing to worry about. I studied Ethan for any sign of anything. There was nothing. I checked Recon occasionally, but as expected, nothing. Maybe it wasn’t even Ethan … maybe it just looked like him. I tried to relax and enjoy the trip.

I love to travel, to be anywhere else. Hotel rooms make me horny. In my convoluted and confused little brain it’s like what happens in Vegas. Not that I’ve ever done anything in Vegas, or really anything in my hotel rooms for that matter. I let my hormones bubble up, surfed for porn, flipped through Cinemax hoping for a good cock-shot. I worked out in the fitness center in the morning and hung out in the bar in the evening. By Wednesday I had finally settled down and started to enjoy myself.

In the evenings Ethan and I wined and dined with our colleagues from around the country, sharing horror stories of clients and bosses, and bitching about absurd corporate policy changes or some idiot in such and such a division. I told the story of my boss’s $8,000 expense report … from a single night … at a strip club in Frankfurt. All were shocked that she got away with it, until they remembered she was a lesbian and the idea of her in a strip club sent them howling (and one guy to the bathroom, come to think of it).

The conference ended Thursday. Ethan and I had a client dinner that evening, and so stayed an extra night. All in all, it turned out to be a fine week. By 8pm we were on our third bottle of wine for the night, and having a damn good time.

“So have you always been into bondage or are you just playing around?”

I choked on my wine. I turned bright red. I tried to dab away what I dribbled out my mouth while stammering out “uh, um, oh.” READ MORE

Chapter 1: A Necessary Introduction of the Players

I have a rather active imagination, and it’s one thing to simply have a fun fantasy to jack off to, but I want to channel some of in to something more creative. This will be “submitted” – a serialized fiction that follows a boy and his training. I hope to use it to share my own world as well as a y to learn about my own thoughts and attitude toward learning to serve.

When we first met, we were colleagues in a technology services firm. That’s fancy speak for consulting, which itself is fancy speak for con artists. But the fact was we did good work, and were both damn good at our jobs. I was in charge of the technologists – the programmers, the architects, the nerds. I was a master at getting computers to do whatever our customers wanted them to do, and I commanded a team of others who were almost as good. His reputation preceded him as one of the top sales guys in our little niche of the industry; and when he came to work for our company, everyone was dazzled by dreams of riches that would surely follow.

I hated him.

Of course, I don’t really like any sales people. I’m quiet, calm, thoughtful; boisterous egomaniacs who pretend to be friends with everyone annoy the hell out of me. When they open their mouths all I hear is the prattling of a frat boy who never grew up. They’re insufferable before they make their big sale, and when they do, I’m left to meet the impossible demands of a client stupid enough to believe the salesman’s lies in the first place.

It was good work. Like I said, I was damn good at what I did. So was he, and once he’d learned the ropes of the company (he caught on pretty quick), the bosses upstairs set upon a new target. A big client, a big project, and one that required all the finesse of a master salesman with the experience of someone who could explain how it all worked. We were made a team. And despite my natural aversion to sales people, I was glad for it. I enjoyed working with big ideas and smart people, and I wasn’t immune to the thrill of the chase when it came to winning new business.

Long meetings and late nights were soon to follow. Strategy sessions, research, client meetings, mock-up designs, proof of concepts, prototypes … so much work goes into this kind of pitch that we might as well just build the thing and ask for a donation later. But throughout the process, we actually had a lot of fun. He was likable for a reason, and actually did have a good sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that he was easily on the eyes, too. He was cocky, sure, but that was because he really was having fun and was good at his job. I was guilty of the same thing, so between shouting questions across the office at each other (and annoying my fellow introverts), we grew to respect each other, and enjoyed working together.

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