“A New Coaching Position” Part 5 of 5

I do still see my son, once a year. He lives on one of the organization’s “resorts”. They call it The Fuck Farm–it’s out in the country, very secluded. Rich fags pay exorbitant amounts of money to stay there, and have the pick of the slaves for the week or the weekend. I get one week of vacation there every year, but the only slave I ever reserve is my son.

I don’t even recognize him anymore, but I think he still knows me. Or at least, I like to think that he still knows who I am. Man, every time, I try. I hold out as long as I can. I try to get him to come back to me, to say something–anything. Just a word, something other than his grunts and snorts and groans, begging me wordlessly to fist his hole…and who am I to deny him what he wants? Yeah, I give in, I always do. And before I know it, we’re out in the barn, me in some of my favorite rubber gear, my fist buried deep in his hungry hole…fuck, he’s such a hot pig, I’ll be back there in a few weeks–I need to make sure they reserve him for me. Still, the bosses usually know who I want, I probably don’t need to worry.

Anyway, that’s the story, boy. That’s the story I tell everyone their first night with me. Don’t try to fight it, they can destroy your mind at the drop of a hat if they feel like it. Besides, doesn’t it feel good, being stretched out, spread eagle in my dungeon, unable to move? The tight leather biting into your flesh–how about I get my whip boy? How about I whip you until you bleed? I want to taste you–I bet your blood is fucking sweet as hell. Yeah, I saw that shiver–I felt it–you’re afraid, I understand that. But just trust me, trust your new pipe master, let me show you where pain and pleasure meet in ecstasy. Trust me, and in a couple of months, there’s nothing else you’ll want more than to bleed for me.

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