Sketch #2 – What I want, What They Want
Everyday, for so long now, it had become a ritual for all of them. They would walk down the street, he would stand on his driveway. They would smoke their cigarettes, he would stand in his work shirt, sweating in the late afternoon heat, just home from his air conditioned office. One or both would wave, shout a howdy. He would wave back, sometimes. Other times he would just smile, sweat, adjust his crotch and then hurry inside. Today, he waved. He liked the days where he waved, he felt like less of a coward for the rest of the day.
Terry loved them. Not them as people, he knew nothing about them. He loved them as this thing, this thing he wanted–no, that wasn’t quite right–he didn’t want to possess, he wanted oppression. He wanted them to strut over, burn holes in his dress shirt, rip it off, rape him on the sidewalk where everyone could see what a bitch he was, how his money meant nothing, how he was just a faggot, a lowly faggot, a pig a whore a cunt–
He took a breath. His short, four inch cock leaked a bit into his briefs. He realized that, instead of continuing onward, like they usually did, the two men had stopped across the way, and were looking at him, then whispering to each other, and then looking at him some more.
“S–Something I can…uh, help you with?” Terry said, a bit too quiet for the slight breeze on the block.
“What?” one of them shouted–the shorter, stockier one. The one he imagined with a huge cock, and a thing for fisting.
“Oh…uh…” Terry said, not quite able to rearticulate.
“You wanna get a drink with us?” the other, taller one asked. He was the leader, the real master. The one who would leash him up, keep him in the backyard in a doghouse. Drive the humanity out of him for good, make him a real bitch in the end.
“Do you want to get a drink, with us?” the man asked again, and then stepped out into the street. “You know, you wave at us everyday, and we don’t know anything about you. What’s…what’s your name?”
“T–Terry. Terry Blankenheim.”
“Nice…nice to meet you Terry. Say, uh, Buck and I, we were heading to the bar for a drink. Would…would you like to come along? I mean, you don’t have to, it’s…kind of silly now that I’m saying it.”
Was he nervous? He sounded nervous. Why would he be nervous? He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t worthless. “Oh, uh…I mean, I don’t usually–”
“Oh, yeah…I mean, if you don’t, then…” the man said, and stepped back, almost glad for the excuse.
It was slipping away, it was almost gone, his chance, “No, I mean, I’d be happy to. Let–let me change though, I mean–”
“No, it was odd of me to ask, I mean–” the taller worker said, “I don’t want you to, uh, feel pressured.”
“No, I’d enjoy it, really. Just let me change.”
“Oh…uh…would you…not?” the taller man asked, “You look…good how you are.”
Terry blushed, but stepped off the curb, and shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t get your name though.”
“Oh, sorry…” the man’s hand was as sweaty as his was. “It’s Dylan.”
“Nice to finally meet you Dylan. So, where are we going?”
It was midnight. Dylan was five drinks drunk, Buck was eight and reeling a bit, Terry at three split up by waters. He’d just heard the opposite of what he’d wanted to hear.
Hungover–very hungover. His bed? Someone elses? The news he’d gotten came roaring back from the night before.
“It’s ok, we are too.”
“Oh…sure, I mean, I guess it was kind of obvious, huh?”
“Will you be our master?”
Their master. No, he wasn’t worthy of being their master, that was ridiculous. What a disaster.
He tried to roll up, his hands were tied to the bed posts. He opened his eyes, not quite able to make out the leather clad and collared Buck and Dylan on either side of him. He was dressed in the nicest suit they could find from the closet, Buck had shined some dress shoes for him. They had his cock in a pump they’d brought from their apartment–Terry’s four inches was now six, and purple hard.
“No, what are you…”
“Is it ready?”
“I think so.”
Dylan released the seal on the pump and pulled it off, Buck hopped up on the bed and immediately started fucking himself on Terry’s cock. “Oh fuck sir, oh fuck!”
“Get–Get off! Don’t!”
Dylan circled around to the foot of the bed, and started spit shining his dress shoes, moaning. He yanked, rope burning his wrists, and let out a quiet sob.