Master of Men (Part 1)

No one had told him that taking it easy would be so difficult. In the military, there had been order and regimen, every day had had a purpose and a script that he could follow. Now that Paul was out–no, he had to be honest with himself–now that he was discharged, he was finding it difficult to adjust to the easy-going life he’d been trying to protect. The wife he’d had while he was overseas couldn’t handle him this close, and she’d left him. Thankfully they hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant yet–he suspected that she’d been taking birth control, even though they’d been “trying” for months. It was like she was terrified of being tied to him. So what if he could be a bit aggressive? That’s what he’d been trained to be. No one could understand how different this all was. Thankfully his brother Jason was willing to let him stay with him while he figured out how to adjust.

They had been so similar when they were younger, but in their years apart, they had diverged. The Jason he remembered had been loud and brash, muscular, eager to follow in his older brother’s athletic footsteps, but a knee injury his senior year of high school had grounded him back at home. It was obvious from his limp that the injury had never healed right, and the weight he’d put on probably didn’t help matters, turning into a rather fat young man. He also always seemed to be a bit…distant from Paul, although Paul was so distant from everyone, he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t just him imagining things. He’d also come out of the closet while Paul was on tour, and he seemed…happier for sure. Paul wasn’t thrilled about living with a fag of course, but Jason assured him that he wasn’t particularly active. Besides, where else was he going to go? He hadn’t managed to hold down a job–everything he did seemed to end with him screaming at someone, or punching a hole in the wall–and Jason assured him he had more than enough money to support them while his brother found his footing again.

Jason seemed pleased to have some company. He lived alone in a small house in the quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul found it relaxing, and spent most of his days working out with his set of weights at home and taking walks around the neighborhood, where he started to meet the people who lived around them. They were all nice older men capable of good, safe conversation, each thanked Paul for his service and were interested in what he was doing now that he was home. None of them probed into the trauma they could all sense. It took Paul some time to realize that he’d never once seen a wife, or a child, on the street in front of their house–in fact, the entire neighborhood seemed to be home to men. He asked Jason about this, and his brother just shrugged, saying he’d never noticed it, and assured him more than a few of the men were married, and left it at that. He began to notice other strange events occurring around the neighborhood, however. His brother would often receive calls on the phone, and immediately leave the house, only to return hours later, and refuse to give Paul any information regarding where he’d been. The men seemed…overly familiar with each other. Not in a physical way, but like they had some secret passed between them when he wasn’t looking.

One man down the street seemed to catch Paul more often than the others, an accountant by the name of Craig Wheetly. He was short and rotund, with a horseshoe of hair where he was balding and a thick black mustache, but he had a big laugh that always got Paul laughing with him somehow. It was the thick of summer when Craig asked Paul if he’d help him out with reorganizing his garage–he wanted to install some new shelving, and he figured with a big guy like Paul helping him, it’d be done in no time. Paul was reluctant–he didn’t work very well with others–but he came around when he promised to pay him a hundred dollars a day. His brother was generous, but didn’t provide him with much of an allowance.

It was the late morning and still cool when they got started. It was a spacious three car garage, but it was sweltering after only a few hours. Paul suggested that they at least open the garage doors, but Craig kept diverting the conversation and they stayed closed, the room growing hotter and hotter. Craig pulled his shirt off, revealing a flabby gut soaked and glistening with sweat, and he convinced Paul to pull his off as well. As he was working close to Craig, he began to notice how musky the older man was. He’d smelled plenty of pit stink in the army, but nothing…nothing like this. And he was thirsty, all of a sudden. He asked for water, and Craig just kept talking over him. He had…had to drink something, he was gonna…

Paul got down and started lapping the sweat up from Craig’s gut, drinking it down, moaning and groaning all the while. Craig told him he was being very good, as he ran his hands through Paul’s sweat soaked buzzcut, walked over to a chair, stripping his shorts off as he walked, and let his muscular bull of a neighbor continue licking him from his soft chins to the bottoms of his feet. Paul didn’t understand what was going on. The heat was addling his brain, but something else was wrong too. He was…enjoying this. He was enjoying the taste of this old man’s sweat, and when Craig told him it was ok for him to take his pants off and jerk off, that he knew it would be hard for him to contain himself, he did just that, and exploded over and over again, leaving massive puddles of his cum splattered across the cement floor of the garage. Sucking Craig’s long, thick cock only seemed like the natural thing to do. The older man leaked precum like he sweat, and Paul swallowed it all down, feeling his thirst abate bit by bit, but not enough, never enough. The harder he sucked, the more liquid poured forth, but Craig seemed pleased but unaffected, and never once came.

Craig eventually stood up, and Paul chased his cock, barely noticing as the older man secured a leather collar around his neck, and attached a lead to it. “Come on then, you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. The ceremony is about to start, and we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

God damn it–another fucking email from that nasty pervert across the hall. Why the fuck does he keep sending me shit like this–and he attached a picture, what–

Oh fuck, master’s so fucking sexy, gotta jack off, gotta cum, look at that fuckin’ belly, just wanna lick it clean, bury my fuckin’ face between those fat tits, feel the fur scrape across my face, worship his fuckin’ body, his pits, his feet, his crack, suck that cock of his until he blows a fuckin’ load–fuck, I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I love you master I love–

Oh, that’s right, he wants to return that stuff he borrowed the other day, I guess I can go over and pick it up real quick–I just hope he doesn’t try to fuck with me, because I’ll beat his ass into the floor.

Your eyes flicked to the clock on your computer screen–its been 45 minutes? How…how could you have been staring at this photo for 45 minutes? Especially considering how the faceless pic is most definitely not your type, with the huge belly hanging distended over the waistband of the huge pair of jeans barely held up by a set of braces. It was part of an ad on Craigslist–you’d never actually called anyone–you mostly went on there for laughs, right? I mean, you weren’t actually…thinking about calling him, were you?

You read the advertisement again. You’ve read the short message written in all caps so many times now you’ve memorized it, but you read it anyway: “OBESE MASTER SEEKS SLAVE. MUST BE WEAK WILLED. CALL 555-253-6535 IF YOU CAN’T HEP YOURSELF.” Fifteen minutes later, you’re calling the number, begging and pleading him to let you come worship his massive frame. He gives you an address, and you leave, forgetting your phone and keys–you aren’t planning on coming back.

You never did notice notice that the picture was a GIF, did you?