The Reluctant Master - 4. Chapter 4

biram

From biram: like to send you something I wrote. hope you’re interested.

From Alan: Sure. But why me?

From biram: ‘cause you’re on here a lot. and I trust you.

From Alan: Thanks. Sure. Shoot.

From biram:

Pete was still cute at 16. He had the kind of sweet, trustworthy face you’d find behind a counter at Starbucks. By 29, he’d transformed. His name was biram. He had dreadlocks over his shoulders and a rectangle of beard plunging from his chin. He danced with fire and liked to take a guy’s arm up his ass all the way to the elbow.

But that was before the accident.
Before his legs were paralyzed.
Before the brain damage.
He couldn’t remember the car wreck. One moment, he was passing an 18-wheeler, and
the next, it was a year later and he was living with his parents in upstate New York.
He couldn’t remember his name.
Couldn’t remember time.
Couldn’t remember who he used to be.
Or what.
He use to be a computer tech.
Highly skilled.
Frequently requested.
He’d also been something in bed.
Or sprawled on the desert sand.
Forced against a tree.
In a sling.
But he was getting better.
He could drive again.
He had a new van and was living in Cedar Rapids.
Cedar Rapids.
It was three years later and he lived for being fucked.
Not by one man. Private dungeons were best.
Naked.
In a sling.
Feet strapped high
Dick clutched in one hand
Bottle of nitrate in the other.
When a guy was good
He’d sniff to go higher.
When a guy was tough
He’d sniff to take off the edge.
Though he liked the edge.
Liked more than one guy.
Two.
Six.
Ten.
Watching.
Taking turns.
Working together.
Two fists
Up to their wrists.
Two fists
From different guys.
Stretching his hole.
Yanking his balls.
Wrenching his nipples.
He never asked, “How did I get here?”
He only wanted more.
But that was hard in Iowa.
Everything was hard.
He stayed because living was cheap and he didn’t have to work.
But he wanted to be in San Francisco.
Plenty of bars there.
And guys.
And fists.
What did he think when he was being fucked?
He didn’t think.
He liked it that way.
He grinned.
Not trying to forget.
Or trying to remember.
He’d never thought in the sling.
Not even before.
He liked how it started
When he was soaped.
Liked watching the fingers clench.
Liked how he tensed, till the knuckles passed.
Then it was a glide.
The hand.
The wrist.
The arm.
Filled him.
Forced his red hole wide.
Another hand.
A second fist.
He was off.
Slowly rolling his head.
Slowly tossing his locks.
Before he’d shaved them short.
He clutched his soft dick
Barely remembering when it was hard.
Hard as the nitrate bottle.
He sniffed when he needed to
And when he didn’t.
Wanting to stay where he was
For as long as he could.
Though he liked how it ended.
Arm easing out.
Fist withdrawn.
The damage.
His hole
Red.
His balls
Swollen.
Nipples
Crushed.
Guys took pix so he could see.
From above.
From along his legs.
The pix never showed the guys
But they always showed his face.
Eyes open.
Mouth wide.
Sometimes he could remember the guys.
Much as he remembered anything.
And he hated when it was over.
Life was boring out of the sling.
He had to remind himself to eat.
To sleep.
To feed the cat.
And pay the bills.
To talk with friends.
He had to remember to listen when they gave advice
But he didn’t want a partner.
Didn’t want a date.
It was tough enough living by himself.
And he had no problem finding guys.
Just had to go online.
Lose his clothes.
Get lifted into the sling.
He’d drive anywhere for a fist.
To feel his legs being grabbed.
Ankles tied.
Hole opened.
For hours he was complete.
And the sweet-faced boy at Starbucks?
Fuck him.
Fuck upstate New York.
Fuck the 18-wheeler.
No pain could approach the pleasure of his sling.

From Alan: Wow. That’s great. Thanks for showing it to me.

From biram: great? that’s it?

From Alan: “Great’s” pretty good in my book.

From biram: are you writing a book?

From Alan: I was playing with words. Which you’re bright enough to know.

From biram: Like you’re playing with me?

From Alan: You’re being just a little defensive.

From biram: I just laid my ass bare.

From Alan: Which I appreciate. And I admire your guts. Which is probably the wrong word to use, under the circumstances.

From biram: lol

From Alan: I like your sense of humor, too.

From biram: but are you interested? in the rest? in doing the playing?

From Alan: Um... how do I put this nicely? I’m a married guy. A simple man. You’re way too complicated for my life. And I really don’t mess around anymore. I’m mainly here to look at pictures.

From biram: ouch!

From Alan: I didn’t get it nicely enough. Sorry.

From biram: at least you were honest. but what was it really? my legs? my dick? my melted brain?

From Alan: To continue being honest – the whole package.

From biram: which at least is still intact. small torture.

From Alan: I wish I could do something for you. With you. Honest.

From biram: you did. you listened. you read. and you tried to tell the truth.

From Alan: I’m sure that’ll make you feel much better when you’re lying alone in a cold bed.

From biram: lol

From Alan: Take care.

From biram: thanks. but I really want you to fuck me sir. no pity.

From Alan: I wish I could.

From biram: but you’ve got limits.

From Alan: Probably as many as you do.

From biram: that’s too funny. fuck you sir. and I mean that in the nicest way.

From Alan: Yeah, fuck you, too.

From biram: lol

From Alan: Yeah.