Silk wanted to know about Michael's experience as a slave so as they lay in bed later that night, he told her everything.
It began on my eighteenth birthday; he began as she lay on his chest. My parents had made me stay at school for the holidays and I was really depressed. Christmas is no fun by yourself, but when you throw a Christmas Eve birthday into the mix, it makes for one hell of a lonely time. So I spent the whole holiday at school with the few others that had also been left behind. Now mind you, our holidays begin the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and don't end till the first Monday after New Years, so that's a long time to spend without loved ones.
So anyway, we had some fake ID's and had been going to this bar regularly where we also met some girls from the all girls school five miles from our school. Drinking and sex were the order of the day most days. I had gotten sick and tired of what I could only call normal sex by that time and was just usually going through the motions with a girl. I would screw her, get my rocks off and pass out. Hell I don't even know if they came most of the time. I just didn't care.
So my birthday came, and we found ourselves in the bar as usually, drinking to what the bartender thought was my twenty-fourth birthday. Some girl was coming on to me, but I just could get up enough gumption to care. Then She walked in the bar.
Right off the bat there was something different about her. She exuded dominance and sexuality. All the guys tried hitting on her but she blew them off. I kept catching her watching me and finally she slid into the seat next to me at the bar. She leaned over and bit my ear, which turned me on instantly.
"I know you're not twenty-four," she whispered.
Turning and giving her a cocky grin, I said, "Sure I am wanna see my ID?"
"No," she purred in my ear, "I am pretty sure it's a fake and if the cops were to come they would knew it for sure."
I glanced at her wondering if she was a narc. Shit I thought and turned to leave, time to get the hell out of here. Before my feet hit the floor, she grabbed my arm and turned me back around to face her.
"Don't worry my pet. No one is coming," She said with a sexy smile, "Tell you what, come home with me, and I won't tell the bartender. Your little game can be our little secret."
I studied her; she seemed to be in her mid twenties. I wondered what she wanted with a young stud like me. Then a light bulb flashed, "Look, I don't pay for sex lady."
She laughed, "Don't worry pretty boy, I don't want you to pay with money," then she got serious, "Now come home with me or I'll tell the bartender your real age," when I still resisted, she added, "Come pretty boy, trust me."
Trust me, those words came to mean a great deal to me over the next year. They were spoken whenever I was hesitant and even now I find them coming from my own mouth as I teach you. So trust her I did, and I left the bar and got in her car with her. She took me to her home. As she let us in, I remarked that if she was hooker, she was doing really well.
She led me into the living room and told me to sit as she fixed us some drinks. As she brought them to the couch, handing me one, she finally asked, "So how old are you really?"