The Help

My name is Eric. I'm 19 years old, and I live in Paul's house. I'm his housekeeper, servant, boyfriend, whatever you want to call it. Or rather, whatever HE wants to call it. I love Paul. He rescued me when things got bad with my mom, and he's teaching me how to keep house properly for him. He even lets me -- well, more about that in a minute.

Sex is part of what Paul wants from me, but he also wants a clean house and a good home-cooked meal. He likes me to be cheerful but not talkative, and he doesn't want to hear the laundry or the dishwasher going when he's home from work.

Paul has a good job in the city, and that's one reason he doesn't let me go outside the house much, except at night. He says people wouldn't understand about our love. The people in our neighborhood are all older or have young kids, so they go to bed early. Once a week, I do the grocery shopping after I clean up from Paul's dinner. Other than that, I'm a happy housewife!

I even wear an apron sometimes. Paul bought it for me. Usually he likes me to do my housework in the nude, but one time I burned myself pretty badly cooking some fried chicken, so now I can wear the apron if I'm going to be doing anything messy. It's green and pink with ruffles on it. He calls me Nana when I'm wearing it. He can be pretty funny sometimes.

I owe Paul everything. So when he wants something, he gets it, right away. Sometimes I make mistakes, and it's his job to correct me and train me to do things right. If I've been stupid, I have to sleep out in the hall instead of beside his bed. If I've really messed things up, I have to sleep in the garage. That's only happened a couple of times. The garage is pretty cold, and of course he didn't let me have any clothes. I just lay there curled up thinking about how far away Paul was and how bad I must have been for him to send me away.

If something isn't right with his breakfast or dinner, he'll stand up at the table and call "Boy!" I have to kneel at his feet and listen to him explain what was wrong, and how bad I was, and I can't interrupt, I have to wait till he finishes before I can apologize or try to fix it. Usually I'm crying by that time. If he catches me crying, he'll get out his cane.

It's a big cane -- I think it belonged to his father -- and has a silver handle. Whenever I see it, I can't help myself, I start to cry worse. I know it will be worse for me if I run, so I try to stay strong and remain where I am, but my butt starts tingling just looking at that thing.

When he uses it, I have to crouch on all fours on the floor, and usually he starts out by repeating what I did wrong and what an ugly, useless boy I am, and after a while, when my knees are starting to hurt, he swings the cane with a savage THWACK and this searing jet of pain shoots across my rump. He likes to try to take me by surprise so sometimes he'll swing it in mid-sentence or in an irregular rhythm. He's hoping I'll cry out, and sometimes I can't help it, even though I know it will get me another whack.

Usually after he has used the cane six or seven times, he gets into a better mood and allows me to suck him off. I love to do this so much! "You may lick my penis," he'll say -- he likes to phrase things all formal and stuff -- and I sit up on my knees, even though they're burning by then, and the pain in my ass is exquisite and tender. But I don't think about those things. I think about how much I love Paul and want to show him I'm grateful for his training. He has taught me how to suck him off the way he likes it, and it's one thing I've learned very well.

I start gently, using my hands and lips to kiss and stroke his inner thighs, his balls and his thatch of pubic hair. He likes it if I rub my nose up against him and breathe in deeply, and this always reminds me of how much I love Paul and how much I owe him, so even if my ass is stinging I remember how much of a treat and an honor it is to touch his cock.

Oh, Paul's cock. It's enormous, thick, and when he's hard he's rock hard. I lick it slowly at first, starting with just the tip, then gradually take the whole head, then more into my mouth. There's no way I can get the whole thing in my mouth, but he holds my head as close as he can, digging his fingers into my hair, pushing my face against that immovable object as he rocks his hips and fucks my mouth.

I clamp my hands over his buttocks, partly so I can feel the muscles grinding that big cock into my mouth, but partly so that the strength of his strokes doesn't knock me out! He lets out a moan -- "Boy, I'm coming!" and suddenly I am swallowing as fast as I can to try to contain the juices spewing forth from his engorged pink tip. I have to lick him clean and make sure no drops are spilled -- if they are, I have to lick them up too, no matter where they land, crouching on all fours until the floor is cleaned.

"Wash your mouth, you dirty slut," he says when he's satisfied that I've finished the job. He goes to his bathroom -- the marble one off the master bedroom -- and I go to mine, a toilet and sink in an unheated "room" in the garage, closed off from view by an improvised curtain made of old sheets. After I'm done, I return and make sure he's got everything he needs. Sometimes I have to draw him a bath or wash or dry his body. Sometimes if I'm very good he lets me touch his cock again.

At night, depending how good I've been, he tells me where to sleep. My usual spot is on the floor in the hallway, just outside his room, so that I can come when he calls. If I've displeased him, I have to go to the garage, which is cold and hard, even with my blanket. I've had the same blanket since I got here. I don't have any pillows or sheets because I'm only a servant. Sometimes when I'm making Paul's bed I think it would be nice to sleep in a real bed, but then I remember everything Paul has done for me, and how lucky I am to have this place.

Once in a while, if he is feeling very generous, Paul lets me stay in bed with him. Of course I am grateful for the privilege, and extra eager to please him.

Sometimes when I am sucking his cock or taking it up my ass, my own cock gets hard, and I try not to let it show. Paul likes to slap my cock and watch me cry in pain. I try not to cry but I can't help it sometimes. Usually after he slaps my cock he orders me to get down on all fours so he can fuck me in the ass. It hurts but it is part of my service to Paul.

Once he caught me masturbating, and that time he wasn't satisfied with caning me or smacking my cock. He got a large dog kennel, about the size for a Great Dane, and set it up in the living room and made me get inside. For five days I stayed in there with no food and only a bowl of water. Once a day he let me get out and use the bathroom. I begged and pleaded to be let out, to do my work, to be his boy again, but he told me it was important to learn that I was not there for my own pleasure, that I must not touch myself but should think only of pleasing my master. When he finally let me out, I couldn't walk, I was so hungry and cramped from the wire cage. He smacked me once across the ass and told me to crawl to the kitchen and get some food.

I see now that he was right to punish me. I am fortunate that he loves me enough to train me so thoroughly. I have learned my lesson, and my only goal is to please Paul. At night I dream about his rough, manly chest and his beautiful big cock, but my hand never strays to my own penis. I am his boy, his devoted servant, now and always.