Stunned by my question, "You are my bitch, aren't you?" Chris sat in the passenger seat with his discarded jeans bunched up in the footwell, obediently stroking his leaking cock, my words echoing around in his head.
"What the fuck, man? No, no, I'm not your fuckin' bitch!" he finally gasped.
I didn't argue. Instead, I smiled and said to lean against the door and put his knee on the seat like it was at Blake's so his junk was displayed for me. Then, I started the engine and guided the Bronco out of the lot and back onto Mulholland. There was no reason to point out to Chris that he was riding around L.A. naked from the waist down and jerking his dick at my command.
Less than ten minutes later, as we approached my home, the gate at the end of the drive swung open so we could glide through. I brought the Bronco to a stop before the center of three closed garage doors next to a black Jeep Rubicon. The Jeep belonged to my long-time sub, Ron, who mostly stayed with his girlfriend but seemed to unexpectedly be at my place that night.
When I shut the engine off, Chris moved to put his jeans back on. I told him to leave the jeans where they were and his shoes, and to strip off his shirt and toss it in with them. Then, I turned and began walking toward the front door. I didn't have to look; I was confident that, fully naked now, Chris would be right behind me, still obediently stroking his hard dick.
I could see lights were on in the foyer and living room. Before Chris could ask about that or voice a complaint about the presence of others, I opened the door and stepped inside. I knew he would follow.
Music was playing, and the tunes were more those Chris would listen to rather than sounds more to my taste. I knew Chris would quickly pick up on that and, because he was naked and the possible presence of other young people in the house, be concerned by it. When I turned to speak to him, he was silent, looking past me across the room through its rear glass wall. I had forgotten the effect entering my home and being struck by the view from any of its rooms had on people.
I was thinking about the effect of first seeing the millions of tiny twinkling lights of L.A.'s office towers, neighborhoods, streets, boulevards, and avenues, east from downtown out to LAX far in the distance and west to the Pacific Ocean, laid out below had on most people when I noticed Chris stiffen. I turned to see what caused that and noticed Ron floating in the pool.
I met Ron four years earlier in a bar known to be frequented by working boys while I lived in Washington, D.C., a few days after his nineteenth birthday. Attractive, bordering on cute, definitively masculine, with a great body that never entered a gym, he was perfect. When we met, Ron was one of the millions of guys who do not consider themselves gay or even bi but will, when the need arises, be gay for pay. I do not analyze, nor do I judge.
I could not have enjoyed my time spent with Ron that afternoon more. Although he made clear his tight, obviously virginal little asshole was off limits, his capacity to endure several hours of intense obedience, positional, mouth and throat, and cum control training more than compensated for that limitation.
When it was time for Ron to leave, I drove him home to the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. He called a week later. When I left work the following evening, I swung by the bar where we met and picked him up.
I paid Ron the first two times we got together. The third time, before we left the bar, I told him that if he didn't already have a one-dollar bill in his pocket, he should change a larger bill or borrow one from somebody. He said he did have one. Later, just as he was about to go down on me, I made him stop. I told him to crawl into the living room, take a dollar out of his jeans, place it between his lips, and return to me.
Paying to suck my cock, even if only one buck, was a watershed moment for us both. Seeing Ron kneeling naked between my thighs, looking up into my eyes with that dollar bill between his lips, I knew I'd struck gold.
Ron became the only guy I saw. He came over every Wednesday like clockwork. We were not what people call partners or lovers, but he was very close. I had that once with a boy, my best friend and lover. My soulmate. Shortly after we both turned eighteen, midway through our senior year of high school, he was killed.
Thanks to expensive lawyers and a technicality, the person who killed my partner escaped punishment. I never got right with that. Grief and trauma derailed the button-down, Ivy League future for me that my folks had planned. I did get there, though, after completing what I hoped would be a suicidal plunge into the depths of the worst warfare could offer. Instead of finding the end I sought, I climbed out of the chaos with a prized and lucrative skillset.
Two years into our weekly relationship, Ron failed to call. When he didn't call the following week, I went to the bar where we met. Twenty bucks to the bartender had me sitting with a guy who knew Ron. He told me Ron was arrested a couple weeks earlier for having a joint and was in D.C.'s notorious Jail awaiting arraignment.
The District of Columbia is a federal city; the courts are federal courts, and Congress has ultimate control over almost everything. I had a lot of very private phone numbers belonging to people for whom I had done confidential favors. Of equal, almost more importance, I had done some less confidential but still sensitive favors for federal and District staffers, who were the ones who really made things happen. I called in every IOU.
About an hour and a half later, I received a phone call from a young woman who said she was a clerk for the Chief Judge of the Superior Court of the District of Columbia. She asked if I could come to the Judge's courtroom in thirty minutes because he would reconvene Ron's case then. Before ending the conversation, she said the Jail had already been instructed to immediately move Ron from the General Population and place him in Protective Custody.
I stood at the back of the courtroom while the woman who met me at the courthouse door went up to the bar and got the attention of the presiding Judge. Suddenly, he cracked his gavel down and said he was declaring a brief recess.
The Judge and the U.S. attorney exchanged words. Then, the Judge looked out over his courtroom, called my name, and asked me to come forward.
The Judge asked if I knew Ron. I acknowledged that I did. He then asked if I would agree to take custody of him. I said I would.
The Judge instructed Deputy U.S. Marshals to escort me to the D.C. Jail and present an order he signed to the Jailer, ordering that Ron be immediately released to my custody. Four deputy marshals escorted me to the Jail in two cars. When we arrived, two Marshals accompanied the Jail's guards to bring Ron to me and ensure he wasn't harmed. With Ron safely in my Audi, the U.S. Marshalls escorted us to my condo near the Pentagon.
A month later, at Ron's arraignment, a lawyer friend made the pot charge go away. Since then, Ron has been my boy. I let him have a girlfriend. I like that he has a girlfriend. When I told Ron I was moving to Los Angeles, I didn't ask if he wanted to come. He asked when we were leaving before I had the chance. He took charge of the move, and it went off flawlessly. The Jeep was an early birthday present upon our arrival.
Ron was twenty-three now and mainly staying with his girlfriend in Studio City. I didn't know why he was at the house that night, but it made no difference since it was home for us both. My predicament was to find a way to quickly place Chris back into the docile, submissive state of mind I had been working very hard to get him comfortably settled into all evening.
