"True strength lies in submission which permits one to dedicate his life, through devotion, to something beyond himself."
-Henry Miller
I. Warm humidity coated my glasses as I crafted a beer stein with my acetylene torch. It was a sticky July. The oppressive heat didn't bother me as I was in the flow of adding ornaments to the handle. I let it cool as I laid back on the hammock and watched the blue sky dissolve to the clear rural Wisconsin sky. I finished it by dousing it with cool water from the hose behind the barn. I took a long sip to quench my thirst, but I left the cup empty. I wanted someone else to fill it for me. A new glass is best used by someone else. It would remain empty until then.
As the wind brushed my beard over my lips, I could taste the memory of his cum and smell what remained fresh in my mouth. It was strong and smooth, with a bitter bite to it. When I imagined his taste, I could feel his essence inside of me. I could feel his power like a drug, intoxicating and frightening.
Power is a strange thing. Those who don't have it often desire it, and those that have it wish they could give it up. With power comes responsibility, and few want to be responsible for the inevitable suffering that comes from making decisions. For me, I wasn't wealthy, but I was young and attractive, and that gave me power over many. I had broken a few hearts when I arrived in college, and it killed me every time I saw tears flowing, tears that I never thought I had the power to create. I hated responsibility, and as a result, I tried to put off adulthood as long as I could. I wanted to give up my power. I wanted to give it up to someone strong and worthy enough to take it from me. For those moments, when I submitted myself to someone older and stronger, I was not ready to take the weight of the world on my shoulders.
My girlfriend was away for the summer, and it had been a long time since I felt the intoxicating vulnerability of sexual contact. Even when we were together, she rarely wanted to take control in bed. I gave her a pair of handcuffs for her birthday, but she only used them once, on herself instead of me. As my time of abstinence continued, my imagination had become more vivid. The silence from living on the small farm allowed my mind the freedom to wander to many new places.
I drove across town to my dad's house that night. I wanted to say hello and grab some clean laundry. It was lightly raining when I pulled in on the driveway. I saw my dad passed out on the chair-swing on the front porch, his jeans moist from the drizzle. I knocked on the door to see if my step-mom or sister were home, but I didn't get an answer. Maybe they were passed out inside or playing bingo for the night. I sighed as I knew I was going to have to drag my dad in the house myself. I wished I had someone to help me carry him. My father was a large man, especially around the belly, but I had grown strong from the few months hauling gear on the farm. I was too young to be responsible for his bullshit, and I wished I had the ability to not care and let him get pneumonia in the rain. But I did care. I took his clothes off, dried him off, and wrapped him in a robe on the couch. He was still unconscious when I left. I didn't get to talk to him as I left my newly crafted beer stein on the end-table. I hoped he would know it was from me.
I wish I could have left the stein for Murad, but I knew he didn't drink. It was against his religion or just not his thing. And it would have been weird for an employee to give an impromptu present to his boss. Still, if he asked me for it, I would give him whatever he wanted.
II. Dr. Umar rarely called me in the house. That morning, he said he was going to have guests over and he asked if I minded helping him get the house ready. He paid me well, and working in the air conditioning was a nice change from being in the hot sun outside in mid-July. I told him I'd be happy to do what he asked of me. He told me he need me to bleach the bathroom. It was a tedious but easy job.
"You are probably going to ruin your clothes," he said matter-of-factly. "I'd recommend hanging them outside the door before you get down on the tiles."
I smiled. "No offense, but I don't want to get bleach on my dick either," I laughed. "It will burn."
"Yeah, that wouldn't be healthy," he said in his deadpan way as he reached into his hallway closet with the towels. He pulled out a red jock strap from behind the towels and threw it at me. "This has pretty thick material. It will cover what you need," he said with a straight face, and left me as he went to grill steaks in the kitchen. "Don't worry if you bleach it a little bit."
I wasn't sure how to respond. His ambiguity or his coyness was something that made me respect him. As I looked at the jock strap, it made me smile to imagine myself wearing it, on my hands and knees. He sounded so confident that I didn't have the strength to question him, and I undressed in the bathroom. I slid the jock strap around my legs and adjusted my dick and balls so they fit snugly in the small sack of cotton.
Over the past few months of hauling things on the farm my butt had become round and muscular. I looked at in the mirror on the bathroom door, and I suddenly felt the sweet endorphin rush of the humiliation of being naked in his house, and the power that my beautiful ass gave me. I could not fight the pleasure it gave me to expose myself, and I was soon on my hands and knees in the tub, scrubbing the tile wearing nothing but his jock strap. I was never more motivated to do a good job scrubbing than at that moment, on my knees.
After an hour of scrubbing, he walked in the bathroom without knocking. He caught me scrubbing beneath the sink, with my ass high in the air and my eyes close to the tiles on the ground. For modesty's sake, I tried to turn around to face him, to give him a less graphic view, but he stopped me. "Don't mind me," he said as he inspected my work. His face was hard to read. He seemed not to stare at my bare ass, and I'm not sure if that made me feel comfortable or a failure in my duties. Without saying a word about my clothing, he got down on his knees. He had a hard-bristled toothbrush in his hand, and he bent over me. "You may need to use something more delicate to get the corners." He put the brush in my hand as he pressed his hips firmly against my back side, and put his large muscular hands around mine. He guided my hand and showed me the proper pressure to clean between the marble tiles. My asshole twitched as I could feel his package beneath his jeans up against mine.
Murad knew what my other lovers did not. Passion was as much about expectation as it was about feeling. We both knew he was teasing me, and the more he teased me, the more I felt my mind and body submitting. I played the game back and arched my back as he guided my hand. I wanted to show him how thick and round my ass had become from the months of working for him on the farm. He pretended not to notice, but I could feel movement underneath his jeans.
"Your turn," he said, releasing my hand from his enormous grip. I scrubbed the tiles like he showed me, and I looked up into his dark penetrating green eyes. I hoped then he would use me. He would love how my ass felt. But he was not done teasing me. He stood up and quickly adjusted himself as I stayed in the jock on the floor scrubbing. "You are a good worker," he said with a smile.
"Thank you, Sir," I said back to him. The word, Sir, just seemed to slip from my lips unconsciously, and he smiled. I wanted him to flip me over then and pull my legs apart. I wanted to feel his beard in my cheeks. I wanted to feel his tongue using my college boy body. But it would have to wait.
III. The party that night consisted of only one, besides Murad and myself. She arrived in a low-cut dark red dress. There was a circle cut out of the top that showed her deep cleavage, and she had a luxurious necklace that was studded with small crystals. They reminded me of blown glass but were probably sapphire. She was simple and beautiful. Her blue eyes were deep and piercing. She had visited once before when I was sleeping in the barn, and I admired how free she was with her sexuality. I could see her through the window and hear her cry out when she orgasmed. She was like an exotic mother who could consume my delicate adolescence with her body.
Murad introduced me as 'the boy'. He told her that I was the hired help for the night. I nodded to her with a smile as I took off her silk scarf and went to hang it in the guest bedroom. When I was out of sight, I touched the scarf to my face and felt a texture I had never felt before, and it made me shiver. I liked doing what Murad told me, but the feeling of being his possession, lent out to others, gave me a rush of desire. I was Murad's to give, and all I wanted was for him to use me, however he wanted, even if it meant loaning me out to his friends.
Murad was rugged and rough, like cast iron. The few times I had touched him, his hands felt calloused over from years of work and pain and love that was unknown to me. Her neck had felt the opposite. It was soft and smooth, like the feeling of fresh goat's milk. They were beautiful in their own way, like a bold yin-yang. I wanted to be the curve between the white and the black, that line that didn't really exist, only an object because of the larger defined shapes surrounding it.
I never said a word. I wasn't told not to speak, but I thought it improper that night. As they sat in the front room and talked, I chopped fresh tomatoes from the garden, and sliced some homemade goat cheese that had been marinating in olive oil. I picked some leaves of basil from the herb garden that surrounded the sides of the driveway. When I was done, I brought out their Caprese drizzled with vinegar on a bronze platter and set it on the barn-wood table in front of them. They smiled at me in a way that made me feel naked. I could feel a wet spot in my underwear where my dick had drizzled pre-cum. I didn't question why serving them turned me on so much; it wasn't my place there to ask questions, even to myself. I was there to serve, and all other thoughts and feelings of mine were not worthy to bother with at the moment. I was there to tend to their needs.
I imagined Murad and the beautiful woman beside him would talk about flowers or the weather. Instead, their conversation was so graphic I could not hold back the blush from my face as I refilled their wine glasses. "He's got the most perfect ass you've ever seen," Dr. Umar said as I walked back toward the kitchen.
She smiled and said with a laugh, "Yours isn't half bad. But it looks like I could used his butt cheeks as shelf to rest my drink on." I didn't speak. I didn't even acknowledge that I could hear them. But when I entered the kitchen, a wide, genuine smile spread across my face. I even craned my neck to see how well my butt cheeks looked in my black jeans. The fact that they noticed my ass filled me confidence, and a desire to serve them better.
