Pig Connor - Chapter One
He’d sought the very best coach-practitioner and had played
the sleuth in tracking me down, risking his reputation as a rising star of the
wholesome kind.
I don’t – by and large – hunt my boys. They seek me out, by my
reputation. You have to know who to ask, on the filth scene.
Cutting to the chase I’d been quick to ask Kit what he was searching
for, at our first acquaintance over coffee.
‘I want to become a greedy pig,’ he’d told me, certain. ‘At
least, I’m pretty sure that’s what I want…’ he’d continued, at once burdened
with doubt and delightfully flustered from the Kit-ish playbook I’d get to
know.
I’d nodded, unfussed, as though it were the most routine of
aspirations for a boy of 19.
‘Two things, then. I need to understand how deeply you feel
it, and I want to know how hard you’re prepared to work for it. Because I only
take-on boys who are prepared to push themselves.’
**
April 2025. A 2-hour drive from London, on ever smaller
roads.
The mattress had been white but now it’s a disgrace, soiled
comprehensively with yellow-brown stains of cum and piss, plus the odd speck of
blood. It’s been dragged around the basement, wherever needed, to the point of
irredeemable grey grittiness.
I fuck Kit in the missionary position: not the most
adventurous of gay entanglements, but the coupling allows me to watch his face
throughout.
Kit Connor doesn’t enjoy getting fucked in his ass. Before
you become concerned, I stress that this is a consensual act. Kit has long
accepted that being plowed is integral to his development and an activity he
must be drilled in, often. He strips quickly for me these days, getting naked
without the bashful hesitancy of that 19-year-old version of himself, back in
July ‘23.
But Kit remains tight in his sphincters and though it now
hurts less when I ramrod him, he continues to experience discomfort, manifested
in the scrunched balling of his fists. So be it.
I fuck him raw having applied lube to my nine erect inches,
sparingly.
He’s on his back, central on the filthy mattress, skull
propped by a dirty old pillow crushed flat through repeated and tense
compression by boys.
I’m kneeling, intimate in his groin, working Kit’s legs
variously by their ankles, calves and thighs folded back, as I switch the angle
of the penetration with unpredictability. I yank and twist those sturdy limbs.
It’s the vigorous assault he’s become accustomed to, with a relentlessness about
it that leaves him questioning – I see it in his grimaces – how the fuck
I’m managing to hold-back my orgasm.
Kit’s pectorals shudder at my pounding. Those slabs are
blushing a peachy hue, and moist. In the cleft, his perspiration is starting to
bead.
Kit can handle this physical intensity. He arrived home, in
London, broader at his shoulders after the four-month run of Romeo &
Juliet in NYC: an energetic production requiring a disciplined gym routine,
and avoidance of too many late nights. I took-on a boy for my coaching, but
what returned from the USA was a young man, stronger and with rejuvenated focus
on his ambition.
The actor wears chastity, in the form of a skeletal steel
cage that’s small for him in a constraining way, verging on painful. Oh, and
the metal is coated pink.
I’m Kit’s keyholder. I told him the cage would keep him honest
and devoted, inter-session, but whilst he didn’t reject the new accoutrement,
he’d been downcast at the prospect of wearing it for eight days, until we were
scheduled to meet again. I’d counselled Kit to bank his frustrations and
release them tonight.
He’s not an especially vocal fuckee, and I admire that. Just
some gasping and raggedness of breath when I dial-up the speed of my
pile-driving, without warning.
I lean down for kisses from time to time, but never over his
lips. I peck his cheek; nibble a tit nub; ruffle at the patch of fuzz below his
belly button but above his trimmed pube bush. Kit doesn’t mind this extra
attention, but neither does he show any sign of craving it. The kid’s focus is getting
through this bottoming episode, ASAP.
I pump through his inelasticity that’s still, pretty much, the
teenage anal clench I first deflowered. It’s a battering and Kit’s sweaty palms
– spare – claw at the fabric of the rank mattress. I push his bent knees all
the way back, level with his shoulders, and elevate myself such that I’m
screwing his ass from above, as much as from behind.
I watch his eyes glaze with his struggle, but Kit knows I’d
be disappointed to see his tears fall. That’s not for now.
What does it feel like to ass fuck the Heartstopper hero?
You want to restrict me to three adjectives? Try grippy, empowering,
and unbridled.
He hasn’t prepared by douching his ass. He knows not to, per
my standing instructions. So it’s a dirty fuck, literally.
The whole set-up is designed to challenge Kit’s perceptions
of his own masculinity. He’s a contemplative sort, for a young guy, and I know
he dwells on this stuff because we’ve talked about it.
Kit’s chest thumps and in follow-on his core flutters, rippling
his corrugated six pack. Bangs of auburn hair, made darker by sweat, mat to his
slightly freckled forehead.
I release one ankle and reach for his hand on the same side,
offered to me readily. It’s a big paw, vascular on the outside and wet in the palm
I’m squeezing.
‘Feeling it?’ I ask him, with eye contact.
‘MMMmmm!’ Kit agrees, freshly skewered.
I don’t need to define what it means. I’ve taken him
here before. It is the ecstasy but mainly the agony of giving it all
up for Sir, as a twunk bottom, without reciprocal pleasure.
‘I’ll finish you doggy-style,’ I tell him, without the
courtesy of asking his opinion. ‘Ready to flip?’
‘Mmm… yeah,’ Kit moans, unready but feigning willing. I
extract my shaft from him with a single, swift movement, and his ass lips –
brutally extended – are slow to purse shut.
In shifting from his back to his hands and knees, at the
tail of the mattress, Kit is laboured. I encourage him with three stinging
slaps to the ass mounds being reared for me. Pale English globes, imprinted
with the reddening facsimile of my spread fingers. Kit has always, in my
experience, been a boy who responds to discipline. He must be a joy to direct.
The broad, hairless back is arched, and that ass is thrust
towards me. Kit props himself by spread elbows, and he swivels his neck to
check on my whereabouts. There’s a degree of anxiety in his frowning worry
lines and wide eyes. It’s natural for this, also, will hurt, and doggy is not a
sexual position that gives the bottom much in the way of control.
Taking Kit by his hips, digging-in with my fingernails, I
plunge deep with my dick in one turbocharged penetration. Still he refuses to
squeal or scream, but this time he can’t override his instinct to tell me
how I’ve made him feel.
‘FUCKING hell!’ Kit complains, but he dips the small of his
back lower and pushes his mounds onto me a fraction more.
I make him take me to my hilt in a brutal sequence of
flesh-slapping fucks, grazing his perinium with my pubic stubble. I claw at
Kit’s upright thighs, seen first on the rugby pitch of Truham Grammar school in
series one of that leaf programme, but a quantum thicker thanks to his
gym work in the States, and maturity commensurate with age: he turned 21 last
month. Kit’s old enough, now, for there to be no question of making allowances
for youthfulness, still less giving concessions. This kid must werk.
Pivoting at my waist I shift more of my weight onto Kit, and
into him via my fat prick. He feels ravaged, around my meat – a satisfactory
conclusion, of course. I grab him by a clump of his hair, wrenching his head
back hard by his scalp. At this he yelps.
I cum in a torrent, deep inside the darkness of his boy
cunt. Kit tremors from his inside, out. The boy’s own pathetic dick stump presses
hard into his rigid chastity. There must be no relief for him, yet.
‘Well bred!’ I observe, recovering my own respiratory cycle
and muttering to myself, really.
‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit pants. He’s immediate, clear and certain in
his response.
‘So, we’ll catch our breath for exactly… two minutes, I
think… and then you’ll clean me, thoroughly,’ I tell him.
‘Yessir!’ Kit acknowledges, markedly quieter.
‘Chocolate lollipop time!’ I snigger, stroking his shoulder
breadth.
‘No problem, Sir,’ Kit says, and his tone is exactly
where I’d like it to be in this moment, namely dutiful and sure, but shorn of
90% of his enthusiasm.
***
Kit’s asshole leaks my cum onto the mattress with a sequence
of burbling farts. It’s such a rude backflush, with my seed coalescing into
thin strings that dangle from his pouting lips. Multiply this by eight boys –
the extent of my current mentorship group – over several scenes each, and
you’ll understand why the bed now looks so disgraceful. It’s all they deserve,
though.
Kneeling, Kit stretches his thighs for lift to ensure his
face remains planted squarely in my groin. I’m standing in front of him, hands
by my sides except when I use one of them to waggle my flaccid dick,
provocatively.
Kit’s job is to clean his filth from the prick that’s just
fucked him, using only his mouth. He operates with quiet efficiency as
expected, this being a ‘base camp’ tasking he’s undertaken at least a dozen
times.
I handle Kit by the back of his neck, inserting broad
parameters for the travel of his head without impinging too much on the minimal
autonomy he’s permitted, to serve. There’s a tiny clump of scruff beneath my
palm: it’s damp, as is the flesh behind it I caress with fingertips.
The boy works with practised technique, teasing me back to
semi-hard with swirling strokes of his tongue, staining across it’s licking
surface with his shitty residue. Unprompted he gets deep, tackling my shaft
down to its girthy root.
Kit has learnt to control his reactions that irritate me,
when his work is simple: The gagging, spluttering, retching, drooling hallmarks
of a toilet boy’s abandonment of self-discipline. For the most part this boy has
enjoyed training ‘controlled resilience’, over our sessions, and he understands
why it’s so vital for an aspirant pig. As you’d expect, there were times Kit
found it hard to suppress his instinctive responses to filth, and he’d
flare-up with me. That was fun, because Kit is one of the most even-tempered
boys I’ve known, so pushing him to the point of a raised voice, red face and
finger jabbing told me I was extending him.
Kit makes eye contact as he sucks me clean. I’d had to nurture
that nuance, and he’s still prone to lapsing, but it was worthwhile drumming it
home because Kit’s a boy who can smile with his eyes when the mouth is busy.
A string of beige drool hangs from the boy’s chin, with it’s
shady 48-hour stubble growth extending around his jawline. The seepage is an imperfection
that doesn’t detract from his diligent effort. I feel cleansed, not to mention
swollen in the actor’s mouth. I jab at his tonsils with my crown and he makes a
surprised hiccupping noise, but it’s okay – deepthroat isn’t on the agenda this
evening.
I release my hold upon Kit’s neck, step back, and drop to my
knees so we’re equalised in height – more or less – as we face each other on
the mattress. I’m silent for fifteen seconds. Kit drags the fuzzy front of a
strong forearm across his mouth, swiping away that hanging drool and drying his
lips.
‘Look at me, and not down,’ I chastise him. He’d let his
neck droop.
Now, I have the kid’s attention.
‘Well, that’s been a positive start, Kit,’ I tell him,
sincere.
I’ve chosen my words carefully, to exclude the buzz phrases
that tend to make Kit euphoric, and erect. But it’s praise, nonetheless, and he
blushes. The rosiness rolls in a wave from his cheeks, down his thickish neck, and
across his pectoral meat though not into the cleft, with that gully
remaining creamy in a sea of crimson flush.
‘Cheers, Sir,’ he says, casually, like a cocky fifth-former
to a weary teacher who’s just accepted a lame excuse for late homework. Aspects
of Kit (the service boy) require more solemnity.
‘How have you been anticipating what’s to come, then?’ I
ask.
Sensibly, Kit pauses to collect his thoughts.
‘Um… complicated!’ he admits. ‘Like, I’ve been counting down
the days and getting so wired for it. But also… just the last few days… I’ve
been getting massively anxious at the thought of it. I’ve worried myself, and
thought maybe I should text you, to call it off.’
I nod with a side of wince, designed for Kit to notice.
‘I’d hope, if you were going to cop-out, that you’d
call me rather than send a pathetic text message. That’s a basic courtesy
thing.’
The cute blush has made an encore!
‘Yeah… I mean… I should have…’ he stammers.
‘But you didn’t contact me by any means, in fact, and now
you’re here, on schedule, and performing well,’ I cut across Kit’s blather to
remind him of the actuality of his situation.
‘I wanted to come, ultimately. Quite badly, in fact,’ Kit
says.
I smile and allow a silence, releasing some of the pressure
I’ve let accumulate on him.
‘You’re looking strong. Fit, and strong,’ I say, changing
the subject.
Kit flutters his eyelashes appreciatively, maintaining his eye
contact though his subby nature makes it hard for him to do so whilst receiving
a compliment.
‘Thanks!’ he gushes. ‘First rule… I’ve never forgotten it.’
And he’s right. Shortly after we started a coaching
relationship, Kit was astute enough to ask me what traits made for a good pig.
And I told him the first rule was nothing to do with toilet service per se, but
simply a foundation: Stay Healthy! Sweat hard in the gym, daily.
Get bigger. Eat nutritionally. Drink plenty of water, but little alcohol. Get
some sun (vitamin D), but not too much. Sleep at least 7 hours a night.
I’m gratified that my first rule is one Kit has adhered to,
for 18 months. Though I’m not so vain as to believe he’d have gone to seed without
my lifestyle tips.
There was a vice Kit proved unable to kick, which was a
smoking habit exacerbated by nerves. Fans had snapped him several times in New
York, at tables outside various bars, cigarette in hand. It was hardly the
stuff of Breaking Bad, but still, the moral guardians had tut-tutted.
And I can taste the nicotine when I move in to kiss Kit
Connor, catching him off-guard. A sensual cocktail of tastes and smells, around
his mouth: That last, anxious cigarette of 90 minutes ago, lingering on his
breath. A whiff of his shit, lapped from my dick. Cum – mine – from the
clean-up job. Salty sweat, from the general vicinity of his lips. A dollop of
nervousness and the impatient anticipation he’d admitted to. Young, driven
masculinity with a deep submissive vibe.
I clasp Kit across his broad back, pulling him onto me, secretly
admiring the musculature that had spurted and hardened over his time in
America. He dares to wrap a tentative hand around my back, and I let him reciprocate
without consequence, briefly.
I push a wad of golden bangs up from his left eye they were
threatening to droop over, sodden.
‘I think you’ll find this quite tough,’ I tell him, gently. Our
faces are centimetres apart.
‘I realise that.’ Kit says. ‘But, part of me wants it
to be tough. Though some of me, doesn’t…’
‘That’s fine!’ I allow him the confusion. With thumb tips, I
work both of Kit’s tit nubs like push buttons. He finds his titty rubber
sensitive to my harshness. I continue:
‘Now, I want you to – number three – enjoy
yourself a bit; number two, power through this like a true
champion; and – number one – achieve everything that’s
asked of you, as a solids pig. Strictly in that order of importance,
obviously! How does that sound, Kitten?’ I ask him, with my widest of smiles.
He drops his head briefly, gathering himself, then raises it
again with a certainty that’s reinforced by his stare into my waiting eyes.
‘It sounds fair, Sir, and I’m ready,’ Kit says, without
faltering.
I squeeze his left cheek, lovingly.
‘Fine!’ I say. ‘Shall we take you down to The Bathroom,
then?’
I remind myself that Kit hasn’t shed a single tear today, whether
of anguish, fear or joy. Mentally, he’s become a tougher boy under my coaching,
and I believe he’s well-prepared for today’s nasty piggery.
***
In case it wasn’t clear by now, Kit has trained – is still
training – to serve as a human toilet: a sewer mouth, for piss and shit. That’s
where he considered his destiny lay, at the age of 19, having become enchanted
by some deeply troubling content on Scatboi.com, and after ‘experimenting’ in
an unsatisfactory (but still revealing) way with a few dominant men, who proved
inadequate for his all-round development, leaving Kit despondent and searching
for premium experiences.
Enter me: an accomplished filth Master with a fistful of
testimonies from under-25s. Okay, I’ll lay-off the Trumpish self-aggrandisement
now.
The thing is, functioning as a full-service toilet isn’t as
glamorous as it sounds, and there’s plenty of societal phobia about this
fetish. So, Kit needed to train with someone discreet: someone who’d ignore the
background noise around Heartstopper, season 2 – a month from it’s
Netflix release – and gatekeep Kit’s reputation, without compromising on the stretch
of his learning in those early days of drinking piss straight from my hose,
fuss-free, and giving me blumpkins.
I’m that keeper of dirty secrets. I’ve kept some astonishing
scenes of degradation private, with names both household and unknown. I develop
capability and trust as parallel necessities. With time, boys feel liberated to
express their full gamut of emotions during my training scenes, ranging from
ecstasy to the total despair every toilet boy is made to feel, at
junctures on their intensive service pathway.
Kit takes the familiar walk with a confident gait, three steps
ahead of me. Chest puffed and curvaceous shoulders flared, he models a cool
pride that does an effective job of masking his nerves.
We hustle along the corridor – a concrete box tunnel strung
with strip lights – and down the metal staircase to the lower basement; my
boots clanging on the treads, Kit with barefooted taps. I’m dressed to dominate,
and he’s naked.
Then a further passageway to walk end-to-end, without
slackening of pace, before we get to the door. It’s wooden and finished in dark
green gloss paint with a small, square window glazed opaque and wire meshed. We’ve
re-created the entrance to a high school toilet block, or some other faded
institution. The door opens for Kit on a hydraulic ram, and closes behind me with
some force.
It's dank down here, and private. A pig boy knows he can
work without fear of being interrupted, or heard, by outsiders who wouldn’t
understand. But equally, the boy can be pushed – hard – with zero prospect of
intervention by that appalled passer-by. That’s the function of the lower
basement chamber known quite innocuously as The Bathroom. It’s a place of
progression, and achievement.
We’ve arrived. I swivel Kit by his shoulders so he’s facing
me, and not his workspace in the corner.
‘A quick check-in. How are you feeling now?’ I ask.
Kit confects a thin smile for me.
‘Excited… but shitting myself!’ he admits. He’s not talking
literally, yet.
‘Fine,’ I say, with a hint of empathy. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Very hungry?’ I hassle him.
‘I hope so!’ Kit says, anxious.
‘Because you know my expectations of you today, Kit,’ I
remind him, solemn.
‘Yeah, for sure.’
‘And also, I don’t want you feeling forced into anything you
believe would ruin you. But, that said, I’d be disappointed if you
didn’t feel deeply uncomfortable, along the way. Does that make sense?’ I ask. It
was wordy, but I see he gets my gist.
‘I wanna eat well,’ Kit assures me. His flesh is taking-on a
suitably piggy look, flushing dappled strawberries and cream. Feeling the
pressure, he’s damp to my touch. It’s stuffy, down here.
I nod down, towards the boy’s groin.
‘I think we could usefully take your cage off now, huh?’
‘Yeah, I’d like that a lot!’ he enthuses, straight back at
me.
‘How has it been, staying unfulfilled?’ I ask.
‘Hard!’ Kit admits.
‘Worthwhile?’ I ask.
‘Umm… yeah,’ he says.
‘Thought provoking?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah,’ he says, down to a bare whisper, now.
‘It really wasn’t that long, to go without,’ I
challenge him. ‘You know, I should have put you in chastity before you went off
to do R&J. That would have been a torment!’
‘Fuck!’ Kit recoils at my train of thought.
All he can focus on is the hex key I’ve retrieved from a
shirt pocket. I bend towards Kit to turn the twin locks, one by one, feeling
the sudden elevation of his warm exhalations on my neck, and hearing the
excited raggedness of those puffs. The chastity cage components fall into my
waiting palm. The boy flourishes to semi-hard immediately, cherishing the feel
of his unconstrained sex.
‘No touching until you’re eating well, okay?’ I warn,
rule-setting.
‘No problem!’ Kit says, but he’s making impatient fists with
his hands, and I know he wanted one of them around that shaft, like, now.
***
We had not planned to meet whilst Kit was performing in
Romeo & Juliet, on Broadway. His schedule was gruelling, the Kit fandom was
everywhere, and it would have been hard for him to accommodate for our purposes.
We’d agreed to leave it until he returned to London, in March.
But as I’d suspected he might, Kit struggled without personal
development, week after week in an unfamiliar city. He loved the theatrical role
and the young cast but grew tired of the unrelieved repetition through the dark
months of the year, and the selfish selfie seekers at every door.
We kept-up contact via messaging, and Kit told me with
escalating frequency how much he was missing drinking and (especially) eating
from me. I expressed concern his competency would regress, through lack of
muscle memory. But he was 3,500 miles away and we were both busy, so what could
we do but wait-out our time?
In the dog days between Christmas and New Year, late one
evening (EST), Kit posed me a question by our regular secure chat channel:
What do you think are the next steps for me… if I really
wanted to push on with this???
I hadn’t silenced my notifications overnight, and was onto
it right away.
I considered the possibility Kit was alone in his room,
horny, and looking for me to supply him with some masterful words to jerk off
to. But we’d never done cyber, and I’d like to think I carry more gravitas than
that, with my boys. With a short exchange Kit promised me he wasn’t wanking,
but was feeling bluesy.
Kit’s opener was the sort of question a toilet Master loves
to hear, and the office I run was like tumbleweed over the holiday period. Impulsively,
I booked return business class flights from Heathrow to JFK, and set about
asking Kit when, and where, he would be free to meet me for an hour or two,
just to catch-up: nothing more.
***
‘I’ll be blunt. In fact, I suspect I’ve spent four thousand
on air fares to tell you what you must know already,’ I said.
‘No… genuinely… I don’t have a conception,’ Kit said, breathless
in his anticipation.
‘Right,’ I said, arching a sceptical eyebrow. ‘So, you asked
about next steps, and here they are. Number one – we get you serving and
eating from men other than me: guys you won’t have met before, and may
not meet again. Number two – you eat more than one meal in a sitting.
That would obviously be new for you, too, but such a valuable experience on
your journey.’
Kit gave a single nod to register he’d heard me, pushed back
in his chair, and sighed with a prolonged sucking of air that made his gappy
teeth whistle. Plus, he made a tent in his jeans.
‘Fuck!’ he said, regaining composure. So profound!
In his hotel suite – not a penthouse, but swish enough to
host in – Kit and I talked for seventy minutes over bottled beers. It was
enough alcohol to lubricate his tongue, but not so much as to get him making bold
promises he’d regret in the morning.
A serious conversation that returned, repeatedly, to Kit’s
understanding of his role and how it could change, subtly, as he went lower,
which is one of my favourite euphemisms that sugarcoats degradation, a bit, for
unsure toilet boys. A discussion around mental strength and the perverse pride
he would (or damn well should!) feel at accomplishing toilet service that was
more frenetic, more mechanical, but less loving. And a great deal about the
pride I’d feel in him, watching what I summarised as an extended
display of his piggery.
He'd been wearing a white T-shirt that hugged his core and
turned barely an inch over his shoulders blades, at the arms. When Kit spoke at
length, verbalising his weighty thoughts for me, I let my attention drift to
the freckles of his upper arms, and the two unruly patches of wispy hair that sprouted
from them: imperfections, as some would see it, but characterful to my eyes.
In photoshoots, stylists were prone to putting Kit into
baggy pants that irritated me. Why hide his blooming muscularity, in the name
of fashion? But that afternoon in NYC he’d worn jeans from his own wardrobe, and
the denim stretched tight at Kit’s thighs whilst he sat opposite me in an easy
chair, knees apart and casual, using hand movements to add expressiveness to
his narrative in a very actorly way.
I nodded and smiled, switching off as Kit tortured himself
over what he wanted, or thought he wanted, and what he needed, or needed but
was too anxious to make a commitment to, right now. Etc, etc.
I knew what I wanted from Kit, my leading toilet boy.
***
I built the stall in the corner of The Bathroom utilising the
side and rear structural walls, already in situ. To complete a U-shaped space –
open at the front – I had a third, partition-style wall constructed, eight feet
in height.
Glossy white tiles were applied to all three wall faces in
the stall, with larger black tiling to the floor. The space is 3m square,
giving plenty of room for feeder and eater to work, and for any guests to watch
the action intimately, toilet-side.
The regular rim chair, thin framed with a slim toilet seat, is
towards the back of the stall. It was a bespoke order, with a design brief for
unobtrusive elegance. It’s wholly black. Under the seat and extending in front
of it, across the floor tiles, is an air bed – also in black – to make life
more comfortable for a toilet boy digging-in over an extended period of
service. But the inflatable has a dual purpose, in raising the lying eater
nearer to his food servery.
Kit has eaten in this stall on eight previous occasions, from
the moment I judged his training to have progressed sufficiently to introduce
him to downstairs, and The Bathroom. He knows the stall very well as a
place of intensity, tears and rigour. Progress in the stall has given
Kit recurring nightmares, the trauma of which is offset by his orgasms, with
the same root cause.
There have been a few tantrums, in the stall: the collision
course of a dominant man (sadist?) with the highest expectations, against a boy
who thought he was utterly beaten, and that I was – sometimes – an unreasonable
coach. Always, I tried to wave Kit off with a smile on his face, though.
The stall in The Bathroom has become Kit’s domain. Per se, the
walk downstairs holds little fear for him anymore. We’ve worked so carefully
together, over the last few months, adjusting Kit’s sense of identity until he
came to terms with feeling comfortable on his back, under the rim chair, as the
space where he fits-in. Kit’s destinal place.
‘You’d like a sniff of the poppers, I presume?’ I ask him.
‘Yes please, boss!’ Kit livens, appreciative. He’s still
just a kid, relatively speaking, but Kit has a particular way of turning-on the
charming respect, in his chat, that in-turn switches me on, and he sees. It’s my
moment to wrestle back some authority.
I pinch him by his rubbery tit nubs, tugging up until Kit
rises onto the front of his feet with a slant-necked wince.
‘Give me some good words… the words we’ve thought about
together lots, in your training,’ I demand of him.
‘Sure…’ Kit huffs, making slits with his eyes in discomfort as
my fingernails bite into his titties. ‘Selfless… hungry… err, disciplined…’
‘Some more?’ I push the young star on his recall. This is
simple stuff. People pay him to remember lines!
‘Attentive… stoic… err, grinding… thorough…’
‘Good!’ I encourage him, but retain my finger vice on his
teats.
‘Err, satisfying… no, total satisfaction… hard-working… respectful.’
‘Nice!’ I say, putting him down. My hands revert to spanning
Kit’s shoulder joints, one last time before he lays. I stare him out but find
him hazily unfocused, and that doesn’t wash with me.
‘Eye contact!’ I remind him again, and Kit hears the rebuke
in my tone.
‘Sir!’ he barks, accepting the reprimand and now he’s with
me, unblinking.
‘Are you feeling ready, to eat from other men?’ I check,
before the point of no return.
‘100 per cent, Sir! Ready to push on!’ Kit snaps back,
definitive.
‘I’ll be standing by, start to finish,’ I remind him.
‘Thank you, Sir!’
‘So, if you experience a crisis of epic proportions,
then you can tell me and I’ll take action, because we’re working with trust and
consent, as always.’
I retain Kit’s complete attention, and he makes to mouth
something but it’s silent. I give him the time he needs to put thoughts to
voice.
‘I’m very grateful for that safeguard, boss!’ he says, and
it’s so airily non-committal. I confess, it’s not the response I expected from
Kit, either in substance or tone, at this stage of his education.
‘But my preference is not to hear from you, at all,
start to finish,’ I parry, brusque.
His eyes start to fall, slow motion, towards the stall
floor.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Kit acknowledges.
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