“I intend to put up a temporary wall to close it off from the front door,” Alan continues, “but haven’t gotten around to it yet. At the moment, I rather like that it gives you no privacy.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It definitely makes me feel more vulnerable, which I suppose is kind of the point.
“Go ahead and drop your stuff off here,” Alan says as he retreats down the hall toward the living room. He doesn’t bother to wait for me, but I get the feeling he expects me to follow him. I kick off my shoes, toss my duffel bag onto the bed, and hustle down the hall after my new boss.
As the hallway opens up into the high-ceilinged kitchen-living room, I’m again in awe of this place. Whoever Alan is and whatever he does, he is definitely well compensated. I can’t imagine how much a modern apartment of this size costs in SF, but it’s a lot more than I will probably ever have.
I guess it’s good to have wealthy patrons, I muse. Artists have always depended on the excess wealth and benevolent favor of the elite. In this sense I’m no different, I realize.
So long as it doesn’t turn into a devil’s bargain, an inner voice rejoins.
I guess I’m about to find out, I think as I approach my owner/boss/landlord at the stone countertop/bar that separates the U-shaped kitchen from the living room. Alan’s standing there in his sweats and white t-shirt, leaning on one elbow and watching me. I hustle up, the picture of the energetic young intern, eager to impress.
Alan is bored and unimpressed, perhaps unimpressible. But I also sense a sardonic humor, as if my enthusiasm to be his bitch entertains him slightly.
“Let’s get you started making me an omelet,” Alan says. “Bell peppers, mushrooms, onions, and Hatch’s green chilis. Ingredients are in the fridge.” He nods over my shoulder and I turn to look toward the gleaming, stainless steel edifice along the far wall. “But before you start, let’s get you into something more appropriate.”
I turn my gaze back to Alan and notice him gesturing toward a tiny garment sitting on the counter. It’s unclear exactly what exactly it is, but two things are clear: it’s not going to cover much, if anything; and my new owner expects me to take off everything I’m wearing before I put ‘it’ on.
Wow, I sigh inwardly. This guy really doesn’t beat around the bush. I don’t want to start off this audition with resistance or a bad attitude, however, so I take the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. My anxiety had caused me to walk rather briskly from the train station carrying my duffel, so I’m sweating a bit and I notice a glisten to my skin as I look down at my body. Next, I take off my socks and add them to the pile. Alan sits on a bar stool and watches. Finally, without hesitating I unbutton my corduroy pants and slide them down to my ankles. It takes me a hot second to step out of them (they fit pretty tight) and add them to the growing heap of discarded clothing, producing a non-trivial element of awkwardness and humiliation, especially since Alan just sits there looking at my increasingly naked body.
At this point I’m just wearing a pair of skin-tight, spandex bikini briefs. They’re a favorite in my skimpy underwear collection and I wore them specifically anticipating having to strip in front of my new landlord. My hope, of course, is that he’ll like them and think they’re revealing enough that he won’t make me take them off. After finally depositing my corduroys on the floor, I straighten up and tighten my abs a little, giving him an unimpeded view of my body.
Again, I’m pretty confident in my body, obviously, or I wouldn’t be doing this. I’m not built and I don’t work out, but I’m slender and I run regularly, so any spare flesh is pretty lean. I also love being the object of an interested gaze, so my penis is already feeling firm against the tight fabric of my underwear. I look Alan in the eye and wait for some sign to continue.
It doesn’t take long.
“By all means, continue,” Alan drones, like a Roman emperor remarking on a lull in the gladiatorial combat.
A lump sinks down into the bottom of my gut. As much as I get turned on by being made to strip in front of interested parties, getting completely naked–especially revealing my penis–is still scary. And the fact that I still don’t know what to expect from this guy (what is he actually going to do with me once I’m naked?) raises the stakes significantly.
Still, I really have no choice, other than to back out now and go home. And by ‘home’ I don’t mean just my dorm apartment on campus. I mean home–my hometown, my parents’ basement, and a whole lotta soul searching.
Fuck that shit. I hook my thumbs under the black, spandex fabric and strip off my underwear.
Of course my penis–already most of the way to a full-blown erection–promptly bursts free of its restraints. I step out of my underwear and toss them onto the pile, then with nothing left to do I stand up straight and let Alan see everything. His gaze goes straight to my cock, rising slowly to its full grandeur, and lingers there for a few seconds. Then his gaze slides up my skinny abdomen to my large nipples, also becoming quite firm as the sweat cools my naked body.
I imagine I look pretty fucking hot. I’m 22, just graduated from college, and in the best shape of my life.
Alan just smirks sarcastically. “Well, someone is already excited.”
I start to panic. What if I can’t fit my penis into the thing he wants me to put on? I take a step to the counter and pick up the tiny object. It’s got a few straps and what looks like a tiny net of gauze. It honestly takes me a second to figure out what it is and how to put it on. Where I expect three straps–two to go around my hips and one between my ass cheeks–I see four. I’m honestly not sure where to put my legs.
“Can’t figure it out?” Alan drones on, clearly amused. Then it clicks: it’s a jock strap. I’ve never worn one in my life (I’ve never been a team sport kind of athlete), but I’ve heard of them. And, if I’m honest, I’ve seen a few on gay porn I sometimes watch.
I immediately feel a blush rise in my cheeks. The fact that the jock strap leaves my anus unprotected makes me feel incredibly vulnerable.
Is Alan leaving my ass accessible for a reason? I wonder.
Again, there’s nothing to be done. I step into the jockstrap and pull it up to my hips. Then comes three or four humiliating seconds as I try and stuff my increasingly stiff penis into the pouch, all while Alan watches. With some discomfort, I manage to bend my shaft down, then tug up on the waistband to trap it in its new prison. Without meaning to, I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
I glance up at Alan and see him almost smiling. A self-satisfied smile, to be sure, but a smile nonetheless. Glancing back down at my body I see that the jock strap is extremely thin and totally sheer. My junk is completely visible.
Why would Alan want me to put on a sheer jockstrap? I wonder. The feel of my penis straining against the pouch and the sight of it all bound up like a fish in a net, however, makes it seem oddly symbolic. This is me, I realize. Naked, restrained, and on display.
“I’m glad you managed to stuff yourself in there,” Alan remarked with unrelenting sarcasm. “Now get your cute, naked ass over there and make me my omelet.”
I did as I was told. I turned and walked my bare ass to the fridge and opened the door. It was massive, way bigger than the one my three roommates and I shared. The cool air caressed my skin. I quickly located eggs, red bell pepper, onion, mushrooms, and jar of chilis, and set my ingredients next to the magnificent gas cooking range. A fry pan hung from a metal apparatus. Fancy, clay jars and vessels labeled ‘olive oil,’ ‘salt,’ and ‘pepper’ stood to one side.
I set to work. Fortunately, I wasn’t lying when I said in my online slave proposition that I could cook. As a freshman, I had quickly tired of the dining hall food and found, with a little exploration in cookbooks and online, that I could cook more delicious and healthy meals myself, and for less money to boot. That said, I had never cooked naked before, and certainly not with someone watching my bare ass the whole time. I find it quite distracting. My erection just keeps getting firmer and firmer, and the pull of the sheer fabric against the skin of my penis produces a significant amount of unrelenting pleasure that only makes matters worse. Honestly, the bulge gets in my way, making it hard for me to get close to the range. I press my body against the countertop in frustration, which also feels good/frustrating/humiliating.
“You have a nice ass, James,” Alan comments dryly about halfway in. I look over my shoulder at him and try to imagine what he’s seeing. I’m really not sure what to say to that, so I just offer, “Thanks,” rather eloquently.
“I also adore the little dimples you have right above your butt,” he remarks.
“Thanks,” I say again, looking over with a shy smile.
I go back to cooking. I feel the cool tiles under my feet, the heat from the range on my belly, the tingling sensation that comes from knowing Alan’s eyes are on my ass. The tight jockstrap probably makes my bubble butt look even more pronounced. I wasn’t expecting compliments from my boss/owner/landlord/master. I really don’t know what to expect from him next.
The omelet looks done so I look around for plates and notice that Alan has migrated to the couch and is watching an episode of some show on Netflix. After trying a couple of cabinets, I locate a plate and fork and plate the omelet.
“Omelet’s ready,” I call out meekly as I round the countertop bar with the plate in hand. I look from Alan to the dining table and back to Alan, unsure where to go.
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