Prologue

 

"This is Mr. Thomson, Jackie, the friend I've been seeing. You will treat him with respect... in every way."

Becky's words are forthright and sternly condescending, as if addressing an unruly child. And indeed the form greeting us at the door appears youthful... youthful to the point that had I not been forewarned I'd be scampering away... perhaps calling the police.

I've been apprehensive concerning this moment, despite knowing for a while that it had to come... if I were to deepen my relationship with the lovely Becky.

Stepbrother Jackie smiles wanly, stepping back to further open the front door in symbolic concurrence, then lowering his head and doing this quaint dip, right foot drawing back, left knee momentarily bending... respect in every way.

As I nod a quiet hello, Becky smiles in satisfaction, steps inward and grasps the door handle. With the circumstances, I know to join her inside, suitcase in hand and allow her to hastily close the door.

"Bit of chill," ostensibly explaining the quick timing.

But I know the rapid movement to veil from neighbors and passers by the bizarre greeting.

Becky removes her coat, handing her garb to stepbrother Jackie, arms extended, standing in wait as would a servant. I gaze, assessing, mind addled despite the expectations.

Jackie is nude, his only covering slim bands of baby blue nylon at the wrists, ankles and neck. There is also a mass of steel at the pubes, covering his penis, a locking ring of steel mashing his entrapped scrotal sac, the bright pink flesh suggesting the circulation somewhat impeded with the tightness. The uncovered form is lithe, the slimness of a pubescent girl, and hairless... the unblemished skin again the presentation that of a girl. With light brown hair tightly drawn back in a ponytail, the gender obfuscation is absolute.

"We'll have drinks, Jackie... Cognac... in the upstairs drawing room. Take Mr. Thomson's suitcase. And perhaps I'll have you put on a stand for him. Would you like that?"

I place down the suitcase. As I hand over my coat I see that the notion brings to Jackie an initial smile... followed by a look of distress. And I understand why.

"Though the curtains are on the heavy side, we still... ah... take precautions... over the years."

As Becky leads to the stairs, I cannot help having thoughts about this encounter...

Dinner with the Pulchritudinous Becky O'Brien

 

Having met Becky O'Brien at a JWW Enterprises office party, celebrating her promotion, our budding professional friendship became more and more social. Though she became a department head... at a very young age I might add... operationally there were few reasons for us to interact. Still, I found reasons and excuses to casually drop by her office. Becky is in her late twenties, shapely, extremely well educated, and capable. Yet impressing more is her attention to business, her focus. Thus spurring her quick rise in the company.

She often spurned my office small talk... guess my greetings of 'how was your weekend' and such awkward attempts deemed too unctuous. And finally, I must suppose on a very busy day when she had not the time to dally, she cut me off, curtly suggesting she'd be at Joey's, the nearby pub, after work.

It was not an outright invitation to join her, young women do not initiate things that way. But I got the message. Stop pestering during the work day and if you're serious about something then buy a lady a drink.

I did... and found Becky to be much more open and friendly out of the office.

So a drink or two at Joey's led to dinner... then another date... and our friendship blossomed...

"That's a nice necklace... simple but elegant," out-of-the-office small talk much more personal.

It's our second date, a warm evening. I am heartened that Becky removes her suit jacket to reveal a rather shear white blouse. In being well opened at the neck there is cleavage, not the type of thing to be exhibited in a stodgy office environment. The display of a sizable bust on a girl with such a limited waist line is alluring. And in reality, noting the necklace cloaks my ogling of her breasts, the male mind finding attraction.

"Elegant but functional," Becky retorts, her smug knowing look suggesting she is aware of my ruse.

She pauses in spearing another bite of shrimp cocktail, the index finger of her free hand hooking the necklace to fully pull from under her blouse.

One would expect to see a pendant or some memento. Instead there comes into view a key... a small key. Rather exotic in appearance, the smoothness suggesting wear... indeed the necklace functional.

"Keeping something precious locked up?" I pleasantly chide.

"Yes. But not necessarily precious to me."

Becky releases the necklace, her smile broadening as she returns her attention to her appetizer, letting the slim necklace and unlocking shard dangle about in full view for the remainder of the meal. It's a tease, I realize, sort of daring me to further inquire.

I decide to let the matter drop.

There comes a third date, a Friday evening dinner a week later. We're more comfortable with each other. I'm rather proud to say I think she finds attraction as well. And sure enough, in having an after dinner drink at the restaurant bar, the paucity of patrons fosters direct words.

"We can't go to my place, Ryan. I don't think you're ready for... ah..."

In my eagerness I cut her off.

"My apartment is a quick drive," responding like a horny teenager.

And with her left hand surreptitiously smoothing along my inner thigh, there is reason to be horny. In fact I am hardening.

"You're becoming erect for me," her words blunt, offered so plainly... like commenting on the weather. "I like firmness in a boy."

And I blush... like a boy. Her touch is welcomed. But it brings consternation, like how do I stand from the bar stool and exit to my car with tented trousers.

Becky also seems to understand my dilemma, hand withdrawing to bring disappointment but an eventual solution.

"Put aside your drink, Ryan. No more alcohol. I'll want you to perform for me."

The words excite. I push my drink away, noting that Becky finishes hers then signals the bartender for another.

"Such a good boy, Ryan. You'll need to calm down a bit. And while I'm waiting, I need to explain some things..."

Becky's Narrative

 

Dad died young. Mom raised me alone... for a few years. She missed having a male about the house. And in having been brought up in a wealthy family, missed having servants doing the housework. Her remorse was constantly expressed. She would apologize to me as I, dutiful daughter, helped out about the house with cleaning and laundry.

'This shouldn't be, Becky. But there's either money for servants or money for college... not for both.'

So in her mind, there was sacrifice. What Dad left... apparently a good sum... had to be parceled.

There came a point when the drudgery... combined with seeing me... her only daughter... in her mind a budding Princess... labor about the house... brought frustrated desperation. Someone, I suppose a friend of Mom's, suggested adopting a boy. And when Mom repeated this suggestion to another friend... a woman whom had immigrated from some eastern European country... there came a more specific suggestion concerning adoption. And more pointedly the name of an old institution known for raising incorrigible boys.

But if I recall the conversation properly... being a girl at the time and serving the women tea... she used the term 'training'... not raising.

'Times have changed, Moira. The politics... these formerly secretive communist governments are open to public scrutiny now. And the politicians are under... well... pressure to close up places like that. You'll probably find they need to place a few boys. I'm sure there are some that speak English.'

So Mom followed up. The internet was nascent at the time. And though there was no glossy website for this institution, an email address was obtained. Communication followed. A thick envelope arrived weeks later. My prospective stepbrother was selected from photos and brief bio info. Mom wanted someone my age. To obtain one older limited the time he would serve us... so she thought. And younger brought more need for guidance... though I'm sure that was a euphemism for correction and discipline.

Well it happened. It required weeks of time, much paperwork, but surprisingly little funds, basically the cost of airfare. The institute had to place many boys before closing its doors as mandated. Therefore money was not an issue.

Weeks before the flight, a thick padded envelope arrived. I recall how impressively official it appeared, sent airmail from Europe. I remember Mom opening it and her disappointment in seeing it contained a notebook written in a foreign language.

She left for town, dropping the manuscript off at a service. And after translation, Mom tucked it away along with the equally thick English version. But before hiding it, from the bold print on the cover, I learned some Bulgarian... that the words 'Boravene a Voinstveniya Muzh' meant in English 'Handling the Belligerent Male'.

'You're too young, Becky', she advised in assuring my eyes would not see the contents.

And indeed, in sneaking from my bed late at night, I could peek down the stairs and see Mom reading. She found it to be most instructive... least such was the logical conclusion in noting her rapt interest.

So the day of arrival for Mom's newly adopted son approached. I was called to the kitchen... a mother daughter talk. I feared some transgression had arose. I was thus heartened when the topic of discussion was my new stepbrother. First Mom suggested a name. We initially decided on Jack... such transmogrifying to Jackie when we... let's say... got to know him better.

Then came a lecture. Essentially Mom encapsulated what she had learned... in the manual... translated as 'Handling the Belligerent Male'. Curious, I now think of it as an owner's manual.

Jack... Jackie... was sent to this institute for orphans by the government after he was taken into custody. The police had raided a gypsy camp... arresting dozens of thieves and con artists... perplexed by his relatively light hair and complexion. He had been stolen... kidnaped... as a toddler... real parents and place of birth unknown.

What to do. The gypsies had spent years training him in their rapacious life style of theft, burglary, lying and cheating. The authoritarian communist government had neither patience nor programs for reforming criminals... even those of youthful age. So he was discarded... sent to this institute where for sure he'd not be engaging in burglarious pursuits... away from society... and maybe... just maybe... there would come some use for him.

Such was being undertaken when all of eastern Europe turned to democracy and a government funded strict institute for incorrigible boys became an embarrassment.

Ryan Interrupts

 

"Why would an orphanage... even for troubled boys... be a source of embarrassment?"

"Methods, Ryan. The government conveniently looked the other way... the regimen and protocols at the institute... were... well... rather... unconventional. But effective. The training was strict. Absolute obedience demanded. And indeed... there would come a use... for the boys. Again the government looking the other way... with some officials I am sure finding their convenient nearsightedness to be lucrative."

"Lucrative?"

"Bribes... in cash... yet I am sure some were paid in kind... acquiring a servant."

"So these orphan boys were trained to be servants?"

"Indoctrinated into servitude. There's a difference. A servant would suggest... guess I would say a willingness to acquire a specific skill with some degree of limit as to their role. Like an aspiring butler. At the institute the training was harsh... no restrictions. Inculcated that they were to be used as desired."

Becky smiles, her concluding words bringing a dreamily pleasant smile, sipping more wine in letting her narrative sink inward. In leaving me in thought, her free hand once again goes to my leg, fingers rubbing my inner thigh, slowly working higher to renew her palpations. She has indicated that she expects me to perform. A curious choice of words. And as she again tantalizes, it requires little imagination concerning the nature of her expectations.

"Fellatio, Ryan," the blunt word whispered, thankfully imbuing some degree of decorum.

I nod, repressing a smile of my own, remaining silent in assuming such was not posed as a question... perhaps an offer?

"All guys like it, Ryan. And you know the old joke... what are the two things a guy can never get at home... eggs benedict and a blow job."

Becky giggles, the professional facade of her office persona completely melting away. And I join her in smiling, my own decorum remaining reserved as I still do not fully understand the inference.

Becky finishes her wine, placing the glass on the bar with a degree of finality and signaling the bartender for the tab.

"I think it's time for your place, Ryan. Maybe you'll get some eggs benedict."

Guess I'm supposed to inquire about the blow job. Yet I refrain. But there's no question concerning the inference... and no question that all guys enjoy it.

Where's this leading?

I pay the tab. Becky suggests leaving my car and she driving.

"Think the steering wheel will be an impediment for you," nodding to my lap and tented trousers. "We'll come back and pick up your car... in the morning."