Chapter 1

 

It was just on ten at night when the doorbell rang. I frowned. Who could be calling at this time of night? I went to the door and was astonished to see Warren there. He was a very good-looking young shop assistant at my local supermarket and one I had figuratively drooled over for a long time. He knew me enough to smile and say 'good morning' or whatever, but that was it. Now he had come to my door.

I didn't waste time. I held it wide and invited him in, intrigued as to why he should come at all, but more so, at this ungodly hour ...

 

My name is Phelps, Peter Phelps and I am a writer, of sorts, working from the Gold Coast of Queensland in Australia where I made my home some ten years ago. I write travel books and the like and I get by quite nicely from it. No, you won't have seen my name for travel authors' names are not prominently displayed on what they write. Anyway, my name doesn't matter. I am fifty years old and have run slightly to seed, I am the first to admit that. I have a bit of a paunch and I cannot run far without puffing which is a pity for in my youth I was a pretty fair hand at athletics ...

I am bisexual but I should say from the outset that while I consider myself pretty highly sexed, actual sexual intercourse doesn't interest me one iota - and never has. Oh as a youth, I experimented (with both sexes) of course, but I found the results to be rather lack-lustre. My fetish has always been slaves. Beautiful girl-slaves and handsome young males. I didn't much mind which, as long as they were youthful (but not children, you understand) and very athletic. I had always delighted in imagining rows of naked girls and boys presented for my inspection and I am ashamed to say I also enjoyed imagining some of them punished with whip or cane - or other things.

I always ran my hands over their naked flesh (in my imagination) and relished their shame and humiliation as they were stripped in my presence and then perhaps made to display their muscles for my pleasure.

I live near a medium size supermarket and naturally use it for my daily needs. There are both male and female staff in the store and some of them are decidedly attractive. Of the females, Pam turned me on the most. She was of medium height and had dark hair and eyes and she was blessed with a beautiful complexion. But it was her body that really made me stare: it was an athlete's dream, very curvaceous but also nicely muscled. I knew she had to work out at something.

The manager and his deputy both had good bodies, lean and athletic too, but it was the fairly recently arrived Warren who always caught my eye amongst the males. He was tall and dark and very handsome and even though I had never seen him dressed in anything but the long black trousers, white shirt and tie that was the company uniform, I knew he had an even better body than Derek or Dale, the manager and his assistant.

I had always been friendly towards them all, calling them by name and making small-talk with them and eventually they all recognised me with a smile and a few words of greeting. But I never imagined (although I fantasised) that they might ever come visiting or even go further than the few words we spoke when I went into the store.

And so when I went to the door to find my dream-boy standing there, I just about did a back flip.

"Warren!" I said, rather too effusively, I think, "Come in ..."

He smiled and walked past me into the hall and then into my living room, looking about him with interest at my collection of memorabilia from the various places in the world I had visited. After he was seated and I had offered him a drink (which he refused), I asked him how I could help him.

Instead of answering, he looked across at my piano and then got up and walked across to it, striking a note or two. "May I hear you play, Peter?" he said.

I smiled and went over, seating myself on the bench. I played Ode to Joy for him but I was only half way through when I felt him standing behind me and his hands were up on my shoulders, kneading them through the singlet which was my only upper garment. It was hot that night and all I had on were underpants and singlet and a brief pair of Stubbies (work shorts). He was, for some unknown reason, still dressed in his work clothes, even down to the tie.

I love to have my shoulders rubbed and kneaded and I sat there, the piece forgotten as I revelled in the intense pleasure of the massage. But then I felt him even closer to me, his chest against my back and suddenly knew it was his bare skin against my body. I was instantly alert, desperately wanting to look around and see this paragon of male beauty with his body bared - but I didn't dare. The moment was far too precious for that. He kept massaging me, very expertly working his long fingers into the muscles of my neck and shoulders but then he stripped the singlet up and off my body and now I felt the clean muscles of his chest and belly directly against my back.

"You like me, Peter, don't you?" he whispered into my ear.

I was startled. I didn't know what to say. Was this a trap of some sort? I had had so little experience with other people in a sexual way since my weird slave-fetish hardly allowed me to indulge it, that I had no idea what to say or do. You will have gathered by now that I have never married. Never even had a proper girlfriend actually although I took them out when I was younger, of course.

"Yes, Warren. I do like you ... although I'm not sure exactly what you mean by the question ..."