Privilege

It was shaping up to be a stressful day for Paul. The eighteen year old had spent the morning on his family's private golf course and most of the afternoon getting acquainted with his new private masseur only to enter the west kitchen for a snack and be blatantly disrespected by Alphonse, the uncouth new pool cleaner, causing him a level of stress he was not accustomed to. And now, he would have to devote his precious time to teaching this foolish man a lesson.

Alphonse was clearly from a migrant family -- It was in the sunburn on his sweaty back and the keen definition of his top-heavy musculature. Two pumped-up arms and a heaving chest led to a tiny V shaped waist. The hunch of his shoulders, earned by a life of hauling heavy objects and cowering from violent brothers, gave him the look of a big scruffy ape with swinging arms and suspicious brown eyes. He would be in his twenties. A foot taller than Paul, with curly black locks and a permanent sheen of sweat on his distrusting face. He'd been running an errand for Paul's father, moving some garden sculptures when his employer's young son crossed through the west patio and noticed his family's brutish new servant at work.

Paul had wandered up behind Al while he was in a squatting position, grunting to heave a large ivory eagle, his glutes ready to rip through the strained denim of his work jeans. The waif-like boy had smiled to himself, feeling loose and relaxed after his massage, and taken the opportunity to slip his two dainty white hands into the yard boy's back pockets. He had giggled at the way those two bulging melons felt through the thin layer of worn denim and was about to sneak a finger behind the servant's belt when Alphonse stood bolt upright and snapped around, looking in horror at his molestor. "Man, what are you thinking doing that! No way, man, none of that shit." As he shook his repulsion off with an angry spasm of his immense body, as if he'd been contaminated by the gay boy's touch, Paul noticed with a little interest that he had a thick Spanish accent.

But Paul didn't notice much else after that. Paul was mad. The old yard boy had always gritted his teeth and bared it when Paul had opted to caress his behind, or run a palm over his cheek. None of the staff, nor any of the teachers or acquaintances Paul had ever been driven to in his father's limousine, had ever dared deny any request or impulse of the important young boy's whims. This new yard boy may aswell have given Paul his first black eye, his rude manner taking the young society prince by very unpleasant surprise.

The following steps were carried out simply, and as they were, Paul's hurt feelings healed in small increments. First he informed his father's chief social secretary of what had transpired, then watched as a cluster of guards were organised to march into the garden and seize the offensive young yard boy. Paul trailed behind as the worst servant his father had ever employed was bound at every limb and dragged, screaming silently through a throat full of rag, to a secured room on the east wing of the house. In the interrogation-style room, the choked man was stripped of his dirty jeans by a group of burly, black-suited guards who chained him face-down and brought out a whip the length of his entire body. Each time the whip landed on the man's cotton-clad butt, a resounding clap echoed throughout the large room and a strangled howl of agony could barely be heard dying in the man's stuffed mouth. Although he was tied flat to the ground, his body shuddered as bold red welts built up on his thick, hairy thighs and thin, dark stripes seeped through his grey underwear, all over his plump ass cheeks.

Paul giggled each time the whip cracked, its sound rebounding off the walls while Alphonse spasmed like a poisoned roach in his binds, his tear-streaked face a horrific contortion of pain. It reminded the younger boy of how the yard worker had flinched from his friendly touch earlier, gravely insulting him and instantly deleting himself; wiping his identity off the map.

A clearly had no idea that the man he worked for was as corrupt as he was powerful, and that already the yard boy's name had been deleted from the system, along with the birthday and medical history and social security number once attached to it. Alphonse digitally and legally didn't exist as of this moment, thanks to Paul's daddy and his very powerful friends, meaning no-one would ever come looking to take Paul's brand new toy off of him.

* * *

Paul's eyes sparkled. He crinkled his nose in a kittenish smile, the one he only wore when he was truly delighted with something. His face was both as sweet and as cold as ice cream; the face of an angel capable of inhuman cruelty. His blue Converse sneaker slid, ran up his newly nameless toy's inner thigh, and nudged the big chunk of meat beneath the slave's dirty Y-fronts. Stained with blood and dirt, the slave's underwear was his only clothing, but that certainly didn't stop Paul's foot from curiously hovering between the man's legs, squishing a toe to feel two walnut balls roll around beneath. Paul giggled, sitting at his desk. He glanced between his homework and the toy manacled on his bedroom floor.

His heavy iron cuffs weighed so much that he was literally pinned him on his back while he wore them, stuck where he had been laid. He could only be moved by two guards, but Paul was happy to have him groaning at his feet. He had given up begging or fighting hours ago. Broken in quicker than an animal. And then he had laid there, the boy's pale hands running over unthinkable places, those hungry eyes glittering over him guiltlessly, as he jerked and writhed whenever a fresh laceration was stroked or his strictly heterosexual cock was squeezed like a toy. He had held back tears while five slender fingers crept beneath the elastic strap of his underwear, and the demon boy had licked his lips quietly, excitedly. He had bitten his tongue hard while those cool fingers forced his tool horribly to life, then had clumsily squeezed and yanked it, peeled the foreskin down and flicked the sensitive pink bulb, pinched and brushed nails lightly over the throbbing organ while its owner squirmed like a giant worm beneath the boy's curiously, detached gaze.

Now Paul turned from his computer. He had explored the new toy, and was satisfied with what he'd found. But he hadn't quite gotten over the insult which he'd received from the wayward servant earlier. He didn't like to be told no. It lit a cold and malicious fire inside of him that could only be extinguished by the most explicit form of justice he knew of: therapeutic revenge.

He slipped out of his sneakers, the young master, and stood up. He turned and slouched against his desk, cocking his head to smile down at his toy, whose eyes were staring, red and miserable, at the ceiling. "It's okay, the worst of it's over." Paul's voice trickled down onto him like honey. "I'll forgive you for your indiscretion earlier as soon as I feel justified. As soon as I know that you understand, as well as I do.." He placed his socked foot on the man's bruised cheek, stroking it slightly. "..that you're nothing." He gave a little giggle as he rubbed his foot over the face which could do nothing to hide from him. He covered the man's dark and handsome features with the warm flat of his foot, mashing the thick lips under his heel, massaging the pads of his forefoot with the bumps of the man's nose. It was a simple act: Wiping his foot on another man's face. But it always made him feel better. Maybe it was the inherent humiliation of the lower man, or the fact that he could demonstrate his power without any resistance, or simply the thrill of feeling such a handsome face smeared beneath the sole of his privileged young foot. But it reminded him of his position in this world, and the ease with which he could always bring unruly men like Alphonse to their backs on his bedroom floor, transforming the wildest and most willful men of the world to passive toys at will with the snap of his fingers.

Paul unbuckled his jeans, and bit his bottom lip. Under his foot, Al's hot tongue was wetting his sock. His new toy was pleading with him. Afraid to speak after the brutal training he'd received earlier, he was pleading the only way he knew how, the evidence of his tragically pathetic submission seeping between Paul's toes and making him giggle yet again. "You're going to make a very good toy, I can tell." He dropped his jeans and stepped over Alphonse with one slim leg. A foot was placed on either side of the man's head. Paul's toes wiggled in their socks. Alphonse's big, dark eyes shined and spilled tears. A pale blue pair of underwear slid down the boy's thin calves and landed like a surgical mask on the toy's nose and mouth. "I'll never let you go. But I promise that if you behave, there'll be very few whippings like today's. You could even be my pampered pet, if you earn it." Paul lifted a foot and threw aside the undies with a flick of his ankle. He stood back in place and then slowly, finally, lowered himself down and sat comfortably on the yard boy's face.

"Oh.."

For a long time the room was silent except for the boy's purring. He rocked back and forth. Straddling the large, hot head between his slim legs. Breathing urgently. Bouncing slightly, then harder and harder, willing the long slippery muscle to slide deeper into his anus. Alphonse had surrendered miserably yet immediately, his tears wetting the young master's smooth white cheeks even before he pushed his tongue deep between them and lapped at the bitterly unfamiliar tang of puckered asshole.

Paul bucked and shuddered, squirming left and right, wedging the migrant's beautiful face with it's dancing tirelessly tongue deeper and deeper inside of him, crying sweet tears of unadulterated bliss.