Master Comes on Sunday

My Master is much younger than I am, and it would be entirely accurate to describe him as a twink. Small, lithe without an ounce of body fat in him apart from a certain softness of his facial features, and packaged in soft, smooth hairless skin. He fully enjoys all the greatest blessings of youth, but there is a devil in him.

He found me on the internet. I couldn't resist his sweet, innocent face and his tight, sinful body, but what snared me without any hope of escape was that this gorgeous twink, an object of many mens' fantasies, was not a bottom but an aggressive, clever, skillful top. He was my one secret desire, and he took full advantage of my weakness.

Or maybe we have taken advantage of each other. Certainly, there is not much to recommend me to any lover, even less a beautiful, sensual twink like him. My thirtieth birthday is looming over me, and already my own body is marked by a careless surrender to age. My stomach has rounded into a paunch that can be tamed but never entirely deleted. Years of infrequent and half-hearted exercise have left my limbs fully fleshed, but with no definite tone or purpose. My own youthful body fat has transformed my face from softness into gentle plumpness, never to enjoy the sharp features of adult wisdom.

He was nineteen when he first visited me, a college sophomore. Since then he has celebrated one birthday, and in a few months he will celebrate another. He will finally be twenty-one, old enough to drink. Not that he doesn't have a drink when he comes to visit me.

My week is long. On workdays, I am typically out the door by 4:30 and do not return home again until after seven in the evening. I am in bed by nine and start the day again early. Saturdays, I sleep late and typically don't accomplish much else. Sundays belong to Master.

I am a virgin. I have had a girlfriend or two and have pawed, made out, and dry-humped them, but never further. I will make no claim to be saving myself for marriage, though I have turned down a couple of girls who offered themselves to me for the callous disregard they had for such an intimate act. I eventually convinced myself that sex is an act of commitment, not necessarily of marriage, but a longer lasting relationship than just a roll in the hay. All the while I had denied myself, my body began to crave a deeper, more fulfilling pleasure than stroking my cock to artificial erotica.

The first time I purchased a dildo was from Amazon. What I got was a disappointingly thin, floppy six-inch dildo. I only remember the second dildo as a monster, eight inches but unyielding and as thick around as my wrist. The first dildo just slithered around inside me, completely failing to make its presence known, and deceiving me that I couldn't get anything from anal masturbation. Paralysis inducing pain was my only experience with the second. Both were discretely wrapped in multiple shopping bags and shamefully dumped in gas station dumpsters.

Around this same time, I discovered and began exploring my primary fetish: one-piece swimsuits, leotards, and bodysuits. I purchased several and began to sleep exclusively in these tight garments. I particularly enjoyed the sight of my morning wood held in place by the taut fabric of my bodysuit or the sensation of the suit riding up my ass when I wake up. With the gates thrown open, I branched out and soon had a collection of panties, sports bras, and cheerleader skirts. I even began to wear thongs and jockstraps every day, anything racier than boxers or briefs.

My preferences in porn started changing as well. I went from straight porn to pegging; pegging to shemales; shemales to gay porn. Ultimately, I came to favor the wondrous and humiliating internet library of sissy captions.

Naturally these things went through cycles. I would spend a good deal of money to gather sexy items of clothing and toys to explore and play with my ass. What would follow would be a couple of frantic weeks of frequent, shameful episodes of prancing around or bouncing on toys before again surreptitiously discarding those items in an anonymous dumpster.

But all I had done is to let my body train my mind to want these sensations and established a precedent for my experimentation that led inexorably to a wardrobe of pink and white, latex and lace, heels and breastforms, as well as a toy chest full of gags, dildos, plugs, collars, clamps, and restraints.

Eventually, of course, I discovered that feeling I had been searching for at the base of a wonderfully curved, gloriously tapered, large dildo. I had been shying away from the occasional shocks I had felt bottoming out on larger dildos, but now I was truly experiencing it for the first time. I began to learn how to move my body to stroke the head of the dildo across my deliciously sensitive prostate, and I observed my success as I helplessly milked my drooling cock with every shivering stroke of my ass along the plastic shaft.

But this too would not satisfy, and what had been simply curiosity and fantasy was now a searing fire.

That is where Master found me, peeking through the window into a shameless world of desire and fulfillment, already half trained, weak and willing. Prey.

He would usually arrive by nine on Sunday. He could come earlier, later, or not at all, but I had learned to expect him by nine. He would ring the doorbell and wait for me to let him in. He had had ample opportunity to ask me for a spare key or even take one for himself, but I had eventually realized that he wanted me to invite him into my home, to signal my willingness for what would follow. He is the Master, and it is not for me to decide what he does with me. It is only for me to willingly surrender myself to him.

It is perhaps the only constant, as well as the only sense of security in our weekly encounters, that nothing goes beyond the walls of my home or extends longer than the twenty-four hours that belongs to him. He does not seek to take or send me anywhere or involve anyone else in our Sunday adventures.

Of course, he often forces me to perform amateur displays of exhibitionism. He has made me strip down naked and suck him off in the entryway of my house, in front of the open door before, and he has made me ride a large, suction cup dildo attached to the glass sliding door leading onto the balcony.

There is only one exception that comes to mind, where his Sundays occupied the rest of my week. I had only been inviting him into my home to use me for a few weeks and the nature of his visits was new and raw and, after a certain fashion, terrifying, as he stripped me of my shame and replaced it with absolute submission to his power.

I had let him in and quickly found myself laying back on my bed with my knees hooked up and my legs spread as he aggressively explored my ass. He had used his hands to open me up before he took me onto him on other occasions, but this time it was with such an intensity and determination that I soon yielded to him and became filled by his fist. Every twist and flex of his closed hand took from me any hope of control and consumed me body and soul. As I lay there, coated in my own juices and steaming of sweat, he slipped a hard, steel cage onto my lifeless cock and left me there.

I wore his cage publicly for three weeks without seeing him once. The first Sunday without him I panicked. By the second Sunday, I wanted him so desperately, that I didn't desire any other forms of pleasure. On the third Sunday, I was perversely proud of my chastity. He had used me so completely and left me denied those three weeks, so that I would patiently wait for him to claim me again.

That fourth Sunday, after being locked up, is the only time I was allowed to decide what we did on a Sunday, when I begged him to have his way with me.

Usually, he will have me dress in a frilly, pink dress and heels or shiny, black latex and direct me to do housework while collared, cuffed and even leashed. Then he will demand a blowjob while I am sorting laundry or mopping the floor or bend me over and pound my asspussy while I wash dishes or clean the windows, though usually only long enough to leave me a panting, sweating, shivering mess. I would be lying if I said I didn't leave some chores unfinished to give him an excuse.

Other times, he will restrain me in strict bondage. In those cases he may choose to play me like an instrument to see what sort of tortured moans and desperate whimpers he can draw out of me, or he may leave me denied entirely, nothing more than furniture, while he lounges around my house, eating my food, drinking my liquor, watching my tv and exuding his unbearable power and animal sexuality.

Finally, and all too infrequently, he will take me in a display of fucking that leaves me completely drained but utterly in awe of him as he exercises his mastery over my corrupt, treacherous body.

He occasionally treats me to displays of his bare flesh, and of course, I have seen him gloriously naked, stroked his hypnotic cock, and worshipped his soft ass. But I still long to massage his feet, sniff his armpits, lick the delicate skin along his collar and up his neck to kiss his full, sweet lips, press myself against him and feel the burning heat of his skin; to know every inch of his precious body. These Master denies me and thus strengthens the bonds of my submission.

I don't know where things will end between us. There certainly isn't a future in this relationship, only a string of Sunday encounters. He doesn't talk to me like a lover. He does not display any particular passion for our coupling. I don't truly know him except in this biblical, animalistic, carnal sense. Nor is he interested in my life, for which I am both humiliated and grateful. When he has used me to his satisfaction and is assured that his position as the Master is clear and unchallenged, he leaves and I remain, waiting for Sunday and my Master to come again.