Summer slave in San Francisco Ch. 01

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't the person who opened the door. Standing in the doorway is an Asian-American man (maybe Filipino?), perhaps five feet, eight inches in height, wearing black Nike sweatpants and plain white t-shirt that nonetheless manages to look expensive. He seems to be in early middle age with a somewhat receding hairline and that jaded, life-has-ceased-to-be-novel-and-exciting look on his face. None of my friends at college have that look. It's one my mind definitely reserves for 'old' people. Though in all honesty that just means 'not young anymore' people.

"Well, hello. You must be James." His voice is not what I was expecting, either. It's not intimidating or powerful, gruff or deep, the way I had imagined the voice of someone I would be submitting to for an entire summer or more would be. Instead, it was somewhat nasally, but nonetheless very confident, even seductive. As if he were inviting me into a trap but knew I'd step in anyway.

I did.

"Take your shoes off by the door," he calls behind him after I enter, already retreating down the tiled hall. I kick off my shoes as quickly as I can and hurry after him, but he stops abruptly.

"Oh, I forgot," he said. "This is where you'll be staying." Then, after a short pause, he added, "If you decide to move in." He indicates an odd, small sort of front sitting room just off the hallway next to the door. It has a window facing the exterior of the building (the building Alan's apartment is in has no interior hallways), a closet presumably for coats, and a sofa, but it seems odd and out of place.

"I've never figured out what to do with this space," he admits in a disappointed tone. "It always seemed like a waste of space to me. Until I saw your post." He looks over at me. I look back with a blank stare, trying to take everything in. "If you decide to move in I'm going to put one of those accordion walls up and turn it into a room for you. You'll use this bathroom here." He starts walking down the hallway toward an open, well-lit room, indicating a small bathroom just down the hall from my 'bedroom' as he goes. I pad obediently behind him, trying to make a good impressing while starting to feel like an exploited intern.

What did you expect? I ask myself. You literally offered to be his personal slave. You didn't think he'd put you up in the master bedroom, did you?

Compared to my careful, on-my-best-behavior demeanor, Alan's relaxed, confident saunter through his house is very noticeable. He's not trying to impress me, I realize. Or intimidate me. He feels he doesn't need to.

We walk into a beautiful, modern loft. Massive windows showing the evening sunset fill the far wall. Two-story, vaulted ceilings rise above me, giving a sense of immense space. A modern, well-appointed, open plan kitchen with stone countertops and cabinets in stark white and black opens to my right. Having promised to cook my landlord's meals, I take note. Ahead is a substantial living space with a glass dining table, designer leather sofas arranged around a black stained wood coffee table, with a massive flat screen tv mounted to the wall. To my left, a set of stairs climbs to a second level.

My prospective landlord casually strolls to a seat on a sofa. "Come stand here," he says, motioning to a place on the carpet in front of him. "Let's have a good look at you."

I walk up to the spot and pause, feeling awkward and under the spotlight. I put my hands in my jean pockets just to have something to do. I risk a glance at Alan, see him gazing back at me. The only immediately obvious expression on his face is boredom. Curiosity, too, and maybe humor. But primarily ambivalence and boredom.

"Take off all your clothes," he says. Though he doesn't bark or bluster or make any effort at enforcement, it's clearly an order. Though I had definitely anticipated that this might happen, I'm still struck by how quickly it has happened. He met me at the door and invited me into his house barely two minutes ago and he's already down to business, inspecting the goods.

Sensing my hesitation, he says, "I did say this was an interview. What kind of interview did you expect after offering to be my naked houseboy? If you're going to be serving me naked, I need to see what I'm getting." He sounds if anything like a demanding, impatient consumer of high-end goods.

I don't really have a response to any of that--it's not the demand but rather the swiftness of it that caught me off guard--so I say nothing. Still embarrassed and a bit scared to take the plunge, I stand there a moment longer, hesitating. Then, with that sudden lurch of intention in my gut that I always feel when I've decided to leap into a cold swimming pool but haven't quite hit the water yet, I cross my arms, grab the hem of my sweater with both hands, and pull it over my head.

I feel the cool apartment air on my bare skin immediately. As I pull off the sweater I draw my arms up high and tighten my abs, trying to make myself look slender, vulnerable, and cute. I need this guy to want me around his apartment all the time, naked. And, being the vain exhibitionist that I am, I want him to like what he sees. Tossing the sweater on the sofa, I glance at Alan. He's leaning back comfortably against the sofa--still bored, but his interest clearly piqued.

He says nothing, however, obviously waiting for me to continue. I look down at my bare chest, taking in my large, brown nipples already hard from the cool night air; my slender tummy, silhouette of abs faintly visible against my skin; my adorable, round belly button; the light brown freckles scattered across my abdomen. I see my belt buckle and know what has to happen next. I imagine taking them off before I actually do it, and with the thought I can suddenly feel the strap of my thong tightly hugging my anus.

God, I'm really going to let this total stranger see me in this ridiculous thong? I wonder. Why, oh why did I choose to wear such erotic, flashy underwear?

But before I can second guess myself, I'm unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants, then sliding them down my hips to the floor. I awkwardly step out of my jeans, now crumpled on the floor, and toss them onto the sofa next to my sweater. I stand there with my hands now nervously clasped in front of my belly and blush. I know where Alan's eyes are. Where would your eyes go if suddenly presented with a male figure wearing only a bright blue spandex thong? And worse, there's a giant bulge protruding from his crotch?

I shift my weight shyly from one foot to the other, subtly swaying my hips from side to side, hoping he'll be so mesmerized by this shocking underwear that he won't notice I've stopped stripping. Under his shameless gaze, my penis gets stiffer and the combination of pain and pleasure from the overly tight thong increases commensurately. I look at him, letting my embarrassment show, hoping it's enough.

"Turn around," he says, clearly having fun. Feeling like a show pony or a stock animal, I do a 180 and show him my ass. Honestly, this is my best side. My butt is substantial but firm; not a bubble butt, but definitely working it back there. Besides, the brilliant blue 'T' of the thong strap emerging at the top of my ass framed against my pale skin makes me look both sexy and vulnerable--a combination I'm definitely going for. As Alan takes in my backside, I stare down at my body again. This time all I see to break up the field of bare skin is a blue, spandex pouch sticking out ludicrously from my crotch.

"Turn back around," Alan commands in his bored monotone. I obey. "Well, keep going," he says after a short pause.

"You mean you want me to take off my thong?" I ask, suggestively hooking my thumbs under my thong straps and trying to sound surprised.

"Of course the thong comes off," Alan replies. There's no point in waiting anymore. Leaving my thumbs where they are, I strip my thong off. My erect penis, caught in the extended pouch, resists for a short moment then flops out humiliatingly. I step out of the waist straps and toss the tiny garment on the growing pile of my clothes.

I hear Alan make a grunt of laughter as I straighten up. Against my better judgment, I look down at my crotch. I am absurdly erect, the shaft of my penis stretching its full length in a slight upwards arc, the circumcised head gleaming against the overhead light. I feel terribly embarrassed and vulnerable, my sexual desires and excitement on full display.

"Well, well," Alan says, as if solving a mystery. "What do we have here?" Alan continues to stare at my penis, then takes in the rest of my naked body--thighs, belly, pecs, nipples, shoulders, finally making his way up to my face. Acutely aware I'm on display, I stand up straight and tighten my abs, trying to look as hot as I can--all while trying to not seem like I'm doing it, of course. Not sure what to do with my hands and not wanting to leave them just dangling lamely at my sides, I decide to clasp them behind my back. It has the effect of giving my prospective landlord an unimpeded view of the goods on offer.

Several seconds go by as Alan takes his time inspecting my body. I just stand there naked, waiting for him to say or do something. This is, after all, an interview. I've been in lots of interviews, of course. Just never standing up while my interviewer is seated; and never completely naked.

"Someone's excited," Alan concludes, finally breaking the long silence. "Tell me again what you're offering me?" He asks it almost as a challenge, daring me to repeat my absurd proposition now that it's much more real, now that I'm standing naked and erect in front of the person who might actually take me up on my ridiculous proposition.

I don't know what to say for a moment, suddenly ashamed of the idea. I falter, looking down at the ground and searching in vain for the right words to begin.

"Oh come on, don't be shy. You're already naked; there's nothing left to hide. Don't tell me you came all this way only to get cold feet."

His prodding works. It's still hard to get it out--my voice sounds thin and weak and the words nearly catch in my throat--but I manage to articulate my main proposition. "I'm offering to be your slave in exchange for free rent."

"Very interesting," Alan replies, his voice registering only one degree above flat and bored. I notice that his eyes are locked on my erect penis while he says this, however. His gaze flicks up to make eye contact with me as he continues, "And what does being my slave entail, exactly?"

I swallow hard. This is the moment of truth, the crucial negotiation that will determine so much of the actual details of this whole experiment. I know I have to bargain shrewdly: offer too little and this man might withdraw his offer of free rent; offer too much and I might end up as an enslaved sex toy.

"That's a great question," I begin, "the details of which we'll have to work out between us."

"Hmm," Alan grunts and nods. He seems mildly approving of my willingness to stand up for myself. Or at least this is what I tell myself. "Make me an offer. Tell me what you're willing to give me."

"Well," I say, pausing to think carefully. I don't want to give away too much, too quickly. "In exchange for renting a room for free, I'll do all your household chores: cleaning, cooking, laundry, errands. And I'll let you choose what clothing I wear whenever I'm here."

"Alright," Alan responds, sounding only minimally impressed. "It's a start. What else?"

Damnit, I think. He's just going to make me keep going. I'm silent for a moment, desperately scrambling for another concrete concession to make. I'm painfully aware of my engorged member, totally bare and sticking straight out from my crotch. "In addition to letting you decide what clothing, if any, I'm allowed to wear, you can tie me up whenever you feel like it."

"Oh, I see. That sounds fun." And Alan does seem genuinely interested here. "I have lots of fun toys. Am I allowed to use them on you?"

This sends a thrill through my whole body. If my cock wasn't already absurdly hard it certainly would be by now. The thought of him using sex toys on my bound and naked body kicks up a churning swirl of powerful emotion. I'm not sure exactly what toys he has, but my imagination conjures up images of ball gags and dildos and my submissive self melts into a horny puddle. Parts of me want to respond with an unambiguous 'yes.' Other parts are wise enough to hold back a moment and exercise caution. I remind myself I don't want to give away too much, too soon.

"That depends on the toy, I guess," I reply. "What do you have? If you run them by me one by one I can ok them." My proposition sounds incongruously bold for someone negotiating the terms of his own enslavement while standing on display, completely naked. I'm literally asking my future master/owner to submit a list of toys to me for approval.

Alan doesn't like it. I can see his interest, which I had piqued when I offered to be his full-time bondage slut, begin to wane a little in response to my assertiveness. "I don't think so. Let's do it this way instead: what am I not allowed to do to you. If you want to take something off the table, now is the time to do it."

I'm taken aback by this. He's completely flipped the tables on me, putting me back on the defensive. This way, placing any restrictions on what he can do to me will make it seem like I'm asking a lot, whereas before I could seem generous each time I allowed something--even things that turn me on and that I would love for him to use on me.

"Wait," I protest, "you mean anything? Or just sex toys?"

"Anything," Alan replies with utter confidence. "To me, 'slave' implies submission. And I'm used to getting what I want, when I want it." His eyes go back to my junk. "So if you're going to be my slave, that means everything goes. If you want to restrict what I can do, you have to specify what that means."

Wow. He's really going for the jugular here trying to maximize what he's getting out of this. For a hard moment, I'm left pondering what exactly I am willing to allow. In this crazy, kinky experiment, what am I willing to explore? Again, parts of me quiver with excitement at the thought of giving him full permission to do whatever he wants. Images of him using me in various kinky ways flash through my mind and I feel weak in the knees. I'm painfully aware that I'm still standing in front of him, totally naked.

"Well, ok," I hedge, trying to buy time. "Nothing that would harm me." That's pretty reasonable, right? I try to reestablish control by denying him things that no reasonable person could argue with. "And nothing illegal, either."

Alan raises an eyebrow slightly, as if to say, 'is that all?' "Ok, I can work with that. Nothing else?"

Now he's really daring me to deny him something he wants. Am I willing to let him fuck me? Do I want that to be part of the arrangement? How much do I think he would take advantage of me if I allowed it? Listening deeply to my emotions, I realize that while I'm ok with humiliation, servitude, and submission, the idea of being his on-demand fuck toy rubs me the wrong way. It's not fully in the spirit of what I'm offering. But will he accept such a restriction? If I deny him and he decides he's uninterested, am I likely to find another serious offer?

"Anal sex is off the table," I blurt out. Alan leans back, a little surprised at my boldness. "At least at first," I add, hoping it's enough.

Alan considers this for some time, then says nonchalantly, "I think I can work with that." Then, adding carve-outs of his own, he adds, "Does that mean your anus is off-limits entirely? Or just that I can't fuck you in the ass with my penis?"

A wave of humiliation washes over me. I'm literally having to negotiate the details of access to my asshole while completely naked and on display. The very act of having to discuss what this man can and can't do to my anus makes parts of me want to just submit entirely. And the way Alan is framing the conversation, he's making me feel like a naive prude for each and every denial.

I'm super embarrassed as I force out the words, "You can put things in my ass, you just can't fuck me." After a pause, I realize I need to be completely specific here. "With your cock." Alan smiles, utterly relaxed and reveling in my discomfort as I squirm.

"Ok. But other than that I can do whatever I want with you?"

For a moment, I consider taking blow jobs off the table as well. I've actually never sucked a guy's cock before. In the end, a combination of submissive curiosity and a desire to make this work wins out, and I simply nod.

"Very good." He seems genuinely pleased with the arrangement. I mean, he should be. He's getting just about everything.

"What about privacy?" I ask. "I don't want you to post pictures of me to social media."

"That's fair," Alan concedes, much to my surprise. "I value discretion as well. The same goes for you, too."

I nod in agreement. Then I add, "And our arrangement only extends to this apartment. I don't have to do whatever you say when out in public." Alan considers a short moment before nodding again.

"But I'm allowed to bring people over here whenever I please and our agreement still holds."

My stomach falls. I had considered this before, even fantasized about it, but hearing Alan declare his intention to do so makes it seem all too real. I consider with a twist of humiliation that my submissive arrangement will be known to lots of people, and that I will have to perform in front of them. I don't feel that this is a battle I can win, so I capitulate, nodding in agreement.

Alan leans back against the sofa, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well this has been illuminating. When do you plan to move in?"