Just Right (hypno)

WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of homosexual acts. So don't show it to everybody at the office, and DON'T send a copy to your Mom!

The garage door opens at 5:45 PM, right on schedule, and they come roaring out onto the street, the fading autumn sun glinting off the chrome of their bikes and the rows of metal studs across their broad shoulders. Three burly, bearded guys in leather, the oldest about forty, the youngest probably no more than nineteen, their motors making a racket in the still evening air. In a moment they'e gone, heading west toward the highway.

Across the street, I stretch lazily and rise from my bench in the little neighborhood park. I make a point of looking casual, though I know nobody's looking. At this hour everyone else on the block is about to sit down to dinner, just like the three bikers will when they get back from their daily ride around 6:30. Everything's routine on this street, and nobody really notices me, Albert Goldman, 'cause after three weeks of quietly feeding the squirrels and pigeons, I'm part of the routine, too.

See, that's one useful thing that I learned in the big house --- routine, order, discipline. No more dumb impulsive stuff. No getting cocky and getting caught. Not this time. This time I've planned every detail, and everything's going to go just right.

I calmly stroll across Beech Street and halfway up Appleby, then turn left into the narrow alley that runs back of the houses. The neighbors on the bikers' other side have a hedge of trees running between the two houses, so nobody sees me kneel beside the cellar door in the back yard. It's locked, of course, but to me this simple cylinder lock is a joke. I've gotten past devices ten times as complicated --- hell, I used to open and relock my own cell just to show that I could. They don't call me "Locks" Goldman for nothing.

A minute later I'm hurrying up the cellar stairs and into the hallway. Huh, they keep the old place pretty neat. I guess you don't invest in a three-story house like this and then let it run down. Now where would they keep the cash? It's gotta be here, 'cause the big guy doesn't even have a bank account. That's how I wound up casing their place --- I paid good money to have Slick Jimmy Casey cross-check the city's computer records, looking for property owners with no matching bank info, for people too suspicious to let anyone else handle their dough. It was a major investment, but it got me a list of seven names and addresses. This'll be the third to pay off.

Ah. Big old oil painting above the fireplace. I've burgled enough old houses to know what that frequently means. I carefully lift it down, and --- voila! Wall safe!

The combination is a piece of cake for me. And there it all is, just waiting for me --- piles and piles of cash. Owning your own construction outfit pays big, I guess. It practically leaps into the six expandable pockets (four outside, two in the lining) of my nice puffy jacket, and the six in my baggy cargo pants. Like I said, I plan every detail --- and I dress for success.

I lock the emptied safe and re-hang the art, and take a quick look around for any other goodies, but I don't spot anything special. Didn't really expect to; these guys ain't the jewelry type. I'm heading back toward the cellar steps, going past the kitchen, when a familiar yummy smell hits my nose. I turn and look through the doorway.

Yup. It's sitting on top of the stove in a big ol' pot, slowly cooling with the flame turned off underneath. I got to know that scent very well in prison, and what can I say? Oatmeal is comfort food. I never liked it as a kid, but now I love the stuff. And this pot smells especially good --- someone here is into seasonings.

I glance at my watch and laugh out loud. Twenty minutes or more before they get back. Why shouldn't they feed me, too? I pull a bowl from the kitchen cabinet --- leaving no prints through my gloves, of course --- and scoop myself a heapin' helpin'. Then I saunter into the dining room, sit myself in a comfy chair at the antique wooden table, and chow down.

Damn, this IS good! Whatever extra flavoring my chef is using, it's subtle but delicious. I'm tempted to go back for seconds, but that would be pushing it. I need to be outta here. I'll just quick wash and dry the bowl, and they'll never know.

I start to rise, and suddenly my head spins. What the hell? My legs start to wobble, and I grab onto the table for support. The taste of what I just ate suddenly seems to fill my nose, my head, even my ears somehow...

Oh, shit. What did I eat? What are these guys into?

Gotta get out. Can't stay. The bathroom. If I puke real fast --- and I know I can, the way I'm panicking --- I can still be gone before they get back. It's getting harder to move, but I stumble intothe hallway, pulling myself along by hugging the wall, and grope my way toward the john. I know the layout of houses like this, there's gotta be one further back...

My vision is blurring as I trip through a doorway, not even sure which way is which. I topple over and land on my face, but not on the hard floor. On something soft...

I've stopped thinking about the time, which is fine, 'cause I've lost all sense of time. There's no past, no future, just now. In fact, I've pretty much stopped thinking, period. I just lie here on my belly, all warm and well-fed. I'm not dizzy any more, and my mind feels clear --- just empty. There's a vague feeling that I'm waiting. Waiting to hear something.

At some point, minutes or hours or years later, I hear a door open. The sound is unnaturally loud and clear. Footsteps seem to echo, and then there are voices, and they sound loud and echoey too:

"What the fuck? What's this doing out on the table?"

"Oh my god! Someone's been in our house!"

Weird. Just hearing their voices makes me feel... good. Happy. That's what I've been waiting for. I need them to keep talking. I need them to talk to me. I don't know why, I just do.

The plaintive, scared voice again: "Oh God, I don't believe this! Someone came into our house. Sat in my chair. Ate our food."

A third, youthful voice: "Should we call the cops?"

And then the deepest voice again, slow and thoughtful: "No. No, if that someone's been eating your dinner..." He starts to laugh, a deep, throaty chuckle. "Then I'll bet you that someone is still here!"

More footsteps, so loud, coming closer, closer... I need them to come to me. I need them to talk to me. To tell me something...

The young voice cries out, "He's sleeping in my bed!"

The deep-throated growl of a laugh again. "Not sleeping. You know where his head's at. You've both been there."

A strong hand grabs my hair and lifts my head up. I stare blankly, unblinking, into a young man's bearded face, into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh, he's cute!" he exclaims with a delighted smile. "Can I keep him?" His voice fills me, and the words seem to reverberate through my empty head: Can he keep me? Can he keep me? I suddenly want that more than I ever wanted anything.

"Hmm," says the deepest voice. "Well, we can't turn him in. Too many questions. Maybe... Let's see what he's good for."

Powerful hands lift me like a rag doll, my arms hanging limp, my legs dangling. I love those hands. The kid strokes my slack jaw, poking his finger inside my mouth, and I love that too. I feel my jacket tugged off, my jeans yanked down, and then I'm released, to flopforward onto the bed again. A moment later something huge is shoved into my exposed butt, thrusting, thrusting... It's TOO big, it hurts like hell, but I don't make a sound. No one has told me to. And I love it. Every moment of contact is ecstasy, the sensation crashing through me like a wave, over and over...

At last the huge cock is withdrawn, and I hear the snap of fingers. "Your turn, honey." A moment later something is tickling my ass, but that tickly feeling is as far as it gets. It's just too small to do anything else. "Honey" tries to make up for it with a lot of groping. I don't care. Every touch, of any kind, is heaven.

Then the tiny prick is gone, and the fingers snap again. "Now you, cub." And this time what goes into me fits as if it was made for my buttcrack. He slides back and forth, smoothly but powerfully, rocking my helpless body in tune with his. He's perfect. Just right.

When he finally stops, with an affectionate cuddle, the deep voice speaks again. "He's ready by now. It's all through his system. Stand up, burglar-slave."

My heart leaps. An order! A thought! I have an instant hard-on. I'm so happy as I lurch to my feet and face the biggest biker. Speak again. More orders. Please.

He pulls up one of my eyelids and examines the pupil, nodding. "You are no longer burglar-slave. You are houseboy-slave. That is your name. That is your whole identity. You have no other. Isn't that right? Answer."

"Yes," I agree, his orders filling my vacant mind. I am houseboy-slave. That's my name. A vague half-memory of some other name winks out.

"You will respond to my commands with 'Yes, Master'. And you will obey my slaves as well. You are the slave of slaves. Right?"

"Yes, Master." Three men to give me orders! I'm so excited I could cum right now, but no one has told me to.

He grins, patting my cheek. "You won't stay doped this totally forever. But you'll eat a fresh dose every day, and very soon you'll be like the others, cheerfully enslaved for life."

"Yes, Master." My happiness is complete.

"Now, houseboy-slave --- give me a blow job."

"Yes, Master." That's something else I learned... somewhere. I've forgotten where. But I know I'm really good at it. I fall to my knees before Master and eagerly lean toward his immense cock, still engorged from before. In fact, it's TOO hard. I can hardly fit my lips around it, and it thumps against the sides and roof of my mouth as I suck. Being already primed, he cums almost at once, flooding my throat with his juice.

The snap of fingers, and the older of the slaves takes Master's place in my mouth. He still is limp. I try every trick I know, and I know a lot, but he's just too soft. Until, with a laugh, Master orders, "Honey-slave. Hard-on. Cum!" And just like that, Honey-slave is squirting in my mouth.

The fingers snap again, and now Cub-slave stands before me, his beautiful piece throbbing with excitement. Hard-muscled hands grip my head, thumbs sensually stroking my temples, guiding me firmly toward him. Lean, ripped thighs cradle my cheeks as I go to work, doing everything I can for his pleasure. He moans his appreciation as we sway together, me sucking, him thrusting, slipping back and forth in the same erotic rhythm. He's perfect. He is...just...right.

Cub-slave explodes into me, and I gulp down every drop. Then, leaning back, he casts lustful eyes down to my own cock, which trembles helplessly at full erection, unable to perform without someone's direct command. Cub-slave looks up to Master with a mischievous smile, and Master nods, grinning, cuddling Honey-slave under one beefy arm.

"Now I'm going to eat you!" cries Cub-slave happily, and amoment later his lips transport me to paradise.