By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 12: Employment Benefits

I think I mentioned that Mr. Patrick didn’t spend as much time at his job as the Colonel spent at his.  Nothing close.  In the afternoon he was usually to be found lying on the nine-foot couch, watching videos or having an early cocktail.  9555, the pretty young airhead, fetched him his drinks, and while that was happening I wasn’t given any chores in that part of the quarters.

But one day it was me that he summoned, and when I’d set his drink on the end table—or more precisely, on the little marble coaster that needed to be placed precisely at arm’s reach on the end table—he told me to “wait at the wall,” which meant standing at attention in my usual arms-behind-my-back posture.  Half an hour passed before he finished with whatever he was doing on his phone.  I was happy, just looking at the walls that enclosed me and the comfortable furniture that I was permitted to clean but never to sit on.  Then his voice said, “Here.”  His glass was on the coaster, with his phone beside it.  “Suck me,” he said.

He opened his slacks and dropped them over his knees.  He was being careful; he didn’t want to get a stain.  I dropped in front of him, automatically loosening the collar of my uniform for the job ahead of me.  “Stay in uniform,” he ordered.  “And watch the teeth.”

This kind of punishment was special, and I gave it my best.  My uniform was gagging me, but Mr. Patrick helped by slapping me on the head when I was slow or got the wrong angle, and finally by grabbing my head and face-fucking me until he came. “Clean me off,” he said.  After I’d licked him clean he ordered another drink.  When I returned he was back on his phone.  I delivered the drink and stood waiting for orders until he noticed me and gave me his dismissal with a wave of the hand.

That night 8363 said, “That was hot—being face fucked by your ex’s prissy little boyfriend.”

“Husband.”

“Husband.  The husband of the man who got away.”

“Very poetic.  I wonder how long this will go on.”

“Until he gets tired of you.  But that won’t happen with me.  Roll over.”

Mr. Patrick’s BJ was now an afternoon ritual.  It was so routine that when I wasn’t summoned to the couch I became alarmed.  Like I’ve said—I think I’ve said—convicts don’t appreciate changes in our routines.  Change isn’t good.  So I made sure to bow and smile and say “thank you, sir” after every session.  Then one afternoon when I was slurping his dick I heard a door open behind me, then the heavy tread of guard boots crossing the room.  I dropped the dick and looked.  It was the Colonel.  Fuck!  Now I was really gonna get punished!

But the Colonel wasn’t angry.  He just took his usual place on the couch and leaned back, at his ease.  A slap from Patrick’s hand told me to keep going.

“You’re right,” the Colonel said.  “He isn’t very good.”

“What did you expect?” Mr. Patrick said, breathing faster now.

“Always was a tool,” the Colonel remarked.

“Mouth like a jug,” Patrick gasped, and his hot cum rushed into my throat.

Then came his inevitable “clean me off” and “get me my cocktail,” and his reach for his phone.  The Colonel added “bring me a scotch.”  I straightened my uniform, bowed, and ran for the drinks.

The Colonel took his glass from my hand.  I bowed and smiled.  “Wait at the wall,” he said.

Mr. Patrick looked up from his phone.  “I think I’ll go back to the other servant,” he said.

“OK,” said the Colonel, and opened his laptop.

I waited at the wall.  It was always interesting, how the room changed when it contained a man in an officer’s uniform.  He was always too big for the room.  The uniform made him completely out of scale with the colorful carpet and the fashionable furniture.  Then there was the contrast between the dominance of the uniform, which was something I always had to respect, and the uniform itself, which was just, like I’ve said, a little convenience store uniform, a little delivery guy’s suit.  It was a good fit on the Colonel.  You could see him getting into it a moment before he hopped into his truck with a package for your address.  My own suit, baggy and worn-looking even when it was new, made me look small.  It shrank me down to size.  The Colonel’s little outfit would have made him look big even if it wasn’t something I’d been trained to worship.  But it was still a delivery man’s outfit.  I wondered whether he’d thought of all the contrasts and contradictions when he chose this uniform for himself and his officers, whether he’d thought about everything his cheap little suit had to say . . . .  All very interesting to think about.  I’d definitely have a hardon to take back to 8363 tonight . . . .

Time passed.  The couple were still sitting on the couch, each absorbed in his own electronics—a picture of domestic happiness.  I waited, watching and ready to serve.

“Well,” the Colonel said, snapping his laptop shut and turning to Mr. Patrick.  “Enough work for today.  Mind if I entertain myself for a while?”

“No problem.  I’m playing my game.”

The Colonel stood and approached me.  “Turn around,” he said.  “Pull down your pants.  Long johns too.”

Maybe it was because I was aroused, and more sensitive to impressions, or maybe because I was hearing his voice from behind, without having his face to look at, but I realized how flat his voice was—had always been.  The sweet, awkward young man, lying on my bed, confused by his failure to fit in at college—he had talked in the same flat voice.  Now I detected a slight variation.  A slight vibration . . . .  Only I might have noticed it . . . .

“Hands on the wall,” he said.  “I’m gonna fuck you.”

“Yes sir.”

Sure, I thought–might as well!  But that quaver in the voice made me wonder, as much as you can wonder when you’re about to be fucked. . . .  And those hands on my cheeks . . . .   The guy was fumbling . . . .  Over-eager . . . .   Why? . . . .

I stopped asking questions.  His dick was long and slow; it was looking for something that was off the map, something way up inside me.  I won’t lie—this was bad.  But what did I know—the only guy who’d ever fucked me was 8363.  I wanted to enjoy it, but it was a relief when he finally came.  And immediately pulled out.

“Pants back up,” he said, voice normal, almost.  A little taut.  I could understand why.

“Yes sir.”  My pants came back up.  I was happy that he’d pushed up my shirt when he fucked met; I didn’t feel any cum on my uniform.

“You can turn around.”

I bowed.  “Yes sir.”

He was tucking his dong back into his pants.  His husband was sitting with his phone in his hand and an expression of mild curiosity on his face.

“Guess I’ll go back to work,” the Colonel said.  To his husband, of course.  To me he said, “Report to 6839.”

I bowed and said, “Yes sir.”  Then I thought for a moment and bowed again.  “And thank you,” I said.  “Thank you very much, sir.”

Maybe it wasn’t a smart thing to do, but I’d been trained to be humble; the gesture seemed appropriate.  I didn’t wait for his reaction.  He’d already told me to leave.  I left.

As I went through the door I saw Mr. Patrick looking up, and the Colonel bending to kiss him.  I stopped in the servants’ latrine to wash my face and brush my teeth and squat over the hole to get the Colonel’s stuff out of my gut.  Hygiene is important.

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