es.. Yes I'm fine," I smile at him wanly, all the while terribly

scious of the wetness on the skin of my face.

"You sure?"

I only nod slightly.

"Well, okay. But you might want to tuck your shirt in more properly. The

boss doesn't like it if we look sloppy." He smiles and moves away.

I feel around my bad realise that my shirt is half tucked-in and half

bung out of my pants. Hurriedly I shove all of it inside, hoping that

Jason didn't think more of it than he appeared to.

As I look back up my eyes catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror I

keep on my desk at your insistence. I see the mussed up hair and

collar, the red flush of shame on my cheeks, and most of all the strips of

wetness criss- crossing my face, the gooish mixture of saliva and assjuice

that mark me as a fuckboy, a little tslut whose destiny is to be used

and molested by boy-hungry men like you through every waking moment, for

the rest of my life.

It's fairly early in the m when something flashes at the bottom of my

puter monitor. I gla it and see your name ole. "Shit," I

thought as I suddenly remember the assig you gave me yesterday

afternoon. I had been so busy for the rest of the day that I pletely

fot about it and the fact that it was due this m. I tinue

swearing at myself as I cli the flashiangle.

"Hello fag," says the single-lined message in the Yahoo Messenger window.

I glance surreptitiously over at you but you are not looking at me. I am

just about to reply when I see the notification indig that you are

typing another message. I wait.

Within a few seds a new line appears uhe first one.

"I bet you're w how it'd feel to have my cock shoved up your

bht now."

My heart lurches, my cock twitches and my asshole tightens

instinctively. Even after all this while a part of me still resents how my

body reacts so violently and untrollably to you. A simple message like

that seems enough to transform me immediately from a normal young man to a

ravening, cock-hungry boyslut who just 't stop thinking about other

men's cocks.

"Well, tough luck," a third line appears. "But tell you what, go upstairs

into the meeting rht now, undo your zipper, and wait for me."

My knees go weak. Oh god. You've apparently fou another way to use

me.

"And make sure you stand fag the door," says the fourth and final

message.

I almost let out an involuntary whimper as you once again so easily take

trol of me. I barely sit up as the feeling of utter helplessness

washes over me, siphoning my energy away and suffusing my muscles and

joints with a weakness I find both delicious and intoxig. With just a