Pet Sitting

Petsitting

By Syd McGinley

Ben’s late. He only drinks in bars since Charlie detoxed. I admire his support, but his boy runs rings around him. If Ben weren’t an old friend and I weren’t desperate, I’d be gone. Dad threw me out at mom’s cremation. I’m crashed at Jack’s, but he can’t take much family pressure. I haven’t lived at home all this time—I came back when mom was diagnosed. I was already grief-stricken over Rob, and knew the reality of loss. I’ve seen enough friends eaten alive by guilt, and mom deserved to have her son around. She took a

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lot of shit about me over the years, and she wanted her son as she died. I’ve learned a lot about discipline since I left here, and if she could handle it, then so could I. The last few months I moved in with her. Dad wouldn’t watch TV with her, manage her meds, or hold her hand while she cried. And he picked the fight at the funeral, not me. Ben’s frazzled, but offers a brief condolence. More would be too much, but he buys me a scotch. “Still got petty cash even if Charlie’s detox cleaned me out. John, he’s fucked up, but he could be the one.” He looks right in my eyes. “He’s not Rob, but he has potential. He wants to be my boy.” I scowl at the comparison, but Ben waits. I need somewhere to stay while I write my dissertation. I’ve taken grunt jobs all through school until mom’s last months, and my final draft deserves my focus. I can’t walk away. As well as my degree, I have mom’s estate to settle. She left me her family’s cabin, and dad’s furious. I want it desperately— both on principle, and because mom wanted me to have it. I’ll have a home after years of temporary rooms. I’ve lived poor to stay free of debt—state school degrees, fast food late shifts, and construction every summer. After twelve years, I’m about to be Dr. Fell. I never believed dad’s bitter snarl that I’d nursed her last months’ of life to get her to sign the cabin over. I didn’t know until the will was read, but she’d written it the day I left for college. It would have made no difference—I’d have sat by her anyway. Dad’s view of family love and honor is far too crude to ever grasp that. “All right, I’ll listen: what’s the deal?” “I have to go out of town. Charlie left alone will be a disaster. He needs supervision, but I can’t afford to check him back in. He hasn’t got insurance, and I don’t have partner benefits.” I grunt. “I thought you were legal affairs V-P?” “I am, but I can’t impose stuff. It’s getting through soon, but not if I rock the boat and ditch this trip.” “Can’t you take vacation?” “Used it all. Shit, if I get this done Charlie will have health insurance, and I’ll be eligible for family leave. John, I have to keep them sweet, but I can’t take Charlie—he’d be on the loose in Chicago all day.” I need distraction from mom and a temporary home, but I’m reluctant—I’ll be in a position where I’ll think of Rob. Ben knows what I lost. I am grieving mom, but we had time together to say goodbye. Rob’s sudden death five years ago still hits harder.

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“John: a month of room and board. Two-week supervision of him. I’ll leave groceries and cash for deliveries. He’ll cook and clean for you. He’s agreed that you can be in charge while I’m gone. Keep him in his place, and write your dissertation. ” All I ever need is a bed, somewhere to write and enough food to keep me fit. I have few possessions: a laptop, sweats and jeans, a box of books. I believe luxury comes from attention to detail, not possessions. The cabin will be more than enough if I can get it. “I need some legal work. Scare the crap out of my dad. I can’t afford to fight, but he’ll back off if he gets a challenge. I need that cabin Ben.” “Fuck, I’d do it for you anyway, but sure.” I’ve never met Charlie, but I don’t have to like him to pet sit him. And he doesn’t have to like me either. Just as well, I’m not roommate material. Disciplined is a politer term, I’d snapped at Jack after he called me jackass control freak. Rob’s service was wonderful and I reveled in it, but I’m not helpless. I cook, and keep my own small spaces spotless. Dad saw it as faggy—despite the fact it was mom I cosseted. Ben knows I’m sad, so he sweetens the pot: I can discipline Charlie as needed, and, although Ben doesn’t want him to come, I can have him blow me all I want. “He’s a real slut about eating meat. But no fucking him.” We shake on it, and a few days later I move in. I’m there for a week before Ben leaves, and it’s obvious his boy is spoiled. Ben’s too worn out from the drug battles to keep a grip on the minor details. He’s a good top, but he’s easy to manipulate when he’s tired. Charlie wants to stay clean, but Ben’s right to not trust him solo. He’s physically well enough to be alone, but still has track mark scars. He’s skinny and pale under his faded tan. He lost his shelf-stocking job; Ben’s supporting him until he can be trusted with a job search. Until then his job is to make Ben’s life run right. I snort: he gives his man cereal for breakfast, calls for pizza, and hides stuff in the dishwasher. If it weren’t for the detox expenses Ben could afford a stay-at-home boy. Anything Charlie could legally earn wouldn’t affect Ben’s budget. Ben loves his boy, but he’s a brat. His detox would have paid for my master’s degree. The no coming is a punishment—Ben’s not above some retribution—and he’s clear about the boy’s usual discipline: “If you need to focus on your writing, chain him to the base of the john in the guest bathroom—his bad-boy kennel. He gets enough leash to use the can and reach the sink, but lock him in if he needs it.” I watch the boy butt his head against Ben and cling on as they say good-bye. The brat does love his owner, and I decide Ben will come back to a spotless home and a boy trained in meeting his unspoken needs. I can tell they slob along with lax rules until the boy provokes a flare up and a weekend of discipline and then I bet he twists poor Ben around his finger for treats.

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I was shocked when he served himself at the table—at all—but he took food before serving his owner. I didn’t rebuke him in front of Ben, but Rob never sat at my table. Charlie’s cute, but not my type. Blue eyes, floppy blonde hair, tan, dimples—he thinks he can get away with anything. If he didn’t love Ben, he’d have no redeeming qualities. I like dark-haired, pale, shy boys who are calm about their duties, and bloom when you beat their asses… crap… I’m remembering sweet Rob again… not a good path to go down. My perfect boy beaten to death for smiling at the wrong frat jock. It’ll go badly for twink if I compare his ungrateful ass to my boy’s lost life. Ben’s just left and twink’s already channel surfing. “Off the furniture! Ben deserves better than a selfish lazy brat, but he wants you and he’ll have the best you I can whip into shape.” He blinks, then changes the channel. He’s been fooled by my neutral manner this past week and he’s ignored me except for polite interactions. Give him credit, he only has eyes for Ben. He doesn’t know my loose sweats cover real muscles—not gym display ones, but hard labor earned ones—and he yelps when he’s pinned to the floor. “You obey me not because I can defeat you, or because you want to, but because your owner told you to and you agreed. Get your owner’s riding crop. I know he has one.” “You can’t…” “Of course I can. You’re mine until he comes home. I can do what I want except fuck your ass or let you come.” He flounces off, but returns with less attitude and a well-worn crop. I revise my opinion of them a little. He bends over when ordered, but he’s weeping when I finish. “Come on boy, I know Ben uses you this hard.” “It’s different.” I wait. “I’m his…” He squirms. “I’ve never been beaten by anyone I didn’t love…” I tousle his hair. “You’ll get plenty of practice.” I lose my momentary affection for him when he balks at a b-j. “What you’ve never blown anyone you didn’t love either? Don’t make me beat you twice on your first day with me.” He’s still sniffling as he works, but he does a decent job. It’s an efficient transaction on both sides and I dismiss him to the kitchen when I’m done.

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There’s plenty of food, but he insists there’s nothing to serve. I slap his ass: “Those are ingredients—what most people make dinner from.” He can make cold cut sandwiches, put out cereal, and order takeout. He’s never used the range, and wails when I stash the microwave in the garage. I attach him to an ankle leash so he can reach where he needs but not leave the room. “Earn your keep.” I put a cookbook on the counter. “Dinner at 8. I’ll release you at 7:30 to set the table, boy.” “I do have a name.” “Not to me you don’t. You’re ‘boy’.” I grin at him. “Or ‘twink’.” “I’m not a twink. I’m Charlie.” I slap him hard. “Shut up boy. You’re nothing to me. You only matter because Ben cares about you.” I move to the dining room, spread my research notes out and start work. I can see him in a mirror, but he hasn’t realized. He sulks for a good hour. Then flips through the book and cries. He stares into the freezer, throws the book at the trashcan, sits on the floor, and eats from a pint of ice cream. Rebellion is one thing, but stupidity is quite another. I expected a semi-edible attempt at dinner. He looks up from his cookie-dough ice cream, and mutters ‘fuck’ as his own foolishness sinks in. “I hope you enjoyed that. No food until this time tomorrow.” He’s sullen about moving aside as I make a tasty stir-fry of steak and pepper strips. I release him to set the table. He’s hoping for leniency and leftovers, but I torture him with a lick of meat juice straight from the wok before he scrubs it. The dishwasher is off limits and anything left dirty gets him an instant five swats with the crop. After a few days he’s still no cook, but the kitchen is always perfect. He’s ready for new chores, and we move to laundry. Twink thinks he does a great job: everything washed together when the hamper overflows. He shakes it out and hangs it up. The last step is an innovation in his world. No wonder Ben sends his shirts out. Twink can’t find the iron. When he’s not set up within ten minutes, I lose patience. I whip his thigh backs with the power cord until he dances in place and his handkerchief gag is soaked with tears. The only mercy I show is tying him so he can’t move from my strike zone. When I beat him, it’s mechanical. Just discipline. Rob’s ass showed every bruise and became a bouquet for me as it ripened. Twink’s tanned butt is just writhing flesh to punish. Every cautious move Rob made in the days after a scene would re-awaken my desire. Twink’s grimaces just annoy me. He’s in loose jeans and a white t-shirt—I’ve kept him in that plain uniform all week. His cock is duct taped to his thigh. He winces as it shrinks or swells. He’s barefoot but his feet stay clean: he didn’t understand why I beat him for dirty feet until I explained it shows how crappy his housework is.

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I have him practice first on the bed linens. He’s ungracious about it. “Hey,” I snap “This is an easy piece—and you will iron the sheets from now on. Be grateful you still have the washer and drier.” Finally, he’s laundered and ironed every piece of bed linen in the house and learned to fold towels and do hospital corners. He tries hard but does a crappy job as he practices on Ben’s old work shirts. Ben likes starch and twink scorches it or irons in new wrinkles. He even burns himself. I tell him he’ll re-do the shirts daily until he matches the laundry service. “Make the bed every day,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes, and I slap his hip. “Don’t just straighten the comforter. If you’ve had sex, clean sheets.” I’ve worked him hard all day: every piece of furniture is dusted and waxed. The walls are washed and he scrubbed the floors and swept the carpets. He bit his lip to avert a hissy fit about the vacuum joining the microwave in the garage. He can have appliances when he understands the work. I send him to shower. I want him tired, clean, and relaxed. He’s allowed in the bed tonight so he can understand how decadent a well-made, perfectly laundered bed can be. He wants to be stubborn, but he sighs as he relaxes. It doesn’t hurt my cause that tonight is the first night he’s been allowed to sleep on a bed. “You give this to Ben from now on.” “Yes sir,” he whispers and tries to snuggle me. I point at my dick. “No cuddling. Service me.” Ben’s right—he’s a slut about b-j’s. Tired as he is he devours my prick and makes himself choke and gag as he assiduously blows me. He’s good, and I let him stay on the bed, but outside the covers at my feet. No one’s slept next to me since Rob died. I won’t let this brat take his position no matter how much cock he can swallow. However, twink is still stubborn about the housework. “Ben won’t want all this Martha Stewart crap.” After his beating, I explain: an orderly home isn’t flower arrangements, origami napkins or fussy food. But a steak and potato dinner at the table will please Ben far more than Chinese from cartons in front of the TV. Twink scowls. As far as he’s concerned he’s been satisfying his man. “Belly full and balls empty isn’t a bad motto kid, but there’s more to it. He can have you sit at the table if he wants, but you will learn to wait on him.”

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Leftovers discipline crushes him. He’d handle eating in the kitchen, but the picked over plate by my feet makes him ashamed to eat. He’s always on the brink of dehydration so I keep him hungry to encourage him to fill up on water—the only thing he’s allowed without permission. I make sure he eats enough, but I think Ben should test his blood sugar. It’s a breakthrough when I see he’s exhausted, ready to weep, but still wipes the water splashes from the sink after his drink. I touch his wrist and the accepting look he turns to me is heartbreaking. “Eat an orange,” I say and he bursts into tears and kisses my feet. Twink is blue-balled and miserable. He writhes and rubs his crotch “accidentally.” I secure him so his dick can’t grind against anything when he’s beaten. He sleeps on a floor cushion by the side of the guest bed with his wrists tied to the nightstand. He can’t jerk off, but still has a wet dream one night. His cushion is dark blue and he can’t hide the evidence. As punishment, I wax his balls. He begs me to beat him instead. He falls for my trap when I ask if they need soothing. He whimpers as I pack crushed ice around them. “Surely,” I say, “they’re nice and numb for this?” I spiral clips on each ball and brush them back and forth. I lick his tears away and throat fuck him to shut him up. I let him remove the clips and enjoy his hesitation, remove, pause, breathe, remove. At the last one, he whispers: “I couldn’t help it, sir. I dreamed of Ben.” I do kennel him in the john as Ben suggested. I tie his wrists and strap down his prick. If he needs to piss, he can sit on the seat. He’s a little chatterbox even when subdued and I need the peace. I’d ignored him while Ben was there, and now he’s learning: speak when spoken to. I enjoy his struggled for silence by my feet as he’s leashed to the couch leg while I relax. The leash is extendable so when I unclick the set button he can scramble to the kitchen to fetch my iced tea. He rests his head on my knee when he returns and I let him stay there. He’s a randy puppy even when he’s not allowed to come, and he pokes his face into my crotch. The poor boy can’t have his mouth unoccupied so I unzip and let him crawl between my knees. “No hands.” His head bobs diligently while I lean back and take my time. I’m a slow shot tonight and his hands twitch by the time I grab his hair and throat fuck him. He’s weeping from frustration when I come. “Boy, you are here to serve me, but I don’t think you should come on to me. You meant well, but I initiate sex, not you. You’re Ben’s possession on loan: please me, not yourself.” He’s stricken at the implication of infidelity, and I’m pleased. He is a slut, but he’s Ben’s slut. Rob never played around, but he hid his shyness with a naïve flirty way. He trusted that everyone was his friend, and that sweet-natured habit killed him. However innocently twink meant it, I hated to see him act the same way. Rob wasn’t perfect, but he adored

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me. He flunked his GED, but never questioned my goals. I studied for plenty of exams buoyed by his silent pampering. His job at the car wash stretched our budget so we could share an off-campus house with Ben. We were discrete, but Ben knew what Rob’s downcast gaze meant. Ben’s a few years older than me, and was finishing law school while I ground through my last year of undergrad. He’d talk to me about his hopes for a boy once his career was secure. All Rob ever wanted was for me to be Dr. Fell and for him to quit his job and run my house. He’d talk about culinary classes he’d take, and the vegetable garden he’d plant once we found my tenure track spot. I had to laugh when I caught him circling china patterns in the Sunday paper ads. “It’s not marriage, boy.” “I don’t want your ring.” He touched his neck. “For life.” “When I can support you.” Rob died just before I graduated with my master’s. I don’t want a tenure career now I’ve seen department politics, but I finish what I start, and my PhD will honor Rob. I’m on the final draft, and I write while twink works or waits in his kennel. Today he’s curled at my feet as I type. He’s meek, obedient, and trying very hard to anticipate my needs. He hears me mutter as I peck away. I hate this part—I think in long hand, and my dissertation is almost finished, but I need a typed draft of my literature review to show my supervisor in ten days. The typing is mechanical. My drafts don’t need revising, not because I’m a great writer, but because I don’t commit anything to paper until I’ve mentally revised it fifty times. He pats my ankle for permission to speak and I snarl. He’s brave to persist. “Sir, I can type.” I frown and show him my crabbed handwriting. He’s not fazed. “Up then. Type this page.” I hide my surprise. He’s a touch typist and doesn’t even look at the keyboard. The page is done in the time I take to do a paragraph. It’s perfect. “You have a new chore.” I’ll praise him when he’s done, and not before. He looks crushed at my calm acceptance of his skill, but his hands fly and my chapter’s complete in two hours. He’s made one error, but who outside of Spenser studies can spell “epithalamium”? I hand him a delivery menu. He hugs my knees hard before he chooses a pizza. He crosses mushrooms off—I dislike them—and adds olives although he hates them. I laugh at his earnest face when he offers me the order for approval. “Very good, but there’s no need to be a martyr. We can go halves.”

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I ask why he’s doing scut jobs when he has computer skills. He blushes and admits he’s been busted for drugs as well as being fired from the last job. He hangs his head. “I suck at jobs. I need too much supervision sir…” I laugh. He’s right, but if he knows what he’s meant to be doing, he performs well. I loan him my laptop to draw up a chore plan. If Ben can leave him with a routine I think twink will be fine. Knowing he’ll be scrubbing the john at 10 am every day will be his lifeline. He’s done nothing wrong, but I find him curled up, desolate, on his sleeping cushion. I stroke his hair. “Miss your owner boy?” “Yes,” he snuffles. “And oh god sir, I need a hit so bad. I can’t stay clean without Ben…” I rub his head. “Sure you can. He’s not here, but his rules still count.” I pet him while he controls his sobs. I know his physical addiction is broken so I address his heart. “Listen, I’ll tell you how to face an empty day: it’s discipline. You get up and you do your duty. It may still hurt, but you’ll survive and life carries on. You’ve got Ben to please even if you feel like crap.” I don’t know if Ben’s told him about Rob or mom, but he raises his tearstreaked face. “You know what it’s like. Ben…I love him sir, but he’s never lost anything or lost himself… he’s…” I slap his ass before he criticizes his owner, but he’s right. Ben’s strength has never been challenged. Getting twink through detox and fighting for rights at work are difficult, but he’s winning those battles. The hardest time in Ben’s life was sharing a house as he finished law school. My peak of riches and happiness was that house and Rob. Ben’s easy-going, but he’s let twink dig himself into a miserable hole. His boy’s weaknesses puzzle him and he lets him stay weak because he assumes that’s who twink is: a fragile boy to protect. Rob showed me a real sub is strong, and I see an inner strength in this boy too. Ben ordering him to stay clean will mean something now. I’m not diminishing the fight he has with his addiction. I know it’s more than temptation, but now he has a real weapon to add to his struggle. He’s hurt when I tell him he’s too old to act as he does. “I’m only twenty-five.” “Too old to be a brat. You’re still cute.” His eyes light up. “But you’re far too old to need spanking for childish things. You can still tease and provoke your owner—you’ll get all the discipline you can take—but why should he have to put up with a messy home? Or

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have to ask for a refill of his coffee? Let Ben beat you for real discipline, not because of your cell phone bill. That’s teenage shit.” Twink dips his head. “Ben would like a true possession. If you want to be that, you’ll have to work a lot harder.” Twink chews his lip. “Hey, Ben won’t expect anything you can’t give—but you need to know he’s the real deal if you’re looking for it. And if you commit, you’d better not fuck him over.”

Ben’s due home and twink scurries to make everything perfect for his owner. His spritz of Pledge as he preps the dining room for Ben’s return rends my heart. Rob used to smell of wax however much he scrubbed down after work, and it triggers a cascade of memories of mom’s house proud ways, Rob’s diligent buffing of the oak desk I had in the shared house, damn… Ben’s here, and twink throws himself at him, clings on and says: “home, home.” Ben and I agreed earlier his first evening can showcase his boy’s training, but Ben’s still awed by the quiet service we get through the evening, and pleased by his boy’s constant hard-on. I’ve kept him clothed, but tonight he’s naked as Ben prefers. Twink’s practiced a menu and Ben’s suspicious although it’s simple food: spinach salad, eggplant parmesan, and raspberries for dessert. “Did you cook John?” “He did it all.” He blushes as he refills Ben’s coffee, and I reward him: “you can eat in the kitchen, boy, then do the dishes.” He’d dreaded his leftover plate on the floor in front of Ben. We watch a late movie with twink on the floor between our knees. Ben’s too tired to fuck, but he gets a b-j, then looks at his poor boy’s straining cock. “Has he earned it?” he asks. Twink’s eyes beseech me. “Yeah,” I say at last. “He worked hard.” “I could let him whack off, but how about he comes from your cock in his ass?”

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I guess I’m sentimental, but I haven’t fucked anyone since Rob. I haven’t been celibate, but it’s been anonymous b-j’s. Twink’s squirming: desperate to come, to please his owner, and to not look eager about a permitted fuck. “Rob would want you to move on. It’s five years.” As soon as I nod, twink scrambles to offer his ass. Ben laughs. “Good thing I’m not a jealous owner…” “And good thing I’m considerate—get the lube slut….” Twink crawls away fast and comes back with the tube in his mouth. He’s pumping his ass at me before I even touch his hole. I roll my eyes at Ben and tease his boy with a prolonged finger fucking while I fluff myself. I prefer private sex, and Ben’s gaze is disconcerting. I’m glad twink is blond, or I’d see Rob’s pale ass offered to me, but his golden rump is different and I ram into him without my boy’s memory messing with me. He tries to set the pace, but a sharp ball tug controls him, and he settles to my rhythm. He’s uncomfortable—Ben has a long, slender prick and my shorter, fatter cock stretches his hole—but he yields well. I’m in deep and caress his tight swollen balls until he moans. His eyes are fixed on Ben, and he begs to come, but I torment him. I wink at Ben and focus on my own pleasure. It’s been a long time since I felt my cock in an ass. He hasn’t come when I shoot. I stay in him, kneel back, and pull him up from his hands so his drooling prick waves in front of him and yearns towards Ben. My dick’s still there to keep him stretched and I reach around to stroke him. I’ve never touched him except to tape his cock down or to torment his balls and his dick feels right in my palm. Ben nods. “Go ahead boy. Come for us.” Twink shouts and spurts as if all he needed were his owner’s permission.

I stay for another week. It’s a good time: Twink asks Ben’s permission to type the rest of my thesis as a thank you, and Ben calls from the office on Monday with two pieces of great news. There’s a letter from my dad’s podunk lawyer caving in, and his HR department will have the partnership benefits plan for Ben to review as legal affairs VP by the end of the week. Twink’s allowed to sit with us at dinner as we celebrate. Ben squeezes his hand. “I can afford to keep you at home now you’re a competent housekeeper.” He turns to me and adds, “I’ll save on the laundry service for a start, and no more takeout food!”

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Ben looks at his meek boy and then at me: “that cabin of yours… I’ll send Charlie over next time I need a boarding kennel.” It’s not a bad idea. The cabin’s remote enough for privacy, but it’s near town. I’m used to bare basics, so maybe I will pick up a little cash boarding wayward boys as I grow my own veggies and try to live without Rob. I won’t ever have Rob back, but perhaps I can stop hiding in academia. Ben’s right: Rob would be devastated to think of me alone with no one to serve me. Mom’s legacy and twink’s reminder of ownership have set me free. I’ll become Dr. Fell, and then it’s time to start living again.

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Petsitting Copyright © 2007 by Syd McGinley All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press, Inc.: Single Shot electronic edition / July 2007 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

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