Big M

"Can I get dressed?"

Big M. He glares at me.

"You do what I say. You only speak if I tell you clearly."

His gaze leaves no room for argument. I can only lower my head and follow him.

We leave Madame Vivienne's office. We walk down a long corridor. There are other people there: instructors, other sissies like me, cleaners, and instructors.

I'm the only one naked and on a leash. Some people look at me smugly, but to the others the scene seems completely normal.

We enter a smaller room. Much smaller. The non-absorbent walls are made of wood but covered in dark fabric.

Big M closes the door. The click of the lock is soft, final. Then he removes the gold chain from around his neck and places it on the arm of the chair, with the slowness of someone in no rush. His tattooed arms move in the darkness of the room as if they know every inch of this space.

"On your knees, this is a test of your abilities."

And Lorenzo felt his knees bend by themselves, even before he decided to do so —

Big M sits on the chair.

The leather groans under her weight. Her legs open wide, and a black shoe lands a few inches from Lorenzo's knee. Then there's silence. A long, full silence.

"Guard."

He took out his big cock and squeezed it at the base.

I had never seen a cock that size so close up. I was like hypnotized.

says Big M This is your first lesson in learning how to satisfy a real black cock you will be at the service of BBC masters. Your only goal will be to please and serve all black masters as best as possible. I and the other instructors are here to teach you how to use your mouth, tongue and ass like a real cocksucker. And a real slut.

"Look me in the eyes. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

Lorenzo looks up. Big M's fingers are already on his belt buckle. The leather slides out of the loops with a sharp click, and the belt ends up folded on the carpet, next to his shoe. Then the zipper. Then the hand that reaches into his dark boxers and pulls out his cock.

It's already hard. Seeing it there in front of me, just inches from my face, is something else entirely. It's thick, dark, the skin taut and shiny under the dim light of the lamp, and the head is large, swollen, with a clear drop collecting at the top and not draining. The veins run down the side like roots under the ground. Big M holds it at the base with his hand, loosely.

He waves it in front of me as if introducing it. As if to say: here, this is the one who from now on will be your idol to worship, kiss, adore.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

It's not a shouted command. It's almost sweet, and that's why Lorenzo feels a lump rising in his throat as his lips instinctively part. Big M doesn't wait. He leans forward slightly, brings his cock to his face, and places it on Lorenzo's tongue without pushing—heavy, warm, salty, filling his mouth with a flavor he's never felt so distinctly. Skin. Veins, sweat. A darker, musky scent underneath that lingers in the back of his throat like a shadow.

Big M's hand goes up into his hair.

“Easy,” you faggot. “There’s no rush.”

Lorenzo closes his eyes and begins to suck. The first thing he learns is that he can't rush even if he wanted to: the cock is too big for his lips to take it all in at once, and every time he tries to push his head in, his hand on the back of his neck tightens slightly—not to stop him, but to regulate it, millimeter by millimeter. So Lorenzo works with what he has. His tongue travels up the side, finds a vein and follows it, feels the pulse beneath his skin—fast, much faster than Big M's voice suggests. His lips close just below the head and suck, and another drop falls from the head, thick, melting in his mouth like something alive.

“There,” says Big M. “Like this.”

Saliva begins to drip from the corner of his mouth. Lorenzo feels it run down his chin, hot, and he can't wipe it away—his hands are still firmly on his thighs, and he hasn't been told to move them. Drop by drop, it reaches his throat and lingers there, and he feels it as he sucks, as his head bobs up and down a few inches, as the taste of cock fills his entire mouth until he forgets the smell of leather, the room, the closed door.

The hand in his hair begins to guide him. Slowly, at first: a barely perceptible pressure that tells him to go down, and he goes down. Then

“Further inside,” says Big M.

Lorenzo obeys. He slides down until the head of the cock touches the back of his throat, and for a second he feels like pulling his head back—but the hand on the back of his neck is there, firm, and won't let go. His eyes fill with water, his throat tightens around that throbbing flesh.

Lorenzo feels his caged cock trying to get excited, but it's stuck, imprisoned.

The bracelet on his left wrist pulses. A brief red light against his skin. Lorenzo doesn't look. He can't look. But he feels that something has happened, that the chip has recorded something, and he doesn't know if it's the contact or what his body is doing without asking his permission.

Big M doesn't notice. His fingers trail down the back of his neck. "Don't stop," he says. "I didn't tell you to stop."

Lorenzo doesn't stop. His mouth wide open hurts, his jaw trembles slightly, but he sucks, sucks harder, and this time it's him who pushes his head forward, taking the cock deeper than his hand is guiding it. He feels Big M inhale, above him. I feel his breathing change. And in that moment, he understands he's done the right thing—not because he was told to, but because that man's body responded to him.

"Now stick out your tongue and lick my balls."

I move my head down a little and start licking his big balls. The smell is that of a male, I can taste the pungent taste of sweat and pee. I feel his hair on my lips. Long, slow strokes of my tongue. Then I move up his hard shaft. His veins pulse.

With one thrust he shoves his cock back into my mouth.

“Good,” says Big M. His voice is still low, but now it has a rough sound. “Do you feel how hard it is?”

Lorenzo nods slightly, with his mouth full he can't speak, and the movement makes his lips slide along the cock in a way that elicits a short, almost surprised moan from Big M.

"Keep yours," he says.

Lorenzo looks up. It costs him—his eyes are watering, his vision is blurry—but he does it. And he sees Big M looking down at him, his head slightly tilted, his dark eyes not smiling but fixed on him, on what he's doing, as if reading something in his face.

"Do you like it,"

says Big M. It's not a question.

Lorenzo doesn't answer. He can't.

then the pace changes.

Lorenzo feels the cock growing in his mouth, harder, thicker than a second before. He feels the pulse quicken under his tongue. He hears Big M moan—low, long, almost surprised—as his grip tightens and his hips grind against his face. Then the first hot rush trickles down his throat. It's thick, salty, and it comes in a way Lorenzo hadn't expected—not all at once, but in waves, and each wave forces him to swallow, to tighten his throat around the cock, while Big M holds him there, still, not letting go.

The second wave is stronger. Lorenzo swallows again, his eyes closed, his hands still firmly on his thighs, and he feels the cum dripping down his throat in a way that lingers inside him, warm, as if it will never end. Big M doesn't let go. He keeps it there even afterward, even when the last drop has fallen, even when his cock is just starting to stop throbbing—because he wants him to learn this too. To learn to stay.

Then, slowly, she releases the back of his neck. His cock slowly slides out of her mouth, shiny and covered in saliva. Lorenzo inhales through his nose.

Big M moves forward slightly. He wipes the saliva from his chin with his thumb, a slow, almost distracted gesture, and then looks at his wet thumb as if he's checking something.

"Good," Lorenzo. "The first lesson went well. Something very important to remember: after every cumshot in your mouth, you must always be grateful to your master."

With my mouth still pasty

“Thank you, sir…thank you.”

And instinctively, without his ordering me, I feel the need to thank him and, as a sign of gratitude, kiss his feet.

He doesn't get upset, as if my gesture were obligatory.

He doesn't get up. He remains seated, his legs still open, his cock dangling between his thighs, and he looks at Lorenzo kneeling on the carpet, his mouth still open and his breathing still unsteady. And Lorenzo feels his throat full, his breath suspended, and he knows it's not over—because Big M hasn't put anything away yet, and his hand is back on the back of his neck, light, as if he were just waiting to start again.

Look up.”

Lorenzo looks up. His lipstick has run down his chin. Tears have left two lines on his cheeks. Big M looks at him from above, and this time there's something in his face that Lorenzo hadn't seen—not pleasure, not contempt. Calculation.

“Now listen,” says Big M. “Because what I’m telling you now is part of your training.”

“You can improve, and to improve you have to practice a lot.”

He pulls up his jeans without zipping them up, and walks over to the low table and opens the drawer. Lorenzo remains kneeling on the carpet, his mouth still open and the taste in the back of his throat, and he doesn't wipe his face.