The red collar

Big M pulls out something. Red. A thick leather hoop, with a metal buckle on the front and a small, dangling brass ring hanging underneath. He holds it aloft between two fingers, and the leather is new, and the gray light from the curtains glides over it.

"This is the red collar," he says. "This is worn by students who need practice to improve their blowjob skills."

He approaches. Lorenzo instinctively extends his neck, feeling the leather settle on his skin before he even realizes what's happening—cold, stiff, with the smell of leather reaching his nostrils—and then the buckle closes at the back, and Big M tightens the strap one, two holes, and the collar tightens his throat just enough, just enough to feel it with every breath the corset allows him.

The brass ring knocks against Lorenzo's sternum when he moves. Once. Twice.

"Do you know what this collar means?"

"No master"

"It means that from now on you are available to everyone."

Big M takes the ring with one finger and tugs lightly. Lorenzo feels his neck follow, his head bend, and his throat exposed. Then he lets go.

"Not just mine. Not just Madame's. All the black men in this school. The instructors. The porters. The ones who fix the lights and carry the speakers. Anyone who has a dick and wants to put it in your mouth."

Lorenzo feels his knees press into the carpet. The plug moves as he swallows, and he swallows now, and the taste of Big M comes back up his throat along with what he's just been told.

"It's very simple, it works like this. They don't have to ask permission. You can't say no. They see you with the red collar and know they can."

"What if—" His voice comes out crackly. He clears it. "What if I don't want to?

"You already signed it," he says. "Yesterday. Twice. With your pen and with your mouth. There's no 'I don't want' in what you signed."

She lets go of his chin. He straightens up.

"The bracelet counts," he says. "Every cock that fucks you, every finger that opens you, every time you swallow—it's all recorded. At the end of the course, they read the number and decide where you go. The higher the number, the better."

Lorenzo looks at his wrist. The metal is there, smooth, and now it's no longer cold: it's warm, as if he were working.

Your name will be on the bulletin board all week."

Big M walks to the door. He opens it fully, and in the hallway is the same figure in black from this morning, standing against the wall, waiting.

"I'll write the name now," says Big M. "On the bulletin board, in the entrance. Where everyone can see it."

He goes out. The door remains open, and Lorenzo hears Big M's footsteps on the hard floor, then the sound of a drawer closing, and then nothing.

He leads him to the door, and the corridor is lighter than yesterday, and at the end, where the corridor opens into the hall, there is a cork wall.

On the cork wall is a noticeboard. And on the noticeboard, pinned with a pin, is a blank sheet of paper with the following handwritten note, in black ink, slanted and elegant:

LORENZO BIANCHI — A WEEK OF RED COLLAR. AVAILABLE 24/7. UNTIL FURTHER AVAILABILITY.

Lorenzo stops. He lets him stop. The corridor is empty, but somewhere, behind a door, there's the sound of someone laughing. Footsteps.

A man comes out of a side room with a bucket in his hand—blue overalls, broad shoulders, dark skin glistening with sweat—and sees Lorenzo standing naked, with the cage and the plugin held on a leash.

He stops. He looks at the collar. He looks at the noticeboard. Then he looks at Lorenzo again, and his face changes, and he doesn't say anything, but the bucket hangs in mid-air and his fingers tighten on the handle.

Lorenzo feels his breathing becoming shallower at the top, as he's been taught. The corset doesn't allow for anything else. And the collar around his throat feels tighter than it did a minute ago.

Big G. Tugs lightly on Lorenzo's leash.

The bracelet pulses once more, against his wrist bone, and then goes out. Warm. Lorenzo feels it counting. He doesn't know what. Perhaps the footsteps. Perhaps the minutes. Perhaps the mouths that haven't yet touched him.

BigG leads him around the corner. The corridor narrows and then opens into a lower room, with an exposed beam ceiling. And next to it, on a perch, a gray metal box, about the size of a fist, with a cord that runs down and plugs into a wall outlet.

Big G stops him in front of the counter. He takes his right wrist and raises it, and with his other hand he opens the box. Inside is a small cage—light, shiny metal, shaped like a small curved cylinder that ends in a round plate with a small flashing red light—a padlock and a key.

"Legs wide," the figure says. The voice is flat.

Lorenzo spreads his legs. His heels find a firm grip on the concrete. The plug slides down an inch, and the metal cage lands on him. Big G slides the plate around the base of his cock with two fingers, without looking at him, like adjusting the leash on a dog that doesn't deign to look at him.

The metal is cold. Lorenzo's cock, which had been left half-hard from the taste of Big M in his throat, jerks back against the cold, and the plate tightens around the base, and then the cylinder lock closes over the tip with a sharp click—a small click, and the red light on the box changes pace, faster, faster, and then stops.

The man presses a button. The cage vibrates. Once. Twice. A short, sharp jolt, which enters his cock like a pin and travels up to his stomach, and Lorenzo suddenly leans forward, his hands going to his thighs, and a sound escapes his throat—not a scream, something smaller, something strangling against the collar.

Then the vibration stops. The light starts pulsing slowly again.

"This is the ultimate cage model. For you, Sissy, always and only the best."

He says proudly.

When the cage senses that you're getting too excited, it releases a small electric shock . Plus, it's connected to my cell phone, Madame's, and all the instructors'... and it's very convenient that it can be activated remotely."

"That's the minimum," says Big G. "If you touch yourself without permission, it goes up."

Lorenzo nods. His cock throbs inside the metal, and each pulse throbs against the walls of the cage, and the cage doesn't budge an inch.

Big G leads Lorenzo back into the hallway. The floor is colder now. Maybe it's Lorenzo who's colder. The cage weighs between his thighs like a closed hand, and every step makes it barely thump against his skin, and he feels it, and he can't do anything about it—he can't touch it, he can't fix it.

At the end of the corridor, in front of the corkboard, stands a tall man. He's wearing gray overalls, a black cap pulled down over his forehead, his large hands resting on his hips. He's reading the paper hanging there. He reads it from top to bottom, his lips barely moving, as if he were memorizing something.

Then he turns. He sees Lorenzo. He sees the red collar. And he smiles—not at Lorenzo, but at himself, like someone who's just found what he's been looking for in a drawer he's long since opened.

She steps away from the wall. She walks toward him. Big G steps aside and says nothing, and Lorenzo understands in that moment that the figure in black isn't there to protect him. She's there to accompany him. To deliver him.

"There it is," the man says. His voice is low, hoarse with dust. He stops in front of Lorenzo, and the smell of diesel and dirty hands hits him. "The new one."

He looks at the collar. He reaches out and takes the brass ring between his thumb and forefinger, and tugs it slightly, and Lorenzo's throat tenses, and his chin lifts, and his mouth opens a finger's width.

“Open up,” says the man.

Lorenzo looks at Big G as if asking permission. Big G nods.

"You're wearing a red collar now. You're available. To anyone."

He takes off the leash and walks away.

The man unzips his tracksuit. Not all of it—just the zipper, pulled down ten centimeters, just enough for his cock to slide out, already hard, already glistening at the tip. He takes it in his hand and brings it to Lorenzo's mouth, who's already on his knees. He does so slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and perhaps he does, because on the noticeboard it says ANY TIME, and any time means now, even in the hallway, even with the cage squeezing his cock and the light pulsing behind him.

"Suck," says the man. "And look at me."

Lorenzo sucks. His mouth fills with salt and soap, and his tongue slides under him on its own, and his throat opens a centimeter, and another, and the man's hand rests on the back of his neck and begins to dictate the rhythm, up and down, and the sound is wet, and the collar slams against his sternum with every movement, and the brass ring swings, and Lorenzo feels his cock tighten inside the cage, and the cage doesn't give, and the indicator light on his bracelet vibrates. It pulses, pulses, pulses—and counts.

The man comes almost immediately into Lorenzo's throat with a low grunt, and holds his head still until he says.

"Wait, don't swallow yet. Open your mouth and look at me."

I look up and see that the man has his cell phone in his hand and is taking a picture of me.

«Perfect, so you can see your mouth full.»

I open my mouth as wide as possible, the sperm is there, hot, creamy and abundant.

“I’ll send this to my friends,” he says, and bursts out laughing.

"Now you can swallow, little whore."

I swallow it all and feel like coughing because it's really a lot to swallow.

The man buttons his overalls, and wipes his thumb on the side of his leg, and looks at the collar again as if he were looking at a stamp on a document.

"Tell me, was I first today?"

"Yes sir. My day in the red collar has just begun."

Then Lorenzo remembers the instructions he learned the previous day from Big G.

«ALWAYS BE THANKFUL IF SOMEONE COMES DOWN YOUR THROAT»

"Thank you, sir, thank you for choosing me."

The man laughs.

"Good," he says. "See you soon."

He leaves. The footsteps fade across the concrete. Lorenzo remains on his knees—he hadn't realized he'd gotten down on his knees—with his mouth open and the taste in the back of his throat, and the figure in black waiting behind him, and the noticeboard in front, and his name written on it, and the cage gripping his cock like a hand with no intention of letting go.

The bracelet sends a brief heat against his wrist. Once. Twice. Three times.

Lorenzo stands up. His heels hit the floor. The red collar weighs on his neck as if it had never been light before. And at the end of the corridor, where the gray light comes in from the high windows, another door opens, and inside is another man in a blue tracksuit, already looking at him. Another one is ready to have his cock sucked, then another and another and another, each time the bracelet vibrates as if counting how many there are, in the end I've lost count. 15...16 I don't know. My jaw hurts, my tongue feels swollen, and my belly is full.

At the end of the day Lorenzo goes to his room, exhausted.

He's washing his cum-encrusted face. When he hears the door open, two more men enter: the cook Ronnie and his assistant, a guy in his twenties, I think.

"You don't want to fall asleep without saying goodbye to us too, do you?"

Without saying a word, I kneel down in resignation and do my duty. In the end, I thank them too.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for choosing me.”

The cook tells me before leaving.

"Tomorrow morning we'll be expecting you at seven in the canteen. My colleagues and I want to offer you breakfast, since it's the most important meal of the day."

And they go away laughing.