Taught to Serve (closed)

[Microwave0ven]

Closed for Joeys-game and Microwave0ven

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Looking very out of place, a slim young man with dirty blonde hair walked into the bar. It was more of an upper-class bar-casino, located in the richer area of town. He sat down at an empty table after ordering a drink to look at his surroundings. He took a sip of the brandy, savouring the taste. Rich red carpet, chandelier lighting, gold-plated decorations on the wall. Definitely more like a five-star hotel than anything else. Where better to play his game? He had nothing to lose already. Buried in his own thoughts, he was unaware of the eyes watching him from across the room.

The man was tall and was dressed in a sharp-looking business suit, black jacket with a crisp white dress shirt and shiny leather shoes. He sat with an air of command in one of the back booths with a glass of red wine. The young man, dressed in a faded blue t-shirt and equally faded and worn black jeans looked tired and wrung out. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, but had the look of experience in his eyes. The man watched with mild interest as the younger man stepped up to the gambling tables. He signaled and from behind, a waiter approached.

"Yes Mr. Westing? What would be your pleasure this evening?" the attendant asked respectfully with a slight bow and smile. He waited attentively, notepad in hand, for his customer's response.

He inclined his head towards the attendant, not taking his eyes off his target. "That one." he declared, "I want him financially ruined before I join the game. The signal will be the dealer pulling on her ear twice."

The attendant nodded, "It will be done." He hurried off to the dealer, taking her aside before the game started and whispering the instructions into her ear. Mr. Westing watched from his seat and saw the dealer nodding her complete understanding.

The young man didn't notice much, just that he kept losing. He fiercely forced himself to smile. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Lose everything. Hit rock bottom. He bared his teeth at the dealer and nodded. "Another round." The players around him hissed and muttered complaints about not trusting that he had the money. A few players collected their winnings and dropped out, and a new player stepped in.

Mr Westing joined the game at the dealer's signal. Everyone settled, and they began to play. He started off the betting with $5000. Many of the other players, businessmen who were playing just for fun and relaxation snorted and folded. As he'd hoped, the young man stubbornly stayed in the game. When it was his turn again, she raised her bet to $25000. Only two other players stayed in the game aside from the young man

He won the round with no problem, and with a light smile, stood, saying "I'll collect my winnings now then. I have to go for the night." One by one, the players reached deep into their wallets and handed the cash into his outstretched, waiting hand.

When he came around to the young man, he shrugged helplessly. He looked into his face then dropped his gaze. "Sorry man, I don't got it now."

Mr. Westing glared, his piercing gaze burning through him. He motioned, his diamond cuff-links glinting in the light, and two burly security guards arrived at his side in tandem. "Take him to the back room." he ordered, eyes snapping with anger. One of the behemoths grabbed the boy's arm, twisting it behind him while the other guard clapped a chloroformed cloth over the struggling boy's mouth and nose. They dragged his inert body away as Mr. Westing coolly reached into his pocket for his billfold and extracted a set of hundred dollar bills for each of the players who had been playing. He followed the two security men into the back room.

 

[joeys-game]

Graham Westing was a popular name amongst society's how shall we say, alternate lifestyle crowd.
He was in his early thirties, he didn't suck his money out of a trust fund he came by it honestly enough, if you could call the high end wheeling dealing he did, honest work.

Graham was a Dom and had lived the life style for several years now, training Sub's, training new Dom's and of course possessing fully at least one young male at all times., Often he had a couple of sub's that snapped or jumped to his every desire or request.

Graham waited for a few minutes before entering the 'back room', the large , sterile prelocker room that his two thugs had dragged the young man. Without a word from him, a young woman placed a small silver flask into his hand and then pushed the door open for him.
Graham eyed the bedragled youth, noted his torn clothes that somehow seemed to belong to someone else and the filthy running shoes, well worn and had seen much betetr days.

Graham reached into his inside pocket and retrieved a silver cigarette case, taking one and lighting it, savoring the heady aroma of the expensive tobacco for a moment before exhaling.

"So, how do you propose to pay me the money that you owe me?", he spoke the words quietly, almost whispering them, his warm breath carressing the young man's neck.

 

[Microwave0ven]

The younger man was dragged into a concrete room and dropped unceremoniously in a heap. The two brawny men checked his pulse, determined he was alright, and went to a door on the other side of the room and knocked in a complicated pattern. The door opened from the other side and they were admitted.

After some time, Jay wasn't sure quite how long, he woke up. Finding himself in a cell-like room only dimly lit by a lightbulb, he staggered to his feet and searched for an exit. There were the outlines of two doors, one on each end of the rectangular room, but there were no door handles. Jay banged on the doors and yelled to be let out, but no response. He stared at one of the doors hard, as if that would help to open it.

He whirled around when the door on the other side of the room opened and the man who'd beaten him stepped in. He didn't say anything while he walked up closer and closer, then quietly saying, "So, how do you propose to pay me the money that you owe me?"

"Look, I don't have the money -- I don't even have a job!" Jay tried to explain himself but the man looked cold and not even the least bit sympathetic. "If I could get a job, I'd pay you back, really." He looked pleadingly up at the guy.

The gentleman didn't say anything for a minute, giving Jay a once-over with a considering look in his eye. "What if I give you a job?" he asked. "I'm in need of a ... shall we say, 'personal servant'. I would pay you minimum wage, but since you owe me money, I will keep you under contract until that money has been paid back."

Jay nodded eagerly. "Sounds good to me, where do I sign?" he joked.

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some contract papers written in legalese. "Just write your name at the top and sign here at the bottom and here once more." He said, handing Jay a Mont-Blanc pen to sign with.

Scrawling his signature, Jay finished. "There, it's done. So what do I need to do at this job?"

 

[joeys-game]

Westing flashed a smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes, as the young man quickly scrawled his signature on the crisp document. Signing with out reading the contract, without even really glancing at the ownership deed.

"There, it's done. So what do I need to do at this job?", the youth questioned. He seemeed relieved at the prospect of a solution, an 'out' so to speak.

"To do Mr. um, (he glanced at the barely legible signature), Jay is it?" the boy nodded. "Why Jay, you must do whatever it is that I tell you to do!"

Westing then turned back toward the door, noting the young man's bewildered silence and relishing it.

"Now strip!"

The boy stood there, open mouthed, a flicker of uncertanty followed by an unacceptable outburst of anger which Westing took offence to immediately.

As fast as lightning he was back at the boy's side, his one hand snaking out and backhanding the youth across the side of the head, his other hand pinning him to the wall, it must have felt like an iron bar around the youth's throat.

Smiling , but with unddesguised anger he spoke low, menacingly to the boy.
" I said strip, I mean now, without a fuss or I shall have my friends over here,( jerks his head over his shoulder), I believe you have had the pleasure of thier aquiantance already, I shall ask them to assist you",
"Now do it."

 

[Microwave0ven]

"Now do it." Westing gave his victim an extra shove to the neck before letting go.

Jay rubbed his throbbing neck and burning cheek before muttering sulkily, "Fine.." He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to one side before unbuttoning his jeans. "You don't have to get your panties in a twist..." he grumbled under his breath, tugging his jeans down and slipping his sneakered feet out of them.

His employer was back at his throat in a flash. "What did you say? Would you care to repeat that?" Cold green eyes met tired gray-blue eyes that dropped to the floor.

"Nothing." Jay muttered quietly. He didn't want to cause any more conflict.

"Good boy." Westing released Jay and patted him on the cheek. "Get out of those shorts and take off your socks and shoes too. Then stand up straight and let me have a better look at you." He watched with hawk-sharp eyes as Jay undressed. "First thing you should know is, my name is Graham Westing, and you may address me as "Sir". You will obey me and give yourself to me completely."

Completely bewildered and wondering what he'd gotten himself into this time, Jay pushed his socks and shoes off and stepped out of his boxers. He stood uncertainly, hands modestly covering his crotch.

Graham Westing beckoned, crooking one finger at him. "Come here, boy."

Jay was getting goosebumps. The room was a bit chilly and maybe not all the goosebumps was from the cold. This was turning out a lot different than he thought it would be. A regular job would be fine, but somehow he had an idea this job was not just like becoming an average servant or valet at this guy's house, whoever he was.

His slight hesitation was already causing his employer to narrow his eyes at him. Jay cringed a little at the look and fought down the urge to panic. Doing his best to keep his calm, he padded over to the gentleman until he was standing an arms-length away.