This story contains graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. I say this before each of my chapters, but I
very much mean it in this instance
. In this work, like in many of my works, the Dom is an irredeemable psychopath who inflicts significant harm on the Sub. If this is not the kind of story that you can handle or would enjoy, then I'd highly recommend backing out now.
This is purely a work of fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.
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Chapter 3: Reward good behavior.
The early summer air filled my nostrils as we walked between rows of sorority houses. I inhaled deeply, not wanting the moment to pass. Brock and I were on our way to a party at a local sorority. The sun dipped just below the horizon, giving the trees that lined the street a dark, monochrome hue. I could smell Brock's cologne—cologne that I had chosen for the night.
I confidently led the way with Brock following in my wake. I turned to look at Brock, who wore faded, distressed jeans with a plaid button-down shirt. Both were much too tight for his muscular form. As with his cologne, I chose Brock's outfit for the night. I had frequently been choosing outfits for Brock lately; doing so helped me establish power over his appearance and helped build Brock's trust.
"Your fashion sense is
profoundly
lacking," I'd told Brock one day, "You need someone to help you if you want to attract the right kind of attention. Specifically, attention from women."
Since then, Brock hasn't questioned the clothes I instructed him to buy. Nor has he questioned the clothes I selected for him before class and before parties.
In private, the matter of clothing is moot when you're usually naked. I had worked hard over the past months to normalize frequent, nonsexual nudity between us. If you want to rob someone's humanity, reducing him to a possession, then it's important to take his clothes. I was making excellent progress with both.
"We're just bros here, right?" I'd asked him after an 'unfortunate mishap' with the laundry. Brock was terrible at remembering to do his laundry and, the nice guy that I am, I recently offered to do both our laundry. And who can blame me if a pair of his underwear went missing now and again?
On one such occasion, I handled this weekly chore while Brock was using my shower. I 'inadvertently' put every article of clothes that Brock owned into the wash. Oops.
"I mean, you can't just wear a wet towel around my dorm, right?" I reasoned with him when he finished his shower. "Like I said, we're just bros here! It's nothing I haven't seen before. It's nothing
you
haven't seen before. Just sit on the bed with your laptop and study until the laundry is done. You'll be fine!"
I thoroughly enjoyed watching this Adonis sit on my bed, fully nude, typing away at his homework. Who could blame me if I inadvertently left my webcam on? Further, who could blame me if I revisit this video now and again?
It only took one more such 'mishap' before Brock was completely comfortable being naked in my dorm. It barely took any convincing.
"Weren't you more comfortable laying naked anyway? We both know you prefer tight clothes to show off that chest. Give your body a break, Bro!"
Gain your horse's trust. Use unrelenting pressure to change undesired behavior. Reward good behavior. Create habits. Teach in small, incremental steps.
---
As I walked past the sorority houses, I considered the condition of Brock's cock. Brock had been locked in a chastity cage for five weeks without a break. Four weeks had passed since Brock even asked to be unlocked. His first prostate-induced orgasm—something that I facilitated a few months ago—awakened something in this ostensibly straight, masculine jock. With just a little push, Brock was turning into a little bottom whore.
It surprised me how much Brock's behavior around women changed after I caged his manhood. This was especially true at parties. Taking a girl into a guest bedroom was out of the question. Taking her back to his dorm was out of the question. Indeed, even dating her was out of the question without my blessing.
Brock's new passive behavior was particularly salient at the party that we walked to on this night. On more than one occasion, a girl approached him. With his height, musculature, and jawline, girls often approached Brock. He'd greet her timidly—a stark contrast to his behavior before he met me—then look in my direction. I could tell that he was looking for permission. Specifically, he wanted my permission to talk to her.
This was perfect.
When the first girl approached and Brock looked in my direction, I subtly shook my head. Like the good boy he is, Brock politely excused himself and came to the circle of people that I was standing in.
Later that night, a second girl approached. Again, I nonverbally communicated my disapproval. Brock obeyed.
Late in the evening, Brock and I were standing together in our circle of friends. I took Brock aside and pointed out a girl on the other side of the room. Brock had been a good boy by obeying me throughout the evening. I needed to reward him.
"See that girl over there? That's Jess. She sits near us in our accounting class. She asked me about you the other day. I'm going to introduce you to her."
"J-Jess who?" He sounded nervous, and I wondered whether the question was an attempt to delay the introduction. It surprised me how quickly he had changed from acting like a confident, womanizing jock to being so nervous around women. How had my implicit leash been this successful? Even I hadn't anticipated such a change.
I ignored his question. I took him by the hand (something that I had being doing more lately) and led him over to the girl. She wore a ridiculous dress that was so short that, as she moved around the party, one could frequently glimpse an ass cheek. Further, the outfit was so absurdly low cut (and the girl was so well-endowed) that two prominent globes pressed themselves together on her chest, nearly fighting each other to get out. I had hoped to find a girl that would arouse Brock. This little brunette piece of ass would be perfect.
"Jess!" I laid on my best impression of a nonthreatening, gay best friend. "I want to introduce you to
Brock
!"
I gave her a knowing glance, as if I was conspiring with her to do her a favor. As if I was some cliché gay male tool to help the straight girl get laid. She returned my conspiratorial glance. What a stupid slut.
I went back to my circle of friends and left Jess to chat with Brock. I was mindful about not visibly looking over at them. This conversation was meant to feel like a reward for Brock. He had been a good boy, so I allowed him unsupervised time with a cute (albeit basic) straight girl. I even threw in an introduction. Thus, I only occasionally glanced toward him, and usually from my peripherals.
The two chatted for over two hours. I could tell that Brock was starting to come out of his shell—a shell that I had latently put around him. He started speaking more jovially and using his normal hand gestures. But this apparent connection hit me with a bout of gut-wrenching jealousy. The feeling's intensity surprised me.
No. I'm better than this. Brock has been a good boy. I am a good master. A good master rewards a good boy. Thus, I must reward Brock. I'm not the type of person to let petty jealousy impede my goals. And this connection that Brock enjoyed with this basic, unimportant straight girl contributed to my goals.
As I continued chatting with my friends, occasionally and furtively checking up on Brock through my peripherals, I caught a joyous sight. Specifically, I saw a very subtle movement between Brock and Jess, a movement that replaced my childish jealousy with a swelling of pride and triumph.
As Brock and Jess's conversation developed, Jess subtly moved her body closer to Brock's. And she repeatedly and playfully touched him. And . . . was she tugging up on the hem of her dress? That whore. Absolutely perfect.
