My Master is much younger than I am, and it would be entirely accurate to describe him as a twink. Small, lithe without an ounce of body fat in him apart from a certain softness of his facial features, and packaged in soft, smooth hairless skin. He fully enjoys all the greatest blessings of youth, but there is a devil in him.
He found me on the internet. I couldn't resist his sweet, innocent face and his tight, sinful body, but what snared me without any hope of escape was that this gorgeous twink, an object of many mens' fantasies, was not a bottom but an aggressive, clever, skillful top. He was my one secret desire, and he took full advantage of my weakness.
Or maybe we have taken advantage of each other. Certainly, there is not much to recommend me to any lover, even less a beautiful, sensual twink like him. My thirtieth birthday is looming over me, and already my own body is marked by a careless surrender to age. My stomach has rounded into a paunch that can be tamed but never entirely deleted. Years of infrequent and half-hearted exercise have left my limbs fully fleshed, but with no definite tone or purpose. My own youthful body fat has transformed my face from softness into gentle plumpness, never to enjoy the sharp features of adult wisdom.
He was nineteen when he first visited me, a college sophomore. Since then he has celebrated one birthday, and in a few months he will celebrate another. He will finally be twenty-one, old enough to drink. Not that he doesn't have a drink when he comes to visit me.
My week is long. On workdays, I am typically out the door by 4:30 and do not return home again until after seven in the evening. I am in bed by nine and start the day again early. Saturdays, I sleep late and typically don't accomplish much else. Sundays belong to Master.
I am a virgin. I have had a girlfriend or two and have pawed, made out, and dry-humped them, but never further. I will make no claim to be saving myself for marriage, though I have turned down a couple of girls who offered themselves to me for the callous disregard they had for such an intimate act. I eventually convinced myself that sex is an act of commitment, not necessarily of marriage, but a longer lasting relationship than just a roll in the hay. All the while I had denied myself, my body began to crave a deeper, more fulfilling pleasure than stroking my cock to artificial erotica.
The first time I purchased a dildo was from Amazon. What I got was a disappointingly thin, floppy six-inch dildo. I only remember the second dildo as a monster, eight inches but unyielding and as thick around as my wrist. The first dildo just slithered around inside me, completely failing to make its presence known, and deceiving me that I couldn't get anything from anal masturbation. Paralysis inducing pain was my only experience with the second. Both were discretely wrapped in multiple shopping bags and shamefully dumped in gas station dumpsters.
Around this same time, I discovered and began exploring my primary fetish: one-piece swimsuits, leotards, and bodysuits. I purchased several and began to sleep exclusively in these tight garments. I particularly enjoyed the sight of my morning wood held in place by the taut fabric of my bodysuit or the sensation of the suit riding up my ass when I wake up. With the gates thrown open, I branched out and soon had a collection of panties, sports bras, and cheerleader skirts. I even began to wear thongs and jockstraps every day, anything racier than boxers or briefs.
