For about a week, Matt and I pretended that nothing had happened, until our mutual desire overcame our inhibitions. Matt and I got together for weekends and sometimes weekday evenings, at either his apartment in Logan Circle or my house in Fairfax. On other weekdays, since we both tended to work later than most other people in the firm, he called me to his office in the evening, locked the door, and had me blow him. When I hosted in Fairfax, he insisted that I greet him at the door completely nude. He sometimes wanted me to fellate him while he watched television or talked to his friends on the telephone.
Matt also kept on taking pictures. While blowing him, I sometimes looked up into the lens of his cell-phone camera. He also liked taking full frontal photos of me with my small penis fully erect.
I became increasingly comfortable with the idea that although I was still the boss at work, in other respects, Matt was my superior, who ruled me through his large penis, and that he and that penis were entitled to my devotion. It increasingly seemed natural to think that fate had assigned me a subservient role relative to Matt, and I increasingly enjoyed playing that role. During sex, it made perfect sense that I should do all of the work while he got all of the pleasure. Except for the sexual aspect, I sometimes wondered whether dogs felt for their owners as I felt for Matt.
His domination over me soon extended to non-sexual matters. The sofa was his alone; I had to sit or kneel on the floor. When we watched television, he decided unilaterally what we would watch. When he wanted something, he would snap his fingers, and I would get it, kneel in front of him, and hand it up to him. He also insisted that I text him as soon as I woke up and right before I went to bed. When we went to a restaurant together, he ordered for both of us.
One Saturday, we had made plans to meet at his apartment, but traffic held me up. When I arrived, he buzzed me up as usual. However, when I entered the apartment, he was fully nude and fully hard, with a displeased look on his face. He was holding a belt in his right hand. He said, "You're late" and started smacking his left palm with the belt.
"Well, traffic was—"
"You're late," he repeated in the same tone that he had used in his hotel room. He surely knew that the combination of that tone of voice with the sight of his nude body and erect penis left me incapable of resisting. "There has to be a punishment. Drop your trousers and your underwear."
I did so.
"Now," he continued, "go to the dining-room table and put your hands on it."
I did so.
He said, "You're going to get the belt five times—only five times this time. Now, I want you to count out." He hit me on my ass with the belt.
"One," I said.
"That should have been 'One, Sir.'" He hit me again.
