Catamite Pt.8

Phillip lay face down on his bed, lying on a new feather pillow with his battered ass still throbbing. There’d been light pain killers with his meal, and the ache was bearable afterwards. He’d taken a worse beating in the hands of the guards back in prison, with their fists and boots, but this was another novelty that was still threatening, but rather than giving him pride in his conviction it made him ashamed and awkward.

Capital city prostitutes that catered to the jaded tastes of metropolitan clients would offer flogging and binding as a novelty service. He’d been exposed to that once, mid way through university when he went out whoring with his friends and a plump woman with two bow decorated braids had tried claiming to be a bad little girl in need of a spanking. He’d passed her over in favour of a less creative red head with more straight forward services and put it out of his mind as a weird perversion some men paid for, but now he wondered if he should have learned more about the practice.

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Catamite Pt. 6

It was a better meal than he’d had on a long time, though eating too fast gave him indigestion. After the second course he’d tucked away a large bunch of grapes, three strawberries and an apple, the latter of which Annette neatly segmented for him with a little knife. Finally there was the breakfast liquor, a thick and pungent beverage quaffed from tiny glasses, fermented with the after taste of metals. Most women drank it for their health, more men abstained, but under Annette’s watchful eye he took it down with one swallow.

“Adam…”

Phillip shifted in his chair, belly distended with all the food he’d gobbled. The maid was clearing up the dishes from the table. All this time the ever present body guards had lingered in the background, one of them holding the threatening alarm-orange picana.

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