Chapter 1

Master’s cock was hot inside my mouth, the thick veins that lined his shaft smoothing over my tongue as I sucked and licked with all the eager determination of an obedient fuck-slave. He moaned his approval, his graveled voice like honey inside my ears, the sweet nectar running through my veins and making my entire body hum with pride. His gaze was angled up at the ceiling, his eyes glossed over and teeth bared with pleasure, the stark need radiating from his expression like a lick of pure fire between my thighs.

I loved to look at him...

... The face I loved was forty-two years old, not an ugly face but far from what most people would consider conventionally attractive, although, personally, I thought Master was the sexiest man in the world. He had pale skin and dark circles under his eyes, a manifestation of his unfortunate drug habit to a popular amphetamine called Pulse Junk, of which he was a top manufacturer and dealer. Because of this habit, however, he was a twitchy sort of man, he had trouble sitting still. Heaps of restless energy would always crackle around him, his whole aura almost seeming to vibrate with either agitation or plain old excitement depending on his mood.

He was also marred by scars. He’d lived a dangerous life and it showed all over his body, every plane of skin hosting the vestiges of both triumph and failure by way of stab-wounds and bullet holes. His hair was brown, greasy, and beginning to thin with age, a dramatic widow’s peak now forming over a forehead lined with more than a couple wrinkles. He had thick bushy eyebrows that enhanced the menace of his dark eyes, eyes that were somehow so boyish despite all the unhinged mania lurking behind them like shimmering lights on black waters. He had an irradicable five-o’clock-shadow. Regardless of the harsh conditions we lived in, Master would always take the time to shave his face with a buck knife. Every single morning. But somehow that five-o’clock-shadow always seemed to reappear before noon no matter how close he managed to shave. It perpetually bordered his full lips that so often smiled down at me but decried outrage and death warrants at others.

He had tattoos. Quite a few of them. He had an ace of spades on his right forearm and the name of the gang he was the Leader of, The Nitro Saints, on the left. He also had his own name tattooed across the front of his throat, Tyler Roberts, in clean capital letters. Over his left pectoral he bore the sigil of The Nitro Saints, a flaming skull with no mandible in front of two criss-crossing double-open-ended-wrenches. The sigil was often visible too because it was Master’s style to wear an opened leather vest and no T-shirt. His upper arms were also peppered in tattoos, random hieroglyphics that told those around him what kind of a man he was: a Leader, a drug dealer, and a killer.

He was tall, six feet and one inch, his shoulders broad and his muscles well toned. He was dirty though. Like literally dirty all the time because water was scarce and far too precious to waste on idle bathing. Therefore his skin was stained and streaked with filth, his hands dried out, dirt permanently caked inside all the cracks of his calloused fingers that were currently threaded in my hair as he fucked my face, pounding the back of my throat with the blunt tip of his throbbing manhood...

“ ... Babydoll!” Master growled, low and salacious, his deep voice like rolling thunder beneath all the damp echoes of me choking on his massive cock. “Ah, fuck. Such a perfect little fucking mouth, Christ!” he sighed, his hips snapping even faster as his lustful gaze pandered down at me with all the possessive affection I’d come to expect from him as a Master.

And the image before him was a familiar sight...

... We were in our home, cast in an abundance of candle light. It was a simple one-roomed cabin with a fireplace, a fire crackling merrily inside the clay-hearth. The furniture was limited and modest. In the center of our plain wooden floor was a large rectangular dining table with six chairs around it, the table top itself cluttered with random items: drug paraphernalia, knives, anal plugs, firearms, hunting equipment, nipple clamps, news pamphlets, a couple dildos, dishes, maps, and other such random knick-knacks. The rest of our possessions boarded the walls. On one side of the fireplace there was a large stack of fire wood and on the other side was a small counter for meal preparation. A few feet along from that was a bookshelf with about forty volumes tucked inside, the rest of the shelves occupied by storage baskets for dishes and and random trinkets. Up against the left wall was a small table with a washing basin accompanied by a couple of hanging rags where’d we’d wash our hands and faces in the mornings and evenings. Next, was a bedside-table with a few drawers for clothes, and of course, beside that was a full-sized bed, the headboard placed against the wall with the end jutting out into the room. Master was sitting on the edge of that mattress, myself kneeling between his legs, my lips stretched wide over his thickness, cheeks hollowed out as I pleasured him with my mouth.