The Invite (part two) - First Service
Part one of The Invite is here
Standing at attention dressed in a white tie butler's uniform, every part of you is alive and aware. Every inch of you is restricted, fitted, bound. Tight patent leather shoes that click the wooden floors, the white bowtie cinched at your throat, your rock hard cock struggling for freedom against its caged prison as it begs, dripping, fuelling your submission. Beneath pristine white gloves your hands shake a little with nerves and need. You are but one of six servants standing at attention at the dinner table, like chess pieces waiting to be moved, about to play a part in the ballet.
Four better dominant men, the Master and three friends, all handsomely-clad in tuxedos, laugh and smile over champagne and whiskey. Beside you is Thompson. You are his twin, his shadow, you watch everything he does. Mr Grantham, the head butler, produces, he is behind a bar mixing drinks, speaking with the chefs and directing the servants when needed. Smith, a younger skinny blond northern lad, looks plucked out of a council estate with a body covered in tattoos down to the neck and hands. But he speaks so deferentially, so submissively, so formally to the men you wonder whether he was born to wear a uniform. Mahmood is a day boy - a little older and thicker than you - you heard from Thompson he's a lawyer in the nearby city and he took off work early just to come to the manor.
But your eyes immediately fall on the Master's valet: Birch. Tall, muscular, model looks. He looks like if he would be a Disney prince in his white tie if it wasn't for the white gloves designating him as a servant. It is clear he is the Master's crown jewel - a favourite, and he knows it too. He knows every one of the Master's wishes - so expertly trained - it's almost like he's reading his mind. How long has Birch been serving? Each of the boys have been told to serve one dedicated Sir. Except you and Thompson, as you are in training, you are both at the hand of Mr Worthing.
But you try not feel so green, so unprepared compared to them, for you are still buzzing.
It was earlier during Mr Grantham's instructions in the parlour room before any guest arrived that I, your Master, walked in and saw you. I like to come in unannounced, so even my head butler is unaware, to ensure my boys are ready.
And you stood out - I saw you immediately. So handsome in the uniform I chose, so groomed, so mine. But your position faltered. As every boy's eyes were immediately fixed stood at attention, yours couldn't help but look.
"Eyes down, boy," I firmly say, as you immediately look down at your feet.
Your heart beats as you hear me saunter over - my lips gently grazing your ear.
"I hear you're very obedient. That's good. I like that in a boy," I speak in a low tone.
"I've got the key to your cage in my hand. I own you for as long as this is in my possession. You do as I say, you wear what I choose, you serve as I order. And I like my boys submissive, formally dressed, and ready to do my bidding."
A breath. Another. Your eyes stay down. You will be perfect. Don't say a word unless asked a question.
"Good. Very good. Obedient. Eager. I like that. Not many boys who come here are so quick to follow orders.
"I suspect you might make for an excellent addition to the household.
"Tonight, I want you to watch. My friends can get... grabby, demanding, turned on by my boys. But you will save yourself, save your most intimate of services, for me. Understand?"
"Yes Sir, of course Sir," you say.
I walk over to Mr Grantham and whisper to him. He tells you when I exit that you'll be joining my valet on our morning routine, and that is a huge honour new boys barely ever receive.
And the night is going so well. You've impressed your Master and the guests are in high spirits, well fed and relaxing in the lounge.
You watch as each servant plays their part, almost instinctively. When boys are so well trained, so at ease, it's almost fluid. You just try and not get in the way too much, tentative, not wanting to make a mistake. Birch is like the first violin in an orchestra. While there is a conductor that leads, you follow his movement. As the Master's valet, he is the alpha among you. You become proud that you're a part of these powerful men enjoying their night.
Thompson begins to encourage you to take an active role in the service. He takes a bottle of champagne and wraps it with a small white towel and hands it to you, saying when pouring to grip the base with your thumb and tilt with your hand. The other hand is, of course, at your back as you perform a small bow: "More champagne, Sir?"
But as you say the words, a slip. The bottle falls. Thud. Fuck. Mr Worthing's trousers are wet. Anxiety. Your fault. You've ruined it. Oh god. You run to fetch towels from the bar but Thompson has already got them, quick to dab and dry before you can even process.
"For fuck's sake! What the fuck is your problem you fucking idiot?" Mr Worthing yells. You say sorry, you apologise.
"Calm down. My boy will sort you out," I say. "Not the first time you've had a wet patch down there," I joke.
My other friends laugh and cheers as Mr Worthing stands up, storming.
Thompson leaps to attention. "Sir we have a spare pair of tuxedo trousers downstairs. I can go clean yours now, Sir."
"Fuck, ok. I'm soaked. Where are they? I'll go change."
Both Mr Worthing and Thompson swiftly leave the room - and you're not sure what to do. You're frozen. And then you think, you still need to shadow Thompson. And if you can apologise again, then good. You murmur another apology to the room, which has already carried on barely hearing you, as you leave.
You find them both soon enough in a laundry room downstairs. Mr Worthing leans against a wall, bare-legged, still done up in his tuxedo shirt, jacket and tie, as Thompson quickly works. Spying you at the door, he snidely says with a drunken slur, "Who's the idiot fag?"
Thompson says your name, adding, "It is his first day, Sir".
"Stupid fag, get over here," Mr Worthing orders. You briskly walk in, eyes down, submissive and humiliated.
"Knees. Now."
You fall - your hands still behind your back - nothing to catch you as you land on your knees in the middle of the room. You can only stare at the floor.
"I should piss all over you - drench your face and uniform all over - fucking stupid fag. See how you like it."
You clam up - wince even - waiting for the downpour. A moment. You expect it.
"But luckily for you, Thompson just swallowed it all, didn't you boy?"
"It was my pleasure, Sir," you hear his voice behind you.
"Pretty stupid faggot," Mr Worthing adds. "He's got you locked up right? Your nub is probably leaking under there, you wishing you could have swallowed my piss. How long has it been boy? Answer me. How long have you been locked up?"
"Uh, ten hours, Sir," you say.
"Haha, you really are a stupid fag. Just this morning you had a cock and now you're this. Dressed up like a fag, locked up like a fag, kneeling like a fag. Who would lock up their cock, dress up like you're at the fanciest wedding of your life, and come all the way here to fulfil some sick submissive fantasy? You do all that and you're not even allowed to cum.
"It's pathetic. Stupid. Dumb fuck."
A glob of spit falls down on your bowed head.
"Can you at least suck cock like a good fag?"
You stay silent. You don't see it but you feel it, his hardening cock is mere inches away from your mouth. You can smell it. Urine, sweat, alcohol - salty wisps grab your nose like the stink of sea air.
"Sir, I," you start to say, "I'm not..."
"The faggot speaks!" Mr Worthing laughs. "Chin up. Come on and take it." You're face to face with it. His jutting thick cock waiting to shut you up.
You return to bow your head. Any inch, any level of separation, to keep to my order.
"Master... master said only to watch tonight," you say.
"Did he now?" Mr Worthing slowly strokes his long cock. A little white emerges from the engorged head, a tease.
"You go kneel in the corner, then," he adds. "If I see you take your eyes off me for a moment, I will see personally that you get the worst punishment of your life."
"Thompson, get over here and show your friend here how a good faggot behaves."
In a moment, Thompson is on his knees. His white bowtie pulsating as he swallows Mr Worthing's length down his throat. You are powerless, on your knees, in uniform, as you watch the dominant man roughly use the servant. Large hands pump repeatedly at the back of his head.
Sometimes Mr Worthing catches your eye contact as he fucks Thompson's willing working mouth. He imagines it's your mouth, your tongue, your throat that is swallowing his load. It is a look, a glare, that says... soon.
