I’m abuzz on the train ride home. I can feel my whole body, as if everyone can see every detail of my body despite the jacket, sweater, and skinny jeans I’m wearing. I think being stripped and appraised like that has an effect on one’s psychology.

Ok, I’ll speak for myself–it’s having an effect on my psychology.

The guy actually jumped at my offer! I can not believe it. On an intellectual level this arrangement I cooked up feels like a rational, fair exchange. He trades his excess capital in exchange for my excess time and labor, and we both get a kinky thrill out of it. Done. It’s a win-win.

But actually doing it is something altogether different. “I’m going to be that guy’s personal slave for the summer,” I tell myself silently as trees, buildings, and streets whir by out the window of my train car. “Am I ready for this?”

Perhaps a better question is, “What is he going to do with me?”

The question hits me hard, with an earnestness and an urgency that I haven’t yet confronted. What will it actually be like? Will he be super horny always and just use me as a fuck-toy? I succeeded in ruling out anal sex, but I had planned on ruling out far more than that. Now that I think about it, I left the door open to him doing lots and lots of things to me, and it’s not like I can just leave if it gets too intense. I mean, I definitely have the right to pack up and leave whenever I want, but that would mean moving back in with my parents (at least while I discover a steady job) and effectively closing the door on my dream career as a novelist. If this is gonna work, I have to really go all-in.

What I realize in that moment is that I need this relationship to be more than transactional. If it’s just, “I get this and you get that,” then not only am I gonna be constantly worried about things go too far, I’m gonna feel exploited and abused as well.

“We have to both enjoy this,” I tell myself. “It has to be fun and a net plus overall, something we both buy into. It can’t feel like paying for a product or service.”

As for how to get there, though, I’m really not sure. I just barely met this guy and our first encounter felt a little competitive, even adversarial. “His name is Alan,” I remind myself. “And he’s a person just like you, probably wondering about this odd kid and his weird, brazen proposal. Cut him some slack.”

I spend much of the rest of the train ride home mulling methods to move my relationship with Alan–my future slave master–from exploitative transactional to enthusiastic consensual. I’m optimistic we can both get there, but every time my mind wanders to how the evening went, or to what the rules I agreed to permit Alan to do to me, my heart starts beating faster, my stomach churns with anxious excitement, and I discover myself back at square one.

As I get off the train at my station and begin the long walk to my room in the dorms, I hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans and ponder the fact that I may spend long stretches of the summer without clothes.

“How will it feel to live naked?” I wonder.

My mind starts to swim and reel again with unchecked possibilities. Finally, a voice of reason inside me takes over.

I need to calm down, slow down, I’m freaking out. I can still back out, get a desk job, and rent a small apartment in my hometown.

This succeeds in calming me down, but despair, boredom, and regret immediately settle in place wild uncertainty had previously inhabited like a heavy stone dropping to the bottom of a quiet lake.

I’m not ready to surrender my dreams, I realize. Going home means suffocating who I want to be.

“Odd,” I muse. “It seems I can either surrender my dreams or submit to Alan. Which submission do I choose?”

By the time I get back to the dorms it’s obvious to me which one I want. But I’m still worried Alan, whom I still hardly know at all, will take full benefit of my vulnerability to do all kinds of things to me–things that, while technically not disallowed by our agreement, are in my mind a breach of the spirit of it. In order for this to work, I need him to work with me, learning what turns me on and excites me, what is and isn’t over the line for me. And I probably should do the same, I realize, learning what makes my offer exciting and worthwhile for him and making sure he’s glad for the arrangement, too.

Back in my room, I open my laptop and start crafting an email.

Hey Alan,

It was great meeting you tonight. I hope you feel the same. I didn’t expect to get naked so quickly, but I appreciate the candor. It’s certainly better than beating around the bush!

I’m pleasantly surprised how well we got along and that we see eye-to-eye on this whole thing. I was honestly doubtful I would discover anyone for whom this arrangement seemed exciting and made sense. And I’m flattered you want to begin right away.

I think I need a bit more time to commit fully to this. Since I’m moving out of my student apartment in two weeks, I propose we use part of next week as a test run, if you will. How about this: I come up to SF on Thursday afternoon and stay until Saturday morning. In the meantime, we act as if the arrangement was in force–I’ll spend my free time writing and you can take benefit of having me around to do your bidding. This will give us both the opportunity to see if things are gonna work out the way we expect and hope. What do you think?

Anyway, it was great meeting you and I look forward to moving forward with this.

Sincerely,

James

My inner writer cringes at the repeated use of the word ‘forward’ twice in the final sentence, but I know myself too well and push “send” before my inner editor paralyzes me into inaction. Alan replies within minutes:

Dear James,

The pleasure was all mine. And I’m glad you’re getting used to being naked–I don’t plan to let you cover it up much. Of course you can take time to think it over some more. But don’t waffle too much. The arrangement is only attractive to me if I know you’re all-in. Enthusiastic consent and all that.

I think the test-run plan sounds reasonable. I particularly like that it gives us the opportunity to experience a weekday together. I’m looking forward to having you around.

Alan

“How does he respond so quickly?” I wonder. Unlike how I feel, there seems to be no hesitation with him. He must know exactly what he wants and have no qualms taking it. I, on the other hand, seem terrified that I might actually get what I want.

****************************

I spend the next several days trying to pretend that the things I’m doing matter. It’s final examinations week, but I’m only taking one course with an in-class final–the others are mostly senior thesis-related courses and my thesis is already completed. I’ve been writing a first draft of a novel I hope to publish–one of the major tasks of the summer, actually. Getting the draft completed felt massive, but ever since then I’m realizing it’s only the first step on a long journey to establishing myself as a professional novelist. For starters, first drafts are pretty terrible, as a rule, and I’m certain mine is no exception. I haven’t received feedback from my professors yet, but I’m sure there will be lots of work to do to make it publisher-ready. What I need is time and space.

That’s what this kinky slave summer is all about.

Long story short, I drift through the week’s events in a daze, already half gone. I spend more time seeing acquaintances and friends for the last time than studying or writing. I need this era to wrap up and finish before I can move on, which I’m impatient to do.

And then it’s Thursday, and I’m packing a small duffel bag with clothes and toiletries. I tell my roommates I’ll be in the city seeing a family friend until Saturday evening. They think nothing of it. I throw a few extra pairs of skimpy underwear in my bag for Alan, wondering if I’ll be wearing even that much.

My stomach churns the whole way to San Francisco. I breathe deep and let myself surrender to what is, to what will be. That’s gonna be the key, I’m starting to realize.

Submission.

Submit. You don’t control it. Let stuff happen to you, one voice says.

But also use your voice and communicate what you want and need, another says, quietly.

Before I know it I’m walking up the steps to Alan’s loft. It’s warm for SF. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of my favorite tabletop RPG podcast on it. I wonder if Alan will figure out the reference. I realize that would be really nice, knowing that we distribute something in common, that we’re “on the same team” in some sense. That we can trust each other.

Trust.

I mull the word in my mind as I knock. Feels like the word of the day.

“How do I communicate that I trust Alan?” I wonder. “And how do I communicate that I need to be able to trust him?”

The door opens and Alan–short, balding, and ever-bored–is once more standing there.

“Well, hello,” he says in his underwhelmed tone of voice. “So good of you to drop by.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I flash him a shy smile instead. It occurs to me in that moment that not only is Alan gonna fuck with me over the next day and a half, he’s also gonna take care of me. I’ll be sleeping in his apartment, using his bathrooms, maybe even eating his food. It makes me feel even more junior in this relationship, like a young woman dating an older man.

I think Alan notices some of this in my smile because I sense a quiet undertone of pleased excitement in his eyes, like someone about to assume a familiar and well-loved role.

“Well don’t just stand there all night,” he chides sarcastically, stepping back and opening the door wider.

I laugh awkwardly and mutter ‘thanks’ under my breath as I step into his domain, duffel bag in hand.

“I’m home,” I feel. But also, “Welcome to the lion’s den.”

“There’s your setup.” Alan points to his left. The odd little foyer and coat closet has been transformed into a cozy bedroom. A twin size bed fits along the front wall underneath a window with Venetian blinds. Between it and the closet sit a small night stand and a lamp. An oval rug covers the tiled floor.

“I intend to put up a temporary wall to close it off from the front door,” Alan continues, “but haven’t gotten around to it yet. At the moment, I rather like that it gives you no privacy.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It definitely makes me feel more vulnerable, which I suppose is sort of the point.

“Go ahead and drop your stuff off here,” Alan says as he retreats down the hall toward the living room. He doesn’t bother to wait for me, but I get the feeling he expects me to follow him. I kick off my shoes, toss my duffel bag onto the bed, and hustle down the hall after my new boss.

As the hallway opens up into the high-ceilinged kitchen-living room, I’m again in awe of this place. Whoever Alan is and whatever he does, he is definitely well compensated. I can not imagine how much a modern apartment of this size costs in SF, but it’s a lot more than I will probably ever have.

I guess it’s good to have wealthy patrons, I muse. Artists have at all times depended on the excess wealth and benevolent favor of the elite. In this sense I’m no different, I realize.

So long as it doesn’t turn into a devil’s bargain, an inner voice rejoins.

I guess I’m about to understand, I think as I approach my owner/boss/landlord at the stone countertop/bar that separates the U-shaped kitchen from the living room. Alan’s standing there in his sweats and white t-shirt, leaning on one elbow and watching me. I hustle up, the picture of the energetic young intern, willing to impress.

Alan is bored and unimpressed, perhaps unimpressible. But I also sense a sardonic humor, as if my enthusiasm to be his bitch entertains him slightly.

“Let’s get you started making me an omelet,” Alan says. “Bell peppers, mushrooms, onions, and Hatch’s green chilis. Ingredients are in the fridge.” He nods over my shoulder and I turn to look toward the gleaming, stainless steel edifice along the far wall. “But before you start, let’s get you into something more appropriate.”

I turn my gaze back to Alan and notice him gesturing toward a tiny garment sitting on the counter. It’s unclear exactly what exactly it is, but two things are clear: it’s not gonna cover much, if anything; and my new owner expects me to take off everything I’m wearing before I put ‘it’ on.

Wow, I sigh inwardly. This guy really doesn’t beat around the bush. I don’t want to begin off this audition with resistance or a bad attitude, however, so I take the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. My anxiety had caused me to walk rather briskly from the train station carrying my duffel, so I’m sweating a bit and I notice a glisten to my skin as I look down at my body. Next, I take off my socks and add them to the pile. Alan sits on a bar stool and watches. Finally, without hesitating I unbutton my corduroy pants and slide them down to my ankles. It takes me a hot second to step out of them (they fit pretty tight) and add them to the growing heap of discarded clothing, producing a non-trivial element of awkwardness and humiliation, especially since Alan just sits there looking at my increasingly naked body.

At this point I’m just wearing a pair of skin-tight, spandex bikini briefs. They’re a favorite in my skimpy underwear collection and I wore them specifically anticipating having to strip in front of my new landlord. My hope, of course, is that he’ll like them and think they’re revealing enough that he won’t make me take them off. After finally depositing my corduroys on the floor, I straighten up and tighten my abs a little, giving him an unimpeded view of my body.

Again, I’m pretty confident in my body, obviously, or I wouldn’t be doing this. I’m not built and I don’t work out, but I’m slender and I run regularly, so any spare flesh is pretty lean. I also love being the object of an interested gaze, so my penis is already feeling firm against the tight fabric of my underwear. I look Alan in the eye and wait for some sign to continue.

It doesn’t take long.

“By all means, continue,” Alan drones, like a Roman emperor remarking on a lull in the gladiatorial combat.

A lump sinks down into the bottom of my gut. As much as I get turned on by being made to strip in front of interested parties, getting completely naked–especially revealing my penis–is still scary. And the fact that I still don’t know what to expect from this guy (what is he actually gonna do with me once I’m naked?) raises the stakes significantly.

Still, I really have no choice, other than to back out now and go home. And by ‘home’ I don’t mean just my dorm apartment on campus. I mean home–my hometown, my parents’ basement, and a whole lotta soul searching.

Fuck that shit. I hook my thumbs under the black, spandex fabric and strip off my underwear.

Of course my penis–already most of the way to a full-blown erection–promptly bursts free of its restraints. I step out of my underwear and toss them onto the pile, then with nothing left to do I stand up straight and let Alan see everything. His gaze goes straight to my cock, rising slowly to its full grandeur, and lingers there for a few seconds. Then his gaze slides up my skinny abdomen to my large nipples, also becoming quite firm as the sweat cools my naked body.

I imagine I look pretty fucking hot. I’m 22, just graduated from school, and in the best shape of my life.

Alan just smirks sarcastically. “Well, someone is already excited.”

I begin to panic. What if I can not fit my penis into the thing he wants me to put on? I take a step to the counter and pick up the tiny object. It’s got a few straps and what looks like a tiny net of gauze. It honestly takes me a second to find out what it is and how to put it on. Where I expect three straps–two to go around my hips and one between my ass cheeks–I see four. I’m honestly not sure where to put my legs.

“Can’t figure it out?” Alan drones on, clearly amused. Then it clicks: it’s a jock strap. I’ve never worn one in my life (I’ve never been a team sport sort of athlete), but I’ve heard of them. And, if I’m honest, I’ve seen a few on gay porn I sometimes watch.

I immediately feel a blush rise in my cheeks. The fact that the jock strap leaves my anus unprotected makes me feel incredibly vulnerable.

Is Alan leaving my ass accessible for a reason? I wonder.

Again, there’s nothing to be done. I step into the jockstrap and pull it up to my hips. Then comes three or four humiliating seconds as I try and stuff my increasingly stiff penis into the pouch, all while Alan watches. With some discomfort, I manage to bend my shaft down, then tug up on the waistband to trap it in its new prison. Without meaning to, I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

I glance up at Alan and see him almost smiling. A self-satisfied smile, to be sure, but a smile nonetheless. Glancing back down at my body I see that the jock strap is extremely thin and totally sheer. My junk is completely visible.

Why would Alan want me to put on a sheer jockstrap? I wonder. The feel of my penis straining against the pouch and the sight of it all bound up like a fish in a net, however, makes it seem oddly symbolic. This is me, I realize. Naked, restrained, and on display.

“I’m glad you managed to stuff yourself in there,” Alan remarked with unrelenting sarcasm. “Now get your cute, naked ass over there and make me my omelet.”

I did as I was told. I turned and walked my bare ass to the fridge and opened the door. It was huge, way bigger than the one my three roommates and I shared. The cool air caressed my skin. I quickly located eggs, red bell pepper, onion, mushrooms, and jar of chilis, and set my ingredients next to the magnificent gas cooking range. A fry pan hung from a metal apparatus. Fancy, clay jars and vessels labeled ‘olive oil,’ ‘salt,’ and ‘pepper’ stood to one side.

I set to work. Fortunately, I wasn’t lying when I said in my online slave proposition that I could cook. As a freshman, I had quickly tired of the dining hall food and found, with a little exploration in cookbooks and online, that I could cook more delicious and healthy meals myself, and for less money to boot. That said, I had never cooked naked before, and certainly not with someone watching my bare ass the whole time. I discover it quite distracting. My erection just keeps getting firmer and firmer, and the pull of the sheer fabric against the skin of my penis produces a significant amount of unrelenting pleasure that only makes matters worse. Honestly, the bulge gets in my way, making it hard for me to get close to the range. I press my body against the countertop in frustration, which also feels good/frustrating/humiliating.

“You have a nice ass, James,” Alan comments dryly about halfway in. I look over my shoulder at him and try to imagine what he’s seeing. I’m really not sure what to say to that, so I just offer, “Thanks,” rather eloquently.

“I also adore the little dimples you have right above your butt,” he remarks.

“Thanks,” I say again, looking over with a shy smile.

I go back to cooking. I feel the cool tiles under my feet, the heat from the range on my belly, the tingling sensation that comes from knowing Alan’s eyes are on my ass. The tight jockstrap probably makes my bubble butt look even more pronounced. I wasn’t expecting compliments from my boss/owner/landlord/master. I really don’t know what to expect from him next.

The omelet looks done so I look around for plates and notice that Alan has migrated to the couch and is watching an episode of some show on Netflix. After trying a couple of cabinets, I locate a plate and fork and plate the omelet.

“Omelet’s ready,” I call out meekly as I round the countertop bar with the plate in hand. I look from Alan to the dining table and back to Alan, unsure where to go.