I had reached the end of my contract. My original contract had been extended twice and I was finishing my sixth year as a Servant to my Master. It had been a good six years and I had learned a lot, been a lot of places, blown a lot of cock, been fucked a lot, and made a lot of money.

When I turned thirteen years old, I had received my mark. It was a light blue mark that ran down my jaw line from my ear to my chin. The mark separated me from the other men in my world, who were known as NOMARs or non-marked men. Marked men were different from NOMARs because they were sexually attracted to men. Non-marked men were sexually attracted to women, which had long ago been separated from us.

The mark allowed me to have an opportunity that NOMARS didn’t. Marked men could enter The Service, if they chose to. The Service was an organization that provided sexual Servants to wealthy NOMARs. If you entered The Service, they would pair you with a wealthy and potentially famous NOMAR to be your Master for a period of a year that could be continued if agreed upon by both parties. In exchange for one’s Service, the NOMAR agreed to pay the Servant a million dollars a year.

In order to prepare marked guys for their life in Service, a series of training academies or schools had been established to teach us what we would need to know. These were called Service Academies, or SAs, and I entered mine when I was fifteen. Most NOMARs called them Sex Academies. I went to school there for three years before I was called to The Service by my Master.

I had just turned eighteen when I entered the ceremonial cage to be delivered to my Master. He lived in Boston, but he was semi-retired and travelled to different houses and hotels around the world for much of the year. His name was Patrick and he was forty-five when I first met him. He was kind and gentle with me, which was far better treatment than some of the Servants received from their Masters.

Patrick was very wealthy, either from investments or inheritance, I was never quite sure, but we had a great time together. I wasn’t really attracted to him physically, but I liked him as a friend and so therefore, it wasn’t difficult for me to pleasure him on a regular basis. Plus, he was paying me a lot of fucking money that would make me financially secure for the rest of my life.

After a couple weeks into Service with Patrick, he revealed his favorite facet of his sex life to me. We were out to lunch at a local bar-b-que dive and were seated at a picnic table on the porch. Patrick constantly surprised me with how down-to-earth he was for such a rich person, and there was never a place or activity that he wasn’t willing to try. I had always assumed that rich people were snobs, but Patrick constantly proved me wrong.

We placed our orders and were waiting for our food when a group of four guys came in and sat at the picnic table beside us. They were probably construction workers, based on their clothing—tank tops, jeans, and steel-toed work boots. One man stood out to me. He was older, with a full white beard and a salt-and-pepper flat top. He was a physical specimen, not only because his muscles rippled under his tank top, but because they were completely covered in tattoos. Neither the muscles nor the tats seemed to go with the white beard, and I noticed that he had kind eyes and nice teeth. Much like Patrick, he seemed to be someone that I was trying to put into a box, but couldn’t.

I turned and saw that Patrick was also admiring or at least sizing-up the group beside us. He turned back with a neutral face and asked me where we might like to vacation at the end of the month. It was exciting for me to be with someone who was so well-versed in travel and had the means to go anywhere he wanted for as long as he wanted. I was thrilled that he was treating me with respect and was letting me pick where we could vacation. I loved to travel and had a big wish list, so at the time, my head swam with all the possibilities.

Our food came and we talked excitedly about different exotic locations. I would mention a place and Patrick would tell me his experiences in that locale. When we were almost finished eating, Patrick excused himself to the restroom, and I watched the men at the other table and eavesdropped on their conversation. I was shocked to see after a minute or so that Patrick had walked by and stopped at their table. He was talking to the tatted man and nodded at me with his head.

The big man looked over at me and smiled easily. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I smiled back, noticing that all of the men were looking at me now. Patrick talked with him for a few more seconds and then put something down on the table in front of him. My Master returned to our table, and I was dying to know what was going on. The SA had taught me many things—how to protect myself, how to pleasure a man in many ways, how to cook, how to be respectful at all times—but the one thing they taught me how to do that really irritated me was to keep quiet until I was prompted to speak. This was one of those times.