Pup Maxx

a good boy. now in houston, tx.

  • Houseboy Connor, chapter 1

    Connor was washing a small plate when he heard the whirring. The sound of the garage door opening was unmistakable. His Master was home.

    He quickly dried his hands on the dish towel and scurried over to the door. He only had a few seconds to get into position. Master never rushed to get out of the car, but the garage was only so big and being unprepared when his Master opened the door was not an option.

    The boy made it to the door in record time, and let himself fall onto the ground, knees crashing into the gray-blue tile. Owwww. In the next few seconds, Connor assumed the position. Shoulders back. Chest forwards. Eyes on the ground. Hands behind, just by the hips. Kneeling. Presenting. Just as his Master ordered. Just the way Master liked it.

    Then, he waited.

    It might have been less than a minute before the door actually opened, but to Connor it felt like an eternity. Every moment seemed to drag on forever, time slushing from one second to the next, as Connor waited for his Master to open the door. The deafening silence of the house did little to drown out the noises in Connor’s head. Master is back. Master is home. Master is safe. Master is —

    “Boy,” his Master growled, his voice slicing through Connor’s thoughts.

    Connor said nothing. He knew better from his training. He just stayed there, kneeling on the floor, letting the cold air from the garage rush over his naked body. The chill caused the hairs on the boy’s arms and neck to prick up, staying taunt and upright even as his Master ran his callused hands over the skin.

    After a few moments, his Master stepped back, his tall figure towering over the much-smaller boy.

    “Good. Now get to it, slave.”

    Connor didn’t need to be told twice. In the blink of an eye, he was crouched over his Master’s dress shoes, licking every surface until it was spotless. Connor did the left shoe first, ensuring he got as much dirt off as possible — not that there was much dirt to begin with — before moving onto the right. He used his tongue to spread a bit of the saliva over the top of each shoe, so the water could gleam in the light. Just as his Master liked it.

    The foot pulled away. Connor’s job was done. He sat back up, still silent, careful to keep this eyes on the floor and avoiding catching his Master’s gaze.

    “Report, boy,” his Master thundered.

    “The laundry’s all done, folded, and put away, Master,” said Connor, crisply. “The kitchen and bathroom floors have been vacuumed and mopped; the living room dusted; and most of the dishes are drying in the dishwasher. It was just washing the hand-wash-only items when you returned, Master.”

    His Master didn’t reply immediately. In the silence that followed, Connor couldn’t tell if his Master was pleased or disappointed. The boy hoped that his Master would be satisfied with that amount of work. But you couldn’t be sure. Master had high standards, and Connor knew he would raise them as soon as he felt his slave houseboy was getting complacent.

    Was he going to be praised? Punished? Or just ignored? Connor’s heart was beating with so much anxiety that the boy swore it was going to break out of his chest.

    Then: “Good job, slave boy. Get back to it.”

    Connor scurried back to the kitchen in a flash. “Yes, Master!”

    Praised. Definitely praised.

  • What my future Master needs to know

    I have a disorganized attachment style. It was an incredible feeling when I first learned the term: for the first time in my life, I had a phrase to describe it all: what I had been through, how I approached things, and why I acted in the seemingly contradictory ways that I do.

    I have a pretty good idea of where this comes from: I did not have a great childhood; while it was materially quite comfortable, it was emotionally cold, neglectful; perhaps even abusive.

    On paper, my mother loved me very much. In reality, it was far more nuanced, far more conditional — she was only able and willing to love me on her own terms. Nothing puts that idea in quite so much perspective than this: She told me that she’d murder me if it turned out that I was gay.

    Consider this, from the Attachment Project, on how children form disorganized attachment styles:

    The survival of the infant/child depends on the caregivers. The child knows that subconsciously, so he or she seeks safety in the caregivers. A problem arises when the source of safety becomes a source of fear.

    If the caregivers show highly contrasting behavior, which is inconsistent and unpredictable, the child can start fearing his or her own safety.

    The child does not know what to expect. Nor does the child know when the caregiver will meet their needs, if at all.

    “Disorganized Attachment: Causes & Symptoms” — The Attachment Project

    The more that I have thought about it, the more that I feel my current struggles were inevitable. After all, the very person who was supposed to be my ultimate source of safety — the person who was supposed to love me, and care for me, and support me no matter what — was the biggest threat to my continued living.

    How could I have done anything but develop a disorganized attachment style?

    I have essentially zero experience being a Dominant, and even I know that this isn’t something that any Dom — Master, Owner, Alpha, anyone — could easily handle.

    In my day-to-day life, I have adopted enough strategies and coping mechanisms that this innate anxiety does not affect me that much. I think I get along reasonably well in most contexts, and I’m not as closed off as I used to be. I’m now able to get a little invested in relationships with others, even though I’m still hesitant about the possibility that I might get hurt.

    But a Master-slave relationship is one like no other.At least, my understanding of such a relationship, which I’ll expand upon in future posts.

    My concept of slavehood requires the surrender of all control, of all judgment, of all reservations. The slave is to give itself, wholly and fully, to the commands of its Master, and the Master gets to use His slave in much the same way as He might use His hands and feet.I know that’s how I understand this, because writing that made my locked cock twitch like crazy.

    That comes with its own set of obligations and responsibilities for the Master, though — and perhaps none as paramount as the responsibility for Master to protect and maintain His slave’s well-being. This includes the slave’s physical wellness, but also its mental and emotional health — and its Master has to protect the slave not only from any harms from the outside, but the threats to the slave from within the slave’s mind itself.

    When I submit as a slave, I do so with the intention that there will be nothing that would ever be hidden from Master — there would be no secrets, no reservations, no topic or place that’s taboo for Master to discuss or discover. It might not happen from the beginning of submission, but it is where I intend to reach.

    And until I feel that this is possible, I would not submit as a slave. Perhaps as your sub for the time being, or as a playmate, or even as a pup, but not as your slave.

    But the very same limits that I want to surrender are the same guardrails that stop most people from transgressing in a way that can serious damage the relationship. I am not vulnerable to my coworkers in the same way that I am vulnerable to my Master, and the harm from Him can be inflicted in just a single moment in a way that nobody else ever could anymore..

    It only takes one pinprick of a threat for things to go wrong, because my subconscious is always on threat-assessment overdrive. As soon as I sense that a threat is more than theoretical however remote that threat might be, my instinct for self-preservation takes over, my trust is withdrawn, and my obedience becomes impossible.

    This isn’t fair on any Master or Owner who wishes to take control of me.

    But my acting this way has nothing to do with Him as a Master, as an Owner, or as any other kind of Dominant. It’s the reality that He is working against over 20 years of trauma, and those were most formative 20 years of my life.

    It makes me sad, but I’ve realized that my Master, my Owner, my Alpha, whomever — He must recognize that He does not get the benefit of the doubt. I cannot give it to Him. I’m not able to give it to Him.

    He has to approach me, to train me, to take me as His, from a place where He knows that He has already been found guilty of hurting me and He has to prove Himself otherwise to beyond so, so much doubt.

    Are there any of you out there…?

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