Mr. Drew

This is my first story, hopefully some of you would like it. Ptah, GoodHusband, CW Cobblestone and TimUK are some of my favourite writers on the genre, and it goes without saying that my story is influenced by their writing.


I was driving towards my home when I noticed Mr. Drew had already arrived. He had said he would come after dinner, but of course it didn't really matter. Mr. Drew could do whatever he wanted and come whenever he wanted.

His black German sedan is parked casually at the driveway of my house- or, should I say, His house. I pay rent to my Mr. Drew every month for living in the basement, though I'm also the one paying mortgage. He doesn't need the money- it's about remembering my place in life he'd said. All this money secured through hustling long hours at my cramped office cubicle.

The luxury sedan was a peculiar sight in my humble neighbourhood, and right at my doorstop too. I'd given up trying to explain to neighbours why every now and then a 6-foot tall, athletic looking and well dressed 19 year-old black man driving a luxury car would show up. It doesn't matter anyway, as long as Mr. Drew is fine with people wondering why a man of his stature would even visit a neighbourhood like this. He was a man of class, after all.

I knew it was Mr. Drew's car right away as he'd told my wife, or Mistress I should say, that he was getting a new toy- though I'd thought it'd be another sports car instead of a serious-looking sedan. Perhaps it was just to add another taste to his collection. Nonetheless I knew there was no way I could afford it with my modest salary, petty much everything I earned went to Mistress anyway. I thought of the money Mr. Drew had, the cars, the women, the life...

But then abruptly stopped myself. What am I doing comparing myself to Him!?

He's the Master of the House, the real Man, the Black man, my wife's Boyfriend and my Master. He deserves it.

I am just a middle aged geeky looking accountant who didn't deserve to be with my wife. She had married me for the stability after all. Nothing else. Almost ten years younger than me, my mistress was a blonde woman with beautiful curves and dreamy eyes that could melt any man. Even men like Mr. Drew.

"I'm not a real man," I said aloud to nobody in particular. Saying so is almost second-nature to me by now, and somehow it makes me feel at ease. Mr. Drew has me do this every time I make a mistake. It kind of makes me feel better; more worthy as a servant as I humbly reassure to myself I still remember who I really am.

Since Mr. Drew had taken the front spot of the driveway, my poor car was ****** to park on the side. I took note of how pathetic it looked next to the sedan. A pathetic car for a pathetic servant like me. How fitting. I laughed a little at my own joke, but for some reason it felt disheartening. Perhaps life was just tough for people like me.

Mr. Drew was a rare breed indeed. A trust-fund brat enjoying college life at one of the nation's most prestigious business school, not a worry in the world coming from a prominent black family who co-founded one of the largest conglomerate in America. His *********** was revered around the business world, I'd learnt, and his ****** has enjoyed his fare of success since taking over the firm. On top of that, his famous lawyer uncle is married to a white Hollywood A-list celebrity. Mr. Drew was all about success in life.

I'm grateful that Mr. Drew even takes notice of a someone like me, and gracious enough to offer his magnificent BBC to my Mistress. It beats me sometimes how I could even be associated to a Man like him. Mistress has told me many times how Mr. Drew makes her feel so much more of a woman. "He's such a real man," she would say, smirking at me as I nervously nod in agreement.

Sometimes I find it remarkable Mr. Drew is so much younger than me. Despite this I'm content in calling him mister and allowing him to address me by my first name. I've never seen another man more confident. Perhaps it's his heritage or his wealth. I've learnt to perform the kowtow every time I'm in His presence, which I've learned to do so very quickly , especially after a harsh beating by my Mistress the first time I'd hesitated to do so.

The beating to my arse was so severe I had to take two days off at work as I couldn't sit properly. However this didn't stop me from completing my chores at home as I worked to keep my- no- Mr. Drew's house sparkling clean for his next visit. From the living room to the Master bedroom which I'm usually forbidden to enter unless given permission, I'd cleaned the house thorough, making full use of my absence from work.

Mistress had reminded me it was natural for someone like my stature to find peace serving a Man who's destined for greater things. "A real woman deserves a real man right? Am I not beautiful enough for him?" She would ask, and I would nod multiple times this time in agreement again.

I carefully parked my second-hand car my wife graciously "lent" me. With no air conditioning, I could feel my sweat sticking to my cheap nylon suit as the thought of Mr. Drew visiting the house again made me physically shaken. He'd come for Mistress almost three weeks ago, but it felt much longer than that. It certainly didn't help as Mistress was constantly reminding me to contact Mr. Drew and urge, no, beg him for his next visit. It seems like my efforts have finally paid off.

In an attempt encouraging Mr. Drew to visit frequently, I drive to the college campus during my lunch hours everyday to wash Mr. Drew's car and leave a note of gratitude for fucking my Mistress and note how excited she is for his next visit. By now I've noticed Mr. Drew drives at least 3 different sports cars. Noticing which one He drove that day and finding it on campus could be a hassle, and the times when He skips school would completely throw me off guard. But nevertheless after His whole freshman year I've grown accustomed to His usual parking locations. I made a mental note to add the new black German sedan to His growing list of expensive cars.

I sometimes wonder how Mr Drew's friends think of me when they see this dorky middle aged man in his cheap suit kneeling there frantically washing the rims of a car he obviously doesn't own. I remember yesterday when Mr. Drew saw me washing his car as he got off class...

---

"Bill? What are you doing?"

I was on the floor almost done washing the headlights of the silver Beamer Z4 when I recognized the voice from behind. Spinning around quickly, I positioned myself with my forehand to the ground ass in the air, and said humbly, "Please, Weewee, Sir." Weewee was the name my Mistress had given me.

In my peripheral vision from the ground, I'd noticed a pair of pink woman's flip flops along with Mr. Drew's white Air ***** One's. He was in his hip-hop attire today, and the woman's pedicure was ocean-blue. Master was with a different woman than my wife.

"Right, Weewee." I could sense a smirk in Mr. Drew's voice. "What are you doing here, Weewee? And look up you lil' bitch when I'm talking to you."

"Yes sir," I said lifting my face from the ground. I kept my face emotionless and with my mouth opened, Mr. Drew had said he liked his manservant to look dumb- or just act like yourself he'd said, since I was "Fuckin' stupid anyway." I remember spending late nights in the basement facing the mirror after completing my chores practising my "dumb face" while He was fucking Mistress above simply because he'd ordered me to do so. The screams of ecstasy from above motivated me to continue perfecting my service to Master, and perhaps one day finally be able to watch Him together with my wife in the Master bedroom.

He made Mistress happy, and "dumb-faces" made Master happy, therefore I must perfect my "dumb face" for the sake of my Mistress.

"I'm just honoured to be here washing your car, Sir, and Mistress sends her greetings, Sir." I carefully tried to eye my Master's companion without being obvious. I was afraid He'd be angry, but I needed to do see for myself my Mistress' rival- I knew it was important for my Mistress' sake.

The woman was obviously in her early twenties. Straight Auburn hair, wearing a pair of Ray-Ban shades, cute blue tank-top and white shorts carrying a blue Goyard bag. Cute and classy- a dangerous combination. Master was wearing a pair of baggy basketball shorts and an oversized tee-shirt that still couldn't hide his athletic frame- an alternative image to his classy tailored suit and tie.

"Are you looking at my girl, Weewee?" I noticed Master's didn't actually sound angry. Instead it sounded like he found me humorous, a difficult tone to interpret.

But that was enough to send shockwaves throughout my body, and I quickly muttered, "I'm not a real man, Sir. I certainly don't deserve looking at my Master's companion."

I was careful not to use the word "girl". My Mistress was my Master's girl in my heart, though I knew in truth He had more women than I could ever imagine. I loved my wife too much to tell her that, however, and every time she asked I would assure her Master understands how much she loves him. "A real Man like him would have lots of women to take care of. But he always comes back to you again, Mistress. Your boyfriend knows you love him," I would always assure her.

There were even times when I bought and sent flowers in Master's name just to make her happy after more than a week or two of Him not visiting. Of course, I had to beg for Master's approval first.

Master smiled. More and more students were coming out by this time, and I began feeling uncomfortable as some people began to stop and look on curiously.

I heard Master laughing and saying to the girl next to him, "It's just another whore I sometimes ***** around with. This is her husband. Tell her about that whore of yours, Weewee."

I could sense the girl eyeing me closely, but I was careful not to look up. Keeping my eyes to the floor I answered carefully, "Yes Sir. Ma'am, My Mistress enjoys weekly visits from Mr. Drew. They truly enjoy each other's company. Master is a wonderful lover, a real Man, and I beg you, Sir, to consider visiting your house on Westbank Hills at your earliest convenience again. Mistress is eagerly awaiting you there, Sir." I quickly performed the kowtow again, staying prostrate and oblivious to the chuckles and finger-pointing surrounding the three of us.

"Please, please, please let Mr. Drew say something about visiting Mistress..." as I prayed silently in such a humiliating position.

I stayed down while Mr. Drew and his girl walked around me, kicking my bucket of water towards me and wetting my hair and face as they got to their car and opened the door.

"Five minutes. Finish what you're doing bitch. And I wanna see that "dumb face" Weewee," said Master as he rolled down his window and looked down on me.

I quickly opened my mouth like a pathetic idiot and was about to start frantically scrubbing when I heard the girl say, with what I sensed to be amusement, "One minute. I'm don't have all day to wait for this lil piece of whatever the fuck he's called to finish."

Smiling, Mr. Drew nodded and said, "You heard the lady, better start scrubbing Weewee."

I began desperately scrubbing, so anxious that I started to sob as I washed the headlights of Mr. Drew's car. My face had turned from a "dumb face" to a "dumb, sweaty, close-to-tears face". I didn't even care if my hair was wet or that my shirt was see-through.

All I could think about was my Mistress. I thought about her absent look last night as I was painting her toenails shell-pink in anticipation for her boyfriend. It hurt me deeply, knowing I was letting her down by not securing the timely visits of the 19 year-old Mr. Drew- my Master and my Mistress' true love.

"I must not fail her," I tearily whispered to myself as I continued frantically scrubbing the headlights. "Just the other headlight left..." Time seemed to freeze as I felt the sweat and panic all over face.

---

"Time's up Weewee."

"No... No Sir! No, please! Please! Just 30 more seconds! I- no, Weewee is almost done! Your pathetic slave is almost done!"

I was actually crying out loud as I tried to rush to the other headlight, tripping on myself in the process, landing face first to the ground and almost breaking my dorky glasses.

I quickly soaked my car sponge and continued washing, unable to control my sobs as I hysterically scrubbed.

It must have been quite a sight. A 36 year-old man hair and shirt completely soaked, glasses twisted and scratched, face still red from my own slap, and to top if all off, I was sobbing as I washed the headlights of the Beamer of a 19 year-old college student.

"I said time's up Weewee."

The voice was deep and calm, but with a hint of annoyance- and that was enough to shut me up.

I stopped scrubbing, quieting my sobs but unable to stop my panting. Like a lost puppy, I looked to Mr. Drew, then to the girl next to him. Mr. Drew's face was stern and cold, but I felt a hint of sympathy from the girl, even behind her Ray-Ban sunglasses.

Not knowing what to do, I began banging my forehead to the parking floor like a slave to his Emperor in front of the sports car. "Please, Sir. Please Ma'am. Please Sir. Please Ma'am," I kept repeating as I continued to kowtow. "

Going on for nearly a minute, and I began to feel dizzy and my forehead was obviously swelling up.

Finally the girl spoke, "Weewee. Please stop."

I stopped, lifting my face giving me her my most pathetic "dumb face" I could make in hopes of gaining some sympathy from this woman merely minutes ago I loathed for being a competition to my Mistress. I was panting heavily, mouth half opened, clutching on to my near-broken glasses, pleading with my eyes to this God-like couple who I willing submit to wholeheartedly.

Yet it was Mr. Drew who spoke next, "I didn't say stop, you bitch. Have you forgotten who owns you Weewee?" He did not sound pleased.

Trembling I looked from right to left. Then left to right. Obviously frightened by my wife's boyfriend, I gulped and answered weakly like the pathetic thing I was, "Mr. Drew, Sir. My Master is you."

"Show me then."

Most of the crowd had dispersed by now, but there were still a number of curious bystanders, some obviously with looks of sympathy while others with sheer disdain. I know, however, that a man like Mr. Drew does not care what others think.

The girl, perhaps feeling sorry for me and guilty for what's happening, spoke up again. "Honey, we're going to be late. Why don't we leave first and let Weewee worship you next time?" I could see her looking at my direction for a split second as she spoke turned to kiss Mr. Drew as she spoke and brushing her breasts towards him.

Thankfully, Mr. Drew looked at his watch. "I know what time it is." Suddenly he turned to his window and just spitted. Then, calmly but with authority, ordered, "lick".

Startled by it for a second but quick to my feet, I rushed myself to the side of Mr. Drew's car and placed my face right next to the spot. "I wanna hear you slurp, bitch."

"Yes... yes sir," I said. My voice was trembling, but I knew there was no disobeying. This was a new low for me- licking and slurping the spit of Mr. Drew. I gulped and then began slurping the spit... loudly.

As I finished, I quietly said, "Thank you, sir." My eyes were still facing the ground... embarrassed, and ashamed of what I'd just done.

Mr. Drew was just about to drive away, before adding, "I'll come by tomorrow night after dinner. Prepare everything well Weewee." And with that, the Beamer's engine roared, and in a split second the car was gone.

I began to sob quietly... my head felt dizzy and my knees were hurting from kneeling. My glasses were twisted, my hair a mess, and it hit me suddenly how cold I felt cold- my shirt was soaked with water.

"Th-Thank you Sir... thank you sir..." I was crying- not entirely sure whether it was because of how pathetic I was, or whether because Mr. Drew was finally coming to fuck my wife- again.