The following excerpt is from My Master’s Wallet: A Gay Findom Story, which is available exclusively for purchase on Kindle.

My date prodded me in the small of my back away from the counter, and we took a table in the back corner. Remembering the experience with the door, I went out on a limb and pulled out a chair for him. He smiled—a full one this time, not just a half smile—and sat down with his legs splayed wide. I tried to avoid staring at his bulging crotch, but I couldn’t help myself. The light gray fabric against the inside of his thighs was darkened with sweat. I thought again about my wallet and how strange it was that that it got to touch his cock before I did. I had a million questions going through my mind as I sat down opposite him, but his admonition from earlier still echoed in my head. 

Brent set his cup down on the table and placed my wallet on the chair, resting gently against his bulge. I couldn’t look away. I wanted so badly to be my wallet. 

Black wallet with money inside and dollar bills on top on white background” by wuestenigel is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

“I’ve never had a date like this before,” I said, no longer even trying to look him in the eye. “I don’t really know what to do with myself.” 

“Good thing I’m here,” Brent said, tapping my wallet with his index finger. “How much cash do you have in here?” 

“Two hundred dollars,” I said. “Well, one-eighty now.” 

“Why so much?” 

“I-I don’t know,” I stammered. “I guess I like to be prepared.” 

I watched Brent’s hand move from my wallet resting at his crotch up his torso and land at his chin. He scratched his five o’clock shadow, and the rough sound sent tingles up my spine. “You brought two hundred dollars in cash with you to a first date.” 

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.” 

“Because you were prepared to spend it on me.” 

“N-No,” I stammered. “That’s not it.” 

“You sure? Why else would you carry around this much cash?” 

“I guess.” It didn’t feel right to challenge him on this, but his premise was wrong. I thought by staying noncommittal, I could side step his questioning until he changed the subject. 

He pointed to the cup on the table. “You didn’t protest when I paid for that coffee with your cash.” 

“It’s just a coffee,” I said. 

“And I deserve it.” 

“I guess.” Staying noncommittal wasn’t going as well as I hoped. 

“Say it.” When I didn’t comply after a few seconds, he grunted in frustration and leaned in close.  “I said, say it.” 

At this distance, I could smell him. His sweat, his musk, his masculinity. My head swam. I looked into his green eyes, and all my noncommittal bullshit melted away. I wanted to obey. No, I needed to obey. 

“You deserve it.” 

“You deserve it, Sir,” He corrected. 

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “You deserve it, Sir.” 

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