Under the Desk by boy jack

Drew’s Note: Another post by the best boy.

If you have followed any of my journey on either my Twitter feed or that of my Sir, you have no doubt seen his point of view from the top of the desk as I spend time beneath it while he works. I do, on occasion, get a place on top of the desk, but I have yet to actually see the view from up there as those times usually involve a hood that prohibits sight. That’s okay. I hear it is nice. I’m not concerned that I’m missing out on anything. I need that time under the desk, and I’m pretty sure he prefers me there. 

So why do I need to be under the desk, and how does it feel?  There are lots of reasons. First of all, I’m owned. My Sir wants me there, so I should be there. At times I’m his object, a footrest. Other times, I’m there to massage his legs and provide him comfort and relief. Other times, I’m his pet, a dog, licking my Master like a good dog does. Regardless of the specific role, I serve him. 

Sir asked me to write about how I feel there while I am serving? It depends on the day and the time. My time spent there, is a time for me to serve, to unwind, to clear my mind, to be the owned pervert I am. Just writing those things make the titanium in my short shorts strain. 

Back to what I feel under the desk…usually when I come home straight from work, I do my chores outside first. Once inside, I change into my uniform. My uniform in these hot southern summers consists of my collar, and sometimes he lets me wear socks.  Sir is already at his desk, where he has been all day, and I take my place under the desk. We usually discuss the day, unless he is already involved a conference call or Zoom meeting (I think we both enjoy how I sneak in away from cameras and mirrors). 

As I take my place, my sub side begins to take over. The stresses and anxieties of the day fade, as I focus on massaging my Sir’s body from underneath the desk. As I submit to him, I can feel his tense muscles begin to relax. I hear his grunts and sounds that he makes that let me know I am doing a good job. Fuck, my mind relaxes even more. I smell my Sir…smell is the sense most linked to memory, if you were wondering. Most times, I can tell you what he showered with earlier. Almost like a trigger, the feel of his body, his smell, and his sounds of pleasure carry me deeper into my submission. And that smile of his….fuck. When I’m not hooded or blindfolded under there, seeing that smirk of happiness or that smirk that lets me know he’s proud of me, and sometimes that smirk when I know I’m doing such a good job that he is a little distracted from work, it melts me. The best is when the people on the other side of his screen thinks he is smiling at them! The day’s stressors disappear at some point while I’m under that desk. It is good for me. It is good for my Sir. 

Time under the desk let’s me know my Sir’s body….it is fucking amazing. For starters, I can tell you where his scars are located, find that knot in his calf, and the sore spot from one of his surgeries, all without looking. I can trace his tattoos without looking, too. Besides the physical connection, we get to know each other on a deeper level when I spend time under the desk. We talk without talking. As an aside, he often quizzes me, when blindfolded, asking me to tell him how many scars he has and where, where his tattoos are by touch, and what body wash he may have used that day. Every time I miss, well, let’s just say my ass gets more red.

I look forward to this time. I need this time. He needs this time. This is only a small glimpse into what it feels like under the desk. I’m not sure that I have the words to describe it all accurately. Even writing this, I feel a sense of security, a sense of relaxation, and a more intense connection to my Sir. He gets this pervert unlike anybody I’ve ever known. Under that desk is where I need to be, for him and for me. 

His travel begins soon. I need to learn how to fit in a suitcase.

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