The Pack Master

Romanian Chronicles 3

eXtasy Books

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 59,222
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Sutton had completed his years of Service and was now a wealthy independent marked man. The only thing he was missing was someone to share his life with—someone who sexually dominated him like he craved. He met Gray Carron, the young recently-appointed US Ambassador to Romania. He felt a pull towards Gray that was unlike any he had ever felt before. Sutton accepts his invitation to come to Romania to be with him. Romania doesn’t turn out to be the paradise that Gray promised and Sutton is experiencing some strange physical symptoms. He is hounded by a local gang who brings him before their leader. The Pack Master is unlike any man Sutton has even fantasized about. Together they seek answers to questions that are only found when Sutton gives up total control to the Master.

The Pack Master
0 Ratings (0.0)

The Pack Master

Romanian Chronicles 3

eXtasy Books

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 59,222
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Cover Art by Angela Waters
Excerpt

I had always been completely in control of my life. Everything had always gone according to my plan. Even on my thirteenth birthday when I was sitting at dinner at Don Pablo’s with my family, I was in control. When the mark appeared on the side of my face—a bright blue fire-shaped mark that ran from my left earlobe to almost the middle of my chin—I was still in control of how I dealt with it.

The shocked look on my family’s faces did nothing to faze me. I had been expecting the mark to appear for about a month before my birthday. All fathers hold their breaths on their sons’ thirteenth birthday, but I had already warned mine that I thought it might happen.

The mark signified that I was a man who was sexually attracted to other men. I lived in a world full of men—the females had long ago been separated from us and we had never seen them since. Our world was pretty simple--you were either marked or non-marked.

Non-marked men, or NOMARs, were the vast majority of our population. Some people estimated that they were ninety-five percent of the population, which made marked men very unusual. Your thirteenth birthday was the time when you were sorted into one group or the other.

Marked men had a difficult path to walk in our world, because NOMARs were constantly horny and marked men were easy targets. Centuries ago, a government agency called The Service was established to help with these and other issues facing these special men.

One thing The Service established were schools called Service Academies. These schools were only for marked men and let them learn in a safe environment with their peers. It was good for them both socially and for safety. NOMARs considered the SA to be sex academies, since many students received lessons in the erotic arts as well as the normal school subjects.

The Service was also responsible for the second major program that marked men could apply for, which was the one that usually changed their lives. When a marked man reached eighteen, he could enter into a contract with a wealthy NOMAR to become his sexual Servant for one to two years. The NOMAR paid one million dollars a year for this service and the marked man collected that fee at the end of their Service.

For many marked men, entering The Service and getting called for by a NOMAR was a life-changing experience. The money alone could change someone forever, but the chance to see the world, meet interesting and powerful people, and the chance at sexual satisfaction was too hard to resist in most cases.

Those reasons were not the impetus for me to enter The Service, however. I had gone to the SA and graduated at the top of my class. While my fellow classmates were falling in love with each other, I was not. I had a thing for non-marked men and I entered The Service to fall in love.

Love was a taboo topic for marked men, unless you were talking about with each other. It was a terrible faux-pas to fall in love with your Master or any other NOMAR. No one really knew why, maybe it was because the perception of spreading your legs because your Master told you to and not because you love to get fucked was more tolerable to the outside world.

I had studied hard while at The Service Academy and learned a lot. I wasn’t just at the top of my class in academics, but I was one of the most sought after marked men to bang. I had learned how to please a NOMAR both in his bed and outside of it, and I looked forward every day to being called to Service by one of them.

That call came the week before my eighteenth birthday. I would be with my new Master by the end of the week. I was a giant ball of hopeful sexual energy and then I met Preston Sway the Third. Preston was a wealthy blue-blood who considered himself an art dealer, even though he rarely dealt it.

As far as Masters went, Preston was a nice man and treated me very fairly. Some of my marked friends had been placed with mean and cruel Masters who used them for their sexual pleasure, loaned them out to business contacts, or ignored them completely. I felt lucky to have been called by a Master who valued, included, and respected me.

However, there was no love between Preston and I. He was in his early sixties and more ballet dancer than lumberjack. He was not very masculine and really didn’t do anything for me sexually at all. To Preston’s credit, he didn’t let our obvious non-attraction to each other affect our relationship. He was looking for me to be more friend and companion than sex object.

After coming to terms with the fact that I wasn’t delivered to a Master that I would fall in love with, I came to terms with being Preston’s companion and the fact that he was paying me for it made it even more palatable. Preston was a very good friend, made smart decisions, was a savvy business person, and had a tremendous network of people with which he had connected. He taught me everything he knew. By the time my third year with him was completed, I was three million dollars richer and networked with people in positions of power in almost every major field of commerce.

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