This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage where ever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional, the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.
Jason leaves my house at 5:45pm, 8 hours and 45 minutes after arriving. We have both had really great sex, and bonded in some pretty amazing ways. I think he's learned a lot about himself, and, God know, I've learned a hell of a lot about him. He is beautiful, submissive, eager to please, totally turned on by the pain I caused him, and totally freaked by the prospect of telling his folks...what? That he's moving out? That he's moving to the home of a white guy twice his age? That he's gay? That he's going to be a houseboy and boy toy? What the hell is he going to tell them? I'm not sure.
At 1:45pm the next day the phone rings. It's Jason. He sounds like he's been crying.
"Please, Tim... May I call you Tim?"
He giggles briefly. "I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to call you Sir, or Master."
I laugh. "Someone's been reading too much internet porn."
"My parents would like to meet you." Pause. "I'm so sorry about this. I really don't want to hurt them. There's no way I can tell them who I am. I'm not sure I even fully know, yet. They expect me to be a nice, conservative, dutiful Asian son, and I'm not ready to disappoint them too much, yet. We had a huge row last night, and then again this morning, over my decision to move out. I think they're coming around, but they really want to meet my `employer'." I've sold you as a software game programmer, which they know I'm interested in, and someone who will teach me to do that in return for menial chores – cooking, cleaning, clerical work. I think they're okay with that. Menial work was how my Dad got started. I think they'll be okay with that. Can you please put on a show? Please? I really want this job, but I don't want to disappoint my parents."
quiet for several seconds. This is almost like going back to the closet. I've
been out and proud for years. I've been a crusader. I've been one of several
gay men to bring suit against the City of
"Okay," I said, quietly.
He pauses. "I know this is asking a lot of you." Pause. Starting to cry. "I want this job so much. Please, help me."
I pause, quietly, "Okay."
He pauses. "Think of it this way: this is the first thing you can punish me for."
I smile. This boy was clever. "That's true," I reply, brightening. He giggles.
"When do you want to bring them over?"
"Can we come at 4pm?"
I check the calendar, the calendar that will soon be Jason's responsibility, thank God. I'm no damned good with it. "Okay."
"Thank you so, so much. I'll see you at 4pm. I'm so grateful."
I hang up. It's about 2pm. I have two hours to set the stage. I decide to bring one of my faster desktops down to the dining table, and to pin up some of my navigation diagrams on the wall. My network is completely wireless, so this desktop is going to be drawing code from the tiny little laptop in my bedroom, my real work computer, but a machine that will not impress the uninitiated. The diagrams, which I haven't depended on in years, are bound to impress. I go and shower, putting on a pair of dress slacks, a button-down-collar shirt, and a tie (of all things – only waiters at the Sizzler wear a tie these days).
At 4pm, the doorbell rings. I wait a couple of beats, and then answer. Jason leads the charge. "Hello, Mr... James." Not my name. I realize I've never told him my last name.
"Hi, Jason. Are these your parents?"
"Yes, they are." He begins speaking in Chinese, and his father extends his hand. We shake."
In the course of the next hour, the parents get a view of a game I wrote a year or two ago, and are excited by what they see. Jason is narrating, telling them God-knows-what. They examine the navigation diagrams (which actually have nothing to do with this game, but they don't know that), examine me and the tie I haven't worn in 15 years, examine the house (which really is quite nice), examine Jason's room, and finally decide that I'm not the pervert they thought I was. Boy, are they wrong. They leave, shaking my hand again. Jason thanks me again profusely, in whispers, promising to call later.
This is all good for a laugh, and I have one, making myself a Martini.
At around 10pm, the phone rings. It's Jason. "Thank you so much. They really liked your house, and you. They think this is a great opportunity for me."
I snaugh. "And well it may be. I'm perfectly willing to help you build games, if that's what you want to do... It's a lot of fun. It's what I do."
"But this particular game is one you won't forget."
He pauses. "Are you mad?"
"Not especially, although you've just stuffed me back into a closet I came out of 15 years ago. That's not a big deal," I giggle. "But it will be the subject of your first punishment."
He sighs in relief. "Thank God. I thought for a minute that you'd decided to reject me, to not let me have the job."
"No. You've got the job. It's yours. But you will pay for this," I snicker.
"Yes, please," he giggles, perhaps a little nervously.
We chat for a couple more minutes, and agree that I will pick him up tomorrow at 10am at his parents' place in my car. No rental truck required. Everything he'll need will fit into two suitcases, as unlikely as that sounds. Apparently, though, this is how he's lived for a very long time, so who am I to second-guess him? At least clothing won't be an issue.
I arrive at his parents' place, situated in a run-down tract on the east-side
I hand him an envelope with an employment contract and a cashiers check for $1500, and a pen. "Read and sign." My signature is already attached.
The contract lays out his responsibilities, specifies that while he's in my employ he's subject to corporal punishment for infractions or failure to adequately perform his duties, obliquely refers to "other physical and personal duties," and finally emphasizes that the contract may be terminated by either of us at any time until I start paying his college tuition, at which time he is effectively indentured for a period of four years following the completion of his degree.
All this he scans quickly, smiles, and signs the two copies, returning them to the envelope. The check he just stares at. I don't think he's ever been handed this much money at one time. Finally, he folds the check, and puts it in his wallet. "I'm going to have to get a checking account."
"There's a bank about two blocks away from me. It's where I bank. We can stop there after lunch, if you like."
"So, you're now my employee."
"Strip," I say.
"Pardon." He's not sure he's heard me.
"Strip. Take off your clothes."
He looks surprised, and a little embarrassed. "Here?"
"Yup. Here and now."
He thinks for a second, and begins taking off his shoes, followed by his socks, shirt, shorts, and underwear. All these he folds and turns to place on the back seat just as I pull up at a red light. As we wait for the signal to change, a semi pulls up to our right, and the driver glancing over. He's so much higher than we are and can no doubt see every inch of Jason. He starts talking to his buddy, who leans over and stares into our car, laughing. To Jason's credit, he doesn't move. He doesn't try to cover himself. He sits still with his hands at his sides, looking out the window. He's clearly embarrassed, in fact, he's beat red, and that's hard for him given his beautiful bronze complexion.
The signal changes to green, and I begin to accelerate into the intersection and towards home.
"You did that very well," I tell him. "You restrained the urge to cover yourself. Very well done. I won't often expose you in public places, although you'll be exposed to visitors in our house. Today, though, I'm horny as hell and wanted to cop a feel on the way home, as well as to get you ready to be fucked as soon get there. When we get there, we'll drive directly into the garage. Get out and follow me to the bedroom. Got it?"
"Yes." He sees the amusement of all this and has a vague smirk on his face. He's also half-hard. With my right had, I begin to stroke him slowly, and he comes to full attention. "You do not, by the way, have permission to cum. Remember I told you that the severest punishment is reserved for masturbation and cumming without permission? Well, cumming now would count. Unless, of course, you want that severe punishment." I wink at him, and he giggles.
I continue stroking him, but more slowly. I really don't want him to cum, yet. I have plans for us, but he's so young and I don't know how much control he has. He's leaned his head back against the headrest, and his breathing is getting ragged. I stop stroking completely, though I continue to hold onto his dick.
"Oh, please don't stop. It feels so good. I'm not sure I can hold out, but I'll take my punishment."
"Nope. I really want to fuck you, and it'll be more fun if you're on edge and ready to cum." He groans in disappointment.
"You'll get off. Don't worry. And then this afternoon I get to punish you for the game we played with your parents..." I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Another traffic light, but no semi. To passersby, Jason looks like a shirtless youth – with dazzlingly bronze skin. Eye-candy, but nothing out of the ordinary.
"You said the other day you'd had punishment fantasies other than spanking. What were they."
He's silent, and beat-red again. Long, long pause. "They're embarrassing."
"Withholding them is sort of like trying to cover your genitals in the house. It's not acceptable. Sex acts between consenting adults are always okay, and punishments are just another form of sex acts. They're just a little `kinkier,' whatever that means. Nothing wrong with kink. Sexuality is healthy. Did you know that studies have shown that regular sex reduces prostate cancer rates, and depression. Self-hatred, on the other hand, is responsible for increased rates of depression and suicide."
He's staring down into his lap. His erection has deflated. He looks sad, a little scared. "I haven't had a lot of sexual experiences, as I told you, and wasn't even sure that I was gay. I thought I might be, but until I met you, I really wasn't sure."
I gave his dick a squeeze, and he looked up and smiled. "And..."
"Well, I read a lot, watched a lot of videos..."
"What did you read?"
He's back to shamefaced. "Stuff I found on some of the story web-sites."
This is like pulling teeth. "And, were the stories categorized?"
"And what category of story turned you on?"
Very softly. "Authoritarian."
"And, what turned you on about your favorite stories?"
"The submission. Giving up control of your body. Letting someone do things to you that you can't control."
"What things?" We were coming to the nub of the question.
"I'm afraid to tell you."
"But, isn't that what you want? Isn't giving up control and having me do things to you, things you can't control, isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, but they might hurt."
"Yeah, and... You sure got into the spanking the other day."
"They might hurt too much..."
"It'll never be my intent to hurt you `too much.' I'll always try for just enough. Did the spanking hurt `too much?'"
Pause. "No. It was intense, but ultimately I enjoyed it."
"And, do you remember my response to your wanting all that punishment?"
"You thought it WAS too much. You wanted my first punishment experience to be less intense."
"Exactly. I wanted to work up to it, to figure out what your limits are. You demanded that spanking. I'm not in this to hurt you more than is right for you, although I am in this to hurt you. You're safe with me. I swear it. So, which punishments in your stories excited you?"
He's still looks a little ashamed, but is starting to open up a little. "Enemas," he confesses.
"Oh, my God, that's great, because I've really wanted to give you one. We'll start small at first, but I've been thinking about that."
"Really," incredulous. I didn't think you'd want to. It's sort of gross, when you think about it.
"No," it's really exciting. I think it's sort of the ultimate release of control, the ultimate surrender, giving someone else the power to dictate how much liquid your body is going to hold, how much pain your belly will feel, and for how long. And, it's a little humiliating, too, isn't it?"
"Ball torture sort of excites me," he says, after a long pause.
"I don't know. Maybe because it's so personal...and the idea of your balls – so sensitive."
"Okay. Anything else?"
He dropped his head again, staring at his naked feet. "I don't necessarily want to do this; it actually really scares me, but also really excites me." His dick had swollen considerably in the last 10 seconds. "Umm...having something...umm...in your...dick." He looked at me. "Have you ever done that?"
"Yup. What did the story use?"
"A caratar, or something like that. I don't remember the word. A rubber hose...to let pee escape."
"Catheter," I corrected. It's not all that unusual. They can be used for evacuation, or for irrigation."
He gave me a look of total puzzlement.
"You can let pee out – evacuation – or you can drain liquid in – irrigation. Irrigation can actually be pretty uncomfortable depending how much liquid is involved. I personally find catheters totally erotic. Again, the idea of surrendering your ability to pee, because that's what you're doing. Once that catheter is inside you, the only way you're going to pee is if the dominant lets you. You can't pee around it, actually can't control your urine flow at all. And, if the dominant wants to really control, they'll drain a bag of saline into the catheter, filling your bladder, making you want to pee so bad you can taste it. The bladder is a sterile environment, though. You have to be really careful to keep everything sterile or you'll end up with infection. I really want to do this to you some day, but not right away. There are other things that can be inserted that are a lot safer. Sounds, for example, are stainless steel rods that slide up the urethra painlessly, stretch you a little, and feel really, really good. We'll try that, too..."
He looks really frightened, REALLY frightened.
"...but not right away," I assure him, squeezing the back of his neck affectionately."
"We already know you like spankings, and pretty intense spankings at that. What about your nipples," I ask, reaching over and giving his right nipple a firm squeeze. He gasps, and his dick get's hard again.
"I'd never thought of it. Does it hurt?"
"Yeah. Moderately. I think that'll be your punishment this afternoon."
He looks nervous, but tries to tough it out, smiles a little.
"I'm glad to know that you've thought about this stuff, that you've got opinions, that there's stuff other than spankings that turns you on, because, frankly, spankings are the most damaging. I can't spank you every day or you'd be covered with scars, and I don't want that. You're too beautiful. But we can do other things."
He looks worried. "Are you going to punish me every day?"
"No. But I will probably torture you in some way every day." I smile. "Often it won't hurt at all, but it may drive you crazy. Are you ticklish?"
Very slowly, leery. "Yeah."
"You can bet that you're going to get tickled...while securely tied up. The idea is always to reinforce our roles. I will dominate, and you will submit."
He's still staring at his feet, but cracks a grin. "I really want to submit to you."
"I know you do," I say squeezing the back of his neck again. I glance at him from the corner of my eye while trying to keep my eyes on the road. Fuck. He is just so damned adorable, and so beautiful. I think I'm falling in love.
There's a quality of the skin that I find simply irresistible. Italian, Hispanic and Asian men have it most often. Irish, Scandinavian, and German men have it least often. I don't really know how to describe it, if not clinically: very small pores, tan or bronze complexions, hairless. I find the back and torso – chest, belly – the most erotic parts of the male anatomy, even more attractive than the penis. With Jason, I had a hard time keeping my eyes off him. His skin was flawless, his chest and back defined but not muscle-bound, and such a beautiful tan. I had several deadlines on games I'd committed to developing, and I wasn't sure how I was going to meet those with such a beautiful creature in the house.
We finally arrive at the house, and I hit the garage door opener. As it slides up and out of the way, I drive into the garage bay on the left. Next to us, on the right, is a two-year-old very light-lavender BMW 325IS. My old car. I drive a Lexus. Silver. Nice, but not over the top, like the BMW. "That's the car you'll use." The car looks brand new. I had it detailed over the weekend. Leather seats. Sunroof. He looks at it for a few seconds, and then turns and stares at me in absolute amazement. Then he starts to tear up. He starts to cry, not moving, his eyes running with tears.
I reach out and turn his face toward me. "What's wrong," I ask, concerned, trying to wipe away the abundant tears with my thumb?
"Nothing's wrong. That's what's wrong. This is just so new. I feel so special. That is the most beautiful car I've ever seen. You saw the Datsun I was driving. I couldn't keep it running. It's 23 years old. I just can't believe this."
He reached to the back of my neck, drew me in, and kissed me, a very passionate kiss. "I don't want you to think that this," pointing to the car "is the big part of why I took this job, the promise of a nice car – I had no idea it would be this nice, a nice Ford Focus would have impressed me – I want you to believe that I'm here to serve you, that I'm incredibly attracted to you, and that this car just blows me away. I know it's not mine," he's sobbing. "But, being able to drive it with your permission is just amazing."
I pull him to me, kissing him. His dick is hard again. I think we're going have to deal with that.
"Okay, get out. Leave the suitcases in the trunk. We'll get them later. And you can make love to the car later. Follow me to the bedroom, where I'm going to fuck you. Then we'll have lunch, unload the car and do a bit of shopping. Capiche?"
And do we fuck! We're at it for maybe three hours. Jason seems insatiable, and I just can't stop petting him. I'm very tactile. The few times I've bottomed, the few times I've been tied up, I've had a very hard time holding an erection because most of my stimulus comes from my fingers. Yeah, I do look at my partners, but it's a snapshot, not a movie. And then I close my eyes and start to stroke them, to explore their bodies. It's just the way I'm built, I guess. It's the feel of them that makes me hard. If I can't do that, I have a very hard time staying focused.
After three hours, we're both exhausted, falling asleep, intertwined. We miss lunch entirely, another minor punishable offense, waking at 2pm, dressing hurriedly, and making our way to the bank to get Jason a checking account. From there, we stop at a Pho shop we both know for sustenance, and then to the Asian grocery for dinner. We buy half a duck, some pork tongue (I don't mean to gross you out, but these are my favorite foods.) bitter melons, and sprouted soy beans. We also buy a raft of sauces and other mysterious liquids that Jason says he needs. This is going to be his inaugural dinner, and I can't wait.
"Okay," I say on the way home. "You get a pass for today. No punishment. I'll add it to tomorrow's punishments."
He looks hurt...insulted...confused. "I don't understand. Is there reason for me to be punished?"
"Yes. The parental fiasco, the lack of lunch."
"Well, then punish me."
"It can wait until tomorrow." It wasn't urgent...
...to me. "I don't understand. If I need to be punished, I need to be punished."
I stared at him for a long moment. He had pissed me off. "I'm doubling your punishment, and we'll do as soon as we get home, " I say, through my teeth.
I'm not really sure what this is about. Is he a pain-pig, anxious to earn his keep, his position in the household (and my heart), guilt about $1500 he hasn't earned yet (but has deposited in his new account). No fucking idea. But I'm pissed.
When we get home, I tell him to get into the house, get his clothes off, go to the basement, and lie down on the punishment table. He is very quiet. Nods. And as soon as the car's in the garage, he's out and on his way.
I carry the groceries to the kitchen and put both bags into the fridge. This is his job. He can sort everything out when we're done downstairs, whenever that is.
When I get to the basement, he's in position...perfectly...and I attach the straps. He's getting ten strokes of the razor stop, and six of the cane. (He's confided to me that he hates the razor strop, so I try to maximize those strokes, especially when the beating is really about punishment rather than eroticism, as it is now.) He's crying, but his dick, hanging through the hole in the middle of the table, is throbbing.
"I'm so sorry," he says.
"And I'm so pissed! I don't want to hear it! I'll decide when to punish you and when to let you off. If you decide, then you're in control, and that's not how this is going to work. You're very close to severe punishment tonight, and even though you're not getting the full number of strokes, I plan to make this punishment `severe.' I am very angry, and you'll sense that anger as I beat you."
He's crying freely, now. "I'm so sorry," he sobs.
Taking the razor strop from the wall, I lay into him, applying all ten strokes, very hard, in rapid succession, leaving no time to let each stroke dissipate. He's sobbing, and his ass is crimson with some bruising. I return the razor strop to the wall and return with the cane, deliberately delivering the six strokes to nearly the same spot on his ass, the last landing, once again on the crease of his legs. He has screamed with each stroke. He has one, very red welt on an already very red ass, yet his dick is still rock hard.
"Did you enjoy that? Was that an erotic spanking?"
Still sobbing. "No."
"Don't ever tell me how or when to correct you," I shout, spanking him with my open hand. "If you do, I will cause you more pain than you can i-ma-gine," I promise, spanking him on each syllable. He's sobbing, bawling, uncontrollably, as much a reaction to my anger, I think, as to the pain of the spanking, which is probably no worse than his first. "Please...I'm...so...sorry... Please...I'll...never...do it again. I'm so...so...sorry."
I leave the basement, leaving him strapped to the table, sobbing. I need to calm down, and so does he. He needs to realize who's in charge. He's not getting laid tonight. In fact, he may sleep here. I'm not sure.
At 1:30am I wake up, and am still pissed, but calmer. I walk down to the basement, and find him, wide awake, still crying, his eyes red. "Please...please... I don't want you to release me. I deserve this. But, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. I don't understand my place, yet. I'm not sure how to please you, yet, how to submit to you. I'm sorry. Please, don't release me, but, please...could you kiss me? Please...I..."
He melts my heart. I lean over and give him a long, lingering kiss. But I do not release him. "You really pissed me off, today, Jason."
"I know," he says, choking through tears.
"Don't do this again."
Sobbing, again. "I won't. I promise."
If he's manipulating me, it hasn't worked very well. If not, he'll get a heart-felt response tomorrow. I turn off the dungeon light and leave the room, leaving him strapped to the table, sobbing. This is where he stays. I go upstairs to work on my latest game.
Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/