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.


Chapter 4

When we get home, he takes off the Speedo, and goes to make lunch -- tuna and canella bean salad over a nice bed of Romaine lettuce. He's added a chopped Jalapeņo pepper, so it's nice and spicy. Delicious.

As we sit eating, I'm more hopeful about this relationship. He's clearly making an effort to please me. Glancing across the table, I say "It's nearly time for your punishment."

"He smiles and nods."

"And it should be fairly heavy-duty, don't you think."

He nods again, chewing.

"Have you decided how you want to be punished?"

He's chewing furiously, now, trying to get this bite swallowed so he can reply. Finally he swallows.

"I've been thinking about this, Tim. I don't think the choice of punishment should be mine, just as what I'm punished for isn't my choice. That's something you should decide based on the gravity of my...umm...transgressions. You said before that once I started working for you, you'd consider my body your property. My role is to submit my body to whatever punishment you choose to apply."

The language of his statement is so formal, almost legalistic. But he has a point. Decisions like these are not going to make him submissive, but instead force him to think of himself as a free agent. I'm sending him mixed signals. No wonder he's confused.

"You make a good point," I replied. "Okay. So, today's punishment will be twelve strokes of the razor strop," knowing how much he hates the razor strop, "and something else you'll find out about later."

The something else would probably be more unpleasant than the spanking. I've found that if you mix about 1/8 teaspoon of Tiger Balm (a muscle liniment) with about four teaspoons of body lotion, you come out with a mixture that will have little effect in soothing your muscles, but will drive you to distraction when applied elsewhere. It really can cause a lot of pain, but not as much as straight Tiger Balm -- which can be really destructive -- and, because of the lotion, you can wash it off very quickly, effectively stopping those painful effects. This will be the real punishment.

After lunch, Jason cleans up, washing the dirty dishes, sponging down the counter, and then comes into the living room where I'm reading. He stands at the side of my chair, staring at his feet.


"Yes," he says.

"Okay. I need to go grab something. Go downstairs and get into position."

He walks meekly out of the room and I go to the bathroom to get my potion. When I get to the basement, Jason's already on the punishment table lying on his belly, his cock and balls positioned through the hole in the middle of the table. I fasten the straps to his ankles and thighs, as well as across his lower back.

"Push yourself up on your elbows," I command.

He pushed himself up, and I applied a small dollop of the Tiger Balm cream to each nipple.

"Okay. Lie back down."

Once in place, I attach the straps to his wrists and upper arms. He's now spread eagle, and by the sounds he's making, the cream seemed to be doing its work.

Reaching under the table, I gently retract his foreskin and apply some of the cream to his dick head. Then I get the razor strop. When I return to the table, Jason's already in agony. "Owww. Please Tim. What did you put on me. Oh, my God. I can't stand this. Please take it off. Please...help...please." He begins to cry, to scream, as I prepare to apply the first blow.

Twelve strokes later, he's nearly incoherent, sobbing, struggling, babbling nonsense. I put my hand on his back and whisper in his ear: "Five more minutes." He screams, thrashing violently from side to side.

The beauty of the lotion is that it's intensely painful to very sensitive areas of the body like the dick head, nipples, asshole and scrotum, but leaves absolutely no marks. Looking at his dick head, for example, it wasn't even red. From the noise he's making, you'd think I'd cut his dick off. But there's absolutely no sign of the pain it's causing him. My first master had used something like this as a lube. He wore a condom, and would lubricate my asshole liberally with the stuff. Terribly painful, and required several douches to get rid of its residual effects.

After five minutes of shrieks and pleading, I come back with a bowl of cool water and a washcloth. Reaching under the table, I wash his dick head, being sure to remove every bit of lotion. Then, releasing the straps on his wrists and arms, I have him push up onto his elbows and rinse his nipples and the table below him. Then I release the rest of the straps, lift him off the table, and carry him upstairs to my bedroom where I lay him on the bed, snuggling beside him, nuzzling his neck until he finally stops crying and falls asleep. He sleeps for about two hours, turning toward me midway through his nap, his erection poking me in the thighs, hugging me tightly. When he awakes, we're face to face. I'd woken up maybe ten minutes before. He moves his face closer and kisses me.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. Are we okay now?"

"Yup. You've been punished. Your `transgressions' as you called them are expiated."


"Well, they were `transgressions,' after all. A $64,000 word. They're paid for."

"Oh," he giggles. Then, apparently remembering the punishment, he flips the comforter off him, retracts his foreskin, and stares at his cock. "What the heck did you put on my penis?"

"Secret formula. How'd you like it."

"I hated it. It was the most pain I think I've ever felt in my life. I hope you're planning to save that for really heinous crimes. It completely obliterated any pleasure I would have gotten from the spanking."

"That was the idea...this time. Wanna get off?"

He giggles. "Yes, please."

I start to kiss him while pinching his nipples. He's instantly hard. The way to this boy's dick, I've found, is through his nipples, which makes me wonder... I reach into the drawer of the night stand and pull out a pair of butterfly nipple clamps.

"If you don't like this after, say, two minutes, tell me and I'll take them off. They're going to hurt at first, but I think you'll like them ultimately. Give them two minutes."

Gently, I clamp his right nipple. He hisses and moans. "Ow...ow...ow."

Giving him about 15 seconds to adjust to the pain, I clamp his second nipple. Same response. "Oh, my god that hurts..."

But he's rock hard. Moving down his body, I take him in my mouth and start to suck, using my tongue to stimulate the glans. He moans and squirms. I tug on the chain connecting the clamps, and he moans again. I continue to apply gentle pressure to he chain while continuing to suck him, finally pressing the tip of my index finger into his asshole. That's all it takes. With a loud groan, he begins to buck his hips, cumming in my mouth in gushes. There's almost too much cum to swallow, but I manage it. When he subsides, he falls back onto the mattress. I release the chain, pull my finger out of his asshole and his dick out of my mouth.

"When I take these off, it's going to be a little painful. Don't touch your nipples. When circulation returns, you'll be fine."

I ease off the first clamp, and he groans. Giving him about ten seconds to recover, I remove the other clamp. "Ahhhhh," he says.

"How was it?"

He gives me a "what-planet-are-you-from look."

"Does that mean it was okay," I tease.

"Umm, yeah," he says without inflection. "It was okay," sounding sort of bored.

I hit him in the bicep and he giggles.

"Seriously," I prod.

"Seriously, it was amazing," he says, kissing me.

"And the clamps?"

"Oh, my god, the clamps were incredible. At first they were pretty intense, but, like you said, after a couple minutes...what...they just keep you focused."

I snaugh. "In your case, they keep you focused on your dick."

"Yeah," he giggles. "What's that about?"

"There have been a couple of studies done on the connection between the tits and the genitals. They're hardwired. For women this is no surprise because they have bigger nipples than we do. When they get erect, it's really noticeable. For men, nipple erections are less noticeable, and straight women are, according to one survey, unlikely to try to stimulate their partners' nipples. This is truly a gay secret. Gay guys, at least the ones I've been with, are usually very turned on by nipple play."

"And, how many have you been with," he asks, grinning.

It's sort of an impertinent question, but I know the answer in his case; he might as well know the answer for me.


He sits back and looks at me, then grins. "Yeah, right..."

"The answer is four, including you. Why does that surprise you?"

He's stunned, has to think about his answer. "I guess I assumed you'd had more experience."

"Oh, I have experience, but I've been largely monogamous my whole life. I've had three other sex partners, and all of them were long term. I met my first when I was fifteen and he was twenty-five. He was a grad student at Stanford. We met in the Stanford coffee house. He had blond shaggy hair, a goofy grin, and was very wise. We dated for three years before my parents found out. They were livid -- first, that their only son was gay, and second, that this pervert had turned their only, and underage son, gay. But, they couldn't prove the underage part. Of course, we'd been having sex, Barry and I, but I admitted nothing, and an ACLU lawyer that helped us out, convinced them that they had no prosecutable case. So, instead, they threw me out of the house. At 18. I lived with Barry for three more years before he dumped me for another 15 year old. I guess, at 21, I was over-the-hill."

"Then I met Anthony at a party. Another shaggy-haired blond. He was my age, 22, going to UC Riverside. I moved in with him and we were very happy. But he ended up wanting an "open relationship," which I did not. We separated after five years."

"Finally, I met Julian. He was English, over here on a scholarship. I met him at, of all places, the San Francisco Pride parade. He was standing on a fire hydrant on Market and Third. He was stunning, and I was instantly in love. We just started chatting, had lunch together that day, went back to his apartment and talked for hours. We were together for four years in this country and three years in London. We were separated by the draconian immigration laws, and a bit of boredom. In truth, he also wanted to fuck around, and I didn't."

He was tearing up.

"What's wrong?"

"I thought that gay guys were supposed to be promiscuous."

I laughed. "Disappointed?"

"No," hugging me so tightly I could barely breathe.

"Promiscuity is the bullshit put out there by the christians to make us look immoral. The lesbians call this "serial monogamy." I'm actually ashamed that I've had this many partners. But I'm not ashamed that I've found you."

He kisses me... for five minutes.

"You're my fourth," when he breaks the kiss.

"And your first Asian?"


"Why? Why am I your first? What is it that attracted you?"

Long pause. "I wish I could say that it's because I've come to my senses. I wish I could say that it's because of how smart you are. During the women's movement in the 70's, what you could never say was because you're attractive. I have to be pretty racist here, even more racist than the "model minority" stereotype that Asians live with. It's the skin."


I told him about my attraction to that special quality of skin prevalent in Italians, Hispanics and Asians. "I've only told this to one other person, one of my ex's, and he thought I was deeply strange. Please don't judge me. It's just that you have really, really beautiful skin -- unblemished, creamy, bronze. You never had acne, did you?"

"Umm, no."

The conversation had gotten a little weird, or, at least, it had begun to make me feel self-conscious.

"I'm not going to justify this. You asked me what attracted me and I told you."

He looked at me, confused.

"You like to be spanked, right?"


"What percentage of the population do you think shares that particular proclivity?"

He thought a moment. "Probably not very many."

"Exactly. So, if you don't share my fascination with really beautiful skin, why should you judge me for that?"

He gave me a long look. "I shouldn't," he says, seriously. "And I wasn't, really. It's not something I've ever noticed, frankly -- skin -- but if you find me attractive, for whatever reason, I'm flattered." He pauses, and smiles, reaching behind my neck, drawing me to him, kissing me, passionately.

We break the kiss, and I look at my watch.

"There are people you need to meet," I say. We're going out to dinner tonight with two of my oldest friends, Gary and Nathan. Gary is Caucasian, and Nathan is Vietnamese. They've been together forever. Like us, Nathan started out as a houseboy, but I honestly don't understand their relationship these days, and I think they like it that way. Go get dressed. Slacks, no jeans, a dress shirt, something nice, but not formal. We're meeting them at 6:30 and it's 5:45 now, so we don't have a lot of time."

Jason heads up to his room, and I head to mine, combing my hair, matching the uniform I ordered for him. At about 6:10 we head out to the restaurant. He's driving my car. I really don't like to drive, so having someone around who does is a luxury. We arrive at the restaurant just on time, and Gary and Nathan are already here, already seated. We join them, hugging each other as gay guys do. I order a martini, and Jason orders a wine-cooler (YUK). Noticing the very light accent, Jason starts to talk to Nathan in Mandarin, but Nathan smiles and shakes his head. Jason tries Vietnamese. Same response. He smiles. Finally, he starts speaking in Cantonese, and Nathan's eyes light up, and they begin a very animated conversation. (He later confides that he should have started with Cantonese. A large segment of the Vietnamese population, he tells me, emigrated from Southern China, Canton specifically -- now Guangdong. Many of them lived in the China town area of Saigon and spoke no Vietnamese at all. This was the case for Nathan.)

They were off and running, talking non-stop for the two-hours we were with them. Gary and I held our own conversation, interacting with them occasionally when they broke into English, asking us questions, or involving us in their conversation. Gary, like me, writes software, and Gary, like me, has an authoritarian relationship with his mate. They'd met at a dance club in San Francisco that caters primarily to Asians `and their admirers,' (which translates to `rice queens,' a rather unflattering term for a gay white male who has sex only with Asian men). Nathan picked him up on the dance floor, which I thought surprising. He said he liked how Gary looked, very masculine. (Nathan is a bit effeminate.) It wasn't until they sat down at the bar and had a drink that Nathan found out what he'd picked up. "So, what are you into," he apparently asked, and Gary told him. Curiously, it excited him, and good thing, because they were made for each other. Nathan thrives on submission, and enjoys quite a lot of pain. It was a match made in heaven.

Gary and I talked business this evening, the state of the software market, what companies were doing what, and Jason and Nathan talked about god knows what, giggling, gesturing extravagantly, giggling some more. I actually like the sound of Cantonese better than Mandarin, but understand neither -- fluently. I was surprised that Jason was fluent in four languages (and discovered later, that there was a fifth -- French -- which I also spoke.)

When the waiter came for the orders, Gary ordered for Nathan. He then looked to us. I ordered, and then looked to Jason, who was just adorable. "Gee, Tim, I think I'd like the Filet, but probably shouldn't have that. How about the Pasta Primavera." The waiter started scribbling I smiled at him, and winked. Turning to the waiter, "No. He'll have the Filet. He's been good this week."

Jason giggled. Nathan giggled. The waiter flushed. And Gary snorted.

It was a very nice dinner. Jason and Nathan bonded, and in fact became really good friends. I hadn't seen Gary in a while, so we were able to catch up. We invited them back to the house for a nightcap, but Gary said they had another "obligation," glancing at Nathan ominously. Nathan, in turn, stared at his shoes. My cursory translation of that interaction was that Nathan was getting punished tonight, and Gary confirmed that the next day when I called to arrange for them to come to dinner the following week. "Nathan has been really disrespectful lately; not so much to me, but to neighbors, and the concierge at our complex. We've discussed this quite a lot recently, and last night I gave him a really nasty enema to reinforce our discussions. I think his behavior will improve."

Heading home, Jason was excited and prattled on endlessly. I had the sense, ultimately, that he didn't have many Asian friends, that he missed that. I finally asked him -- "Did Mama not let you play with Asian boys."

To my surprise, this stopped the conversation cold. "She didn't, actually," he finally said, seriously. "She wanted me to be `American,' and so wouldn't let me play with Asians. She couldn't stifle the language, because she couldn't speak English." He snaughs. "She would have if she could have, but I had to even translate the parent/teacher conferences, which was a little embarrassing because they were all about me. I didn't want to lose it, my ethnicity, my Asianness. But my parents sure wanted me to lose it."

I sighed. "I'm Dutch. That's my ethnicity. My grandfather was born in Holland, and spoke the language fluently. My mother was semi-fluent, but forbid her children to speak Dutch, and would not speak Dutch in our home. This still makes me very angry. I was denied the opportunity to embrace this culture, to learn this language, because she wanted us to embrace this homogenous `Americanness'. Very angry."

I've sort of spaced into this long-standing resentment.

"Do you speak other languages?"

"Je parle francais, couramment, und ich spreche Deutsche, and a little Swedish, but not enough to know how to say "a little Swedish." I snaugh.

We get home at 9:30pm. "I think I'd like to fuck you again. Is that okay?"

He gives me this long, amused look. "Do I have to teach you to be dominant? Of course you can fuck me. Take me!"

I chuckle. "Oh, you are getting so punished tomorrow."

He beams. "Well I sure as hell hope so."

"So punished," I laugh, shoving him toward...the basement, which surprised him a lot."

In my little makeshift gym I have, of all things, a pommel horse. I'd seen it, quite by accident, on Craigslist, and it was so cheap, and had so many erotic possibilities, I couldn't resist. Turn out the owner hadn't been able to sell it, and had lowered the price several times. This was an old apparatus, and had no hand-rails, which was perfect. I told Jason to drape himself over the horse, and secured his arms and legs. I'd built a bench that places me at exactly the right angle for fucking, and moved that into position.

This apparatus is fun, because it makes your partner feel completely helpless. There are restraints and restraints, but when you're draped over something like this, unable to touch the ground at any point, your entire weight supported at the belly, you feel totally helpless. I left the room for a couple of minutes, just to let that helplessness sink in. Finally I returned, and, to my surprise, Jason was sniffing -- was he crying?

"What's wrong, Jason?"

"I'm afraid."

Curious. "Why."

"My father beat me this way a couple of times."

Hmmmm... "That's good to know, `cause I'm going to fuck you this way."

A little lube for both of us, and I enter him in a single long, slow thrust. He groans. And then I begin to fuck him, and he begns to cry. I'm shocked, and stop moving for a couple of seconds. I begin to stroke his back, and to fuck him rhythmically. He continues to cry. I stop again, pull out of him. "Nononononono...please don't stop. Please...can...you...fuck...me."

I'm totally confused, but enter him again, and continue to pump away for maybe 20 minutes. I'm a little freaked, can't quite get myself to the point of orgasm, and still Jason is sniffing away, holding back tears, but barely. Finally I cum, but it's not particularly satisfying. You know those orgasms that sort of ooze out rather than fire. That's what this is. And Jason's crying again.

I remove the restraints, lift the boy in my arms, and carry him to upstairs to the bedroom. He clings to me, almost violently, sobbing. His head is draped over my shoulder, his arms wrapped around my neck, his legs around my belly.

How to lay him on the bed, because it's clear he isn't going to let go. Finally stepping to the side of the bed, I sort of fall over on my back, Jason on top of me. We stay this way for probably 45 minutes as he continues to sob. What the fuck have I tapped into?

I wait, continuing to stroke his back, gently. Finally his tears begin to abate. His breathing slows, and his heart -- every beat of which I can feel given how tightly he's holding me -- stops pounding. Rather than being draped over the pommel horse, he's draped over me, and as he lifts his head, looking into my eyes, the tears start to flow again. "I'm so sorry," he says, and kisses me.

He falls asleep like this, draped across my body, snoring softly. After a while, I fall asleep, too. He's a very comfortable quilt, or the teddy bear I wish I'd had as a kid. I have no idea what this is about, but he's calm now, and that's good.

After a couple of hours, he wakes up, and that wakes me. Lifting his head, he looks me in the eye, looking pensive, sad. He rolls to the side, and I roll to face him, kissing him. "I'm sorry," he says. I wait. After maybe five minutes, he rolls over, turning away from me, and falls back asleep. I spoon into him, hugging him tight. I guess he'll tell me when he's ready.

He sleeps another five hours. I can't fall back asleep, and after about half-an-hour, disengage, and ease my way out of bed, trying not to wake him. Depression does this to a lot of people. Their way of coping is to sleep, and that's what I think is happening here. I leave him to sleep, and go off to work for a while.

At about 3pm, my office door opens. We've agreed that he'll never come into my office, but here he is. He turns my swivel chair, sits on my lap facing me, drapes his naked body across mine, rests his chin on my shoulder, and starts to cry.

I hug him, hold him, and wait.

He's actually quite light. At 110 pounds this isn't a burden, but he seems so inconsolable. I've decided I'm not going to pursue this. When and if he's ready, he'll come to me.

After about 15 minutes, he finally says, "Please...can I stay here? Please don't make me go back to the bedroom."

"You're fine," I say with a smile. "I don't know how I'm going to get any work done with you attached to me like this, but you're fine."

He laughs a little, and then starts to cry again. I continue to hold him, stroking his hair, his back, nuzzling his neck.

After maybe another 15 minutes, he's stops crying, and is breathing normally. He's still draped across me, his head on my shoulder.

A whisper in my ear. "I lied. My father never beat me. I was raped. When I was young. 12. One of the guys was a cousin. The other one I didn't even know. They tied me to a saw horse."

He's just barely holding back the tears, trying to get this out before he starts sobbing again.

"I never told anyone. I was so ashamed. It hurt so much. I was so humiliated. I think this is why I was a virgin at 19, I was just so scared."

He's sobbing now.

"Please...take...care of me."

"I will," I whisper.

He hugs me tightly, almost painfully. "I love you, Tim."

"I love you, too, Jason. I'm sorry to have triggered all these memories. We won't use the pommel horse again."

"No. That's not the point! I'm glad this came out. I haven't thought about this in years, and, yes, it's really painful, but I need you to know...and I need to remember. I still haven't dealt with it, and I think it had a major impact on my growth, on my maturity. Acting this out again was hard, almost as awful as the actual rape, but I needed to do it."

At some point he's pulled away from me to look me in the eyes. Now, I pull him back so that his head was draped over my shoulder. I want to kiss him, but I don't want this moment to be sexual. "You're okay, Jason. You're safe. You're okay. No one's going to hurt you. I won't let them." I stroke his hair, his back.

"God, I'm so lucky," he sobs, as I continue to stroke him. Soon he's asleep again, and I carry him back up to the bedroom and put him to bed. Jason is adorable, and I really do love him -- although it's not something I would ever before have said to someone after this short a time -- but his sensitivity is something I have to keep in mind.

Four hours later, I'm still working on the latest game, when I hear him begin to sob again. I turn off the computer screen, and the light, strip quietly, and tip-toe into the room, climbing into the bed next to him. I touch his back, and he spins around, embracing me, holding me. Through the sobs: "Please protect me."

"I will, Jason. You're okay. You're fine. No one's going to hurt you."

His crying diminishes, and finally subsides entirely, and just when I think he's asleep, he whispers: "I'm sorry. Thank you so much."

I hug him a little tighter, and he falls back asleep, and soon, so do I.

Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/