This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage wherever 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.
By: Tim Keppler
"I don't see what the problem is. It's not like we don't have the money."
"I'm just not real comfortable..."
"What? Being out of control?"
"Tim, sometimes you have to be a little out of control."
Tim has been toying with the idea of working for a non-profit. Working for himself, he's made a great deal of money. Working for this non-profit -- gay rights -- he'll make maybe a twentieth of what he's been making, probably less. But, it's not like we're destitute. We have probably $4M in the bank.
"Do it. What're you waiting for? We're flush. Do it for nothing."
He gives me a long stare. "But I need to provide for..."
"For who? We're provided for, for Christ's sake."
And then he says it. He says the most offensive thing that I've ever heard come out of his mouth. And, it's almost as though the words come out of his mouth before he can catch them. "Well, I don't want to live off the houseboys." And the second he says it, he realizes just how offensive it is, and he crumples. "I'm sorry, Kenny. That was really...nasty."
I'm stunned. I haven't thought of myself as a houseboy in years, and I don't think Tim has thought of me that way, either, but they're his words. I just stare at him, and then I leave the room and make my way to the living room where Jason is working on a new piece of music. I relay the conversation, and he, too, is disturbed and anguished. "He said that to you?" Jason asks.
And with that, the whole atmosphere of the house changes. Jason and I respond to questions, but we don't initiate conversations. We're very...passive.
Don't get me wrong. I love Tim. I love him more than anything on this earth. I adore him. But he's just really insulted me. And he knows it, too, and is really contrite. "I didn't mean that, Kenny. You're not a houseboy. I love you. You're my husband. I'm so sorry. I so didn't mean that." But...they were his words. Finally, after the thousandth apology, he looks into my eyes and asks, "What's it going to take?"
I've actually been thinking about this, about what it'll take to make this okay, what it'll take to get my mind off having been classified as a houseboy -- a houseboy with a PhD in computer science. I may have been a houseboy once, but not anymore. And I've talked with Jason about it -- presumably a houseboy who just happens to be the Concertmaster of one of the world's great symphony orchestras. "Well, there's good news and there's bad news, Tim. The good news is that we both still love you, passionately. We'll always love you. The bad news is that we couldn't agree on a punishment, so if you want to atone for this, if you want to make amends for demeaning us by calling us houseboys, you're going to get punished twice."
Tim hangs his head and nods.
"First, you're going to spend a day with a seven-inch dildo up your ass. That's Jason's punishment of choice. We're going to strap it in place so it can't slip out, and if it needs to come out for some reason, for any reason, you have to find someone else to take it out for you. You can't touch it, and we won't. And once you've done whatever required it's removal, whoever took it out will need to put it back." This is such an evil punishment that I'm actually surprised that Jason came up with it. It's just so un-Jason. It's so evil, in fact, as to be comical, and the humor is not lost on Tim, who is giggling, but nodding. "And then, of course, you'll need to be spanked, thoroughly spanked. Okay?"
Tim nods, solemnly. "Whatever it takes," he says. "And, please know that I really am sorry. Neither of you has been a houseboy for a long, long time. I deserve whatever you decide to mete out for that remark. It was stupid."
Just as he's getting ready to move into his office, Jason runs into the room and whispers to me in Cantonese, and I just start to laugh. "And...umm...it can't be Gary or Nathan." Tim looks at me, confused. "It can't be Gary or Nathan who takes out the dildo, or Teddy, or Ty. It has to be someone else." Tim looks incredulous, and then starts to laugh.
"Jesus, guys. I'm lucky you didn't say it had to be a girl."
And then Jason starts to chatter in Cantonese faster than I've ever heard him talk before, jumping up and down. He looks like Kevin in one of his most manic moments. Finally, after maybe 15 seconds of discussion, I look at Tim. "Jason likes the idea. If the dildo has to come out, it...umm...has to be a girl who removes it."
Tim is nearly beside himself with laughter. "I think I'd better shut up," he says. "And, when are we doing this?"
"Tomorrow," I reply. "Insertion time: T minus nine hours, and counting." Tim is giggling furiously as he moves into his office.
At 8am the next morning, right after Tim has woken up, I lube up the dildo, one of his own, and begin insinuating it into his asshole. "Can I...umm...go to the bathroom first?"
"No," I say, sternly.
Once it's slid into place, I jury-rig a harness to keep it there. Tim wriggles and squirms. He's hard, and I suspect he'll be hard most of the day. This really is an evil punishment. "So, this can come out at 8pm tonight, and that's when you get spanked."
He nods. He's not giggling any more. "I'm sorry," he says. "It was a really insulting remark. I deserve this," he says, trying, I think, to soften me up, to get me to reduce the duration of his punishment, a punishment he agreed to.
"Yes, you do," I reply, and he just...looks...sad. He drops his head, and stares at his feet, his naked feet. His dick is sticking straight out from his body, perpendicular (so to speak). It is swollen and red. "And no jerking off," I say, trying so hard to repress my laughter. He nods, and walks to the bathroom to pee. Jason all this time has been peeking in from the hallway, and is awash with laughter. He just can't hold it back, and I can't help but smile. Jason could never have done this. It just isn't in him, but he appreciates it nonetheless. Finally, I hear the shower going, and after twenty minutes Tim emerges, his hair wet, drops of water on his skin, and with the same vicious hardon.
"What am I going to do about this?" he whines, motioning to his dick.
"Anything you want," I say. "But, don't stroke it."
"But it...umm...won't go down," he says, and there's real anguish in his eyes.
You don't have any idea how hard I have to work to keep from dying of laughter. Here is a guy with a seven-inch dildo up his ass, basically a strap on, and a permanent seven-inch hardon. And he is looking so, so sad. "All day?" he asks.
"Yup. All day. You're going to have to stuff it into your pants. That's part of the punishment."
He nods. "Okay," he says sadly, and goes to get dressed, choosing the baggiest pair of jeans he owns, which is probably a good thing because anything else would probably look obscene. Emerging from his little dressing room, his engorged dick is still so clearly outlined against the crotch of his pants, and he looks so sad. I feel bad, and am tempted to relent. But I...can't. Calling me a houseboy! That deserves a response. Besides, he's just so damned funny. You've never seen a more mopey guy in your life. He looks like he'll start to cry any minute.
I kiss him, and rub his crotch, and we go to the kitchen, where Jason has eggs and rice porridge for breakfast. And Jason is just so...chirpy. And Tim is so...melancholy.
"What's wong daddy?" Kai asks.
"Nothing, baby. I'm just a little...blue."
Kai jumps into Tim's lap, landing squarely on his hardon, and hugs him, and Tim squirms, the dildo presumably penetrating him a little more deeply. I don't know if we're going to be able to do this or not. I don't know if we're going to be able to keep ourselves from following him around laughing. He is just so unhappy, so uncomfortable. And he has a meeting with a client this afternoon. I really feel bad for him. Finally, after breakfast, Jason takes off for the city. He has rehearsals. And then I leave for my classes, taking Kai and Kevin to school. "I'm sorry baby. This is your punishment. You earned it."
Tim nods sorrowfully. "I know," he says, nodding. "I'm sorry, Kenny. It was a really stupid thing to say."
I nod, and leave the house, feeling really bad, really sorry for Tim, but I have an inkling that he just might pull that dildo out of his ass and then put it back in at the last minute. So, I go home unexpectedly early. I skip office hours and let Dinh take them for me, and when I get home, I find Becky outside her house watering her flowers. She gives me a dirty look, a really toxic look. "You owe him an apology," she shouts across the street, and then goes into her house. I'm confused. I have no idea what she's talking about. But, when I go into the house, Tim is lying on the couch, his eyes a little glassy, watching Oprah. Except he's not watching. His eyes aren't focused. He's just staring into space. When he sees me, he focuses on me, and I come over and hug him.
"Becky was pretty hostile."
"Yeah," he says, a little tearfully. "I had to...umm...use the bathroom. I asked her to...take it out. She did. But...she wasn't happy about it. And...umm...I wasn't either," he whines. "She washed it...off, and then lubed it up...and then put it back in." It's 3pm. He has another five hours of this dildo, and while I love him, adore him, this is not my punishment. This is Jason's punishment. Tim is going to have to live with it. Mine is yet to come.
At about 7:15pm Jason gets home from the city. He's completely forgotten about Tim's punishment, and so he's surprised when he walks into the house and finds Tim lying on the couch in the living room -- vaguely watching an episode of Dr. Phil, whom Tim detests. "What's wrong, sweetie?" And then he remembers, and starts to giggle. Looking at his watch, he says, "Well, it's almost over. You have 45 more minutes. That's not much, is it?"
Tim shakes his head, dejectedly. "No," he says.
Jason hugs him. "Almost over. Of course, then there's Kenny's punishment," he says with a snicker.
Forty-five minutes later, I motion Tim to the bedroom. He strips and lies on the bed on his belly, and I remove the harness and the dildo. I really do feel bad for him. I think his punishment has been a bit of overkill, but it is what it is. He's clearly depressed, but we'll cuddle afterwards, and he'll get over it. "Okay," I say. "That was Jason's punishment, and this is mine. Don't you ever call me a houseboy. I am not a fucking houseboy! Not anymore!" He nods, and sniffs. "But this part of your punishment isn't about whether I'm a houseboy or not. This part of your punishment is about what you're doing with your life. I'm using that houseboy comment as a justification for something that should happen anyway, for a lecture I wouldn't get to give you if you hadn't been stupid enough to insult me. So, you have this spanking coming; you agreed to it. It's my right to give it to you. You're going to get it. But...it's not about being a houseboy. It's about your...career."
Tim looks surprised.
"Think of this as an intervention, honey. You're burned out. Your last game didn't...umm...sell very well, did it?"
Tim looks into my eyes with a pleading look.
"It's okay, babe. We're behind closed doors. Not even Jason is here. It's just you and me. It didn't fly off the shelf, did it?"
Tim drops his head, and stares at his hands. Then he shakes his head.
We pause for a long, long moment. Finally Tim croaks out, "Because it wasn't very good."
After another long pause, "Right. It wasn't very good. The people who bought it, bought it because you wrote it, but it wasn't very good. You don't have any spark anymore. You don't have any inspiration. It's time to take a break. It's time to do something else."
Tim looks up into my eyes, sadly, nodding. "But...umm...I don't know what else to do. This is what I know how to do."
And with that, I let fly with the first stroke of the tawse, a really vicious stroke that leaves a nasty red wheal between the two tongues of the strap. "That is bullshit, Tim, and you know it. How much money do we collectively have invested -- in banks, stocks, CDs, everything -- all of us -- you, me and Jason? How much?"
Tim thinks for several seconds. "Maybe $6M."
"And the house is paid for, right?"
"So, you can do basically anything you want, or nothing?"
"But I have to make a living," he whines.
And then I give him the second stroke of the tawse. Tim hates the tawse because it really, really, REALLY hurts. It leaves these red wheals where the two tongues come together, and where those wheals cross, you often draw blood, as I have now. Each stroke typically draws a scream, as that last one did. He almost never uses it because it's just too painful, but I really need to get through to him, and I'm using it as much for the fear factor as for its real impact.
"No, you don't," I say, patiently. "You don't need to make a living, because you have made a living, and because Jason and I are doing things we love, things we really enjoy doing that make a fair amount of money. You've supported us for years. There's no reason that we..."
"But, that's my job," he interrupts, and I give him the third stroke of the tawse. He screams.
"No," I say, quietly. "That's not your job. Your job is to support us, not to ply us with money. And, anyway, you have plied us with money. We have more money than we can use based on what we like to do. Enough all-fucking-ready. You're bored. You're churning this stuff out to churn it out. You have an opportunity with this non-profit to make a real difference, to help gay kids who're in trouble. It's something you're passionate about. It'll pay you nothing, and that's exactly how much you need it to pay you -- nothing. Aren't houseboys supposed to work for you?" It's a low blow, that question. It's too low. Tim looks up into my eyes, and I see a tear forming. I cross and hug him. "The point is, we can contribute. And, it's just you and me here, behind closed doors. The fact that you're not the sole provider doesn't mean that you're not `in charge'. The fact that you were the sole provider was never why you were in charge anyway. You were in charge because you're wise and because we love you. It never had anything to do with money."
Now Tim is in tears, sobbing. "I think...you should...get on with...the...spanking," he chokes.
I give him one last really-vicious stroke of the tawse, again drawing blood, and then I drop it on the carpet. "The spanking is not the point, here. The point is to get you off your dead ass. The point is to get you to do something you want to do, something you'll be good at, something you're passionate about, that has meaning...to you. The spanking is a fucking excuse to lecture...your...sorry...ass," I say, beginning to sob. "The...spanking ...is...over. I'm not giving you any more relief. Please, Tim, please get on with it."
He nods, slowly, tearfully. I retrieve a tube of salve, Baciguent, from the bedside table and treat his wounds.
"Now...umm...could you fuck me?" I ask.
He smiles through his tears. "Okay," he says.
I love Tim so much. He's done so much for me. We have so much...history. I've purposely stepped outside my role to get him back on track because I couldn't think of any other way to do it. Now it's time to step back into that role so he feels comfortable and nurtured. And...umm...it's time to get...laid. I begin to strip...slowly. Tim is actually quite demonstrative. If he's attracted to you, it sometimes feels as though he's licking you with his eyes, and he's always seemed to be...attracted to me. And, of course, his dick never lies. He's been lying on his side since we finished his spanking, propped on an arm, watching me. As I've progressively gotten more naked, he's progressively gotten more erect. He's wiped away his tears, and when I finally lay down next to him, he snuggles up to kiss me, poking me resolutely in the belly. "I love you, Kenny," he whispers. And then we begin a long, long kiss, a kiss that seems to go on forever, and we continue to kiss while he positions me and even while he fishes in the nightstand for the lotion. We continue that kiss while he lubes himself and me. And we continue that kiss as he enters me, slowly, gently. That kiss lasts well past both of our orgasms, becoming more breathless toward the end. When we finally break this kiss, I find that I'm crying. I never cry from sex, but I'm crying today, and Tim is licking my tears away, something that may not sound so great, but is just fucking amazing; it's just the most erotic thing I think anyone has ever done to me. And, it has me hard again instantly. In fact, I don't think I ever deflated. Tim sees my erection and smiles. "Someone's excited," he giggles, and goes down on me, sucking me for all he's worth, swallowing my cock while he penetrates me with his finger. That's all it takes.
In all, he manages to coax four orgasms out of me, and that, I think, is my record. By the time we're done, I'm exhausted, and fall asleep in his arms -- spontaneously. I just pass out. I wake the next morning to a...moist sensation on my ear. Tim is nibbling on my earlobe, and we go at it again. I guess I'm going to have to punish him more often.
Four months later the doorbell rings. I'm the only one home. Jason is in the city. They're working on one of the Shostakovich quartets, a revelation that had Tim grinning from ear to ear when he heard.
Tim took the job with Youth Renewed, a non-profit specializing in helping gay youth who are struggling with issues associated with coming out, either because their families aren't supportive, or because they're being or have been abused. They match kids with adult mentors. He's the managing director. His salary is exactly nothing. He refused any compensation. And you have just never seen a more complete transformation. He's happy, and I think he feels productive for the first time in ages. And he is so passionate. He's always been a really good public speaker, and is doing a lot of that now -- at high schools, college campuses, and even churches. Given his views on religion, Jason and I are a little amazed at that. It's dedication well beyond what we thought he could do. I suspect it's well beyond what he thought he could do as well.
I head out to the hallway to answer the door. There, in the entryway, is a really skinny Hispanic guy, and he looks...bad. He's got...lesions on his face, and honest to god, he doesn't look like he's eaten in weeks. His skin is like parchment. His clothes are just hanging off him. He's staring at the ground, his arms folded. And then he looks up, looks into my eyes, and I immediately tear up, and then start to cry. It's Alejandro, Alejandro who was one of the most beautiful boys I'd ever laid eyes on. And...and...he looks...just...awful. It's been nearly a year since I've seen him. I take his hand, and lead him into the living room where I sit him down on the sofa. I offer him something to drink, but all he wants is water. Finally, I sit down next to him, and hug him, and he is so emaciated, so slight, so frail. There's so much history between Ian and Alejandro that this is probably sacrilege. But...I just can't let him go. He's obviously so sick. Finally, I release him, and sit back, and just stare. "¿Que pasa?" I ask, and he giggles, and then starts to cough.
"I am dying," he says. "I have it...and my prognosis is...poor."
I continue to stare, and I'm crying now. Alejandro reaches over and hugs me.
not want Ian to see me like this. I do not want to meet with him. I know that
he has a new relationship, and that is good. I am here in
"I was first diagnosed with the disease two weeks before I left him, and leaving was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. But I couldn't let him see me like this, I couldn't force him to go through this with me. It wasn't fair to him. Too much pain. I knew that I would die. Yes, there are drugs, but, somehow, I knew they would not work for me, and they haven't. Why put someone you love through this prolonged agony? Better to just sever the relationship. Say whatever you have to, however painful it may be, to avoid...this," he says, motioning to himself. "I loved him. I still love him. He was the most important thing in my life. And that is why...I had to leave him."
He begins to cough again, and it is a really hoarse cough. Finally, the coughing stops. "So," he says, "I have come today to...confess, and to tell someone...you...how sorry I am, to say what a fool I have been...and...umm...to ask you to give Ian this letter," he says, taking an envelope from his jacket pocket and passing it to me. "It is my confession. I could not die easily if he believed that I left him because I did not love him. I just did not love him...enough," he says, choking on tears. "I was an idiot. He needs to know that. And, he needs to be tested..."
"He's been tested," I reply. "Tim never lets anyone new into the family without a lot of testing. When Ian began dating Leslie, his new husband, Tim ferried them both to his doctor every couple of months. They're both healthy. You didn't...umm..."
"I did not infect him."
"No," I choke. "No. You didn't...infect him."
He nods. "That is a relief." Looking at his watch, he smiles bleakly at me. "I must go now," he says. "I have a plane to catch. I must return home. My Aunt expects me, and she worries," he says with a laugh, a laugh that leads to more coughing. "Please give the letter to Ian."
"I will," I promise.
And I do, two days later, when he and Leslie come to dinner. I lead Ian into Tim's office while Jason sequesters Leslie to discuss Beethoven. I give Ian the envelope, and then I leave the room, closing the door behind me. Moving back to the kitchen, I touch Leslie's arm. "Give it maybe ten minutes, and then go to Tim's office. Don't knock on the door. Just go in. Ian's in there, and in just about ten minutes, he's really, really going to need you." And that's what he does. In ten minutes he makes his way through the house to the office, and the minute he opens the door, you can hear the sobbing all the way to the kitchen. They're in there for another two hours, Jason and I holding dinner until they emerge, finally, teary-eyed. Tim greets them as they come back into the kitchen, and hugs them both. "I'm so sorry," he says.
Ian nods. And then we serve dinner, a really-nice green Thai curry with stuffed squid, and deep-fried pompano. It's a Jason night. It's what we all need. "Yummy," Kevin, enthusiastically exclaims.
He's right. It is "yummy." But...we're all a little...sad.
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