Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2017 10:49:26 -0600 From: Jeff Moses Subject: Leo, Sir This story is (alas) a work of fiction involving sex between an adult male and a 16-year-old boy. The usual terms and conditions apply. Feedback is welcome. Leo, Sir It's hard to pick just one. There are three of them, each with its own special charm. In the first, I'm on my knees in front of him, naked. He has his hands on the back of my head, and my own hands are cuffed behind my back. If you look closely, you can see his calves pressing against the tops of his engineer boots. He wears them with the tops unbuckled for comfort. In the second one, it's just my face, in profile, with the boot pressed on my eager tongue. It looks even sexier than I imagined it did. The third one is the hottest, in some ways. It's my view from the floor, with Leo towering above me, leaning forward just enough for the camera to catch his face, and his smile. Leo and his family moved into the house next door just before his sixteenth birthday. I first saw him stripped to the waist, carrying boxes from a rental van into the house. Discretion urged me to move away from the window before a casual glance became ogling, but God! How I wanted to devour him with my eyes. Sneakers, skin-tight jeans, muscles already well-defined, their cut sharpened by the sunlight. Wavy brown hair with just a hint of red. A glimpse, as he turned sideways to slip through the doorway, of the face of an all-American boy. Appearance, I know, is a subjective thing: one man's Adonis is, to another, instantly forgettable. But Leo was my Adonis, however he might have appeared to anyone else. I found one excuse after another to keep my eyes on the progress of the move-in. I debated whipping up a plate of cookies, or something, to welcome them to the neighborhood, but decided that was a bit forward, premature. Instead, I adjusted my departure for work to coincide with Leo's father's. Since Leo's father usually drove his son to high school, I had an excellent chance of encountering them both. We started with the classical masculine nods of greeting, advanced to "hello," and on a Friday, I properly introduced myself. Leo's father's name is Mitch, if I recall. We chatted again on the weekend: handy local stores, best nearby places for coffee and such, which cable company to use and who else lived on the block. And, by the way, if Leo's looking to pick up a few bucks now and then, I'd be happy to pay him to cut my lawn. He was. In the fall, he raked leaves; in the winter, he shoveled snow. That's when he started wearing the engineer boots. I've no idea how I developed a fetish for black engineer boots, the ones with brass buckles, one strap across the crest of the foot and the other straddling a V-notch at the top, or how it got so specific that I preferred a muscle large enough to justify leaving that top strap hanging. Leo's boots teased my nights. The fact that the rest of him, including his soft baritone voice, measured up to those legs and those boots didn't hurt, either. It would have been entirely inappropriate to give him a motorcycle jacket, except in my jackoff fantasies. Things began to change on the Saturday when the lawn mower engine stopped. Leo knocked on the back door, asked if I had any tools so he could try to figure out what was wrong. "Some," I smiled, and invited him in, offered him a can of soda, complimented him on his excellent yard work and expressed pleased surprise at his mechanical skills. "Not so fast, Mister Car--" "Please, Leo! Aren't we past all that formality? Call me Rog!" "Rog?" "Short for Roger. All my friends call me Rog. I prefer it." "Well, not so fast about my mechanical skills, Rog. It's probably way beyond me. But it never hurts to look." "Right this way, then," I said, leading him to my basement and my workbench. "Help yourself!" Leo selected a couple of screwdrivers, a pliers and a wrench, and went upstairs to get to work. "Let me know if there's anything else you need! And help yourself to another drink, if you want one." "Thanks, Mister--Rog." I had no excuse to hover over the boy, though I desperately wanted to. So I went inside and spied on him through the kitchen window. My frustration was immense--and showed in my trousers, I admit. But, I told myself, it would be incredibly stupid to make a pass at an underage boy who happened to be your next-door neighbor. For that matter, under-aged or not, it's not a good idea to make a pass at the neighbor boy. But the ice had been broken, there was that. Leo's dad wasn't much for tools, it seemed, so I assured Leo he could feel free to drop over any time, if he needed anything. Later that summer, I took a brief trip to Nebraska, where I stopped at a thrift emporium--one of those places where people rent booths and try to sell bits of their accumulated detritus: old furniture, out-of-fashion clothes, rusty hand tools and the like. And on this occasion, a set of leg irons, the old Civil War style that were probably reproductions. But they were nicely rusted, satisfyingly hefty in feel, and they worked. At least one cuff did; the other seemed to be stuck. I bought them anyway, and they wound up on my workbench, the jammed cuff soaking in rust remover. Leo, meanwhile, had found an old bicycle and was restoring it. He told me he was fairly sure he could get a few bucks for it, once it was cleaned up. I told him, once again, that he was free to borrow any of my tools. He asked if I had anything for removing rust, and down to the basement we went. "What the hell?" he asked, staring at the leg irons. I explained. I gave him the can of rust remover, but noticed that his eyes didn't leave the irons. "This should be loose by now," I said as casually as I could, and lifted the offending cuff out of its bath. "Let's see if it works." I watched Leo watch eagerly as I struggled with the screw key. "Can I try?" he said, and I willingly gave the irons to him, taking mental pictures of him holding them, wiggling the key with the connecting chain draped over his wrist, lifting the cuff to the light so its mate dangled in front of his chest, turning it to get a glimpse of the mechanism. "What you going to use these for, anyway?" "Decoration," I responded quickly, just as I had to the lady I bought them from. Leo nodded. "Building a dungeon?" I didn't know for the life of me if he was serious, or how to answer, so instead I said, "Having any luck?" Leo gave a sharp grunt and twisted the key hard enough that I feared it might break. Instead, the cuff dropped open. "All right!" he crowed, and began working the hinge to loosen it. "Bravo!" I agreed. He put the key back into the keyhole and turned it back and forth. Then he rapped the cuff sharply on the workbench, and a mixture of solvent and rust dropped out. "Got any oil?" I grabbed some, he squirted it into the lock, and continued to work. "That's got it!" he announced, at last. "Good as new." He started to hand them back to me, then stopped. "Want to try them?" "What? I mean, sure, I guess." I pulled up my trouser leg and Leo crouched down, closed the cuff and locked it. He glanced up at me, holding the other cuff. I watched, hypnotized, and since he saw no response to the question he hadn't asked, he shackled my other leg as well, then stood. "Walk!" he commanded, and I did. I shuffled, actually. "How do they feel?" "I'm definitely your prisoner," I laughed, hoping he wouldn't notice my crotch. "Some decoration, huh?" he replied, nodding at my crotch. "Kind of a turn-on, huh?" I cleared my throat while I tried to come up with a non-committal answer. "Just what the doctor ordered," I replied, realizing as the words fell from my mouth how ridiculous they sounded. "You got handcuffs, or something?" I simply stared at the boy leaning against the workbench. Leo smiled, rolling the key between his fingers. "I should ask you for a raise," he declared, pushing off from the bench and moving casually around me. "Hold your hands behind your back," he said, then stepped close and gripped my wrists. "You like that?" he whispered into my ear. "You want more?" I closed my eyes. "Leo," I said softly, not sure what to say next. It wasn't a problem. "You want to give me a blow job, Rog?" His grip tightened on my wrists. "Got any rope?" I nodded toward the pegboard at the end of the basement. "Go fetch it, Rog." I started to shuffle across the floor. "You okay?" That was unexpected. His tone was suddenly friendly, concerned. "Fine," I answered, before I thought about it. "Hurry up, then, Rog." Now his tone was sharp, strong and--masculine. I obeyed, grabbed a coil of clothesline rope, and turned to hurry back. He was leaning against the bench again, and now his arms were crossed. Either the light or my imagination made his upper arms bulge. "Move it, faggot!" "Yes, Sir," I answered, and realized I'd just given him the go-ahead for whatever he had in mind. He met me in the middle of the floor, turned me around, and quickly tied my wrists. "Kneel!" I did, and he looped the rope around the chain between the leg irons, then tied it off. I probably could have untied it. I didn't want to. "He's giving me a chance to stop this," I thought, and then, "and I'm not taking it." Now he stood in front of me, hands hooked in his waist. "Funny. You sort of remind me of a guy I knew back in Talisman. I was a carry-out boy at the grocery last summer, and he had that same kind of look in his eyes--asked me if I'd ever had a blow job. I'd heard of them, of course, but... So I let him do it, just to see, you know? But after that, he was just... He was after me all the time. It was creepy." Leo undid his belt. I watched, eyes wide. "But this is different," Leo continued. "I mean, I'm in charge, you know? I get to decide--everything. And you're not creepy, like he was." He opened his crotch, and his voice got sharper. "I want you to suck me, faggot." He pulled his cock out of his underpants. It was swollen, but not stiff, and I realized I was licking my lips. My own cock was imprisoned in my pants, and that made it all hotter. "Lick it," he ordered. "Lick my cock." "Yes Sir," I answered, and went to work. His cock responded eagerly. He was barely sixteen, after all. I thought about the way he kept saying "faggot," which was kind of wrong, except it wasn't. I was a faggot, and he was...some kid I lusted for in seventh grade, maybe. "Go for it!" he ordered, and I started sucking. I am not a bad cocksucker--I have endorsements. And Leo was definitely responsive. I started to crawl closer just as he moved forward and put his hands on my head. "Yeah," he sighed. "Suck my cock, faggot!" And he began pumping, eagerly. I wanted to make it last, but again, he was sixteen. In seconds, he was shooting a gallon of come into me. I felt his cock throbbing, tried to pull back so some of it would spend at least a little time on my tongue, but he tightened his grip on my head. It wasn't going to happen. Just about the time I was running out of air, he began to slow, the shaft shrank enough for me to breathe, and his hands fell away. "Oh, shit," he said. "That was great! You are a damn good cocksucker, Rog." Told you. "Is it...? he started, blushing. "I mean, I thought maybe--when you said decoration--I knew they wouldn't need to work if you were just--I probably shouldn't--" I looked up at him and smiled. "It was perfect. A little unexpected, I admit, but you were--that was great!" "I would have stopped, you know, if--" I nodded. "I know. Remember, I know where you live!" He suddenly looked puzzled. "I mean, I know who you are and everything. It's not like I just picked you up off the street. You're not a stranger." "Oh!" he said, as if he was waking up, then squared his shoulders. "I should let you loose!" He undid the ropes and the leg irons and we went up to the kitchen. "Tell me more about that guy back in--what was it? Tally--?" I said, pointing toward a chair. "Talisman, where we used to live," he answered, sitting. "Like I said, I was working at the grocery store and he kept looking at me, and then he was winking and smiling, and I didn't know what was going on until one day he invited me to his place for a beer--my first one, but I didn't tell him that. So I said, "What the hell," and went with him. We were sitting on the couch, and suddenly he put his hand on my crotch and asked me if I wanted a blow job. I sort of knew what that meant, but I never had one, so I said, 'Sure.'--just to try it, you know. It was pretty good, but after that he was always pestering me, so I told him to go fuck himself." "I hope you don't think I'm a creepy pest." I tried to sound casual. He laughed. "You're different. Not creepy. You didn't just pick me up somewhere, like you said. I know you, too." "Have you done the--the bondage thing before?" I asked, handing him another can of soda. "What? The leg irons and that? No. I mean I've thought about stuff like that, jacked off and stuff. But I never actually--up until now, I mean. Was I good?" "Shit, yeah! Like a pro." That was tacky, but it was too late. To my surprise, Leo laughed. "Should I charge you, then?" He held up his hand, palm toward my face. "That's a joke, Rog. I'm making enough off your yard." He suddenly frowned. "We're cool, right? That 'faggot' stuff, that was just--I saw this porn film online. It just--I didn't--" "I know, Leo. It's just a word, right?" He tilted his head, looking surprised. "Well, it's more than just a word," I admitted, "but--I wish it didn't turn me on, but it does. Reminds me of junior high school. The tough kids called everybody 'faggot.' I don't think they really had a clue, you know?" Leo nodded. "Yeah. It's just a word, like you say," he agreed, hopefully. "So," I said, venturing into deeper water, "Are you?" "Am I what?" "Gay. Queer. A faggot, whatever we're calling us these days?" Leo shrugged. "I don't know. I did it, once, with a girl, back in Talisman, and I really liked that, too, you know?" I nodded. "Sex is weird. I get turned on by--people get turned on by lots of weird stuff. Not that girls are weird, I mean. But--" I stopped and shrugged. "I better stop before I put my foot in my mouth." I lifted my drink for a toast. "Here's to sex, I guess, in all its glory." Leo laughed and clicked his can to mine. "You're easy to talk to," he said. "Not like my folks." "Your folks giving you--" "No! They're cool. But--they're my folks, you know? You can't talk about sex with your folks. Especially this kind of stuff, ropes and shit." "Yeah. Can't imagine what my parents would have said." "Do they know you're queer?" I shook my head. "We never talked about it. I think maybe, somewhere in the backs of their minds, they might have suspected, but we never talked about it. We never really talked about sex at all. My father gave me 'the talk,' you know. But I think I knew more than him, by the time he got around to it." This time, Leo initiated the toast. At first, the idea of an affair with a 16-year-old was unsettling, to say the least. But it was comfortable. That's the best word for it, I guess. He had lots of other friends, of course. Our sessions were confined to weekends, usually Saturday afternoons when he was "helping" me around the house. And the fact that I was perfectly willing to lend tools and help his family with various projects didn't hurt. Sometimes, I almost felt like part of his family. They even invited me over for Thanksgiving, but I actually had other plans. I, too, had other friends. But not playmates. For Christmas, I got Leo a motorcycle jacket, which he loved, and which looked great over his naked torso. We agreed he would leave it at my house, so it wouldn't create an "issue" with his parents. (Those were his air quotes, not mine.) I did have a pair of hand cuffs, as it happened. Sometimes we used them, and sometimes we used ropes. Leo was very good with ropes. He tied me to my bed with a pillow under my crotch so he could fuck my ass. He tied me on my back so he could fuck my face, and eventually, so that I could lick his asshole. He loved that. One afternoon, he ordered me to lie down on the basement floor, then used the leg irons to shackle my legs on either side of a post. He took the rope and used the legs of the workbench to tie my arms wide. "You like my boots, don't you, faggot?" "Yes, Sir." Had I been that obvious? I mean, I said they looked good with the jacket, and I asked him to leave them on, even when we were in my bedroom, but--yeah, I guess I was that obvious. "How much do you like my boots?" "A lot, Sir," I admitted. Since I was naked, it was pretty obvious that I was really excited. "I want you to show me how much, faggot." And with that, he rested one boot on my face. "Clean it!" I managed a sound that was intended to be "Yes Sir," and went to work. "We need to do more of this, faggot," Leo laughed. I made that sound again. From then on, licking Leo's boots, polishing Leo's boots, worshiping Leo's boots was a key part of our games. He didn't have a fetish for them. I tried to explain it, the whole idea of fetishes, but Leo apparently didn't have any. "It's about power, I think," he said one afternoon while we sat in the kitchen having our usual after-sex sodas. "I'm a fucking 16-year-old boy with an old man for a sex slave--not old. I didn't mean old. Older, grown-up. Adult." I raised my hand to stop him. "I understand," I smiled. "Hell, here I am, robbing the cradle. I understand." It took Leo a moment to decode that, and then we both laughed. "Hey," he said. "Maybe I have a fetish for--grown-up guys." "If you did, you'd know. Fetishes aren't subtle." I took a quick drink. "You were talking about power, I think." "Yeah. It's like, when you're helpless, tied up or something, I look at you and think, 'Shit! I could do anything I wanted to this guy.' He's--you're--really totally helpless, at my mercy." I nodded. "And I'm--I don't know. You're right: I am at your mercy. You're in control. I have nothing to say, nothing to do but--obey. No responsibility." My eyes widened, or at least it felt like they did. "I'm in charge of four people at work, and they're in charge of people, so it's like I'm responsible for at least twenty people! That's a lot of responsibility, believe me. So being tied up on the floor with your boot in my face is like...like..." "Like a vacation?" Leo laughed. "Some vacation." He paused, took a drink, swallowed. "Are we, like, lovers, or something?" I was stunned. I'd never thought of us that way. I'd never thought of any of my playmates that way. How could you love somebody you tied up and raped? Who tied you up and raped you--me--raped me? Except it wasn't rape: it was a game. That's why I thought of us as playmates. "Rog? You okay? Did I say the wrong thing?" "Sorry, Leo. I was just...thinking about your question." I searched his face. "How do you feel about me? About us?" "I don't know. I mean, that's why I asked. You hear people talk about love all the time, but...I guess I don't know what it is, really. I mean, I like what we do. Hell, I love what we do, but that's not...you know? I mean, are guys supposed to love guys, like with girls?" "People are supposed to love people," I said, gently. "What you have between your thighs isn't important." I hesitated, but Leo didn't rescue me with another question. "If we...if we stopped doing what we're doing--the sex--if we stopped doing that, how would that make you feel?" "Don't you want to--?" "I do. I mean no, I don't what this to stop! I'm like you: I love what we do. But I don't think that's enough to make us 'lovers.'" This time, the air quotes were mine. "Yeah. Okay, I get that. But what if--I don't know how to say this, Rog. You've never...I never told you to--asked you, I guess, if you wanted to, you know. I've never done that. I don't even know if I'd want to do--you know?" I was baffled. "You lost me. Just say whatever it is; I won't freak out. Just--just spit it out." "I never got fucked. Or did a blow job on somebody else, you know? Should I--do you want me to, you know?" For less time than it takes to say it, I imagined Leo's mouth on my cock, my cock pounding his ass. "Leo, it's not like that--I mean, unless you want to--" I shrugged. "Lots of gay guys don't do anal, or oral. Sometimes it's like buddies jacking each other off, or rubbing bodies. Or...what we've been doing. You know I get off on that." Leo hung his head. "I wasn't...I've seen you come, sometimes. But I just never worried about it, you know? About whether or not you were getting off." I laughed. "Like I said, I love what we do. It makes me happy. Hell, I can usually come two or three times during the week just remembering what happened. I can taste your boot, feel it on my tongue, if I want to, even when you're not there. You don't have to worry about that, Leo. I'm fine!" "Could I, like, jack you off?" "Of course! I'd love it! Especially if I was helpless, you know? Like we do?" So we did. Leo enjoyed teasing me. He tied me to the bed. He chained me to the post in the basement. He ordered me to my hands and knees and milked me like a cow while he described the punishments I'd face if I came too soon. He rubbed my cock against his boot until I shot, then made me lick it up, afterwards. Mitch asked me to accompany Leo while he practiced for his driver's license exam. "I just get too protective, I guess you'd call it. You know?" Once again, they invited me for Thanksgiving, and once again, I declined. But I did bring over a pumpkin pie. For Christmas, I gave us a set of dildos. I think Leo wanted a pair of motorcycle chaps, but I ignored the hint: they would have covered the tops of his boots. We all went to the State Fair, and rode on the roller coaster--the one that was supposed to be the biggest and fastest in the state. I sat next to Mitch, facing Leo and his mother, watching Leo laugh and put one hand over his mom's as she squeezed the safety bar. One sticky August afternoon, he tied me to the workbench, then made a sort of loop with a piece of rope and started slapping my stomach with it. "What turns you on, faggot?" he asked. There was something strange in his voice, something I hadn't heard before. "You do, Sir." Whap! He hit my stomach harder. "I know that, faggot! Tell me what you like!" "Being helpless, Sir. Licking your boots, Sir." "Good. What else? When you remember what we did and you jack off, what else do you think about?" I attempted to shrug. "I don't know what you mean, Sir." Whap! "What turns you on, faggot?" What haven't you told me about?" "I don't know, Sir. I--" Whap! "The fuck you don't, faggot. Tell me! I've got the whole damn afternoon." "I, um--" There was other stuff, of course. Embarrassing stuff I never admitted to anyone. Whap! This time, it really hurt. "Hey! That hurt!" "It's supposed to, faggot." He leaned close to my face, and I felt his breath--and his spit. "And it can get worse. Now tell me what the fuck else turns you on!" I took a deep breath. "I thought about you...pissing on me. Sir," I added hastily. He was dangling the rope in my face. "Huh! Okay, what else?" "You could--I want you to chain me up better. More. More bondage, Sir." Leo nodded, smiling now. "Go on." "So I couldn't move at all, Sir. So I'd be really helpless, and...open, I guess." "Do you want me to hurt you, faggot?" I froze. Leo held the rope up again. "A little, Sir," I confessed. Then it poured out. "I always wanted to try that, you know. At least a little, sort of." My heart was banging away at my chest. "I don't really know. It's scary." "Good little faggot," Leo smiled and stroked my cock. "What else?" "I want it to last longer, Sir. I mean, after you come, you don't have to let me go. You could keep me chained up all afternoon, Sir, maybe blindfold me so I wouldn't know what was coming or what time it was, or anything. I want you to do...what you want with your faggot, Sir." "Yeah. Sounds hot. Okay." He took a breath and walked to the end of the bench. "I read about this. I want to try it." And he struck the bottom of my right foot with the rope. "How'd that feel, faggot?" "Hurt, Sir. Just a little. Mostly surprise, I guess. I--" Before I could go on, he struck my left foot, harder, then my right foot, back and forth, harder and harder. "Sir, please Sir. Mercy, Sir!" I cried at last. "Hurting good, faggot?" "Yes, Sir." My answer surprised me. He tossed the rope across my legs and trailed the fingers of his right hand up my left flank. I shuddered. He stepped away to get something, then stood at the end of the bench, looking down at me, smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile. It wasn't Leo. It was Sir. He quickly wrapped his sweaty tee shirt around my head so I was blindfolded. I could smell his body odor. "I think you can take a little more, faggot," he said, his voice drifting down the bench. I felt him pick up the rope. He went at my feet again, even harder. And faster, so the pain from the blows flowed together, merged until I couldn't even tell which foot he was hitting. "Please, Sir, mercy! Please," I begged. "I'll do whatever you want, Sir! But please stop!" Leo was kissing me, his tongue deep in my mouth, his lips firm against my face. "Thank me," he said, at last, pulling his face away from mine. "Thank you, Sir." "Your dick is hard as a rock," he smiled, as he removed the makeshift blindfold and began to release me from the bench. He worked silently, then suddenly snapped, "On your feet, faggot!" I jumped to the floor without thinking and gasped at the sudden flare of pain, steadying myself against the bench. "Stand over there!" He pointed to a spot about six feet away, and I walked carefully toward it, my feet throbbing. He followed, studying the beam above us. "Stop, faggot. Right there!" I obeyed. "Turn around. Face away from me!" I obeyed. I heard him doing something behind me, and a rope dropped in front of me. He walked around to face me, cuffed my wrists, and used the rope to pull them up. He tied the rope off, then took other pieces and tied them around my ankles. "Spread your legs, faggot!" I obeyed. "Farther!" he commanded, until the cuffs were digging into my wrists. Then, he tied the ropes off, one to each of the beams I was standing between. I was stretched out and helpless again. Then, to my surprise, he began wrapping more rope around my body, fashioning a sort of harness. Rope went over my shoulders and between my legs, squeezed my legs just below my buttocks, wrapped around my waist and across my chest. And with each loop, the harness got tighter. The rope passed over my shoulders again, then wrapped around the base of my cock behind my balls, stretching them away from my body. More rope wound around the base of my sack, pushing my balls tight against the skin and away from my now rigid cock. Leo tapped my cockhead. "Feeling good, faggot?" "Yes, Sir." And I did, in a bizarre, insane way. Because of the cuffs, I didn't dare put any weight on my arms, and my legs were stretched almost painfully wide. I wasn't sure how long I'd last in this position, but I was determined to take as much as I could. "Look what I got, faggot," Leo said, smiling broadly as he held a dildo in front of my face. "Guess where this is going." "In my butt, Sir?" "In your faggot ass, faggot. Say it!" "In my faggot ass, Sir." "Should I put some grease on it? Do you think you're worth some grease, faggot?" "Please, Sir. If you think I'm worth it, Sir." "You begging me, faggot?" "Yes, Sir. I'm begging you, Sir. If--please, Sir." A few minutes and a few moans later, the damn thing was in my butt, the end of it tied in place so it wouldn't slip out, and I was panting. "Feel good, faggot?" "Yes, Sir," I gasped. "Going to whip you now, faggot." Oh, shit. He used the rope loop again. He started across the top of my back and worked his way to my butt. Surprisingly, he managed to keep the blows hard enough to hurt like hell, but not quite hard enough to overwhelm me. Right at the edge. "Looks nice and red, faggot," he announced, then began on my front side, just above my tits. Again, he worked his way down, until I began instinctively trying to move my crotch out of the way of the coming attack. Trying. Leo hadn't left me a lot of maneuvering room. Fortunately, he stopped just above my cock. "What do you say, "Thank you, Sir," I gasped. He raised his left arm and pressed his pit against my face. "Lick it, faggot!" I obeyed eagerly. "Do you like my stink, faggot?" "Yes, Sir," I said into his pit. "You want the other one?" "Yes, Sir. Please, Sir, I'm begging you!" "Good faggot." He switched arms, holding his right arm a few inches away. "Come and get it." I strained forward, forced my tongue out, desperate to reach his flesh, or at least the coarse hair of his pits. He shifted back and forth, and my tongue followed. At last, just as I exhaled, he smothered me, reached around with his left hand and forced my face into his armpit. He held it there while I tried to pull air into my lungs, rich with his smell. His stink. "Yeah," he hissed at last. He pulled away, then pressed his lips to mine once more. As he did so, he lightly slapped my balls. I whimpered. "Yeah," he repeated, turning his attention to my swollen cock. "Going to flick your nuts, faggot." "Please, no, Sir. It will hurt!" "Yeah. It will." He flicked. It felt like static electricity. A kind of squeal broke from my mouth. "Close your eyes, faggot. Tight!" I obeyed and he flicked my nuts again. And again and again until was in tears. "Please, Sir. Mercy! I can't take any more! I really can't!" And with a last, sharp flick, he stopped. I tried to pull myself together. Suddenly, everything hurt: balls, arms, wrists, thighs, feet. My eyes were still closed, so I had no idea where he was. "Leo," I gasped, turning my head in the directions I thought might be right, "You...you win. Whatever you want. I can't take any more. I'm sorry." "Well, now we know," he replied. "You can open your eyes." While I blinked tears from my eyes, he untied my legs. I eased them slowly together while he undid the knot that held my arms up, then supported them gently as I lowered them. He wrapped one arm around my waist to steady me. "Lie down on the floor, faggot," he whispered. He helped me to obey, then stood over me. "Ready?" he smiled. I looked at him, baffled. And then his stream of urine painted my body, soaking me, the ropes, the floor. Without really thinking about it, I opened my mouth and swallowed a few mouthfuls. At last, the stream slowed, and with two final spurts, stopped. "Kneel up, faggot." I struggled to my knees. Leo guided his cock to my face. "Get it hard, faggot." I obeyed, and a few minutes later felt his hands on my head, controlling my movements, pressing his crotch against me, and finally, shooting. "Take it all, faggot!" he commanded, needlessly, as I struggled to draw every drop from him. But he wasn't done, yet. "Hands and knees, faggot!" He locked one end of a heavy chain around my neck, and the other to one of the posts. "There's piss on my goddamn boots, faggot. Clean them!" I obeyed, hypnotizing myself with their smell, their now-familiar scuff marks and worn spots. With the tip of my tongue, I traced the seams and the edges of the soles. Too soon, Leo pulled the boots away. I watched them stride across the floor, then return. Leo presented me with a mop and bucket. "Mop up my piss, faggot. Clean my floor!" I watched the boots walk over to the workbench and raised my eyes as he leaned back, his muscular body deeply shadowed under the light. The chain, I discovered, was just long enough to allow me to get to the laundry tub. I slogged over to it, exhausted, put water in the bucket, and went to work. Leo encouraged me with the loop of rope. Every once in a while, the dildo would remind me that it was still in there. I mopped the floor like an automaton, mindless, repeating my actions again and again until Leo said "Stop. Come here, faggot. Get back on the bench." I obeyed. How much longer? Or was this forever? Writing it down now, I am amazed at how easily I had been led deep into submission. But we did it more than once, over the next few months. The punishments and the chores varied, but it always ended the same way, with me secured to the bench while Sir pumped my cock, ordering me not to come until he commanded, then smearing my juice all over my face, wiping his hands in my hair. Leo got his driver's license. We switched from soda to beer. Eventually, Sir could make me come simply by counting backwards from ten. Then, come splashed against my chest and flowed over his hand, and sometimes I was allowed to lick it clean. Leo's face matured some, the shadow of a beard became more prominent and the last bit of baby fat disappeared. Or perhaps his facial muscles hardened; I don't know. Graduation approached, at last. Or way too soon, depending on which of us you asked. Leo, much to the surprise of all of us, got a partial scholarship to college. He planned to major in "Environmental Science." Surprise! "Get your ass down to the basement," Leo growled. It was the Saturday before the Fourth of July, when Leo and his folks were planning to go on vacation. And then, Environmental Science. So this was probably going to be it, for us: the last Saturday. I'd gathered everything: the ropes, the leg irons, the dildoes, the pairs of handcuffs--we had half-a-dozen sets, now--a thick leather dog collar with a lock, pieces of chain and locks with matching keys, whatever Sir wanted. I'd hung some ropes and chains from the beam. I'd even taken the mattress off the spare bed and put it on the floor where I could be spread-eagled between the post, the main drainpipe, and the workbench. I raced through the house, stripping as I went, almost falling down the basement steps, and knelt on the floor. Sir came down a few minutes later, naked except for his boots and motorcycle jacket. He smiled when he saw me, slowed his descent so I was almost panting by the time his boots hit the floor. The light from the stairs glowed behind him. His shadow fell across my body. "Like what you see, faggot?" he growled. "Yes, Sir!" "Good. I brought my camera."