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My birthday is always an interesting challenge for him. He can't
leave the house without permission, so he cannot buy a gift. He
has no money even if he could leave. When I send him to town on
errands, I give him a specific amount of cash. The receipt and
change must reconcile exactly. He can't manufacturer a gift from
anything laying around the house. He can't even do something
special manually for me: because his purpose is to not only
satisfy me but to please me at all times, there's simply no way that he
can do anything to especially please me without revealing that he
hadn't been doing all he could, and should, have been doing all
along. The predicament weighs on him.
This year, I bought him a gift. I came home from work with the
box under my arm. As always, he had knelt beside the door before
it swung open. "Get up," I told him. As his eyes dissolved
into disappointment that he'd get neither cum nor piss that evening, I
added that we were going out.
We've only been out together twice, and not since we'd agreed that he
would be my slave. He's very shy around strangers, so the social
atmosphere of a club intimidates him. He can dance rather well,
but he's self-conscious in public and doesn't like to do it.
That's why we didn't go out early on, when we were merely a
couple. Later, there was so much going on adjusting to our new
life: my work, our house, his training. And then, as we
became more settled into what we are, routine developed. When you
have a boy who gives you everything you want and whose only want for
himself is to serve, complacency and lethargy easily take over.
His trepidation was obvious as he followed me upstairs to the bedroom
and silently took my suit, tie, and accessories as I shed them.
Once I was naked, he put everything in its place in the closet, on the
dresser, or in the laundry hamper. I told him what I wanted to
wear: socks, dark blue jeans, a black crew-neck t-shirt. I
like darkly colored clubwear because it contrasts with my skin tone,
blond hair, and green eyes. The jeans and shirt were just tight
enough to show that I'm in great shape—I'm not cut or sculpted from
hours in the gym, but I'm quite lean with the build of the soccer and
tennis player I am.
The box had been tossed on the bed. I took my keys from the
dresser and removed his CB3000. Since his marathon of orgasms
about a month earlier, which had been effective in filling him with
fear whenever I told him he had permission to cum, I'd let him get off
once a week. It wasn't for his benefit but for mine. I love
feeling his ass spasm around my cock as he cums while I fuck him, so
rather than prostate-milk him each Sunday morning, I now take off his
chastity device and fuck him. I took it off him on this occasion
because I didn't want it in the way. I sent him to the bathroom
to get the canister of talc he'd need. When he returned, I opened
the box and showed him his ensemble: skin-tight latex pants and a
mesh shirt. His blue eyes beautifully filled with dread when he
He'd never worn anything like it and had difficulty getting the pants
on. I had him talc his hairless lower body so the material would
slide more readily as he tugged them on. I knew his size
perfectly. I knew everything about him perfectly. The fit
was exactly as I'd wanted—from ankle to upper thigh, the smooth, shiny
black rubber appeared painted onto him, closely following the contours
of his calves, knees, and thighs. The front seam clearly
separated his balls, the twin orbs forming pronounced bulges on each
side. We had to experiment a bit with his cock until I decided
the way I liked it best was point up towards his left hip.
Perhaps I only imagined it, but I think the fit was so tight you could
tell he's uncut. I'd had the crotch tailored so that the back
seam still dug slightly into his crack. His ass cheeks are
somewhat flat because he'd been so thin all his life, and I didn't want
any slack. The waist barely covered his hips, leaving several
inches exposed below his navel and just a hint of cleft above the
ass. His pale, almost albino skin was gorgeous against it.
He was appalled, blushing feverishly with the knowledge he'd be seen in
public, and that made it better.
The mesh shirt also clung to him, the creamy white skin almost
luminescent through the holes. His daily afternoon workouts had
done wonders to build him up from his wafer-thin days at school.
He had abs and pecs now, and the shirt revealed them exactly as I'd
planned. Looking at him got me hard, his pouting red lips, his
clear blue eyes almost hidden behind the front fringe of the mop.
The eyes begged with the words his mouth was forbidden to utter.
I ignored them.
I had a light dinner, just a sandwich and a soda. He lay on top
of the coffee table as I sat on the sofa watching television, stroking
his tightly wrapped ass. I knew from his whimpering that he felt
it all, each fingertip, every touch. When I was ready and the
hour was late enough that I knew a crowd—the right crowd—would be at
the club, we left. He'd only been in the car perhaps a dozen
times in the two and a half years he'd been a slave. He sat in
the front passenger seat and I lowered his window a bit to chill him so
his nipples would harden in the cool autumnal air. Between
shifting gears, I occasionally stroked his cock through the rubber to
make him gasp and writhe, his dick struggling to harden in its confined
He grew increasingly nervous as we approached town. Our
destination was not a fetish club. I would fit right in with the
usual crowd: early twenties, fit, fairly standard attire for this
time of night—though most shirts would come off as the dance floor
heated up. Seay, on the other hand, would not fit in. And
that was the point. Seay knew it, and it amplified his
instinctive shyness. He was shaking by the time I parked and he
almost spoke when I opened the door. I made clear there would be
"There will be no discussion about this. You won't speak
unless I tell you, not to me or anyone else. If anyone asks you
who you're with, you point me out. If anyone fucks around with
you, you find me." We got out of the car and I took his hand and
pulled him behind me toward the door, his bare feet padding on the cold
asphalt. The bouncer frowned and rolled his eyes at me as we
approached, and I returned a stare that told him not to fuck with
me. I gave him my license and Seay's passport, and double our
cover. He let us in.
The sound hit us like a wall. As we stepped inside, Seay paused,
his arm tugging against mine. I yanked him in beside me and
pressed him up against the wall, pinning him there with my body.
We were far enough inside not to block the walkway. And far
enough inside to be seen. I stared him down sternly, silently,
until his eyes turned to the floor. As he bent his head, I leaned
down and in and caught his mouth with mine. I kissed him hard and
deeply, and slipped my hand between us into his crotch. He gasped
and tried to pull away, a futile move since he was backed against the
wall. As I massaged his groin, forcing my tongue farther into his
mouth, he melted into me. I squeezed his almost exposed nuts with
just the right amount of pressure to make him bend his knees, just
enough for a ball pain bitch like him to moan. He broke off the
kiss and rolled his head back and up against the wall. I moved on
to his throat and he began to rock against me as my fist pulsed.
He was oblivious to the club now, oblivious to the guys that had
already noticed us. Noticed him.
Unhurried, I dug into my pocket for the last piece of his costume for
the night: an inch-wide, black leather collar. Without
warning, I turned him around roughly, now pinning him with his chest
against the wall. I shoved my crotch into his ass, crushing his
now very obviously hard cock. I took his chin in one hand,
pulling it slightly up and back and to one side as I sucked and bit on
his neck. He pressed his ass back into me, as much to make room
for his erection as to grind into mine. He didn't notice the
collar until I let go of his face to clasp it shut. It clung
snugly just below his Adam's apple.
Again, I turned him around roughly, facing me. I didn't press
into him. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated with lust, his face
burned red. The fringe of the mop was just beginning to moisten
with sweat. I brushed it up from his forehead. He was still
afraid, but he was too horny to do anything other than obey. His
expression was filled with lust and need, and after so many months of
reconditioning—not to change him but to enhance what was already in his
soul—his need was fulfilled by submitting to me. And he did.
I walked to the tables along the back wall, at the far end of the bar
and off to one side of the dance floor. I claimed one, taking a
chair overlooking the writhing mass of bodies—the ubiquitous mix of
young preps like me, ravers, twinks, circuit boys, older guys, fat
guys, and outright trolls. Most of the guys at the tables were
obviously at the later stage of their dates, the period after dinner
when you decide whether the guy you're with is worthy of fucking that
night, or whether you're going to cut him loose, or whether you're
going to string him along. There were a few of the ancient fags
in the back corner tables, the ones that are just a bit too femme, just
a bit too old, but whom you've got to respect for the sheer balls it
took to be out in an earlier age.
I gave Seay cash and sent him to the bar for a drink. He returned
red-faced. Someone at the bar had called him a whore for dressing
as he had. He stood silently beside me as I sipped, then I kicked
my chair out from under the table a bit and pulled him sideways onto my
lap. He closed his eyes and leaned against me, trying to shut out
where we were, trying to relax and settle in. I petted him
possessively as I took in the scene, stroking the mop, the smooth
leather of the collar, the ridges of the mesh shirt. I put one
hand in his lap, massaging his thigh, as I rested the other over the
tattoo at the base of his neck, the three-inch Chinese ideograph for
slave with my initials below, my mark of ownership. I pulled his
face to mine and kissed him again.
I knew people saw us. I knew some gawked, some murmured, some
objected. I didn't give a fuck. I thought about taking him
down to dance, but I was enjoying myself as we were—we were obviously a
couple, and it was obvious what kind of couple we were. Some guys
passed, their eyes meeting mine to show contempt, some admiration or
jealousy, whether of my owning Seay or of his being owned by me.
Some would look with the half-smile of the insider, the casual nod of
the head, some would say, "Hey," or "What's up," as they walked
past. As the time passed, he grew more settled. He wasn't
comfortable, but he was less anxious.
He'd gone to get my second drink when I heard a quiet but distinct,
"Sir" from behind my right shoulder. I turned back to find a kid
on his knees beside me. He looked about 17, but I knew the place
was strict about admissions so he had to be 21. He had the too
common short hair, jet black, with the front bangs styled upward.
White t-shirt, light blue jeans. Not too baggy, but not
tight. Clean cut, good skin, and eyes made of lapis lazuli.
Seay's eyes are a paler hue, with some grey. This kid's were
stunning. His hands were clasped behind his head. Someone
had trained him. I looked up and behind him, scanning in the
direction he'd come from for his owner. No one seemed to fit, and
I was intrigued.
"What is it, boy?" I asked.
"Sir, I was wondering if you needed…I mean, if I could…I mean…" he
trailed off. I stared at him blankly and he shifted his weight
from knee to knee uncomfortably. I watched his Adam's apple
bulge as he gulped. "Sir, I need to be used, Sir." And I
As if on cue, Seay returned. He gave the kid a look like a dog
had shit on the carpet, turning from him to me, my drink still in his
hand. I motioned to him to put the drink on the table and take
his place in my lap again.
"That's nice kid but, as you can see, I've already got a boy."
Seay leaned against me again. Almost possessively. He was
trying to tell the kid to fuck off without using the words he was
forbidden to say. He almost gloated, almost smirked down at the
kid. Maybe he didn't think I'd see. Maybe he thought since
I had pointed out my ownership to the kid that he had the right to
confirm it. To confirm that he, Seay, was in fact mine, as if my
having said it wasn't enough. As if my owning Seay meant Seay
The kid was about to move off, no plea, no protest. He'd made a
respectful approach and was about to make a respectful departure.
I stopped him. "Come over here," I said, pointing to a spot
closer to the table.
"Sir, those are my friends over there," he motioned with his
head. "They don't know…about…uh…" In his present position,
the table blocked the view of the group of college-aged kids across the
I held his eyes. I pointed again. "Come here," I repeated,
louder. He licked his lips—the tip barely darting out from his
mouth, just to add a touch of moisture, almost in the same feline way
that Seay continually does—but this kid's was action nervous, not
habitual. His hesitation was only momentary. He glanced
over to where the college kids were, then shuffled awkwardly over to
the place I'd indicated. Seay's confident expression had
vanished. He was looking at me now, worried. "Get in the
floor," I told him. He knew instantly that he'd fucked up.
He knew instantly that he was in trouble—not that I'd get rid of him
and replace him with this new kid, but that I'd caught him doing what
he'd already known was wrong, and that he had to worry about what I was
going to do in response. Although I could feel the disappointment
and reluctance wash over him, he obliged and knelt on the other side of
my knees, the two subs facing each other, but both looking up at me.
"What's your name?" I asked the new kid.
"What are your limits?"
"Uh…I don't…I'm not sure," he said softly. He glanced nervously
over at the kids again.
"Well, you know how to behave for the most part, so what have you
done? Who's been training you?"
"Sir, I've just been, uh, on the ‘net a lot. I haven't really
done anything yet. But I want to. I mean, I need to.
I know it's what I am." A fucking poseur. Both Seay and I
knew it. But it wasn't about this kid anymore. Seay had
made it about Seay.
"Well, what do you get off on then?" I asked.
"Uh…" the kid turned red. "Bondage, spanking, uh, you know,
getting fucked, serving. Sir," he tacked on. He glanced
back over at his friends.
"Bradley, I don't play games. The boy on the floor across from
you? I own him. He obeys me without question. I have
a dungeon in my basement. I flog him until his back bleeds," I
lied, "because I like to hear him scream." Bradley's eyes
widened. I had flogged Seay, but only for punishment. I
enjoy his unblemished (except for my tattoos), hairless body too much
to scar it. "He drinks my piss. He'd eat my shit if I told
him to, but I wouldn't tell him to, because then I'd never want to kiss
him again. You're a different story. I don't want to kiss
you. I've got him to kiss." The eyes got wider—and so did
Seay's for that matter—and Bradley's blush vanished as he
blanched. He gulped.
"I own him," I continued. "Not just his body. His
soul. I could tell him I wanted to cut off his little finger, and
he'd look at me and cry but he'd hand me the knife. What can I
cut off of you? You've never lived it. You've never earned
it. He doesn't obey because he's afraid. He doesn't obey
because he's horny. He obeys because submission is the form his
love takes, just like commanding and punishing when necessary is the
form my love takes. That's not you. What you want is
someone to hurt you and control you so you can get off on it."
"No, Sir," he objected. I raised my eyebrow. "That is what
I want, Sir, but I don't know how, Sir. I don't know how to get
it. I don't know how to start, Sir. I didn't see you when I
came in, but as soon as I did, I couldn't stop looking. I don't
know how to get a chance to be on a master's lap like that. I
don't know what I have to do, but I know it's what I need, Sir."
I stared at him in silence. I was surprised, but not
dumbfounded. I was thinking. I'd gone from dismissing him
outright, to deciding to use him to punish Seay, to being disgusted
with his predictability, to considering giving him some form, some
structure. He was right, how could he learn what he needed, how
could he ever grow beyond being an internet porn fantasy poseur if no
one gave him a shot? After all, Seay and I had each evolved into
our respective roles through play, then refined those roles through the
instruction available on the internet and from the people I'd met and
talked with there. There was a chance that this kid had the seed
inside him, the seed that needed nurturing. As much chance as
there was that he was a player who just wanted to get off.
"Give me your shirt," I ordered.
He paused only a second, again glancing over at his friends, before
pulling off his t-shirt and handing it to me. It revealed a
swimmer's build, somewhat out of training. Not as lean as it
could be, but still firm and toned. Some hair, obviously recently
shorn but since neglected, thinly sprouted over his pecs, narrowing
over his abs, and disappearing into his jeans. His nipples were
pierced, a steel barbell horizontal through each. I tossed the
shirt over Seay's head, like a night cover over a parrot's cage.
I grabbed the left barbell and twisted 180-degrees clockwise.
Bradley bit his lip and thrust his pec towards me, whimpering. I
held the nipple in position.
"And your friends don't know you're a submissive bitch?"
"No, Sir!" he hissed.
"They think I'm versatile, Sir. We mess around sometimes."
"Have you ever been with a woman?"
"But you have topped?"
"Yes, Sir. Maybe a dozen times, Sir."
"Are you clean?"
"How do you know?" Silence. "I wouldn't have taken your
word for it anyway. I'm not going to fuck you, because I don't
like rubbers, and with my boy, I don't need them."
"To the extent that I might be persuaded to help you at all, these are
the terms. You will obey without question. If you object at
all, we're through. You'll have no limits, because, frankly,
you've never done anything real yet and some things you think you'll
like, you won't, and some things you think you won't like, you
will. In exchange, the first time we try something, you'll get a
safe word. Only the first time. If you use the safe word,
whatever we're doing becomes a limit and it'll never be done
again. If you don't use the safe word, whatever we're doing is
fair game from then onward. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," he said. His face reflected his optimism mixed with
fear, despite the fact I was still abusing his nipple. Either he
was getting used to it, or he really did want to be trained.
"I will punish you. I'll punish you because it pleases me, and
I'll punish you when you disobey. If you tell me no when I
command you, you're out. If you don't do something I tell you to
do, exactly as I tell you, you'll feel pain that will not be erotic
pain. Not like this," I pulled his still-twisted nipple out from
his chest as he gasped.
"Do you have any questions?"
"I can't think of any now, Sir" he panted. I released his nipple.
"What are you wearing under your jeans," I asked. He blushed.
"I have to piss. I'm going to tell you what's going to happen,
because this is your chance to back out. You're going to follow
me to the bathroom. Your going to kneel between two urinals,
unzip my fly, and put my cock in your mouth. I'm going to
piss. You're going to drink as fast as you can. I don't
care how much you spill or choke up on yourself, but if any gets on me,
you'll regret it. After I'm through, you're going to kiss my
cock, put it away, and zip me up. Then you're going to take off
your thong. You're going to put it in your mouth like a gag, and
make sure part of it sticks out. You're going to walk over to
your friends, give them your shirt, and make it clear to them, as best
you can through your underwear, that you're going home with me.
I'll be sitting here again, watching you by that time. You'll
return to the spot you're in now and kneel. And then we're
Shock and awe. He was incredulous. I give him credit:
he never objected. He didn't protest. He just knelt there,
hands locked behind his head, staring at me, mouth gaping. I
counted to thirty in my head, and then took the shirt off Seay's
head. I started to stand. "Come on, Seay, we're
leaving." Seay sighed with relief and stood.
Bradley stumbled to his feet. "Sir! Wait, please!
I'll go. I'll do it." His eyes were wet. Those
gorgeous lapis eyes. Bradley would be beautiful when he
cried. I smiled. I turned to Seay and pointed to the spot
he'd knelt in. As he sank to his knees, I glared at him.
"Don't ever take what we have for granted again." I turned and
led Bradley to the bathroom.
Seay cried most of the way home. Not all out sobbing and weeping,
but the sort of sniveling, tearful silence that told me he was sorry
and that he blamed himself and that he wish he hadn't been bad.
Bradley, lying naked in the back seat with his head against one door
and his bare feet planted on the window of the other, was in
shock. He'd fucked up drinking my piss, but he didn't spew any on
me as he knelt in the busy bathroom, the sounds of fucking spilling out
over the tops of the stalls. It had cascaded down his chest in
streams, running into his waistband.
I'd made him strip right there in the middle of the bathroom, making
him shuck off his thong and ramming it into his mouth for him before
letting him pull his jeans back on. I handed him his shirt and
sent him out sucking my piss from the skimpy cloth where it had
dribbled through his jeans. The wet streaks down the front of his
jeans, the trails down his chest, were obvious to everyone. I
calmly walked back to the table and sat, petting Seay's hair. The
tears had already welled up and I knew he wanted desperately to
apologize. To make it right. To stop me from taking Bradley
home. But that was in Bradley's hands now, as he shamefully made
his way to his friends.
I couldn't hear the conversation—as one sided as it must have been
since he had to keep his underwear in his mouth—but the reactions as he
handed his shirt off and pointed in my direction were perfect.
Confusion, disbelief, contempt. They looked my way and I smiled
and waved. He turned to make his way back to me, and they called
after him, one of them grabbing his shoulder. He didn't
stop. His cock was jutting out in his jeans. His eyes were
blank. He was ripe. He was ready. He'd earned a night
with me, he'd paid for it with his humiliation in the club, and the
long-lasting effect of his friends passing rumors around to those who
know him but had not been present, their teasing him later. I had
a feeling that the "messing around" they did together was going to be
different after tonight.
I'd made him strip in the parking lot beside the car. He was
becoming mechanized, automatic. No resistance. I think he
was amazed at himself that he'd done it but fully aware that there was
no turning back the clock. No undoing his humiliation. He
was still horny, though; it was mostly the hormones that had made him
follow me into the bathroom, the need to cum, the need to get off, the
need to play out a bit of the internet fantasy. But I'd made it
real, and public, so there'd be no going back.
When we arrived home, I assigned Seay the task of preparing Bradley to
be used. It would unsettle them both—Seay having to shave and
wash and enema Bradley, and Bradley seeing Seay strip of the club
clothes to reveal his completely shorn body and lock his CB3000 back
on, then to be shaved and cleaned inside and out. I told Seay not
to fuck with him, not to play with him, and not to talk to him more
than he had to instruct him on what to do. I went to the basement
to get ready.
The basement is unfinished. It consists of a concrete floor,
cinderblock walls, a few naked light bulbs, and the vertical and
horizontal beams supporting the rest of the house. Though it's
tied into the climate control system of the rest of the house, it's
always about five degrees cooler. The area beside the steps is
organized for laundry—washing machine, dryer, ironing board, sorting
and folding table, &c. There's also a sink on the wall.
Beside that, there's the weight and exercise equipment. This area
occupies about 20% of the basement, and is screened off with a
partition from the main area. The main area houses the
dungeon. It comprises the armoire for equipment storage; a rack,
a sawhorse, and stocks a likeminded friend made for me; a table; and a
cage—roughly the same as a kennel cage for a large dog. There's
also a cupboard of dining utensils. The table is centered on the
east wall between the cupboard and the armoire. The rack,
sawhorse, stocks, and cage are on the west wall. There's a lot of
space for working in between.
I'd taken my shirt off when they came down some time later.
Bradley's cock hardened when he saw me. The shock had mostly worn
off, and I think by then he'd accepted what he'd already done and was
more worried about what he'd have to do next. He was an inch or
so taller than Seay, so about 5'10", and his feet rested flat on the
cool concrete as I fastened his wrists to the cross beam. Seay
has to stand on the balls of his feet when I tie him.
"There are three things we're going to deal with," I announced.
"First," I pointed to Seay, "you fucked up. You know it, and you
feel bad about it, and you think this is your punishment for it, but
you're wrong. We'll deal with that later.
"Second," I turned to Bradley, hanging from the ceiling, "you're a
miserable fucking piss drinker. Third, I told you that you'd be
punished for disobedience. When I ordered you to follow me into
the bathroom, you hesitated. That's unacceptable. I'm going
to help train you. That means I'm going to show you the costs of
disobedience. I'm also going to help you find your initial
limits. These two things are not the same. You'll get a
safe word, like I said, but the safe word doesn't get you out of being
"You didn't have the safe word when you tried pathetically to drink my
piss earlier, but you didn't ask for one, either. So that was
your first experience with piss, it's over, and it's not on your limit
list. Piss is fair game now. So I'm going to help you
improve your technique."
I took a glass from the cupboard and unceremoniously unzipped and
pissed into it. I beckoned to Seay and pointed to the floor in
front of me. He knelt wordlessly, and I held the glass to his
lips and poured piss into his mouth. I told him not to swallow,
to just hold the mouthful. I told him to turn around and face
Bradley, who hung naked, hard.
"Gargle it," I ordered. Seay obeyed. "Swish it
around." "Dribble it into your hands and then slurp it back
up." He demonstrated each order perfectly. "Now swallow it."
"Thank you, Sir," he announced once his mouth vacated.
I took the glass over to Bradley and pulled the thong from his
mouth. "You're probably thirsty now. I want you to chug
this glass of piss. If you spill any of it, the next piss you
drink will not be mine, but my slave's. And it will be stale and
He opened his mouth to speak and I slapped him. "No speaking
without permission," I ordered. His eyes held mine as he
nodded. I raised the glass and poured slowly. I didn't want
to go fast, to drown him, to overwhelm his capacity. I wanted him
to have a long, leisurely taste of it, to begin the process of
acceptance, of familiarity, of need. He fought of the desire to
wretch three times, and I stroked his hair as we stared at each other
and the glass slowly drained. And he stayed hard.
I returned to the table, standing beside Seay, tousling the mop.
I noted Bradley hadn't thanked me as Seay had, and was pleased he
wasn't just imitating—he was listening, he was engaged. He obeyed
my order not to speak.
"What do you do?" I asked Bradley. He told me he worked lunch
delivery for a delicatessen my office often used, and worked at a
downtown bookstore in the evenings. He didn't have any shifts for
the rest of the weekend.
"You live alone?"
"No, Sir, I've got two roommates. They were at the club."
I walked over to him, slowly circling his immobile body, touching it
where Seay had shaved it bare. Like Seay, Bradley now had no hair
on his body below his sideburns. I ran a finger into his crack
and probed at his hole. He'd had a few things in there but it was
still tight enough to be put to good use. I walked around and
cupped his balls, beginning to apply pressure. Very quickly, he
began to try to pull away, yelping. His cock, about 6" hard, well
shy of mine but about an inch longer than Seay's, began to droop.
Bradley definitely didn't have Seay's pain threshold or his love of
ball torture. I released his nuts and grabbed his nipple
barbells. I tugged at them and twisted them and he thrust his
chest out at me, moaning with lust. His cock steeled.
Another difference. Now I had one ball boy and one tit boy.
This could be fun.
I released his nipples and backed away. Precum oozed out of his
circumcised cock. "I'm going to discipline you now," I
announced. "After I'm done, you can either call your roommates
and tell them you're spending the weekend here with me, or you can ask
me to drive you back to the club. Whichever you choose, the
He nodded his acceptance. I opened the armoire and he got his
first glimpse inside. "Oh fuck!" he exclaimed. I glared at
him over my shoulder and he slumped. I took both the paddle, a
standard, textured rubber ping pong paddle, and the cat. The real
one. The knotted, leather one. I took the wide, leather
kidney belt and fastened it around his midsection over the eponymous
organs. Then, I started with the paddle.
"Seay," I called. "Come hold his feet."
"The paddle is for the hesitation," I continued. "You get a dozen
on each cheek. I'll tell you now that the cat is for
speaking. You get one lash for each word. You've already
earned two. How many more you get is up to you. Do you have
anything to say now, before I get started?"
He paused, his body tense. "Sorry, I'm very sorry." His
"I know you are. And you'll be sorrier in a few minutes.
Now shut up."
Now, I like to hear a boy scream while I beat him. I didn't know
that about myself until I began training Seay. But I don't like
the whimpering and the begging and the pleading, because once I make my
mind up about a punishment, I really don't expect to change my
mind. The paddling began with gasps and hisses. I
alternated blows between cheeks, one right, one left. After the
first ten, his ass—a beautiful bubble butt with a deep cleft—was
glowing red. The textured rubber paddle does an excellent job
with the right amount of force behind it, and I eagerly recommend
it. By fifteen, we'd gotten to the "OW!" stage, and the color was
deepening. Seay's work outs had paid off because I think without
them, Bradley's attempts to kick out would have succeeded. As it
was, Seay almost had to sit on his feet to hold him steady. At
twenty, the inevitable happened.
"FUCK! OW, FUCK! OW! PLEASE SIR PLEASE OH MY GOD!"
"Ten lashes now," I announced. I don't count "ow." I like
hearing it too much. He bit his lip as he screamed through
the last four.
I left him sobbing and shaking. Seay had been stone faced through
it all. He didn't lose any joy at having this interloper suffer,
but he'd been on the receiving end of both paddle and cat before.
And he knew he was already due for an attitude adjustment from his club
behavior and didn't want to do more damage.
I went and got Bradley's thong from the table when I exchanged the
paddle for the cat. I had been right earlier—Bradley's lapis eyes
were beautiful when he cried, a fact I noted when I turned back to
him. I roughly shoved the gag into place. "I'm being
generous to you because this is your first time being flogged, and
you're going to scream like hell and lose your self control. Ten
lashes is a lot for your first time, so I'm going to be gracious and
help you avoid more."
He did scream. He lost his control and pissed all over
Seay. I think if he hadn't had the enema, he'd have shit the
floor, too. I took care not to rip the skin open, but a few of
the welts bore pinpricks of blood. When I was finished, walked to
the table and called for Seay. I opened my jeans and Seay
greedily devoured my cock after the nodded permission. I'd been
surprised Bradley hadn't passed out, but he hung limp from his wrists,
utterly exhausted. He watched Seay working on my dick, though,
and the blood pumped back into his, even through all the pain.
I pushed Seay down to my hairless sack for a few minutes before roughly
pulling his mouth back up for a hard, brutal face fuck. Bradley's
eyes alternated between my face and the back of Seay's head.
After plowing Seay's throat with my knob, I yanked him up and threw him
chest down on the table, then mounted him ruthlessly. No lube but
his spit, no fingering for prep, no gentle, slow entry. I rutted
inside him as he groaned and yelped, the CB3000 biting into his own
I stayed inside him after I came, panting, our sweat commingling.
As my dick softened, it naturally slipped free. I backed away,
fastening my jeans, and rammed a finger into his gaping hole, scooping
out my cum. I held out my glistening, slimey finger as I walked
back to Bradley. Ripping out his thong with my free hand, I wiped
some under his nostrils, then traced around his upper lip. He
parted them and held out his tongue. I smirked. He'd make a
"What's the number?" I asked, reaching into my pocket for my
cell. He told me and I dialed it in, then held the phone to his
face as he hoarsely left the voice mail message. It was barely