Chapter 5

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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 saw them.

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 space.

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 no argument.

 "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 understood.

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 owned me.

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 dance floor.

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.

"Bradley, Sir."

"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.

"Why not?"

"They think I'm versatile, Sir.  We mess around sometimes."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"No, Sir."

"But you have topped?"

"Yes, Sir.  Maybe a dozen times, Sir."

"Are you clean?"

"Yes, Sir."

"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."

"Yes, Sir."

"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.

"Yes, Sir!"

"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 leaving together."

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 punished.

"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 cold."

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 decision's final."

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 voiced quivered.

"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.


"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 desperate erection.

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 good slut.

"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 Saturday morning.