Ingenious cruelty.  That was the only way I could think of the butt plug torture he inflicted on me.  I had to wear it virtually non-stop, removing it only to go to defecate and to shower in the communal bathroom of my dorm.  He knew it would give me an almost perpetual erection, an erection I could do little to hide with the prohibition against underwear, an erection I could do nothing to relieve with the prohibition against cumming.  Each time I sat, the plug ground into my prostate.  My cock drooled, leaving easily identifiable spots on my jeans.  My mind was full of him, thoughts of how he'd tortured me, thoughts of his cock inside me, desire for him to use me again.

I'd left his apartment that Sunday morning.  I'd eaten the breakfast he'd made and on my own initiative cleared the table and washed our dishes.    He'd invited me to stay till noon, when he would have to start doing some work for a client, but he'd told me our play had ended for the weekend.  Disappointed, I'd declined, not because I didn't want to be with him but because the stimulation of his presence and my unsatisfied lust would have made me a nuisance to him and would have increased my torment.  And I did have class work to do, things I'd been unable to concentrate on since the previous weekend.  I wouldn't be able to concentrate any better -- worse, more likely -- but they could no longer be put off.

He'd kissed me when I was leaving, deep and long and hard, and his hands had found their way to my ass.  One had groped my cheek through the loose denim while the fingers of the other had poked at the plug protruding from my hole.  He'd made sure I was fully erect before I left, the tip of my cock punctuated with precum on the thigh of my jeans.

Monday morning, I began my new routine.  I woke early, at five, to hit the showers with my unnaturally hairless body before the lazy guys woke up and while the morning workout crowd was in the gym.  I took the shower cold to deflate my cock, which was invariably hard on waking and which I was unable to jerk off.  After the shower, I'd head back to my room, replace the plug, and stare at a reading assignment or peck at a paper briefly before my mind wandered and I began to daydream.  The dreams were always about sex and always about him, and the effects of the cold shower were always negated in less than an hour, if my reprieve lasted so long with the plug back in place.  Eventually, I would dress and head to the dining hall.  I'd taken to carrying a notebook with me, held with seeming nonchalance in front of my crotch, but I knew that the adolescent trick was one every guy and most girls knew.  I was humiliated and often blushed when I noticed anyone looking even remotely in my direction, sure that they were looking at me and sure that they knew about my hard on.

Paranoia was an inadequate description.  At times, I convinced myself that people could tell on sight that I was gay, that I had found a man who would use me for his deviant pleasure -- no, our deviant pleasure.  Could they tell my ass was plugged by the way I walked?  Or the flinching jump I made each time I sat?  No, of course not, but at times my brain was certain they did.

My cock was sore, but it did go down.  Usually it went down sometime in the middle of my first class as a serious case of blue balls set in.  I gritted my teeth and forced myself to focus on the lectures as the ache in my gut and the pressure in my ass blended together.

I had to decline all invitations for extracurricular activity.  There was simply no excuse for a notebook or another crotch obstacle unless I confined myself to the circuit from my room to class to the dining hall and back.  I passed on my friends' offers to play tennis or head to an off-campus club, explaining that I had some fictitious assignment that needed my urgent attention.

What needed urgent attention was my cock.  I thought at least once every half hour about disobeying his orders and either taking out the inescapable plug or donning a jock to constrain my erection or, most temptingly, to just wrap my fist around my meat and beat off to an incredible climax.  But I knew that doing any of those things would be to trade in my craving of him and what he did to me for instant gratification.  It wasn't that he might find out about my disobedience; it was that I knew I would know that I had disobeyed, and that I knew I wanted to serve him and obey.  There was more than simple physical attraction, there was more than just carnal lust, a desire to taste him in my mouth again or to feel his powerful thrusts of that long, thick cock deep into my ass.  There was more than selfish lasciviousness.  I wanted to please him.

There was nothing rational about it, the silent suffering.  I was certain that he would never catch me if I rebelled.  But I didn't.  And I had known at the outset that I wouldn't.  I had resisted the temptation to cum for nine days between the first time we met and when he let me cum as he fucked me.  I had spread the depilatory lotion over my skin in the shower, the communal shower, in my dorm, all but being caught in the process.  He exerted his will over me without effort, because I was his willing, his needing, his craving, tool.  It was not slavery; he held no tangible or material hold over me.  He did not force me to do things against my will.  His hold was psychological; it was almost as though our wills were one.  If he wanted me to do something, there was no need for force because I wanted it, too.  To please myself by pleasing him.

So I tolerated the plug and the freeballing and the ubiquitous erections.  I grimly bore the loss of my social life.  I was concerned about the distraction from my school work, which I knew was suffering from my inability to concentrate, but it was early in the semester and I knew there would be time to make up later for poor performance now.

It was Wednesday after Balkan History that we met again.  I hadn't called him, not to beg, not to complain, not to ask when we would meet again.  I'd known he would contact me when he thought I was ready.  I hadn't been prepared for his surprise visit, though, when I walked out of the room into the open hall, a cavernous foyer into which students poured after classes, and saw him sitting on a bench.  I did a double take, and was instantly filled with conflicting emotions.  My first thoughts were lustful.  They were spawned by my insistent cock, which ballooned to full size, my full balls, and the physical charisma, the aura of sex, he exuded.  Women in the hall cast him lingering glances as they passed.

I gulped as my mind turned towards what should have been obvious:  there was evil in his visit to my university.  He knew I wasn't out, and he knew his presence would spark conflict within me.  How could I serve him and give in to him here?  How could I even walk over to him, to be seen with him, where I was known?  I regretted having sent him my class schedule weeks ago.  I'd done it when we were first planning to meet, trying to synchronize our schedules to find a time and place convenient and safe.  What irony:  a time and place safe for me to meet him without anyone I knew seeing us together.

As people passed around me, streaming out of the classrooms, I realized I had stopped, frozen to the floor, when I'd seen him.  How long had I been staring?  Was it obvious?  Had anyone else seen it?  The mass exodus signaled the end of the class period, so he took his attention from the hand-held computer in which he was engrossed and he raised his head.  He found me immediately, as if he had known exactly where to look.  He smiled in a way that put me instantly at ease; although it didn't quell my fear, it distracted me from it.  Embarrassed, I made my way to him as he stood.

He maintained his smile and I pretended to return one, less for him -- he would see that it was fake -- than for anyone else who might be observing.  My mind whirled.  Why was he here?!  As I approached, my heart stopped.  What if he embraced me or kissed me, right here in the hall as dozens of my peers passed?!  He holstered his hand-held in a sheath on his belt, never taking his eyes from me, and when I approached, he casually draped his arm over my shoulder and we began walking to the exit.

"Nice touch with the notebook, sport.  Has it been working?" he asked quietly.  I remembered the volume of his voice at the bookstore and was thankful for his discretion here.  I still blushed at his words.

"I think so, sir.  I hope so."  My reply was barely a murmur.

I wanted to ask him why he had come here, what he wanted from me, but before I could utter anything else, he pulled me through a doorway into a fire stairwell.  He wheeled me around, my back against the brick, and slid his hand under my notebook, between my thighs and up to cup my crotch.  "I just wanted to come by and give you a little surprise inspection," he whispered into my ear before nipping the lobe with his teeth.  His hand groped my balls beneath the jutting rod of my erection.

My mind whirled.  While the main stairs to the upper levels of the building were open and centered in the foyer outside the fire door, anyone could come in and use these stairs to ascend or descend, anyone who didn't want to fight the mob of students crushing to get from class to class on the main stair.  In addition to the panic, there was an underlying sense of anger, frustration, sadness at his premise.  He didn't trust me?  These emotions were quickly supplanted as I caught a whiff of his aftershave, his cheek brushing mine as he moved from my earlobe down my neck, rooting under the button-down collar of my shirt.

His hand moved from my nuts up to my hard on, and he gripped it firmly.  I yelped in surprise as I realized the other hand had moved to my ass, its fingers pressing into my crack and nudging the butt plug.  He pressed his chest into mine as he leaned down, moving his lips and tongue around to my Adam's apple.  Of their own volition, one hand released the notebook, which fell to the floor between our feet, and the other dropped my book bag loudly.  They joined loosely around his waist.  He pulled away, his eyes sparklingly mischievous.  I stared at him, irrationally consumed with lust, and as he parted his lips, I instinctively moved my head forward to meet them.  He pulled back and grinned, then repeated the motion with an added flick of his tongue over this upper lip.

At last he kissed me, and I buried one hand in his hair.  He continued fondling my rigid cock and teasing the retaining knob of the butt plug as he devoured me.  I realized I was rocking my hips against him, moving my rod in his fist and my ass against his probing fingers.  He broke his kiss and smiled.  "You want me to fuck you, don't you?" he asked, his voice laced with a sarcastic attempt at astonishment.

"Yes, please," I begged.

"You want it here?" he asked, devilishly.

I was aroused, and he was right, I did want him to fuck me, but I wasn't quite insane.  I was still aware of my surroundings and the risk in them.  "No, please, not here!"

"Where then, college boy?"

I paused, or I thought I paused, until I heard my own voice echoing in the stairwell, "My room, sir?"

"OK," he agreed, stepping back and releasing his hold on my privates.  He bent and picked up my notebook, and I shakily ran a hand over my hair and awkwardly straightened my shirt and jeans.  I bent to pick up my books and saw the streak of pre that had soaked through.  I looked up to see him staring at it in amusement.  "Should I let you have this back?" he asked, tauntingly, as he held my notebook.

My jaw dropped to the floor and my eyeballs must have bulged from their sockets.  I remembered how he had made me carry his magazine across the bookstore the weekend before last, my erection clearly visible in my boxers and jeans.  That had been in his town, half an hour's drive from my school.  This was on campus!  He snickered at my expression and pressed the notebook into my hand.

He left his hair mussed as we left the stairwell and moved through the foyer and out into the quad.  I had two more classes that afternoon, but fuck them!  He knew I had them, too, because they were on the same schedule he'd used to lie in wait to ambush me.  My cock throbbed with each step, and I could feel more precum dribbling out in anticipation.  When there was a fair distance between us and any of the other students, he began to question me quietly.  He asked how the past few days and gone and I answered truthfully:  they'd been hellish.  He asked what was more difficult, the plug or the unrestrained erection.  I felt I was being baited, but I remained truthful.  I explained that I could largely conceal the hard on, but it affected my social life; the plug was a constant presence when I sat, stood, walked, or tried to sleep.  I told him that I was seriously worried about the constant state of arousal and its affect on my academic performance.  He mused silently.

It was not a long walk to the dorm, and when we reached its door, he followed me up the stairs and down the hall to my room.  I unlocked the door and led him inside, and he closed and locked the door behind us.  Somewhere, the bass of a stereo thumped.  He looked over my room, taking in the books, furniture, posters, quickly but intently, committing it to memory.  He strode to my laptop, open and turned on atop the desk below my open window.  He gently stroked the touchpad, vaporizing the screen saver.  The desktop image was a bland university graphic.

"Do you download porn on this?" he asked.

"Yes sir, sometimes, but I haven't had to for a couple of weeks," I answered.

He turned to where I'd dropped the notebook and book bag on the bed.  "Strip."  The command was simple and insouciant.  I immediately shed my clothes and stood before him, naked.  He beckoned me closer, and I moved until my bobbing cock was inches from him.  "You need to keep this smooth," he said sternly, fingering my pubic stubble.

"I was going to get rid of it all again before I saw you, sir," I began before he interrupted.

"You don't know when you'll see me again, do you?  You're not smooth now, are you?"

"No sir."

His face was emotionless as he lifted my arms and checked my pits.  "Turn around and grab your ankles."  I obeyed wordlessly.  My ass, not hirsute by any means even under normal circumstances, had not yet sprouted stubble.  He slapped my ass firmly but indifferently and told me to stand.  "I'm going to punish you for regrowing hair, but I'm not going to do it today.  I'm going to wait until the environment is right to punish you properly."  I looked to the floor and nodded silently.  He raised my chin with his hand and read my face.  "You have the makings of a great boy, Simon, but you need training.  Punishment is a part of training."

"Yes sir," I answered.

He moved to me and wrapped his hands around my bare back.  He lowered his head and began to kiss me, slowly, almost romantically, as his fingers stroked my skin.  My hands went to his hair and the back of his neck as I surrendered to him.  He cupped my ass in one hand and began to fuck me with the plug, beginning with short, shallow strokes, and proceeding to long, hard ones that made me gasp as the full length of the plug rammed home.  He pulled away to nip at my ear as I moaned quietly, rocking between his crotch and his hands, impaled on the plug.

"Do you have permission to cum?"

"No sir."

"Good boy."  Keeping our hips together, he leaned away.  I could feel his cock swelling through the twill khakis he wore.  It occurred to me that I knew what his cock and cum tasted like, but I didn't know what underwear he wore.  "Grab your nipples," he ordered.  I looked at him, puzzled, but obeyed, taking my hands from his back to grip my own hard buds between my fingertips.  "Pull and twist," he directed.  He wrapped his free hand around my hips, his forearm crossing the small of my back over the curve of the top of my ass, as the other hand continued to move the plug in and out of my hole.  He watched as I tortured my own tits for him, his eyes on my hands as they worked.  "Harder," he corrected.

I pulled and tweaked harder until I whimpered, my face screwed up in pain.  "Do you feel it?"

"Yes sir," I gasped.  I could feel sweat breaking out on my body.  My cock felt electrified.

He told me to stop and then backed away, releasing the plug.  He pulled my chair from under the desk and sat. He ignored the splotch of pre I'd oozed on his pants.  "Now your balls."  I reluctantly took my nuts into my fist.  He shook his head.  "No.  Remember the parachute stretcher. Thumb and forefinger over the top, slide your fingers down around them, and pull tight.  As you pull down, squeeze, keeping the pressure proportional."

Slowly, with hesitation bordering on insubordination, I obeyed.  As the ache grew in my gut, he could see my abs tighten.  "Good," he said softly when he saw whatever expression he was looking for.  "Remember this position.  Now your nipples."  I resumed the tit torture I'd earlier inflected on myself.  Moments passed.  My cock drooled.  "Balls," he said.  I repeated the earlier squeezing and smacking.  My cock throbbed.  "Do you feel it?  The orgasm building up?"

I knew I did.  I had never done these things to myself.  Masturbating to me had always been fisting my cock, maybe fingering my sack or tracing my hole with my free hand.  But he was right, I was definitely getting close to the edge, even though touching my cock was no where in the routine.  Maybe it was the intense stimulation, beginning Saturday night after I came the first time he fucked me.  He'd fucked me three more times, and then I'd been plugged virtually non-stop.  Sunday.  Monday.  Tuesday.  Today was Wednesday.  No orgasm.  Maybe it was because I was a masochist, and I needed the pain.  Maybe it was because he was there, and I wanted to demonstrate my obedience.  Maybe it was all three.  "Yes sir," I groaned.

"Stop.  Take the plug out and go do what you need to do to get ready."  He reached over and grabbed my jeans from the bed, tossing them to me.  To my humiliation, his gaze never wavered as I twisted my torso and grimaced, slipping the plug out from my ass.  When it popped free, I cleaned it of any residue with Kleenex and laid it on the desk.  My face was burning, but I pulled on the jeans.  It gave me a moment's pause, thinking about leaving him alone in my room while I headed to the bathroom, but I didn't really have a choice.  My nipples were red and erect when, shirtless, I stepped out into the hall.

I returned to find him leaning back in my desk chair, eyes closed.  When he heard the door click shut, the tranquil look on his face lifted and his eyes opened.  He beckoned me over and pulled me to sit in his lap, straddling his thighs.  He used one hand to grope my crotch and inner thighs as he pulled me closer and kissed me again.  "The texture of denim complements your body, I think," he said.  I could feel the hardness growing in his lap as I writhed under the ministrations of his fingers between my legs.  My desire for him had reached almost a frenzy, something palpable in the air, and he detected it.  My fingers went uninvited to the top button of his shirt.

"No!" he said sternly, pulling away, his eyes unyielding.

"Please! I need you!" I begged.

"Nipples," he commanded.  I closed my eyes in frustration, but my fingers obeyed, resuming their place over my chest, twisting and pulling with the vigor he had earlier demanded.  I squirmed in his lap.  I felt his thumb firmly rubbing circles over the head of my cock through my jeans.  "Do you have permission to cum?"

"No sir," I whimpered, torn between pain and lust, between frustration and obedience.  He pulled my hands away and moved them to his hips.  He leaned down and took my right nipple into his mouth, sucking and pressing firmly with the tip of his tongue.  I gasped and grunted as he pinched the left nipple between the nails of his middle finger and thumb.  It hurt so good.  He stopped pinching the left and caressed softly, and then I yelped as his teeth closed firmly on the right.  He kept me bouncing in his lap as he alternated between the two.  When he tired of his game, his hands dropped to my hips in indication that I stand.  When his lap was empty, he, too, stood.

"Undress me, Simon."  My fingers trembled as I reached for this shirt buttons.  They trembled with anticipation and the temptation to rip his clothes off.  I kept them under control, unbuttoning the shirt to the waist of his khakis, then pulling the tails free.  I leaned in and sniffed the scent of him on his white, crew neck undershirt as my fingers fell to the clasp of his belt.  We both knew I needed him.  After undoing his belt, I fell to my knees to untie his suede Oxfords.  I moved my face to brush against the cotton of his crotch as I raised one foot, then the other, to pull the shoes and socks free while he stood unaided with perfect balance.  I remained kneeling before him as I unfastened his trousers and unzipped them.  He watched me lick my lips as the brushed cotton of his underwear emerged.  Boxer briefs.  Now I knew.

I pulled the khakis from his legs and he stepped from them.  I stood and folded them carefully and laid them over the back of the chair.  I lifted the collar of his open shirt while I stood behind him and slid it down over his shoulders and passed his wrists.  I draped it over the chair as well.  He turned to me and raised his arms.  I gripped the undershirt at the hem and pulled it off, his hair slipping through the narrow neck and falling back roughly into place.

He stood in his underwear and I in my jeans in the temperate dorm room.  An occasional breeze wafted in, along with the sounds of late summer, birds and a lawn mower.  The bass from the stereo had stopped.  Even in my desperation, I couldn't help but pause as I looked at him, his tanned, athletic body bared for me, the bright white boxer briefs brilliant in contrast, and obviously full with his balls and cock.  He was hard and he was hard because of me.

I found his eyes.  "I shouldn't have anything on when you're naked, should I?" I asked tentatively.   He smiled.

"There's a limit to deference, Simon," he said.  He pushed his underwear over his hips and down his thighs, whence they fell freely to the floor.  "But I appreciate your sentiment."  He stepped out of the puddle of cotton and pulled me against his body by the front waistband of my jeans.  He grabbed my hands and pulled them into his crotch.  He wrapped the fingers of one around his hard shaft and dropped his balls onto the palm of the other hand.  He kissed me again as my hands felt him, feeling the weight of his balls and the turgid thickness of his cock.  His hands slipped into my jeans and gripped my buttocks.

"I'm going to fuck you," he informed me.

"Yes, please," I whispered.

"The cum in my balls is in going to be in your ass soon," he continued.  "But first my cock is going inside you.  And I'm going to fuck you hard."  His right hand had moved around my body to my crotch after brushing firmly past my sack.  His fist closed on my shaft.  "But right now, I want you to cum."  He started stroking my cock, tightly clenched in his fist.  I moaned openly as he jacked me, my unprotected cock head exposed to the friction against the rough cloth.  I could feel the heat of his cock and balls in my hands and the warmth of our chests together.  His hands were firm on my ass and cock, insistent, demanding.  I lowered my forehead to his shoulder, feeling my body rocking as he masturbated me.  The stimulation of the past three days, culminating in this last hour or so, meant I couldn't resist.  My breath became ragged, punctuated by my whimpering gasps.  My hands flew to his hips for balance.  I didn't last a minute under the combination of his hand and the permission, now, at last, to cum.

I did.  My head fell back in ecstasy and I called out incoherently as the pent up semen from days of neglect fired forcefully, propelled by the recently underused muscles of my cock and groin, from my balls through my prostate, my cum tube, my cock lips, right into the denim of my jeans.  After what felt like countless minutes, I fell back against him limply, panting.  I realized the hand that had been on my ass was now between my shoulder blades, stroking softly.  I realized, too, that a sheen of sweat covered my chest and back.  He buried his fingers in my hair and kissed me unrelentingly, his tongue fucking my mouth, as the slime coated thumb of his other hand cruelly circled my sensitive cock head.  I thrashed, pulling my hips back instinctively, but his hands held my hair and shaft and there was nowhere to go.  When he was satisfied with his lingual rape of my mouth, he broke away, pulling his hand up out of my crotch.  He held it out to me, inches from my chin.  My eyes locked on his as I leaned forward, stuck out my tongue, and lapped my spunk from him.  His mouth smirked, but his eyes betrayed his lust.

I maintained the eye contact, feeling empowered, as I licked off the last of my juice.  I twisted my head and sucked in his thumb, delighting as his lips parted and his brow furrowed.  He regained his composure almost immediately, pulling his hand away.  "Lube?" he asked.  "Or do you want it dry?"  The last question banished all fleeting thoughts of rebellious teasing from my mind.  My eyes widened and I glanced down at the size of his cock.  He had instantly reasserted his control, and I was returned effectively and efficiently to my place.  I darted to the desk and pulled a tube, recently disused, from the drawer.  He gave me a knowing smirk as he accepted the lubricant I pressed into his hand.

"Jeans off.  Bed.  On your back."  The words came staccato as he flipped the cap open and squeezed the lotion along the length of the top of his cock.  I obeyed in a flash, lying naked on the bed with my hands holding the my knees inches from my chest in seconds.  He held the bottle a few feet over my ass and dripped a strand of lube onto my hole, his eyes on mine.  He closed the bottle and tossed it down beside my head.  He smeared his cock with one hand and then moved into position, kneeling on the bed, his head at my hole, my calves hooked on his shoulders as his face loomed over mine.  "I told you it was going to be rough, right, Simon?"

"Yes si..." I began but my breath caught in my throat as he rammed in, all the way home, burying his thick, long cock inside me in a single thrust.  I gasped for breath like a fish out of water as the sensation radiated through me.  The plug had been inside me, virtually non-stop, for days, but it was all but a toothpick in comparison to his girth.  Even lubed, the friction of his entry and the speed of his penetration combined as a traumatic invasion.  My ass muscle cramped around him and when I found the breath, I wailed.  He displayed mercy by holding his position in me, fully embedded.  My red, contorted face, and the rest of my clenched muscles, slowly relaxed, and then he began.

There was no slow build up.  He pulled back until only the head remained inside my ring, and then he slammed forward, his thighs and ballsack slapping against me.  I yelped each time he entered.  "Is this what you wanted, Simon?" he asked.  Even in the pain, the burning that was already fading fast, I knew I loved the feeling of him when was fully inside me.  My cock was already rising.

"Yes, please, fuck me," I moaned.  He obliged.  He thrust himself fully into me, then pulled back.  He waited a breath before repeating the motion.  He would change the angle of his hips, altering the force and target of penetration.  When my cock grew fully hard, he gripped it in the slippery hand with which he'd lubed himself.  He began to fist it in time to his fucking, tightly forcing it through his hand with each of his downstrokes.  My eyes clamped shut and my head lolled side to side on the mattress.

"Simon?"  He was calling me through the fog in which I found myself enveloped.  I opened my eyes.  "If you cum again, you are going to wear those jeans you spunked tomorrow."

"No!" I begged.  "Please!"

His only answer was his smirk as he rammed home a thrust aimed exactly at my prostate.  He stopped, fully inside me, and ground his hips, rolling his cock deep in my guts.  When he resumed, his pace quickened.  He no longer waited the breath before plunging back inside me after each withdrawal.  He powerfully rabbit fucked me, sliding me fractions of an inch backwards on the bed, even though my hands clutched at the sheets.  When I dared to open my eyes, I saw him, his jaw locked closed, his eyes shut in concentration, his muscles flexed from his neck to his waist.  His body glistened with sweat, and occasionally it dripped from his forehead to my face.  When I dared to close my eyes, I was awash with the sensations, his hand relentless on my throbbing cock, his battering abuse of my love nut deep in my gut, the forceful friction of his shaft pistoning through my hole.  I was on edge again.  The consequence would be horrific if I came.

His eyes flickered open and an evil smile crossed his face through the lust and drawing climax.  "Nipples," he said.  A sob racked my shoulders as, after a moment's hesitation when his eyes burned into mine wordlessly warning about the costs of insubordination, my fingertips closed on my sore buds.  Satisfied at my growing consternation, the dilemma between climax and consequence clear in my mind, he closed his eyes again.

The pain I inflicted on myself was offset in part by the adrenaline and endorphins pumping in my blood, but the psychological appreciation that I was inflicting it, me, on myself, and at his command, was churned in my mind, processed along with the dreaded image of the stain on the jeans, the smell of dried cum that would follow me as I wore them, the disgust or ridicule on the faces of all I knew.  I willed my body not to give in.  Every muscle clenched as I fought to remain in control.  He fucked me.  His breath was ragged.  The pain.  The humiliation.  The pleasure.  His cock in my ass.  His fist around my cock.  My fingers -- mine! -- on my nipples because he demanded it.  I winced as I heard him hiss above me, and his hand stopped on my shaft.  He froze, and I felt him pumping his cum into me.  I teetered on the brink, nanoseconds from my own orgasm as the thought of his seed firing deep into my ass filled my brain.  I shuddered and my cock twitched in the open air, slimed with my residual cum and lube.  As he came, he slumped, holding himself over me weakly on both arms, and then as the sensation ebbed, he lowered himself, pinning my cock between us as I moved my legs out and down to lock around his hips.

"You won," he whispered.  "Now cum for me, Simon."  He stroked my hair and rocked his hips as his mouth found mine, his cock still semi-hard in me, his smooth abs pressing into my cock sandwiched between us.  I slid my arms from between our bodies and wrapped them around him.  Permission granted, I gave in.  It was my reward for being faithful to his prohibition on cumming.  I humped back up against him, still gripping his softening shaft with my hole and in only seconds I fired my second load all over our stomachs.  He pulled his lips free from mine as I again panted for breath.  Minutes ticked away in silence, only the birds and our breath in the air, as we rested, sweaty and spent.

At last, but too soon, he rose.  He slipped out from me and I whimpered.  He stepped over to the door and took the towel I'd left there hanging from a hook to dry after my morning shower.  He used it to clean himself, and then tossed it to me.  I held it to my face, briefly inhaling the scent of him and his cum, and mine, on it, before soaking up the cum on my chest and dabbing between my ass cheeks.  He began to dress and I watched him.

"Do you have plans, Friday?" he asked.  I didn't and told him so.  "I want you for the whole weekend.  Is that ok?"  I assured him it was.  I was certain by then that I would be eager whenever he wanted me.  "6:30 at my place.  The rules are in effect."  He tucked in his shirt.  "Have you got a suit here?"  I did.  "Wear it."  That sparked a new line of interest for me.

"Put the plug back in, Simon," he said, sitting on the chair to pull on his socks and tie his shoelaces.  I stood, wobbly, and walked to the desk.  He paused and grinned as I grimaced and slid it in, my ass still sore.  "You can use the jock straps again, though, if it makes your life easier.  Get rid of the stubble before Friday, and then keep it off.  And you still owe me for that."

I gulped and nodded.  He stood and walked to the mirror over the dresser.  With practiced ease, he fixed his hair, still somewhat damp with perspiration.  When he turned back to me, there was only an imperceptible rumpled quality to his clothes and appearance to belie how he'd spent the early afternoon.  He wrapped his hands around my naked waist and kissed me again, and then he turned and left.  I was alone, but I was sexually satisfied for the moment.  Maybe I could finally get some work done.

It didn't happen until after dinner.  I came down the corridor, returning from the dining hall, my cock, still sated, limp in its jock behind clean khakis.  Dinner without my notebook.  A veneer of normalcy.  The guy in the room next to mine stepped out, and as the door opened, I could see the curtains fluttering in the room behind him.  When he turned again after locking the door, he saw me and smirked.  It wasn't paranoia this time.  He knew.  He knew it all.