Simon And Sir
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The knock came an hour later, crisp, clear, confident. I opened the door with measured trepidation to find Jeremy, the guy from the adjacent room, outside. He pushed his way past me and walked over to my desk, sitting in my chair. All moisture in my mouth vaporized as I closed the door behind him, shutting out the empty hallway.
"So who's the guy?" he asked.
"Just a guy," I mumbled, leaning back against the door.
"Just a guy?" he repeated. "Nah, I don't think so. I could hear pretty much everything through the window. Not that I was trying to, ya know? It's just I couldn't help it. It's like you guys didn't even care if anyone heard you."
"I guess I wasn't thinking about that."
Jeremy smirked. "Yeah, I guess you had other things on your mind." He looked around the room. "I never figured you for gay. You seemed pretty normal." I blushed and stared at the floor. "So is he your boyfriend?"
"No, it's not like that," I answered, and it was true, though I hoped Jeremy didn't understand how. Unfortunately, he'd heard enough, and he did understand.
"Yeah, I figured," he smirked back at me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're just his bitch."
His flippant attitude and the fact that I'd been dreading this confrontation for an hour already had me on edge. I didn't want to play cat and mouse, and I didn't want to have to explain the situation to him, exposing myself to his mockery. "Listen, what do you want? It's obvious that you know everything that happened, and you've apparently caught on that I'd prefer that it not get around, so what's the deal? What do you want here?"
He stood up, and if he was surprised or offended by my outburst, there was no outward change in his demeanor. "What, you want to suck me off? You want me to fuck you like he did?" He paused, watching me, and his hand went to the crotch of his denim shorts, cupping his package loosely. I looked him in the eye. He was a good looking guy, cream colored skin, brown hair the color of well-varnished oak, grayish green eyes the color of the sea on an overcast morning. I ignored the basket he held in his hand, though it took some conscious effort.
"No," I shook my head. "I don't want to, but if it's what you're going to make me do to keep this thing between us, then whatever." It was a half-lie. In different circumstances, if there was no underlying threat and if I didn't already consider myself owned, I would have loved to open his pants, to see his cock, to taste it, to take it up my ass. But those circumstances weren't the ones that brought him to my room now.
He looked at me skeptically for a few seconds, then released his genitals. He walked over to me and stopped less than a foot away from my chest. "Your eyes give it away when you're lying. They get shallow and kind of glaze over, like some part of your mind is worried you're going to get caught."
I looked down as the blood rushed back to my cheeks. I could hear ringing in my ears. He was too close, and when I looked down, instinctively averting my gaze, I could only see his crotch. I cringed, knowing that he had seen me look down and that he probably mistook my meaning. I turned my face away to the side. "What do you want?" I almost whispered.
He placed his hands on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. A slave can't have two masters, can he? My mind churned over what the consequences would be of becoming Jeremy's bitch, too. Surely it would end the other relationship, the one I wanted more, the one that oddly felt safer, even if it came with physical torment and sexual denial. But I felt I needed those things, needed to be abused, and I felt more at ease with that than this; this was extorted submission, the other was freely given. Reluctantly, I bent my knees and began to kneel.
His laughter rang through my room, startling me. "Get the fuck out of my way," he chortled. "I wanted you to move, not go down on me. Jesus, you really are a bitch." I opened my eyes in surprise, completely taken aback, my humiliation renewed. He pushed me to one side, clearing his access to the door. "I'm straight, man. I get enough action. Don't worry though, if I ever need a faggot to suck my cock, I'll keep you at the top of my list."
"So what do you want?" I protested. His hand was on the doorknob.
"I just wanted to come over and yank your chain. I'm not going to tell anybody anything. I just think it's funny that, of all guys, you're the one that's a gay pussy. Just know that I know. It'll be our inside joke." With that, he disappeared into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind him.
I walked shakily back to my desk and sat where Jeremy had been only moments before, the butt plug now familiarly jolting my prostate. I understood completely that it had been a close call. I'd been careless, having sex in my room, on campus, and it had almost ruined me. I squirmed a bit on the plug trying to get comfortable, a luxury I could indulge in the privacy of my room that was not usually available outside of it. There would be many risks, I knew. I still had to shower my hairless body, and after today's lesson, I'd have to apply the depilatory more often than originally planned. There could be spot inspections like today's any time, and I'd have to be ready. I'd have to keep my lust in check though, as I hadn't today, and not give in to the temptation of sex on campus again.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed at the ceiling. Two days. He'd punish me for not being smooth today. I wondered what he had in store for me. I could feel my cock swell again in anticipation.
I stood outside his door at precisely 6:30 Friday night. I wore a summer weight wool suit, tan with a cream shirt and red tie. It was odd to be dressed so formally while underneath wearing a jock strap to constrain my erection and a butt plug in obedience of his standing order. I heard the lock of the door click, and from my experience six days earlier, I reached for the door, assuming that now, as then, I had one minute to enter and lock the door behind me, whereafter I was to strip and report to the bathroom for my enema. I was startled, therefore, when the doorknob pulled away from my outstretched hand and the door swung open. His eyes, ever aware and bright, found mine instantly, pausing briefly before scanning my attire.
His suit was azure, a shade lighter than navy. The effect of the color was startling against his crisp white shirt and yellow tie, his tan, his blue eyes and blond hair. The sheen said pure silk. Every stitch of the tailoring accentuated his slender, athletic frame.
"You look good, Simon. As I expected," he said.
"You look..." I trailed off into speechlessness as lust and pride surged. This man could have anyone he wanted, man or woman, simply by looking at them, and he wanted me. I gulped and regained composure. "Are we going somewhere, sir?"
"We are," he said, turning and locking the door behind him. "We're going somewhere where everyone knows I'm gay. We're going somewhere where my companion will be known to be gay. That means you, by the way," he said turning back to me. He had to have seen the look of abject terror. I'd only recently escaped one tense situation. His features were soft but his eyes steel as he locked onto mine. "No one will know the context of your identity. No one will know that you're a student, or where you study, or your parents, or your friends." He raised his eyebrows in stern sincerity. "You can go, or you can go home."
I stared back, then turned my gaze to the landing on which we stood. My skin crawled under my clothes. My cock wilted. Seconds stretched by in silence.
"Do you trust me, Simon?"
I took a breath. "Yes sir."
"Then which is it?"
"I'll go with you," I mumbled. He took my chin in his hand and tilted my face to his. His thumb brushed my cheek. I knew what he wanted. "I'll go with you, sir," I repeated at a normal volume.
"OK. Let's go." He darted down the stairs to his car, its convertible top open. He removed his jacket and laid it on the back seat. I followed and imitated him, then got into the passenger side. My anxiety over what was coming easily overrode the now familiar jolt of the plug against my prostate, and there was no risk of getting hard.
The wind tousled our hair as he drove, turning onto the interstate but driving away from my university. "It's a work thing, Simon," he began. He explained that his firm was sponsoring dinner with the senior staff and the top five clients. "I'm out, Simon," he concluded. "That goes for everyone. My colleagues don't care; my clients don't care. One day, when you're ready, you'll be out in your world. But now, if you want to be in my world, you have to be out in it."
"Yes sir," I replied from obedience rather than agreement.
"Call me by name tonight, Simon."
"Yes, Mr. Chapel."
He laughed openly. "You're not an escort, Simon, and we're not going for customer service points. First name will be fine."
"Yes, Alistair." His name was uncomfortable on my tongue and unfamiliar to my ear. I had never thought of him by name, only as Sir. In a way, I realized I'd never thought of him as a person, an individual, with a job. Only as someone who dominated me and used me in ways I enjoyed. As a sex object. I contemplated the irony that he, who used me sexually for his pleasure, seemed always to think of me as a person, and that I, the object of his use, didn't reciprocate. I felt ashamed.
We arrived at our destination, an elegant hotel that doubled as a ski resort in winter. Nestled in side of the mountain, its reputation stemmed from its scenic vistas, either once the snow fell or as the leaves turned. We pulled up to valet parking, where Alistair – it still seemed misplaced in my head – and I disembarked and collected our jackets. The valet gave us a brief look, then hopped in. As I watched the silver coupe disappear into the parking garage, I caught the license plate, complete with its rainbow stickers, and remembered. "Rope em." The color rushed to my face as I realized that not only would my association with him make my sexual orientation immediately known to all, but that my role in the relationship would also instantly be known. Jeremy's words rang out in my head again: "You're just his bitch." My heart sank.
I'd been to business events with my parents before, those they'd hosted for my father's firm at our home. Neither the setting nor the expectations intimidated me under normal circumstances. I was hardly socially awkward or introverted, and could mingle and carry my own in casual conversation with strangers. Formal dining was not new to me. However, my confidence was undermined by the knowledge that I would be inextricably linked to him, and everyone knew what he was, and therefore by comparison what I had become for him. He sensed my change in mood as we walked to the entrance. He pulled me aside, out of earshot of the doorman.
"What?" he asked impatiently.
I explained. I hated it, my lack of confidence. It was not something to which I was accustomed, always having adapted easily to any social environment. I hated that I felt my eyes water with desperation as I told him how I felt in a low voice. His face softened, and I knew that he understood the depth of my concern even if his words reflected his view that it was immature and unjustified.
"You're gay, Simon. It's who you are. You're a bottom. You're my bottom. You're going to meet men with their wives. Those men go down on their wives, those women suck their husbands' cocks. They sweat when they fuck, just like you do. Some of the men like to be spanked or talk dirty when they have sex, or vice versa. The mature world isn't defined by what we do in the bedroom. I brought you here for two reasons. The first was, bluntly, to force you into a public situation where you have to deal with being gay. Public but still removed from your own environment. The second is to show you off, because I think you're the hottest guy I've fucked, and I think you're going to be the best bottom I've ever trained. But don't think that means I'm going to tuck you away in a closet somewhere and leave you there, and only take you out when I want you or when you want me. It doesn't work that way." He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. They did and did little to reassure me.
"Now, I'm going to kiss you," he said, still seeing my hesitation. "I'm going to kiss you right here, in front of the doorman, in front of the valets, and in front of whoever in the hotel may see us." My eyes widened. "The odds against anyone knowing you here are astronomical. So your fear isn't going to be about being out to people whose opinion, if derogatory, would even matter to you. It's going to be something instinctive, something irrational, something out of control. And if that's the case, you're not ready for me. If you kiss me back, we'll go inside. Otherwise, you'll go back home."
He reached into my open jacket and locked his arms around my waist in a move both romantic and effective in preventing any escape. As he bent forward, the bangs on his forehead swept down loosely. His eyes closed gently, and his lips touched mine. The only thing I thought about was losing him. The only thing I felt was his presence, not outside me, physically, but inside, emotionally. My hands lifted of their own accord to rest on his shoulder blades and my eyes closed. When his lips parted, mine followed. As he tasted me, I think for the first time ever I felt his cock grow to erection before mine. By the time he pulled away, I'd forgotten where we were and who might be watching. I licked my lips and watched in awe as much as anything else as he straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket, ignoring the bulge in his trousers that was obvious to me, but I knew what to look for. I was far less casual about my own bulge, planting my hands firmly in my pockets. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we walked back to the entrance. As the doorman stoically and with a practiced "Good evening" opened the door, Alistair leaned down to my ear.
"When this is over, I'm going to fuck you like you can't even imagine," he whispered.
The evening passed without incident in a private room in the impeccably rated hotel restaurant. No one gave me so much as a curious look, and after only a few moments' nervousness while being rapidly introduced to each of the thirty or so clients, colleagues, and their significant others, I settled comfortably into the role familiar from home. I drifted from conversation to conversation on nothing of substance as cocktails flowed freely. I felt like an out of place child, as I did at my parents' business parties, smiling cluelessly at the inside jokes that made the others laugh uproariously, watching them lubricate their social skills with liquor. He quietly reminded me that Rule Two forbade both alcohol and caffeine, so I limited myself to sparkling water.
Dinner, when it was served, was also uneventful. We sat at a long banquet table, he and I facing each other, with pairs of clients on either side. Despite the genteel small talk, I still felt out of place, the submissive partner in the only gay relationship in sight, a plug in my ass, and alone in my ignorance of the people and events being discussed. His eyes returned to me through the meal, passing over just long enough to notice my mood, or to acknowledge my rare contribution to the chatter. He never engaged me, but was persistently attentive to my handling of the situation in which he had immersed me. That I passed on both wine and coffee added to the conspicuity I felt. It wasn't until I looked up from the sorbet I'd ordered for dessert to find him gazing at me warmly, smiling slightly, that I believed I'd met his challenge to his satisfaction.
He purposefully aimed his fork of lemon pie high, smearing meringue on his upper lip in what to others would seem a meaningless mistake. After he chewed and swallowed with deliberation, he held my eye and slowly, provocatively, licked his lip clean. I swallowed hard and turned my face to the bowl in front of me, feeling the burning redness erupt over my cheeks. My eyes flickered side to side, praying no one had seen him.
Eventually, two hours after it had begun, the event concluded. I stood against a wall as he joined his coworkers in casually thanking the clients as they left. He was detained for a moment by a portly, balding man, and a bouncy, thirtysomething brunette made her way over to me. I remembered her name to be Janet from the introductions. She smiled in a way both friendly and knowing.
"Thanks for coming," she said, taking my hand. I was surprised and made no effort to conceal it. "Alistair's never brought anyone to any of these things, and all of us at the office wondered what you'd be like." I realized that she must have mistaken me for his boyfriend, someone whom he'd known regularly and for some time rather than someone he'd only fucked a few times and met only weeks earlier. "He's so strikingly handsome," she said as we both watched him casually charming his way through the discussion. "It broke a few hearts when we found out he was gay. But you two make a good couple." I blushed again, and wondered whether – and how – to correct her mistake. And then her words echoed in my head: he'd never brought anyone to a firm function before. He turned his head and saw us, and he flashed me his perfect smile, and then exchanged valedictions with the old man.
He strode over with the leisurely agility of a stalking feline, the nonchalance on his face belied by a sparkle of lust in his eyes. I wondered whether Janet saw it, too, and what she thought of it if she did. What would she think about the throbbing in my crotch or the plug buried deep in my ass? She must have known something, because when he arrived at my side, she quickly leaned over and pecked my cheek, renewing the burning heat there, and thanked me again. She told us each good night and made her way to the door into the main restaurant.
"What was that about?" he asked.
"She thinks I'm your boyfriend," I answered, unsure of my footing. He cocked his head and looked at me as if mulling something over. "She said you'd never brought anyone before and everyone wondered what I'd be like," I stammered, deciding that complete honesty had to be the best course.
He stared at me, his eyes moving over my face, and then leaned over, his back to the door where only the only other people in the room were congregated, and his lips brushed over mine softly. My legs felt untrustworthy, and I pressed one hand against the wall at my side. He backed away and smiled. "I think we should go upstairs."
"Not home?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I get a room when we do these here. It means I don't have to worry about the cocktails and the wine." He looked back at the diminishing crowd. "Go to registration and get the key. I'll finish up here and meet you in the lobby." I felt his hand slide down my back to my ass, and he pinched the leg strap of my jock. He pulled it away and let it snap back against my buttock, and I stifled a yelp and made my way out to the registration desk.
He stood behind me on the elevator as a middle aged couple ascended with us. Their floor was several below ours, and once they alighted, his hands were under my jacket, pinching my nipples through my shirt before the doors had closed behind them. If they heard my gasp of surprise, they showed no sign of interest as they disappeared behind the polished bronze. He pulled me back into his chest and I felt his teeth nip at my earlobe as the elevator resumed its upward journey.
I slipped my hands between us, palms against his thighs, until I could wrap my fingers around the hardness I'd felt on my ass. He bit harder as I groped him and I whimpered as he worked my nipples more sadistically. When the doors opened to our corridor, he didn't release me, instead pulling me by the tender buds out into the hall. I led him to the suite we'd been assigned, and he relented only as he took the key card from the breast pocket of my jacket and opened the door. He stepped in first, then turned in the doorway. He looked at me with raw sexuality, then reached for the waist of my trousers and pulled me into the room.
The door clicked shut behind me well after he'd pushed me into the wall of the ante room, his mouth on mine, his tongue probing into me, fucking, devouring. He held my head between his hands, ensuring I could do nothing to escape, even if I had wanted to. I grasped at his ass, feeling the firm mounds, kneading them with my fingertips. "Do you remember what I told you downstairs?" he asked, moving his face back only inches.
I nodded. "You said you were going to fuck me," I said breathlessly.
"No," he smirked. "I said I was going to fuck you like you can't even imagine." He resumed his kiss with unconcealed hunger, which I eagerly returned. He ground into me, our hard cocks between us, pressing into our bodies through our suits.
In an instant, his hands had taken hold of my shoulders and turned me roughly so that my chest pressed into the wall. He stepped closer to me, his chest against my back, his full cock pressing urgently through all the layers of cloth between us into my crack. His mouth closed on my neck, above my collar line, as he sucked and raked his tongue and teeth over my flesh. I knew he was marking me, but I was too out of control to care, and wouldn't have been able to stop him if I had. His hands slipped in front of my waist, unfastening the button and lowering my fly. When the front of my trousers was open, he pulled my shoulders back from the wall, turning and pushing me further into the room. I stumbled into the back of the couch, and he was only a step behind me.
He yanked my jacket back off my shoulders and down my arms, tossing it onto a divan against the wall. He slipped my braces over my shoulders as well, and my trousers puddled at my feet. I saw him in the mirror of the television screen in the open mahogany cabinet across the room as he shrugged out of his own jacket. It quickly joined my own. He pushed my back down, bending me over the back of the couch, and flipped my shirttail up. My ass was now free for him to use. Less than a minute had passed since he'd broken our kiss when he unceremoniously yanked the plug from my hole in a swift motion, resulting in a loud grunt of protest from me. He tossed it onto the coffee table in front of us.
He rammed his cock into me in a single dry thrust. The residual lube from the butt plug was the only thing to diminish the friction of his entry or of his immediate powerful thrusting. There was no warm up, no time to grow accustomed to his length and girth inside my cunt, length and girth that made the respectably sized plug seem puny in comparison. I fought for breath as my eyes teared, and when I found it, I wailed in pain. He fucked without mercy, pulling back so only the head remained inside, then plunging in to the hilt. His silk covered thighs pounded into mine while his hands clutched at my shoulders. I half-groaned, half-sobbed at each new invasion, my arms stretched back to the spine of the couch, fingers gripping through the upholstery, like some twisted crucifixion. My eyes were screwed shut, my head thrashing side to side in uncalculated figure-eights as he fucked me, indeed, like I had never imagined.
He continued without relenting for countless minutes. "Do you have permission to cum?" he asked.
"No sir," I replied, and I heard my voice crack. He was right that I needed to be reminded: my cock was drooling in the pouch of my jock, pressed firmly into the back of the couch, despite the intensity of his pistoning. My mind was full only of the sensations in my ass, the burning friction, the fullness followed by the emptiness followed by fullness again, all in quick succession.
Without warning, he pulled completely out. He stepped away and I turned my head to look over my shoulder. He'd opened his trousers, the button and fly, but they still hung about his waist by his braces. He'd tucked the waist band of his boxer briefs under his scrotum, exposing his cock for me. Now he pushed his braces off and his trousers fell to his shoes. "Strip," he ordered.
Weakly, I stood, my hands moved to my neck, fingers grasping at my tie. I pulled it loose, then slipped it over my head and tossed it to the growing pile of clothes on the divan. My shirt and undershirt followed, then I whimpered as I bent, my hot, seared hole exposed again, to pull off my shoes and socks, and free my legs from my trousers. My own cock popped free as I slipped the jock off my waist and kicked it into the pile of trousers. I stood and wiped the tears from my face, naked, nearly raped, and found he had also completely disrobed. He held his tie in one hand as he pulled me forward to him. Again he forced his way into my mouth, fucking it with his tongue, and I felt him tying his tie loosely around my neck as he did so. When he finished, he pulled away, and I saw that instead of a proper knot, he'd created a simple but effective collar.
"Too rough?" he asked, eyes sparkling devilishly.
"No," I lied, shaking my head. He had never taken me like this before, although we both knew he owned me completely. It did hurt, but I could tell by the steeliness of his dick that it pleased him, and I wanted to please him. He detected the lie – I had forgotten what Jeremy had warned about my eyes – and scowled, and I remembered too late a lesson I'd learned the previous weekend: his offers of comfort were rare and ought never to be declined. He would have yielded if I had answered honestly, but the deception had cost me any mercy and had likely earned me more in punishment. He took me by the ear like a recalcitrant child and pulled me over to the stationery desk. In a single sweeping movement, he knocked the desk set, phone, and hotel propaganda into the floor. My chest soon took their place as he shoved me down, bending me at the hips and holding me in place by my back.
He reached under me and retrieved the length of tie extending from the knot at my throat. He pulled it down under me and between my legs. I felt him grab my nuts and he quickly tied a second knot around them, stretching both my sack and the portion of silk between my neck and groin taut in the process. Any attempt now to stand upright, to straighten my hips, would result in pressure to my balls. He left me, returning to my shoes and sock behind the couch. He collected a sock, and retrieved my jock from the trousers. I knew what was coming, and he shoved the sock into my mouth. He then slipped the pouch of my jock over my mouth and nose and tied it in place with the leg straps behind my head. There was no escape from the damp feeling of my precum soaked athletic supporter, or the musky smell of my balls, as the taste of worn sock dissolved to mingle with the saliva on my tongue.
He disappeared behind me, and I felt the first slap of his palm on my ass. I shouted into my makeshift gag, and instinctively my hands flew to my backside. He immediately took my wrists, pulling them both back up to the center of my back, and held them firmly together in one hand. He resumed administering corporal punishment, slapping each buttock in turn, ignoring my muffled cries and attempts to squirm out of his grasp. After alternating two dozen strokes between my cheeks, he reached around my hip to grasp my throbbing shaft. He fisted me roughly, his hand coarsely stroking over my glans, and I continued to writhe. He nevertheless had me on edge in seconds, and I still had no permission to cum. I fought to get away, yanking cruelly on my own balls in the process as the tether from my neck held tightly, but he still held an iron grip on my wrists.
I whimpered in desperation as I felt my climax draw near. I hadn't cum since Wednesday, two days before, and I'd been plugged nearly non-stop since then. "Do you have permission to cum, boy?" he asked loudly.
"No!" I shrieked futilely into the gag, wriggling my hips in vain, shaking my head frantically. At that moment, he rammed his cock into my hole again. I shrieked again, incoherently, as he buried himself to the hilt. He yanked himself free and repeated the motion, still working my rod, and I trembled, knowing the end was near. A third time he pressed the head of his cock through my sphincter, followed quickly by the whole length and diameter of his dick, culminating in the slap of his hips against mine, his trimmed, prickly pubes against my spanked ass.
He released my wrists and cock, and grabbed onto my hips. "Better hold on, bitch," he warned, and he began a more ferocious assault than that he'd mounted behind the couch. My hands flew to the edges of the desk. He no longer entirely withdrew, but pulled back to the crest of his cock head before forcefully thrusting home, again and again. My cock twitched under me each time he brushed my prostate, and I grunted each time he slapped against me, filling my cunt with his fuck stick yet again. I could feel my balls tug back against his tie as they tried to rise, to draw up to the root of my own cock. I would cum at any second, disobeying him, and I knew what the consequence would be.
Minutes passed, minutes of hell as I clenched my muscles against the orgasm, clenching my ass tight around his cock. The friction and the prostate bruising was too much, and I couldn't hold back. The pressure on my balls from the necktie leash was growing, and my fingers clutched at the edge of the desk as he slid me roughly across it with his penetration. It was then that he gave a final determined thrust into my guts, and I knew he was erupting inside me. He slowly slid his knob back and forth, barely inches of rocking motion, allowing my hot, velvety tunnel to caress his sensitive head, my hole, clamped in the effort to hold back my orgasm, milking his shaft.
Finished, and not yet fully soft, he slid himself out and I groaned again, this time at the emptiness. I could feel his sperm oozing back out of my abused orifice. His hand softly stroked the small of my back.
"Stand up, Simon," he said gently.
I hesitated. He hadn't untied my neck or my balls, and I knew what his command would mean. He smacked my ass convincingly, and I reluctantly complied. I rose up on my hands slowly, feeling the length of silk pull my balls up from my crotch. I couldn't force myself to stand wholly erect, and I turned, shoulders hunched like an osteoporotic woman, abs contracted, face contorted. He took in the sight of my torment. He was dissatisfied. "Nipples."
I released a long, plaintive whine, but my hands moved to my chest. The possibility of insubordination never entered my mind. My fingertips closed on my nipples, twisting and pulling as if they were his cruel fingers. He moved closer to me and brushed the tip of his thumb over the glistening head of my cock, barely exposed behind my scrotum as the tie around my neck pulled it up my abdomen. I'd been leaking precum throughout his torture. He collected the juice and began massaging the spot where the underside of the head joined the shaft.
"Cum, Simon," he murmured. I began to rock my hips as I tortured my own nips. He continued working my frenulum, occasionally sweeping his thumb back over my slit to refresh the natural lubricant. I panted in the pain and the pleasure, my thighs straining to hold me up, my abs fighting the instinctive urge to double over. I fought to find the pleasure through the pain. "Cum now," he said sternly. I bucked under his ministrations. He flicked one swollen, bound nut with the forefinger of his free hand, and I yelped into the gag. And then I felt it. The pulse of cum past my prostate. Instantly, my upturned cock became a fountain of cum, firing shots of cream up into the air to spatter on my concave chest or fall in splotches onto the plush rug underfoot. At the first wad, he quickly yanked on the free end of the knot around my sack, unraveling the slip knot and releasing my balls. He wrapped his fist around my now unimpeded dick as my sack tightened at its root and pumped it, slowly but firmly, as I collapsed against his chest. He wrapped his arm around my waist, holding me on my feet, and my arms wrapped around him, clinging as I spasmed in climax.
As I shuddered to conclusion, he milked me dry, causing convulsions as the sensitivity of my cock increased. He at last let go, his spunked hand moving to my back as he embraced me. He rested his cheek against my hair as he untied the tie and my jock strap face mask, removing both it and the sock gag. "You were perfect downstairs, Simon. You made me very proud. But never, ever lie to me." I nodded weakly in understanding and agreement. He bent down and we kissed, slowly, passionately.
He led me gently through the anteroom into the bedroom, and into the expansive bathroom. He started the shower for me and, satisfied with the temperature, pulled me in with him. He stood me under the warm, soaking, salubrious cascade. He watched me as my muscles began to relax under the flowing stream and then lathered soap on a washcloth. He pulled me to him and began to wash me, caressing my skin. After covering me with soap, gently washing my crotch and in the cleft of my ass, he pushed me back under the waterfall. I moved to take the washcloth from him as I rinsed, prepared to reciprocate in kind, but he smiled and shook his head. He lathered his own package, washing off the residual slime, and then joined me under the flow. He tilted his head and began licking the rivulets of water flowing down my neck, lapping at the water. I wilted against him.
Too soon, he reached behind me and turned the knob to staunch the stream. He slid open the shower door, but I stepped out first and insisted on drying him. I took the fluffy cotton towel and wiped every inch of his golden skin, whisking away the moisture, then ruffling his hair. I then turned the towel onto myself and repeated. A single heavy bathrobe hung from a hook on behind the bathroom door, and I offered it to him, remaining naked. I followed him out, back into the anteroom as he flopped down on one end of the couch and flicked the television on. I gathered up our assorted clothes and hung them on the cedar hangers in the armoire.
Still naked, I lay beside him, curling in the space between the arm of the couch, resting my head in his lap. He had turned to a foreign news network, and the lilting accent of the moderator exacerbated my sleepiness. I felt his fingers ruffling my damp hair as I sighed on his thighs. Drained, spent, exhausted, I remember my eyes closing before blackness overwhelmed me.
Author's Note: There has been substantial speculation in email about the nature of the relationship between Simon and the character now revealed as Jeremy, and Josh and I considered it carefully and had some conversation on the topic. I know that many readers had hoped for a more sexual evolution of that relationship, but any such development could only result in a deterioration of the relationship between Simon and Sir – which relationship is ultimately the focus of this story.
This story will conclude in two chapters according to my original outline. I feel comfortable with the amount of material available to extend the story if there is sufficient interest. Please email me if you'd like it to continue.