This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage where ever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional, the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.
months after returning from
I should probably confess here and now that I am profoundly mistrustful of organized religion, especially of the christian variety. Mostly I find christians – Baptists, Catholics, Lutherans, Anglicans/Methodists, Presbyterians, Lutherans – to be people who have empowered themselves to mind your business for you. They scare me to death, frankly, images of hoards of jackbooted christian brown-shirts goose-stepping to their favorite hymns haunt my dreams. The Unitarians, though, don't fit this image at all, probably because they're not christian. (Well, some of them are, but that's their choice. At least they're not the intrusive kind.) They don't talk about God much. They seem much more interested in the spirit of man, in love, and in celebrating individual and cultural differences rather than working to eradicate them. My kind of religion.
We decide to hold the ceremony in the garden of this old mansion, which is both rustic and picturesque, with a terrace extending from house that makes an ideal platform or stage for the officiant and the three of us. Music is playing, and as the last of our friends arrive, we disappear to begin the ceremony. Lowering the music, we open the French doors onto the terrace, and make our way outside. The officiant begins the ceremony by lighting three candles, and ringing a small bell to get everyone's attention. Then she moves into a short introduction in which she thanks everyone for coming and tells them how important they are to our happiness; then she moves into some fairly standard comments on love and commitment. "But, commitment can mean many things. What does it mean to you? Kenny, what would you like to say to Tim and Jason to promise to affirm your commitment to this marriage?"
That last word throws him completely off. He wasn't expecting it. Originally the question had read: "...to affirm your commitment to this relationship." Jason and I, the evening before, had reread the intro and decided the word should be marriage, and I'd called the officiant early this morning and asked her to change it. Kenny hears the word and instantly tears up, and then looks at me. I give him the slightest hint of a smile, and he smiles back. I think, though, that he's forgotten the vows he wrote for himself, because he begins to extemporize.
"Tim and Jason, I love you both so much, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. My capacity to love has grown because of knowing you, because of what you've taught me about myself. Your love and trust has helped me open up to you in ways I would never have been able to do without you. I am so grateful for your kindness to me, for your daily support, and for your love. You are my rocks and I can't imagine living life without you." He stops, sniffling furiously, having run out of words. Jason and I too are sniffling. Thankfully, the officiant, sensing that that's as much as he's going to say, takes over.
"Kenny, repeat after me: I promise to love you, Tim and Jason, with all my heart, in times of celebration and in times of mourning, in sickness and in health, as long as we all shall live. I promise to honor you, nurture you, and to be faithful to you in thought, word, and deed, and to offer you comfort, encouragement and companionship."
All of this he chokes out, looking across at Jason and me through his tears.
Jason is next, and his vows, too, are very touching, especially to Kenny, to whom many of them are aimed. Finally, it's my turn.
"Ours was not a typical courtship," I begin, and would continue, except that that comment causes peals of laughter among our friends. I guess it is pretty funny, come to think of it. I wait a moment to let the group calm down, and then continue. "...but the process by which we fell in love, while different, has produced in me a depth of feeling like nothing I've ever known. I simply adore you both; I don't know how else to say it. Kenny, you have become one of the most sensitive, caring people I know, and as you've opened yourself to us, we've grown to love you even more than we did before because of your honest and vulnerability – your willingness to open yourself to the potential for disappointment and pain, a potential without which there can be no real happiness. I am so proud of you. And Jason, you've grown, too, becoming more willing to find the good in choices that others make that you may not necessarily understand. You are always so helpful, so sweet, and your impish sense of humor makes our lives together rich, delightful. I'm also very, very proud of you. The two of you have become the most important forces in my life. Without you, I think I would drown myself in tears."
Finally coming to the end of the vows, the officiant concludes the ceremony: "By virtue of the feelings you have for each other, the love you share, marriage is a clear choice. Congratulations on your union. May the joy you feel at this moment last all the days of your lives." We're all in tears and race toward each other, meeting in the middle of the terrace, and kiss fondly. Kenny whispers to us: "Thank you."
"For what," I ask?
"For making this ceremony so meaningful, for being who you are, for giving me so much love and encouragement, and...for calling it a `marriage'."
We all three hug. "That's what it is, Kenny."
our huddle, we all realize that our friends are all standing, clapping and
cheering. Nathan, in the front row with
wedding is a huge success, and we follow it up with a banquet at the best
Chinese restaurant in
before the ceremony, Jason brings me his grade report. He's back in school, now
"How would you like to celebrate these four A's?"
up. "Could we go to
"Yeah, we can do that. I know a very nice little B&B run by a friend of mine. I'll give him a call and see what his availability is. This'll have to be after the wedding, of course."
"That's fine," he says, smiling, preparing to leave.
"It'll also have to be after you've paid for this B in fucking Computer Science," I say, clearly angry. Jason freezes between me and the office door. He turns slowly around, steeling himself for the onslaught.
"Jason, isn't computer science what you're looking to pursue as a career?"
"Yes," he whines.
"Then, what the fuck are you doing with a fucking B in your fucking computer science class?"
"I don't understand it, Tim. The class is going so fast, and I don't understand it. I did everything I could. I went to the professor for help, but he hasn't been able to explain the stuff that's confusing me in a way that I can understand. I've gotten help from the TA, too, but he's not really very helpful. I'm not sure he understands it, either. I'm sorry, Tim. I don't know what else I could have done."
"Now think, Jason, what other computer science resource might you have tapped to help you work through this?"
He's fidgeting now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Umm...I guess I could have asked...you."
"Duhhh." I look at my watch. It's 4:20pm. "Bedroom in 40 minutes," I say, and motion toward the door. He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
In the kitchen he finds Kenny, whom he's already told about the B. Kenny looks concerned. "How'd it go?"
Jason is near to tears. "He used `fuck' three times in a single sentence. I'm supposed to meet him in the bedroom in 40 minutes. It didn't go very well."
Kenny moves in and hugs him, a long reassuring hug. "Don't worry, Jase. It won't last forever." Jason nods, absently, and after they break the hug, he moves to the living room, waiting for 5pm. Five minutes before the hour, he goes to the bedroom, and waits for me, pacing. When he sees the door begin to open he freezes. I am not happy, and he knows it.
"On the bed, on your belly, facing the headboard." My instructions are very crisp, and
that's not a good sign. I've taken a liking to the bed as a platform for
punishment since our return from
Jason is sniffing back tears. "I'm sorry, Tim. I should have come to you. Can you work with me later, maybe tomorrow, to understand what's confusing me?"
"Count on it. First, though, I'm going to give you 15 with the razor strop, and something else, to help you remember to come to me in the future." Pulling the razor strop out of the dresser, I give him the first five rapidly and firmly. "I just can't fucking believe that you haven't come to me with this. Academics aren't always the best people to explain this kind of theory. They're too, well, academic." The next five are applied more slowly, but are harder. He's sobbing now, screaming with each blow. The last five are harder still, also applied slowly, each eliciting a shriek. The last stroke complete, I return the razor strop to the dresser, and take the whippy little junior cane from a hook in the closet. "Reach back and part your ass crack, Jason." He knows what this means, and continues to sob, but does as he's told. I give him six stingy strokes in all, medium force, directly to the center of his pucker. He screams with each stroke. I'm sure they hurt, but there's no damage, and almost no redness, although any redness that might have appeared would have been entirely overshadowed by his crimson ass. I return the cane to the closet, and grab some lotion which I spread over his asshole and then to his ass when he releases his ass cheeks. He's still sobbing when I lift him off the bed and take him to the chair in the corner where we sit for another forty minutes while I stroke his back. Finally he seems to recover.
"Jason, use your brain, please... I've been working in this field for fifteen years. If you're having trouble the first place you should go is your professor, but if he can't help you, come to me. Why wouldn't you?"
"I don't know," he whines. "I guess I didn't want to look stupid."
"Oh, Christ, you're starting to sound like Kenny used to. Get over yourself. If you already knew all this stuff, then sending you to school would be a waste of money. I'm bound to know a lot more than you do, and why should that embarrass you or make you feel stupid?"
"What makes me feel stupid is how stupid I was."
"Now that should make you feel stupid," I laugh. I look him in the eyes. "I'm going to let you off lightly on this one, because you did try to get help. I want to see all A's next time, Jason. Understand?"
"Yes," he says, hugging me. We get up, and I open the bedroom door, seeing Ian duck into his room out of the corner of my eye. I head down to his room, and he stands stark still, in the middle of the room, a deer in the headlights.
"Did you enjoy that?"
"What," he asks?
My eyes narrow. "You know exactly what. Should I tell him? Should I tell Jason that you were listening at the door?"
He runs to me, taking my hand. "Please don't. Please... I really like Jason. I was just...curious. Please don't tell him."
Long pause, as I think. "I'm not sure what to do about this, Ian. It's not fair that you should be eavesdropping on something as personal as Jason's punishment. Kenny has never even seen Jason punished. I think it might embarrass him, might even humiliate him." Ian is staring at the ground. "What should I do about this? I'm not going to spank you, not yet. But that's what this deserves." I pause, thinking, staring vaguely at Ian. "I guess what we should do is record it. If Jason or Kenny had done this, I would have given them eight strokes with the razor strop. That's what I'll record. On your birthday, in two months, you can pay your debt. Your birthday spanking," I say with a laugh. Ian looks up. I think he wants to smile, but knows that that wouldn't be appropriate.
The next day is Kenny's punishment night. I don't really have anything to punish him for, but I make up something because I know he wants to be punished. He get's six of the razor strop, and sobs contentedly for twenty minutes in my lap before I start to kiss him. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny red light. Just a blink. At first, I don't think I've seen anything, but then I watch for it, nuzzling Kenny. There it is again. What the hell can that be? And, then I know, instinctively. I kiss Kenny tenderly, lift him off my lap sooner than I would normally have done, and set him on his feet. He looks surprised. "Sorry, baby. Could you go grab Ian, and get him to help you and Jason make dinner?"
He nods, and leaves the room. I continue to sit in my chair until I hear the boys scamper down the hallway. And then, I move to that tiny red light, and find what I thought I'd find: a small video-cam with an LCD on top that blinks when it's active. It's mounted on top of a fairly ornate picture frame. I pull it off the frame and move to Ian's bedroom where his laptop is still active, and the video software is minimized. I bring it up, rewind, and there are Kenny and I, hugging after his punishment. He's caught it all.
I call the home number on my cell phone and Jason answers. "Kenny and Ian with you," I ask?
"Yeah," Jason responds, sounding surprised.
"Bring `em with you to Ian's bedroom."
Jason sounds apprehensive. "Okay."
In about 30 seconds, they all traipse in. Ian is instantly apprehensive, and hangs his head when I hold up the camera. "I thought we were done with this, Ian." I play them the last half of the video, not the section where Kenny is getting punished, but the section where he's sitting on my lap. I know that both Kenny and Jason would forgive him all this without a thought, but I make a face, and they know what I want.
"Fuck," says Kenny. "I guess there's no privacy anywhere anymore." He looks critically at Ian. "I thought you were my friend." He leaves the room.
Jason just gives him a long look and shakes his head. He, too, leaves the room.
Ian is in tears. I look at him, and he looks at me through his tears. Finally, I take the plastic camera and hurl it at the brick portion of his bedroom wall, where is shatters. "I think we've exceeded the number of strokes acceptable for a single-session spanking. Your birthday won't cover this." I leave the room, leaving him sobbing. Heading for the kitchen, I find Kenny and Jason sitting at the table. They're less angry than I am, but still miffed. "I don't want either of you to talk to him for the next five days. If he talks to you, nod, and walk away. No words. Make me his only outlet for communication. We can't spank him yet, but he's less than one month away. I want him to beg for it." They nod, sadly. They really like Ian, but realize that it's time he is punished.
After three days, Ian is distraught. "They won't speak to me, Tim. They won't have anything to do with me."
"What'd you expect? You invaded their most private, intimate moments. How would you have felt?"
He's crying freely and often now, begging me to intervene. "What do you expect me to tell them, Ian? Do you expect me to order them to be nice to you? That's not going to work. You're going to need to make up with them yourself...somehow."
After five days, Kenny and Jason appear to grudgingly relent. "I really can't believe you did that," Kenny says, and Ian tears up and apologizes for the thousandth time.
Jason doesn't speak to him until the sixth day. "Why'd you do that to us," he asks? Ian starts to sob. Jason hugs him. "Don't ever do that again."
"I...won't," he chokes
Kenny and Jason agree to be stand-offish though not silent for the remainder of the month. By the time we get to his birthday, I'm hoping Ian will ask to be punished. He's pretty close now, so this is no long shot. But I've made it clear that I won't spank him until he's 18.
Remarkably, the Child Welfare people don't call until a week before Ian's 18th birthday. What in the hell are they thinking? They want to come inspect the house. We agree on a time, and I tell Jason and Kenny so they can make themselves scarce. In fact they arrive an hour early, but Jason has suggested a movie, and they're out of the house by the time the goons arrive – in the person of one sour-looking 60-ish woman, hair in a bun, dressed like a nun, and one wizened old bastard in an ancient, dusty black suit, funereal. We sit in the living room, and they tell me how important they are, how it's their job to protect the interests of "children," even if the children don't want their interests protected. They then interview Ian, who comes off as any other teenager – bright, perky. Throughout the interview, the two make faces at each other, probably mostly to scare us, and, after looking at Ian's bedroom, have a series of demands, including adding an en-suite lavatory. I've finally had enough.
"You do realize that Ian is a week away from his 18th birthday?"
This gets their attention. They begin ruffling through papers, the crone finally announcing that I'm mistaken, that Ian is only 16. I leave them to wait in the living room with Ian while I go to my office safe and pull out his birth-certificate, recently received from his parents' attorney, Mr. Grantly. Walking back to the living room, I drop it onto the crone's clipboard, and sit down in my leather armchair with a half grin on my face. The crone peruses the document, finally looking up with a look of shock, horror. "So you see, madam, the additional bathroom you propose, which Ian and I feel is entirely unnecessary, would take longer to build than the week he has left as a minor, at which point we would cancel the contract. Do you have any other demands? Feel free to take Ian for the week he has left as a minor and torture him if that'll mollify you. Otherwise, I think we should collectively consider this a waste of 90 minutes and I should show you to the door."
crone is beet red. (The old bastard has maintained a consistent shade of grey
throughout the visit – I'm not sure he has any blood to blush with.) She blusters for a couple minutes, and
finally says that she'll need to take the birth certificate in order to make a
copy. As she's tucking it into her notebook, I cross the room and retrieve it.
"He was born in
This has been really gratifying. I detest government bureaucracies, especially those mandated to mind the public morality, especially those who have taken it upon themselves to preserve the innocence of our children. Show me a politician or bureaucrat blathering about the innocence of our children, and I'll almost certainly show you a pervert.
Two days before his birthday, I ask Ian how he'd like to celebrate. Jason and Kenny have been thick as thieves, whispering in Cantonese, giggling together – excluding Ian. Ian has been particularly weepy the last few days, feeling the sting of their rejection. When I ask him how he'd like to celebrate, he does just what I've been hoping he'd do: "I'd like to be punished for what I've done to Jason and Kenny," he says, sullen and teary. But, then he says something totally unexpected: "And...can they please...watch?" I work really hard to keep my face impassive, but I'm stunned, and don't say anything for several seconds. Finally, I nod, and ask if he's ever been spanked before. "No," he responds.
"So, you don't know how you'll react to the pain, but you'd like them to watch."
"Yes. I owe it to them."
I give him a long look. "Okay. We'll do that before you go to bed. What do you want to do that day? It's a Saturday, I think."
thinks. "I'd like us all to go to IHOP" (International House of Pancakes) "for
breakfast, and then hiking at
"Okay," I say. "That'll probably work. I'll check with Kenny and Jason to make sure they're free, but it's a Saturday, so school isn't going to interfere." I've failed to mention, I think, that Kenny is now also going to San Jose State and brought home his first grade report at the same time Jason brought me his last one, the one with the B in Comp-Sci. Straight fucking A's. Kenny had straight fucking A's! I was so proud of him I almost couldn't stand it. I hugged him, and kissed him, and hugged him again. Every time I met him in the hall or elsewhere in the house, I'd hug him again. And he was so proud. It was a real boost to his confidence. Now I should add that some of these classes were remedial. He was taking Algebra 1, which most of us take in high school but which Kenny hadn't had. And he was taking English 1A, introductory composition. Not hugely difficult courses – for me. But I think they were quite challenging for Kenny, as was the Biology class, the History class (Intro to Western Civilization), and the French class. I think all of those classes challenged him because he hadn't been in school in nine years, and had sort of forgotten how to learn. But Kenny is a trooper, and will work his ass off if he has to, and that's what he did. Straight fucking A's! Jesus.
"So, is that it," I ask Ian? IHOP and Mt. Diablo?"
He blushes, staring at the floor, shifting his weight from foot to foot, nervously. "Umm...there is...umm...something else I'd like...umm...to do, if you don't...mind."
I'm pretty sure I know what's coming. The stammering alone is a give away. "And what might that be," I ask, with a vaguely sarcastic laugh?
More fidgeting, more blushing. "Umm...Tim...umm...could you...could you...fuck me tomorrow?"
My god but he had trouble with that one. I move in and hug him, and he giggles. "Yeah, I think I can probably do that." I smile. "Are you still a virgin, Ian? Have you been with anyone since we last talked?
"No," he says. "You'll be my first."
"Okay, and you're sure you want your first sexual experience to be getting fucked. You'd prefer that to, say, getting sucked off?"
"I mean, I'll certainly suck you a bit even if fucking is the main course. But I want your first experience to be really pleasant, and sometimes the first fuck is a bit...painful."
"I really want to try. Please Tim..."
"Okay, we'll try, and I'll go really slow, and if it gets to be too much for you, we'll switch to something else."
He smiles, and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of milk.
Kenny and Jason are in the basement using the gym. I wander down and find them toweling off, having just gotten off the tread mills. "You guys doing anything day after tomorrow, Saturday?"
"Homework," Kenny says. "That's about it."
"Yup. Me too," Jason responds.
That day, as you may recall, is Ian's birthday. He says he'd like to go to IHOP
for breakfast, and then take a hike at
Jason and Kenny look at each other, and then both wrinkle their noses in disgust.
"We've been feeding that boy too well, Tim," Jason laughs. "IHOP? Yukkie...yukkie...yukkie."
"Oh, give it a rest. It's classic American diner food. Comfort food. And the boy is going to need to store up a fair bit of comfort for later in the day, because before he goes to bed that night, he'll get his first spanking." Jason and Kenny both nod, solemnly. "He's asked that both of you be there to watch."
Jason and Kenny are both stunned and start talking a mile a minute, arguing with me, trying to persuade me that they shouldn't watch. I let them go on for a couple minutes, not saying a word. Finally, I interject, "Guys, this was his request. It surprised me, too, the more so because he's never in his life been spanked. It could be very painful for him, and very humiliating. I suggested that he not make this a public event, but he says he owes it to you. He's ashamed of what he did. When I initially asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, punishment was the first thing he said. I think you should plan to be there, and let him expiate his sins.
Both boys look at each other, and then back to me, and nod. "Okay," says Jason. "If that's what he wants."
On Saturday morning, we find ourselves at the local IHOP, and Kenny and Jason are right, of course: it's pretty dreadful. But Ian is into it, chowing down on an order of bacon and eggs with a side of blueberry pancakes. Jason and Kenny share a fruit plate, a soft-boiled egg, and toast. They are working really hard at controlling their expressions as waitress after waitress brings out plate after plate of the greasiest breakfast food they've never ever seen. I'm proud of them. They're here because Ian wants to be here, and they're doing really well at convincing him that they love it. "Jeeze, it's been so long since I've been to IHOP," Ian exclaims. "My folks used to take me every Sunday morning." His mouth is full, again, of egg, bacon, syrupy pancake. I really want to vomit.
breakfast, we drive up to
When we get back to the car, it's nearly three o'clock. We'd brought a picnic lunch, and ate it at the highest point of our ascent – cold Pad Thai from Jason, and lightly blanched broccoli and chilis from Kenny (both of which go a long way toward making up for breakfast). All three boys are in the back seat, pushing, tickling, and laughing. My family is back in one piece, and Ian is so happy to have his friends back. We get home at around 4pm, and I suggest dinner at 6:30. I wink at Jason and Kenny, and they know to make themselves scarce, moving to the kitchen to check on what we have in the fridge, planning the meal. Ian I take to my bedroom. We sit on the bed for a while, Ian clearly embarrassed. He doesn't know what to do. I lean over and draw him into a kiss which last several seconds; not longer. He's not a great kisser yet. I lean over again and suck on his ear lobe before drawing him into another kiss, this one longer and more successful.
"Do you like to kiss," I ask him.
"I've never kissed anyone before, except my Mom and Dad."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but I guessed that. You seem to stiffen up when you kiss. Relax. Lose yourself in the kiss. One of the primary purposes of sex, kissing included, is to lose yourself, to stop thinking, to let your body move to autopilot, and do whatever it wants. Don't censor yourself, and don't think about how you're coming across to your partner. Just be one with the moment. Be one with me."
I kiss him again, and I can feel the difference immediately. He molds his body into mine, kissing me sensuously, letting me probe his mouth with my tongue, our bodies pressed tightly together. As we break, I smile at him: "Yeah, that was a kiss." He beams.
I start unbuttoning his shirt, as we continue to kiss. His chest is smooth, creamy, slender, his belly defined from whatever exercise regimen he's been on. His back, viewed from above, is flawless. I've always believed that, for lots of men, the back is their most erotic feature, and his is beautiful. The skin is tight and spotless. I start to unbutton and unzip him, and he lifts up slightly so I can slide his pants off. His legs, too, are smooth and hairless, muscular, but still slender. Finally, I slide my thumbs into the waist bands of his underpants, and begin to slide them down, as he lifts again to allow them to slide away. Still the kiss goes on. I fling the underwear to the side of the room, and put my hand on his pubic bone, and what I feel makes me gasp, stops me instantly. I break the kiss and look down at his dick. He is absolutely smooth, silky.
"You've shaved." He smiles. "Why?"
"Because I know you like it that way."
I lean over and lick his pubic area. Absolutely smooth.
"Why do you care what I like?"
"Because I love you, Tim. I've loved you ever since I can remember. Since I was three or four. I've always loved you. When I realized I was gay, I had a serious crush on you, a serious crush. This is a dream come true. I wanted to make it special for you."
I can't keep my hands off him. Finally, I stand up and strip quickly. "We're wasting time. I've wanted to make love to you since you were 15. Now I can, and you're just so beautiful." I pull him into another kiss, a kiss that goes on for several minutes as I fondle his nipples, his balls, his dick. I can feel his heart against me. He is pumping full speed. His cock is erect.
"How would you like to do this, Ian," I ask, reluctantly breaking the kiss?
"I don't know. I've never done this before. Tell me what to do."
I'm having a terrible time telling him anything because I just can't stop kissing him. Kissing is a terrible problem for me, a terrible addiction. Once I start, I can't stop. I find it the most erotic sex act. I once kissed a boy for five hours – one continuous kiss. I once had an orgasm just from kissing. I never touched myself, and he never touched me. Kissing turns my reason off. But, this is his first time, and I need to focus.
"Lie on your belly," I command, placing a foam cushion under his midsection to elevate his ass. I insinuate myself between his legs, and sniff. He's clean. He smells of Irish Spring, the soap that Costco last had on special. I begin to lick him, spreading his crack with my hands, circling his pucker. He pants and moans, wriggling his ass, ecstatic. When I finally hit the asshole, he screams softly, and begins to moan nonstop as I plunge my tongue into him. This boy can't stay still, and is almost undulating with my tongue. Finally, I drizzle some lube onto his hole, and coat my finger with it. I insert it slowly, looking for his prostate. He gasps, and tries to move his ass backward, to increase the penetration. "You sure you've never done this before," I laugh?
"No," he says, breathily.
When I find the prostate, I start to massage it, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He is absolutely electrified, and hard. I pull out, and start to insert the second finger. He hisses as I stretch him, but doesn't complain. After a couple minutes of this, I insert the third finger, and I can tell that this causes him some pain. He squirms and whimpers, twisting his head from side to side, but after a few minutes, during which I insert and withdraw, insert and withdraw, he's finally calm. Withdrawing my fingers, I lube my dick, line it up with his asshole, and slide it slowly into him. Again, he hisses, but quickly starts to moan as I hit his prostate with my dick-head. I stop, letting him get used to the feeling, and then withdraw slowly, only to plunge back into him, hitting his prostate yet again. And so begins a rhythm that has him dripping and moaning within minutes. Reaching around, I begin to stoke his dick, but he slaps my hand away. "Please...please..." He's panting out the words. "Please...I want...this to...last."
I begin to nibble on his earlobe, whispering: "You're not going to last. You're going to blow soon, whether I touch you or not. This isn't the only time we're going to have sex, is it, Ian? It doesn't matter how fast you cum. You're trying to manage the experience. Don't. Let your body do what it wants to do."
And then I bite him on the earlobe while pinching his nipples, and it's all over. He cums in gushes, constricting his sphincter muscles, which sends me over the edge. After several seconds, we're spent. I kiss the back of his neck, and he turns his head to kiss me on the lips. Grabbing a towel from the laundry bin, I wipe us off, and then crawl into bed beside him. He's crying.
"You okay," I ask, tentatively?
"Why the tears?"
It takes him a minute or two to pull himself together. Finally, "I've wanted to do that with you for so long. I'm...I..."
Wrapping my arms around him, I spoon into him, hugging him tight. "It's okay, baby." And this is how we fall asleep.
We awake to Jason softly whispering in our ears while stroking our backs. "Guys. It's 6pm. Dinner's ready." It's Kenny's night for dinner, and that's exciting. Kenny has become the wild card for meals. With Jason, you'll always get a superb meal, but you know what you'll get before yet get to the table. He is a very traditional Asian cook, and anything he touches is golden – just delicious, but always Asian. Kenny is much more experimental, with mixed results – sometimes sensational, sometimes so-so. Lately, he's been branching out into Italian, and tonight he's cooked a mushroom risotto with Mascarpone and a dash of Pernod. I can smell it from the bedroom as soon as I awake, and it, rather than Jason's tender ministrations, is what gets me out of bed as soon as I awake. Making my way to the kitchen, I sniff at the pot that Kenny is stirring non-stop. I stand up and roll my eyes, kissing him.
"If this tastes anything like it smells, you will have created a masterpiece."
Jason, Ian and I move to the dining room, and Kenny brings out a bowl of risotto, a butter-lettuce salad, and a bowl of steamed long-beans and onions. We dish up, and start to eat, Kenny watching us anxiously. The risotto is un-be-fucking-lievable. The texture is perfect, and the chunks of mushroom are amazing, having absorbed the flavors of the wine, the onions, and the Pernod. Jason is the first to start to rave, followed by Ian, followed by me. Kenny is relieved, and then euphoric, soaking in the compliments. I spanked him last week for something approximating meatloaf that was pretty awful. Today, though, he has absolutely outdone himself. "Kenny, this is fabulous. Where'd you get the recipe," I ask?
He smiles broadly. "I made it up. I'd seen several risotto recipes, so I knew the basic recipe I needed for consistency, but the mushrooms, mascarpone and Pernod as flavorings were my idea." Just delicious.
"This is the most amazing birthday meal I've ever had," Ian says, shaking his head, and it just gets better, because after we've finished the main course, Kenny brings out a home-made German Chocolate Cake, my absolute favorite, and Ian's, too. A hundred years ago, when Lyndon Johnson was president, my mother clipped out a recipe from the Mercury News titled "Johnson's Favorite Cake." She made it for me when I was twelve, year's after she clipped the recipe, and I flipped. I'd never liked chocolate, and still don't much. But this cake, with its butter, coconut and pecan frosting was just amazing. Kenny'd found the newspaper clipping in my mother's recipe box, and had made it one day maybe eight months ago, and the response it got was enthusiastic to say the least. Tonight is a repeat performance, the response equally enthusiastic. The only difference is that this time there are eighteen candles sticking out of the top of the cake, eighteen candles that Ian is easily able to blow out with one puff. At the end of the meal, Ian circles the table, sits on Kenny lap, and hugs him.
"Thank you for the best birthday meal I've ever had," he whispers into Kenny's ear.
Kenny hugs him, glassy-eyed. "You're welcome," he whispers back. He really has outdone himself tonight. I have to confess that I've always thought of Kenny as the second-best-cook in the house, chasing after Jason. Tonight I realize that they are just very, very different. With Jason, you will always get a perfect if predictable meal. With Kenny, you will never know what you're going to get, and sometimes it won't be very...tasty. Other times, like tonight, it will be utterly amazing – a triumph that causes you to forgive him his failures. As we move to the living room, I walk over to him and hug him.
"Thank you," I whisper. He sniffs in response.
Having finished dinner at around 7:45pm, I decide to postpone Ian's punishment by an hour, to let us all digest. I also decide to do it in the basement, strapping him to the punishment table, both because I don't think he's going to be able to stay still, and because I think there's the possibility that he'll piss himself from the pain. With his dick pushed through the hole in the middle of the table, at least he won't soil the bed. Worst case, he'll piss onto the cement floor. Best case, we'll catch it in a bucket. No problem either way.
We watch TV until 8:55pm, when I ask Jason to take Ian downstairs and get him set up. At 9:00pm, I turn off the TV, and Kenny and I go down to the basement. Ian is strapped into place with a bucket under his dick, and Jason is sitting off to the side on one of several wooden chairs. Jason has done a very good job of refurbishing the basement since we cleaned it out after Andrew's death. All my instruments are back hanging on the wall, within easy access. Kenny goes over and sits next to Jason, ready to observe the punishment, as he's been asked to do, and I move to the wall and fetch the razor strop.
"You still want Jason and Kenny to watch, Ian? If not, they can go upstairs and deal with the dishes."
He shakes his head. "I want them here. I owe them this."
"Okay, then. You'll get 15 strokes with the razor strop for invasion of privacy, theirs and mine, and if you ever do this again, I'll double the punishment. Clear?"
"Yes, Tim," he responds, shakily.
I swish the razor strop through the air to elicit a little fear, and then bring it down on his ass for the first stroke, very hard. He muffles a scream, but I know that that got his attention. The second stroke is just as hard, and lands in almost the same spot on his ass. This time, he can't stifle himself, and screams briefly. The third stroke lands in the same area of his ass, and, if anything, is a little harder than the first two. He screams again, and begins to sob. The fourth stroke is a little higher than the first three, overlapping them. Another scream. More sobbing. The fifth stroke is lower than the rest, overlapping the first three, aimed at the crease between his legs and his ass. He's wailing now, begging. The sixth and seventh are diagonal against the first five, crossing over them, and taking in the lower back. Each elicits a shriek, and more sobbing. It's on the ninth stroke that he spontaneously empties his bladder, and the fourteenth stroke that finally breaks the skin, although barely. After the fifteenth stroke, I replace the razor strop on the wall, and apply some topical ointment to his badly bruised ass. He is wailing...sobbing. At the twelfth stroke, Jason gets up and tries to comfort him, stroking his hair and upper back, kissing his face, and when the punishment is over, and I pick him up and set him on my lap, Jason is just behind him, also on my lap, hugging him, and whispering, trying to calm him. After 40 minutes, he's gone from wailing to softly crying. I kiss him gently. "Don't become a voyeur, Ian. Give people their privacy. I don't want to have to do this again. I love you, but if I catch you eaves-dropping on punishment again, I'll wear myself out on your ass. Got it?"
He sniffs. Balefully, "Yes, sir."
Now, all that's left is to snuggle. I take him to the bedroom and lay him out. Jason climbs in behind him, and Kenny in front. Everyone's hugging everyone, and in the course of 10 minutes, all three are snoring softly. Me, I go to my office and start to work. I've finally got some peace.
Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/