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.


Chapter 3

At about 10:15am I wake up again...hungry. I head down to the basement. Jason is asleep, spread-eagled, most likely pretty stiff and uncomfortable. I stroke his back for a couple of seconds, and he wakes up. "Time for breakfast," I tell him, as he slowly comes to life. I unfasten his bindings, and he stretches, luxuriating in the sudden freedom. Swinging his legs off the edge of the table, he stands, staring at the floor, looking very submissive. "I'm sorry, Tim," he says, softly.

"I know," I respond, caressing his face. "We all have to learn. I'm not angry any more" I smile and kiss him. "Now, could you make me something to eat, please? I'm starving to death." He smiles. "I should warn you," I add, "that after breakfast I'm probably going to want to fuck you. Last night's `incident' put a crimp in my horniness plans." He smiles more broadly. "And, then this afternoon, we have punishment -- the parent thing and sleeping through lunch yesterday. Typically, I'll let you choose between two possible punishments. For the next few punishments, though, I'm going to let you propose something out of the blue. The only caveat is that it can't be a punishment you've already had recently, so spanking is out. It has to be something else, something new, hopefully something you've been fantasizing about. Be thinking, because long about four o'clock, I'll ask you how you want to suffer." I snaugh, and he smiles even more broadly.

He makes me rice porridge, "Conjee," with preserved eggs and pork, both of which he bought yesterday. I'd told him I was an adventurous eater, and he apparently believed me. I've never had this before, and it's absolutely delicious, especially with a little white pepper added to the mix (taking my queue from him). Looking across the table at him as we eat, I ask, without smiling: "Did you wonder whether this might earn you more punishment?"

He looks stricken, on the verge of tears. "Don't you like it?"

I reach across and caress his face, smiling. "Yeah, I like it a lot. I'm just teasing you."

He sighs, and smiles. "I did actually wonder...whether you'd like it, not whether I'd be punished. Conjee is comfort food for me, like...what...macaroni-and-cheese to Americans...errr...Caucasians. I usually add hot sauce to make it spicy." Suddenly, he looks concerned. "Do you like your food spicy or milder?"

"I like my food spicy and very hot. I've had sinus problems since I was a child and have a hard time tasting bland or `subtle' food. I'm not especially fond of `French Cuisine' for that reason. It's just too nuanced...too subtle for me."

Once again he looks stricken. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know." He runs to the fridge and retrieves a bottle of Vietnamese hot sauce. "Try some of this. It's actually not very good. The flavor is off. It should be sweeter. But it's all they had. There's a Chinese restaurant in town that makes their own. I'll get some this afternoon." He looks sad, contrite.

I smile, spoon some into the porridge, replace the spoon in the jar, reach across to him, drawing his face to mine, and kiss him.

"Don't sweat it, Jason," breaking the kiss. "You don't need to worry very much about foods I like and don't like, because I like pretty much everything. I'm sure I'll form opinions about the food you prepare over time, but I don't know enough about this kind of cuisine right now to know what's good. I do know this is very good," pointing to my bowl," and you're right, even better with the hot sauce."

He smiles, a little bleakly. "It's just...after last night...I want to...umm...please you."

I smile at him, take his hand. "Do you understand what happened last night?"

He looks at the floor, at his bare feet. "I pissed you off."

"Why? How?"

Long pause. His body-language `implodes' as he crosses his leg and hunkers down, trying to compress himself into the smallest possible posture; he wants to disappear. "I'm not sure, but it has to do with control."

"Right. You tried to take control, and that's not something I will allow. And it's not something I think you want...until you want it," I laugh. "Yesterday, you wanted to be punished. You wanted to get off being punished. I decided I'd let you wait, punish you by not punishing you, and that pissed you off, and you tried to take control. You'll find that punishment for taking control will NEVER be erotic. It'll be punitive. You are not in control; I am."

"I understand," he said, smiling. "That's what I want, too. I want you to be in control." He paused, musing. "This is sort of a parent/child relationship, isn't it. We're `sexualizing' that. I've lived with my very authoritarian parents for nearly twenty years. They've always cared for me, but always ruled my movements. We're formalizing that. Ritualizing it."

I was really impressed, both by his perceptiveness, and his ability to express highly abstract and personal concepts simply. "Exactly. And when you mess with our respective roles, the results are likely to be unpredictable."

He smiled at me. "I don't want to mess with our roles. I like them as they are." Thinking for a minute. "I'd like to return the $1500 and close the bank account." This comes seemingly out of the blue.

I look totally confused. He sees it. "What am I going to do with $1500?"

"Buy clothes, an I-Pod, CDs."

"Can't you just do that for me? I mean, I'm never going to be able to spend that much money in a month, and I've never written a check in my life. I'm not sure how. Can you just, please, handle the money, like my father did? If I need something, I'll ask. Would that be okay?"

"But that's your salary."

"I don't want a salary."

Still not getting it. "If you don't get a salary, what's the basis for this hierarchical relationship? What's your motivation for obedience?"

"My desire to submit," he says, simply.

I'm still confused. (I'm not too bright, today, I guess.)

"I'm not really submissive because you pay me to be. I'm submissive because I'm submissive -- well, most of the time; I'll try to make that all of the time." He gives me a cute grin.

He's right, of course. You can't pay someone to be submissive. Either they are or they aren't. If you're dominant, submission is against instinct; it's simply not something you can achieve.

"By paying me, giving me a salary, you're basically saying that I have the right to make decisions on my own, decisions about how to spend the money. But, I don't know how to spend the money. I've never had money to spend. I don't think I want to try to figure out how to spend the money. I think I'd rather just ask for something I want, and let you decide whether it's okay, or, better, just take what I'm given. Like the car (which is the most beautiful thing I've ever been given). You decide what I need and provide it. Isn't that what domination is about."

Wise beyond his years.

"Okay. If that's the way you want it. We can go close the account later today. Right now, though..."

He smiles.

"...I think I'd like to fuck you."

He giggles as I lift him into my arms and carry him to the bedroom, dumping him unceremoniously onto the bed, where he stretches out on his back. I undress slowly in front of him, and as I do, he starts to get hard. He is just so beautiful, so tan, so soft. When I'm naked, I grab the lotion, move up between his legs, and squirt some in his crack, rubbing downward toward his hole, but not actually touching it, not yet. I outline the hole with my forefinger, teasing him, and finally, after maybe five minutes of rubbing all around -- the crack, the perineum, the ass cheeks -- I squirt some more down there and penetrate him with my finger. He gasps. He's on his back, so finding the prostate is a little more challenging, but I do, and rub it gently. He moans softly, spreading his legs wider to give me better access. While massaging the prostate, I go down on him, sucking with enthusiasm. Jason's is not an especially long penis, so deep-throating is out of the question. But I do suck, swirling my tongue around his cock-head. He continues to moan. After a few minutes, I add the second finger to his asshole, and then the third. I read somewhere that once you've done this a few time, the asshole can take a penis without a lot of preparation. I hope that's true.

Finally, withdrawing my fingers, I move into position, his legs over my shoulders, squeeze some lotion onto my cock, and press on, penetrating him. If a human being could purr, that what's Jason would be doing. He's very turned on, thrashing his head from side to side, moaning.

"Stroke yourself."

"What?" He looks almost frightened.

"Stroke yourself. Jerk off."

He looks at me, and then down at his dick, and then back at me. He blushes. "I've never jerked off with someone else watching."

I giggle. "So, jerking off is more intimate than getting fucked, or frenching another guy."

He smiles, and giggles. "I guess not."

"So, get on with it. You're allowed to masturbate when I tell you to. I want you to cum first. But, don't you cum until I tell you. Tell me if you're getting close."

He nods, and we go at it for maybe 15 minutes. He's looking directly into my eyes. I lean down and begin to kiss him. I can tell by his breathing that he's getting close. He tries to break the kiss, but I won't let him, opening my eyes to see a panicked expression on his face. I continue to kiss, and, seconds before he comes, pull off. "I'm going to cum," he screams, expecting that I'm going to be angry.

I smile. "Okay." He blasts into my stomach and all over himself. His orgasm sends me over the edge, and I begin to cum inside him. His eyes are screwed so tightly shut that he must see stars. I know I do. Spent, I collapse on top of him, pushing his legs to the sides and laying my head on his belly, in a river of his spunk. We're both breathing heavily, sweating heavily. I take his dick in my mouth and clean him up, which shocks him, and then roll off the bed.

"Come on. Let's grab a shower."

We shower, soaping each other, after which we towel off. I bring out the shaving gear and shave his cock and balls. He's absolute smooth to the touch, the way I want him.

"Let's go out for lunch. Go put on some clothes."

"Umm. I don't have any here. They're still in the car."

"You're right. We didn't bring them in." I throw on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and some socks, and we go down and bring in his suitcases, as well as the clothes he shed in the car as we were driving over from his parents. We carry the suitcases to his room, and he dresses hurriedly.

"What have you got in there," I ask, pointing to the suitcases.

He opens them. The first suitcase has some clothes, towels, grooming aids (a toothbrush, comb, brush and soap), and that's about all. The second suitcase is full of books. His wardrobe consists of one pair of jeans, one pair of short (which he's wearing) two t-shirts, one dress-shirt (sort of), three pairs of underwear, and four pains of mismatched socks. The sneakers he's wearing are the only shoes he owns.

"This is it? No other clothes?"

He looks surprised. "Yeah, this is it." He's not smiling.

"Oookaaay. Looks like we need to get you some clothes." He looks puzzled.


"Umm... Because you don't have any?"

"How many do I need?"

"Well, more than this. You can't even wash them properly."

"Why not? I'm naked in the house. It's not like I need to wear clothes when I'm doing the laundry." He giggles.

I give him a long look, a look that says: Is it your place to argue with me. He get's it.

"Yes, please..."

I kiss him. "Well done." He smiles, his eyes sparkling.

We leave the house in his new car. He's driving. He begged to drive, to check out the car, and he raves about the way it handles all the way to the bank. He goes in and closes the one-day-old account, dealing with a rather confused branch manager who finally concludes that he's moving. "Actually," I say, moving up behind him, "he's going to be living with me. He won't need his own money." She gives me a long, confused look, and then gets it, handling the paperwork as quickly as she can, and we're on our way, with a cashiers check made out to me that I promptly deposit into my own account at the ATM. Believe it or not, this paper trail is faster and simpler that a cash transfer from his account to mine. Whatever.

Next, I direct him to Mervyn's. Okay, I'm gay, but I'm not much of a fashion queen. I buy my stuff cheap and comfortable. We get him three pairs of Levi's, twelve pairs of underwear, twelve pairs of socks, ten t-shirts, two jock straps (my idea), three pairs of shoes (his stink), three pairs of gym shorts, six sweat bands, and a partridge in a pear tree. All this for under $250. And, as we're leaving, he stops me in the kitchen department, picks up an enormous cleaver, a Teflon Wok, and a five-cup rice cooker, at Mervyns for god's sake.

"Please," he says, looking a little plaintiff, "Can I have these, too."

"Oookaaay. You're the cook. You need this stuff?"

"I can't believe you don't have a Wok," he says, serious, "and your kitchen cutlery is just awful. Where'd you get the knives -- from your mother?" He's trying to suppress a grin. I punch him gently on the bicep.

"Yeah, that's exactly where I got them. Who taught you manners?"

"My mother...who had really good cutlery." He can't suppress the giggle.

I narrow my eyes. "You are getting so punished this afternoon."

He giggles again.

The cleaver is a whopping $100, the Wok $75 and the rice cooker $125. This is cheap for cookware, I know. If this is what he needs, that's fine.

We take the cookware to the checkout counter, and I pay by credit card. As the card is being validated, I smile at Jason sweetly, speaking a little louder than normal. "Okay, let's get you home for punishment. Remember, you have to choose how you want to be punished, but because I spanked you last night, a spanking is not an option, even though I know you like them."

He looks at me, incredulous, beat-red. The guy behind us is so stunned, he moves to another register -- behind six other customers. The Hispanic lady checking us out looks me in the eye. I wink. Then she looks Jason in the eye. Then she starts to giggle. Jason is mortified, and slinks out of the store. I sign the charge slip, and catch up to him just as he's crossing the street to the car. I wink at him, and giggle. He's not amused, until we're at the car, where I stop him, hug him, and kiss him passionately. We get several stares, and one cat-call.

"What are you doing," he asks, angry.

"Oh, yes, you are getting so punished this afternoon. I'm kissing you."

"In the middle of the parking lot?"

"Why not? They are," I reply, pointing to a straight couple an aisle over kissing passionately.

"They're hetero."

"Oh, my god, you are racking up the points today. Who gives a flying fuck what they are?" I kiss him again, and he pushes me away.

I narrow my eyes, staring at him. "We'd better go home. We have work to do."

He gets in the car and stares at his fee a full minute, silent. Then he starts to cry softly, and then to sob.

"Please...please...I'm sorry."

"Are you sorry because you're going to be punished for this, or are you sorry because you're sorry."

He looks at me and sobs. "Beat me. I don't care. I'm sorry because I was stupid, because I'm sorry."


We drive to the house and pull into the garage.

"Get out of the car, strip, leave your clothes on the chair in the entry hall, and go directly to the basement. You know what to do."

He does, and when I get there, he's laying on the table, waiting to be restrained.

"I don't fucking understand you," I say.

He starts to cry again.

"You are my boy. If I kiss you in a parking lot, why would you be ashamed of that? Only one reason I can think of...because you're ashamed of me...not to mention ashamed of yourself."

He's sobbing now.

"I'm not ashamed of me, Jason, why should you be?"


"Do you really hate yourself that much?"


I stroke his back, gently.

"I dunno Jason. Maybe this isn't meant to be."

I climb the stairs, go to my bedroom, and climb into bed. This may not work. Half an hour later, I wake up to the sound of sobs. Jason is kneeling at the edge of the bed. I can just make out the outline of his body in the nightlight.

"Please don't give up on me. Please... I'm stupid, I know. I have to learn how to submit. But, you're not paying me a salary, so it really is YOU I want to please. Please...please don't give up on me." All of this choked by sobs.

I lift the quilt, and he crawls into bed in front of me, molds his body to mine. I wrap my arms around his body, hug him to me. His sobs become more urgent until he finally falls asleep perhaps an hour later.

This may not work, I think to myself. He is beautiful, but I'm less convinced that he can submit to me than I was two days ago. I begin to cry softly, and this wakes him. He turns and kisses me. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure this is going to work. I'm not sure we're compatible."

He begins to cry, to sob. "Please don't send me away. I don't care about the money, about the car, about anything but you."

He pauses, sobbing.

"I need to learn to do this," he says, as though speaking to himself. "Can we go to the mall tomorrow?"

I'm a bit confused. "Which mall?"



"Wait and see."

I look at him quizzically. "Okay. I guess. I'm sad." I'll miss him, but I don't think I can establish a relationship with him.


Westfield's is a mess, crawling with people: mothers, children, single-white-females, everyone-and-his-chicken (as my mother used to say). I have no idea why we're here, but Jason is taking me to the food court, the most densely-packed square-footage in the mall. And the food is awful, so it can't be for lunch. Locating a table in the middle of the dining area, Jason takes off his shirt, which is surprising. Folding it, he places it on the table in front of him. Next, he takes off his shoes and sox, folding the sox, and placing those on top of the shirt. Finally he takes off his jeans, folding them, placing them on top of the shirt and sox. He's wearing the skimpiest Speedo I have ever seen. Where the hell did he get that? He's gorgeous, needless to say, with that gorgeous bronze skin. Reaching over to me, he catches the back of my neck and pulls my face toward him. We begin to kiss, and the tables around us go immediately quiet, ogling us, captivated by the display. Then I hear giggling. And then, surprisingly, applause. I open my eyes and look around. People are standing, clapping. We have a fucking standing-ovation. We also have three security guards approaching from three different directions.

Okay, so I get it. I could lecture him that he's once again taken control, and will include that lecture as part of his punishment this afternoon. With all the punishment he's built up of the last couple of days, he's probably not going to be very comfortable for a while; however he chooses to be punished. Security reaches us, and pulls us apart. They're going to tell us that we have to leave, tell us that there's a "no shirt" policy at the mall. They're going to tell us that public displays of affection are prohibited, even though there's a hetero couple making out across the room. But, the minute they touch us, there's a roar in the room that surprises even me. I look around. All those applauding people have formed a tight ring around us and are shouting: "Leave them the fuck along." "Go away." "Who are you to legislate morality?" Jason smiles, grabs me behind the neck once again, and pulls me into a kiss, and it's some kiss. And the `audience' has begun to clap again, in a rhythmic unison, chanting `kiss him...kiss him." The security guards have no idea what to do, and so do nothing, watching us just like everyone else. After a minute or two, Jason breaks the kiss, looks into my eyes, and says, not quietly "I'm not ashamed of you. I'm not ashamed of myself. I'm sorry for taking control again to do this. Please punish me for it this afternoon...please. Severely. Worse than the other day. But please don't give up on me. I have to learn." He's begun to tear-up, and the hall is silent.

I kiss away his tears. I'm starting to love this boy.

I pick up his clothes from the table and stuff them into my backpack. He looks surprised.

"C'mon. Let's go," I say, smiling.

He freezes, and then, realizing the implications, gets up and we stroll to the car...slowly. He's parading himself, nearly naked, through the busiest mall in Northern California. I have my arm around his waist. My boyfriend's waist. He might as well have a sign around his neck reading "I am a Fag." And...AND...(I can't help but laugh, remembering this)...his dick is rock hard and clearly outlined in that very skimpy Speedo. Everyone who sees him knows it. He's beat-red but smiling broadly. I'm back in control...strolling casually through the most chaotic mass of humanity in the state of California with my nearly naked houseboy -- my boyfriend -- with a hardon.

Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/