Date: Tue, 24 Jun 2008 03:09:33 EDT From: EddyRiha@aol.com Subject: games with stefan 25 The usual disclaimers apply. This is a work of fiction, and those folks who are prevented from reading such fictional works either by age, by moral preference, or by law should not read any further. All of the characters presented here are fictional representations, including the narrator. Some of the events and characters are inspired by actual events and people I encountered in my younger days, but the presentation here of events and characters in no way is meant to portray actual, historical persons and events. It's just a story. All stunts were performed by professionals. Do not attempt these at home. Thank you again to all the readers for the encouragement and the constructive criticism you have provided as I continue to develop this story. This is the final chapter that wraps up the "Weekend at My House" story arc, but there will be other episodes that my imagination can cook up. No Chinese communist party officials were harmed in the writing or reading of this story. (They are too busy preparing for the Beijing Olympics to notice.) If anyone is offended by the premise of the story, or by explicit sexual acts, please do not read any further. Why, indeed, have you read this far? Games With Stefan by eddyriha Chapter #25-Weekend at My House (Part 15) After a few minutes, I pushed myself up off the prone and bound body of Stefan, and we both laughed at the pieces of wax that came away, stuck to my skin. I pulled at a few of the pieces that remained on him, and they came off easily. So I went all over his back, his ass, and his legs, removing wax, rubbing the remaining baby oil into his skin, and in general touching his body everywhere. His skin, even without baby oil, was the softest I had ever felt, and probably the softest I will ever feel, since I haven't found its like in the years since these games took place. His eyes were closed. This was more attention than he usually received from anyone, and we both knew this would be the last day of our extended weekend together. We had to make the best use of our time. But what to do that we hadn't tried already? If we had been speaking, I would have had to admit that the game with the wax was the last thing on my mental list for the weekend. And it was becoming a rather hot and sticky afternoon, and that would make our choice of activities limited by the heat and our corresponding energy levels. I untied Stefan and turned him over, giving my attention to removing the wax from his chest, groin, and legs. I grabbed a towel out of the downstairs bathroom and wiped the excess oil off the wooden piano bench. In a matter of minutes, Stefan was standing before me, wax-free and slippery with oil on every inch of his skin. "Do you want to take a shower?" I asked. "No, sir," he replied. "Unless you want me to take one, that is." "The choice is yours." "Then can I wait to shower?" He waved his arms in front of himself, stretching the muscles which, until a moment before, had been restrained for the better part of the morning. "This oil actually feels cool on my skin." "OK," I said. "Now to decide on a new game to play." "Master, it's up to you." Such an obedient slave. I stood for a moment, thinking. Where hadn't we yet played a game? Ah, I thought to myself as I looked down the hall toward the door which separated the garage from the rest of the house. My father's workbench. I tugged on his leash, motioned for him to pick up the ropes I'd used in our last game, and the boy followed me, his oiled feet slapping on the tiled floor. I opened the door and pulled him into the garage after me. The air here was moderate, not quite as cool as the family room, but much cooler than outside on the driveway. That's due, in large part, to my father having insulated the walls so that the garage stayed warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I moved aside some tools my father had left scattered about the bench, mentally memorizing where they had been so I could return them to their approximate places later. (My father would notice if any were "out of place.") Then I motioned that Stefan should climb up on the bench, which he did, slowly, since it was a difficulty scramble for a boy whose hands, knees, and feet were slick with baby oil. But at last he knelt on the bench, looking at me expectantly. "Turn around," I commanded. He swiveled himself around so his back was toward me. I brought his two wrists together and bound them with one of the cords. Then I bound his two ankles together, and the third rope tied the wrist bonds to the ankle restraints, so in effect he was forced to place his weight on his lower legs, and he ended up sitting on his calves. I helped him then turn so he was facing the end of the bench to my left, with his head in profile to me. Picking up a pair of pliers, I waved them in front of his face. "You seemed really to like doing stuff to Lance last night," I said in the sternest voice I could muster. "I bet you've been playing games with him when I'm not around." "No, Master, no!" Stefan replied, as his eyes followed the pliers' every movement. "I think you need to tell me the truth," I said as I moved the business end of the pliers across his right nipple. I mimed catching the nipple in the pliers, but did no more than give a little pressure to the sensitive nip. Then I did the same to his left nipple, to his belly button, all the time moving slowly toward his cock. I placed the pliers around the head, and the moment I did so, Stefan began babbling, telling me all about adventures I knew he'd never had with Lance, anything to keep me from hurting his erect cock. For the moment the pliers drew near that member, it began stiffening and expanding, the potential for pain exciting and scaring the boy all at once. Of course, his rational mind knew I loved him and wasn't going to hurt him, but when you're bound atop a workbench with your master holding a serious-looking pair of pliers, who says reason has anything to do with it? (Besides, I knew years before the rest of the country that torture never produces intelligent, trustworthy results, and it should never be pursued for any purpose other than perhaps the role-playing between two lovers-and then only rarely and safely.) I teased him and tweaked him with various implements from my father's toolbox: longnosed pliers, vise grips, alligator clips, screwdrivers, adjustable wrenches, rachet and sockets. You name it, if it was in the toolbox that afternoon, it found its way to Stefan's nipples and cock sooner or later. The whole time, he's telling me all kinds of stories about what he and Lance did, what he and Sandro did, what he and every other boy in the neighborhood and in school had done. If I could have recorded the "confessions," I'd have had enough material for pages and pages of this story sequence. I could probably have spent the rest of my life doing nothing but typing up (and somewhat embellishing) the various sexual escapades that Stefan was inventing to keep from pain. At last, I pushed him forward on the bench, until his erect cock found itself resting in between the open jaws of the vise which was bolted into the bench. One hand behind his back held him in place, so he couldn't squirm out of the way, while the other slowly spun the handle, tightening the vise ever so slowly. "Now, slave," I said to him, "what do you think should be your punishment for having disobeyed me and played so many games with other boys, without my permission?" He closed his eyes as he tried to think of a sufficient punishment that didn't result in his cock being squeezed in a vise. "I don't know, Master," he gasped as he felt the first firm pressure of the vise against the sides of his cock. "Whatever you want, that will be my punishment." I tightened the vise another quarter turn. For a moment, fear crossed his face, then submission. "If that is what you want, Master," he whispered, "do it." For a moment, I hesitated. Such complete submission, such willingness to allow me his body without any hesitation. That was what I wanted more than anything, that was what all these games were leading to. Stefan would become my love, my treasure, my possession. Mine and only mine. I swung the vise open, and Stefan's cock dropped into my waiting hand. It had some of the grease (or oil?) from the jaws of the vise on it, and I wrapped my fingers around the shaft, and gently gave it a few strokes. Stefan's eyes were closed, a smile on his face of complete delight and ecstasy. He submitted to my stroking, as he had to my poking and squeezing him with the tools, with the same kind of willingness. In a moment, he was gasping and shuddering as his cock erupted in another dry orgasm. * * * * * * * I awoke from my nap and wondered where I was and what the strange sound was. Then I remembered that, after our game on the workbench, I had untied Stefan and walked him upstairs leading him with the leash. I had led him out onto the somewhat enclosed back porch, where we had laid down on some foam mats that my folks had stored there. In a matter of minutes, we had fallen asleep, spooning together, my arms wrapped around the boy's still oily skin. Now I had awoken, and that strange sound I was hearing was the sound of heavy rain pouring onto the plastic roof over the porch. The wind was blowing and every moment there was another flash of lightning following by a loud boom of thunder. The air was cool and damp, and I could feel the heat breaking as the rain roared through the trees and onto the roof. Stefan stirred in my arms, so I released him and sat up. "What's up?" he mumbled sleepily. "Listen to the rain," I said. There was a faint mist on my face as I sat on the porch, as droplets of rain spattered off nearby branches and leaves. He sat up beside me and stretched. "That rain feels good." "Let's go run around in it," I suggested. "Won't the neighbors see us?" "Does it matter? Besides, who is going to be looking out their windows into our yard in the middle of a thunderstorm?" He had to admit I had a point. So we both ran down the steps and onto the grassy yard, laughing and whooping and slipping on the wet grass, banging into each other and sometimes into the trees, grabbing each other's hands, each other's cock, laughing and playing and being silly. Both of us felt the cool rain wash off all the heat of the past few days, all the sweat, all the cum, washing us like we were newborns. And when we tired of running about, we lay down in the grass and held each other, kissing, and entwining our legs together. Not to start fucking again, but to enjoy the closeness of our bodies one last evening before his parents returned home. "You know," he said suddenly, "I wish we could be like this forever." "Me, too, Stefan," I replied, hugging him to my chest. "I wish we could spend our whole lives together." "Even better," he said, "I wish we could get married." That caught me by surprise. I had never thought of that. When these events were happening, no one had publicly talked about gay marriage or anything like that. As far as I know, Stefan's the first person I ever met who had even entertained the idea. And here we were, drenched with summer rain, lying in my parents' backyard, thinking about getting married. When I didn't say anything right away, he added, "If we could get married, then you and I could do whatever we wanted, and no one could tell us otherwise." It made sense. "If two boys can ever get married," I promised him, "I will marry you." "Is that a promise?" He looked into my eyes, with hope and wonder and fear in his expression. "Yes, that's a promise." He hugged me tighter, as if he was afraid I would slip off into the rain and the night, which had fallen all around us. The thunder and lightning were fading into the distance, and the rain had become a steady drizzle. Yet we lay there a few more minutes, enjoying the moment, enjoying the tight embrace, enjoy the taste of rain on each other's lips. Then both of us, at the same moment, realized how cold and wet we were, and we bounded back up the stairs and into the house, tracking water all the way to the bathroom, where we toweled each other off. For a moment, we looked at each other, bare naked and totally in love. Then I offered him my hand, and we walked together, hand in hand, to the kitchen to get some dinner, Stefan's leash trailing on the ground behind us. * * * * * * * The next morning, we awoke in each other's arms, lying on my parents' bed, our limbs enmeshed, our cocks swollen with morning wood. We had fucked again, long and slow and hard, like lovers do, twice last night before we fell asleep, once with him in my ass, then once with me in his. As I rolled over to check the time, I heard a car door slam outside. I walked across the hall and peered out between the curtains in my bedroom. It was Stefan's parents-his older brother had brought them from the airport. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It was 12:30. We had sure slept in. Stefan was stirring when I returned to the bed. "Your parents are home," I said. "They are," he mumbled sleepily. He smiled, obviously thinking about the fun of the past few days. Then he looked down at himself, then at me. "Well, they can wait," he said. "We can't let these go to waste." And he reached out for my stiff cock. . . .