Date: Wed, 25 Jul 2012 11:06:42 -0600
From: paintedpony@fastmail.fm
Subject: HIS SHOULDERS

A Story for Adult/Youth

HIS SHOULDERS

by Painted Pony

His shoulders, chest, and belly give me a hard on. He knows the effect they
have on me, so he loves to tease me by stripping off his tee shirt at odd
times and then watching me slyly as I watch him. I can't take my eyes off
that golden, flawless skin, those wonderful young muscles of which he is so
proud, and the perfect proportions of his firm young athlete's body.

He tossed his tee shirt onto the floor and stood in front of me. I could
tell that he was flexing himself slightly in chest and belly to make his
muscles stand out better. He was also expanding his chest a little to make
it seem bigger. It was a gesture of both tease and domination.

"You gonna tell me where it is?" he asked, hands on hips and a little smile
on his handsome face.

"No," I said. "I'm not going to tell you anything."

He stepped up very close to where he had tied me in the chair, so close
that our bare knees touched.

"You sure?" he asked. He brushed the tips of his fingers across the tops of
both of my thighs. "You know what it means if you don't tell me what I want
to know, don't you?"

Damn that smile of his, anyway! His fingers were starting to tickle, but
the teasing fingers and the proximity of this perfect body, wearing nothing
but a pair of short, almost threadbare jean cut-offs, was also having its
usual effect on me.

"Sure I know," I said, trying to sound confident and completely in control
of myself. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out! You're not going to get anything
out of me. Like I said, I'm not going to tell you where it is and you can't
make me."

He spread his legs slightly and scooted forward so that he was almost
sitting on my knees. He didn't put his full weight on me, but the pressure
on my legs against the hard wooden chair was just slightly
uncomfortable. He reached forward with his right hand and took my left
nipple between his thumb and forefinger, but gently.

"I like it when you try not to tell me," he said, quietly, almost as if he
were talking to himself. I felt his fingers tighten slightly on my
nipple. "I like it a lot."

He squeezed harder and pulled outward and I felt the weird, warm sensation
of pain mixed with something else radiating outward and downward. As I
expected he would, he looked down and his smile widened.  I realized that,
also as usual, I was blushing just a bit.

"You like me, don't you?" he taunted coyly while rotating my nipple in his
grip as if he were tuning a radio. "Don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes," I whispered. "You know I do." He increased the pressure of his grip
on my nipple but stopped twisting it back and forth.

"And you like this game, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I can tell!" he said, looking down again and giggling, sounding for a
second much younger than he really was. He abruptly released my now
distended nipple and hopped off my knees. "That looks cramped!" he
said. "I'll fix that!"

He dropped to his knees on the left side of the chair and pulled my left
leg out and back so that my foot was level with the back leg of the
chair. He fastened a loop of clothesline around my ankle, passed the rope
around the base of the chair back and then pulled upward on the rope while
pushing my ankle up toward the back of the chair. My foot rose higher and
higher until it was against the upright of the back, on about the same
level as my knee and with the sole of my foot pointing backwards and
slightly up. It was a cramped and slightly painful position. In a few
seconds he had done the same for my right leg.

I was now tied securely to the sturdy wooden kitchen-style chair with my
hands tied together behind me, my arms pulled over the back of the chair
and tied to a rung of the chair bottom, and my elbows tied so that they
almost touched. My legs were spread wide apart and tied off as I have
described. I could imagine almost no position quite as helpless and
vulnerable as this one.

When he was satisfied with his knot-work he stepped back in front of me and
inspected his prisoner. He always seemed to like this part of our little
game.

"What's that?" he asked, stifling his grin and pretending to be asking a
genuine question.

"You know what it is," I mumbled, still slightly embarrassed at my reaction
to what was happening, despite its growing familiarity.

"No I don't!" he said, pretending injury that I would doubt his sincerity.

"Liar!"

"You have to tell me what that is. You always say that when I don't know
something I have to ask so I can learn! So tell me what that is."

"OK! OK! It's my dick, you knucklehead!" I almost giggled myself at the
absurdity of this, but kept myself under control.

"Wow! I've heard of those!" his eyes grew wide and I found myself admiring
his skills as an actor. "They're supposed to be really sensitive, too, I
heard."

He reached down and took the glans of my half-hard penis between the same
finger and thumb that had worked on my nipple. He began to turn the knob,
as if looking for a strong signal. I could feel the instant reaction and
the sudden surge as my cock tightened and rose further.

"Gee," he said, all innocence and wonder. "I guess it must like that!"
After a few seconds of gentle twisting he continued to taunt me. "Or maybe
it wants me to stop. Does it?" he asked, looking directly into my
eyes. "Does it want me to stop?" He held my eyes like a snake is said to
hold the eyes of a bird it is about to devour.

"No," I stammered, almost choking on the word.

"It doesn't?" he asked incredulously.

"No," I said. "It doesn't."

He gave me a couple of firm stroking pulls and then released my now fully
hard member and dropped to his knees in front of the chair with a hand on
each of my wide-spread knees.

"I wonder what would happen if I could find some really slippery stuff and
put it on that and then played with it for a while. You know, like this..."
he made the universal pumping fist motion. "What do you think would happen
if I did that?" he asked.

"I don't know," I croaked stupidly.

"Maybe we should find out!" he almost yelled and jumped up from the
floor. He leaned down until he was right in my face. "Of course, I would
have to be very careful to be sure that we didn't have an... accident,
wouldn't I? I mean, I've heard that if you play with one of those for too
long it spits out gooey stuff and makes a mess. I'd have to be careful not
to let that happen, wouldn't I? Especially if you were very bad and kept
refusing to tell me where you've hidden the secret treasure map. But if you
were good... Maybe if you were really, really good and told me where the
map is... maybe then I wouldn't mind so much if it made a big mess. You
know what I mean?"

His fingers traced across the top of my throbbing glans again, sending
bolts of pleasure down through my shaft and then up to my brain.

"You gonna talk?" he asked.

"No," I said. He stood up quickly and put his balled fists on his hips.

"Where's some slippery stuff?" he asked.

"Uhm try in the night stand next to my bed. Top drawer."

"I'll be right back!" he said. "Don't go anywhere!" and he gave that
girlish giggle once more.

I suspect that under the right conditions you could actually drive a man
insane with this sort of thing. The constant see-saw ride of intense
pleasure, soon followed by a complete withdrawal of stimulus, with the
cycle repeated over and over again. It quickly becomes an ever-tightening
spiral of frustration and tension. A penis is meant to become hard,
experience intense pleasurable sensations, and then, in its own time and as
a result of the stimulation of that pleasure, ejaculate sperm down its
central tube and out into the world or into the womb of a receptive
female. This other way becomes exactly what the tormentor intends it to
become: a method of torture and a pretty effective tool of
interrogation. It was all a game, of course, but a very realistic one.

Intensity. That's the key word, I think. Being securely, helplessly bound
and having your penis teased and manipulated by a patient and knowing
tormentor is a very intense experience, to say the least.  Pleasure, slowly
and expertly applied, and carefully alternated with periods of the
withdrawal of stimulus feels incredibly wonderful at first. Then, slowly
and gradually, that inner need programmed into the organism to release its
seed begins to dominate the senses and becomes the single, central core of
your being and the only reason for your existence. Nothing matters but that
you ejaculate, that you achieve the grail of orgasm and be allowed to
come. The key is "be allowed to come," because you do not control the
situation. Unlike a so-called normal act of intercourse performed as a part
of the process of procreation, in this case the aroused male is not the
dominant creature. He is a prisoner, and his natural instincts and urges
are being used against him as a form of torture. And if I may make a little
pun: in the right hands, believe me, it works.



He was always a ticklish kid. He seemed to like the contact and the thrill
of being tickled. Most of the time he would instigate it. I would tell him
not to do something, he would do it, brazenly and obviously, and a tickle
session would result. He would squeal and wiggle and protest, but it was
clear that he loved it. Then he began to demand equal time: I had tickled
him and therefore it was only fair, as he put it, that he be able to tickle
me.

Finally, I relented. For his twelfth birthday I gave him a special, private
present. I told him that as a special, one-time treat I was going to let
him tickle me for ten minutes. He went wild with joy, but before we started
our timed session he demanded that, because I was so much bigger than he
was, he be allowed to tie me up. I was leery, but finally aqreed. And that
was the beginning.



He was an intelligent, bold, verbal boy with a great sense of humor and a
flair for the dramatic. I could never resist his wheedling and cajoling for
very long and he had enjoyed that first session of pay-back so much that he
begged and pleaded that we do it again. And so we did. I could have put an
end to it, I suppose, but I didn't.

I will confess that I was strangely fascinated by this little game that
seemed to have evolved between us. There was something powerfully appealing
to me about being playfully dominated by this boy. The tying-up became a
part of the little ritual of revenge tickling that I allowed him from time
to time. While he was tying me up he would tease me about the awful things
he was going to do to me and I would feel a high, fluttery tingle in my
chest and start to drift into an almost hypnotic trance while his fingers
worked carefully on the ropes he used to restrain me so that he could work
his unobstructed will on me.

At first it was just tickling, as if for revenge or merely his own delight
in my helpless thrashing about as his fingers dug into ribs and
armpits. After about the second session, however, he changed the agenda by
introducing an element of sword-and-sorcery movie scenarios into the play.

"Tell me where the magic stone of power is hidden, Conan, or my flashing
fingers of terrible torture will extract the information from you! Ha, ha,
ha, ha!" He did the maniacal laugh of the fiendish villain to perfection
and I didn't know whether to laugh or tremble with genuine dread at his
enthusiasm for the new shape of the game that he wanted to play more and
more frequently.



I'm not sure, but I think it was probably the fourth or fifth time I had
allowed him to tie me up on my living room floor and tickle me. I was lying
on my back on my bound arms and he was straddling my hips. He had pushed my
polo shirt up under my armpits for better access to my vulnerable ribs and
tummy and was strumming his fingers and palms across my bare skin while I
did my best to control my urge to scream with laughter and buck him off me.

As far as I can remember it was nothing specific that he had done. It just
seemed to happen. I was suddenly aware that under his wiggling butt I was
erect. I hadn't felt it happening. It just seemed suddenly there.  There
was a moment of panic, but there was nothing I could do without making the
situation worse than it was. I remember he stopped tickling me and sat
up. His eyes were on mine for what seemed like a long time and his face was
dead-pan. Then he began to smile and started to wiggle around again on my
crotch. Neither of us said anything, but he kept his eyes on my face. His
little smile was both a taunt and a challenge. Then he apparently made up
his mind and got off me, squatting on the floor next to me so that his
knees pressed into my hip.

I suppose I could have fought back, rolled over onto my stomach, kicked out
with my legs, shouted, even scrambled somehow to my feet and ran away. But
I didn't do any of that other than to tell him that he shouldn't and that
he should stop right away. But he didn't.

I lay there as he unzipped my shorts, pulled them down over my hips, and
pulled my erection out through the fly of my underwear. The feel of his
hands on my penis was like a sudden jolt of hot electricity. He was gentle
and tentative at first, but after a few seconds he seemed to gain
confidence and took me into his right hand, wrapped it tightly around my
shaft just under the glans, and stroked me steadily and without stopping
until I sprayed up over my chest and belly and then dribbled over his
clenched fist onto my own groin.

In the aftermath of an amazing orgasm I had the most terrifying attack of
guilt and fear I have ever felt, before or since. What the hell had I
allowed to happen? I was, after all, the adult. I was the one that was
supposed to be in control and supposed to be thinking about this boy's
welfare and best interests. And look at what I had allowed to happen! I
felt lower than the rug I lay on, panting from my amazing orgasm and almost
in tears over what had happened.

He got up and held his sopping right hand out away from him as he ran down
the hall to the bathroom. I heard the water running and then he was back
with a damp wash cloth that he used to clean me up. Then he untied me and
somehow knew enough to go into the kitchen while I rearranged my clothes
and pulled myself into some kind of shape, both physically and mentally.



I wish I could exactly quote the conversation we had. The gist of it was
that I apologized for allowing "it" to happen. He replied that I really had
nothing to say about it since I was tied up at the time. I said that didn't
matter, that I was the adult. He said that he was the kid and he had wanted
to do it and what was the big deal anyway? Didn't I do the same thing for
myself? Duh! What was the difference if someone did it for me, especially
someone you liked? Instead of feeling lucky, I was moaning about it; what
kind of a doofus was I, anyway? He said he did for himself all the time,
maybe twice a day or more, and that he would love it if someone would do
the same for him. I said it didn't matter what either of us wanted. What
happened was very, very illegal and if anyone ever even so much as
suspected such a thing had happened I might go to prison for a long
time. He replied that what we did was between us and wasn't anybody else's
business. He seemed to think that covered a lot more ground than I was
convinced it did.

This went on for quite a while. I guess I had suspected that he would be
somehow traumatized by what had happened, and it turned out that I was the
one who had the major problem with it. His feelings about it seemed to be
that it was fun and what was the big deal anyway? I think I wanted
desperately to feel that way myself, but couldn't quite pull it off.
Visions of jail cells and total, utter humiliation kept flashing before my
eyes.

Later, after he had gone home, I was able to admit to myself, away from the
steady gaze of his grey-green eyes, that what he had done to me had been
amazingly pleasurable and that the physical sensations of it had been
clearly the best and most powerfully arousing sexual experience I had ever
had. The realization was stunning: I had actually had sex, of a sort, with
a twelve-year-old boy, even if nominally against my will, and had found it
to be completely wonderful. I didn™t want to take the next step and face
what this meant about me. People who enjoy hand jobs from twelve-year-old
boys, especially while tied up by them, are not very high up on the list of
admirable characters in our culture.



He didn't come over for the next three or four days and I boiled over into
a turmoil of fear and out-of-control paranoia. I was sure that he had
thought about it and had a change of heart. He had told his parents.  The
police were even now gathering evidence and putting their case
together. Perhaps his father, whom I liked, was going to arrive on my front
porch with a bunch of friends, armed with garden shears and machetes. I
even contemplated suicide and sat down several times to try to write a
coherent and sensible note to leave behind. I wondered whether the best way
was to take the gun into my mouth or to shoot myself from the side,
straight into the temple. I thought about the best, most considerate, and
least messy place to do it. I was at the lowest point in my life, and yet I
wanted nothing more than to see him coming up my front walk again, pounding
up onto the porch, and letting himself into my house like he owned it. I
wanted that more than anything.

And then he did exactly that. After pouring him a big glass of lemonade,
and spilling some through my tremendous nervousness even though I tried to
fake casual disinterest, I asked him where he had been. He said he had been
to the school district™s mini-camp for middle school wrestlers.  He said
he had told me all about it. Didn't I remember? What was the matter with
me? The relief flooded over me and I drowned in it. It sucked me under and
filled me so full of high-octane gratitude and relief that I admitted to
him what I had feared. He said I was a nitwit and a dweeb and asked for
another glass of lemonade.



A day or so after that, on a weekend, he came over and we were messing
around in the back yard. I was trimming some bushes and he was trying to
catch some goldfish out of my little pond with a small net. I told him to
stop, that he was agitating the fish and I didn't want them to be
caught. He didn't say anything, but put the net down and went into the
house. He was back in a few moments with a set of my car and house keys in
his hand. He waved them in the air.

"You want these?" he asked. I knew at once that something was afoot.

"Of course I want them. Take them back inside and hang them on the hook
where you got them."

They made a perfect high arc as they flew across the yard and landed in the
exact middle of the pond.

It was a relatively long chase and it only ended, I`m sure, because he
allowed himself to be cornered in the angle between the high back fence and
the garage. My revenge was awful. He squealed; he begged; he wriggled; he
pleaded; he swore he would be good forever; he shrieked. In the end he was
a sodden, sweaty mass of panting boy, swearing on his own grave that he
would retrieve my keys for me, with his teeth if that was the way I wanted
him to do it, if only I didn't tickle him any more.

His parents had allowed him to stay late that evening and after he had
showered off the pond scum and I had made us some sandwiches, I asked him
what kind of a video he wanted to watch. He just looked at me over his
plate, both elbows splayed out rudely on the table.

"I don't want to watch a video," he said

"Well, what would you like, Your Majesty?" I teased him.

"My turn," he said, looking straight into my face.

"Your turn?" I pretended not to know what he meant.

"Yeah. Revenge!" he said, holding both hands close to his cheeks and
wiggling the fingers like tentacles.

"You don't deserve revenge," I said. "You got exactly the punishment you
needed for what you did. Don't bother me with silly talk about revenge."

He got up from his side of the table and came around to mine, stepping
behind my chair. He grabbed my arms, from behind, at the elbows and forced
them partially behind my back, over the back of the chair. I was surprised
by his strength, but it was a gentle strength and not at all rough.

"You're under arrest!" he said. "Come along quietly and don't make me use
force!" He gritted his teeth as he said this and tried to drop his voice to
make it sound ominous and full of macho authority. I didn't make any effort
to pull away from his hands, but just laughed at the situation. He leaned
down and brushed my right ear with his lips. "Please?" he whispered, in his
own sweet, cajoling voice now.

I let him hold me there in my chair and I could feel that strange tingle
high up in my chest again.

"What kind of revenge?" I asked.

"Tickle," he said. "Tied up! Just a short one!"

"A short one?"

"Yeah!" He squeezed my upper arms in each hand.

"How short?" I persisted.

"Short!" he said.

"Okay," I said. "I suppose that is fair since I guess I was pretty rough on
you, you being a little, puny, weakling and all!" He ignored the insult and
seemed very happy over his victory.

"All right!" He released my arms and pumped his arms up and down in
victory.

I got up from the table and went into the living room and started to lie
down on the couch for my ordeal.

"No!" he said. "Not here. In there," and he pointed toward the hall. Before
I could say anything he had dashed down the hall and when I followed him I
found him standing beside the double bed in my bedroom.

"Here!" he said.

"Why here?" I asked.

"It's better here," he shrugged.

"Well, I don't think..."

"If someone came to the door it would be better if we were here and not in
the living room!" he interrupted me. The logic of it seemed reasonable, and
not until much later did I realize that there was a hint of mutual
conspiracy in the way he had said it and I had accepted it.

"Where do you want me?" I asked. "On the floor?"

"No," he said. "On the bed. On your back."

"On my back?" This was new.

"Yeah," he said. "Oh, yeah. You gotta take off all your clothes, too!" He
didn't meet my eyes, but pretended to fumble with a jumble of rope that had
suddenly appeared in his hands.

"Take off my clothes? No way, José!" I said. He relented
immediately.

"Okay, then, you can leave on your underpants!"

śWhy don't I just leave everything on? How about that?" I answered, and
gave him a big grin.

"C'mon," he whined. "That's not fair! You always pull my shirt up real high
when you tickle me! You cheat!" He began to do that babyish, lower lip
thing. "Please?" he said again, in that way of his that always melted me
like ice cream in the sun.

"Okay, but I'm gonna leave my boxers on. That's going way too far anyway,
but just this once..."

"Okay!" he seemed happy with the compromise. I stripped off my shirt and my
shorts. I was already barefoot. "Get on the bed, on your back. In the
middle. And hold out your arms and legs like this," he demonstrated for me,
standing next to the bed, extending his arms widely over his head and
spreading his legs and going up on his toes, a living X. God, but he was
beautiful!

I did as he said, lay in the middle of the bed looking up at the ceiling,
and spread out so that my fingers and toes were almost touching the bed's
four corner posts. He started on my arms and went from corner to corner
tying my wrists to the posts, taking his time and being very careful with
the knots.

"Where'd you get this idea?" I asked.

"There was this movie I saw the other night over at a friend's" he
said. "This guy got captured by the bad guys and they took him to this
dungeon place and stretched him all out like this," he continued to work on
his knots while he talked. While he worked on my left wrist I pulled hard
on the ropes that held the right to the post. They were very good knots. He
was finished with my other wrist now and started to the foot of the bed.

"What happened to the guy?" I asked.

He stopped and came over to the side of the bed. He leaned down over me,
crawled partly up on the bed and rested his hands beside me. He brought his
face down so close I could feel his breath on my cheeks. He smelled a
little like spicey cold cuts and fresh bread. He was grinning widely.

"They tortured him!" he whispered. I took two full, deep breaths, during
which he didn't move or change his position.

"That's what you're gonna do to me, isn't it? Torture me?" I said, very
quietly and seriously. His grin disappeared.

"Yes," he said. And then he added, "OK?" He seemed to want my permission to
continue, even though I was already virtually helpless.

"I guess you better get started," I said, as jauntily as I could manage.

"All right!" he exulted.

He hopped off the bed and went down to the footboard, grabbed each leg at
the ankle, and pulled down hard. He couldn't move me much, but I did feel
my arms stretched down a little bit, tightening me against the soft, cotton
clothesline around my wrists. He worked away and soon had my ankles
fastened securely to the corner posts, my legs spread widely apart. Then he
was finished, and I became aware that I was about half erect in my
boxers. I hoped, or at least think I hoped, that he wouldn't notice.

He jumped back on the bed and squatted again by my side with his bare knees
pressed into my ribs. He began to strum his fingers across my bare chest
and ribs. I closed my eyes and vowed to tough it out, but a sudden flurry
of fingers in my armpits defeated my resolve and I dissolved into a pudding
of laughter and, whenever I could get my breath, pleading for him to
stop. He was laughing, too, and the tickling went on for quite a while. I
began to sweat. He stopped for a second and came up on his knees and
skinned out of his tee shirt. I could see a glint of perspiration across
his lovely sun-browned chest and tummy. I was now completely erect, but
mercifully, my boxers were bunched across my middle and apparently were
keeping it contained and, I hoped, hidden.

When he settled back again he kept his hands on his smooth, tensed thighs
and didn't resume the tickling.

"You ready to talk?" he asked.

"Talk about what?" I asked in return.

"That's what they said in the movie. The one I told you about. They kept
asking the guy if he was ready to talk. While they were doing stuff to
him." He paused for a few seconds. "You ready to talk yet?" he repeated.

"No," I said, falling into the spirit of the game. "I'm not going to talk
and there's nothing you can do that will make me talk!" I think I surprised
myself a little with my dramatic bravado, but he seemed to love it. He
didn't say anything for a few moments. I got the strong impression that he
was building up to something, gathering courage. He reached over and
pinched some cloth from my boxers between his fingers.

"These new?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Old?"

"Kinda,ť I said, fearing now where this was going. There was a real
sense of tension in the room now.

"Good!" he said, and took each side of the fly into his hands and yanked
his hands apart quickly. The boxers ripped apart down the middle and fell
over my hips. My boner came free and flopped down onto my belly with a
plopping sound.

"Hey!" I protested.

"Shut up!" he said, gritting his teeth again. "You're being tortured!
Remember? Now shut up and take it!" I could see that he was blushing, or
was flushed from excitement. Maybe a little of both.

He jumped off the bed and ran out of the room. In a few moments he returned
with a pair of scissors, probably from the kitchen. In just a few seconds
he had cut the boxers completely free and pulled them off me. To my shame,
I raised my butt a little to help him pull them free.



I read somewhere that it was the driven, hard-charging, Type-A personality
that derives release and pleasure from being dominated physically and
sexually. Supposedly the bondage-and-discipline parlors of Britain are
mostly patronized by high-level government and business figures who are
used to giving orders and controlling their environments and everyone in
them. Perhaps so. There was certainly nothing else in my life that
resembled the relationship that was fast developing between us. The serene
pleasure I felt while he worked patiently to tie me to his satisfaction,
making me helpless for whatever he had in mind, was like nothing I had ever
experienced before. There was an anticipatory excitement about it that was
almost unbearable.

Once I was tied and he inspected his prize, the pleasure I felt switched to
the fascinating erotic suspense surrounding what he was going to do to
me. What, I wondered, has this bright, kinky boy's brain been up to?  What
sexy torments has he thought up for me? I belong to him now, I am his
prisoner for real; what will he do with me, and what kind of pleasure will
he derive from it himself? Just the thought that he was himself aroused by
the games we played was enough to bone me to the max.  I found all this
very exciting.

The possibility of similar games with women or grown men gives me no thrill
whatsoever. Only this slim, gorgeous boy could get such a reaction from
me. Go figure.



The first touch of his hand to my hard prick was like delicious fire. He
squeezed tentatively, as if experimenting, and then gave a few trial
strokes holding me tightly and letting the skin move up and down over the
inner meat of my shaft. It was sweet, and I think I must have made a little
sound.

He played with me like that for quite a while. In a way it was almost like
I was a complicated new toy that he was learning to work. He would try one
thing, then another. He pinched, twisted, stroked, poked, pushed, and
pulled. It all felt so good to me. I could close my eyes and concentrate on
the feelings he was giving me. When I opened my eyes and looked at his
handsome face and his beautiful, strong chest and belly, now well streaked
and shiny with sweat, I had to concentrate on something else quickly or I
would have come almost immediately. The way he was moving his arm, flexing
his chest and belly muscles as he stroked me, brought me to the brink of
orgasm almost immediately and I would have to look away. He stopped for a
moment and rested his hands on his thighs again. I turned and looked at
him. I was breathing hard. It was a hot, humid day and I hadn't turned on
the air conditioning. I was awash by then with my own sweat.

"Take off your clothes," I whispered. After I said it I could hardly
believe that I had. Rather than being shocked, or demurring, he stood
immediately on the bed and shucked his cut-offs down, then slid his briefs
down his perfect, slender, strong legs. He paused for a brief moment when
the briefs were almost off. He looked down at me and grinned and then took
them all the way off. His own dick popped out into plain sight then, for
the first time.

He was circumcised, completely erect, and, as far as I could see from where
I lay, totally hairless. Against the paler, cream-colored skin of his
crotch, his penis looked surprisingly big. It seemed large of glans and the
shaft looked almost impossibly smooth and slightly darker than the skin of
his lower belly. The vascular ridge down the front was prominent and well
defined and his balls were snugged up tight against the shaft at the
base. I could see the texture of the skin of his scrotum and the little
dividing line between his testicles. His penis held itself rigid, just
barely standing away from his trim flat belly, swaying slightly, perhaps
with his pulse. He stood there a moment as if allowing me to admire
him. Admire him I did, and came very close to involuntarily climaxing
again.

And then he was off the bed again and dashing down the hall, this time to
the bathroom. When he came back he had a plastic bottle of shampoo in his
hands. He squatted on the bed again, this time between my legs. I could
feel his knees warm and hard against the inside of my widely spread
thighs. I raised up and watched him squirt some of the thick amber liquid
into his hand. When he took me into that hand the pleasure of the warm,
slippery shampoo was almost unbelievable. I may have cried out. Probably
did. I'm surprised that I did not faint dead away.

He worked me like that for several minutes, until the shampoo became a
thick, gluey mass which provided no lubrication whatsoever. To remedy this
he leaned over my cock and dribbled a huge gob of his warm spit down over
it. Then another. He worked the spit all around with a single finger and
when he was satisfied he spit into his palms and took me into both hands
and began to stroke me with long, hard, impossibly slick strokes. It felt
amazingly different from what he had been doing to me before.

"AHHHHHHHH!" I cried out, or something brilliant like that. I also remember
the pain cutting into my wrists as I pulled down violently against the
ropes that held me helpless-- a tormented captive!

"Good?" he asked, continuing to work on me. His eyes were on my cock and
not on my face. His head was turned slightly to the side as if he was
carefully studying what he was doing.

"Oh, Jesus!" I said.

"Ummmmmm!" he said, moving both hands in unison up and down, up and down,
more slowly now, but still watching his work intently.

"Oh, Jesus!" I repeated. He stopped stroking me, but held me tightly in
both small, slippery hands. Such strong hands!

"Wanna come?" he asked.

"Oh, god! Yes!" I said. "Please! Please make me come!"

"Say you're sorry for what you did!" he demanded. What had I done? Who
cared? Of course I was sorry!

"I'm sorry!" I said.

"Very sorry?" he added.

"Yes, very, very sorry!" I said, almost choking on my anticipation for what
I hoped he was about to do to me.

"Say you'll be my slave," he said.

"Yes! Yes, I will. Your slave! I'll be your slave!" I agreed deliriously.

"And lick my feet when I tell you to," he said.

"I will!" I agreed.

"And my chest, too!" he demanded. "When it's nice and sweaty!"

"Yes! I will! I'll lick your chest, too!" I said. I felt a kind of
desperation rising in me.

"What else will you lick?" he asked.

"Your... toes," I said. "I'll lick your toes!"

"What else?" he demanded.

"Your... your... belly. I'll lick your belly!" I stammered. He rose
slightly from the bed and thrust his hips forward a little.

"What else?" he asked, his voice thick and husky now.

"Your... dick," I croaked. "I'll lick your... dick!" I cried.

That seemed to satisfy him and he resumed his squatting position and began
to stroke me again with long, firm strokes, looking down again and
concentrating on his work, one hand following the other and quickly
building in me an undeniable need to spew my soul out the tip of my
dick. He leaned down and dropped another supply of hot slick boy-spit onto
me.

"Squirt!" he ordered. "Squirt now! Do it! Show me!"

And then the sudden rush of hyper-slipperiness and the sound of his voice
brought me off in one or two more strokes. I came and came and came and he
never stopped working me, first with both hands and then with one hand on
my shaft and the other under my balls, lightly stroking and tickling
me. Oh, how can I even describe how agonizingly good it was?



If you've never been spread-eagled helplessly on a bed, stripped, and then
slowly and expertly teased and then masturbated to orgasm by a beautiful,
sweaty, naked twelve-year-old boy, then I can recommend it only if your
heart is in good condition. Otherwise, the experience will surely kill
you. I doubt if any of the lucky souls who may have had this experience
would ever again, if they had before, belittle the powers of the so-called
lowly hand job.

The human hand is probably the most complex, versatile, and capable system
of bones, muscles, and nerves on the planet, and no male needs to be told
about the sensitivity and susceptibility of the thoroughly aroused
penis. Put those two organs together under the right circumstances and
there will be fireworks in the sky, and elsewhere. The kind of fumbling,
grab-it-and-yank jerk-off session we mostly imagine when we think of the
furtive doings of boys behind locked bathroom doors is definitely not what
I am referring to here. I'm talking about virtuoso hands -- I can't
describe them any other way -- in the service of the creatively kinky mind
of an uninhibited, pint-sized Grand Inquisitor capable of turning a
suburban bedroom into a torture chamber, and the sweating adult male he has
strapped to the bed into a helpless puddle of sweat, moans, pleading, and
completely subdued synapses.

I'm sure this must sound like so much self-justifying claptrap to someone
who finds this whole subject revolting and perverted. But I suspect most of
such readers would have left long ago. Maybe for those who understand, or
think they do, I am making some sense. I also take a little refuge, and not
a little comfort, from the knowledge that there were two eager, un-coerced
participants in these proceedings.



How long I lay there after he completely destroyed me I don't know.  After
a while he went from corner to corner and untied me. My arms and legs felt
stiff, unnatural, my joints were sore. My softened dick felt completely
used up and I was certain that it would never, ever be able to get hard
again; nor would it need to, since I had just had the most intense sexual
experience I was capable of withstanding.

I rolled over and sat up, rubbing my wrists where the ropes had made little
pink furrows in my skin. He came and stood in front of me, my knees against
the fronts of his slim brown thighs. He put his hands on my shoulders.

"Remember, you promised!" he said.

"Promised what?ť I teased.

"Well, to be my slave for one thing!" He put a tremendous emphasis on the
words "slave" and "one" and shook my shoulders when he said it. His
incredibly beautiful cock still stood against his sweat-slick belly. It had
to be one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen in my life. So slim,
so perfect, so full of the godlike erotic power of this gorgeous boy.

I reached up with each hand and took his wonderfully clever hands off my
shoulders, holding a single slim wrist in each hand. Then I slowly brought
his arms behind him and crossed his wrists in the middle of his back. I
raised his arms until his hands were between his shoulder blades and held
them there. I transferred them so that I could hold them, crossed high on
his back like that, with one hand. With my other hand I traced little
circles on his sweaty chest and drew a single finger down his mid line and
across his tensed six-pack until I could tease it up and down the length of
that precious cock. He drew in his breath in a little hiss and closed his
eyes.

"Yes," I whispered, "I'll be your slave." I paused, enjoying the smile that
played across his face, his eyes still closed. "After..." I paused. He
opened his eyes, flexed his captive wrists against my restraining hand a
little, but made no attempt to escape or to struggle.

"After what?" he asked, his eyes bright now, almost glittering. I pulled
him into me, brought my face down to his chest, and kissed first one and
then the other small dark nipple, letting my tongue rotate around each bud
as I ended each kiss. I felt his breath let go across the top of my head in
another sibilant hiss of release. I looked up at him. His eyes were closed
again, his mouth open slightly. Sweat beads stood out prettily on his upper
lip.

"After I get my revenge on you. By torturing you half to death! Like you
did to me!" I said, gritting my teeth in imitation of him. At the same time
I released his arms and flung him over my left hip onto the bed. He giggled
as I rolled on top of him and pinned his arms beside his head. The ropes he
had used to tie me to the bed were still looped around the corner posts of
the headboard. I took the ends of them and wrapped them loosely around each
of his wrists but did not tie him. He held them there when I released him,
holding the rope tightly in his fingers.

"Don't move!" I ordered. I got off him and moved down so that I was between
his widely splayed legs. He raised them off the bed and pointed his toes at
the far wall of the room. I looked up the long glistening tube of his
muscular little body.

"You ready to talk?" I asked. He closed his eyes, took a deep,
chest-expanding breath and pulled down hard on the rope we had wrapped
loosely around his hands.

"Never!" he said. "You fool! Don't you know that Conan is invincible?"

"We'll see about that!" I grunted. "I think we know some ways to make even
the great Conan talk!" I lightly stroked the round, polished smoothness of
his shoulders.

I leaned down then and took his beautiful, perfect penis into my mouth for
the first time.



THE END

You can write me at paintedpony(at)fastmail.fm