Yes, I know, it's been about forever and a half. I want to express my appreciation for all those who emailed me after my last chapter went up, and I can report that I have thankfully not received any more of the unfortunate messages I was so miffed about. The delay is simply life colliding with my free time.

This story and its characters are fictional and not based on any real people or situations. If you enjoy it, let me know at AuthorMB@protonmail.com.

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The House Boy

Part 7

That night, I couldn't keep my curiosity at bay any longer.

Being at work was an effective distraction, but let's be honest: elephants could have been riding circles around me on unicycles while a marching band trumpeted the music of Rick Astley into my ears, and I still would have found myself thinking about Adrian again, if only to chuckle at the mental image of going around and tidying up the mess afterwards.

It was partly that I missed him (obviously, although I was a bit surprised at just how much), but I was also still bugged about Saturday night. Being with Adrian and seeing him happy was enough to put the swarm of questions in my head to the side and just enjoy his company. Being away from him for the day gave those questions the space they needed to swarm right back into my face. What had made him cry like that? Where did his sudden need to nurse on me come from? And what had he meant when he said he was right about me?

I couldn't help feeling like there was a piece of the puzzle I was missing. The more I thought about it, the more unusual it seemed – which was saying something, given how bizarre the weekend had been in general. I may have been new to the role of Master, and I may not have known much about the house boy tradition, but if it looked, walked, and quacked like a duck...

Taking Adrian on was a big responsibility already. If this arrangement were going to be a good thing for either of us, I couldn't stay in the dark.

I wasn't sure how to ask him about it, though, or when. And, just like the day before, the "right moment" never seemed to find its way to me. Getting back home from work, seeing his face light up as I came in, his eager-but-reserved "welcome home, Master Scott," how he eagerly came to take off my shoes, thrust a cold glass of fresh lemonade into my hand, and went to run a bath for me...that sure wasn't it.

Then when I was in the bath, and he came in, sat down on the side of the tub and gently massaged my feet one at a time as he listened to me talk about my day...I could have done it then, too, but I was so tired, and the bath was so relaxing, and the moment was so pleasant and intimate.

I know, I know. If you think this is bad, you should see how long it takes me to deal with my income taxes.

I carried on with this inner dance of conflict the whole darn evening. Every time I tried to ask him about Saturday night, I never quite got the question out. All I could see in my mind's eye was how he'd tried to talk about it then but couldn't find the words to explain.

And it wasn't like he didn't notice, either. At one point during dinner, he straight-up asked, "begging your pardon, but is everything okay, Master Scott?"

"Yeah, why?" I said.

"Because you've been holding that forkful of pasta in front of your mouth for about two minutes, Sir."

A blink and a quick head-shake brought me back to reality, and I waved a hand. "I'm just a little out of it, buddy. Don't worry."

But even though he nodded sweetly and returned to wiping the kitchen counter, I don't think he was convinced. I couldn't keep this up forever. Truth be told, a part of me was like, forget it, it isn't that big a deal, he was probably just feeling a little emotional – and it would have been really nice to just listen to that voice and let the whole thing go, but I couldn't. Like it or not, it was up to me to take care of this kid, and that's what I was going to do.

Still, I kept up the waffling for the rest of the evening, through dessert and the few hours of Netflix before turning in, and when I finally decided enough was enough, we were already in bed. He was in my arms as usual, and his mouth was latched onto me in the little ritual that had summoned up all the questions in the first place.

I'm not sure why I suddenly felt the words come to me right then. Maybe it was both of us being naked and cuddled up together, the intimacy and vulnerability smoothing the way. Regardless, as much as I hated to interrupt these moments that we both loved, I looked down on his adorable, puckered lips and gently closed eyes, and whispered, "hey, listen...we need to talk."

Yeah, I know. That is the worst possible way to start any serious conversation, ever. I got that as a text from Lisa the day we broke up, and there's nothing quite like the gut-punch of anxiety you get when you read those words. I'm cursing my clumsy-ass mouth the second I finish saying it, because I can see them register in Adrian's eyes as they blink open, and he slowly, cautiously detaches himself from my nipple and looks up at me. And then, oh Christ, he says—in the most heart-breaking voice, he says, "there is something wrong, isn't there, Master?"

Aw, jeez. Backpedal. Backpedal. "No, nothing's wrong, I just need to talk to you about something."

"You've been troubled all evening, Sir. Did I do something that displeased you? Are you...having second thoughts about me, Sir?"

 

Seriously, round of applause for Scott. Fretted and stressed about it long enough to make the poor kid think the world was about to end. I shook my head rapidly, as if trying to shake off the very idea. "Not at all, Adrian. Not for a second."

He relaxed, easing back against me, but he was still visibly wary. "Then...what is it, Master Scott?"

"I just..." I sighed. "I want to talk to you about the other night. You know, when we...when you first did this," I managed, gestured to my chest. "You got a little upset at the time."

"Oh." He blushed. "Right."

This time I took a pause, trying to be more careful with the words I chose. "I know it...wasn't easy to talk about, and I don't want to pry. But do you think you can try again?"

He surprised me by nodding his head right away, although his blush didn't go anywhere, and I could feel him nestle a little further into me, making me instinctively hold him a little bit tighter. "I'll try, Sir," he said. "It's just that I don't...I mean, I'm not sure how to, Sir."

"I know," I reassured him. "I have a hard time talking about stuff like this too."

An impish smile played on his face for a second. "Yes, Sir...I could tell."

"Yeah, I guess you could, you little wiseass." I tickled his side a bit, making him squirm and giggle for a second. When he relaxed again, I said, "let's start with what you told me. You said—"

"I said I was right about you. Yes, Sir." The little smile faded, and he chewed on his lower lip for a second.

"What is it?"

"I..." He sighed. "It's just that we haven't been entirely honest with you, Sir. I don't want you to be mad."

That gave me pause, a bit. "We?"

"Me and my dad." His eyes darted away from mine for a moment.

"Okay..." I pondered that for a moment. It was a little disconcerting to hear that after the phone call with his father the other day. What happened to informed consent? "Well," I said eventually, "I don't know whether I'll be mad. I guess it depends on what you haven't been honest about."

"I understand, Sir." He blew out a breath, then forced himself to look up at me again. "You know the day we, um...the day we met, Sir, in the sauna?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah...what about it?"

"Well...the truth is we didn't meet that day by accident. I already knew who you were. I came to the sauna because I knew you'd be there alone. We knew."

I blinked a few times, letting that sink in properly. My first reaction was, well, of course he did. It made sense, the way he'd behaved, how he'd been so bold and unashamed. But as I thought about it, more unsettling questions came to mind. I found myself asking the first one out loud, even though I suspected I knew the answer. "How did you know?"

He averted my gaze a second time, chewing his lip again, and I answered for him. "You were watching me, weren't you?"

He nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Why?"

He didn't answer me right away, just sat there with a conflicted expression on his face, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Then he abruptly shifted off my lap and got up, headed around the bed toward the bedroom door. "Whoa!" I said, pushing myself up a little. "Where are you going? What's wrong?"

He turned at the door and gave me an apologetic bow of his head. "Sorry, Master. I just need to get something." Then he turned and went out into the living room, where I heard the closet open, the zzzzzzip of his backpack opening, and then the soft noises that followed as he rummaged around in it for whatever he wanted. I lay back, feeling equal doses of curiosity and trepidation and trying to suppress them both.

Moments later he reappeared and hopped back on the bed with a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He knelt respectfully beside me, took a breath, and then held the paper out for me to take.

My eyes flickered from him to the paper as I did so, reaching out and plucking it from his hand. There was an odd feeling of familiarity as I started to unfold it, as if whatever it was, I'd seen it before. The feeling deepened as I felt the texture of the paper, noted the perforated side that had been torn from a spiral-bound book. When I opened it and took in what was on it, I felt my heart all but stop beating in my chest.

It was a pencil drawing. The lines had smudged a little, but the figure was still easily distinguishable. It was a young naked boy, lounging on a sandy beach. His back was arched a little as if he were stretching. One arm was cast lazily off to the side, the other behind the short, pale hairs of his head, leaving his body shamelessly uncovered, from his tiny nipples down to his spread legs. His penis was very small but his scrotum was loose, accentuating the tiny globes that were his testicles against the skin of his taint. He had angel wings that spread out from behind him, reaching out beyond the edge of the page. He had one knee bent, dainty foot at the water's edge, and the other was laying on its side, off at an angle.

That leg looked weird to me...it always had. I never could quite get it to look the way I wanted it to. I could see the faint lines where I'd erased his inner thigh a few times, and the slight imperfection in one of the lines of his arm, where my pencil had broken.

I both felt and heard the hoarseness of my voice as I uttered, "where did you get this?"

Even as I asked the question, I had little doubt about the answer. Even so, my gaze locked itself onto Adrian as he responded, hands folded respectfully on his legs, eyes downcast. "I saw you throw it out, Sir," he said.

I unwillingly found myself reliving the memory. It was the day Lisa found my sketchbooks. Not my regular ones, with portraits and cartoon characters and medieval dragons and such. My private ones. The ones that were for my eyes only. The pages and pages of young, nude boys. Individual ones, posed in any number of ways ranging from innocent to erotic. Couples or more, engaging in acts from every corner of my fantasies. Illustrations in colour, pencil drawings, line art.

I remembered every detail of the expression on her face when she emerged from the bedroom, holding one of the books between two fingers, far from her body, as if what was inside would contaminate her if she held it too close. I remembered the fight, the burning shame, the crying, and pleading. I remembered her blotchy, tear-streaked face as she threatened to leave. I remembered begging her in desperation to stay, promising I would throw the sketchbooks away, swearing I'd never create anything like them again.

We'd gone down to the dumpsters that evening. I carried the week's garbage in an untied bag in one hand, and my sketchbooks under my other arm. Lisa followed me, watching me, ensuring that I would dispose of them as I'd promised. We stopped by the bin, and my books, my years and years of private drawings, were unceremoniously stuffed into the bag, which was tied and hefted into its cold, green tomb.

I hadn't drawn since.

My throat felt thick as I cleared it. "You were there?"

Adrian's eyes lingered on the page in my hand. "I was taking out the garbage, Sir. I saw you come outside, so I hid behind the recycling bins. But I could see you were upset, Sir. It looked like you didn't want to throw those books away." He brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, sadness written on his face. "When you went back inside, I saw that page on the ground. So, I...took it, Sir. I kept it."

I looked at the drawing again. It was years old. I remembered tearing it from the book the day I'd drawn it, frustrated, starting to crumple it up, but something about the angel boy – imperfections and all – made me hesitate to throw him away. I'd tucked him back into the book, nestled between two other, similar drawings. He must have fallen from the book as I was carrying them under my arm, and neither Lisa nor I had noticed.

"So..." I shook my head, trying to connect the dots. "So you were watching me...because of this? I don't understand."

He pursed his lips for a moment. "I kind of started watching you before that, a little. I was going out with my mom, and an old lady fell down in the lobby, and you helped her. That was the first time I saw you."

I abruptly remembered that day, too, though I'd almost forgotten about it. An elderly woman I who lived on the first floor. We were making a little small talk on my back in from work, and she had a dizzy spell and lost her balance. Ended up having to call an ambulance for her.

But that didn't help with the one question I needed answered. "Why, though?" I repeated. "Why did you start watching me?"

He fiddled with his thumbs a little. "Well...when I first saw you that day, I saw the way you helped that lady, and I could see you were a nice man. Kind. And I'm a house boy, Sir." He shrugged. "I was curious about what kind of master you'd be. So I...well..." He trailed off.

"That's when you started," I finished for him.

He nodded. "Yes, Sir."

I ran a hand through my hair. "So, you and your dad spent all that time watching to see if I'd be a good master?"

He shook his head rapidly. "Oh, no, Sir. I was just daydreaming. Dad would never have allowed that."

"But..." I was confused again. "But I mean, he did allow that. Right? You're here."

"Yes, Sir, but..." His brow crinkled as he considered how to explain. "You remember I told you, Master, that giving a house boy to an outsider, like, er..."

"Like me," I prompted.

"Y-yes, Sir, like you." He blushed slightly. "Giving a house boy to an outsider is really rare. I mean, really rare. There are lots of risks, not just for the boy, but for everyone who's part of the tradition."

I nodded. It made sense.

"Right," he continued. "And the thing is, under normal circumstances, the only outsiders who are even considered as potential masters are ones who already know about us, who prove they can be trusted."

"You don't go to them," I realized. "They come to you."

"More or less, Sir. Yes."

"And when you were first watching me, you didn't think I could be your master at all. You wouldn't even be allowed to ask."

He looked sheepish. "Right, Sir."

"But in that case..." I rubbed my forehead. "In that case, how did we end up here? What changed that made it okay for you to—"

I stopped talking as my glanced passed over the picture I was holding. Suddenly, I understood. "It was this, wasn't it?" I held up the drawing. "This was what made me different."

He nodded again. "Yes, Sir." Then he squinted. "Well...sort of."

"Sort of?"

His eyes traced the lines of the angel boy as he spoke. "The drawing was how I knew you find younger boys attractive—" Hearing it put so bluntly made my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "—but that wouldn't have been enough on its own. It wouldn't guarantee that you'd embrace our traditions, respect the way things are done. It wouldn't stop you from treating a house boy badly, abusing him." He smiled slightly. "But it was enough to convince my dad to find out more about you."

"And that's when..."

"That's when we really began watching you, yes, Sir." He shifted a little, adjusting his heels under his rear. "We knew you were a good person, but we needed to know whether you could be a good master. We needed to know enough about you before we could take that kind of risk. So we...researched." He coughed awkwardly.

I felt my eyes narrow slightly. "Researched?"

He looked up at me for a second, then away again. "Dad says we have resources. Connections. Ways of knowing things we need to know. He says if we didn't, the house boy tradition would have died a long time ago."

"What exactly did you find out?" I asked, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

He must have heard it anyway, because he swallowed once before he continued. "Honestly, Sir, I don't know. He only told me what I needed to know. He said..." He squinted again, a little, remembering. "He said he didn't like invading your privacy at all, so he wanted to respect it as much as he could."

"Oh. Well. That was nice of him." I knew how sarcastic I sounded, but I couldn't help feeling violated.

Adrian's eyes found mine again. "I'm very sorry, Master. But if it were your son, wouldn't you want to be sure he was going to be safe?"

It was a good point, maybe, but it didn't leave me any less conflicted.

When I didn't answer right away, he looked at his hands and cleared his throat. "A-anyway...that was what I meant when I said I was right about you. Because I knew from the start you'd be the right master for me, even when we hadn't met."

I felt my frosty disposition melt a little bit, and I sighed, setting the drawing on my side table and reaching out to squeeze his leg gently. "Come here, you."

He slowly climbed back into my lap, cuddling up against me as I pulled the covers over us and just held him. We spent a few minutes like that, just silently feeling one another's warmth, but I admit my mind was wandering. At the very least, I knew I'd have a few more questions for his father the next time we talked. And the fact that he (or someone else) had been able to check up on me like that, especially knowing what they knew about my...private side, was disconcerting.

The thought brought my eyes back over to the drawing, the angel boy. Were it not for him and all the other boys in those sketchbooks, Lisa might never have left. I felt a pang at that. I'd tried so hard to forget about it, leave it behind. I'd done those drawings because I thought it was the best way to explore my private fantasies without hurting anyone. And then I ended up deeply wounding the woman I loved with them.

And yet...if she hadn't found them, there would have been no Adrian. I leaned down and kissed the top of his head, saw the corner of his mouth rise in a little smile.

"You know," I said softly, "there's one more thing about what you said that I don't understand."

He shifted a little, getting comfortable. "Yes, Sir?"

"What made me so special?"

He looked up at me, tilting his head a little. "Sir?"

I shrugged. "I'm sure there'd be plenty of masters out there for you. Ones that aren't outsiders, that didn't need all the...research. Masters who knew what they were doing. Why would you want, y'know, someone like me?"

He gazed over my shoulder for a second. "Because..." He pursed his lips. "...Because you're different, Sir."

"Different? From what?"

"Other masters. You're not like them."

The way he said that last word...there was something behind it. Something cold. Angry. I stared down into his face, into eyes that weren't quite seeing. The words had taken him somewhere else. Somewhere painful. "What is it?" I asked him.

He blinked slightly, coming back to reality, and immediately looked down and away. "Nothing, Sir."

"Did something happen? Something you haven't told me about?"

I could only see his ears, but even they had turned red. "I apologize, Sir. It isn't my place to discuss other masters. I shouldn't have said anything."

I gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Come on, Adrian. You can talk to me. It's okay."

"No, really, Sir. I can't." He shuddered a little. "It's not right. Please don't."

"Okay, okay." I rubbed his arm gently. "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

He let out a breath. "Thank you, Sir."

I squeezed him again in response. But now I had something new to feel troubled about.

Before I could dwell on it for too long, he lifted his head again to look up at me. "Master Scott?"

"Yeah?"

He opened his mouth to speak again, then hesitated. "I...want to ask you for something, Sir, but...I shouldn't."

I reached up to brush some hair from his forehead. "In the immortal words of Judi Dench, don't worry so much about `not supposed to.'"

He frowned. "Sir?"

Ugh. I felt old. "Never mind. Go on, Adrian. Ask me."

He nodded hesitantly, closing his eyes for a moment as if steeling himself for disappointment. "Sir, would you..." Another pause. "Would you...make love to me?"

The look on my face must have told a story of its own, because I only got as far as "Uhh—" before he began to retreat, cheeks beet red. "N-never mind, Master. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Whoa, whoa!" I couldn't help a little laugh, which I think made him blush even harder. "Slow down, buddy. It's okay. I was just surprised, that's all."

He shook his head. "It's not my place to ask for such things, Master. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"Adrian..."

"You don't have to humour me, Sir. You've been so kind to me already—"

"Adrian!"

He stopped, looked at me. "Y-yes, Sir?"

I smiled. "Kiss me."

He opened his mouth to protest again but I put a finger to his lips. "Shhh," I breathed, looking into his eyes and, for once, feeling completely at peace with what we were about to do. "Just kiss me," I repeated.

His voice trembled a little. "Yes, Sir."

He was slow coming up to me, almost hesitant, and I helped him by slipping my arms underneath his and wrapping him up in them, lifting his mouth to mine and closing the space between us. It may not have been our first kiss, technically speaking, but all the same there was something new and tentative about it: a vulnerability that had not been there on the previous occasions. I leaned back against the headboard as he began to press himself into me. I felt him abandon his well-practiced restraint, letting himself need – and then, taking his cue, I felt myself doing the same.

I did as Adrian asked: I made love to him that night. I won't do either of us the disservice of painting a magical, flawless picture of the event, because it wasn't. It was littered with all the stumbles of first-time lovers, and I very much count myself when I say that, because while it wasn't exactly my first time taking another male to bed, making love to Adrian felt like something else altogether.

And another thing: the well-practiced art of seduction he'd shown me over the weekend was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't sly, coy, or lithe. He didn't give me the knowing smiles or the articulate recitals. The veneer was gone, the `lessons' abandoned, giving way to nothing but the fumbling of instinct and lust, and I honestly wouldn't have had it any other way. I think we both needed that first time to be authentic – real.

So, it was clumsy. My underwear was the first hurdle. I started to slip them down, but he stopped me, wanting to remove them himself. They were stuck under my butt, and the way he was straddling my legs made it difficult to lift my hips, so he shifted his weight just enough for me to give him the room he needed. But in his hurry, he didn't lift the waistband high enough over the tent of my erection, causing it to bend painfully downward before springing up and slapping me in the pubes. My wince and intake of breath mortified the poor guy, and he apologized about five times before I settled him down enough for us to continue.

When we were both naked, he lay on me, as if my kiss was life-saving nourishment. My head was pressed a little hard against the headboard; he had to climb off so I could shift down and set the pillow properly under my head, but then he was back onto me, his hands wandering over my body. I loved his touch, but every time his palm ran across my belly or my breast, I felt that slight twinge of insecurity, that little voice of self-consciousness in my head. For a while there, I was all-too-aware of my weight, especially when compared to the rail-thin specimen sprawled on top of me.

But just as first-time lovemaking can be awkward and uncomfortable, so too can it have those little shining moments that cast off your doubts. Right when my anxiety about my body hit the boiling point and I contemplated putting a shirt on, I heard his little voice, his forehead on my chest and his eyes staring downward, as he said "you're so beautiful, Master Scott."

And just like that, the panic was gone, because I remembered who this was: the boy who, from the very day he first saw my face, looked beyond it to what he believed to be inside. There was no misdirection from him, no false praise. Just the real thing. Nothing more nor less.

I took his penis into my mouth for the first time. I wanted him to feed it to me, so I gently wrapped my hands around the globes of his oh-so-perfect ass, gently trying to nudge him forward. He didn't quite get it, or maybe he was enjoying the feel of my hands, so I had to tell him to move up, and he did, shifting his knees inch by inch up the bed alongside my body. One of his knees dug into my shoulder; we had to readjust. I had to prop my head further up, and he had to lean forward onto the headboard to correct the angle, but then it was there, right there, beyond my lips and along my tongue. It tasted...well, it tasted clean, if a little sweaty, and there was the slight hint of urine you get sometimes, but as far as I'm concerned, it tasted just right.

Adrian did not have a large penis, but of course, that was my favourite part. I savoured the three-or-so inches he gave me and my hands ran up and down along his sides, his torso, his back, feeling his ribs and his shoulder blades and his belly and his nipples and just exploring. Every so often I'd be so focused on the beautiful little dick in my mouth that I'd forget what my hands were doing, and then I'd remember, and off they'd go again. Meanwhile, Adrian's heavy breathing grew more intense, with a slight sound here and there – maybe a whimper, an utter – as I learned what he enjoyed, trying different movements with my tongue and my lips.

At one point I shifted my mouth down to his scrotum and sucked on his balls, one at a time. A slight twitch and a hiss of pain told me I'd applied too much pressure, so I slipped over to the other one, easing up, sucking less and tonguing more, and I felt his body quickly relax again.

The whole thing was set to my soundtrack of "how's that?" and "you okay?" and "feel good?" as I remained acutely aware that of the two of us, I was the older – but I did find myself wondering, once or twice, how much difference that made with a boy who'd been so intensely trained to please. Then again, that very fact meant that by default, there was nobody pleasing him. That thought flickered through my mind more than once as I watched him buck and grind, experiencing pleasures for what might have been the first time.

He told me he wanted to taste me. I gently guided him around into a sixty-nine, forgetting that our difference in height made it impossible to accomplish. So I let him crawl further down my body, and I was reminded of the training he'd had as he hungrily settled his lips onto my cock and began to bob his head. He got off to a slightly rough start; he tried to pull my foreskin down too quickly, which is a little painful when I'm hard. But that aside, it felt very, very good. I'm not a moaner by nature, but there were pants and gasps escaping me here and there as his tongue flicked over sensitive spots, and as he created a nice seal for his lips sliding over the head. I pushed out a slight moan or two which I thought sounded a little silly, but I felt the way he responded each time, a slight uptick in intensity that made it worth feeling foolish.

It was a very damn good blowjob and while it didn't get me close to climax (getting head never does), I could have laid there all night enjoying it. Plus, the way he was positioned gave me a perfect view of his butt, and I wasted no time bringing my hands up to play with it, teasing and exploring. He was hairless, tight, and gorgeous. I could feel him clench slightly, sometimes when he bobbed his head a particular way, sometimes at the touch of my probing finger.

I wanted to do more, to push the finger inside him a little, but my bottle of lube was in a drawer out of reach, and I didn't want to hurt him. I could have stopped him for a second, I suppose, but...you know those moments, yeah? When you're in bed with your lover and feel like you're in such a nice, perfect position, and you know that the second you shift around or get up, it's going to change. So you preserve that moment at all costs, you make it last. That's what it was. His body was warm and lithe against mine, I could feel the way his penis pressed into my chest, and something about the way his arms were resting on my legs felt just right. I didn't want him to go anywhere. Not yet.

As such, it wasn't me that decided it was time to move on to the `main event.' I felt him take his lips off me, panting a little. He rolled off of me sideways, sat up. I could see the mix of saliva and precum around his mouth in the seconds before he wiped it away with his arm; I could feel the coolness of the air on my sopping wet privates. He slipped his legs underneath himself and leaned over me, his eyes locked on mine. "Please do it now, Master Scott," he said to me.

My left hand found his neck and played a little with his hair. "Okay," I said.

I would love to say we wordlessly found the right position, effortlessly sank into each other's arms and smoothly guided my penis into him, but of course that wasn't how it went. Neither of us wanted to make the decision about how to do it, because each of us wanted to please the other. It was a thirty-second stand-off, each of us saying things like "I don't mind" or "it doesn't matter to me" or "whatever you want" before we finally settled it by agreeing that we wanted to look at one another, to look each other in the eyes, and then in a rare moment of boldness, he said, "I want you to be on top, Sir."

And so it was. He lay back, nestled in my usual spot in the bed, his head on my favourite pillow, as I got myself up to track down the lube, and hesitated as I eyed the condoms along the bottom of the drawer. I took one out and held it up for him to see, saying, "do you think...?"

He said, "whatever you decide, Master, but you have the right to breed me."

"I don't care what I have the `right' to do." I leaned on the side of the bed, wrapped condom between two fingers. "Tell me what you want me to do."

He chewed his lower lip in that goddamn adorable way of his, then said, "I don't want it, Sir."

I contemplated it for another moment, then nodded. "All right." I tossed the condom back into the drawer and crawled up onto the bed, bottle of lube in hand. Adrian obligingly raised his legs for me, hooking his hands into the insides of his knees and drawing them almost up to his head with the kind of effortless flexibility you only see in youth. His hole was there, cheeks spread, waiting for me. My penis was hard as a rock.

I hesitated slightly, looking up to his face again, the hair carelessly swept to the side and making him look absolutely breathtaking. I squirted some lube on my fingers and began massaging it in and around his little puckered hole, teasing in a little and drawing cute little whimpers, moans, and shivers that made him all the more enticing. I thought I should take my time, make sure he was properly warmed up, but when he next opened his eyes they were all but pleading with me to get inside him.

"Have, uh..." I cleared my throat, squirting some of the lube onto my cock. "You said you hadn't covered anal sex yet, right? In your training?"

Another flicker of...something...passed across his eyes for a second. "No," he said, and then quickly added, "but I've had some practice with toys. Big ones. I...well, it's been a while, and I couldn't get them in very far, but I promise I can do a good job for you, Master!"

I chuckled slightly, rubbing a gentle hand on his thigh. "Don't worry, I'm sure you can." But my grin faded as I thought about the toys he'd mentioned, and then glanced down at my penis. I could only see the head.

"Sir?" he said. "Is something wrong?"

I sighed. "I...just hope I can do a good job for you, that's all, buddy."

"What do you mean?"

I gave my dick a few half-hearted strokes, willing it to stay hard, but the old insecurities had come back with a vengeance and I could feel it beginning to wilt. "It's just, you mentioned that you used big toys," I explained. "Master's dick isn't exactly, well...big."

Adrian let go of his legs and pushed himself up a little. "Master," he said, his tone very serious. "Please look at me."

It was such an unusual thing for him to say that I couldn't help myself. I did. I looked right into his eyes. They never wavered from mine. I'm not sure he even blinked.

"Keep looking at me," he whispered, easing back and pulling his legs up once more. This time his hands reached for my arms, pulling me towards him, guiding me to lean over him. My semi-firm penis was poised near his opening now, his feet nestled against my shoulders, our faces maybe a foot apart.

Still, those beautiful eyes never left mine, and he said, "I don't want the toys, Master. I don't want anything else. I just want you to make love to me, Sir. I told you before. You're my everything."

"But..." I started to look down. "What if—"

"Master Scott, please look at me."

God help me, I did.

He said, "I'm yours, Sir. Claim me."

If that didn't fucking do the trick. My penis sprang to life, and all thoughts of inadequacy vanished again. I stared deeply into those eyes, the eyes of a boy absolutely addicted to every feature of his master's body. I slowly pressed against him with the very tip of my dick. It felt so good, I thought I'd die.

And then this boy, this sweet boy who'd thrown himself absolutely prostrate at my feet the entire weekend, this boy who fell over himself to apologize for a single hair out of line and insisted on punishment for the slightest infraction, he did the most power-bottom thing I've ever seen in person. He took his hands, gripped as much hip as he could, and he looked right up into my eyes and repeated himself—

"Claim me."

—and before I could put up any kind of resistance, he pulled hard on my hips and slammed the entirety of my 5.5 inches all the way inside of him, letting out a loud cry of pain as he did. "A-aaa-ckk...!"

"Jesus!" I said, and immediately started to pull back, but he held fast to my legs and uttered "don't" through clenched teeth. All I could really do was impotently look down at his privates, catching the twitching of his legs and feet in my peripheral vision, and then back up to his face. He was letting rapid breaths in and out of his nose, making a kind of "rrrrrgh" sound as his sphincter adjusted to the violent stretching he'd just given it.

If there had been any doubt that he'd feel my below-average length and girth after using large toys for practice, he'd certainly squashed them.

A moment passed, then another. His breathing slowed a little, his teeth unclenched. I felt his anus pulse around my dick, sending tingles of pleasure through my loins. Even as I fretted over having hurt this precious boy, I was the hardest I'd ever been in my life.

He opened his eyes, found mine again, and, through somewhat heavy breaths, simply said, "we're making love, Master Scott."

There was such a strange mix of delight and innocence behind the words, so impossibly at odds with the beast he'd let loose a few moments ago, that I couldn't help but laugh. And then that set him off, too, and for a while there we just did nothing else, just laughed. My forehead found his chest, my cock still buried deep in his ass, and I felt the vibrations of his chest as we worked our way through our giggles.

When I lifted my head, he kissed it. I looked down, then back up, and said, "I don't think I'm going to last very long."

He shrugged and replied, "I'm yours now, Master Scott. If you're happy, then so is your boy."

I smirked slightly, stroking his cheek. "My boy, huh?"

He matched my smirk. "Your boy."

No other invitation was needed. The first few thrusts were a little slow, cautious—I was still worried about hurting him—but it wasn't long before those last vestiges of self-restraint gave way and I was fucking him with abandon. We panted and heaved together, we ran our hands along one another. We even managed to sweat together, just a little. We didn't moan. We didn't talk dirty. He didn't tell me to "fuck me harder Sir" or anything like that.

We made love.

I was right, of course. I didn't last long at all. About a minute, maybe two, went by before I was slamming my final, shuddering, powerful thrusts and emptying myself into him. His hands squeezed around my biceps. I felt my whole body tremble and felt a little matching one from his. Guttural grunts and moans escaped me with each pulse. It was really, really good.

For a while there I didn't move. I leaned heavily on my elbows, wary of crushing him beneath my weight, but I couldn't bring myself to pull out. It felt so damn right being inside him. Judging from the way he wrapped his legs and arms tightly around me, pressing himself more deeply onto my wilting erection, I imagine he felt the same way.

When we did finally pull apart, the clumsy awkwardness returned in the form of a cramped leg for him and a stiff ankle joint for me. I flopped sideways onto the bed, breathing heavily, and my boy—my boy—curled up beside me, resting his angelic head on my shoulder. His erection gave me an immediate reminder that he hadn't finished, and I reached down to start stroking him, but he put a hand on my wrist. "It's okay, Sir."

"No, it's not," I protested. "I finished. So should you."

He gave me a sweet smile. "Sir, it's okay. I don't want to."

"Huh?" I frowned at him. "This isn't one of those `house boys should be giving not getting' things, is it?"

He giggled slightly. "No. Well, that's true, but no." He sighed contentedly, nuzzling my neck a little. "I just feel...perfect, right now. Just like this."

I slowly nodded. "All right. Request granted," I told him through another playful grin, "but you're going to start leaking if you don't go to the washroom."

He chewed on his lip, yet again reminding me how attractive he looked while doing that. "With your permission, Sir...I have a plug that I brought with me. I hoped I might put it in. Keep your seed inside me for the night. May I?"

Christ, he really did think of everything, didn't he? I chuckled. "All right. Go on, go get it."

"Yes, Sir. Just..." His arm squeezed me lightly. "I can hold it for a while. I just want another minute. Just like this."

It was hard to argue, and I didn't even try. I just wrapped my arms around him and let myself feel. The slight pulsing of my penis. The relief as the stiffness left my ankle. The gradual warming of the cool spot in the sheets underneath the left half of my body.

Adrian's skin, warm against mine. His hair, tickling my neck. The fidgeting of his right foot and knee, rubbing against my own.

I lay there in my bed, and my boy snuggled up next to me, and it was good

* * * * *.

That night, Adrian slept as my little spoon, dozing off as I stroked his hair, the little nub of his plug occasionally poking my inner thighs. I lay awake for a while longer behind him, partly basking in the afterglow, but partly adrift in the troubling thoughts I hadn't been given the time to indulge before we made love.

I felt a little guilty letting myself dwell on stuff for so long on the night of our first lovemaking, but I couldn't help it.

What had happened that Adrian felt he couldn't talk about?

Why was I `different'?

Why did he need `different' in the first place?

Our talk had cleared a few things up, at least, but not enough. Something about the way he called me `different' had really stuck with me. I mean, I was different; given that I was an outsider, that was just common sense. But I couldn't shake the feeling that the way he meant it was deeper than that. More personal, maybe.

Another few moments' thought, and I'd made up my mind. There were too many questions about how this perfect boy had ended up in my arms, and if Adrian couldn't give me the answers, maybe Anthony could. It was time to meet the father face-to-face.

* * * To Be Continued * * *