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about. The delay is simply life colliding with my free time.
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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 * * *