Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2018 11:46:05 -0500 From: Jeff Moses Subject: Blank pages [April 2016. It always starts like this: a blank page, a handful of disconnected thoughts: memories, fantasies. Sometimes, I have to push it, other times it just pours out and all that's left is correcting the typos. And sometimes, it won't leave me alone. Art is a bully.] This is a work of fiction, and includes scenes of BDSM sex between adults. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. All rights to this work are retained by the author. (Please check Nifty's submission link for details.) Play hard, but Play Safe! If you like these stories, please make a donation to Nifty. Nifty is a 501-c-3 non-profit entity. Click the "Donate" link! Blank Pages I do not usually pick up tricks at places like N--'s, which is one of those stores that hopes to be all things to all people. They have a little bit of everything: groceries, hardware, casual clothes, auto parts, children's toys, tools, farm implements--and motorcycle gear. I was holding a plaid shirt in front of me, studying its effect in a mirror, and suddenly spotted him a few racks away. Most of the time, such first hopeful glances are followed by disappointment: he's not as hot as you imagined he'd be. But sometimes... He was breathtaking: about my height, short dark hair, a shadow of beard, a body that was obviously powerful even under a loose sweater. Yet he approached the rack of motorcycle gear as if he was afraid it might be electrified, or hiding a snake. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. I shifted my gaze, took a few casual steps to the side, and had a clear view of him in my mirror. He picked out a jacket, took another look around, slipped it on, and went to another mirror to inspect himself, experimenting with the zippers and belt, flipping the collar up, apparently trying to find a stance that looked...tough perhaps, or dangerous. He was frustrated, though: while his body could easily look threatening, his face couldn't. Despite the approaching beard, it was open, honest, the sort that might draw a smile from any passing stranger. I could imagine myself ruffling his hair. Still wearing the jacket, he pulled out a pair of chaps and held them against his waist. Try them on, I thought, but--perhaps because of the mirror I was using--telepathy failed, and he put them back. As if parting with his best friend, he took off the jacket and returned it to the rack as well. He was irresistible. Carrying my new shirt, I walked over to him. "Jacket looked good on you," I said, casually. He blushed, and his eyes swept the area nervously. The shy type. All innocent, I asked, "Do you have a bike?" "Thinking about it," he muttered, uncomfortably. "I had a friend with a bike. We went riding together off and on--buddy riding, he called it--so I had to buy that stuff." I waved at the rack. "Still have it all." "What happened to your bike?" "Oh, it wasn't my bike. It was his." "Must have been fun." "There's some tricks to it, learning how to lean on turns, that sort of thing--basically, just trusting the driver. But yeah. It was fun." An awkward pause, then, "What, ah, happened to him--your friend?" "He moved to the coast. Wanted to hang out with the biker crowd." "That would be hot." Interesting: "hot," not "fun" or some such word. I smiled. "Yeah. He said he wanted more of a leather life." Hint number one. I held out my hand. "My name's Walt. Yours?" "C-Craig." He took my hand and we shook, perhaps just a hair longer than necessary. "Can I ask what you think of this shirt?" I held it up in front of me. "Looks fine. Good." I smiled. "That's the thing about mirrors. I can see how something looks, but not how other people would react to it, you know?" "Well, I think it looks good. If you want my opinion, I mean." "I do," I smiled. "Were you going to buy that jacket, or just browsing? I don't want to keep you from whatever you're doing." "I was just, like you said, browsing." "Thinking, 'someday...' or something like that?" "Maybe." Suddenly, his discomfort was almost painful. "I understand. Good leather is expensive. So, you live around here?" "No. I'm a freshman at Gortner. The college?" Oh, shit--Gortner was a "Christian" college, aggressively so. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, of course. I persisted. "Gortner? Bit of a hike, out here." He nodded in agreement. "I was curious about this place. I saw their ad." He fell silent. "So... what's your major?" "I'm a freshman, so I haven't officially declared one, yet. But it will be Business. Like my dad." He didn't sound excited. "Pretty big jump, high school to college," I said, sympathetically. "Did you like high school?" "It was okay, I guess. I got through it." "Can I buy you a soda, or something, Craig?" "Huh?" I pointed across the store. "I hope I'm not being rude, but I enjoy meeting new people. There's a snack counter by the checkouts, and I feel like a snack. Come on. My treat." He considered this for a moment. "Why? I mean, I don't want to be rude, or anything, either, but--" "No reason," I lied. "You seem like a nice guy and I feel like a snack." I shrugged. "As much as that bus ride costs, you might as well get something for your time. If you want to join me..." He appeared to give my offer deep consideration, then, "Okay. Thanks. That'd be cool." I paid for my shirt, then sat us at the far end of the snack counter. We ordered: iced tea for Craig, and an Arnold Palmer for me. Then: "Sounds like you didn't have much fun in high school. Do any sports?" "Track and field. Shotput, for a while, and discus." "Did you letter?" He smiled. "Yeah. Junior year. Went to City, even." "Impressive. I wrestled a little. Didn't get far. You still doing Track and Field at Gortner?" "That was high school stuff. I guess I outgrew it." His answer sounded rehearsed, a little too smooth. I decided to press him. "Really? Sounded like you were really into it, making varsity and all." He looked at me, a little like a kid who's been caught lying. He dropped his gaze. "Right after City I had to...drop out." I was gentle. "Injury?" He nodded. "Yeah." He picked up his drink, set it down, ran one finger through the ring of condensation it had left behind. "Let's talk about something else." "Okay. Let's see. My name is Walt. I'm thirty-five years old. I'm an accounts manager--sort of a glorified bookkeeper. This is the first day of my annual vacation, and umm, I grew up in Prentice, which you never heard of." "Did so," Craig grinned. "A few of us went up there to watch Prentice High in a Track and Field match, because our coach was pretty sure they'd be going to State." "Well, this is embarrassing: I didn't even know Prentice had a Track team." "Maybe they didn't, back in your day." He caught himself. "I mean, not--you're only thirty-five. You're not old, really." Ignore that. "How'd you get injured?" "Huh?" "So you couldn't compete at the state tournament." "I didn't--I did! I... sprained--I mean, it was a back injury." I decided to act puzzled and a bit surprised. "Craig? You bullshitting me?" "No! It's..." Craig took a deep breath, and turned his eyes back to the tiny puddle on the counter. "At first, it was conduct unbecoming, but they didn't want people to ask for details, so we agreed to say it was a back injury." He turned toward me. "Sucked." A bitter smile flashed across his face. "Bummer," I said, gently. I signaled the waitress for refills. "I know how much it can hurt to give up someone--something you...like a lot." The waitress appeared with two pitchers. We watched silently as she refilled our glasses. "Thanks," Craig said. "Enjoy, fellas." We watched her walk away. I spun around on my stool. "If I were younger, I'd work here, if I could. Looks like they hire a lot of younger guys. Sexy." Neon sign-style hint. Craig blushed and buried his face in his drink. "Hey! Sorry that slipped out. Hope I didn't offend you!" "Yeah! I mean, no. No offense. I'm..." He grabbed his glass. I waited until he finished drinking. "If you're done here and you want a ride back to Gortner, I've got time. Or did you drive?" "Took a bus. Three buses, in fact." "Not the most exciting way to spend a Saturday afternoon." I watched him look back toward the clothing section. "Unless you want to do more shopping." "Nah, I was just killing time. That stuff's way too expensive for me." I sighed in sympathy, slurped up the last of my drink, then acted as if a sudden idea had come to me. "You know, that friend I told you about--the one with the bike? He gave some of his old leather stuff to me. I think you may be about the same size. Want to take a look at it? If it fits..." I shrugged. "I live about ten minutes from here. Sort of toward Gortner. We can stop by my place, then head back." "You're sure it's no problem? I don't want to--" "It would be my pleasure, Craig." We looked at each other. Sometimes that sort of look says a lot more than words. I did, in fact, have extra bike gear, purchased from a second-hand store in a moment of self-indulgent fantasy that the gear would somehow summon Mister Right. I was pretty sure some of it would actually fit Craig. "I remember my college days--I went to Stephens. Kind of wild, back then," I said as I navigated my car out of the parking lot. "Nice people, though. I was worried about...being accepted, coming from a small town and all. But everyone was cool." "Gortner's not bad, I guess. Bigger than I expected. Took a couple of weeks before my roommate and I got comfortable around each other. People are kind of slow to warm up, I guess you'd say." He tossed the conversation over to me. "I had no idea what I was going to major in--most of us didn't. It sorted itself out eventually, but I think we put the faculty through the wringer." "They gave us these tests--aptitude tests. But I already know I'm going to major in Business." "That what your aptitude test said?" "Not exactly." He paused for a moment. "But those tests are mostly for people who don't know what they want." "I sure didn't. My junior advisor finally pulled my transcript and counted up the classes I'd taken. He figured the easiest major would be English--I already had plenty of courses in literature." I smiled. "So I wound up with a BA in English. Got a job anyway." "My dad got a job as soon as he graduated. He says that's one of the best things about a Business major." At that point, I had a hefty amount of traffic to deal with, so we were quiet until finally, I pulled into my driveway. "Made it!" I said, as if arriving was a major accomplishment, and led him into the house. He accepted a beer, and while I pulled things from the closet, I explained that my friend enjoyed leather and even wore some when he wasn't biking. I "found" a body harness, a leather shirt, a studded belt and some leather wrist and ankle restraints and tossed them casually on the floor. "Grab anything you're interested in," I said, over my shoulder. I would have loved to watch this, somehow, to watch his face as one temptation after another dropped in front of him, but the success of my plan depended on giving him the impression that all this was ordinary, everyday, nothing for him to be embarrassed about. He was very embarrassed, of course. "What...what did he do with that stuff?" he asked. His tone was both nervous and somehow awestruck. I turned at last, my arms laden with two jackets and two pairs of chaps, and beheld the face of a kid in his first toy store. Calm, gentle. "Have you ever heard of leather sex?" "Sure," he said quickly. When I didn't respond, he continued more hesitantly. "Like, um, sex with leather?" "Exactly," I said, smiling with encouragement. "Sometimes, just wearing it, or getting tied up in it, or make-believe games of one sort or another. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, I suppose, but for grown-ups." "I don't think those are the kind of chaps cowboys wear." "You're right," I smiled. "But it's make-believe, Craig. Like Halloween! You can wear anything you like. Here--try these on." I handed him the second-hand jacket and chaps, took off my pants, and began to slip into my own. When I looked at him again, he was frozen, staring. "I'm sorry!" I smiled. "Habit. The two of us used to be...play those games together." "So... were you and him...real close?" I could almost hear his heartbeat speed up. "Yeah. We were together for almost three years. Then he decided to move to San Francisco." "Why didn't you--" "I wasn't exactly invited." The memories came back stronger than I'd expected, and I quickly grabbed a tissue and pretended to be blowing my nose. "Too bad. Hey! I'm sorry I brought it up." "You didn't--I did. Life goes on, I guess." I blew my nose again and tossed the tissue into the waste basket. "Go ahead and see if those fit, while I get us another beer. Or would you like something stronger?" "Another beer would be great!" I saw the tension fall from his face as I turned toward the kitchen. I delayed my return until he had just about finished putting on the chaps. As I'd hoped, he'd taken advantage of my trip to the kitchen to slip off his own jeans. Much to my delight, there was a noticeable bulge in his underwear. "Here we are," I said, holding out the beer. "Those look like they fit quite well." In fact, they wrapped his legs like the proverbial second skin. Our hands touched as I handed him his beer, and I swear it felt like an electric current passed between us. "Make yourself comfortable, please, Craig." "Yours fit good, too," he said, then quickly took a drink. "Feels good to get into them again." "Can I ask...that harness thing? What's that about?" "More make-believe. He used to wear it sometimes. Looked really good on him, like a Roman warrior, or something out of an action movie. Go ahead and try it on, if you like. You should probably take off your sweater so nothing gets snagged." Butter wouldn't melt. "Looks kind of complicated," he smiled. Keep it casual. "Do you want me to show you?" Don't drool. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "I should take off my shirt, too, I guess." I nodded approvingly and forced myself not to gawk. He revealed a body that exceeded anything I had any right to expect. He didn't have much hair on his torso, but what was there accentuated the curves of his pecs and the valley of his abs. If he'd asked at that moment, I would gladly have licked him from head to foot. Instead, I approached him with the harness. "These straps go over your shoulders like this, and then these buckle around your chest." I made something of a production of adjusting the straps. Craig flexed and swirled his arms at the shoulders. "Feels kind of funny. Feels like being hugged, sort of. Feels good." He lifted a ring that hung from the harness. "What about this ring thing?" "It goes around the base of your, ah, equipment. Put your balls through, first." He studied himself and the ring for a moment. "Oh! Of course." His cock was swollen, beneath his underwear. Mine was almost painfully hard. "A guy could get...a guy could...make love...like this, huh?" "Yes. If it fits right, it's incredible." "Your friend?" This was it. I looked directly into his eyes. "Among others." His eyes were hazel. "You're gay, too, huh?" I nodded. "I hope that doesn't--" The words tumbled out. "Gortner's a Christian college. My folks are paying for it. They're pretty..." He stopped himself, then sighed. "Christian. It's not easy to explain." "What's not easy, Craig?" I spun around the room, arms wide. "This is a safe place--just the two of us. Spit it out." "They don't know. They'd freak. Then they'd probably throw me out of the house. Out of the family. And Gortner'd throw me out of...everything!" "And into what? If you weren't at Gortner, what?" I did my best to make the question not seem like a challenge. He stood, silent. His cock had softened again. "I haven't done any sex since high school. I got drunk with this guy and..." His hands were clenched, and the muscles in his forearms were tight. I handed his beer to him. "Go ahead, Craig. Let it out, for goodness sake," I said, gently. He took a mouthful of beer, looked at me, then turned to the side and, I think, stared at a spot the wall. "I did him. He was a nice guy--wrestler, in fact, like you. I told him I'd do him, if he'd, after, you know... so I did his...thing...with my mouth." "And?" "After he ejaculated, he got all...funny. I asked him what was going on, and he told me he just wanted to get sucked and he didn't want to...you know...come through with his end of the deal." Craig closed his eyes. "He said he would if I really...but he looked so...like a little kid who'd pissed his pants, or something. And I said that was okay, he didn't have to. I really wanted...I just wanted to feel him, you know? His body against me?" He opened his eyes and drained his beer. "I was pretty dumb, I guess." I took the bottle from him and set it aside. "Was that the 'conduct unbecoming'?" He nodded and I smiled. "First times are always dumb. The bells and flowers come after you know a little about what you're doing, I think. At least that's the way it was with me. My first time was in my garage with a kid in the school choir. A bass, as it happened. I was a tenor, until my voice changed." "I remember when that happened to me," Craig smiled. "Made my dad feel a lot better. I had a pretty high voice, until puberty hit. Almost like a girl." I shrugged. "What's so awful about that? Happens to lots of little boys." "Yeah, but..." He shrugged. "Dad pushed you pretty hard to 'grow up'?" I asked, growling out the last words like a bully would. Craig just nodded. "I'm sorry he was an asshole." "He wasn't!" Craig replied, instantly on the defense. "He was tough. He wanted me to be tough. He kept saying 'toughen up.' But he meant well. I'm sure he did." I bit my tongue. The road to Hell is thick with bullshit like that. "Nobody's perfect, I guess." We were silent for a few seconds. Then, "Can I ask you...what would you like to do? I mean, do you have a fantasy, something you imagine when you jack off? You do jack off, I assume." He laughed. "It's kind of funny. All the guys in the dorm jack off, I just know it. You can tell by how we all try so much not to admit it, you know? Except maybe for one or two guys. But they're weird." He stopped suddenly, looked at himself in the small mirror above the sofa, and chuckled. "Look who's calling other guys weird!" "I think that we're all weird. Except that some guys don't know it, yet. Weird one way or another." I smiled, and waited silently for him to continue. He sighed, half-grinned, closed his eyes again. "Sometimes I imagine I'm like a prisoner somewhere, and--I don't know how I got there, but I don't let myself worry about that. I mean, it's make-believe, right? Like I'm coming into the middle of a movie, or something." "Starring you?" I prompted. "Starring...somebody who's caught me, or drugged me. Kidnapped me, like, or something. Anyhow, I'm trapped, in a cell or something, and he comes to get me and ties me up or something so I can't stop him, and then he does...stuff." He looked at me, suddenly embarrassed. "I can't believe I'm telling you about this." "Stuff?" "Stuff. Not sure what. I usually ejaculate before it gets any further." He rolled his eyes. "Sounds kinda dumb, but you have to imagine the details, you know. Like, I don't know, what the cell looks like, and what I'm wearing and why I can't defend myself from the guy. Details." I was a Boy Scout. I knew how to tie knots. 'Be prepared.' I hope they still teach that stuff. I pulled a piece of rope from an end-table drawer. "Would you like me to tie up your hands, Craig? Just for fun?" "Um, okay, I guess." He was nervous. Very nervous. "Just cross your wrists in front of you," I said, as gently as I knew how. He obeyed, looking around the room, everywhere but his wrists. "Let me know if anything...if you want me to stop what I'm doing." I wrapped the rope around his wrists, figure eight style. "That's not too tight, is it?" "No." His voice suddenly sounded scratchy. I tied off the rope. "Come with me." I led him to the basement steps and we went down. "You could imagine this was a jail, somewhere, or a deserted castle. Look over there." He stared, and I heard a sharp intake of breath. "Is that a cage, or something?" "Yes," I smiled, moving toward it. "Come have a look." I opened the cage, absolutely certain I'd hit his limits. "Go ahead. Turn around and back in--if you want to." To my surprise, he didn't hesitate, dropping easily to his knees, ducking his head and crawling backward into the cage. "Look." I closed the door, slowly locked it, gave him plenty of time to stop me. Instead, he watched my hands intently. "You're locked in. Can't get out." I waited for a protest of some sort. "I should have taken off my underpants, huh?" Bingo! "Don't worry. We can deal with that later. I think I should blindfold you for a while." "Okay." He closed his eyes and held his body rigid. I reached through the bars and put the blindfold in place. "Can you see anything?" "No, Sir." "Good." I made a rather noisy time of it, gathering gear. "Stuff" was pretty vague. I headed back to the cage, and squatted behind him. "Do you know what I'm doing?" "No. Getting stuff ready?" "What stuff?" "I don't know. Stuff to tie me to?" "Come on, Craig." I spoke softly, tried to give my voice a hypnotic tone. "You can do better than that. What stuff? Ropes? Chains? Think about--no, imagine what's going to happen. You're a helpless prisoner." "I don't ... I can't think. Maybe...I don't know." A hint of desperation. "You do know. You just don't want to tell me. Should I make you tell me? Should I torture you?" Silence. I kept my voice soft, gentle. "Should I tie you to a post and whip you until you talk? What if I stuck my cock--or something else--up your ass? Have you ever been fucked in the ass, Craig?" He shook his head frantically. "No. No, I--that would hurt! They say that really hurts!" "You don't want me to hurt you, do you?" "No! I mean, there's nothing I can do, all tied down though, right?" "If you were tied down to a bench, or something, what would that be like? What would it look like? What would you see?" "Just, just your boots, maybe. You'd walk around and I wouldn't know where you'd...where you'd touch me next. You'd spank me, maybe, or hit my feet where nobody could see it." "Good answer, prisoner!" Now, we were getting somewhere. I just needed a bench, or something. I looked around, grabbed a paint-spattered wooden ladder and went to work. Every once in a while, I glanced at the cage, and there he was: still kneeling, still eager, straining to hear what I was doing. I tied the ladder to a couple of sawhorses and sat on it to see if it would hold his weight. I needed more rope. I had a box of ropes--in the bedroom, of course, dammit. So much for boy scouting. "Stay right there! I'll be back!" He shook the cage door, rattling the lock. "Yes, Sir." I hurried up the stairs to get the rope. And boots! I needed boots, probably motorcycle boots. I put them on and checked myself in the mirror. Whoops! I was still wearing my tighty-whities. "No time to waste," I muttered, grabbing my pocket knife and cutting them off. Another check in the mirror, wishing I'd pushed myself a little harder at the gym. Too late now. I added a collar, a riding crop and a paddle to the box of ropes and headed back down to the basement. "Did you miss me, prisoner?" I said sharply. "You were gone a long time, Sir." "So? You're not going anywhere, are you, prisoner?" "No, Sir." Switch to a threatening tone. "You're my prisoner, aren't you?" "Yes, Sir." "You're helpless, aren't you?" "Pretty much, Sir." "Have you been bad?" "No, Sir!" "We'll see." I reached through the bars and buckled the collar around Craig's neck. "How does that feel, prisoner?" "It's a collar, Sir." "I know that, prisoner. I asked you how it felt!" "Like a collar, I guess. It feels..." "Answer me!" I snapped. "I like it, Sir." "That's what I wanted to hear." I unlocked the cage. "Crawl out, prisoner. Good. Stop right there. Take off your underpants." "I have to take the chaps off, too, Sir." "So do it! Put them back on, if you want to." "Thank you, Sir. Can I...can you...the harness thing?" he said, and quickly pulled off his chaps. "Of course." I guided his balls into place. "Now, put your cock through the ring." I watched as he struggled, blindfolded, with his stiffening cock, but he eventually got everything in place. He put the chaps back on. I started the zippers, to speed things up. "Thank you, Sir." I grabbed his collar. "Come along." I pulled him to the ladder. "Feel that?" He groped around for a moment. "A ladder, Sir?" "Yes, prisoner--a ladder. Lie down on the ladder. Butt up." I pulled off his shoes and socks and tied his ankles to a rung. I roped his midsection in place, then untied his hands and retied them to the ladder, stretching his arms as tight as I could. His back was incredible. I couldn't help stroking it. "How do you feel?" "Helpless, Sir." He sounded very happy about it. I squatted down to be sure his cock and balls were available, then felt his tits. They were almost flat on his chest. I pinched the one closest to me. He gasped. "Like that, prisoner?" "What are you doing, Sir? I think it feels good." "I'm pinching your tit. Like it?" I squeezed harder. "I never knew they were like that, Sir." "They need some attention, prisoner. Maybe later." "Thank you, Sir." I slapped his swelling cock, and he jerked sharply. I don't think he realized just how helpless he really was, until that moment. "Shit!" he gasped. "Oh, shit." "What's the matter, prisoner?" "I'm helpless, Sir. I'm at your mercy." It was almost like he was praying. "Yes, you are, prisoner." I stroked his butt. "Nice ass, prisoner." I slapped his cheeks. "You like that?" "Are you going to...please don't spank me, Sir. I'll be good." "Will you?" I slapped him harder, once on each buttock. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll be good." I waited for a few seconds, then hit him again. "Please, Sir. I'm really, really sorry!" "Take your punishment like a man, prisoner!" This time, I hit him hard. "Yes, Sir," he gasped. Again, I waited for a few seconds, then struck. "Yes, Sir," he gasped again. "Have you been a bad boy?" He didn't answer fast enough, so he got a couple more slaps. "Yes, Sir! I'm sorry, Sir!" "Are you going to be a good boy?" "Yes, Sir!" "I'm not sure, yet." I hit him again. His cheeks were nice and pink. "Yes, Sir, I'll do whatever you say, Sir! I'll be a good boy, Sir!" His voice was trembling. I pulled off the blindfold, hit him again, then walked around the ladder, past his head so he could see my boots. "How many times did I spank you?" "I don't know, Sir." "Well, you'd better count, this time. Out loud!" "Yes, Sir." I struck. "One, Sir." He was gasping out the numbers by eight. I gave him ten good ones, then squatted down and checked his cock. As I had hoped, it was rock hard. In fact, pre-cum was dribbling from it. I retied his hands behind his back, sat straddling the ladder, raised his head, and pressed my cock against his lips. "Take it, prisoner!" "Yes, Sir." He mouthed my cock eagerly. To my surprise, he was a damn good cocksucker. "Good boy," I said. I wanted to sound stern, but it didn't come out that way. What the hell. "Good boy," I repeated, stroking his hair. This time there was no question I meant it as a compliment. I let him work my shaft for a bit, then warned him. "If you come without permission, you'll be punished, boy." He grunted an acknowledgement. I let him work for a few more minutes, then pulled him off my cock. "Is this what you wanted, boy?" "Yes, Sir." "Are you going to tell me what happens next, boy?" "I think you make me lick your boots, Sir." No sooner said, then done. I took him off the ladder, laid him on the floor on his back, ordered him to stick his legs up in the air, and tied his ankles together. I took my time, so I could admire his magnificent, harnessed chest and abs. Then, I pulled his ankles down, forcing him to bend his knees. I tied his cock to the rope around his legs, so he wouldn't be able to stand up. "Roll over, boy! On your knees. Kneel up!" He obeyed, and I tied his hands to his collar so he could crawl. I pushed his head to the floor and led him around the room for a bit, grabbing the riding crop as I walked. Finally, I put him to work on my boots. I tapped his ass with the crop to keep him focused. It wasn't really necessary: he worked on my boots like a man possessed. He was in whore heaven. "Can I dig a hole, or something, Sir?" "What?" That seemed to have come out of nowhere. "Like a prisoner on a chain gang or something?" Fuck, yeah. I have a set of those antique-looking leg irons, and the area next to my garage is pretty well screened. Just for the heck of it, I tightened the harness before I untied his cock. Then, I added the leg irons and a leash, and led him up the stairs and to the kitchen door. He stopped suddenly. "Can anybody see--" I yanked the leash. "You just do as you're told, prisoner! Let's go." I led him to the garage and handed him a shovel. I took him into the yard and pointed to a spot. "Right there, prisoner! Dig!" I strolled over to the porch and sat where he could see me, holding the riding crop on my lap. There's no breeze by that side of the garage, and the sun was hitting it pretty good. I waited until he started to slow down, then came toward him. "Dig, prisoner!" I said sharply, and swatted him on his ass. The hole was knee-deep, and about as big around as I wanted it. I watched him shovel dirt, sweating. "Hands behind your back, prisoner!" I stood on the edge of the hole, my crotch even with his face. "What are you, prisoner?" "Your prisoner, Sir." "You tired of digging?" "No, Sir!" I pressed the crop under his chin. "Don't you lie to me, prisoner!" "A little, Sir." "Gonna take you back inside and give your pretty mouth some exercise, prisoner." I rubbed my crotch so he'd have no question about what I meant. He put down the shovel and started to get out of the hole. "Stop!" I snapped. "We ain't done out here." "Yes, Sir." "You squat down in that hole." He obeyed. "You gotta piss?" "No, Sir." "You get your dick out and piss, boy!" "But Sir--" "Do it!" Squatting in the hole, he didn't have much room to maneuver. "I'm waiting, boy. Piss!" "I really can't, Sir." "You're too damn dumb to piss?" I snarled. "Yes, Sir." I picked up the shovel and started dumping dirt back into the hole. "Oughta leave you out here all night, until you figure out how to piss, prisoner." His cock was limp, and the shocked look on his face was priceless. I smiled. "Unless you want to give me a blow job." "Yes, Sir. Please, Sir?" "You got to the count of five to get your ass up here! One!" He was a dirty mess by the time he'd scrambled out of the hole. "Five!" I said, as soon as he was on the grass. "Crawl, slave!" I led him back to the house, praying that neither of my neighbors was home from work yet, or would be in a position to see us as we crossed the narrow open space between the garage and the house, trailing dirt and sweat behind us. Some risks are worth it, though. As soon as we got into the kitchen, I pulled out my cock. "Go for it, prisoner!" I shouted. I could smell the sweat rising from his dirt-spattered body. He took my cock in his mouth and went for it. Oh yes, he did. Craig was a natural, and I couldn't hold back. "You want more?" I said, when I'd recovered. "You ready for more?" He looked up at me and licked his lips. "I don't know, Sir. I mean, I do, but--" "Get your ass down to the basement. Now!" He scrambled to obey. As soon as he was off the stairs, I grabbed my riding crop. "Kneel!" He did. "My boots got dirty. Lick 'em." I was ready for a protest: they were full of dirt, after all. But he pressed his face against my boot and went to work. I let him struggle with his task for a few minutes, then I stopped him. "Do you want to major in Business, prisoner? Yes or no! And don't you dare lie to me!" I pressed the crop against his butt cheek. The question startled him. I tapped his butt lightly. "No, Sir!" "Good! A direct answer. Come along." I started walking again, and Craig crawled after me. "What do you want to study, prisoner? Confess!" I asked, after a few paces. He didn't answer, so I stopped, turned, and once again pressed the riding crop to his butt. "Answer the question, prisoner!" "I...it's impossible." I started tapping his butt with the crop. "What? Choosing a major? You really don't know?" "I couldn't do it. Not choosing, but what I want to do...I just can't!" The taps got harder. "Why not?" "It's...it's like you're driving along and you want to be going the pposite way, maybe. You can't just flip the wheel and--" "Of course you can!" The tapping became light swats. "But the other cars! The--" "Who's in those other cars?" The question startled him. "People, Sir!" I smacked him with the crop. "Be specific, prisoner!" Craig clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. The muscles in his neck stood out. I struck again, once for each word. "Spit. It. Out. boy! Now!" "My parents!" He gasped for breath. "My parents would never--they're paying my tuition and everything! They'd freak!" "Stay! Don't move!" I walked over to the post. "Come, prisoner. Over here!" He crawled to me as quickly as he could . "Kneel up!" I retied his hands. "Stand up!" I tapped the crop on my boot while he got to his feet. I pressed the end of the riding crop under his chin. "Quit wasting my time, prisoner! Turn around and face the post!" "Yes, Sir!" I raised his hands over his head, put the rope between them over a large hook, then pushed his body against the wood. I methodically tied his body: four wraps each to hold his feet, knees, waist and chest. I pressed my face against his right ear. "Listen to me, prisoner! We're all alone down here, and nobody can hear you. Nobody but me." I struck his ass hard, and he gasped. "This thing can leave marks, prisoner. I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Now!" I struck again, and despite his efforts, a cry of pain escaped his lips. I pulled his head back. "What do you want your major to be?" He was silent. "Okay, prisoner. You asked for it." I gave his ass a good, sharp blow. "What do you want to study?" Again, nothing. I laid stripes across his backside. One way or another, I was determined to get an answer. "Art!" he yelled at last. "I want to be an artist, okay? Are you happy, now?" His voice had changed. He was furious, struggling to get free. I waited until his efforts slowed. "Yes, Craig. I am. Thank you. How do you feel?" Still angry, he snapped, "Let me go, Walt!" I spoke calmly, barely above a whisper. "I asked you a question. How do you feel?" He took a breath. "Dammit! I said let me go, Walt!" His body was quiet, but his voice was filled with rage. "Tell me how you feel, Craig," I growled, pressing the crop against the top of his butt. "How do--angry, all right? Sir," he added, sarcastically. I spoke softly again. "Art, huh? How long have you been sitting on that?" Silence for a moment, and then he sagged against the post, moaned, and started sobbing. I waited. I was tempted to pet him, stroke his back, comfort him. But not quite yet. I waited. He took a breath, sniffed the snot back into his nose. "I don't know. I always liked drawing, and stuff. But I never thought I could, you know? That's not a job. You can't make a living being--well, yeah, some people can--" he turned his face to mine, as far as he could. "But I'm not good enough!" "Which is why you go to school, dammit!" I whispered. "But look at you! You're an accounting clerk!" "Accounts manager--which is what I wanted to be!" I smiled a bit. "It's a lot more fun than you think, Craig." He pulled at the ropes, then muttered, "My ninth-grade art teacher said I was good. That's where it started." "What?" "I told my folks I wanted to be an artist--" "And they squashed you." "Huh?" "Instead of being on your side, they dumped their own fears on you. They're afraid of failing, so they tried to make you afraid." I started untying him. "Craig, look: if you want to be an artist, go for it! If you fail, so what? It's not like anybody's going to shoot you. It's not like you only get one chance in life. You fall down, you get up! I've lost track of how many times I've done that!" "But--" "Who knows? Maybe you won't fall!" I unhooked his hands and turned him to face me. "Maybe there's a great artist locked up inside you. My god, kid, if you want to get tied up, let me do it--don't do it to yourself!" "Tuition..." "Audit a couple of art classes. See how it goes. They have what-do-you-call-them? Electives! They have electives at Gortner, don't they?" "Yeah. I could, I suppose." "Kneel down!" I said, gently. He obeyed, confused. "What do you see in front of you?" "Your cock, Sir." "Do you want that cock?" He nodded. "Say it. Say it out loud! "Yes, Sir. I want your cock, Sir. I want to suck your cock, Sir." "Go ahead." He took my cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head. Then, he drew it in slowly, caressing it with his lips, easing it down his throat. He pulled back and began sucking the underside of the shaft. "May I suck your balls, Sir?" he asked, somehow without taking his mouth off of my cock. "Go ahead. Suck my balls." He drew them into his mouth, warmed them with his breath, explored them with his tongue until I was moaning with pleasure. "Take my cock, Craig!" I hissed. "Take it deep!" He obeyed, and it was like his whole mouth was stroking it at once. He slid my cock into his throat until his nose pressed against my belly, then began, somehow, to pump it lightly until, much to my surprise, I grabbed his head and exploded. As the first second ejaculation I'd had in years began to fade, I eased my cock back, depositing most of what remained on his tongue, then grabbed my shaft and spattered the last bits onto his face. I dropped to my knees and untied his hands. I wrapped him in my arms, and he returned the hug. I kissed his dirty, cum-spattered face. "Go talk to somebody in the Arts department," I said tenderly, my eyes locked on his. "Explore! Shit! Look what you've done already!" I waved one hand around the room, at the cage, the ropes piled at the bottom of the whipping post, at the ladder on its sawhorses--and at my cock. "After all this, you're afraid to talk to the Art department!?" Craig looked around, ran his fingers through his hair, touched the collar around his neck and slid his fingers along the harness straps that crossed his chest. Then, he began to laugh, long and loud, while tears poured down his cheeks.