Date: Thu, 21 Feb 2002 18:28:18 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Back to the Playground, 12 This is a story involving boy/boy, teen/boy, male/male graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading. It explores themes which some readers may find offensive or disturbing. It's not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex, or to condone sex with minors. Feedback: javabiscuit@hotmail.com Back to the Playground ~ chapter twelve by Biscuit Skyler stayed. Charlotte tried to fight it, but not because she thought it was wrong. She fought it because she didn't want to go back alone. Once she realized that's what she was doing, she gave it up. It was painful, but I was proud of Skyler the day we sat at Trent's mom's diningroom table and he told Charlotte he was not going back with her. "Look at me, mom," he said to her, gently but firmly. "For me, it's right to stay here. I'm going back to my school, and I'm going to live with Brandy. You know I'll be fine." I tried to be as brave as he was, meeting her eyes. I could see how she looked from one to the other of us; I could feel her knowing he was right but not wanting it to be that way. Charlotte cried as she gave in. California had sucked as bad for her as for Skyler, really. The nightmare at the end had been foreshadowed by other stuff, things that had made her uneasy, things that she'd been trying to ignore. They were her problems, not his. The aftershocks of ending her third marriage would keep rocking her life for some time to come. But she knew Skyler would be safe, with me. It was a subdued holiday. I tiptoed around Charlotte and was fiercely protective of Skyler. My smart, determined boy. I finally had him where I wanted him. Now I had to make him bloom again. It wasn't a simple task. Smart as he was, and determined as he was, he was still a fifteen year old kid whose mother was once again in the throes of a breakdown. No way around the fact that his life was torn up. But it was my job, as I saw it, to mend the pieces back together again. He'd done all he could, he'd spent his strength. I knew it was my turn to be supportive, to be strong, but it wasn't as easy as just making him eat and rest. I know he felt guilty, like he was letting her down. He wouldn't talk about it, but I knew. I'd learned a thing or two in a thousand years of therapy. Not easy to be happy, to let yourself be happy, when you're mom is suffering. He was punishing himself and me. Sex was the thing he used. Like he could fuck his way to oblivion. Skyler was passionate. More than passionate, almost on fire. At first it seemed right. After all, we'd been apart and were feverish for each other. But then it began to be frightening. I'd drag my ass out of bed to get to the store, or go to class and come home to find him still there, not dressed, not washed, waiting, wanting more. God knows I loved to fuck him, but alarms were going off in my head. Sex wasn't the problem, it was the misery around it that was breaking my heart. Him not wanting to eat, not wanting to bathe, putting off the phone calls I knew he needed to make to get his school stuff straightened out. Weeks turned into more than a month. I kept thinking, each day, that he'd come out of it soon, but it was killing me. The night finally came that I snapped. I was trying to get dinner together. I'd only left him alone for a little while, and brought food home from the deli down the street. Stuff that I knew he loved. A roasted chicken, garlic bread. Makings for salad. As I'd been doing for weeks, trying to find foods that I thought would appeal to him. Trying to act as if things were all right. I was washing lettuce and peppers, cherry tomatoes. Skyler was standing behind me, in a tee-shirt and sweatpants, the same clothes he'd been in for weeks, when he wasn't naked. He was crowded up behind me at the sink, his hands on my waist, leaning into me, rubbing his cock against my ass. Skyler with a hardon, pressuring me to fuck him wasn't easy to resist. How many nights, days, mornings and in between had I succumbed to him, thinking we'd eat later, or I'd get him into a bath with me afterwards, only to have him retreat into sleep. He'd resist any food that I made for him, grabbing a piece of cheese or a handful of chips. He was wasting away before my eyes. That night I was determined that it wouldn't play out the same way. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do something. I felt a rush like I might cry, or scream at him, but I didn't. I dried my hands, my heart in my throat. I turned around, leaning back away from his face. "You want to fuck me," I said, and it came out like the lash of a whip. Oh, Skyler! He was no less compelling to me for the hollowness of his cheeks or the way his unwashed hair was lifeless around his face. His eyes were alarmed at the tone in my voice and my stance. He said nothing, but gaped at me as if I'd slapped him. "You want to fuck me, Sky?" I felt my face burning. "Get your ass in the shower. When you're clean, you come back out here." I'd never spoken a harsh word to him, ever, in all of those years. It was little enough I said then. But the way I said it must have scared him to death. I saw his face fill with pain and just about lost my nerve. "Go on," I said, "do it." He turned away without looking at me and left the room. I was shaking, terrified that he'd just go back to bed. So hard not to rush after him and comfort him, fall back into bed with him the way I'd been doing for weeks. But I didn't. Something had to change, and if it had to be me, I had to find a way to do it. I'm not an S/M kind of guy, and I don't think tough love was meant to be some kind of domination scene. But my boy needed something from me that all my petting and stroking weren't giving him. He was aching somewhere and none of the ways I'd always shown him I loved him could reach it. I stood there, staring into my sink at the half-washed head of lettuce. Useless, I thought, almost sickened by the aroma of the food warming in the oven, oppressed by the heat coming off the stove. I stood tearing shreds of lettuce, mechanically throwing them into a bowl. I knew I might as well be tossing it straight in the garbage. Then I heard the blessed sound of the shower. All I can say, is it came to me. The thoughts rose in pictures, more than in words. I saw Skyler, in my mind, tied to a kitchen chair, naked, eating his dinner out of my hand. I was going to fuck him, all right -- my dick got hard as I pictured the scene. Just as soon as I'd made him eat. He was sullen when he emerged, not looking at me, except for small glances. He was wrapped in a towel, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the bedroom. "Come here," I told him. "I want to look at you." He was taller than I was by then. Just an inch, maybe. His body long, and so slim. He stood there, looking like he was going to cry. "Put the towel on the chair, Sky. And sit down." "Brandy," he started, but I cut him off. "Hush. Just do it. We're not going to talk now. Sit your ass down and put your hands behind your back." I had nothing like rope. I tied him up with knotted kitchen towels and a pair of belts. Skyler started to cry. He never fought what I was doing or asked me why I was doing it. He just cried. And I listened to it, tying his wrists, to each other, to the chair, making sure he wasn't pulled too tight. The sound of him weeping brought tears to my eyes, but I didn't stop. I couldn't, not until he was belted and bound in that chair. Then I stood back and looked at him, my now much too thin, beautiful boy, begrudgingly washed and soaked in tears, hanging forward to try to hide his face from me. Not to hurt him, just to make him look up, I took hold of his wet hair and pulled. I had nothing on hand to wipe his face and used my shirt tail. "Blow your nose," I told him, and he did. I wiped it as well as I could. When I took the shirt off, it stopped his tears. His face looked bruised around the eyes, his attention shifting from his misery to my emerging nakedness. Still the same as when he was a kid; you'd think my naked chest was something to look at. I tossed the soiled shirt aside and stood in front of him, showing him the bare tits that had, for unknown reasons, captivated him since he'd first laid eyes on them. I stroked my own flat pecs as I studied his face and touched my fingertips to my nipples. He was as entranced as if the little things were jewels. It felt so good, his eyes and my touching. I saw his cock twitch, his thighs spreading slightly. So fucking sexy. He looked so confused; turned on, teary-eyed, scared. Some dom I was, on my knees the next second, wanting his cock in my mouth. Before I ever got to it, it was stiff; him knowing what I was going to do. It turned me on to see him shift in the chair, the little bit of leeway he had to move. The belt around his middle kept him pinned, but he could wiggle his hips around a little. I wanted to suck him off so bad. So hard to stop once I felt it in my mouth. I almost lost it, right there, the energy I'd gathered from taking charge. Nothing, nothing in the world is better than Skyler's hard prick sliding through my lips and I'm greedy once I get it in my mouth. But I stopped. This scene wasn't for me and about what I wanted or needed, or at least, not just me. It had always been Skyler who controlled this. His touch at my jaw, like some kind of hypnotist's command to bring me out of the dream world of sucking him. That night I had to stop myself. That was the point. To take the reins out of his hands and hold them myself. All those years I'd left the choice, the control to him, had to come to an end. My own dick was pounding in my pants, and he groaned when I let him out of my mouth. "God," he murmured, "don't stop." If there was ever a way to tempt me to give in, to revert to our former roles, it was offering me his dick to suck. It was shiny with my spit, begging me to lose myself in sucking. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and stood up. "It's dinnertime," I told him. "You're going to eat, now." No, not my dick, I thought, and almost laughed at the sight of his eyes on my crotch. I gave it a rub through my jeans, but turned away. "Are you crazy?" he said, breathing hard, when I walked away from him and opened the oven. Steam curled through the kitchen. I set the food on the stove. Then I turned to face him and opened my jeans. My cock was trying to climb out of Skyler's wash softened briefs -- still my favorite underwear. I spread the edges of my open fly to let him see it, rubbing it. Skyler eyes were roaming, hungry, questioning from my dick to my face. I tore off a piece of chicken and shoved it in my mouth. Then I tore off another one and walked over to him. I rubbed it on his lips. He opened his mouth and took it in. When he'd chewed it up and swallowed it down, I kissed him, stirring the flavor through our mouths, running a greasy hand over his chest. I ended up stuffing a half a chicken into that boy. I rubbed it on my dick, on his dick, but always it was destined to be eaten. I painted his chest with broccoli flowers dipped in dressing and fed them to him. I rubbed my stiff, leaking dick into the soft warmth of his food-filled mouth. By the time I was done, his belly was full and his cock was so hard he was begging. I'd never, ever, made that boy wait to come before. His cock was dripping with his juice, savory with spice, and glistening with butter from being jerked through warm garlic bread. I made him eat that bread from the palm of my hand. Then, feeling like I'd earned it, I got down on my knees and started to suck. Skyler's hips tried to lift up off the chair. He groaned and he whimpered, his whole body straining as I tongued him broadly, too softly to get him off. When I couldn't stand it one more second, my own body strained to the breaking point, I sunk down hard, taking his swelling prick deep and was rewarded by the sound of him howling. What that did to me. I shot off like a hose under pressure, drenching him like I'd been saving it up for days. Skyler was as sweet as a lamb when I freed him. I washed him up. I pet him and kissed him as I loosed the bindings and he leaned into every touch. My boy had come back to me, in spirit now, as well in flesh. It was a start. You can be in the same house, in the same bed, and not be reaching out. That's what I'd finally done. Let him know that I was really there with him, paying attention. Demanding that he pay attention to me. It was like he'd come as far as he could on his own and I had to grab hold and pull him the rest of the way. As Skyler mended, my life began to shine. From the simplest tasks of housecleaning and shopping for groceries, to my painting. I hadn't known such happiness in years; since the days when he'd come to me every day after school, bursting through the door like a live ray of sun. Daily taller it sometimes seemed, fleshing out, with hints of a beard to come on cheeks that used to be bare as baby skin. So handsome. The hollows were filling, the shadows retreating. As the clocked ticked toward four, whether I saw the time or not, I'd get a rush of happiness; my body knew Skyler would be home soon. He was now the age I'd been when I first spied him in the playground. I haven't talked about my painting much. I never thought it was particularly good, or noteworthy. It was something I liked to do. Something that soothed me. In my classes I'd never attracted much attention. Not until the winter that Skyler moved in with me. It seemed like my dabbings were coming to life. Not dramatic or innovative. I strove for realism, but never achieved it. I always ended up with dreamy concoctions, no matter how hard I tried to put the world down in paint on paper or canvas. But I must have begun to capture something. That February, through one of my classes, I got asked to contribute some watercolors for a small show. I actually had some success there. Amazing. All I know is how I felt when I went to the tiny gallery with Skyler. Seeing his face light up with pride, his hand squeezing mine. It was better than than the sale of one of my pictures.