Boots

I don’t dream. I close my eyes, sleep and wake. For me, nothing happens in between, ever!

People talk about dreams all the time, but I never participate in the conversation, i have an idea of what they are talking about, but i dont really know firsthand. Occasionally, and I mean like once a year or so I can remember colours but the rest of the time, nothing. The next morning when I woke it wasn’t any different. 

That being said, on waking, I was completely disorientated about where I was. I knew it was daylight outside and I was experiencing some sort of physical sensation. As I swam towards full consciousness I realised I was on the receiving end of a head job. I knew I was hard and the blanket I found myself under was humping up and down furiously. I was at fag’s place!

I wondered how long he’d been sucking on me, I was closer than I would have liked. I seized his head through the blanket on a downward stroke. He froze, spooked by my intervention. I slowly rolled over not letting his mouth off my meat.

When he was flat on his back I better arranged my knees either side of his chest. I fucked his mouth and throat, taking my time. He’d already brought me most of the journey in my sleep, I wanted to relish what was left. I fucked his face, I treated his mouth like most other pussies I’d had. I didn’t abuse him, but I did occasionally pump as deep as I could.

Almost without warning I unloaded. I knew I didn’t have much juice left but the sensation was all that mattered. It was wonderful! When I was done I remained in place, feeling my cock soften and becoming overly sensitive.

I pulled free and continued to lay on my front as fag scrambled to come up for air. I closed my eyes, to contemplate what the fuck was going on. There was no way I’d intended to sleep here, but here I was. I could already feel this getting complicated. I kept my eyes closed and did my best to fall back to sleep. Maybe for the first time in living memory it was all a dream? Maybe I was back home in bed.

Half an hour later, I woke keenly aware that I had actually fallen back to sleep. When I opened my eyes, I found fag to my left, all smiles and coy. He didn’t say anything for which I was genuinely grateful. As I turned to my side facing him I found he turned the same way then snuggled, wanting me to spoon him. I couldn’t be bothered over-thinking it, I just put my arm over him and felt his amazing warmth against my chest. I fell asleep again.

When I woke for the third time the need to piss was an absolute concern. A night’s worth of beer and two loads lighter meant I needed to go badly. I disentangled myself from fag and found my way to his immaculate bathroom. I let go what felt like ten litres of fluid. What a relief.

When I returned I set about finding my trunks and jeans and getting into them. “Coffee?”, I asked of a visually attentive fag with a tone indicating ‘why the fuck are you still here and not making my beverage’. He scampered off in a half panic.

When I arrived in his kitchen I sat down to tie my runners. The kettle had boiled and I could smell the brew on its way. As I finished up straightening my tee and generally getting myself in order the coffee arrived on que.

He sat naked on the other side of the table with his own mug. I drank the first sip, it was good, I needed it more than I realised.

“Am I ever going to be able to talk normally?”, he asked out of the blue.

“I’m not sure, not for the time being. I know that much” I replied draining the cup to its halfway mark.

“How come?” he went on “you know I can talk” he added.

“How come?” I repeated. “Cause I don’t know how you fit in, and until I do there’s no change”

“So I just do your washing and stuff and shut up” he asked with attitude.

Now we had a problem! He’d mixed two different streams of thought and his insolence required immediate attention. I remained silent, drained my coffee and pushed back my chair. It was blatantly obvious my tension had gone through the roof.

“Across here” I said pointing to my knees, with and ice cold stare. He laughed initially, not realising the gravity of the situation. I remained utterly silent as he sought nonverbal confirmation of what I had said and its implications. I nodded slightly to my knees, he was immediately wracked with fear.

He initially didn’t know how to handle the situation, but with me remaining silent in my expectation he quickly worked out he was going to drape himself over my knees no matter what. In the end he put his coffee down and made his way to my side of the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to complain”, he half pleaded, as if it was going to make a difference. For the last time I looked at my knees. With no way out, he positioned himself perfectly across my lap.

When the first blow landed on his bare arse, from the fully flat palm of a muscled construction worker, he immediately went into shock. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? I slowly raised my arm and again brought it down with force. The first blow had left him too stunned to verbalise, the second set his vocal cords free. He screamed the place down. I set to work with impact after impact. I held tight to his neck with my left hand, he wasn’t going anywhere.

After the first four, he was sobbing and begging me to stop. I paused slightly, I set about explaining the situation.

“You clean my stuff because I give you the privilege of it” ,I said as I struck five.

“I explained to you, I’m working stuff out in my head and I’m not sure how you fit in. Yet, you think you have my answers?” I asked as I brought number six down releasing my stored emotional energy.

“I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry” he pleaded.

“Listen to me, you’ve got two coming and I’m not holding back. You thank me and never speak out of line again and I’ll think about allowing you in my space. You understand?”, I asked with force.

“Yes, yes” he sobbed.

“Good, then here they come”, I dropped number seven across his blazing red butt. He screamed before he managed to get out a tear laden, ‘thank you’. I came down with his final blow. He wailed like he had not done before. Holding him in place he eventually squeaked out a gratitude.

When he struggled to his feet, he was a mess. Tears streamed down his reddened face as he didn’t know where to stand. Interestingly he had thrown a solid boner. I reached up and took hold of his balls. Even in haste, I managed a perfectly clean grip around the top of his sack, his orbs fell completely in my grasp.

“You ever speak to me that way again, and I’ll take a butter knife, and cut one of these out” I asserted. “Do you believe what I’m saying?”, I asked bluntly.

“Yes, yes, I believe you. I’m sorry, I just thought something had changed”.

“I told you something had changed, and I was working on it! Don’t step over the mark again. Understand?”, I asked as a final confirmation but not releasing my grip.

“Yes, I understand”.

“Good. Now, hot wax these nuts three times. Film it, send me the file. If you don’t do it right and your balls are not red raw by the end, I’ll come back and do them again myself tonight. Got it?”

“Yes, Yes!”, he confirmed in fear. I let go, scrawled my cell number across the front of a lose magazine, and found my way to the front door. I was immensely stirred up inside, for what was barely nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. I needed to be on my own.

After I settled back at my place, I thought about what had occurred and realised I was operating in response to fear. What was I so afraid of that I would beat the guy’s arse red? What the hell did he represent that I couldn’t cope with? 

I definately didn’t have the answers, but at least I now had questions. I was further down the road than I was yesterday. it was some relief, albeit small.

Around six that night my phone chirped, fag’s video file had arrived. I opened it on my laptop and watched as he hot waxed his nuts thrice. They were almost hairless anyway but in the heat of the moment I couldn’t think of any other self-administered punishment. He’d set up the phone to record. Over 20 minutes he applied the wax and then stripped it off with three-inch-wide lengths of cloth. I have to admit he was dedicated to the cause. I noted he threw another boner.

When he had finished the third application his nuts were indeed red. He’d be sore for a few days but without lasting harm. I didn’t bother to acknowledge receipt. I simply filed it in the cloud with his other incriminating clips.

I kept utterly to myself for the next month. My involvement with fag was limited to dropping my boots off every night and a Friday deposit of laundry. Halfway through this period I decided I wasn’t the one who should be walking. I simply left my steel-caps on my doorstep when I got home. He obviously worked it out because I pulled them on next morning clean as a whistle. The following Friday night I did the same with my laundry and a set of truck keys. Strange how physical placement of the task hadn’t occurred to me before. I heard the truck start at eight the next morning, it was back and spotless by ten, I found the keys on my mat. Wow, life was domestically perfect.

Over the period of the contact hiatus, I more or less came to terms with what was going on. I didn’t understand it, but now at least I accepted change was afoot, and I’d remain open to whatever came. When five weeks had crept by, I was suddenly overcome with horniness. It was as if my balls suddenly discovered they were full, and notified my brain of an emergency.

In an interesting development, the idea of relieving myself with a woman didn’t occur to me. More intriguing, I didn’t recognise the shift at the time.