A Summer Residency

I acknowledge two inspirations behind this story: a TV program in which the so-called Stockholm Syndrome was mentioned & the readership even some of my oldest stories enjoy. Particularly, to notice that my series – Birchfield Farm, Alexia Chronicles, & Piano Study – attract readers along with ‘shorties’ such as Gnar, Yucatan Adventure, Where Oh Where, & my Shakespeare romps, & – wow! – my rhymes, fires imagination to challenge myself & to please you.  May pleasure lie ahead for you in this new tale.

* * *

The knock on my door rattled me. Not accustomed to people dropping by, I put down the novel I was reading and trod glumly to see whether it was a team of Jehovah’s Witness dames or, maybe, a special delivery by Postman Brown. Neither, it was my friend Hal Field.

“Hal, what on earth?”

“You must not know your phone’s out of order,” he was impatient to come in from the heat outside.

“No. What’s got you so riled?”

We sat in my living room.

“The Prestons, Maria and James, have been trying to get ahold of you at my generous recommendation. They heard through the grapevine that I knew you and something about how, back around Easter, you dealt with the Reesons’ truant brat, Ryan. I gave them your phone number. They haven’t been able to reach you, so they asked me to intervene.”

“Simmer down. What’s at issue?”

He huffed, “They need to park their son Justin for…”

“Now just a minute…”

“Hear me out. He needs guidance from an experienced hand. He’s at that stage when a teen boy – he’s sixteen, newly minted – doesn’t want to do what he should even though it’s for his own good. You know that cliché.”

“I’ve a suspicion there’s something else coming.”

“The Prestons are having their house remodeled – new roof, plumbing, wiring, painting inside and out – so they’re going to their place in woodsy North Florida where Justin has refused to go. He hates everything about those prospects. They’re prepared to pay handsomely if you’ll take Justin and they’re more than willing to execute an In loco parentis document granting you total discretion over the boy.”

I dog-eared the page in my novel – a Baldaccian epic of five hundred-plus pages – closed it, thought for a moment, asked Hal, “I’m supposed to want to do this?”

“Cranky, are you? You will thank me for setting this up once it dawns on you how a challenge – the one I have for you – is just what you need to rescue your libido from its torporous retirement.”

“That was a mouthful even for you.”

We sputtered with laughter.

“Tell me more,” I scowled with mock seriousness, an eyebrow raised.

He did…with success. And within hours, acting as middleman, he arrived with the document, an envelope containing payment, and the surly boy with his suitcase. Made the effort to introduce us, to which Justin responded, “Yeah, well, whatever,” and retreated.

A dark thought came to me. I returned to my novel. Said nothing. Let him stand where he was until my cold shoulder forced him to speak.

“What about me?”

“What indeed.” I turned a page. Let him simmer.

“What about my suitcase?”

“Ah, I’ll take care of that for you.” I roused myself, hoisted the fairly heavy piece of luggage, placed it in a closet which I locked, turned to him, and said, almost smiling, “You won’t be needing that.”

“My stuff, my clothes, my ear buds, iPhone…”

“You’ve clothes on. As for the other items, you won’t be needing them right away.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he sounded impatient. Looked so, hands on thin hips.

“Stand there.” I went back to my reading.

After a few moments, “Hey, what’s with you?”

With deliberation, I put my book face down, and said, “You’re with me. But since I don’t know you, perhaps your word – what – is correct. You’re only a ‘what’ as far as I’m concerned and not much of one to look at.” My voice remained calm but the glare I turned on him was meant to intimidate.

He was getting nervous. “That guy Hal told me you were good to boys.”

I cut him off, “You misheard. Undoubtedly, he said I was good for boys, boys like you – smartasses who think they’re something special, who think they’re entitled to their parents’ indulgences without deserving any of it. Here with me, under my guidance, you will be brought into line with exacting standards of cooperation. We have the Summer and will make the most of it, starting today.”

He gulped, “You some kind of freak?”

“I’ll ignore the impertinence of your question. You may not realize it but your type wants someone to take complete control.”

“No, I don’t. I want out of here.”

“JUSTIN!” I boomed so loudly he froze in place. Jumped to my feet and seized his jeans’ waistband with my left hand. Then he could not move further. Held his breath. Standing close to his face, I poked the top button of his shirt with my right index finger, “Open this. I’m going to begin my assessment of you with your throat.”

Flawless skin. A bobbing Adam’s apple, which I touched with thumb and forefinger. “The next button.” His hands had to reach beneath mine to bare collarbone and the beginnings of his undeveloped chest. “Another,” I ordered and added, “Don’t break eye contact.”

Fear showed in his expression as he obeyed. With a swaying motion of my hand, I felt the newly exposed area, and opened the shirt’s next two buttons to reach his lower ribcage and stomach. Sweat beaded his brow as I touched there. “Still hairless as a baby, are you? I will see about that. Open your jeans and slip them down.”

I let go entirely of him, enjoying his blushing discomfort.

Jockey shorts compacted nascent genitals attractively. “These, too,” I said with a stroke beneath. He flushed, but pushed denim and cotton to his knees. “I see that you’ve a ways to go with growth there,” I observed coolly. “Turn around.”

From head to calves his back had not a blemish to detract from the charms of teen-smooth, pale flesh and wiry form.

What he may have imagined I would demand next, it must not have been my direction, “Sit on my chair and remove shoes, socks, and both pairs of pants.” He looked at me childlike, probably in disbelief. As he bared himself completely, I encouraged, “Obedience becomes you.”

“I’m thirsty. Can I have some…water?” His voice was tremulous.

“Yes, you need water inside and out. Leave your clothes. Come with me.”

An hour later and much wiser, if chagrined, his thirst had been quenched, his lower tract cleansed by forced enemas – the first, second, and third of his life – and his butt fitted with a plug of appropriate size. Only then did I take him to the shower and watch him wash himself thoroughly, fury hardly contained. I dried him vigorously, “You are in my hands now and for the future, Justin. Remember what I said, obedience becomes you.”

That he managed “Yes” rather than “Yeah” I took as a sign of progress.

* * *

For supper, my delivery service brought macaroni and cheese, a double-stack hamburger and french fries for him and tacos for me. Beer for both of us.

Once our stomachs approved, I settled us on my den’s sofa for the BBC’s evening news, me clothed as I had been, Justin shakily naked and decidedly uninterested in current events on other fronts. The here and now prompted him to ask, “The thing you put in my butt – it hurts. Can you take it out?”

“Yes, I can. In fact, I will and I’ll put some helpful salve where it bothers you.”

A tube of prescription-strength analgesic cream lay in a nearby drawer ready to perform its soothing duty. With him over my lap, I fingered it on and in the stressed muscle tissues. No deeper than two knuckles. Between the relief it provided and the buzz he had from his beer and half of mine, Justin mellowed. A bit.

“What was that thing for anyway – that plug?” His tone, respectful.

“Dilation.” I used the TV’s remote to switch to a stash of anal sex porn videos – older guys fucking boys more or less his age. “Note the smiles on the boys’ faces,” I said after a while. “They’ve been dilated. That means, widened for their men the way I must widen you for my penis or else hurt you terribly. I have no desire to hurt you.”

Thin, scornful lips parted, “You think you’re going to fuck me?”

“Of course, and often. It’s the least I owe your parents. Say, when they disciplined you, what did they do?”

“Disciplined? They never disciplined me.”

“How about punishments?”

He breathed uneasily before asking, “A queer like you, you’re thinking to fuck me for punishment – for what? I haven’t done anything…”

“Hold it, kid. Fucking’s a fact in this house, a fucking fact. Nothing queer about it. Ordinary in fact, and regular, neither reward nor punishment. It’s what I do with any boy’s butt in my house.”

Silence.

He fumed.

On-screen, porn star Alex Killian was plowing the daylights out of blissed co-star Austin Lock. Impossible to ignore. My unwilling guest tore his eyes away with a snort.

Was his dense mind capable of rumination or had he just plain stalled? I opted to tempt him with an old saying of mine. “I’m going to screw your ass off in order to screw your head on right. I call it developmental discipline.”

Waited for a reaction. None came. Time to change tactic. “It’s late. Time for bed. Up those stairs. I’ll be right behind you. Use the bathroom there while I tend to a few things here.”

Plumbing sounds proved he had taken my suggestion. Securing his clothes in the closet where his suitcase stood, I locked my front and back doors. No easy exit, should he be so inclined. Mounted the stairs. Found him not looking at my bookshelves but for a second bed.

Not spotting one, he looked my way, “Is that for me?”

“For us,” I said, locking the bedroom door and shucking my pullover to expose his gaze to my expanse of chest and arm muscles. Before he could protest, I scratched thick pectoral hair, stepped from slip-ons, dropped my pants, fluffed my balls, and told him, “You sleep with me or on the floor, it’s up to you. I’m warmer. Oh, if you choose the floor, you’ll wear this all night.” That’s when I retrieved from my nightstand’s drawer a more formidable plug than the one which had plagued him. “Just needs a little glaze of spit to complement the medication you needed.” Smiled.

Were those tears he blinked away?

“If I sleep with you, what are you going to do – try to fuck me?”

A touch of courage?

“No. My fingers will coat your core with more of that cream you liked and dilate there as you fall asleep on my other arm.”

“That’s all, you promise?” his voice was close to cracking.

“Unless you want more.” With that, I lifted the lightweight covers, watched him scoot across to the far side, put back in its drawer the offered plug but took up a different tube of grease – one laced with a soporific – spread enough in his hole to dispatch him to dreamland, remembered to dowse the lights and turn off the porn, fishtailed in with a second finger, kissed the back of his neck, and – you know – thought ahead to the morrow’s challenges.

* * *

The strong urge to overwhelm him had to be resisted or the weeks to come might not build the way I intended nor obtain the result desired. My night’s thoughts had crystallized into a plan.

Breakfast of cereal and milk with banana slices and blueberries went down well with steaming coffee. My taciturnity seemed to baffle. Antsy throughout, he tried not to focus on the bulge behind my chef’s apron, ate too rapidly, choked on a corn flake, responded to my hand thumps of his back, allowed himself limply to be gathered into an embrace, and to have his bottom cupped – not that he had any choice.

“There, there. You’ll be fine, Justin. You’re in custodial care. Go to the restroom and attend to your ablutions. I’ll check on you there. Be a good lad.”

Ablutions may have been a word absent from his vocabulary but the idea registered.

Fifteen minutes later, as he stepped from the shower, I shrouded him immediately in a huge bath towel, lifted him over my shoulder, and carried his wriggling body to my bed. Deposited there, he was tickled senseless and defenseless, unceremoniously unwrapped, and adroitly replugged.

Shock registered in his pelvis. His nostrils flared, “Damn you!”

“Angry expostulations such as that are taboo in this house, especially if directed at me. They merit punishment.” I was frosty, but fast. I drew his posterior into position for the first spank of his new life. My wallops stung both cheeks and jolted his plug. I powered hard for about a minute, settled my hand to stroke the affronted skin a few seconds, and lit into the next phase telling him, “Accept your spanking, you worthless twit, if you expect to expiate your guilt.”

Rankling in confused protest, he started to cry. I spanked harder.

“Like a baby – you sound like one.” I firmed my blows impactfully until pink skin became inflamed and he puffed for air between sobs. Instead of another pause to stroke, I massaged his plug. A sudden flurry of nervous reaction from his rear conveyed a nameless message. One, I surmised, of incipient pleasure there.

Ratification came in the form of a slender teen cock ballooning against my thigh. “Accept, baby. Accept, for there is much to come.” My thumb rotated the plug. “Do you hear me?”

He stopped crying as I kept plying what can safely be described as his vulnerable asshole. Expecting perhaps resumption of the spank, he tensed for a moment, squeezed, let his muscle relax, answered “Yes,” and was rewarded by more massaging. I felt his erection’s rub of my thigh yearning for action.

On an impulse, I turned him over and ran my hands possessively across his upper thighs and stomach. Paying no attention to the upturned red-tipped cock, I collected into my enclosing fingers his ultra-sensitive testicles. “Did you know that these can be spanked, too? Not today, but be aware that theirs is a special potential for getting you to cede yourself to my will and dominion.”

Not a word from him. I figured he could be frightened further into compliance by my taking further advantage of his position. I almost caused him to fall from my knees by lifting his legs back until his knees were close to his chin. It gave my free hand access to balls, plugged hole, and never-touched perineum. On the last, the edges of my fingernails hovered as I decided upon a scratch technique that would not tickle but would cause neural impulses to fire erratically. For sure.

His head lifted, “Please don’t do that.”

A scratch of his balls produced a pained yelp and such a violent thrust of his legs that I lost control. My Summer subject sprang to his feet totteringly and turned around to spew, “Look! I get it. You’re gonna to fuck me. Okay. I’ll let you if you just won’t be so mean to me. Hell, I’m stuck here. I know that. But, god, man, you don’t have to…to…to be so…hateful about it.”

“Stand there. Be quiet. Don’t make a move. I’ve a phone call to make.”

The numbers punched in, I waited, a cautionary finger in the air.

“Hal, hi. It’s me… Yep, the phone’s obviously working now. You remember Justin?...  Yes, bland Justin. That one… I know, not much to work with – but – he’s coming along pretty much on schedule. Has yet to clean up his language – still uses verboten expletives… Oh?... Nice to hear that Ryan’s behavior is continuing to be exemplary. Who’s taken him from those idiots, his parents?... Not to be believed – they sold him?”

My end of the conversation was not lost on Justin. He quailed at the drift. Sat down. Wrung his hands.

I rang off. “Stand up. Take out the plug – yes, you. Hand it over. Now, squat on the floor in front of me and look closely. It could be important that you do because you’re in trouble for more bad language. I could spank you again but I won’t – yet.”

Meekly, he squatted.

“This,” I fondled my cock toward tumescence, “This is what is going to fuck you.” I manipulated it fondly, masturbated it into growth, stroked it from side to side. What it attained was a whopping size to batting eyes and springing Adam’s apple.

“My cock is congruent in every way with that of porn star Legrand Wolf. You will watch a selection of his videos with beautiful boys smaller and better looking than you – Jon, Caleb, Leo, Max, and Danny. They had the common sense, which you lack, to let themselves be ready for him and his dimensions across and along. Not you. No, you handed back my helpful plug. Very well, you made your choice.”

Using his belt and one of mine, I secured him to a chair before the television and started the Wolf series of randy fuck scenes. “Watch. Learn if you can. And, after lunch I’ll show you what getting fucked is all about.”

* * *

During our meal, he repeatedly implored me with watery eyes for a plug. To each plea I was silent. My half-smiles seemed worrisome to him. He asked what they meant. I never replied, which worried him more. He drank his sweetened iced tea (laced with a pulverized valium), ate two ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and begged me, instead of fucking him, to spank him again with the plug. My sober expression – I cracked no more smiles – chilled the boy.

* * *

“You’re a fool,” I told him as he trembled on my bed, prone, his wrists and ankles fastened against unwanted movement. “You had your chance but, instead of accepting the wisdom of what I offered you here” – I ran one finger into his reluctant rectum – “you chose ignorance.”

He moaned when the second aligned itself with the other. I pushed them in and located something he did not know he had, his prostate. Separating their farthest joints such that there was one on each side of the gland, I delicately stimulated the defenseless bump until the last trace of Justin’s recalcitrance vanished into my bed

“A cock – mine – will do more for your prostate than any combination of fingers.”

After a liberal coat of my ten incher with Vaseline, I straddled the waiting butt, took aim, told Justin to relax, and began to apply pressure. My fingers having loosened his anus and occupied his reception area, it was only a matter of time before strained muscle surrendered to gristly engorgement, was enlarged maximally without tearing, and ever so slowly forced to conform to its commandeering occupant.

He bore my initial penetration. Made guttural sounds. Sure insertion, only as far as seemed safe, was met by a fruitless effort to tighten against me. My pull back tricked him into thinking his hole had been reprieved – the exact moment for me to press my advantage. I sank my shaft balls deep. The shock did not register for a second. When it did, two things happened: his prostate was flattened and disgorged its gobbets. Outrage from his mouth was stifled by my hand. My thumb and index finger pinched his nostrils. “When you want to breathe, lick my palm and lick it well.”

Tongue action’s desperate digs into my lifeline distracted him from his impalement. “Good. I’ll let you have some air each time you push against where we are joined. Get it? Fuck..my..dick. I’m being nice by not fucking you. You’re going to fuck yourself until I get my jollies.”

Tears – of shame, I presumed – streamed his face as he thrust and was allowed a gasp of air. He lacked the bodily strength to bring me off but, in the minutes that followed, his inhibitions about a cock in his ass were destroyed. I sluiced his tract steadily until he came a second time. Resting fully inside, I cooed, “A wonder, isn’t it? You’re going henceforth to know this pleasure to a degree beyond the limits of your weak imagination. Not to worry though, for mine is all the imagination you need. I am going to provide the best care your ass has ever had.”

Whatever got through to him, Justin understood enough to be able to ask, “Will it always be this awful?”

I cleared my throat, “Think, Justin, think.” Rooted him enough to be noticed. “Unaccustomed as you are to sensible behavior, you cannot deny that you are the reason this has hurt. You wanted no plug – without asking why you had been plugged. So, you now have the real plug, mine in all its grand breadth and extent, and are open enough to provide the channel proper for its domicile.”

The recess over, I moved an inch, two, three – returning to his lumpy prostate each time – then four, five, six, and seven (inexact measurements, to be sure) – pacing my well-greased fuck of him – triceps bulging, chest muscles flexing – through the cycle for so long a time that he unconsciously emitted something resembling a hum on my in-strokes.

Reluctance had given way to unenthusiastic, observable nods. He was getting it, adjusting to it mentally. I aggressed a degree higher on the Richter scale – and he came without warning. Awkwardly exaggerated spasms whipped my burgeoned cock sideways and around – to rip from me a gear-stripping load.

After our hubbub died, he rasped, “I took it, didn’t I?” A note of pride.

Vanilla ice cream cloaked with chocolate sauce rewarded us.

* * *

At his request, I lolled with him to view Legrand Wolf’s screw of the boy Jonathan. “Look at Jonathan’s face. See those worry lines? That vein on his forehead? What’s that mean, do you think?”

I cradled Justin in my arms, “Simple. Jonathan’s wondering if he’s worthy, if he’s deserving of so magnificent a cock plumbing his depths. He’s wondering at the fact that he likes being pounded hard, even hurtfully. I happen to know because I’ve seen later videos of him tied up by ropes and fucked, of him strapped to a flogging stool, even one of him hung on a cross and smacked repeatedly over the stomach with a multi-strand whip.”

“For real?”

“Yes, he became a pain pig. The pain became an end in itself rather than an aid to sex, so I lost interest in him.”

 Bold for him was what came next, “What about that, you know, sucking stuff? Jonathan sucked that man…”

“Actually, he didn’t. He made a show of trying to. That’s in almost all pornos – warm-ups for the main attraction. A boy’s mouth can’t deal with more than the plumped head and a few inches of thick cock. Real men want to go all the way in – and young asses are for more readily adaptable than throats and their gag reflexes, their stomachs puking out everything they ate and drank.”

“Are you going to make me…?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

* * *

Days and nights followed with Justin observing my intense physical workouts – bench presses and squats – and listening to me describe how each unit of my body needed to be in top condition for my total domination of him. He ate the diet I fed him, looked forward to my cleansings, appreciated the scented lubricants I changed often – some fruity, others woodsy. Nicely water soluble, they did not last the way Vaseline did, so were abandoned. At my complaint his orifice’s sphincter needed tightening exercises so that I could force passage through, he strove to keep it clenched between bouts in bed, on the sofa, the floor. Once bent over my garbage can outside.

Cute, how ass-clench efforts made him squeeze his eyes. Paid off. In the next days, he wanted to suffer the pain of being ravished regularly by the man – me – for whom he lacked the words of adulation. I did my dominant’s part by remaining insensitive to his anguish – reflected in the hand mirror I gave him. “Watch yourself the way you watched Jonathan in the video.”

Although he never emitted a sound when my manhood’s cockhead was not quite in, anxious perspiration broke out on his forehead. Relentlessly slow, rigidly controlled, increasingly pressing with both hands holding firm, I edged my way into his slim, steamy hot subservience. Desire rippled over me with maddening power. I could course into his pliant, cunt-soft lair for the immediate satisfaction of spraying blinding flashes of semen. But I chose not, in favor of bringing myself and himself to the brink by levering him onto my steely pole and sliding him back and forth like the shuttle in a loom.

I moved up a little, pulled in my gut, jutted out my pecs, smacked his butt, and demanded, “You’ve got the idea. Slowly now, slowly…your ass is fitted perfectly. I know it’s hurting. Supposed to. Get used to liking this. Slide yourself the way I mean you to. Move it. All the way, Justin. Be my boy – seize every inch. Make it your rightful own. Cover it until my balls decorate your ass.”

I saw in his mirror that he was panting, his face beaded with sweat and signs of pain endured and of relief at the thought the worst was over. In spite of what he had just gone through, he pushed his ass as I wanted. Remaining motionless, I clutched deeply forward-twitching messages. Listened. Heard impulsive hums, hums of readiness.

My contrary motions were set up to skewer him – I hoped – with the pain of riveting domination. Eureka! He soon acclimatized, began to cooperate, shook to accommodate, spread his legs with effort wider, pushed my way, and held himself angled in readiness. The effect on me was so thrilling that my mouth opened to take in gobs of air. I rammed him to the limit every time, my heart racing as rushes of blood suffused us both.

Pressure kept mounting. There was just so much my arm muscles could do. My back muscles spasmodically moved me forward in spite of my best intentions to be careful. And to limit.

Finally, my superior, involuntary nature dictated otherwise. Pushing Justin flat out on his stomach, I mounted him in a frenzy and, with the deepest and cruelest strokes I could muster, careened my remaining gism with flood-like force throughout his incinerating interior.

The excoriating act extinguished my flames.

Euphoric if burned out, I had to rest before becoming cognizant of his stunned, tear-streaked face trying to smile at me from the mirror he held shakily.

“Get off. I need to breathe,” he wheezed. Or snorted. Whatever, a funny sound from a sixteen-year-old crammed by ten inches.

I obliged and dislodged.

In my fashion of underhandedly paying a compliment, I said, “You may not be special in any other way but you are an improving receptacle.”

“I’m like still buzzing inside.”

To his dismay, I gave him the cold-shoulder treatment until a time next day when he least expected attention. Had the nerve to pull away.

“I’m trying to make the bed!”

“Doing a lousy job of it, too.” His ball sac came into my grasp. “Perhaps I should crack your nuts.”

The threat was all it took for him to shrug and to surrender.

Pillow cases twisted make excellent ties, he found out. Legs and arms secured as one, his puffy fundament looked at me like a bruised eye – purplish and blinking. Its crimson center, a toothless mouth, beckoned with the silent, siren-call lure of unsatisfied hunger to devour raw meat – or so I took its appearance.

Without explanation, I turned away, picked up another Baldaccian novel, bent its spine, and began to read. Speech from him was impossible due to two athletic socks of mine preventing his tongue from moving. About an hour of building frustration for him passed as I read, then tuned my TV to the BBC channel where a documentary on the composer Handel was in progress.

Hard to say which annoyed Justin more, the Baroque music or my toying with his distal and proximal phalanges, tempting testicles, and anxious anus. Only when he started to hyperventilate did I open the jar of Vaseline to lube myself, and stake him with the claim, “Your culture’s as impoverished as your mind, despite my efforts to improve it. Still, to honor your parents, I will not shirk my responsibility. Struggle all you can. Exhaust yourself. I’ll have you until you’re senseless, numb and then some. And when I am done, your meaningless life will have been dedicated to the purpose you evidently were born for – the Summer gratification of this man’s cock.”

My visit was sudden, an arrival as of a feral creature desirous of hiding itself in the dark dank, visible now and then as it darted wildly. A kind of hysteria dangerously exciting to foster in a young, dumb boy’s derriere. For foster it did, to give rise to constricting writhes more possessive than any before. No toothless boa could have gummed and sucked on me with greater intent.

I was almost lost.

Conjuring the memory of how to disengage my mind when faced by crisis, I let muscle memory take control – and rampaged with adult determination and a magnitude of pelvic energy beyond his ken. I fucked, fucked, fucked, and fucked until his breathing came as snorts.

Snorts before the rictus of orgasmic seizure.

He may have passed out. I neither knew nor cared. Point made.

“No cum deposit to nourish your ass this time, my boy,” I informed myself.

Cleaned, I read eleven short chapters in Lucifer’s Lion.

* * *

An altruistic streak compelled me to recognize that Justin’s sexual development should be nurtured with loving care, without my ever referring to the concept of love. In the ensuing weeks, I encouraged his poor reading skills by pointing to each word as we lay together in bed and I read aloud Stan Smith’s immortal Boy Ass for the Trucker.

Maintenance fucks punctuated particular parts. Favorites were repeated with him mouthing the words as I read them to him and, face down, reciting bits from memory to the stimulus of my hammering him into the mattress.

Sometimes, after one of those simple shags, he would rest his face on my detumescence and sniff the residual sperm.

If inspired to express himself and his need during periods when, for discipline, I cold-shouldered him, Justin would bring me his ropes, an ambitious look on his face, and hold out his wrists. How enticing was that? By ignoring him for the longest time and letting him merely stand there – in the exact spot he had stood that first time – his ass would torment him. I could tell. In my peripheral vision, his slim hips could be seen to move with the slight vibratory motion of a sphincter being squeezed.

To show interest, I would hold what I was reading in one hand and, with the other, skitter fingers on his scrotum. The larger of his testicles became a playground for miniature games of tug-of-war, his perineum a time-out spot. Yes, he would erect, his full-stand hoping for a touch, but it received no attention from me.

Occasionally, I would voice something admonitory such as, “If you succumb to the temptation of boys your age to masturbate, you risk compromising my enforcements of your ecstatic thrills from within.”

Once, when his small voice said, “I forget,” I flung him to the floor, shoved his heels high, and entered him straightaway. “Remember this, then!” I reminded him.

A yelp was stifled by long sighs as his ass, with its acquired taste for my cock, confidently opened itself to being scavenged. I fucked so voraciously that he became a little dreamy. I sensed he was on the margin of consciousness. The tell-tale hum of happiness drifted into three motivating words, “Rough feels good.”

Giddy, I let go of his heels. They wrapped around to convey me into a veritable vortex for hard-driving pleasure. On and on I drilled, my head spiraling at the idea he was mine, unreservedly. The fuck roused his prostate to excrete splats of cum toward his navel as his breath deepened into sleep.

I followed suit, us melded on our sides.

* * *

Our haze of lust waned not at all as weeks flew by. Fuckable as he was and mongrel-randy as I had become, we evolved into so odd a couple that friend Hal declared me “a recovered retiree.” Asked questions that pried.

To assuage his nosiness, I related how Justin, on his back, liked me to perch the head of my cock on his moistened rosette and wait while he brushed fingers through the glossy pelt of grey on my chest. His pulls of it became cues to advance, inch by inch; his pinch of my nipples, the ultimate cue – to bang him greedily, with an insatiable appetite and as hard as I could. Afterward, without a word, one bristly chin against one downy cheek, we would cuddle affectionately.

“You two eat, fuck, and sleep – is that all you do? What are you doing to educate him beyond the bed?”

Affronted, I explained, “I help him with his reading. Last week, for example, I shared the experience with him to read together selections from a modernized, highly relevant fairy tale.”

“Which?”

“Sleeping Beauty, reconceived by the famous author, Anne Rice.”

“And?”

“Justin got ideas for me to try on him – like tethering his hands together to a hook over his head…like subjugating him to titillating torture with my hands of his nipples, penis, and testicles…like turning him to the wall and forcing one dildo after another up into him as he is poised unsteadily on tiptoes.”

“”He wants…brutality?”

“Only to a degree, but my use of him with endless renewal of my sexual vigor. Look, it’s collecting in my organ even now.”

Thoroughly intimidated, Hal bowed out without confirming any of what I said with my boy.

Not long after, with my reliable part and while I was driving Justin over the proverbial brink into his favored teeming oblivion, Hal stuck his head in the door, realized I was delivering the goods forthwith, flushed, found his voice.

“The Summer’s soon over. I’ll have to return him to his parents.”

The admonishment was noted.  

* * *

Token resistance was all Justin ever put up, sufficient to goad me into the role he loved me to play – the aggressor. Tight was never enough to lock me out. He tried often enough, even resorting to his old trick of licking my palm. Faked a moan, got a wide butt plug in his mouth. “Suck on that and keep quiet!”

I went dry through the ring of muscle. It scraped me and maddened me until I was well inside him. I pressed down on him, forcing his legs back until he bent his knees over my shoulders. Then I started driving into him, hard. I let my cock slide almost out, then plunge forward, then almost out again. He sighed longingly around his plugged mouth and contracted his eyebrows as a glaze seemed to form over his eyes.

“This is my gift to undeserving you.” The remark made him breathe faster and faster. I came, bubbling out spurts, squeezing to empty myself, and going on until all the pleasure had leaked out of me. Truly spent, I pulled out of him.

Surveyed his condition, rolled him over, pinioned his hands, wedged a pillow to raise his butt favorably, admired the slope of his back which shifted for comfort, sensed re-rising desire, witnessed my recurred tumescence, splayed myself over him, and geared up for – to use the term of tennis champions – a grand slam.

I walloped into previous frothy leavings, walloped there again and again like delivering a beating. He closed his legs together tautly as with calculation I swung my pelvis with ecstatic freedom. If I slackened the pace, a sway of his hips demanded otherwise. I shoved, pumped, ground, listened for hums, and volleyed with hot, violent jerks.

Back in my arms, his eyes shone with indescribable luster.

It was in such a breathy moment that Hal knocked at my locked door. “It’s important. I must see you both.”

Justin headed to the bathroom. I stowed my natural gear in jockey shorts and donned my white robe.

“Hello. What’s important?”

He sat, leaned in. “Mr. and Mrs. Preston went down with that ferry in the Baltic. Their estate – not too shabby – goes to Justin with you as executor. There’ll be papers to sign at the attorney’s office. How shall I tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Justin came back, modestly clad in my other terrycloth robe.

With time to digest the news and to process his thought, he glanced up from the chair behind which I stood with my hands on his shoulders, “This means you get to boss me around, doesn’t it?”

“Until your eighteenth birthday – in two years,” Hal made clear.

Ignoring the man, Justin said, “And you’ll keep force-fucking me?”

“Unless you decide otherwise after you’re eighteen.”

The smile that crept across his face said all that was needed.

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