Guile or Innocence?

Guile or Innocence 4

[You can best get into the swing of this saucy series by starting here,  then by heading to its naughty sequel and, from it, proceed to what is meant as the yarn’s quirky, satirical conclusion.

Of course, you don’t have to. The decision to do or not to do rests with you. Be aware, however, that ‘political correctness’ had no part in the thinking nor the writing – just tongue-in-cheek, maybe-outrageous fun. You may want to consider chapter four to be ‘posthumous’ – as you will see, I hope.]

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In the old men’s home where a certain freaky-minded, word-mongering, semi-legendary old coot had amused and embarrassed several caregivers (and had sex with one), new administrators who were clearing out long-abandoned storage boxes came across a yellowed envelope containing some typed manuscripts. Max Thrynk, second-in-command of the new order, handed it to his boss, Gus Gunderson. “Want to see what these are?”

Set aside while Gus had a sneezing fit from the dust directed his way by Max’s abrupt gesture, the envelope drew attention when it fell off its perch and split open on the floor. Gus growled as was his wont, scraped the papery lot together, then noticed passages of description and dialog that caused his eyes to linger.

“Hey, these are about a kid named Timothy. Young teen, it seems. Hey – yeah – and sex stuff. There’s even a preface by that old nut.”

“Huh?”

“Wanna see?”

He did. They both did.

Print-outs of what must have been the guy’s perversely naughty project.

***

When these story-ettes eventually are found, they will upset the uptight. I gloat to myself over conceiving role-reversals, female dominance, butt-plug spankings, and parentally-controlled teen-boy love. Not for the faint of lust!

Those watching me are censorious. They wish to curb my enthusiasms, the prigs. What with my gifts, I should be writing sweet, children’s bedtime stories, delicate fairy tales, fables ending with morals like Aesop’s. Life lessons – that crap.

Oh no!

My counters are that the young who read my stories at bedtime (or otherwise) will mature to be better-than-average at sex. Plan ahead, folks. Don’t you want your teen sons to have better times in the sack, bent over a barrel, or locked in a pillory than you did?

Wait. Do I credit you with too much experience?

Fairies, of course, are what people used to call characters like some of my best bottoms. Mine have no need for gossamer wings, though. Wands, now those are a different subject. Think about it.

As for morals, no need to spell them out. Who for – mental dullards? They can’t possibly understand the subtlety with which ideas-for-action are planted in my prose. I am sure that one or more morals can be found in the liquescent substance of everything I confect in my cauldron of culture.

Take Timothy. An exemplar – the sort of lad every seeker of cooperation craves to have in her or his ambit.

***

Timothy: A Teen-in-Training

“Hello, my precious. Look what I got from the grocer’s to surprise your father – his favorite cinnamon rolls with nuts and icing.”

Timothy loved his mother’s smile. “I saw him on my way in. He said he’s thirsty. Bet he’s hungry, too.” He put down his schoolbook satchel. Eyed the rolls.

“A safe bet, my sweet. He’s been in there for quite some time – since he came home from a half-day at the office. Needed to think. Timothy, sit down. I note concern on your face. I think you’re ready to understand a little more about what a good husband’s responsibilities are. Why are you fidgeting?”

“Mom, I wanted to tell you…”

“I already know. Now’s not the time, not when I’m teaching you things you need to know in order to become proper husband material.”

Admonished, slender Timothy sat still. Looked at the sweet rolls, thought of his father, suppressed his news.

Always obey Mom.

“Your father’s far from being an ideal husband. As many times as he has been reminded of his duties, he reverts back to that bothersome old method of thought that his sexual desire has a right other than to serve me.”

“But he…”

The look Timothy received stopped him cold.

“Last night’s supper was sub-par. He over-cooked the pork loin, the mashed potatoes were lumpy, and the salad – you saw how wilted it was – had been dressed too long beforehand. We ate it, though, didn’t we? That’s right, nod. But good will behind a meal is no substitute for standard, husband-skill. That simple menu was in the cooking class I sent him to. He made it well enough there.

Yes, only not with that new cock cage strapped on.

“And, as for breakfast this morning before you went to school,” she continued coolly for her son’s benefit, “the less said about it the better.”

They locked eyes. He blinked.

She made a decision. Filled a glass with tap water, handed it to Timothy, and placed a cinnamon bun in his other hand.

“Go tend to your father. I’ll watch that you do it with loving perfection.”

Conscious of being observed, Timothy took careful steps lest a drop be spilled.

“Dad, Mom sent me to you,” he said to the man who was unable to move from the way he was roped.

Timothy’s dad wisely said nothing but did sip from the steadily-held glass before accepting a bite of the roll.

Several minutes passed without spillage or even a crumb dropped. Entire glass, all of the roll.

“Good,” they were told. To her husband, she said, “Another thirty minutes, then we’ll see how ready you are to serve me. Timothy and I will be in the kitchen where he’s going to tell me about a coming event.”

The event she says she knows about.

“Now, my boy, let me hear your news.”

He took off his school clothes and stood nakedly before her as usual when sharing confidences.

“I see your testicles are getting back their natural color.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You remember how they got that way?”

“Yes, ma’am. You smacked them harder than ever.”

“What else?”

“You pulled my sac down and squeezed them.”

“Why?”

“Part of my training to be a good boy, so one day I’ll be ‘good husband material.’

“All right. So tell me about what Christine wants with you.”

He swallowed, in the knowledge that she wanted him to say what she already knew. “She wants to take me for my first date now that I can … e-jac-u-late.”

A hard word to say.

“Since I see that you are excited about that, I will approve. Christine’s mother and I have spoken about this. The girl’s been coached and is ready to take charge of a first date. Present yourself to me to show your gratitude.”

Timothy clasped his fingers on the top of his head and closed his eyes, the better to concentrate.

Wow, she’s snapping on my first ball strap. Tight. But…feels good the way she’s rubbing there.

“Timothy, I’m going to flog your penis now to make it lose that erection. You need to be flaccid when Christine comes for you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I want to be a good boy for you and for her.”

The object she wielded with excellent wrist dexterity was smaller than the one used for her husband – three six-inch rawhide strips extending from a handle.

It smarted but did the job. Timothy whistled air through clenched teeth. Not a tear.

I remember my manners.

“Thank you, Mom, for helping me to be ready.”

“You’re welcome. Now answer the doorbell.

“Hello, Timothy,” Christine greeted the bound-balls boy. “My, this looks very nice, all striped with red,” she said, a hand enclosing his limp penis and tugging it her way. “Come along now.”

Just then, the phone rang. Caller ID showed Christine’s mother’s name.

“Hello, Christine’s got hold of Timothy and is about to leave with him for your place.”

After the call, the girl was informed, “You need to have your date with my son here. Your mom’s got a domestic problem with your dad. Use our living room floor or the furniture with Timothy, only mind not to let him get teen-juice on the upholstery. I’ll be in the bedroom dealing with my husband if you need me.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Knowledgeably, she plunked him on his left side facing away. His cinched scrotum and penis were pulled through and his legs placed together. She felt his balls and stroked his soft shaft to titillate. A smack on each butt cheek preceded a teasing rub of his anus with lubricant. The exposed underside of his abraded cock was stroked and his balls tugged.

Cooing “Good boy” repeatedly, the girl flicked, patted, rubbed more and smacked harder. A thumb and forefinger circled his penis’ head as his anus was lubed further and penetrated knuckle by knuckle. In a sense of play with the area, a not-wide, not-too-long black plug found its home readily. It made a nice target for flattened fingers to tap between hits to balls and clasps of extending penis.

Masturbating him thus, Christine edged Timothy close to boygasm. An idea, extrapolated from an act she had witnessed at home, came to her: Tie a strip of cord to the ball strap and pull it back. Use my other hand’s thumb to coax ever so slowly the darling boy past edging – letting him whine and squeal as boyishly as he needs – and into e-jac-u-la-tion. 

She was adept.

He came the most yet in his young life. And, when the quakes became shivers and died down, Timothy shifted his head up toward hers, pursed lips for a kiss, and asked, “Would you like to share a cinnamon roll with me? Mom’s got plenty.”

***

Timothy: A Neighborly Tale

“Oh Howard, I’m glad you’re home early. I take it that you saw the moving van pulling away from next door as you drove in. We have new neighbors.”

“Yes Peggy, I did.”

“Don’t take off your clothes yet. I’m not horny anyway. We should go over and say hello – with a bottle of champagne.”

“If you think so, dear. You always know what’s best.”

As for knowing best, Howard Small knew better than not to agree with his wife. Had rope burns on wrists and ankles to prove it.

Equipped with a chilled bottle of Freixanet, they walked across two lawns.

She’d never give away the real stuff.

Peggy rang the doorbell for the both of them. Twice. Then knocked, “Yoo-hoo, we’re your neighbors come to introduce ourselves.”

Footsteps preceded a man and woman. The door opened as far as its security chain allowed.

“Yes?” the bass voice asked.

“We want to welcome you to our neighborhood. We’re the Smalls. And we’ve brought this,” she thrust the bottle’s label toward the crack.

Howard’s nervous sneeze covered the sound of the man saying under his breath, “Shit.”

The door opened.

Peggy, who tried to walk in, almost bumped into the sturdily-built homeowner who stood in her way.

His frazzle-haired wife peered around him to say quietly, “Hello.” 

“I’m Peggy Small from next door. That is Howard,” she nodded behind. “And this we brought for you,” she beamed.

“Soda pop?” the question was growled as he stepped aside. “She’s my wife, Esther,” he said. “Come in, although we aren’t ready to receive visitors.”

Peggy paraded into the box-crowded hall, followed by her husband. 

“I’m Tifton Mandrill. Try the living room to your right. Not sure where we’ll all sit. On crates and boxes unless you’d rather come back on another day. The arm chair’s mine. Esther will take the ottoman beside it.” 

Peggy trilled, “No trouble at all.”

Their unwilling hosts sat first, leaving only a choice of this box or that crate which were indicated by a snap of Mr. Mandrill’s pointed finger.

The alacrity with which his wife sat amused Howard, who stood with arms folded. He noticed that the man of the house was built like a wrestler, his wife like a mouse. 

Peggy broke the uneasy silence with, “What do you do for a living? Howard is a marriage counselor. He’s very sympathetic, aren’t you, dear?”

He smiled at Esther.

The bass said, “I’m the new manager of Super Hardware at the City Shopping Mall.” 

At that moment, a loud thunk and a “Damn!” invaded the Mandrill’s living room.

Tifton Mandrill boomed, “Milo!”

A buzz-cut blond teen with a cute cleft chin – loose shorts, no shirt – came at once. His face showed tension. 

“Sir?”

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to do the squats you ordered while lifting your 20-pound barbell but the new plug you put in me popped out, sir. I dropped the barbell. I’m sorry.

“You’re always sorry. I’m trying to make you into a man’s man. Come here,” he barked at his chagrined son.

“Honey,” Esther touched her husband’s muscled arm, “we have company.” 

Peggy spoke up, “Oh, don’t mind us. Discipline’s good for teenage boys. I know, we have one too, a little younger than yours. His name is Timothy.”

Howard, who never interfered in disciplinary matters, watched obedient Milo being forced abruptly over his father’s lap and his shorts-covered bottom being walloped with tremendous impact. 

“Sir, please! I put the plug back in! You’re killing me!”

“So that’s what’s fighting me, is it?” As he asked, he pushed a thumb hard against what had to be the plug’s base.

Milo’s adolescent voice squealed. 

Curiosity got the better of Peggy Small. “A plug for discipline? What is that?”

The teen’s reddened cheeks were exposed to view, something black, the size of a silver dollar, in dead-center.

Howard’s arm to Peggy’s shoulder may have prevented her leaving her packing-crate perch but not his wife’s desire to see with her own eyes the disciplinary focus.

Extracted and replaced, it was a sight which keyed her immediate interest. “Howard, go home to work on your chores and send Timothy over here at once.” Orders given, her attention returned to the scene before her. “Please continue, only on the bare. It’s so much more effective. Why, when I discipline Timothy, he’s always naked. Makes him obedient and,” she hastened to say, “compliant.” 

Milo’s shorts stripped away, his spanking resumed to more howls. Over the noise, Mr. Mandrill said with increasing volume, “Milo knows obedience. I’ve drilled it into him, haven’t I son?” 

 “Yes sir, you have. Ow! I always try to meet your – ow! – standards. Sir!” 

Shy Timothy saw what was happening and wanted to run away but his mother was quick to take him by the hand and yank him in. “Come, my darling. Look how Milo, who is a little older than you, is disciplined by his father for disobedience.”

The younger boy’s mouth hung open in dismay.

“Timothy,” she whispered, “are you wearing your strap?”

“No ma’am, but it’s in my pocket.”

The object dangling in hand, Peggy waved it, calling, “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Mandrill, I have a neighborly suggestion.”

Anger colored the man’s face. He stopped, the heel of his spank hand against Milo’s flaming bottom. “What?”

“Binding a miscreant boy’s testicles really sends a message. I’ll show you. Quick, Timothy, off with your clothes.” 

“Mom!” 

“That’s it. You question my instruction?” She seethed as the shivering boy revealed himself naked. Then, adroit as was her wont, she snapped the inch-wide strap around his healthy-pink scrotum.

Really made youthful balls stand out.

“Stand straight, hands on your head.”

Six Mandrill eyes observed her rubs, scratches, squeezes, and smacks – and hapless Timothy’s forming erection. Her smacks of it made the kid’s organ harder. 

One pair of the neighbor’s eyes glinted. The hand on Milo’s plug shifted lower to find, encircle, and begin to manipulate more developed, tender orbs.

The young fellow’s toes pointed and curled, his stiffening inches pressing his father’s thigh as if to mate with it.

Nothing if not presumptuous, Peggy unsnapped Timothy’s strap, stranding him and his throbby tumescence as she stepped to the halted spank group, declaring, “I’ll show you.”

She flicked a polished nail to Tipton Mandrill’s hand, a signal to get it out of her way. “Young man, this will help you focus on your punishment. Unlike that silly plug-thing, it stays in its proper place.” 

Milo’s scrotum was a picture of teen pride tightly cinched and waiting.

“Come along, Timothy. Pick up your clothes. These people need their privacy. Anyway, I’ve got a wider strap waiting to try on you.”

Walking together across the lawn, Peggy heard her name being called. Esther Mandrill waved the black plug. “My husband has the next size up for our son. He thought you might want this for your sweet Timothy.”

“Why, thank him for me, will you? I’m sure Timothy will appreciate it. Won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

Milo, Timothy, & Parents

Milo Mandrill grew quickly from the time his father’s index finger first found his developing prostatic nub. Tifton Mandrill’s exercise of Milo’s inner sensitivity became a daily concern. Of both.

“Son, take it,” he had said from the start. “There’s a lot I need to do for you to help prepare you for bigger things.” 

“Yessir,” the adolescent said without being sure of the feeling. He was certain his dad’s finger was big and long.

Discrepancy in the man’s finger diameter and the tightness of Milo’s hole – despite spit – was not overcome for two weeks. By day three, only knuckle one could be tolerated and then not for more than the fewest minutes. Days four through seven were marked by knuckles one and two flexing the kid’s tightness and traveling their couple of inches’ length in and out – shy of Daddy Mandrill’s goal.

The next week was devoted to the whole finger and more rapid poking-stroking motions. They were causing Milo’s feelings about being fingered to improve – for his inner nub (baby walnut size) was reacting each time, tingling the boy toward some event that surely would occur in the near future.

It did. An orgasm.

There! I did it! Milo’s gone electric. In time, he’ll be good for me.

Took several months, but two fingers eventually could pummel and rotate without causing much discomfort and, at the same time, propelled prostatic seizures that grew in maturing output. 

After that, the day arrived that the elder Mandrill’s cock could begin to explore Milo’s clasping interior. Or so it was thought.

Not, alas.

The appendage was too broad to breach, Milo’s reluctant ring too constricted. 

A scratch of the fatherly head prompted the propelling of stripped-down Milo into the Mandrill basement where products from Super Hardware at the City Shopping Center were put to trial. Only the best and most adaptable were to be offered with convincing pride by the store’s manager to customers – amateurs and professionals.

There awaited a variable-speed electric hand drill to which, rapidly, a slender dowel was affixed and oiled. It twirled Milo’s rectum most wonderfully.

Not too big. Feels great, like I’m buzzing everywhere.

The further the dowel was thrust, the more Milo buzzed. In a moment – bingo! – he spasmed.

“Dad, that was great, if awfully stiff.”

Concern for the teen’s rectal safety led to the purchase from a sex shop of flexible silicone dildos in progressive diameters from a single inch to two inches. One by one, the dildos were mounted on the Mandrill hand drill for Milo’s benefit.

What had started over an ottoman in his dad’s den soon was shifted to the family basement where, bent over a workbench or sawhorse, kneeling on the floor, or dorsally recumbent with legs raised, Milo, sometimes tied, was regularly drilled. Lubricants were changed from those for machine equipment to biodegradable olive oil.

Ecology counts even in family sex. 

More remarkable in effect was the newly-marketed hand-held thruster’s ability to torpedo in and out of Milo particularly after his father’s switchover to flanged dildos. Once in use as another appliance in the Mandrill household, the thruster could be counted on to bring the now-pubescent boy into readiness for daily dadly dick.

It did.

During the months that had passed, none of Milo’s yells and wails of various intensities ever made it across the lawn to the Small family next door. There, the lady of the house, Peggy, was in the process of grooming her son Timothy to be an obedient future husband. 

Balls bound with a one-inch strap, Timothy submitted to his mother’s controlling dominance. It took the form of smacking imprisoned, protruding boy parts to produce firm erections before passing him into the capable hands of an older girl, Christine, for femdom-style dates.

Christine aspired to be like her mother and her mother’s friend, Peggy Small, an exactor-via-torment of sexual reactions in a mate. Timothy was her designated practice toy.

Through manipulation of his susceptible center of gravity by fingers and an appropriate butt plug, she satisfied herself that she was on the right track. 

He’s putty in my embrace. 

His was a slack body without resistance unlike Milo’s, which had been developed toward muscular symmetry through guided exercises including weightlifting.

Thus, fatherly fucks, ever more ferocious, could be and were absorbed with pleasure. Exercise-strengthened son shoulders provided anchorage for Mandrill grips and tugs as monster cock roamed and reamed his teen’s reconfigured, specially conditioned rectum.

Spankings seldom were needed as long as Milo responded with alacrity to his father’s supremacy. Two constant reminders were used, a ball strap and a butt plug – gifts from the ever-neighborly Peggy Small.

That episode, otherwise accounted for, provided the first time that Milo’s eyes ever met Timothy’s. 

Contact! – wordless but special.

Respectively, each wondered about the other and about the other’s authoritative parent.

What’s it like to have a father in charge?

What’s it like to have a mother in charge?

On that miraculous afternoon, both boys were in the same situation – balls bound by straps and asses plugged while their parents were out as a foursome to visit the hardware store and sex shop. Each spotted the other in their back yards. 

Salutations brought them face to face. Anxious about the situation but desperate not to have to masturbate for relief, Milo blurted, “Please, may I fuck you? I’ve been fucked every day for weeks but have never fucked and I guess your pretty butt has never had a dick in it. Please, please, I beg of you.”

“Here?” piped Timothy.

Milo slid behind small, unclad Timothy, put an arm around his undeveloped chest, held him close to cuddle, moved his own turbid cock where it had to go, felt for the boy’s hole, found his plug, drew it away, placed the head of his throbbing erection there, pushed, and heard a cry of pained surprise. 

“Bite on your fingers. I’m going in.”

Fucking briskly, he wanted to achieve his father’s speed – you know, like father like son. In disregard of what Timothy might be feeling, Milo replaced the boy’s fingers in Timothy’s juicy mouth with all four of his own – and came until so light-headed he had to pull out lest his weakness took both of them down.

Ecstasy! 

“My mother mustn’t know,” Timothy turned to kiss Milo.

“Nor my father.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Me with you.”

They parted, murmuring “until next time” and muttering “I can’t wait.”

Things were not as simple as they wished. 

Upon her return from shopping, Peggy Small sniffed a funny smell about her son so took him for a washing and was surprised how easily her new-size plug came so readily from Timothy’s recently informed bottom. Teen boy fluids’ faint scent hit her nostrils rude as an insult.

Her spirits plummeted. The contented look on Timothy’s face should have been her clue. How could she now expect him to develop into appropriate future husband material? Her Timothy, a queer?

Dripping wet, he was made to stand, hands on head, while she found her whip with its six-inch rawhide strips.

“Ma’am?” he dared. “Are you going to beat me for doing what came naturally?”

The adult-style question stopped her quivering arm.

At that instant, the ’phone rang just as one does in every installment of NCIS and Law and Order. Bad news: Christine and parents were on their way out of town for a family emergency, meaning that Timothy could not be handed over for sexual discipline. It perplexed Peggy.

“What do you think I ought to do to you, Timothy?”

A similarly ‘pregnant’ moment was taking place next door. The man of the house huffed as he held his sex buried full length inside his son after a second bone-rattling cum.

“There, those deposits – essential nutrients that all growing boys need to develop – those deposits should enable you the screw the daylights out of the neighbor boy. You were right to confess what you had done and how you felt about him.”

“Thank you, sir. Your cock’s so wonderful when it’s planted in me. Makes my own cock hard as a rock.” 

“Mine belongs in you. It’s the ultimate sign of my fatherly love. Yours belongs in the boy – Timothy, right? – because you love him. Let’s clean up and go next door.”

Milo did as instructed. Wearing only his scrotal-strap, he rang the doorbell and stepped back to allow his father’s imposing form to face Peggy Small. Only, it was naked Timothy who – with balls similarly out front – opened the door.

“Where’s your mother?”

“I’m here,” she walked up, the little whip still in her hand, unused.

Tipton Mandrill spoke, “Let’s resolve the matters of our boys.” 

Peggy fumed. Tipton reasoned. 

Eventually, it was agreed that once a day, the four would cooperate as an ensemble. Tipton, standing, rooted Milo from behind while Milo held hands-on-head-Timothy where he could root his rear and Peggy could do as she wished with both sons’ balls – tickling, scratching, pinching, smacking. She took pleasure from dandling her whip’s cords over Timothy’s erection until, from the combined stimuli aft and before, it jetted youthful bounty and she could stripe it.

Witnesses to the arrangement’s fairness were Howard Small and Esther Mandrill, who held hands and looked on with compassion and understanding…before retiring to another room for their kind of fuck.

***

The men, Gus Gunderson and Max Thrynk, conversed that evening by telephone

“Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?”

“What are you thinking, Max?”

“About some people I know and you may not.”

“Tell me.” Their exchange so far had made no sense to him.

“A guy I know named Joshua Slowcum and his assistant Mr, Conroy are execs with D.C. Films. Heard of that outfit?”

“Nope.”

“Great pornos, man. Award winners. You must have seen or at least heard about Batman and his Buttboyz.” 

“Maybe I have. Good jerk-off stuff, right?”

“The best in the business. Don’t you have the DVDs made from the company’s original VHS tapes?

“Remind me.”

“Tarzan and His Jungle Boyz – it had those adorable boys in skimpy loin cloths. Same cast made The Green Hornet and His Hive, a costume drama, and Lords of the Fuck.”

“Shit, yes. Now I remember. Used a lot of tissues.”

“Perhaps we could make some money by selling these stories to them so they can fashion scripts for more porno films, I mean ‘art’ films.”

“I don’t know about that… Well maybe, if they were tastefully done.” 

Max’s voice grew with excitement, “If that outfit buys them now, the stories could be cast, rehearsed, filmed, and edited in time to be marketed for those special days next Spring – Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day!

“Max, you’re such a businessman.”

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Correspondence with readers is always welcome – whether in response to this, my 125th publication on GayDemon, or to any of my earlier stories. All readers are invited to register their approval of this posting just below. It’s easy! And can mean a lot to this author.

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