Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2017 10:49:26 -0600
From: Jeff Moses <chainedcoot@gmail.com>
Subject: Leo, Sir

This story is (alas) a work of fiction involving sex between an adult male
and a 16-year-old boy.  The usual terms and conditions apply.  Feedback is
welcome.

Leo, Sir

       It's hard to pick just one.  There are three of them, each with its
own special charm.  In the first, I'm on my knees in front of him, naked.
He has his hands on the back of my head, and my own hands are cuffed behind
my back.  If you look closely, you can see his calves pressing against the
tops of his engineer boots.  He wears them with the tops unbuckled for
comfort.

       In the second one, it's just my face, in profile, with the boot
pressed on my eager tongue.  It looks even sexier than I imagined it did.

       The third one is the hottest, in some ways.  It's my view from the
floor, with Leo towering above me, leaning forward just enough for the
camera to catch his face, and his smile.

       Leo and his family moved into the house next door just before his
sixteenth birthday.  I first saw him stripped to the waist, carrying boxes
from a rental van into the house.  Discretion urged me to move away from
the window before a casual glance became ogling, but God! How I wanted to
devour him with my eyes.  Sneakers, skin-tight jeans, muscles already
well-defined, their cut sharpened by the sunlight.  Wavy brown hair with
just a hint of red.  A glimpse, as he turned sideways to slip through the
doorway, of the face of an all-American boy.

       Appearance, I know, is a subjective thing: one man's Adonis is, to
another, instantly forgettable.  But Leo was my Adonis, however he might
have appeared to anyone else.  I found one excuse after another to keep my
eyes on the progress of the move-in.  I debated whipping up a plate of
cookies, or something, to welcome them to the neighborhood, but decided
that was a bit forward, premature.  Instead, I adjusted my departure for
work to coincide with Leo's father's.  Since Leo's father usually drove his
son to high school, I had an excellent chance of encountering them both.
We started with the classical masculine nods of greeting, advanced to
"hello," and on a Friday, I properly introduced myself.  Leo's father's
name is Mitch, if I recall.  We chatted again on the weekend: handy local
stores, best nearby places for coffee and such, which cable company to use
and who else lived on the block.  And, by the way, if Leo's looking to pick
up a few bucks now and then, I'd be happy to pay him to cut my lawn.

       He was.  In the fall, he raked leaves; in the winter, he shoveled
snow.  That's when he started wearing the engineer boots.  I've no idea how
I developed a fetish for black engineer boots, the ones with brass buckles,
one strap across the crest of the foot and the other straddling a V-notch
at the top, or how it got so specific that I preferred a muscle large
enough to justify leaving that top strap hanging.  Leo's boots teased my
nights.  The fact that the rest of him, including his soft baritone voice,
measured up to those legs and those boots didn't hurt, either.  It would
have been entirely inappropriate to give him a motorcycle jacket, except in
my jackoff fantasies.

       Things began to change on the Saturday when the lawn mower engine
stopped.  Leo knocked on the back door, asked if I had any tools so he
could try to figure out what was wrong.  "Some," I smiled, and invited him
in, offered him a can of soda, complimented him on his excellent yard work
and expressed pleased surprise at his mechanical skills.

       "Not so fast, Mister Car--"

       "Please, Leo!  Aren't we past all that formality?  Call me Rog!"

       "Rog?"

       "Short for Roger.  All my friends call me Rog.  I prefer it."

       "Well, not so fast about my mechanical skills, Rog.  It's probably
way beyond me.  But it never hurts to look."

       "Right this way, then," I said, leading him to my basement and my
workbench.  "Help yourself!"

       Leo selected a couple of screwdrivers, a pliers and a wrench, and
went upstairs to get to work.

       "Let me know if there's anything else you need!  And help yourself
to another drink, if you want one."

       "Thanks, Mister--Rog."

       I had no excuse to hover over the boy, though I desperately wanted
to.  So I went inside and spied on him through the kitchen window.  My
frustration was immense--and showed in my trousers, I admit. But, I told
myself, it would be incredibly stupid to make a pass at an underage boy who
happened to be your next-door neighbor.  For that matter, under-aged or
not, it's not a good idea to make a pass at the neighbor boy.  But the ice
had been broken, there was that.  Leo's dad wasn't much for tools, it
seemed, so I assured Leo he could feel free to drop over any time, if he
needed anything.

       Later that summer, I took a brief trip to Nebraska, where I stopped
at a thrift emporium--one of those places where people rent booths and try
to sell bits of their accumulated detritus: old furniture, out-of-fashion
clothes, rusty hand tools and the like.  And on this occasion, a set of leg
irons, the old Civil War style that were probably reproductions.  But they
were nicely rusted, satisfyingly hefty in feel, and they worked.  At least
one cuff did; the other seemed to be stuck.  I bought them anyway, and they
wound up on my workbench, the jammed cuff soaking in rust remover.

       Leo, meanwhile, had found an old bicycle and was restoring it.  He
told me he was fairly sure he could get a few bucks for it, once it was
cleaned up.  I told him, once again, that he was free to borrow any of my
tools.  He asked if I had anything for removing rust, and down to the
basement we went.

       "What the hell?" he asked, staring at the leg irons.  I explained.
I gave him the can of rust remover, but noticed that his eyes didn't leave
the irons.

       "This should be loose by now," I said as casually as I could, and
lifted the offending cuff out of its bath.  "Let's see if it works."

       I watched Leo watch eagerly as I struggled with the screw key.  "Can
I try?" he said, and I willingly gave the irons to him, taking mental
pictures of him holding them, wiggling the key with the connecting chain
draped over his wrist, lifting the cuff to the light so its mate dangled in
front of his chest, turning it to get a glimpse of the mechanism.  "What
you going to use these for, anyway?"

       "Decoration," I responded quickly, just as I had to the lady I
bought them from.

       Leo nodded.  "Building a dungeon?"

       I didn't know for the life of me if he was serious, or how to
answer, so instead I said, "Having any luck?"

       Leo gave a sharp grunt and twisted the key hard enough that I feared
it might break.  Instead, the cuff dropped open.  "All right!" he crowed,
and began working the hinge to loosen it.

       "Bravo!" I agreed.

       He put the key back into the keyhole and turned it back and forth.
Then he rapped the cuff sharply on the workbench, and a mixture of solvent
and rust dropped out.  "Got any oil?"  I grabbed some, he squirted it into
the lock, and continued to work.  "That's got it!" he announced, at last.
"Good as new." He started to hand them back to me, then stopped.  "Want to
try them?"

      "What?  I mean, sure, I guess."  I pulled up my trouser leg and Leo
crouched down, closed the cuff and locked it.  He glanced up at me, holding
the other cuff. I watched, hypnotized, and since he saw no response to the
question he hadn't asked, he shackled my other leg as well, then stood.
"Walk!" he commanded, and I did.  I shuffled, actually.

       "How do they feel?"

       "I'm definitely your prisoner," I laughed, hoping he wouldn't notice
my crotch.

       "Some decoration, huh?" he replied, nodding at my crotch.  "Kind of
a turn-on, huh?"

       I cleared my throat while I tried to come up with a non-committal
answer.  "Just what the doctor ordered," I replied, realizing as the words
fell from my mouth how ridiculous they sounded.

       "You got handcuffs, or something?"

       I simply stared at the boy leaning against the workbench.

       Leo smiled, rolling the key between his fingers. "I should ask you
for a raise," he declared, pushing off from the bench and moving casually
around me.  "Hold your hands behind your back," he said, then stepped close
and gripped my wrists.  "You like that?" he whispered into my ear.  "You
want more?"

       I closed my eyes.  "Leo," I said softly, not sure what to say next.
It wasn't a problem.

       "You want to give me a blow job, Rog?"  His grip tightened on my
wrists.  "Got any rope?"

       I nodded toward the pegboard at the end of the basement.

       "Go fetch it, Rog."  I started to shuffle across the floor.  "You
okay?"

       That was unexpected.  His tone was suddenly friendly, concerned.
"Fine," I answered, before I thought about it.

       "Hurry up, then, Rog."  Now his tone was sharp, strong
and--masculine.  I obeyed, grabbed a coil of clothesline rope, and turned
to hurry back.  He was leaning against the bench again, and now his arms
were crossed.  Either the light or my imagination made his upper arms
bulge.  "Move it, faggot!"

       "Yes, Sir," I answered, and realized I'd just given him the go-ahead
for whatever he had in mind.  He met me in the middle of the floor, turned
me around, and quickly tied my wrists.  "Kneel!" I did, and he looped the
rope around the chain between the leg irons, then tied it off.  I probably
could have untied it.  I didn't want to.  "He's giving me a chance to stop
this," I thought, and then, "and I'm not taking it."

       Now he stood in front of me, hands hooked in his waist.  "Funny.
You sort of remind me of a guy I knew back in Talisman.  I was a carry-out
boy at the grocery last summer, and he had that same kind of look in his
eyes--asked me if I'd ever had a blow job.  I'd heard of them, of course,
but...  So I let him do it, just to see, you know?  But after that, he was
just...  He was after me all the time. It was creepy."

       Leo undid his belt. I watched, eyes wide.  "But this is different,"
Leo continued.  "I mean, I'm in charge, you know?  I get to
decide--everything.  And you're not creepy, like he was."  He opened his
crotch, and his voice got sharper.  "I want you to suck me, faggot."  He
pulled his cock out of his underpants.  It was swollen, but not stiff, and
I realized I was licking my lips.  My own cock was imprisoned in my pants,
and that made it all hotter.  "Lick it," he ordered.  "Lick my cock."

       "Yes Sir," I answered, and went to work.  His cock responded
eagerly.  He was barely sixteen, after all.  I thought about the way he
kept saying "faggot," which was kind of wrong, except it wasn't.  I was a
faggot, and he was...some kid I lusted for in seventh grade, maybe.  "Go
for it!" he ordered, and I started sucking.  I am not a bad cocksucker--I
have endorsements.  And Leo was definitely responsive.  I started to crawl
closer just as he moved forward and put his hands on my head.

       "Yeah," he sighed.  "Suck my cock, faggot!" And he began pumping,
eagerly.  I wanted to make it last, but again, he was sixteen.  In seconds,
he was shooting a gallon of come into me.  I felt his cock throbbing, tried
to pull back so some of it would spend at least a little time on my tongue,
but he tightened his grip on my head. It wasn't going to happen.  Just
about the time I was running out of air, he began to slow, the shaft shrank
enough for me to breathe, and his hands fell away.  "Oh, shit," he said.
"That was great!  You are a damn good cocksucker, Rog."

       Told you.

       "Is it...? he started, blushing.  "I mean, I thought maybe--when you
said decoration--I knew they wouldn't need to work if you were just--I
probably shouldn't--"

       I looked up at him and smiled.  "It was perfect.  A little
unexpected, I admit, but you were--that was great!"

       "I would have stopped, you know, if--"

       I nodded.  "I know.  Remember, I know where you live!"  He suddenly
looked puzzled.  "I mean, I know who you are and everything.  It's not like
I just picked you up off the street.  You're not a stranger."

       "Oh!" he said, as if he was waking up, then squared his shoulders.
"I should let you loose!" He undid the ropes and the leg irons and we went
up to the kitchen.

       "Tell me more about that guy back in--what was it? Tally--?" I said,
pointing toward a chair.

       "Talisman, where we used to live," he answered, sitting. "Like I
said, I was working at the grocery store and he kept looking at me, and
then he was winking and smiling, and I didn't know what was going on until
one day he invited me to his place for a beer--my first one, but I didn't
tell him that.  So I said, "What the hell," and went with him.  We were
sitting on the couch, and suddenly he put his hand on my crotch and asked
me if I wanted a blow job.  I sort of knew what that meant, but I never had
one, so I said, 'Sure.'--just to try it, you know.  It was pretty good, but
after that he was always pestering me, so I told him to go fuck himself."

       "I hope you don't think I'm a creepy pest."  I tried to sound
casual.

       He laughed.  "You're different.  Not creepy.  You didn't just pick
me up somewhere, like you said.  I know you, too."

       "Have you done the--the bondage thing before?" I asked, handing him
another can of soda.

       "What?  The leg irons and that?  No.  I mean I've thought about
stuff like that, jacked off and stuff.  But I never actually--up until now,
I mean.  Was I good?"

       "Shit, yeah!  Like a pro."  That was tacky, but it was too late.  To
my surprise, Leo laughed.

       "Should I charge you, then?"  He held up his hand, palm toward my
face.  "That's a joke, Rog.  I'm making enough off your yard."  He suddenly
frowned.  "We're cool, right?  That 'faggot' stuff, that was just--I saw
this porn film online.  It just--I didn't--"

       "I know, Leo.  It's just a word, right?"

       He tilted his head, looking surprised.

       "Well, it's more than just a word," I admitted, "but--I wish it
didn't turn me on, but it does.  Reminds me of junior high school.  The
tough kids called everybody 'faggot.'  I don't think they really had a
clue, you know?"

       Leo nodded.  "Yeah.  It's just a word, like you say," he agreed,
hopefully.

       "So," I said, venturing into deeper water, "Are you?"

       "Am I what?"

       "Gay.  Queer.  A faggot, whatever we're calling us these days?"

       Leo shrugged.  "I don't know.  I did it, once, with a girl, back in
Talisman, and I really liked that, too, you know?"

       I nodded.  "Sex is weird.  I get turned on by--people get turned on
by lots of weird stuff.  Not that girls are weird, I mean.  But--" I
stopped and shrugged.  "I better stop before I put my foot in my mouth."  I
lifted my drink for a toast.  "Here's to sex, I guess, in all its glory."

       Leo laughed and clicked his can to mine.  "You're easy to talk to,"
he said.  "Not like my folks."

       "Your folks giving you--"

       "No!  They're cool.  But--they're my folks, you know?  You can't
talk about sex with your folks.  Especially this kind of stuff, ropes and
shit."

       "Yeah.  Can't imagine what my parents would have said."

       "Do they know you're queer?"

       I shook my head.  "We never talked about it.  I think maybe,
somewhere in the backs of their minds, they might have suspected, but we
never talked about it.  We never really talked about sex at all.  My father
gave me 'the talk,' you know.  But I think I knew more than him, by the
time he got around to it."

       This time, Leo initiated the toast.

       At first, the idea of an affair with a 16-year-old was unsettling,
to say the least.  But it was comfortable.  That's the best word for it, I
guess.  He had lots of other friends, of course.  Our sessions were
confined to weekends, usually Saturday afternoons when he was "helping" me
around the house.  And the fact that I was perfectly willing to lend tools
and help his family with various projects didn't hurt.  Sometimes, I almost
felt like part of his family.  They even invited me over for Thanksgiving,
but I actually had other plans.  I, too, had other friends.  But not
playmates.

       For Christmas, I got Leo a motorcycle jacket, which he loved, and
which looked great over his naked torso.  We agreed he would leave it at my
house, so it wouldn't create an "issue" with his parents.  (Those were his
air quotes, not mine.)  I did have a pair of hand cuffs, as it happened.
Sometimes we used them, and sometimes we used ropes.  Leo was very good
with ropes.  He tied me to my bed with a pillow under my crotch so he could
fuck my ass.  He tied me on my back so he could fuck my face, and
eventually, so that I could lick his asshole.  He loved that.

       One afternoon, he ordered me to lie down on the basement floor, then
used the leg irons to shackle my legs on either side of a post.  He took
the rope and used the legs of the workbench to tie my arms wide.  "You like
my boots, don't you, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir."  Had I been that obvious?  I mean, I said they looked
good with the jacket, and I asked him to leave them on, even when we were
in my bedroom, but--yeah, I guess I was that obvious.

       "How much do you like my boots?"

       "A lot, Sir," I admitted. Since I was naked, it was pretty obvious
that I was really excited.

       "I want you to show me how much, faggot."  And with that, he rested
one boot on my face.  "Clean it!"

       I managed a sound that was intended to be "Yes Sir," and went to
work.

       "We need to do more of this, faggot," Leo laughed.

       I made that sound again.  From then on, licking Leo's boots,
polishing Leo's boots, worshiping Leo's boots was a key part of our games.
He didn't have a fetish for them.  I tried to explain it, the whole idea of
fetishes, but Leo apparently didn't have any.

       "It's about power, I think," he said one afternoon while we sat in
the kitchen having our usual after-sex sodas.  "I'm a fucking 16-year-old
boy with an old man for a sex slave--not old.  I didn't mean old.  Older,
grown-up.  Adult."

       I raised my hand to stop him.  "I understand," I smiled.  "Hell,
here I am, robbing the cradle.  I understand."

       It took Leo a moment to decode that, and then we both laughed.
"Hey," he said.  "Maybe I have a fetish for--grown-up guys."

       "If you did, you'd know.  Fetishes aren't subtle." I took a quick
drink.  "You were talking about power, I think."

       "Yeah.  It's like, when you're helpless, tied up or something, I
look at you and think, 'Shit! I could do anything I wanted to this guy.'
He's--you're--really totally helpless, at my mercy."

       I nodded. "And I'm--I don't know.  You're right: I am at your mercy.
You're in control.  I have nothing to say, nothing to do but--obey.  No
responsibility."  My eyes widened, or at least it felt like they did.  "I'm
in charge of four people at work, and they're in charge of people, so it's
like I'm responsible for at least twenty people!  That's a lot of
responsibility, believe me.  So being tied up on the floor with your boot
in my face is like...like..."

       "Like a vacation?" Leo laughed. "Some vacation."  He paused, took a
drink, swallowed.  "Are we, like, lovers, or something?"

       I was stunned.  I'd never thought of us that way.  I'd never thought
of any of my playmates that way.  How could you love somebody you tied up
and raped? Who tied you up and raped you--me--raped me?  Except it wasn't
rape: it was a game.  That's why I thought of us as playmates.

       "Rog?  You okay?  Did I say the wrong thing?"

       "Sorry, Leo.  I was just...thinking about your question." I searched
his face.  "How do you feel about me?  About us?"

       "I don't know.  I mean, that's why I asked.  You hear people talk
about love all the time, but...I guess I don't know what it is, really.  I
mean, I like what we do. Hell, I love what we do, but that's not...you
know?  I mean, are guys supposed to love guys, like with girls?"

       "People are supposed to love people," I said, gently.  "What you
have between your thighs isn't important."  I hesitated, but Leo didn't
rescue me with another question.  "If we...if we stopped doing what we're
doing--the sex--if we stopped doing that, how would that make you feel?"

       "Don't you want to--?"

       "I do.  I mean no, I don't what this to stop! I'm like you: I love
what we do.  But I don't think that's enough to make us 'lovers.'"  This
time, the air quotes were mine.

       "Yeah.  Okay, I get that.  But what if--I don't know how to say
this, Rog.  You've never...I never told you to--asked you, I guess, if you
wanted to, you know.  I've never done that.  I don't even know if I'd want
to do--you know?"

       I was baffled.  "You lost me.  Just say whatever it is; I won't
freak out.  Just--just spit it out."

       "I never got fucked.  Or did a blow job on somebody else, you know?
Should I--do you want me to, you know?"

       For less time than it takes to say it, I imagined Leo's mouth on my
cock, my cock pounding his ass.  "Leo, it's not like that--I mean, unless
you want to--" I shrugged.  "Lots of gay guys don't do anal, or oral.
Sometimes it's like buddies jacking each other off, or rubbing bodies.
Or...what we've been doing.  You know I get off on that."

       Leo hung his head.  "I wasn't...I've seen you come, sometimes.  But
I just never worried about it, you know?  About whether or not you were
getting off."

       I laughed.  "Like I said, I love what we do.  It makes me happy.
Hell, I can usually come two or three times during the week just
remembering what happened.  I can taste your boot, feel it on my tongue, if
I want to, even when you're not there.  You don't have to worry about that,
Leo.  I'm fine!"

       "Could I, like, jack you off?"

       "Of course!  I'd love it!  Especially if I was helpless, you know?
Like we do?"

       So we did.  Leo enjoyed teasing me.  He tied me to the bed.  He
chained me to the post in the basement.  He ordered me to my hands and
knees and milked me like a cow while he described the punishments I'd face
if I came too soon.  He rubbed my cock against his boot until I shot, then
made me lick it up, afterwards.

       Mitch asked me to accompany Leo while he practiced for his driver's
license exam.  "I just get too protective, I guess you'd call it.  You
know?"

       Once again, they invited me for Thanksgiving, and once again, I
declined.  But I did bring over a pumpkin pie.  For Christmas, I gave us a
set of dildos.  I think Leo wanted a pair of motorcycle chaps, but I
ignored the hint: they would have covered the tops of his boots.

       We all went to the State Fair, and rode on the roller coaster--the
one that was supposed to be the biggest and fastest in the state. I sat
next to Mitch, facing Leo and his mother, watching Leo laugh and put one
hand over his mom's as she squeezed the safety bar.

       One sticky August afternoon, he tied me to the workbench, then made
a sort of loop with a piece of rope and started slapping my stomach with
it.  "What turns you on, faggot?" he asked.  There was something strange in
his voice, something I hadn't heard before.

       "You do, Sir."

       Whap!  He hit my stomach harder.  "I know that, faggot!  Tell me
what you like!"

       "Being helpless, Sir.  Licking your boots, Sir."

       "Good.  What else?  When you remember what we did and you jack off,
what else do you think about?"

       I attempted to shrug.  "I don't know what you mean, Sir."

       Whap!  "What turns you on, faggot?"  What haven't you told me
about?"

       "I don't know, Sir.  I--"

       Whap!  "The fuck you don't, faggot.  Tell me!  I've got the whole
damn afternoon."

       "I, um--" There was other stuff, of course.  Embarrassing stuff I
never admitted to anyone.

       Whap!  This time, it really hurt.  "Hey!  That hurt!"

       "It's supposed to, faggot."  He leaned close to my face, and I felt
his breath--and his spit.  "And it can get worse.  Now tell me what the
fuck else turns you on!"

       I took a deep breath.  "I thought about you...pissing on me.  Sir,"
I added hastily.  He was dangling the rope in my face.

       "Huh!  Okay, what else?"

       "You could--I want you to chain me up better.  More.  More bondage,
Sir."
       Leo nodded, smiling now.  "Go on."

       "So I couldn't move at all, Sir.  So I'd be really helpless,
and...open, I guess."

       "Do you want me to hurt you, faggot?"

       I froze.  Leo held the rope up again.  "A little, Sir," I confessed.
Then it poured out. "I always wanted to try that, you know.  At least a
little, sort of."  My heart was banging away at my chest.  "I don't really
know.  It's scary."

       "Good little faggot," Leo smiled and stroked my cock. "What else?"

       "I want it to last longer, Sir.  I mean, after you come, you don't
have to let me go.  You could keep me chained up all afternoon, Sir, maybe
blindfold me so I wouldn't know what was coming or what time it was, or
anything. I want you to do...what you want with your faggot, Sir."

       "Yeah. Sounds hot.  Okay."  He took a breath and walked to the end
of the bench.  "I read about this.  I want to try it."  And he struck the
bottom of my right foot with the rope.  "How'd that feel, faggot?"

       "Hurt, Sir.  Just a little.  Mostly surprise, I guess.  I--" Before
I could go on, he struck my left foot, harder, then my right foot, back and
forth, harder and harder.  "Sir, please Sir.  Mercy, Sir!" I cried at last.

       "Hurting good, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir."  My answer surprised me.

       He tossed the rope across my legs and trailed the fingers of his
right hand up my left flank. I shuddered.  He stepped away to get
something, then stood at the end of the bench, looking down at me, smiling.
It wasn't a friendly smile.  It wasn't Leo.  It was Sir.  He quickly
wrapped his sweaty tee shirt around my head so I was blindfolded.  I could
smell his body odor.  "I think you can take a little more, faggot," he
said, his voice drifting down the bench.  I felt him pick up the rope.  He
went at my feet again, even harder.  And faster, so the pain from the blows
flowed together, merged until I couldn't even tell which foot he was
hitting.  "Please, Sir, mercy!  Please," I begged.  "I'll do whatever you
want, Sir!  But please stop!"

       Leo was kissing me, his tongue deep in my mouth, his lips firm
against my face.  "Thank me," he said, at last, pulling his face away from
mine.

       "Thank you, Sir."

       "Your dick is hard as a rock," he smiled, as he removed the
makeshift blindfold and began to release me from the bench.  He worked
silently, then suddenly snapped, "On your feet, faggot!"

       I jumped to the floor without thinking and gasped at the sudden
flare of pain, steadying myself against the bench.

       "Stand over there!"  He pointed to a spot about six feet away, and I
walked carefully toward it, my feet throbbing.  He followed, studying the
beam above us.  "Stop, faggot.  Right there!"  I obeyed.  "Turn around.
Face away from me!"  I obeyed.  I heard him doing something behind me, and
a rope dropped in front of me.  He walked around to face me, cuffed my
wrists, and used the rope to pull them up.  He tied the rope off, then took
other pieces and tied them around my ankles.  "Spread your legs, faggot!"
I obeyed.  "Farther!" he commanded, until the cuffs were digging into my
wrists.  Then, he tied the ropes off, one to each of the beams I was
standing between.  I was stretched out and helpless again.

       Then, to my surprise, he began wrapping more rope around my body,
fashioning a sort of harness.  Rope went over my shoulders and between my
legs, squeezed my legs just below my buttocks, wrapped around my waist and
across my chest.  And with each loop, the harness got tighter. The rope
passed over my shoulders again, then wrapped around the base of my cock
behind my balls, stretching them away from my body.  More rope wound around
the base of my sack, pushing my balls tight against the skin and away from
my now rigid cock.  Leo tapped my cockhead.  "Feeling good, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir."  And I did, in a bizarre, insane way.  Because of the
cuffs, I didn't dare put any weight on my arms, and my legs were stretched
almost painfully wide.  I wasn't sure how long I'd last in this position,
but I was determined to take as much as I could.

       "Look what I got, faggot," Leo said, smiling broadly as he held a
dildo in front of my face.  "Guess where this is going."

       "In my butt, Sir?"

       "In your faggot ass, faggot.  Say it!"

       "In my faggot ass, Sir."

       "Should I put some grease on it?  Do you think you're worth some
grease, faggot?"

       "Please, Sir.  If you think I'm worth it, Sir."

       "You begging me, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir.  I'm begging you, Sir.  If--please, Sir." A few minutes
and a few moans later, the damn thing was in my butt, the end of it tied in
place so it wouldn't slip out, and I was panting.

       "Feel good, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir," I gasped.

       "Going to whip you now, faggot."

       Oh, shit.  He used the rope loop again.  He started across the top
of my back and worked his way to my butt. Surprisingly, he managed to keep
the blows hard enough to hurt like hell, but not quite hard enough to
overwhelm me.  Right at the edge.

       "Looks nice and red, faggot," he announced, then began on my front
side, just above my tits. Again, he worked his way down, until I began
instinctively trying to move my crotch out of the way of the coming attack.
Trying.  Leo hadn't left me a lot of maneuvering room.  Fortunately, he
stopped just above my cock.  "What do you say,

       "Thank you, Sir," I gasped.

       He raised his left arm and pressed his pit against my face.  "Lick
it, faggot!"

       I obeyed eagerly.

       "Do you like my stink, faggot?"

       "Yes, Sir," I said into his pit.

       "You want the other one?"

       "Yes, Sir.  Please, Sir, I'm begging you!"

       "Good faggot."  He switched arms, holding his right arm a few inches
away.  "Come and get it."

       I strained forward, forced my tongue out, desperate to reach his
flesh, or at least the coarse hair of his pits.  He shifted back and forth,
and my tongue followed.  At last, just as I exhaled, he smothered me,
reached around with his left hand and forced my face into his armpit.  He
held it there while I tried to pull air into my lungs, rich with his smell.
His stink.

       "Yeah," he hissed at last.  He pulled away, then pressed his lips to
mine once more.  As he did so, he lightly slapped my balls. I whimpered.

       "Yeah," he repeated, turning his attention to my swollen cock.
"Going to flick your nuts, faggot."

       "Please, no, Sir. It will hurt!"

       "Yeah.  It will."  He flicked.  It felt like static electricity.  A
kind of squeal broke from my mouth.

       "Close your eyes, faggot.  Tight!"  I obeyed and he flicked my nuts
again. And again and again until was in tears.

       "Please, Sir.  Mercy!  I can't take any more!  I really can't!"

       And with a last, sharp flick, he stopped.  I tried to pull myself
together.  Suddenly, everything hurt: balls, arms, wrists, thighs, feet.
My eyes were still closed, so I had no idea where he was.  "Leo," I gasped,
turning my head in the directions I thought might be right, "You...you win.
Whatever you want.  I can't take any more.  I'm sorry."

       "Well, now we know," he replied.  "You can open your eyes."

       While I blinked tears from my eyes, he untied my legs.  I eased them
slowly together while he undid the knot that held my arms up, then
supported them gently as I lowered them.  He wrapped one arm around my
waist to steady me.  "Lie down on the floor, faggot," he whispered.  He
helped me to obey, then stood over me.  "Ready?" he smiled.

       I looked at him, baffled.  And then his stream of urine painted my
body, soaking me, the ropes, the floor.  Without really thinking about it,
I opened my mouth and swallowed a few mouthfuls.  At last, the stream
slowed, and with two final spurts, stopped.

       "Kneel up, faggot."  I struggled to my knees.  Leo guided his cock
to my face.  "Get it hard, faggot."  I obeyed, and a few minutes later felt
his hands on my head, controlling my movements, pressing his crotch against
me, and finally, shooting.  "Take it all, faggot!" he commanded,
needlessly, as I struggled to draw every drop from him.

       But he wasn't done, yet.  "Hands and knees, faggot!"  He locked one
end of a heavy chain around my neck, and the other to one of the posts.
"There's piss on my goddamn boots, faggot.  Clean them!"  I obeyed,
hypnotizing myself with their smell, their now-familiar scuff marks and
worn spots.  With the tip of my tongue, I traced the seams and the edges of
the soles.

       Too soon, Leo pulled the boots away.  I watched them stride across
the floor, then return.  Leo presented me with a mop and bucket.  "Mop up
my piss, faggot.  Clean my floor!"  I watched the boots walk over to the
workbench and raised my eyes as he leaned back, his muscular body deeply
shadowed under the light.

       The chain, I discovered, was just long enough to allow me to get to
the laundry tub.  I slogged over to it, exhausted, put water in the bucket,
and went to work. Leo encouraged me with the loop of rope. Every once in a
while, the dildo would remind me that it was still in there.  I mopped the
floor like an automaton, mindless, repeating my actions again and again
until Leo said "Stop.  Come here, faggot.  Get back on the bench."

       I obeyed.  How much longer? Or was this forever? Writing it down
now, I am amazed at how easily I had been led deep into submission.  But we
did it more than once, over the next few months.  The punishments and the
chores varied, but it always ended the same way, with me secured to the
bench while Sir pumped my cock, ordering me not to come until he commanded,
then smearing my juice all over my face, wiping his hands in my hair.

       Leo got his driver's license.  We switched from soda to beer.

       Eventually, Sir could make me come simply by counting backwards from
ten.  Then, come splashed against my chest and flowed over his hand, and
sometimes I was allowed to lick it clean.

       Leo's face matured some, the shadow of a beard became more prominent
and the last bit of baby fat disappeared.  Or perhaps his facial muscles
hardened; I don't know.  Graduation approached, at last.  Or way too soon,
depending on which of us you asked.  Leo, much to the surprise of all of
us, got a partial scholarship to college.  He planned to major in
"Environmental Science."  Surprise!

       "Get your ass down to the basement," Leo growled.  It was the
Saturday before the Fourth of July, when Leo and his folks were planning to
go on vacation.  And then, Environmental Science.  So this was probably
going to be it, for us: the last Saturday.  I'd gathered everything: the
ropes, the leg irons, the dildoes, the pairs of handcuffs--we had
half-a-dozen sets, now--a thick leather dog collar with a lock, pieces of
chain and locks with matching keys, whatever Sir wanted.  I'd hung some
ropes and chains from the beam.  I'd even taken the mattress off the spare
bed and put it on the floor where I could be spread-eagled between the
post, the main drainpipe, and the workbench.

       I raced through the house, stripping as I went, almost falling down
the basement steps, and knelt on the floor. Sir came down a few minutes
later, naked except for his boots and motorcycle jacket.  He smiled when he
saw me, slowed his descent so I was almost panting by the time his boots
hit the floor.  The light from the stairs glowed behind him.  His shadow
fell across my body. "Like what you see, faggot?" he growled.

       "Yes, Sir!"

       "Good. I brought my camera."