Date: Thu, 5 Sep 2002 06:55:30 -0400
From: istari <istari_olias@hotmail.com>
Subject: Mastering Alex 1 - 3

The following story describes the evolving relationship
between and man and a soon-to-be thirteen-year-old boy. It
is the story of a safe, loving, consensual,
dominant/submissive relationship and does contain scenes of
bondage, sado-masochism, etc. If that sort of thing makes
you uncomfortable, please stop reading. This story is utter
fiction, the product perhaps of my own childhood fantasies,
and nothing more.

Comments are welcome at istari_olias@hotmail.com


Mastering Alex

Chapter 1: Beginnings

     Snips and snails, and all that sort of thing. I guess
that old bit of wisdom sums up most boys pretty well, but
not Alexander. That is not what he is made of. He's a lot
more complicated than that. My Alexander is a quiet, gentle
boy, thoughtful and polite, prone to solitude and sadness,
and, I suppose, he's really not mine. Alex is my younger
brother, nearly fifteen years younger. He came along when I
was fourteen, an unexpected and not entirely welcome
accident on the part of my parents. At first I wasn't
thrilled with the prospect of having a little nose-miner
following me around through my high-school years, but it
turned out, me being so much older, that there was no
rivalry between us at all. In fact he worshiped me. He still
does, but I guess I'm just now beginning to understand him.
     When I was nineteen and Alex was five, our parents
where killed on the road. A little too much rain, a little
too much darkness. And a little too much alcohol. A
propensity which Alex and I have both inherited, I'm sorry
to say. When it happened, I had already been out of the
house for a couple of years, and headed for a world of
trouble. In a flash I was on my own, and poor Alexander was
an orphan. I was totally lost for a few years after that,
trying to get through college and figure out who I was. Even
though Alex was my little buddy, there was no way I could
take care of a five-year-old boy. I wish I could have, but
it just wasn't going to happen. There were drugs. I can
admit that now. Growing up in a house where alcohol was
consumed every day had an inevitable influence on the eldest
son, and the youngest too, though mom and dad never lived to
see it in Alex as they saw it me.
     Dad was never mean when he got blasted, I was, and got
kicked out of the house at least once a week from the time I
was thirteen. I suppose drugs were unavoidable for me, and
it started long before we lost our parents. Their sudden
absence just made it worse. I wish I could have been
stronger back then, gotten my act together sooner, but I was
screwed up and selfish, and still a boy myself.
     Alex went into foster care right away, and I went on
being irresponsible and angry. I was in another state, both
physically and mentally, during those next few years, and I
only saw him three or four times.
      I always noticed the fading bruises on his face, the
way he would shake and tremble when I hugged him, the sad
look in his hazel eyes (a perfect copy of our mother's). I
made inquiries, but I was out of his life, and the concerns
of an older brother with a bad reputation didn't carry much
weight. It went on that way for three years. I knew he was
being abused, but I had no rights and no say in my little
brother's wellbeing. I could have taken him at nineteen, but
instead I gave him away, choosing my addictions over my own
flesh and blood. It was slowly killing me, knowing what was
happening to the little guy and being powerless to stop it.
     Finally, in my last year of college, I decided to grow
up. I realized I had to help myself first, before I could
ever help Alex. It was a struggle, and it still is
sometimes, but my addictions were behind me when I graduated
and I had a great job already lined up. I decided I had to
get him back. With the help of an old family friend, who
happened to be a lawyer, I became my brother's guardian, and
we've been a pair ever since. When we left family court that
day four years ago, he looked up at me with wounded eyes, as
if to ask `why didn't you save me sooner?'
     "I wish things could have been different, Lexi," I told
him as I took his hand. His grip was light and unsure.
     "Me too," he said.
     Things have been different.
     We live in the old house where I grew up, and where
Alex was actually born. My career pays me well, and mom and
dad left us both a tidy inheritance. Alex can't touch his
until he's eighteen, but we are allowed to invest it, and
he's going to be a very wealthy young man when the time
comes.
     I surprised myself that I'm quite a suitable guardian,
and taking charge of him just seemed to come naturally. I'm
quite strict with him, much more so than mom and dad ever
were with either of us, but I want what's best for him, and
my expectations are high.
     Alex is almost thirteen now, and he means everything to
me. I suppose you want to hear what he looks like, and I
don't mind describing him. I think I already mentioned that
he has our mother's eyes. They're hazel, soft and
thoughtful, quite haunting at times. He has her hair too, a
chestnut brown which he likes to keep short. His nose is
freckled, which he hates, but I find adorable. His skin has
that natural tan that just comes to boys who spend a lot of
time outdoors, which he loves to do.
     He stands almost five feet tall. He's slender and
muscular, a product of the firm regime of weight training
I've had him under since he was nine. His balls dropped
about six months ago. Alex is one of those lucky boys with a
long loose scrotum, so they hang quite low between his
slender legs. His voice hasn't started to change yet, at
least not noticeably, but it no longer has the high reedy
timbre of a little boy. Alex is still hairless, but he's got
a nice cock and balls on him. The men in our family have
always been big down below, and Alex already has a good soft
four inches, which gets close to six when he's hard. Unlike
me, he's uncut which actually makes it look a little longer.
     We're very open, being just us guys, and he doesn't
mind me seeing him naked. I'm not shy around him either.
I've known I was gay ever since I was Alexander's age, but
my attraction has always leaned toward the very young. I
don't consider myself exclusively a lover of boys, in fact
most of my real-life partners are older, but the attraction
has always been there and I've never tried to deny it where
Alex is concerned. He knows my love for him goes way beyond
that of a mere brother, and he doesn't seem to have a
problem with that. Quite the opposite.
     I'm already sure the boy is as bent as I am. Rather he
was born this way, as I know I was, or if it evolved from
his trauma in foster care, I can't say, but I suspect it is
a little of both. There are certain elements of his
personality that could only come from what those people did
to him. For three years Alex was repeatedly raped and beaten
by the couple assigned to his care. They were never charged,
for the husband was a man of some influence, so I guess
they're still out there, doing it all over again to someone
else's little brother.
     Alex carries those scars inside him all the time, and
they rule him in subtle ways. I see them often, though he
thinks he keeps them from me. In the middle of a game we're
playing, or during a ride in the car, or at night as we wind
down and watch television, he'll suddenly seem to just fade
away as if he were trying to send his mind someplace else.
He cries in his sleep.
     There is a weary sadness that is always with him, in
his eyes, in his expressions, in his voice, even in his
actions. He tries to join his few friends in their rough
play, to be brash and bold and reckless, to be all those
things a little male is supposed to be, but that sadness
drags him down like a great chain around his neck. I've seen
it happen more times than I can count. He starts off loud
and boisterous, but soon he sags and withers, and his voice
goes still. His friends know he's different, and that's why
so many just shun him after a while. It's a weight he
carries everywhere, a terrible burden for narrow twelve-year-
old shoulders to bear.
     The psychologists warned me when I first got him back
that he was damaged, and he is, profoundly, but slowly we've
managed to build a life together. He actually tried calling
me dad for a few months, but the memory of our father, one
he scarcely even remembers, always settled between us. It
never felt comfortable.
     I do call him son once in a while, but somehow that's
different. Grown men call boys that all the time, and it is
a term of affection he's grown to accept. Whenever we're
out, strangers ask me if I'm the father of this remarkably
polite and thoughtful boy and I never know how to answer.
Certainly I'm raising him, but, as I said before, things are
different in our house.
     Alex is sexually precocious. I suppose that's an
inevitable result of the abuse he was exposed to those three
years. Even at the age of eight he was a fierce and
committed masturbator. I'd hear him in his room at night and
on weekend mornings, moaning and gasping in his high-pitched
little boy orgasms. He'd make himself cum over and over
again, forcing one dry orgasm after another from his eight-
year-old body. He'd go until it became painful for him, and
then he'd make his body do it again, his orgasmic cries
mixed with tears and sobs. I was torn and puzzled by my
brother's need for pain, and also very aroused by it. Of
course I envisioned him lying there, his slender legs spread
wide, his small hand racing up and down his erect penis, his
toes curling as the spasms shot through him. My own dick
pressed against my pants and we'd soon end up masturbating
together, just in separate rooms.
     In those early months I did not know what to think, or
what to do, about Alexander's heightened sexuality. I love
that boy, and I fantasized about him all the time. But he
was my brother, and a victim of unspeakable abuse. I
couldn't risk adding to his trauma, and more and more I
began to worry that I might not be able to help myself. Up
until then it had always been look, don't touch, where boys
were concerned. Having a boy so close, so alone, so
vulnerable, was an almost unbearable torment for me. The
fantasies kept getting stronger, and yes, darker. Often I
imagined myself as his abuser, plunging my nine-inch cock
into his small mouth as copious tears fell from his eyes.
That fantasy disturbed me, but it also made me cum harder
than I ever had before.
     Little did I know, that in the quiet darkness of his
room, (the kid almost never turns a light on in there)
Alexander was having fantasies to surpass my own.
     It went on this way for a year, until I was almost
afraid to even hug him for fear I'd rip his clothes off on
the spot and fuck his cute little ass right there on the
kitchen floor. Alex noticed how I'd seemingly grown colder
toward him, and this only increased his frenzied
masturbatory habits, and the pervasive sadness that was
slowly creeping into every corner of his soul.
     One night, three months short of his tenth birthday, he
came to me in the darkness. I could see by the dim shadows
of the moon that he was naked. We both slept that way, so it
was really no surprise. What did surprise me was the fact
that he was crying. Since he'd come to live with me he'd
never let a single tear fall in my presence. He stood
timidly beside my bed, then knelt down so we were eye to eye
as I lay there. The sweet soft sound of his weeping tore at
my heart.
     "Why can't you love me?" he asked. Never had I heard
such desperate pain from such a small and innocent voice.
Alex was old enough and wise enough to know what I was, and
in that moment I suddenly realized how terribly it must hurt
him, whenever my eyes wandered over the slender frame of a
handsome young boy, yet always turned away from him.
     "I just don't want to hurt you," I remember saying. And
that was the truth.
     His response was barely a whisper, and for the longest
     time I convinced myself he'd never said it. "Maybe I
     want you to."
     I pulled back the covers and Alex crawled in beside me.
He was hard. He trembled as I held him and rubbed my hands
up and down his back. He seemed so small, so fragile, this
naked boy pressing against me for warmth and comfort. I
kissed him softly on the cheek and promised I would love him
forever.
     Alex sleeps with me now, almost every night, and my
darkest fantasies, his deepest needs, are slowly coming into
the light. You see, when I made that promise I had no idea
what loving a boy like Alexander would really mean.


Chapter 2: Golden Sunlight

     I opened my eyes slowly as the first rays of morning
shone through the window of the old house. They cast their
golden hue upon everything in the room, particularly the
soft radiant skin of the twelve-year-old boy between my
legs. The sun set aglow the soft blond hairs on his arms and
legs. Little-boy fuzz is all it was. He'd be losing this in
the next year or two, but for now I loved my down-covered
boy.
     As had become our ritual, Alex was hungrily devouring
my morning erection. He could only take about four inches of
me down his throat, but he never stopped trying for more.
His mouth was warm, and his soft lips felt like velvet
against my cock. The boy was a natural cocksucker, and for
nearly a year now I would awaken each morning to this
wonderful sensation. There's nothing in the world quite so
gratifying as a young boy sucking your dick. The first few
times I pretended to remain asleep, but now I no longer
bothered with such pretense. Some part of him needed to do
this, and he needed me awake.
     I placed my hand behind his head and gently stroked his
hair, gradually pressing him deeper and deeper onto my
shaft. Alex gagged for a moment and I pulled him back, not
wanting to choke him, no, not yet. He moved closer to me,
folding up his beautiful legs as the morning sun warmed
them. Again I saw my cock disappear into his mouth, his head
bobbing up and down in a slow, well-practiced motion. Lust
eventually consumed me, as it always did, and I grabbed hold
of him with both hands and began to thrust, roughly fucking
my boy's mouth for a good ten minutes as he lay limp and
motionless between my legs. I pushed him away harshly just
as I came, splashing my cum all over his face and hair.
     Ignoring the spunk dripping into his eyes, he dutifully
lapped his tongue over my cock, cleaning the last of my seed
with short tickling motions. When he'd finished, I drew the
boy close and kissed him hard on the lips.
     "Your face is a mess," I said as I rubbed my spent cum
deeper into his hair. "Go get a shower. Breakfast in ten."
     With a satisfied smile he wiped away the semen that had
rolled down over his lips. A dribble of it still hung from
his chin. Alex didn't say a word but obediently went of to
the bathroom, giving me a nice long look at his perky little
ass. The boy liked it best when I gave the orders.
     He was on time to the kitchen as always, clean and
sparkling. His hair was still wet, but neatly combed. The
ring in his left ear shimmered in the morning light. He was
wearing a black tank top and an old pair of cut-off jeans
that hugged him just tight enough to show off his boyish
shape, not to mention the nice bulge between his legs. His
socks were white, of course, and pushed down to his ankles.
His black high-tops finished the ensemble of an twelve-year-
old boy ready for the day's business.
     It was Saturday, which for me meant a relaxing day on
the porch, sipping a few glasses of wine to pass the time.
For young Alexander it meant work around the yard under my
watchful eyes. We still live in our parents' home, an old
stone farmhouse. We've got about ten acres of field and wood
with mountains all around in the distance. My folks never
farmed a day in their lives and neither do we, it is just a
nice private setting in the country, and Alex and I have
come to enjoy the benefits of not having nosey neighbors
dropping by uninvited.
     Most of the original farm equipment and buildings are
long gone, but there is the old barn. Mom and dad pretty
much let it go, but I'm fixing it up to keep the place from
looking too run down.
     Alex ate his cereal and downed his juice in a few man-
sized gulps, then rested his hazel eyes on me awaiting his
list of weekend chores. I usually work him from morning to
dinnertime on Saturdays, unless he has plans with friends,
which, as I've said, he sadly has very few.
     "Cut the grass, trim the hedges, then clean out the
back stalls in the barn today. Think you can get all that
done before dinner?"
     "I'll try, Steve," he said as he cleared away the
dishes without being asked. Today's was a big assignment,
but there was never an argument from him. Keeping our
parents' house in the family was a promise we'd both made to
each other last year. It's a lot of work for just two
people, especially when one is just a kid. I do all the
major stuff, but the yard and the old barn are Alexander's
responsibility and I don't cut him much slack. Before he
went out the door I took him by the arm and pulled him
close. A little kiss on his forehead and the boy was on his
way.
     By lunchtime the day was sweltering and humid, and Alex
had gotten rid of his shirt. I watched him with the mower as
his lithe slender body strained and stretched. The sun
glistened off his bare shoulders. Alex is a beautiful boy,
and the hard work and the weights we lift have shaped him up
nicely. Not many twelve-year-olds' can boast abdominal
ridges, but Alex has them, still vaguely defined of course,
but they're there if you take the time to appreciate him,
and very sexy.
     I fed him his lunch on the porch. He sat cross-legged
on the floor, his plate balanced precariously on his lap. He
was dirty and sweaty, and I could smell him. The sweet but
unmistakably masculine scent of boy was intoxicating. He
eyed my beer with a wanting expression as he stuffed another
handful of chips into his mouth.
     I poured several sips into a plastic cup. He looked at
me as if I'd just shot the family dog, not that we have one.
     "That all?" he asked.
     "Remember last month when you raided the liquor
cabinet?"
     I'd been out for the evening and came home to find him
sprawled out naked on the living room floor with a half-
empty bottle beside him. He slurred some incoherent greeting
in my general direction and proceeded to piss all over the
rug.
     Alex giggled, but straightened up when he saw I wasn't
laughing along with him. Seeing him drunk was just a
pathetic sight, one I would not allow to be repeated. Giving
the boy just those few sips really rubbed me the wrong way,
but it would keep him from sneaking it behind my back.
     "The rug still smells," I told him, "and I don't feel
like cleaning up after you again. Grow some hair on your
balls, then, maybe, I'll let you share a bottle with me."
     Alex squeezed the boyish bulge in his shorts and rolled
his eyes.
     "Think I'll get some soon?" he asked hopefully.
     "Probably," I replied, studying his developing young
body in the midday heat. I figured it was just a few months
before he started to sprout. "Too bad though. I happen to
like you smooth."
     "You could always shave me," he said with a wicked
smile. I got the impression he was serious.
     "Let's wait and see. A little hair on a boy can be sexy
too."
     Alex adopted a thoughtful expression. "Am I? Sexy."
     "You're attractive, if that's what you mean. You've
seen how people look at you. Men and women both, and other
kids too."
     "What do you like best about me?" he asked, his voice
somewhere between devil and innocent.
     I loved everything about him of course, but my eyes
fell the nice and not so little package that filled his
shorts. "I think you know the answer to that, grasshopper."
      The boy smiled knowingly, and dove back into his
lunch. When the bottomless pit had snarfed his last hot dog,
I sent him out the barn to finish up for the afternoon. I
heard him clattering around in there for a while as I swept
off the porch, but then it suddenly fell silent. After a few
minutes I began to get concerned. Hoping he'd just decided
to take a nap, but fearing he might have hurt himself, I
made my way into the barn.
     The afternoon sun was peaking through the holes in the
slats, and even though it hadn't housed any animals in
decades, the musty odor was still there. I guess it mostly
just smelled old. Everything was quiet inside, but as I
approached the farthest stall, I heard a soft moan followed
by a series of desperate frustrated grunts. The voice was
high, and I knew I'd found my boy. I had a pretty good idea
what he was up to.
     I peered round the stall slowly, and there he was.
     Alex was lying on the dirt floor, his shorts crumpled
around his ankles, his knees drawn up. His right hand was on
his young cock, which was standing proudly erect. Swift long
angry strokes by its owner's hand battered it. After every
forth or fifth stroke he'd stop and give his hairless balls
a good slap. They were already a dark shade of red from his
efforts. His left hand was equally busy. His index finger
was pushing hard against his boy-hole. Alex shuddered and
grunted every time it went in. He had an iron bit in his
mouth, buckled around his head by ridiculously long leather
straps meant for horses, not boys. He must have found his
new toy among the forgotten tools in the loft above. I gazed
at this soon to be twelve-year-old boy, methodically fucking
himself like a horny little animal, torturing himself, I
realized, as he swatted his maturing testicles again. The
sounds he was making were coming from deep inside and soon
they were mixed with heaving sobs of anguish and pain.
     Of course I had two choices. I could walk away and
pretend I hadn't seen anything. Or I could stop him. Another
blow to his poor nuts, this time with his clenched fist,
made it an easy decision.
     "Alexander!" I shouted, before he could hurt himself
again.
     Stunned, the boy looked up at me with wide eyes. Horror
and shame filled them when he realized he'd been caught, and
he just sat there sobbing uncontrollably. I knelt beside him
and cradled him gently in my arms. Carefully I unbuckled the
straps and took the bit from his mouth. He'd bitten down so
hard his tongue was bleeding. His eyes wouldn't focus, and
finally I had to shake him, then slap him, hard, to bring
him around.
     "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cried, over and over. He
tried to get up and run away, but I held him down, even as
he struggled. It wasn't long before the fight went out of
him. I slid his shorts off him the rest of the way, then
carefully helped him to his feet. His balls were already
returning to their healthy boyish pink, but they were
swollen and looked very sore. He was still hard, and I could
see pre-cum glistening on the end of his cock.
     I said nothing as I walked him back to the house and
laid him down on the couch in the living room. He closed his
beautiful eyes and pressed his spinning head into one of the
pillows. I was back a moment later with a two cool moist
towels. The first I placed in his hand.
     "Put this between your legs. Don't squeeze anything."
     Alex sighed at the cooling touch to his burning balls.
     With the other towel I gently wiped his face. I sat
with him for nearly an hour, soothing him, wiping his
forehead, just holding his hand. Finally he calmed down.
Time for answers.
     "Why?" I asked softly.
     His eyes danced and his young face was clouded by shame
once more. "I'm bad," he said in a small tearful voice. "Bad
boys have to be punished. Don't they?"
     "Yes, they do," I agreed. "But what makes you think
you're bad?"
     "This does," the boy said, looking down at his four-
inch cock now lying soft against his tortured balls. "It's
always getting hard."
     "Nothing bad about that, Alex. You look nice with a
boner."
     He stared at me with his sad eyes, then turned his face
away. "I'm always touching it. I try not to, but I can't
help it. Boys aren't supposed to touch themselves down
there."
     Alex said it with such earnestness, such certain
conviction, that at first I didn't know quite how to react.
     "Who told you that?" I finally asked. The dark cloud of
pain and memory that washed over him in that moment served
as my answer. His abusers were still abusing him, even four
years later. "I see. Were you punished, when you touched
it?"
     The boy nodded gently and closed his eyes.
     I'd known for years that he caused himself pain,
sometimes sexual, sometimes just every day stuff, but this
was the first time he seemed intent on really damaging
himself. That scared the hell out of me, but it also got me
very, very hard. Something clicked inside, and it would
change us both forever.
     "And now you punish yourself."
     Again poor Alexander nodded miserably, and his young
voice crackled with emotion. "It just makes me harder now.
No matter what I do it just keeps sticking up."
     "Do you cum, when you hurt yourself?"
     "Sometimes," the boy said guiltily. "Not every time."
Alex sat up now and swung his feet onto the floor. Like most
boys his age, they seemed a few sizes too big for the rest
of his body. I thought they were adorable.
     He bent over and held his head in his hands. "God, I'm
so messed up."
     "No, you're not," I said gently, standing over him.
Suddenly he seemed so small and fragile, so lost, so young,
which of course he was. "You're different. There is a name
for what you are, you know. For people who need pain."
     "Freak, right?" he asked with rueful irony.
     I smiled softly as our eyes met. "No. Masochist."
     He looked at me in puzzlement. Obviously the boy had
never heard the word before, and until now it never occurred
to me that it might actually suit him. I'd always figured
that was an adult sort of thing, but why should it be? I
knew I was gay, and that I loved boys, when I was still just
a boy myself. If a boy can be a boylover, why can't he be a
masochist, or anything else his heart and soul desire?
     "What's that mean?" Alexander asked, still certain that
if it applied to him it must be something bad.
     "It's someone who gets off on feeling pain. Someone who
likes to hurt himself, or have other people hurt him. That
describes you pretty well, doesn't it?"
     Alex did not hesitate. "Yes."
     "Then let me hear you say it."
     "Masochist." It was a strange word to hear from a
twelve-year-old's mouth, but it seemed to be a comfort to
him, as did the knowledge that he was not alone, and that I
finally knew his darkest secret. His beautiful hazel eyes
swam with tears as he gazed up at me. "Will you punish me
from now on?"
     "When you need it."
     It was easy to give him the answer he wanted, but I
knew the reality was going to be a lot harder.
Raising a younger brother was difficult enough. Raising a
child masochist was more than I knew how to do. But for Alex
I would learn. I drew him to his feet and held him in my
arms. The boy's slender legs were wobbly and shaking. "But
right now I think you need something else."
     Alexander nodded softly and pressed his head to my
chest.
     "No more tears now," I said, and led him off to the bed
we shared.


Chapter 3: Transformations

     "Fuck me," twelve-year-old Alexander said as we lay
together in bed. It was early evening and the sun had yet to
set in the long days of summer. The curtains were drawn
though, shutting out much of the light.
     "You shouldn't ask me that," I replied, tenderly
stroking his hair and kissing his neck. We enjoyed our
intimacy, the warmth of our shared bed, our nude bodies
pressed together. His skin was smooth and silken, and his
freshly washed hair smelled faintly of strawberries. His
urgent demand to have this ultimate act of possession
performed upon him made everything seem suddenly harder and
colder.
     I'd fantasized about getting Alexander's ass since the
first day I brought him back home. He has a great little
rear-end, two pale perfect round globes of smooth
unblemished boyflesh. I gently rubbed them now as he lay
with his back to me.
     "Please, Steve," he whispered desperately. He was
trembling. "I've had it before."
     "I know you have," I said with deep regret. I love the
thought of hard sex with boys, but no little five-year-old
deserves to have his cherry popped before he even knows what
it's all about, or what those funny things between his legs
are for. I was twelve when a man took mine, and I still
remember the thrill of knowing what was coming, feeling that
man inside me, filling my young body until I could take no
more. It was exhilarating and wonderful and I shot my first
load of sperm that very day. How must it have been for Alex?
He was just a baby when his virginity was stolen. It was
confusion, and shame, and pain, and nothing more.
     "I know you have," I said again. "And that's why I
can't."
     He rolled over and looked me in the eye.
     "That's why you have to. He hated me. You love me. You
can make it a good thing, instead of a bad one." Alex has
always been a serious boy, but this time there was a
maturity in his expression, and a certainty in his voice
that I had never noticed before. My little brother, my sweet
Alexander, knew what he wanted and why he needed it.
     Strangely, I never actually said I would. We simply
gazed at one another for a moment, as the evening slowly
wore on, and we both knew this would be the night that
changed things forever.
     I put him on his back and propped his head up with the
pillows. Then I slowly jerked him off, making sure not to
let him cum. Three times I brought him to the edge as he lay
there moaning and squirming. His shaft was throbbing madly,
the head a swollen shining purple crown.
     Taking a slender ankle in each hand, I folded his legs
up to his chest and he held them there without being told. I
gave him an encouraging smile and studied his cute little
hole. It was pink and hairless and very clean. I pressed a
finger to his opening. Alex relaxed his muscle and my
invading probe slid easily inside the boy. He gave a little
gasp, then gazed at me with dreamy eyes. He was warm and wet
inside, and just a little tight. I took my time exploring
him with that single finger, occasionally brushing against
his immature prostate. He squealed a bit each time I touched
his little joy button, and he licked his tongue over his
lips.
     After I'd loosened him, and gotten his juices started,
I added a second finger, stretching his little ring as it
clenched around the twin invaders. A deep groan issued from
his throat as I rolled my fingers around inside him. The
boy's erection was straining now, and I saw a few drops of
pre-cum glistening on the tip. I must have spent the next
half-hour fingering him. By the end his little cunt was
moist and soft, and a constant stream of prostatic fluid was
dribbling from his young cock. All the while I was
impossibly hard, fighting my urge to open him forcefully.
     "I'm going to take you now," I said.
     My twelve-year-old was panting, but he eyed me with
desperate need, and just a little fear.
     Placing my hands on the back of his knees, to help him
stay in position, I then began a slow, leisurely
penetration. Alex wiggled and squirmed as my nine inches
gradually impaled him. He was trying to get more of me
inside him, clenching his hungry little hole around my cock.
     "Do it harder," the boy whispered in a far away voice.
His eyes were tightly closed as pain and pleasure surged
through his slender frame.
     Alex was too young to know that a good slow relentless
fuck is what a boy really needs. I was about to educate him.
It took a lot of effort not to cum in those first few
minutes. The boy's ass was so warm and so tight. Watching my
cock disappear inside his slender body, spread submissively
for my pleasure, was almost more than I could bear. But I
was going take him. Possess him. Own him. After tonight he
would never think of that old bastard again when he had a
dick up his ass. With each steady, forceful thrust, I made
him take a little more of me, and in so doing I took a
little more of him. Slowly I increased the rhythm, pounding
his hairless ass.
     He was sweating and panting now, making strange
animalistic cries deep in his throat. Pain wracked the boy's
sweet face as he writhed and struggled, and yet his young
cock was as hard as ever.
     "I'm hurting you," I said as I pulled out all the way
and rammed myself back in. It was not a question, but a
fact.
     "Unnnggh!!" he cried. "Yes, yes." His voice was a
barely audible squawk.
     Watching a pre-teen boy endure an anal orgasm is a
terribly gratifying experience. Alexander's lasted for a
good ten minutes as I brutally fucked him. The kid was
hysterical, clawing at the mattress, rolling his head from
side to side, drooling like a little madman. His cock stood
straight and hard, but he could not cum. More than once he
reached for his dick, only to have me smack his hands away.
     "Never touch yourself when I'm fucking you," I hissed.
     Alexander was weeping now, his voice long since spent.
Soft cries and whimpers where all he could manage as I
neared my climax. With a final series of vicious thrusts I
came inside my boy, my gentle Alexander. His weeping turned
to fitful sobs as I slowly pulled out of his ruined hole.
The dark thought of making him suck me clean entered my head
for a moment, but this I could not ask of him. He had
already given me the last full measure any boy can give.
     I collapsed beside him and showered him with tender
kisses. He buried himself in my arms and cried himself out.
     "Are you alright?" I asked him softly.
     "Yes, sir," he replied.
     Somehow his answer seemed fitting. With a single finger
I pressed once more against his battered rectum. Alex
shivered and whined plaintively as it went in.
     "Who does this belong to?" I asked.
     "You, sir," came the boy's instant response.
     "And this little thing?" I demanded as I stroked his
cock to a new erection.
     "You, sir," Alex said humbly. I was starting to like
being called sir.
     Next I grabbed his balls harshly in my hands, squeezing
them just enough to make him moan.
     "And these?"
     "You, sir," the boy was repeating it now like a
catechism.
     I pulled him close and we snuggled together in silence.
It was well past midnight now. A new day had come, in so
many ways. Every so often as we lay there he would shed a
few more tears, but he sighed softly as his head fell upon
my chest. I stroked his hair and ran my fingers playfully
over his ear.
     "It's good now," he said, his voice still weak and
shaking. "I love you."
      I just kissed him again in answer.
     Another quiet hour had passed, but we were both still
awake. Something unspoken lay between us and I knew neither
of us would sleep until we brought it out in the open. I sat
him up at the head of the bed, pillows all around him. He
gracefully crossed his legs. I did the same, and there we
were eye to eye, naked and exhausted.
     "Honest time now, Alex," I said, and I laid a hand
across his thigh. Smooth and silken and boyishly muscular.
"You and I just did something we can never take back."
     "I know."
     "Then the question is where do we go now?"
     Alex thought about that for a long time, and I could
see in his face that he had an answer. "Where . . . where do
you think we should go?"
     I shook my head. "I'm not going to make this easy on
you. I asked you an important question, and I expect an
answer. Tell me what's inside, Alexander. Tell me what your
heart says."
     He cast his eyes down. "I . . . "
     I reached out gently and lifted his chin. "Look at me.
What does it say?"
     Alex nodded slowly and sat up a little taller. "It says
I belong to you."
     I took both of his hands into my own. What followed, I
thought, was the hardest question of all. "What do you call
a person who belongs to someone else?"
     His eyes danced, and he fought a slight shiver as the
answer came to him. "You call that person a slave."
     There it was. It was out. And now we'd have to deal
with it.
     "Is that what you want to be?" I asked.
     I suppose it was yet too difficult for him to say the
word again, but he nodded his head slowly and emphatically.
I wasn't convinced a boy so young could now what it really
meant, or what the consequences would be.
     "Let me explain something to you, Alex. Don't say
anything until I'm finished. If we do this, it's for real.
It's not a game we'll play in bed for a few hours each
night. It's real life. I don't know much about it, but I do
know it is not something you just turn on and turn off
whenever you feel like it. Does that make sense?"
     Twelve-year-old Alexander nodded again.
     I got up from the bed and stood beside it. I gestured
him to do the same. My strong, slender, naked boy stood
bravely before me.
     "Kneel," I said in a soft whisper.
     Alex dropped to his knees instantly and looked up at me
with wonder in his eyes.
     "I want to hear you tell me what you want."
     Alex swallowed hard and somehow said the words. Even
understanding who he was, and what he needed, I knew it had
to be very difficult for him.
     "I want to be a slave."
     Never had I been so proud of him.
     "Stand up."
     He obeyed.
     "This is a big decision," I said, "and I don't expect
you keep your word right now. I want you to sleep in your
own bed tonight. You need to think hard about this. Be
honest with yourself. I can't do that for you. Tomorrow
morning you can tell me again, if that's what you really
want."
     Alex seemed relieved. Things were apparently moving a
little too fast for him. He hugged me, and thanked me, then
walked off to his room, which he rarely slept in. His steps
were ginger and awkward, his body still reeling from the
merciless fucking I'd given him hours before.
     "Alex," I said to him just as he was getting into the
hallway.
     My naked boy turned and looked at me.
     "No matter what you decide, I will always protect you,
and I will always love you. Nothing will change that."
     He smiled softly and disappeared into the darkness.