Date: Wed, 21 Feb 2007 20:54:13 -0800
From: <redbeardedsf (at) yahoo (dot) com>
Subject: Pleasing Mr. Petrov

PLEASING MR. PETROV

By Redbeard


(This is an adult erotic gay story. If such stories offend
you or if it is illegal to read such stories where you're
located, please go away now. If you can't tell the difference
between reality and fantasy, go away quickly and get some
help. However, this is not a slam-bang hard sex story! It is
about the sexual tension of a young hetero teenage boy being
undressed and embarrassed in front of (and along with) his
hetero father. So it includes intergenerational and family
themes along with nudity, humiliation, voyeurism and
masturbation. You've been warned. Feedback to redbeardedsf at
y a h o o dot c o m)



"Everything has a price!" Petrov had announced to me out of
the blue. The remark had no bearing on the conversation we
were having, but I had started to get used to the man's
eccentricities -- or at least the ones I had learned about so
far. He was one of the wealthiest men on the planet and if I
could get him to sign a contract with me it would more than
quadruple my income.


So here I was stretched out on a chaise lounge in the massive
garden of the estate Petrov had rented for his California
stay. He and I were both sipping some exotic drink his
personal chef had prepared and watching my youngest son,
Jonas, swing a baseball bat at a pitching machine. Jonas was
the star of his school baseball team and was doing quite well
against his mechanical opponent. The boy turned to us and
called out, "Wow, dad, I wish we could have one of these at
home!"


"Well, if Mr. Petrov decides to hire me I just might treat
you to one." I turned quickly to gauge Petrov's reaction. It
was well known that anyone who offended him -- or anyone who
said "no" to him -- would be out the door. And yet he loved
lively philosophical discussions. He acted as if he was too
deep in concentration to have heard my remark to Jonas.


"Let's say there is some little brat with a puppy. I say to
the brat I will give you a hundred dollars for the puppy, but
the brat loves the little dog -- his best friend, if you will
-- and is frantic about how he could never part with the
puppy. Besides, what does a hundred dollars mean to a child?
But then I say to him to give me the dog and I will give his
family a house with a swimming pool and another beachfront
house for holidays and his bedroom will have a wide-screen TV
and all the game systems he could want. How fast would that
little brat toss the puppy into my arms?"


I tried to chuckle in response, but he looked deadly serious.
I stammered something about how perceptive his story was and
he looked very displeased. Petrov had made it clear that he
"cannot stand these mewling sycophants." I had smiled and
agreed with him then as well. Damn, it was a difficult dance
trying to do business with this mysterious billionaire.


By most standards I'd be considered wealthy. As an attorney
and investment advisor, I had earned around half a million a
year for the preceding decade. But with my oldest son in grad
school and the twins in their third year of college, plus the
private school for Jonas and my wife's extravagances, my
money didn't go far. Besides, if I didn't drive a flashy
expensive car and send all my sons to the very best schools
none of my current clients would want to associate with me.
In addition, I had made some unwise investment decisions and
was working hard to keep my impending bankruptcy secret. I
had to keep on appearing prosperous or the game was over.


Petrov's contract would be worth two-million a year to me.
But first I had to get the elusive billionaire to sign with
me. He'd come to my home for dinner. My jet-setting wife had
even agreed to be there and pretend we had a happy marriage
for the sake of our guest. Petrov had seemed most interested
in talking with my youngest son.


Jonas is the only child still left at my home -- he was the
birth control accident that marked the beginning of the end
for my marriage (we had planned on two children, Jonas was
our fourth). For some reason I got noble about wanting my
wife, Pamela, to carry the baby to term. She told me that
this last son would be mine to raise. Her constant travels
and partying since his birth proved she was serious about her
threat. So here I was pushing fifty and my homelife revolved
around a boy in the seventh grade.


Not that I would ever admit openly to any regret about my
decision. Jonas was a great kid, most popular boy in his
school, star player at soccer, swimming and baseball, and
very good looking. I know that sounds like a parent boasting.
In fact, all my sons are handsome. But Jonas is simply
extraordinary. People turn their heads. Living in Southern
California I'd been barraged with offers to put him in
commercials or TV shows. But I've dealt with too many nut
cases in show business to subject him to that. A father has
to protect his son, right?


Jonas didn't understand why he had to come with me to see Mr.
Petrov. He's a bright kid so I explained to him just how much
money was at stake and how Petrov was eccentric. We even
joked and laughed on the ride over. "If Mr. Petrov asks you
to eat octopus, what are you gonna do?" "I'll think about
daddy's extra two-million a year." "If Mr. Petrov asks you to
dig a ditch, what are you gonna do?" "I'll think about
daddy's extra two-million a year." We worked out a signal -- I
would rub my chin if I was worried that Jonas was going to do
anything to offend or annoy the Russian billionaire.


When we arrived, with Jonas in a dressy shirt and pants,
Petrov immediately asked why I didn't let the boy be
comfortable in jeans and t-shirt. A little later when the
financier saw Jonas's reaction to the pitching machine, he
insisted he would have a servant set it up. Jonas ended up
retrieving an old pair of sneakers from the trunk of my car
and going shirtless for his batting practice.


My host picked up his drink and walked closer to the batting
cage where my son's sweaty body glistened. I followed not
sure where Petrov would take our conversation next. His knack
for surprising me continued when he turned and said, "The boy
is wearing boxer shorts? You let a boy of this age wear boxer
shorts?"


Indeed, there were a few inches of brightly patterned boxer
shorts showing above the waistband of my son's gray school
pants. I was flustered and said, "All the boys his age... um,
he was quite insistent... he said he'd be embarrassed...."


"He was insistent?" Petrov said, a note of outrage in his
voice. "A good father does not let a child dictate. It is a
matter of health. A boy of this age needs the support for his
equipment." With that Petrov emphasized his point by hefting
his own balls.


A servant had silently come up beside us to replace our
finished drinks. Petrov began yelling at the cowering man in
Russian, talking a mile a minute. The servant left our fresh
drinks and disappeared in a flash. Petrov headed back to our
lounges asking me about which American technologies I thought
had the best chance for big profits in the next decade.


It was a relief that the subject of my son's underpants had
been dropped. But less than a half hour later a different
servant appeared and handed Petrov a bag from a discount
store. Petrov reached into the bag and pulled out packages of
white boys' briefs -- Hanes, Fruit of the Loom, Jockey, and
some generic store brand. The rich man's voice was commanding
as he said, "Get the boy over here."


Jonas' bare chest and tummy were sweat-soaked and his curly
brown hair was glued to his head from the batting helmet he
had been wearing. I never got a chance to say a word before
Petrov pulled a pair of the white Fruit of the Loom briefs
out of its package and handed them to Jonas with a command of
"Put these on, boy."


My son began to hedge, "But I don't wear..." but I rubbed my
chin urgently. He got the signal. He bunched the white cotton
in his hands and asked, "Wh-where should I go to change,
sir?"


"Where to go?" Petrov said as if he didn't understand the
question. "Nobody can see in here. It's very private. It's
only me and your father here. Nothing to be modest about."


Jonas looked at me with a panicky expression. "I'm sorry, Mr.
Petrov," I said quickly trying to save the situation. "I know
you're right about Jonas acting too modest. But American boys
his age are very shy about their bodies in front of
strangers."


"Go," Petrov commanded with a wave of his hand. "Behind that
tree." The tree wasn't all that wide. I rubbed my chin and
motioned with my head for Jonas to proceed and do as he was
told. He took the small pair of underpants and stepped behind
the tree. As I would have expected, he turned his back to us
even before he started taking off his sneakers.


Unfortunately for my boy's modesty, as he hopped around on
one leg taking down his gray slacks he didn't realize that he
had moved away from the tree. In fact, when he bent over to
take his boxer shorts off, Petrov and I both had an
unobstructed view of his entire slim 5'3" body. I looked over
at Petrov at that point, a fright running down my spine. As
the father of a boy who was so beautiful, I was very aware of
men perving on my son. Was Petrov one of those men? The idea
turned my stomach.


Petrov turned to me and just as if he was asking the weather
he inquired, "Does the boy have pubic hair yet?"


My mouth was dry as I stammered but no sound came out.
Finally I mumbled, "I don't know."


Jonas approached us warily with two inches of Fruit of the
Loom waistband showing over the waistband of his slacks. He
held his shoes and his boxer shorts. Petrov ignored the boy
and railed against me, "You don't know? No wonder he acts so
strange about his body. A boy this age -- a father should be
checking on his development often. When is the last time you
saw your son naked?" Jonas stopped in his tracks when he
heard that last question bellowed out.


In a quiet voice I answered, "It must have been years ago."
Just two minutes earlier I was suspecting Petrov of being
some sort of perv ogling my son. Now I was feeling like a
failure as a father. I looked from Jonas to the billionaire
and back again.


The rich man turned to Jonas and in a solicitous voice asked,
"I thought you were close with your father? If you are close
like this and you trust him, why would you not be willing to
let your father see you out of your clothes?"


Oh lord! Jonas was shivering even though it was nearly 80-
degrees. His voice was even weaker than mine as he said, "I
g-guess I'd be emb-b-barrassed, sir." I was the boy's father.
I was supposed to save him from situations like this. But,
Petrov seemed intent. And this man held my financial future
in his hands. Was he testing me?


 "Would you be embarrassed, boy, because you are still small
and you have no hair yet?" The old man's voice sounded kind
but he motioned with his pinky finger.


Jonas nearly shouted, "I have some... umm, hair... a little bit."


Petrov spread his arms wide. "You should share such a joyous
fact with your father, boy! Every father is proud when his
son shows signs of becoming a man." Then the billionaire
seemed thoughtful for a moment before continuing, "You're
probably just shy because you are afraid you will have an
erection in front of your father. But that's OK. That is one
of the things your father should be checking to see that his
son is OK in his development." He turned to me with a note of
finality, "You agree with me, right?"


I gasped. The old man and the boy were both looking at me. "I
suppose they have different ideas about raising sons in
Russia," I mumbled. Then I watched my son fiddling with his
boxer shorts in front of his crotch and realized that the boy
had an erection showing through the front of his pants. I
looked away quickly. I knew for certain my son was completely
heterosexual. When I found porn on his computer it was female
only. And I knew for a fact he had already fucked a very
pretty girl who was a grade ahead of him at school.


Mr. Petrov was ranting now: "And look at the kind of boys you
raise: Sissy boys who are scared to get their hands dirty;
Spoiled brats who expect life to be handed to them on a
platter; children who make such drama about the sight of
their tiny putzes! This is like the generation of effete
lieutenants that marked the twilight of the British Empire!"
Then he turned to me and said, "How can you say you are close
to your son when you don't even know this boy? Have him strip
naked for you."


Once again my mouth was moving without saying anything.
Finally I babbled, "B-but we're outside. It seems so...."


Petrov lifted his weight from the lounge and announced, "You
are right. We will be sensitive to the boy's nervousness. We
will go inside." It was obvious yhe corner I'd just painted
us into -- since I'd used being outside as the excuse for not
having Jonas undress, going inside would remove that excuse.


We followed the big Russian into the mansion. My son looked
up at me with pleading eyes and I just rubbed my chin. How
long could this continue before I rubbed my chin raw?


Petrov led us downstairs into a windowless locker room that
adjoined the mansion's gymnasium. He grinned and said, "Here!
This is a location where it would be natural that a father
and his son would take off their clothes." Then he sat down
facing us in a black leather armchair. Jonas and I stood
between two benches, between two rows of lockers, facing each
other, both of us nervous.


I looked to Petrov and he motioned to me. The ball was in my
court. I sat on a bench with my son in front of me, cleared
my throat and said, "Jonas, take off your pants."


"Da-a-a-ad, ple-e-e-ease," he whimpered.


I glanced over at Petrov and knew that if I stopped this now
I would be ruined financially. As calmly as I could, I looked
right at Jonas and said, "Look, son, I think Mr. Petrov has
made some good points. Boys in this country are too modest
about their bodies. It creates an atmosphere where any
acknowledgement of body development or sexual... umm, err...
anything about your sex organs becomes... umm...." That's where I
started losing my train of thought. I took a deep breath and
said, "Now, son, I can already see you have an erection. I
don't see any harm in you getting yourself naked right now."


Jonas's face was as red as tomato juice and the blush went
all the way down his bare chest. He let the boxer shorts drop
from his hand as he unsnapped and unzipped his slacks and let
them fall. Then I looked over at Petrov again. Once more my
spine shivered with the question of whether this rich old man
was perving on my cute young son. I had spent years trying to
protect my beautiful boy from homosexuals. Now was I forcing
Jonas to put on a free show for a rich man's twisted lusts? I
almost laughed to myself at that thought. It was hardly a
"free show" if Petrov ended up paying me millions of dollars
over the next few years.


That's when I realized that my own penis was thickening in my
pants. Why? This made no sense. I knew I was always 100%
heterosexual. I had never been aroused by the sight or the
thought of a male body. Even when I was growing up, I never
indulged in sex play with other boys. The idea just turned my
stomach. But now as my teenage son was stripped to his white
briefs, my penis was hard in my pants.


I reassured myself -- it's all this talk about nakedness and
cocks and erections that's getting my juices flowing; also my
son undressing while acting so nervous and shy was somehow
arousing. I shook my head aware that I could clearly see the
outline of Jonas's hard penis through the thin fabric of the
underpants. There was a wet spot that was spreading out
across the white cotton. Jonas pulled off each of his socks,
clearly trying to kill time. I nodded to him and he slowly
peeled down his white briefs then stepped out of them. Jonas
tried to keep his hands in front of him as he shifted from
one leg to the other.


Petrov crashed through the nerve-wracking silence with a
loud, "So where is this hair? The boy said he has hair. I see
no hair."


"It's more like fuzz," Jonas whispered barely audible.


"Do you see hair on the boy?" Petrov asked me bluntly. I
shrugged my shoulders. There was no answer I could give that
would please Petrov and still not humiliate my son. Changing
directions, the old Russian told me, "Now you can ask the boy
questions."


"What kind of questions?" I dumbly mumbled.


Petrov took the lead and turned to Jonas with, "Boy, how
often do you masturbate?"


I thought my son would fall over then and there. He gasped
and looked at me, his eyes pleading. I just pulled at my chin
once more. That was our signal that he should be cooperative
with the eccentric billionaire. Petrov sneered at me, "Are
you getting a rash on your chin?"


Jonas composed himself admirably given the situation and
softly said, "A few times a week, sir."


"Put our your hands, boy!" Petrov commanded. He stood from
his comfortable chair and positioned Jonas's arms stretched
in front of him, with his palms down. Oh fuck! Was this crazy
old man going to swat my naked son's hands with a ruler?
Where would I draw the line on humoring this multi-
billionaire? Then Petrov put a lightweight coin on the back
of each of Jonas's hands. "This is better than lie detector,
boy. If you tell a lie, coin will shake. If you tell the
truth, coin will be still."


Petrov stretched out again in his leather easy chair and once
more asked, "How often do you masturbate, boy?"


I was shocked by how totally naked my youngest son now
looked. With his arms up, standing tall, it was like he was
posing for us, or awaiting some examination. He was
hyperventilating and the redness in his face and chest was
glowing. His mouth moved but no response came to the
embarrassing question. Finally, he gasped, "Every day, sir...
umm, two times a day... umm, or sometimes more than two times a
day, sir." When he reached the end of his answer the coins on
the backs of his hands stopped shaking.


Petrov was ready with his next embarrassing question. "Have
you measured your penis, boy?"


"Yes, sir," Jonas quietly confessed. I saw that he was
looking down at the floor and understood why he didn't want
to meet my eyes.


"And your size at the present time?"


Jonas's boyhood looked stiff as a nail. It was sticking
upright against his flat tummy and his hairless balls were
tucked up snug against his body. He cleared his throat and
said, "four and a quarter, sir." The coins were shaking.
Jonas cleared his throat again and then said, "three and
three quarters inches, sir." The coins stopped shaking.


Petrov had a huge grin as he turned to me and said, "You see.
I have already brought you closer to your son. You have to
agree that now you know important information on his growing
up that you might have missed otherwise."


I realized from his pause that the old Russian was waiting
for me to agree. I quietly acknowledged his wisdom, hoping to
end this ordeal. But Petrov pressed on telling me to ask my
son other questions. I blurted out, "Have you fucked a girl,
Jonas?" I hoped this would be a way to help my son get back
some of his dignity.


"Yes, sir," my boy announced smiling. "Susannah from the
eighth grade." The coins were not shaking.


"Very good," Petrov bellowed. "Did she also give you oral
sex, boy?"


"N-not really, sir. She kissed it a couple of times, but
that's all." This line of questioning was getting Jonas more
relaxed. In spite of his nudity and awkward pose this was
something he could boast about.


"Have you ever gotten a blowjob from anyone, boy?"


Jonas got a stricken look on his face and the coins were
shaking like Santa's sleigh. "I g-guess so, sir."


"You guess so, boy? That's an odd answer. Who gave you this
blowjob you guess you got?"


"Please, dad, do I have to answer?" Now my boy met my eyes.


Petrov looked to me. He was going to defer to me now. But I
knew that Petrov would judge my decision at this point.
Quietly I said, "I think this has been constructive, Jonas.
It's OK. I promise not to be mad about anything you tell me."


Jonas looked down at the floor and was hyperventilating as he
quickly said, "A person... umm, in a men's room... b-but I didn't
go in there for that. I just went in to pee. And I didn't do
anything back to him. And it was all over in less than a
minute. He p-put his mouth... umm, err... and it was all over and
I stuffed it away and ran out of there." With that both coins
dropped from the backs of Jonas's hands. He fell to his knees
to retrieve the coins, apologizing profusely. It wasn't clear
whether he was apologizing for dropping the coins or for the
incident that happened in a men's room.


My son stood up and placed one coin on the back of his left
hand. I reached forward and helped place the other coin on
the back of his other hand. I was shaken and my mind was
spinning. I asked, "How long ago did this happen?"


"J-just after my last birthday, dad. I went to spend my
birthday money."


For a moment I had forgotten about Petrov. But he now burst
into the conversation and asked, "Did the faggot try to put
his meat into your behind?"


"No way," Jonas called out loudly. Then he remembered himself
and added, "Sir."


Unfazed, Petrov continued, "Did the faggot try to force you
to your knees to take his meat into your mouth, boy?"


"N-no, sir." Jonas scrunched up his face with a disgusted
look.


"Did the faggot try to get you to play with his meat?" My son
again answered in the negative and Petrov turned to me to
calmly ask, "So why do you look so upset for your son, papa?"
Then he chuckled.


At that point I couldn't help myself. I had to ask, "Jonas,
have you ever masturbated together with any of your friends?"


I was pleased when my boy quickly answered, "No way, dad.
Some guys wanted to do that kinda stuff but that just..." He
made a face and shuddered but the coins on his hands remained
perfectly still.


"The man who sucked your cock," Petrov interrupted. "Did you
see his meat?"


"N-not really." Now he seemed less sure of himself and the
coins shook just slightly. "Well, a little bit, sir. He was...
umm... he had his hand around it and his hand was moving pretty
fast." I had thought my son couldn't blush any deeper than he
had already, but this revelation sent him to a new level.


"Have you ever had a good look at a grown up man's hairy
naked penis?"


"No, sir," he announced decisively. "I'm not gay at all."


"Well of course not," Petrov said solicitously. "But a boy
your age is certainly curious. You are curious to know what
pubic hair feels like, right? You are curious about what your
meat will look like when you're a grown man, right?"


"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Jonas answered in a forthright
and direct way.


Petrov turned to me and matter-of-factly said, "Go on then,
papa. Show your boy what he will look like when he gets hairy
and big."


I looked at the wealthy man as if I didn't understand what he
had just said. He elaborated, "Look how much closer you are
to your son, how much more comfortable you will be with him
now that he is no longer hiding himself from you. Now it's
your turn to take off your clothes."


Jonas quickly piped up, "Yeah, dad, it's only fair."


My cock was still fully erect in my pants. I saw no way out
of this. I swallowed hard and decided my best course of
action was to make light of it all. I laughed as I pulled off
my shirt and tugged up my white undershirt. I tried to
maintain my smile as I pulled off my shoes and socks. All
that time I remained sitting.


When I stood up there was no way I could hide the outline of
my erect penis in the front of my slacks. Jonas glanced down
and said, "Wow," even as he kept holding the coins on the
backs of his hands.


Ever since I entered college I've been described as "all man"
-- 6'3" with broad shoulders, a great chest, and powerful arms
and legs. Thirty years later my chest was more built up and
covered with a thick mat of hair, my arms and my body hair
were all thicker, but I'd kept myself fit. Sure, my waistline
had increased and my tummy no longer had six-pack definition.
But I played racquetball and swam and lifted weights. I knew
that looking good and being in great shape were positive
assets for a businessman like me.


I didn't have anything to be ashamed of about my body --
certainly not my thick 8 inch circumcised cock. But as I
unbuckled my belt I was very much aware that I had never
before knowingly displayed my erect cock in front of any guy.
Now I was about to reveal everything in front of two males --
my naked and erect young son and this quirky Russian senior
citizen.


Once I stepped clumsily out of my pants, I knew that my thick
erection was prominently displayed in my white boxer briefs.
I took a deep breath and pushed them down from my hips. My
hairy dick popped up sticking out prominently from my body,
but less than half-way of the nearly 180-degree angle of my
son's upright boner.


I caught sight of the scene in a mirror. My son and I were
both naked from head to toe, facing each other, each fully
erect. Beside us was Petrov, the eccentric financier, with
his hand down inside his pants. Oh fuck! Not only was that
old creep perving on my son, he was also perving on me. How
much did it turn him on knowing he had a father and son for
his own private nude show?


Jonas finally broke the silence to say, "Does yours get any
stiffer than that, dad?"


Did I hear a chuckle from Petrov? I stammered, "When I was
your age mine stood upright against my belly like yours."


"You can drop the coins, boy." When Petrov said that my son
immediately let the coins on his hands drop to the floor as
if he was following a command. Then Petrov continued, "Don't
you want to know what his chest hair feels like, boy? Of
course you do. Go on. Your father certainly won't mind."


Jonas's eyes met mine and I just stayed silent and
expressionless. His fingers played in the thick hair on my
chest. My nipples have always been especially sensitive and
they stand out like erasers in the thick forest of hair. When
his fingers brushed over my nipples I couldn't help but
shiver all over. I know that my cock twitched and leaked a
little pre-cum at that point.


"Don't you wonder, boy," Petrov's voice became almost
hypnotic now. "You must wonder whether the hair around that
big penis of his feels the same as the hair on his chest. Go
on, boy, have a feel of the hair. The hair you'll eventually
have will be just like it. You deserve to know what it will
feel like, boy."


Now my son had one hand brushing over my chest while his
other hand played in the hair just above and around my hard
cock. His wrist made contact with my erection. I felt him
pull his hand back just a bit, probably a reaction to the
wetness from my cock head. But before he could take his hand
away, Petrov cooed, "Feel the hair on his balls, little one.
I know you're eager to get hair on your balls, aren't you,
boy?"


When Jonas's fingers made contact with my heavy balls I had
no time to react. My fat hard-on jerked and pulsated with a
mind of its own and began shooting string after string of hot
cream. I watched unable to control myself as thick globs of
my sperm landed across my son's slim chest. I blinked and was
aware that there was a line of thick white liquid that ran
down and across his pretty face. His upper lip dripped spunk
and the line continued down his lower lip to his chin. Oh
good lord! My straight teenage son had gotten some of his own
dad's cum on his tongue.


But before I had time to react to that I became aware of a
new round of wetness splashing against my hairy chest. I
looked down and saw Jonas's fist wrapped around his very
stiff tool. There was one more shot of my son's youthful
sperm that blasted out of the head and landed in my chest
hair. Then he collapsed against me as if his knees wouldn't
hold him up.


How had this happened? I know I'm straight. I felt equally
certain my son was straight. I glanced to the side. Petrov
seemed out of breath. Was that a wet spot on the front of his
pants? I didn't want to stare in that direction. I didn't
want to know the answer to that question. Petrov pointed in
the direction of the showers.


Jonas and I silently went into a large tiled room with six
showerheads. We had barely set the water temperature when
Petrov entered the tiled room equally naked. He was a big man
in every direction -- even taller than me and with a large
belly. And yet all his heft seemed solid, his belly did not
jiggle. His cock was not erect, but it stuck away from his
body and the uncut tube looked thick as my boy's arm. Petrov
took the showerhead on the other side of Jonas and
immediately began chatting about what a positive experience
this had been for a father and son. I stayed silent.


Then Petrov started touching Jonas's arms and remarking about
how the boy was beginning to get some muscle development. "If
this boy has a good exercise routine his muscles will be
truly wonderful a year from now and two years from now. Three
years from now he will be quite a sight to see."


There was a silent plea in Jonas's eyes and I didn't dare rub
my chin anymore since Petrov had picked up on our cue.
Petrov's fingers were squeezing my naked son's shoulders and
then his pecs. I pretended I didn't see and just turned my
back to soap myself. There was too much at stake. I couldn't
risk alienating the multi-billionaire now. I tried to comfort
myself with that thing Petrov had pointed out about the man
who gave Jonas the blowjob -- he hadn't tried to stick his
dick in my boy's ass or his mouth. What long-term harm could
there be from Petrov touching Jonas's arms and chest?


I spun around when I suddenly heard a little "yip" sound.
There was an alarmed look on Jonas's face and a sly grin on
Petrov's face. Had Petrov pinched my son's nipples?


"Oh you Americans! You insist on taking away all the
sensitivity from a man's cock! Neither of you has any skin."
I noticed then that Petrov's cock had thickened and was
longer than before. But the foreskin still covered the head
of it. The man came up beside Jonas and said, "Feel what a
skin is like, boy. Feel how a skin is pulled back."


I scrubbed my face. I didn't want to have to respond to my
son's next plaintive look. When I rubbed the water from my
eyes I saw Jonas's fingers encircling the old Russian's
foreskin and pushing it back up the length of his massive
tool. Petrov now had a hard-on. He had managed to get the
boy's hand on his penis while I stood silently by.


But the multibillionaire stepped away and pointed to my boy's
crotch as he said, "The wonder of youth, eh? Stiff once
again. Go on, boy, show your papa how you masturbate."


"Daddy?" Jonas gasped, his eyes wide.


"Your father should have checked on you long before this,
boy. It's a father's responsibility to teach a son about his
growing body. It is better that he start this late than
never, boy. Now show your father how you play with it, little
one." Petrov was barking orders and my son didn't dare
disobey. I watched as Jonas's trembling fingers slid around
his erect penis and he slowly began stroking himself.


But Petrov was not finished. "And you, papa," he announced
decisively. "It's important to teach your boy that taking
care of his needs is not a shameful thing. It's important to
teach him how a real man masturbates. Go on, then!"


Why did I follow his command? Staring right at my son I put
my fingers around my hard cock and rubbed it up and down
quickly. Less than an hour before I had shown my erection for
the first time in front of another male and now here I was
jerking off in front of my naked son and the naked old
Russian eccentric.


I didn't pay attention to where Mr. Petrov had gone. My young
son and I simply faced each other and masturbated until Jonas
gasped and I saw a string of white liquid shoot from his
cockhead. My cock followed. The sperm spilled down the drain.
I tried to catch my breath. I couldn't bring myself to look
at Jonas.


How had this happened? Nothing made any sense. How had I
allowed the twisted old Russian to take such liberties with
my son's hairless young body? And how had I shot two loads of
cum in such quick succession when deep down I knew I was
disgusted by everything I'd seen. It was only weeks later
that I realized my drink had likely been drugged with a
strong erection medication.


At that moment, after shooting off in the shower, I seemed to
be alone with my son. We returned to the locker room and
dressed in silence. Jonas softly spoke, "You know I'm
straight, dad."


"Yes, of course," I cut him off. "And you know I'm totally
straight, right, son?"


We put our clothes on but Jonas didn't have a shirt. As we
wandered from the locker room, I turned and said, "It's just
that they do things differently in Europe. The way they feel
about bodies and nudity and masturbation is... well...." I didn't
know how to finish that sentence. I didn't believe a word of
it anyway. Fuck! I had allowed a dirty old man to perv on my
thirteen-year-old son's body!


I thought of an old joke in which a businessman asks a pretty
girl if she would have sex with him for a million dollars.
She laughs and says that of course she would. So then he asks
if she would give him a blowjob for fifty bucks. "What kind
of girl do you think I am?" she snaps outraged. He answers,
"We've already established that. Now we're just negotiating
the details."


Then a servant appeared seemingly out of nowhere and handed
Jonas a clean T-shirt. He directed us to the small dining
room where a light supper would be served.


Petrov was a gracious host alternating between business
discussions with me and inquiring about Jonas's interests.
When Jonas mentioned his class project about the American
Civil War, Petrov got onto one of his rants about the subject
of slavery.


"Slavery is such a distasteful word," he almost spat. "And
yet your country has had a long and honorable history with
indentured servitude. Any of those fancy blueblood Americans
who trace their family trees back to colonial days had at
least one ancestor who came to your shores as an indentured
servant." I feigned interest, deeming this a safe and
impersonal topic. "It made sense. If you are a young man with
no money, no prospects for your future, from a family that is
strapped for cash, and you want to start a new life in
America, there is no way you can afford the trip across the
ocean. So you indenture yourself in return for the cost of
the passage over."


"Yes but that's way back in history," Jonas said.


"Hardly, my boy." Petrov shook his head. "How many of the
people working in the kitchen of your Chinese restaurant or
your Mexican restaurant are paying off years of debt to
someone who managed to get them into your country?"


Then Mr. Petrov got on the subject of his country. While
everyone referred to Petrov as Russian there were questions
about his actual nation of origin. But when the man referred
to "his" country, it was understood that he meant, Narutu,
the Pacific Island nation where he had made his home for the
last twenty years.


Narutu had achieved freedom from colonial control in the 60s
and was then ravaged by multinational companies for its
natural resources. Once the resources were depleted, the
economy collapsed. There were fewer than 30,000 residents in
the island chain when Petrov moved there. He was responsible
for the financial turn-around of the beautiful little nation
and in return he essentially ran the country as he liked. He
was merely an unofficial adviser to the president. But it was
understood that Petrov wrote the laws to suit himself.


I remembered then that indentured servitude was part of the
code of law on Narutu. Petrov explained, "Now it is a place
where people lead a good life. So what do we do about people
wanting to come live there? Even people with family roots
back there? Do we allow another million people to crowd onto
the islands and then the quality of life goes down for
everyone? Or do we go crazy like the Americans about keeping
new people out? Or do we only allow in people with a lot of
money to begin with?"


"So how do you do it?" Jonas asked clearly interested.


"No term of indentured servitude lasts longer than five
years," the old man pontificated. "It is handled on a case-
by-case basis. The same is true if a family wants a loan to
build a new house or start a business or send one of their
children off to school in America. This is what helps the
economy thrive on Narutu."


"But if the head of the household is indentured -- essentially
working without pay -- how can he support his family for the
five years?" I asked, caught up in the conversation now.


"More often than not where a family is concerned, they
indenture one of the children." As if reading our shocked
expressions he said, "There is one young man who is now a
freshman at Princeton in your country. His family can pay
this exorbitant tuition because he has just completed a five-
year indenture serving in my household. They saw how
brilliant he was as a child. And while in my service I saw to
it that he kept up his studies so he would be prepared for
college. Was this not a wise choice then for the boy?"


Petrov continued eating waiting to see if we would react.
Then he added on a light note, "And the boy was also very
beautiful, a wonderful young athlete, much like your son
here."


My head spun and I was hyperventilating. I put the pieces
together. There was a very beautiful boy who had been an
indentured servant in his household! I thought about how my
naked son's fingers had been placed on the Russian
billionaire's foreskin. What had the beautiful athletic
Narutuan boy had to do for Petrov in the shower?


I thought for a moment that I would pass out. One of the most
controversial laws passed by the Narutu legislature (at the
behest of their wealthy patron) had lowered the age of
consent for sexual relations. In America the age was eighteen
and in Great Britain it was sixteen. But in Narutu, my young
hairless son would be considered legal age, just as that
Narutuan Princeton freshman would have been my son's age five
years earlier.


And what if the Narutuan boy hadn't consented to sex with Mr.
Petrov? The answer is simple: An indentured servant does not
control his own consent. It is the master who controls the
life of the indenture -- the master who has the choice to give
consent.


But I didn't have time to dwell on such thoughts. Petrov
produced a contract that must have weighed five pounds and
placed it on the dining table beside my plate. "It is even
more generous than you had hoped for," he said with a gentle
smile on his face.


Suddenly I regretted all the nasty things I had thought about
the eccentric billionaire. But before I could lift up the
contract, Jonas complained about stomach pains. Petrov was
solicitous and helped my son from the table.


"Maybe I should just drive him home now," I said. But when I
stood up I felt terribly dizzy.


"I couldn't hear of such a thing. What if you both have
gotten sick from something in the food here? Come. I know
what the boy needs."


Petrov had his big bear arm around my son's shoulder and led
him quickly down a hallway as I followed behind. He called
out something to a servant who hurried out. Then Petrov led
my son into a large ornate bathroom and said, "The boy simply
needs to be cleaned out."


For a moment I didn't understand but then the servant brought
in an enema bag and a kit for administering enemas. "Oh, no,"
I cried out. "I couldn't put you to that bother. I'll take
him home and...."


"I used to do this for my own sons when they were little,"
the big man laughed. He ordered my son to take all his
clothes off. Jonas whimpered and looked at me, but what was
the use of protesting at this point after everything else we
had already been through.


I fell back into a chair and watched as Jonas undressed, even
as the boy was trying to say that his stomach felt a little
better. Why was my head spinning so terribly? Petrov put a
towel along the edge of the tub and bent Jonas's naked body
forward so that his butt was sticking up. My bleary eyes
managed to focus on the old man's thick Vaseline-covered
finger as it prodded at my boy's butthole.


Did I black out for a moment there? I opened my eyes. Petrov
had one hand resting on my son's hairless butt cheeks and his
other hand was massaging the boy's water-bloated stomach. The
old Russian had removed his shirt and his hairy shoulders
were displayed in the white ribbed athletic shirt he wore. I
thought I saw an erection tenting the front of his pants, but
I couldn't be sure.


When Petrov commanded my son to sit on the toilet and let out
the water that was filling his bowels, I tried to stand up
but I fell over. I heard Petrov call out, "This man needs a
doctor. Get him to my personal physician immediately." I
couldn't open my eyes but I heard Jonas's voice, "I'll go
with him." "Nonsense," Petrov laughed. "Your butt will be
filthy. But don't worry, little one. I'll get in the shower
and help wash you." The last thing I heard before blacking
out was Jonas crying out, "Daddy!"


- - - - - - - - - -


I opened my eyes and saw a nurse hovering over me. I looked
around and saw that I was in my own bedroom at home. The
nurse called to my wife who came bustling into the room with
a big warm smile on her face. Maybe my afternoon at Petrov's
had all been a dream?


My wife leaned over and kissed my forehead. Why was she being
so nice to me? "Mr. Petrov had his own doctor take care of
you. He said you had an allergic reaction to something in the
food. Petrov was so upset and apologetic about it. He said he
was used to the spices but they were unusual for Americans."


"When...?" I mumbled.


"You and Jonas were over there on Sunday and it's Tuesday
now. Petrov's doctor gave you something to help calm you and
to help you sleep." Then she sat on the side of the bed and
produced the heavy contract. "And look what a winner I'm
married to. The contract is for one-million dollars instead
of two-million. But then there's another three-million that
goes directly to an offshore corporation that you've been
made president of."


There was my signature on the contract. But I didn't remember
signing it.


"Wh-what about Jonas? Is he OK?"


"Jonas is more than OK, honey. He's off to spend the summer
in a tropical Pacific paradise. How's that for a treat for a
thirteen-year-old boy?"


I gasped. "Petrov took Jonas with him?"


"Dear Mr. Petrov was so upset that the food made both of you
ill that he insisted he wanted to do that for Jonas. He said
there were a lot of boys around Jonas's age on his estate. He
said they barely wore any clothes at all."


"Did you talk to Jonas?"


"Jonas was in the limo with Mr. Petrov when they came to get
some clothes I packed for him. But the doctor had given Jonas
a sedative to calm him so he was slurring his words. He
seemed excitable so I told him to just rest and everything
would be fine."


The nurse brought me tea and toast. I began to thumb through
the contract. On page 147 I finally found the part I was
looking for. My son Jonas was now Mr. Petrov's "ward" for the
next five years. The thick legal language went on from there
but I understood the intent. My cute young son was Petrov's
indentured servant on his estate in Narutu, governed by the
laws of that island nation with all that entailed.


I felt the blood drain from my face. Petrov had been right.
Everything did have a price.


With Jonas gone my marriage to his mother improved. She
hadn't wanted the one additional son. She had been unwilling
to raise him. Now that we were wealthy with all our other
children away at college, I was able to enjoy the high life
with my wife. We rediscovered our sex life and remembered
what we had liked about being together.


It was almost a month before I saw Petrov again. But I only
saw him long-distance on my computer screen during a video
conference call. He was shirtless and tanned and seemed in a
jolly mood. As he was approving most of my investment
suggestions he kept closing his eyes and pursing his lips.
Then he would grin and moan a little bit. I saw the way his
body was swaying. Oh fuck! Was he getting a blowjob during
our video conference?


His breathing was coming in thick pants now. Given his
situation I didn't want to ask the next question, but it
would seem odd for me not to. So I tried to keep my voice
steady as I inquired, "How is Jonas doing there?"


"Jonas?" The big Russian had a wide grin on his face as he
said, "It has not been easy for him to adapt but he is a
quick learner. And he is so lovely and charming." The man
gasped loudly and shouted, "Lovely and charming! Yes!" Petrov
threw back his head and moaned, his hands pushing down though
I cold not see what was below the camera range. He quietly
whispered, "Now lick it clean."


I should have excused myself and turned off my computer
monitor a minute earlier, but now it seemed too awkward to
make a departure. I said, "I see you're busy, sir." But he
just laughed and apologized for being distracted during our
video meeting. "I'll let you go, Mr. Petrov. Just sometime
perhaps I could talk with Jonas. Sometime when it's
convenient, sir."


The old man looked down and said, "Wipe your face," then he
smiled at me and said, "Yes, directly."


Before I realized what was happening, Petrov stood from his
seat and was walking away from the computer. He did not try
to hide the fact that he was naked, although his fat body
looked like it was covered in thick gray wool. At the same
instant, Jonas appeared on my monitor as he rose up to a
standing position. My young son was naked but for a thin
silver collar around his neck and another silver band at the
base of his penis which made it stand up away from his body.
He immediately took a pose with his hands clasped behind his
back and his head bowed. Subservient was the word that came
to mind. His tongue flicked lightly at his lips.


I froze for a moment. Then I reached with my foot and clicked
off the power strip that fed electricity to the computer, the
monitor and the camera. Everything went blank. I would make
the excuse later that I was disconnected.


It wasn't simply a matter of the shock of seeing my son in
his new status. It wasn't simply a matter of not knowing what
to say to the boy. It was realizing that my cock was
throbbing hard and leaking in my pants -- and this time I
couldn't blame it on someone drugging my drink.



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