Date: Thu, 21 Feb 2002 18:28:18 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Back to the Playground, 12

This is a story involving boy/boy, teen/boy, male/male
graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If
you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where
you live, please stop now, and go read something else!

This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the
purpose of pleasurable reading. It explores themes which
some readers may find offensive or disturbing. It's not
meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex, or to
condone sex with minors.

Feedback: javabiscuit@hotmail.com

Back to the Playground ~ chapter twelve


by Biscuit


Skyler stayed. Charlotte tried to fight it, but not because
she thought it was wrong. She fought it because she
didn't want to go back alone. Once she realized that's
what she was doing, she gave it up. It was painful, but
I was proud of Skyler the day we sat at Trent's mom's
diningroom table and he told Charlotte he was not
going back with her.

"Look at me, mom," he said to her, gently but firmly.
"For me, it's right to stay here. I'm going back to
my school, and I'm going to live with Brandy. You
know I'll be fine."

I tried to be as brave as he was, meeting her eyes. I
could see how she looked from one to the other of us; I
could feel her knowing he was right but not wanting it
to be that way.

Charlotte cried as she gave in. California had sucked as
bad for her as for Skyler, really. The nightmare at the
end had been foreshadowed by other stuff, things that
had made her uneasy, things that she'd been trying to
ignore. They were her problems, not his.

The aftershocks of ending her third marriage would
keep rocking her life for some time to come. But she
knew Skyler would be safe, with me.

It was a subdued holiday. I tiptoed around Charlotte
and was fiercely protective of Skyler.

My smart, determined boy. I finally had him where I
wanted him. Now I had to make him bloom again.
It wasn't a simple task.

Smart as he was, and determined as he was, he was
still a fifteen year old kid whose mother was once
again in the throes of a breakdown. No way around
the fact that his life was torn up. But it was my job,
as I saw it, to mend the pieces back together again.
He'd done all he could, he'd spent his strength. I knew
it was my turn to be supportive, to be strong, but it
wasn't as easy as just making him eat and rest.

I know he felt guilty, like he was letting her down.
He wouldn't talk about it, but I knew. I'd learned a
thing or two in a thousand years of therapy. Not easy
to be happy, to let yourself be happy, when you're
mom is suffering. He was punishing himself and me.

Sex was the thing he used. Like he could fuck his
way to oblivion.

Skyler was passionate. More than passionate, almost
on fire. At first it seemed right. After all, we'd been
apart and were feverish for each other. But then it began
to be frightening. I'd drag my ass out of bed to get to
the store, or go to class and come home to find him
still there, not dressed, not washed, waiting, wanting
more. God knows I loved to fuck him, but alarms
were going off in my head. Sex wasn't the problem, it
was the misery around it that was breaking my heart.
Him not wanting to eat, not wanting to bathe, putting
off the phone calls I knew he needed to make to get
his school stuff straightened out. Weeks turned into
more than a month. I kept thinking, each day, that he'd
come out of it soon, but it was killing me.

The night finally came that I snapped.

I was trying to get dinner together. I'd only left him
alone for a little while, and brought food home from
the deli down the street. Stuff that I knew he loved.
A roasted chicken, garlic bread. Makings for salad.
As I'd been doing for weeks, trying to find foods that
I thought would appeal to him. Trying to act as if
things were all right.

I was washing lettuce and peppers, cherry tomatoes.
Skyler was standing behind me, in a tee-shirt and
sweatpants, the same clothes he'd been in for weeks,
when he wasn't naked. He was crowded up behind
me at the sink, his hands on my waist, leaning into
me, rubbing his cock against my ass.

Skyler with a hardon, pressuring me to fuck him
wasn't easy to resist. How many nights, days,
mornings and in between had I succumbed to him,
thinking we'd eat later, or I'd get him into a bath
with me afterwards, only to have him retreat into
sleep. He'd resist any food that I made for him,
grabbing a piece of cheese or a handful of chips.
He was wasting away before my eyes.

That night I was determined that it wouldn't play out
the same way. I didn't know what I was going to do,
but I knew I was going to do something. I felt a rush
like I might cry, or scream at him, but I didn't. I
dried my hands, my heart in my throat. I turned
around, leaning back away from his face.

"You want to fuck me," I said, and it came out like
the lash of a whip.

Oh, Skyler! He was no less compelling to me for the
hollowness of his cheeks or the way his unwashed hair
was lifeless around his face. His eyes were alarmed at
the tone in my voice and my stance. He said nothing,
but gaped at me as if I'd slapped him.

"You want to fuck me, Sky?" I felt my face burning.
"Get your ass in the shower. When you're clean, you
come back out here." I'd never spoken a harsh word
to him, ever, in all of those years. It was little enough
I said then. But the way I said it must have scared him
to death. I saw his face fill with pain and just about
lost my nerve. "Go on," I said, "do it."

He turned away without looking at me and left the
room. I was shaking, terrified that he'd just go back
to bed.

So hard not to rush after him and comfort him, fall
back into bed with him the way I'd been doing for
weeks. But I didn't. Something had to change, and if
it had to be me, I had to find a way to do it.

I'm not an S/M kind of guy, and I don't think tough
love was meant to be some kind of domination scene.
But my boy needed something from me that all my
petting and stroking weren't giving him. He was
aching somewhere and none of the ways I'd always
shown him I loved him could reach it.

I stood there, staring into my sink at the half-washed
head of lettuce. Useless, I thought, almost sickened by
the aroma of the food warming in the oven, oppressed
by the heat coming off the stove. I stood tearing shreds
of lettuce, mechanically throwing them into a bowl. I
knew I might as well be tossing it straight in the
garbage.

Then I heard the blessed sound of the shower.

All I can say, is it came to me. The thoughts rose in
pictures, more than in words. I saw Skyler, in my
mind, tied to a kitchen chair, naked, eating his dinner
out of my hand.

I was going to fuck him, all right -- my dick got hard
as I pictured the scene. Just as soon as I'd made him eat.

He was sullen when he emerged, not looking at me,
except for small glances. He was wrapped in a towel,
standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the
bedroom.

"Come here," I told him. "I want to look at you."

He was taller than I was by then. Just an inch, maybe.
His body long, and so slim. He stood there, looking
like he was going to cry.

"Put the towel on the chair, Sky. And sit down."

"Brandy," he started, but I cut him off.

"Hush. Just do it. We're not going to talk now. Sit
your ass down and put your hands behind your
back."

I had nothing like rope. I tied him up with knotted
kitchen towels and a pair of belts. Skyler started to
cry. He never fought what I was doing or asked me
why I was doing it. He just cried. And I listened to it,
tying his wrists, to each other, to the chair, making
sure he wasn't pulled too tight. The sound of him
weeping brought tears to my eyes, but I didn't stop. I
couldn't, not until he was belted and bound in that
chair. Then I stood back and looked at him, my now
much too thin, beautiful boy, begrudgingly washed
and soaked in tears, hanging forward to try to hide
his face from me.

Not to hurt him, just to make him look up, I took
hold of his wet hair and pulled. I had nothing on
hand to wipe his face and used my shirt tail.

"Blow your nose," I told him, and he did. I wiped
it as well as I could. When I took the shirt off, it
stopped his tears. His face looked bruised around
the eyes, his attention shifting from his misery to my
emerging nakedness. Still the same as when he was a
kid; you'd think my naked chest was something to
look at. I tossed the soiled shirt aside and stood in
front of him, showing him the bare tits that had, for
unknown reasons, captivated him since he'd first laid
eyes on them. I stroked my own flat pecs as I studied
his face and touched my fingertips to my nipples. He
was as entranced as if the little things were jewels. It
felt so good, his eyes and my touching. I saw his cock
twitch, his thighs spreading slightly. So fucking sexy.
He looked so confused; turned on, teary-eyed, scared.

Some dom I was, on my knees the next second,
wanting his cock in my mouth. Before I ever got
to it, it was stiff; him knowing what I was going to
do. It turned me on to see him shift in the chair, the
little bit of leeway he had to move. The belt around
his middle kept him pinned, but he could wiggle his
hips around a little.

I wanted to suck him off so bad. So hard to stop once
I felt it in my mouth. I almost lost it, right there, the
energy I'd gathered from taking charge.

Nothing, nothing in the world is better than Skyler's
hard prick sliding through my lips and I'm greedy
once I get it in my mouth. But I stopped. This scene
wasn't for me and about what I wanted or needed, or
at least, not just me. It had always been Skyler who
controlled this. His touch at my jaw, like some kind of
hypnotist's command to bring me out of the dream
world of sucking him. That night I had to stop myself.

That was the point. To take the reins out of his hands
and hold them myself. All those years I'd left the
choice, the control to him, had to come to an end.

My own dick was pounding in my pants, and he
groaned when I let him out of my mouth.

"God," he murmured, "don't stop." If there was ever
a way to tempt me to give in, to revert to our former
roles, it was offering me his dick to suck. It was shiny
with my spit, begging me to lose myself in sucking.

I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and stood
up.

"It's dinnertime," I told him. "You're going to eat,
now." No, not my dick, I thought, and almost laughed
at the sight of his eyes on my crotch. I gave it a rub
through my jeans, but turned away.

"Are you crazy?" he said, breathing hard, when I
walked away from him and opened the oven. Steam
curled through the kitchen.

I set the food on the stove. Then I turned to face
him and opened my jeans. My cock was trying to
climb out of Skyler's wash softened briefs -- still
my favorite underwear. I spread the edges of my
open fly to let him see it, rubbing it. Skyler eyes
were roaming, hungry, questioning from my dick to
my face. I tore off a piece of chicken and shoved it
in my mouth. Then I tore off another one and walked
over to him. I rubbed it on his lips. He opened his
mouth and took it in. When he'd chewed it up and
swallowed it down, I kissed him, stirring the flavor
through our mouths, running a greasy hand over his
chest.

I ended up stuffing a half a chicken into that boy.
I rubbed it on my dick, on his dick, but always it
was destined to be eaten. I painted his chest with
broccoli flowers dipped in dressing and fed them to
him. I rubbed my stiff, leaking dick into the soft
warmth of his food-filled mouth.

By the time I was done, his belly was full and his
cock was so hard he was begging. I'd never, ever,
made that boy wait to come before. His cock was
dripping with his juice, savory with spice, and
glistening with butter from being jerked through
warm garlic bread. I made him eat that bread from
the palm of my hand.

Then, feeling like I'd earned it, I got down on my
knees and started to suck. Skyler's hips tried to lift
up off the chair. He groaned and he whimpered, his
whole body straining as I tongued him broadly, too
softly to get him off. When I couldn't stand it one
more second, my own body strained to the breaking
point, I sunk down hard, taking his swelling prick
deep and was rewarded by the sound of him howling.

What that did to me. I shot off like a hose under
pressure, drenching him like I'd been saving it up
for days.

Skyler was as sweet as a lamb when I freed him. I
washed him up. I pet him and kissed him as I loosed
the bindings and he leaned into every touch. My boy
had come back to me, in spirit now, as well in flesh.

It was a start. You can be in the same house, in
the same bed, and not be reaching out. That's what
I'd finally done. Let him know that I was really
there with him, paying attention. Demanding that he
pay attention to me. It was like he'd come as far as he
could on his own and I had to grab hold and pull him
the rest of the way.

As Skyler mended, my life began to shine. From
the simplest tasks of housecleaning and shopping for
groceries, to my painting. I hadn't known such
happiness in years; since the days when he'd come to
me every day after school, bursting through the door
like a live ray of sun. Daily taller it sometimes seemed,
fleshing out, with hints of a beard to come on cheeks
that used to be bare as baby skin. So handsome. The
hollows were filling, the shadows retreating. As the
clocked ticked toward four, whether I saw the time or
not, I'd get a rush of happiness; my body knew Skyler
would be home soon.

He was now the age I'd been when I first spied him
in the playground.


I haven't talked about my painting much. I never
thought it was particularly good, or noteworthy. It
was something I liked to do. Something that soothed
me. In my classes I'd never attracted much attention.
Not until the winter that Skyler moved in with me. It
seemed like my dabbings were coming to life.

Not dramatic or innovative. I strove for realism, but
never achieved it. I always ended up with dreamy
concoctions, no matter how hard I tried to put the
world down in paint on paper or canvas. But I must
have begun to capture something.

That February, through one of my classes, I got asked
to contribute some watercolors for a small show. I
actually had some success there. Amazing. All I know
is how I felt when I went to the tiny gallery with
Skyler. Seeing his face light up with pride, his hand
squeezing mine. It was better than than the sale of one
of my pictures.