Date: Tue, 24 Jun 2008 03:09:33 EDT
From: EddyRiha@aol.com
Subject: games with stefan 25

The usual disclaimers apply.  This is a work of fiction, and those folks
who are prevented from reading such fictional works either by age, by moral
preference, or by law should not read any further.

All of the characters presented here are fictional representations,
including the narrator.  Some of the events and characters are inspired by
actual events and people I encountered in my younger days, but the
presentation here of events and characters in no way is meant to portray
actual, historical persons and events.  It's just a story.

All stunts were performed by professionals.  Do not attempt these at home.

Thank you again to all the readers for the encouragement and the
constructive criticism you have provided as I continue to develop this
story.  This is the final chapter that wraps up the "Weekend at My House"
story arc, but there will be other episodes that my imagination can cook
up.

No Chinese communist party officials were harmed in the writing or reading
of this story.  (They are too busy preparing for the Beijing Olympics to
notice.)

If anyone is offended by the premise of the story, or by explicit sexual
acts, please do not read any further.  Why, indeed, have you read this far?

Games With Stefan

by eddyriha

Chapter #25-Weekend at My House (Part 15)

After a few minutes, I pushed myself up off the prone and bound body of
Stefan, and we both laughed at the pieces of wax that came away, stuck to
my skin.  I pulled at a few of the pieces that remained on him, and they
came off easily.  So I went all over his back, his ass, and his legs,
removing wax, rubbing the remaining baby oil into his skin, and in general
touching his body everywhere.  His skin, even without baby oil, was the
softest I had ever felt, and probably the softest I will ever feel, since I
haven't found its like in the years since these games took place.  His eyes
were closed.  This was more attention than he usually received from anyone,
and we both knew this would be the last day of our extended weekend
together.  We had to make the best use of our time.  But what to do that we
hadn't tried already?  If we had been speaking, I would have had to admit
that the game with the wax was the last thing on my mental list for the
weekend.  And it was becoming a rather hot and sticky afternoon, and that
would make our choice of activities limited by the heat and our
corresponding energy levels.

I untied Stefan and turned him over, giving my attention to removing the
wax from his chest, groin, and legs.  I grabbed a towel out of the
downstairs bathroom and wiped the excess oil off the wooden piano bench.
In a matter of minutes, Stefan was standing before me, wax-free and
slippery with oil on every inch of his skin.

"Do you want to take a shower?" I asked.

"No, sir," he replied.  "Unless you want me to take one, that is."

"The choice is yours."

"Then can I wait to shower?"  He waved his arms in front of himself,
stretching the muscles which, until a moment before, had been restrained
for the better part of the morning.  "This oil actually feels cool on my
skin."

"OK," I said.  "Now to decide on a new game to play."

"Master, it's up to you."

Such an obedient slave.  I stood for a moment, thinking.  Where hadn't we
yet played a game?  Ah, I thought to myself as I looked down the hall
toward the door which separated the garage from the rest of the house.  My
father's workbench.

I tugged on his leash, motioned for him to pick up the ropes I'd used in
our last game, and the boy followed me, his oiled feet slapping on the
tiled floor.  I opened the door and pulled him into the garage after me.
The air here was moderate, not quite as cool as the family room, but much
cooler than outside on the driveway.  That's due, in large part, to my
father having insulated the walls so that the garage stayed warm in the
winter and cool in the summer.

I moved aside some tools my father had left scattered about the bench,
mentally memorizing where they had been so I could return them to their
approximate places later.  (My father would notice if any were "out of
place.")  Then I motioned that Stefan should climb up on the bench, which
he did, slowly, since it was a difficulty scramble for a boy whose hands,
knees, and feet were slick with baby oil.  But at last he knelt on the
bench, looking at me expectantly.

"Turn around," I commanded.  He swiveled himself around so his back was
toward me.  I brought his two wrists together and bound them with one of
the cords.  Then I bound his two ankles together, and the third rope tied
the wrist bonds to the ankle restraints, so in effect he was forced to
place his weight on his lower legs, and he ended up sitting on his calves.

I helped him then turn so he was facing the end of the bench to my left,
with his head in profile to me.  Picking up a pair of pliers, I waved them
in front of his face.  "You seemed really to like doing stuff to Lance last
night," I said in the sternest voice I could muster.  "I bet you've been
playing games with him when I'm not around."

"No, Master, no!" Stefan replied, as his eyes followed the pliers' every
movement.

"I think you need to tell me the truth," I said as I moved the business end
of the pliers across his right nipple.  I mimed catching the nipple in the
pliers, but did no more than give a little pressure to the sensitive nip.
Then I did the same to his left nipple, to his belly button, all the time
moving slowly toward his cock.  I placed the pliers around the head, and
the moment I did so, Stefan began babbling, telling me all about adventures
I knew he'd never had with Lance, anything to keep me from hurting his
erect cock.  For the moment the pliers drew near that member, it began
stiffening and expanding, the potential for pain exciting and scaring the
boy all at once.  Of course, his rational mind knew I loved him and wasn't
going to hurt him, but when you're bound atop a workbench with your master
holding a serious-looking pair of pliers, who says reason has anything to
do with it?  (Besides, I knew years before the rest of the country that
torture never produces intelligent, trustworthy results, and it should
never be pursued for any purpose other than perhaps the role-playing
between two lovers-and then only rarely and safely.)

I teased him and tweaked him with various implements from my father's
toolbox: longnosed pliers, vise grips, alligator clips, screwdrivers,
adjustable wrenches, rachet and sockets.  You name it, if it was in the
toolbox that afternoon, it found its way to Stefan's nipples and cock
sooner or later.

The whole time, he's telling me all kinds of stories about what he and
Lance did, what he and Sandro did, what he and every other boy in the
neighborhood and in school had done.  If I could have recorded the
"confessions," I'd have had enough material for pages and pages of this
story sequence.  I could probably have spent the rest of my life doing
nothing but typing up (and somewhat embellishing) the various sexual
escapades that Stefan was inventing to keep from pain.

At last, I pushed him forward on the bench, until his erect cock found
itself resting in between the open jaws of the vise which was bolted into
the bench.  One hand behind his back held him in place, so he couldn't
squirm out of the way, while the other slowly spun the handle, tightening
the vise ever so slowly.

"Now, slave," I said to him, "what do you think should be your punishment
for having disobeyed me and played so many games with other boys, without
my permission?"

He closed his eyes as he tried to think of a sufficient punishment that
didn't result in his cock being squeezed in a vise.

"I don't know, Master," he gasped as he felt the first firm pressure of the
vise against the sides of his cock.  "Whatever you want, that will be my
punishment."

I tightened the vise another quarter turn.  For a moment, fear crossed his
face, then submission.  "If that is what you want, Master," he whispered,
"do it."

For a moment, I hesitated.  Such complete submission, such willingness to
allow me his body without any hesitation.  That was what I wanted more than
anything, that was what all these games were leading to.  Stefan would
become my love, my treasure, my possession.  Mine and only mine.

I swung the vise open, and Stefan's cock dropped into my waiting hand.  It
had some of the grease (or oil?) from the jaws of the vise on it, and I
wrapped my fingers around the shaft, and gently gave it a few strokes.
Stefan's eyes were closed, a smile on his face of complete delight and
ecstasy.  He submitted to my stroking, as he had to my poking and squeezing
him with the tools, with the same kind of willingness.  In a moment, he was
gasping and shuddering as his cock erupted in another dry orgasm.

* * * * * * *

I awoke from my nap and wondered where I was and what the strange sound
was.  Then I remembered that, after our game on the workbench, I had untied
Stefan and walked him upstairs leading him with the leash.  I had led him
out onto the somewhat enclosed back porch, where we had laid down on some
foam mats that my folks had stored there.  In a matter of minutes, we had
fallen asleep, spooning together, my arms wrapped around the boy's still
oily skin.

Now I had awoken, and that strange sound I was hearing was the sound of
heavy rain pouring onto the plastic roof over the porch.  The wind was
blowing and every moment there was another flash of lightning following by
a loud boom of thunder.  The air was cool and damp, and I could feel the
heat breaking as the rain roared through the trees and onto the roof.

Stefan stirred in my arms, so I released him and sat up.

"What's up?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Listen to the rain," I said.  There was a faint mist on my face as I sat
on the porch, as droplets of rain spattered off nearby branches and leaves.

He sat up beside me and stretched.  "That rain feels good."

"Let's go run around in it," I suggested.

"Won't the neighbors see us?"

"Does it matter?  Besides, who is going to be looking out their windows
into our yard in the middle of a thunderstorm?"

He had to admit I had a point.  So we both ran down the steps and onto the
grassy yard, laughing and whooping and slipping on the wet grass, banging
into each other and sometimes into the trees, grabbing each other's hands,
each other's cock, laughing and playing and being silly.  Both of us felt
the cool rain wash off all the heat of the past few days, all the sweat,
all the cum, washing us like we were newborns.

And when we tired of running about, we lay down in the grass and held each
other, kissing, and entwining our legs together.  Not to start fucking
again, but to enjoy the closeness of our bodies one last evening before his
parents returned home.

"You know," he said suddenly, "I wish we could be like this forever."

"Me, too, Stefan," I replied, hugging him to my chest.  "I wish we could
spend our whole lives together."

"Even better," he said, "I wish we could get married."

That caught me by surprise.  I had never thought of that.  When these
events were happening, no one had publicly talked about gay marriage or
anything like that.  As far as I know, Stefan's the first person I ever met
who had even entertained the idea.  And here we were, drenched with summer
rain, lying in my parents' backyard, thinking about getting married.

When I didn't say anything right away, he added, "If we could get married,
then you and I could do whatever we wanted, and no one could tell us
otherwise."

It made sense.  "If two boys can ever get married," I promised him, "I will
marry you."

"Is that a promise?"  He looked into my eyes, with hope and wonder and fear
in his expression.

"Yes, that's a promise."

He hugged me tighter, as if he was afraid I would slip off into the rain
and the night, which had fallen all around us.  The thunder and lightning
were fading into the distance, and the rain had become a steady drizzle.
Yet we lay there a few more minutes, enjoying the moment, enjoying the
tight embrace, enjoy the taste of rain on each other's lips.

Then both of us, at the same moment, realized how cold and wet we were, and
we bounded back up the stairs and into the house, tracking water all the
way to the bathroom, where we toweled each other off.  For a moment, we
looked at each other, bare naked and totally in love.  Then I offered him
my hand, and we walked together, hand in hand, to the kitchen to get some
dinner, Stefan's leash trailing on the ground behind us.

* * * * * * *

The next morning, we awoke in each other's arms, lying on my parents' bed,
our limbs enmeshed, our cocks swollen with morning wood.  We had fucked
again, long and slow and hard, like lovers do, twice last night before we
fell asleep, once with him in my ass, then once with me in his.  As I
rolled over to check the time, I heard a car door slam outside.  I walked
across the hall and peered out between the curtains in my bedroom.  It was
Stefan's parents-his older brother had brought them from the airport.  I
looked at the clock on my nightstand.  It was 12:30.  We had sure slept in.

Stefan was stirring when I returned to the bed.  "Your parents are home," I
said.

"They are," he mumbled sleepily.  He smiled, obviously thinking about the
fun of the past few days.  Then he looked down at himself, then at me.
"Well, they can wait," he said.  "We can't let these go to waste."  And he
reached out for my stiff cock. . . .