Preparing a pup for chastity.
He seems excited about it. Cute pink balls definitely need their own attention.
Tag: gay bdsm
The tender moments of submission.
Andrew gazes fondly over his prize, stroking the boy’s chestnut hair. Oliver’s not yet awake, as the drugs haven’t worn off. Andrew knows when Oliver comes to, he might be scared and flail so he keeps the ropes on for the boy’s own safety. Andrew knows once Oliver sees his face, everything will be alright. He smiles, satisfied. The deep hit to his bank account was worth it. Every penny as valuable as gold to him. He knew he was taking a huge risk hiring that shady man to kidnap his boy and steal him away, but Andrew could not bear another day knowing his boy was out of his grasp.
They had been lovers once, but when they were in college. But Oliver’s father had crippling gambling debts, and jealous of his beautiful face, sold his own son to pay off his loansharks. Andrew could not afford the cost, and could only watch helplessly as his lover was ripped from his arms and taken away. The private investigator he hired tracked Oliver to a slave work farm in upstate New York
Andrew saved for two years to acquire enough money to afford the kidnapper. It was only after Andrew received a small inheritance after the death of a grandparent was he able to hire the man. He was nearly broke now, but he would live in a barn with Oliver if he had to. The debt had been paid by the slavetraders. Andrew made a silent promise to Oliver that he would always be free, and he would always be safe. He would always be protected, and loved, because Oliver had always been – and would forever be – his beloved boy. No one would take what belonged to him ever again.
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Text is fictional.
Your slave boy was pulling the delicate laundry hanging to dry on the balcony. You were watching him though, the way the sun rays and shadows were playing off your boy’s nude body. The morning urge came out of hiding easily. You pinned him against the railing and took what you wanted from him, with your mouth and your cock. It doesn’t matter how humiliated he might have felt, being fucked with all those people milling about publicly below. It was up to him to be quiet and focus on pleasing his Master. It was your loud grunt when you came in him though that got some people to look up. You could feel your boy blush all over, but he kept his eyes ahead. It was not his job to question if his Master wanted the neighborhood to know he was owned slavemeat. When it was over, he thanked his Master for the sex, and continued on with the laundry, hole dripping until his Man plugged him.
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Text is fictional.
He doesn’t really care that he’s naked in a public event, or that he’s likely going to be involved in some weird spide-esque BDSM rope display. He’s just happy men are paying attention to him and want to play with him.
Dieter hears the truck pull up. He opens the door and greets the mailman.
“Hello, Mr. Schmidt. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you. My wife had a boy on Tuesday.”
“Congratulations! Here, I just made some cookies. Why don’t I give you some for her?”
“Oh she’d love that. She’s been having sugar cravings recently. Here’s your mail.”
I accept it. “Thank you. One moment. You want a bottle of water too?”
“Sure, very kind of you to offer.”
“Of course, it’s warm today.”
I leave the door open and disappear into the kitchen so I can wrap up some cookies and fetch the water bottle. He glances into the house and spots my boyfriend in his compromised position. I give him the items in a plastic grocery bag, but my mailman is distracted.
“Thank you very much. If I may ask…what on earth did your boyfriend do to get secured to the wall like that?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Oh him? He wouldn’t stop eating the raw cookie batter. Greedy little thing. Doesn’t he know not to eat raw egg?”
Mr. Schmidt is momentarily speechless, then he clears his throat. “He really should know better than to eat raw egg.”
“Thank you! That’s what I said. Boys these days. You look out for their best interests and they act like you’re ruining their lives.”
Mr. Schmidt nods, understandably. “Not much different than raising kids.”
“Indeed.”
“Thanks for the cookies again, Mr. Petersen.”
“No problem. Thanks for the mail. Good day!”
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Text is fictional. Watermarked.
665 Leather, Neoprene, Rubber and Fetish Clothing
665 Leather, Neoprene, Rubber and Fetish Clothing
In case you guys didn’t get that toy you wanted for the holidays, this website is having a 70% off of dildos sale. I stumbled across it looking for Tom of Finland stuff and hey, you guys like butt stuff right?
(I’m not being paid to post this, btw.)
Being collared will set you free. I could recall the sign word for word, as I saw it often hanging over the door of His dungeon. I pondered the phrase, initially thinking it was a contradiction. How could being owned and being collared result in any type of freedom? The more he trained me and sculpted me, emotionally breaking me down and working me back up to a stronger, more obedient boy, I began to see the genius in my Master.
I began to see, like the difference between the grass and the sky, that some men were naturally born to dominate and lead where was others were not. There was no situation my Master could not handle with grace and his own charm; there was nothing he couldn’t fix with a certain facial expression and corresponding body posture; there was no mystery in life he had not pondered and solved. I felt mentally weak and inferior to his brilliance, in awe of the clarity in which he saw the world. With his training I gained manners, then I learned to check my pride and my ego. Just because I was a male, it did not mean things were owed to me. My Master taught me this, and a great deal more things, and through pain and love, helped me gain a stronger foothold in life. A deeper, appreciation, so to speak, for things I could change and the things I had to accept as is.
One of those things, was that He would always be a superior and an alpha in my life, even though we were cut from the same a template of the same bone and muscles. In my early years, I found him aggravating and his opinions frustrating, but now there was only an odd sort of peace in being content with my status. I had an open window to his knowledge. I often felt deep reassurance in knowing he would always be there to keep me in check, to keep me on a straight path, and to discipline me when I had faulted. I could always ask him for advice. I pitied those who were left to discipline themselves.
I tore my eyes away from the handsome black and silver collar in his manicured, outstretched hand, and looked beyond it to my Master’s hopeful face. My silence had perplexed and worried him. I could read his expressions like an open book these days.
I cupped the soft leathery collar in my hands and knelt, offering it back up to him. My Master stepped forward – I could hear the creak of his leather pants – and took it out of my palms. I felt his fingers unhitch the silver chain around my neck – my training collar. My neck felt light without it. The buckle jingled as He handled it, then He wrapped the real collar around my neck. I bowed my head as it was fixed in place. Even after one second, it felt as if it had been there all my life.
“Lift your head,” my Master said.
“I did.”
He smiled, looking dazzling. “Look at that.” I was surprised to detect a bit of emotion in his voice.
I raised my hand and felt the material around my neck. I couldn’t wait to see it in a mirror.
“Thank you Sir,” I said, “Thank you for this fine gift, and for allowing me to serve under you.” My Master nodded, then to my surprise, he responded: “Thank you for being a fine pupil. I saw enormous potential in you, but I am surprised you gave me the honor of staying with me and allowing me to teach you for so long. There were so many times I was sure your machismo would get in the way and you would break. You have exceeded all my expectations.”
At that moment, my throat was so tight, I couldn’t say a word or even cry.
“Merry Christmas, boy,” He said.
I broke my form. I leapt to my feet and embraced him in a huge hug. To my relief, he crushed me back instead of chiding me for it. I was shocked to feel a sob go through him. “God, I love you,” he whispered in my ear, barely audible. I wanted to tell him the same words back, but “I love you” did not seem to convey enough the adoration I felt for him. Instead, I said, “I will always be yours.”
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Text is fictional. Cannot believe I forgot to post this yesterday. It had been sitting in drafts since November.
Instructing his lad on the play out for the up coming session where he will be shared …
Roy was trying to listen to his Master. He usually was entranced by the timbre of his voice, the low commanding tone he used to give instruction. His Master was laying out the specifics on how he was to behave later that night, how many men were coming over, on how he would be tied down and shared for their pleasure. Roy should really had been listening to that. It should have filled him with a bit of nervousness, both over pleasing his Master and pleasing the men. He hadn’t taken so many man in one session, so it was an appropriate time for self-reflection before the night began.
“And they’ll probably want you in the swing, so your hole will be open to them, and they can fuck you one by one..”
But Roy wasn’t thinking about that…he was smelling the smoke from his Master’s cigarette. He could faintly smell the acrid scent of cheap beer too and hear it slosh around in the glass bottle. It reminded Roy, very bluntly, that nine months ago he was in a pub holding those same things when they met. He used to smoke two to four a day. Roy loved the social aspect of smoking, how cool he felt, the shape of the box in his hand. He wanted just one drag, to feel the sweet caress of nicotine of it in his lungs. The cravings had died down after his Master had forced him to quit for his own health, as he couldn’t run even a block, but Roy discovered that the cravings had never really left. He wanted one, more than he wanted an orgasm at this point. And of course, nothing quite rounds out the buzz of a cigarette like the aftertaste of alcohol on the numbed tongue. Roy considered begging, asking for his Master to share them, but Roy did not dare. He knew his Master was doing this on purpose, to remind him distinctly that this casual conversation was masking a lesson about control. About denial. About ownership. And Roy was the one in this cage, awaiting use by all those men, for his owner’s pleasure.
His Master was a man amongst men. Undeniably male, in his form and presence and voice. He could have a cigarette, and a drink whenever he wanted; hell he was entitled to them! Anything in moderation, because Masters are in control of themselves. Roy knew he was not on that level. He was weak, susceptible to peer pressure and addiction. He sought chemicals to dull feelings of inadequacy and poor self-esteem. It was better that his Master had the upper hand and could make decisions for him, about his health, and body, but it didn’t mean Roy always enjoyed it. And now, he wasn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Are you listening, boy?” his Master asked, with a burp.
“Ye-yes Sir.”
“Then what did I just say?”
Roy swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry. “That…that I’ll be stretched before Ortega fucks me, because he is huge, and that I shouldn’t assume I can take him just because I took the others.”
“Or?”
“Or because I’m horny and would be excited by a big dick, Sir,” Roy mumbled, blushing.
His Master took a long drag, then exhaled. Roy nearly whimpered at the scent. “Good boy.” He stubbed the cigarette out, leaving about a quarter of it unburned.
“You please me tonight, you can smoke the rest of this. You fail me, and I’ll make you eat it.”
Roy felt a chill go through him. This was a very different kind of reward, and the challenge excited him. He strained in his cage. “Yes sir, thank you Sir. I will not disappoint you tonight.”
“I do not expect to be disappointed, or embarrassed in front of my friends. Are you a good boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Are you horny?”
“Yes sir.”
His Master took another swig of beer. “This is going to be a fun night, don’t you think?”
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Text is fictional.
“Oh the phone…Hey Jim. Yeah what’s up? I’m a little busy why? I think I can meet ya there, just need like an extra hour. What am I doing? Oh teasing my houseboy’s cock. He got a break from his chastity device, and I caught the little bastard jerking off on my bed. Well now he’s tied to his own bed and he’s gonna be there a while. …What’s that? Haha you can hear him? Come on boy, say hi!”
“Mmnnffgg!”
“Good boy. Alright Jim, I’ll text ya before I leave. Bye now. Now where were we, boy? You have such a nice long, smooth shaft… so many different toys I can use on it. I think the feather will be next, followed by the e-stim machine perhaps. Jim doesn’t live far. I can torture your cock right up until the point I’m gonna leave..and I will. How does those metal spikes feel boy?”
“MMnnnnn!”
His Master flicks his nipple clamps.
“MMNNnnnnnnnnn,” the boy groans.
“Better. Oh ho. I can feel your dick twitching. It thinks its getting another ejaculation, hahaha. Nope.”
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Text is fictional.
I got home from the club, late. The streets were empty. Rain had started to fall. I changed out of my leather pants, my harness, and my Aussiebums, then jumped into the shower to rinse off the layers of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the pheromones of a hundred men. I slipped into comfier clothes for bed, then padded downstairs for a glass of iced tea and a snack. When I reached into the fridge for the pitcher, the light from the bulb illuminated my hand.
I paused, staring at the dark X on my palm. I retracted my hand and stood up. I closed the fridge door, then turned on the kitchen sink light and examined my hand under the yellow glow. The mark was originally black, made with permanent marker, but it had diluted in the shower. Faded. Not rinsed away. This was unusual. The lines were definite, like a tattoo.
It was like he had marked me. Branded me, with ink, instead of iron. The bouncer did it at the door. I flirted with him a little, caressing his bulging arm muscles as he examined my identification. He smirked at me, and did nothing to brush off my touches. Instead of slapping a mark of entry on the back of my hand like the other club-goers, he flipped my hand over and did it on my palm. He then leaned over and whispered into my ear the huskiest voice I’d ever heard: “So I can find you later.”
Initially, that struck me as odd that he would club at a place where he worked. He told me at the bar, later, over drinks when we were parched from dancing our asses off, that he sometimes covered for a friend who was the main bouncer. He worked here very part time. Mostly he came to be with the men. I couldn’t blame him. The men. The cock. The dancing. The whipping and milking demonstrations downstairs. Heaven was in Atlanta, and it had nothing to do with Coca Cola.
He monopolized me all night, this huge guy. He said his name was Ulysses, but everyone calls him Uly. It only added to his image of being a Russian gangster. He kept me away from the other men, grinding against me on the dance floor, rubbing his body against mine until we were basically having sex with our clothes on. People gave us room. We were in our own space.
The braying sound of the Closing Bell broke our spell. Like Cinderella, we returned to accountants and lawyers and actuaries and writers, all stumbling onto the sidewalk completely drained of energy. Some drunk, some buzzed on ecstasy, most ignoring the wet stickiness in their pants.
Uly pulled me to the alley and kissed me, then stuck his dirty hand down my pants and stroked me off. Before I came, I unzipped him and handled his beefy cock until we shot our seed together all over the cement. When we broke from kissing, I watched it mingle together in a puddle. I looked up at him. There was some sort of connection. I could sense it, mostly in how he looked at me. It was in the regret in his eyes when he said, “You get home safe ok?” and left without giving me his number. I was too stunned, too drained, to speak. I could only watch him walk away.
Looking at the X on my hand, it occurred to me this was the last thing connecting us together. Sure, he knew what I looked like now – but would he remember me? or just my body? Was I person to him, or a vessel of pleasure for his amusement? I shook my head. Club boys were not boyfriend material. They were creatures of the night. of sex. Of disobedience. It’s all play anyway, those leather personalities we craft for ourselves.
Before I could hesitate, I grabbed a kitchen rag and scrubbed my palm. It wouldn’t come off. Not a bit. Not even with soap. It was like magic. What kind of marker was this? I pondered. I knew how this would play out in a fairy tale. I would have to go back to him to get it removed. No doubt, it would vanished when he kissed my palm – and he would tell me to marry him so we could run the kingdom and live happily ever after. Or something.
With a scoff, I tossed the rag onto the counter. I padded over to the fridge and continued extracting the pitcher and pouring myself a glass of cold tea. I looked at my hand as I drank. Part of me wanted it to be permanent. Part of me wanted a mark I could wear everywhere, in public, to show everyone that a man had picked me. That a man owned me. That I was his property. Property. The word gave me frisson.
I was marked property though, at least for now. I wanted to see Uly again, one way or another. Normally, I went to the club once a week to blow off some steam. I didn’t know if the mark would last that long. The ink would fade with sloughing skin cells. I’d have to go again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after, until I saw Uly again. I knew if I lost him, I would never stop thinking about him again; it would wear a hole in me I could never fill.
I drank my tea, made a grilled cheese sandwich, and went to bed. I dreamed of Uly, and woke up horribly aroused.
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Text is fictional. This is Charles Gaget of Sports Models, photographed by Sylvain Norget for Calvin Klein.