Woof One of my favorite parts about Christmas is putting up the tree.
One of the most enjoyable tasks for a boy in service – putting up and decorating his Sir’s Christmas tree. His Sir put lots of careful consideration into selecting the best cage, collar, and muzzle for his boy to wear around the house, so it’s best to bring the same consideration into the only other thing his Master loves to look at as much as his boy. alphajock posted how he only gets to come once a week on a Saturday, but maaaybe if the tree look particularly breath-taking, he might just get a White Christmas after all…
Working in the welfare office in Louisville, I met a family in dire straights. The Father and two children were American citizens, but the rest were ineligible. I approved them for the full amount. If I roasted in hell, it wouldn’t be for this. After I transferred to another department, the Richards kept up with me. The Father told me, “We will never forget your kindness.” Since then, they had opened a successful up-scale Southern Restaurant. I was never presented a check when I went.
The family had great hopes for Eric, who at 19 was the oldest of 6. He showed great promise as a cellist. I had heard him play; he had natural talent and the drive to perfect it.
Mrs. Richards phoned me just before Christmas. The family was going to Canada, but Eric had obligations. “Can he stay with you? It’s OK if he drinks, but I don’t want him around hoodlums or loose women.” I promised I’d look after him. She seemed relieved.”Thanks, Mr. Dosch.”
Eric practiced his cello, went to his Christmas concerts. He was so handsome I looked at anything else to keep from staring. On the morning of Christmas Eve, he asked if we could have some special punch. “What do you need? I have plenty of liquor but can go pick the rest up from Kroger’s—they’re open until 7.” I fixed hors’doevres: brie and sharp cheddar, smoked oysters and sausage balls, along with some sweets I’d bought at a gourmet shop. We nibbled and drank the punch he’d made.
It was delicious but deadly. It tasted like fruit juice, but had brandy and rum in it, and you couldn’t taste the alcohol. We were flying after a couple of small cups. “You’re a good friend, Karl—the kind I can trust completely.” He was standing very close and put his hand on the top button of my shirt, then undid it. He quickly started undoing the rest of them.
He was irresistible. I have a fetish for dark hair and eyes. I pulled his sweater up and he raised his arms; I pulled it off. As he finished unbuttoning my shirt, I was unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. I knelt and took his shoes and socks off while he undid my cuffs. I stood up and he started kissing my chest and neck. I leaned down and put my mouth on his, my tongue slipping in while my pants dropped to the floor. Eric sighed: “Beautiful and blond—you’re perfect.” The expression in his eyes was unmistakably. Being 10 years older, I had to know he wanted me.
We lay naked on the rug and kissed. He touched hot spots on my body. He stroked and licked my armpits, pinched my nipples, and ran his hands down my stomach and up my thighs. His nice sized uncut cock was hard from touching me. I was hard from his attentions, even though he hadn’t laid a finger on my dick. I could feel calluses on his fingers from playing. He raised my cock to his mouth, sucking heartily. He said, “Mmmm,” when I started to leak. I had him on his back, straddling his head with my knees. We both started sucking, making muffled sounds of uncontrolled sensation. I pressed my tongue to his ass and licked. I poked with my finger. I tapped on his hole, rubbed it with my thumb. He sucked harder.
When I stopped, he stayed on his back, spreading his legs. He raised them in the air into a wide “V.” I got a condom and some lube and knelt between his legs, I rubbed his ass and my sheathed cock with the lube, sliding into his tight hole gently. I took his ankles in my hands. I entered the rest of the way slowly, until my pubic hair was brushing his hole. I stopped, moaned,”Relax.”
I started fucking gently, picking up speed as his reactions showed it was feeling good. Eric gasped,”Fuck me however you want.” I began to use my ass and thigh muscles to penetrate him quickly, then slowly, drawing all the way out, plunging in fast. He scratched my back with his nails, stroked my ass. I was sweating, and after several minutes, I looked into my eyes. He was about to blow. It went all over his stomach and chest. I put my mouth to his torso and licked up every drop before I started fucking again. Eric begged,”Let me taste you.”
Holding on by a frayed thread, I kept at it as long as I could. I pulled out and ripped off the condom, straddling his chest. He gulped down my cum while he stroked and pulled on my balls. I kissed him to taste our mingled semen. We fell asleep holding each other.
Eric ended up at Julliard. When he was in town, we made up for lost time.
Four years later, we were lying in bed. He looked at me happily and said, his voice low, “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”
I was elated.”I loved you even before that Christmas.”
In a confidential tone, he said,”I think Mother set us up that Christmas. My parents have known I was gay since I was six. I could have stayed with aunt Sophie.” I was shocked. “She never forgot what you did for us. I heard her telling Father that you’d be a good man for me.” She was right. 15 years later, we flew to California and got married.
If I stand here and look studly while appearing to analyze the surf, no one should notice I’m checking out Koshi’s ass…man, he looks so good in that wetsuit. I have never seen a Japanese boy with an ass like that. Ooo wipe out in the barrel. Well he’s not a fantastic surfer but he tries. A for effort. I better, ya know, give him some tips or something. Man, I’d love to give him the tip of my cock… ok, walk slowly. Be casual. Don’t swagger. I hope I don’t come off as a big, dumb jock. Christ, now all I can think about is breaking him in half on a beach towel. Yum. Yeah John, that’s real bright; walk over there with your dick sticking up, that’s how Americans say hello. Calm down. Be cool. Don’t swagger. Smile.
—
Ppfftt peh peh! I am gonna be eating sand for a week after this. Ugh please don’t tell me John saw that wipe-out. Aw crap, he totally did and now he’s watching me drag my soggy ass out of the water. God, he must think I’m such a shitty surfer. I’m never gonna be able to impress him. Don’t look at him! Look cool. Look pensive….wait what does pensive look like? Do something! Check your board! Don’t look at John and whatever you do don’t look at his package. Oh lord he’s coming over here. Please don’t come over here, I don’t know what to do with you big Americans in your tiny shorts and all that dark hair. Please god, tell me boners don’t show in wetsuits. Kore wa dame da yo! Aw jeez, that smile is gonna kill me.
__________________________________________________ Model is Nick Ayler. This post is fictional.
Marcel paused to catch his breath, clinging to the windowsill for support. I still remember the striking ferocity of the desire that welled up in me, demanding I capture his moment of his rest on film. I snatched my camera off my nightstand and shot the picture before he was even aware it was happening. I used my Holga 120S with the broken flash hotshoe, so without that glorious light pouring into through the window, the picture would have been trash. A lucky accident. Marcel gave me a little smile as I advanced the film, then I pushed his wheelchair out of the way and helped him to the bed.
I became his physical therapist almost two years ago after his old one went on maternity leave and didn’t come back. I was obsessed with his presence and in love with his Grecian face and stoic, quiet resolve steeped in pain. I used to fret a great deal over how the public would see us together, me pushing him down the sidewalk or helping him get things off the shelves at the grocery store as his motor functions began to slide. I was terrified Marcel would one day accuse me of fetishizing him, of me making him my pet project to validate my own narcissism and worth as a human being.
Marcel never complained, not even after I started taking him home with me after therapy and our professional relationship dissolved. He was happy to be with me, away from his childhood home and mollycoddling parents. They never were able to see Marcel anything else than a helpless child. Charcot Marie-Tooth Disease is not a life ruining thing, but Marcel was schooled at home K through 12 and was not allowed to move out or even hold a job. Truth be told, I should have considered if he was using me to escape from their cage but hell I would have been ok with it if he was because then maybe we’d both be guilty of something.
After I took this photo, Marcel drank some water and then we made love. He liked when I was inside of him, came inside him. Marcel wasn’t a fan of labels. I wasn’t gay, he wasn’t gay, it was just sex. We could lie spooning for hours, sometimes talking softly, sometimes listening to music or NPR. Once in a while I’d read to him. After our fornication, we decided to just ordered in Chinese food together. We ate, made love again, and drifted off nude and sated.
I awoke on a gorgeous Sunday morning to discover Marcel dead in my arms. He had an intracerebral brain hemorrhage brain in his sleep. I later spoke to the doctor that performed the autopsy and she said it was an extremely rare event. She asked if Marcel complained of headaches on our last night together. I told her in a soft, shaking voice how he was always in pain. His daily medications would have dulled the warning symptoms. She put her hand on my shoulder and she was sorry. I was sorry too. We were all sorry. It was not fair.
I printed out this photo and displayed it during his funeral. Marcel’s mother screamed at me for perverting and killing her son. I yelled at her for smothering and infantilizing him. Marcel’s father stepped in and separated us. He considered the picture for a long, deep moment then said, “This is the son I always imagined I had. He looked like me when I was his age. Tell me… was he happy? with you?” “Yes,” I said. “Then that’s good.” He nodded.
After the services, I caught him taking the photo and putting it in his car. I never said a word. I had the negative at home and a print propped up on my nightstand. When I got home, the negative went in a box with the stained sheets wrapped in plastic and I never opened it again.
So, our dynamic is a little different than most of the others I have seen on here. I am the dom in our relationship. My partner gets mad at me because I tend to masturbate a lot when he is at work and I am home alone. By the time he gets home, he is ready for lovin and I am not.
This was our idea. He gets full control of when I can come. I can’t come without him there to unlock my cage. Granted, he has warned me that he may just want me to blow him and fuck him with a vibrator or dildo, and I still won’t get mine. He is using this to make me appreciate his hole more and to not want the familiar palm I use extensively, but to long for the warm hole that longs for my dick every day.
He says he will keep me locked up as long as it takes for me to see that jerking off is not the option, unless I am jerking him off while I am balls deep.
I am a little worried, however… He also says that since he is the key holder, I have to do whatever he wants sexually. He has read some of the blogs about guys who have cum from prostate stimulation alone. I don’t particularly care for penetration, but he warned me that he wants to test this out on me with a “P-Zone Vibrator” while licking my balls. He wants to see me cum while soft and in my prison. Is that even possible?
In any case, I’m turned on by this role reversal… I’ve always had control, now he is in command. He doesn’t seem to want to fuck me (thank god, his dick is huge!), but he doesn’t want me to come unless it is inside of him (aside from the prostate orgasm).
Lastly, I went shopping today, while all strapped in… It was kind of amazing. My bulge was bigger than normal due to the metal in my pants, and with every step I could feel the cage grasping my cock. It is really sexy. Let’s just see if I still think it’s sexy when my partner doesn’t let me out for a week!
HOT.
Ok, so here’s the deal – if he really wants you to be milked from your prostate, you need at LEAST 8 days caged up. Otherwise you won’t build enough seminal fluid to be milked. 14 days is a safe bet with constant tease and denial.
But seriously….it’s really hard to not be impatient and try it after like 5 or 6 days. But you have to be patient 🙂 Trust me….I just tried this with my partner.
Good luck!
I look forward to seeing the results of your lock up! Those balls are gonna be even bigger. It’s nice to see a thoughtful dom entering chastity for his partner’s satisfaction and pleasure. This is what happens when couples communicate well. Sexy as hell.
Josef’s Master loves His boy a great deal, but His carpel tunnel syndrome prevents Him from administrating punishment deemed necessary when Josef screws up. So, he takes him to the most reputable belter in the city. Some of the richer clients prefer to have their slaves sent here once a month just to keep them in line, allow Them to keep some distance between pleasure and the dirty work.
This isn’t Josef’s first time here or his first spanking. The man with the belt always hides his face, but Josef makes it a priority to look him straight in the eye. It’s not because he wants to know when the strikes are coming, but because he wants that man to know he’s not afraid of him. Why should be be afraid of what’s best for him? Even his Master is kind enough to keep him hydrated and have His other boy pet his hair reassuringly during the ordeal. Josef feels more of a man that he can take the beating with only muffled noises and without tears. He even says “good bye” to the administrator of his pain, polite and friendly.
The other Masters wonder what the secret is to His boy’s training…they all try to sculpt their boys to such high standards of pride and joy.
He has panic attacks when I tie his arms to the table, so I devised this clever rope system to keep his arms restrained while I play with his cock. He’s been denied an orgasm for three days now as punishment for bad behavior, so his cock is happy to be free and experience my touches. I had just finished shaving and washing him, careful not to stimulate too much. “There we go, soft as a baby now, no more itchiness. Your balls are so adorable; they’ve filled out since you’ve not been cumming as much, nice and round. Hey, did you know your dick grew in crooked? Just a little more to the right and it would have been dead center,” I chuckled.
He whines and pushes his pelvis into my hands; I push him down to the table then resume petting his balls with the sides of my fingers with just a little pressure and even downward strokes. I can feel his testicles moving as I push them in the scrotum. God, I love this boy. I love holding his masculinity in my hands and stroking it like a kitten. A bead of pre-cum slides down his shaft. I cup him in my left palm, then press a kiss to the tip of his cock. I hear him gasp and my own member stirs. “Now we can begin.”
“Well I got that splinter out of your hand…” he examines my palm. “You sure did, didn’t even hurt really. When MacKenzie does first aid on me it always ends up being a giant bruise the next day…” Ross snickers as he sets the tweezers on the counter. Our eyes lock. In this tiny bathroom there’s no where else to stand but close together. He brushes his fingers over my arm muscles upward, then slowly engulfs the back of my head with his palm as he snakes his digits through my shorn hair. My flesh raises goosebumps. “…Ross?” “Yes?” he whispers. My heart is so beating furiously in my chest I can’t even breathe. Our lips drift together into a warm, open mouth kiss. I had no idea men could have such soft lips. Instead of floral perfume and fabric softener and waxy lipstick, there’s a faint mint lipbalm taste, a musky vanilla aftershave scent, and those large fingers against my scalp. My cock begins to swell.
“Ross…did you just kiss me?” “I did.” “Do it again.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I fumbled with the telegram. “Your presence is requested at the Police Station, 9 Rue de la Canard, Paris, to contest the character of a Milou Sur La… Table.” Oh for heavens sake! I pinched the paper with great stress in my fingers, moments away from shredding it and raining it all down upon myself. I exhaled a great grunt of complaint and let my hands collapse to my sides. Milou, Milou, what have you gotten yourself into? I gave my apartment door a longing look and then turned away from a hot bath, dinner, and a glass of wine, descended down the steps, and yet again graced the cobblestones.
I requested directions from the train station clerk only to discover it was the direction from where I’d just come – the office. I dreaded being spotted by co-workers as I approached the police station. If someone reputable saw me go into such a facility…I sighed yet again, adjusted my coat, then walked inside with stiff posture.
I presented the letter to the attendant and was directed to the sheriff’s office. He was a portly man with a rectangular face and lantern jaw, a nose that had been broken once jutted out a great deal between bright green eyes. Emotions showed easily on his ruddy face.
“Ah, Monsieur Rousseau, thank you for coming so soon! I’m Sheriff Dubois.” I shook his hand in return. “I had not settled in for the night, so no inconvenience to me. What is this matter regarding Milou?” “Well, he was arrested this afternoon-” “Arrested! Whatever for?” I nearly dropped my briefcase.
“For homosexual prostitution.” Thunk, went the briefcase. “For… oh mon dieu.”
The sheriff eyed me. “What is your relation to Milou? I have to admit I wasn’t expecting a gentlemen of your class and standing.” I knelt down to retrieve my case which gave me a couple seconds to collect my wits. “I buy papers from him.” “Papers?” Dubois repeated. “Yes, newspapers, for many years now…a dozen now is it? Back from when he was just a lad.” The sheriff shoved his hands in his pockets and scoffed, “He’s a bit big to be a paperboy.” I snickered,. “Well yes. I noticed that too. Yet he never seems to outgrow his britches… they always seem to be falling off.” Dubois threw his head back and guffawed, “Well that’s what got him in trouble!” “Oh Milou, that brat, what happened exactly?” The sheriff tilted his head in one direction and we began to walk out of his office and down a hallway of mostly empty cells. “The plaintiff claims that Milou propositioned him for sex, and even after he declined, Milou did not relent, so the plaintiff reported him to a policeman on patrol. Milou denied it, but there was an abnormal amount of coinage on him. When asked what he was doing, he replied that the money was not his and he was trying to earn up for …socks, if you believe that.”
I dropped my forehead into my gloved palm, the noise resonating on the stone walls. I was going to murder him. No one would convict me. No, what that boy needed was a spanking with one of my sister’s flat wooden hairbrushes. Then, a glass of wine and maybe murder.
The sheriff lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Rousseau, are you well?” “Has all the color drained from my face?” He examined me. “Yes.” “I thought so. I knew that streetboys often do not receive an education, but I was under the impression Milou was not an imbecile. The punishment for sodomy is so severe….” The sheriff abated in front of a cell and I realized there was only a set of bars between us and Milou. He was sitting on a stone bench, legs drawn up to hide a black eye. When he witnessed my presence, his good eye widened to the size of teacup. I tried not to look at wounded face as I continued, “You see, Sheriff Dubois, this is a grievous misunderstanding and partially my fault. Milou has been promoted to a higher ranking paperb-… newspaper seller and now collects the earnings from a league of smaller children under him. That explains the coins.” “Indeed it does.”
I continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I also must confess my guilt from earning a great deal more income than him in business, solely as a result of luck and benefiting from my father’s high standing. Thus, I paid Milou more than a fair price for the papers and Milou informed me he saved up those Francs and purchased a pair of shoes for himself. I suppose he couldn’t wait to save for the socks.” I tipped the end of my explanation with ice in my voice, pleased to see Milou glance away, defensive and sheepish.
The sheriff digested my story which he was scribbling onto a notepad which had apparated from his back pocket. “That is a believable tale, but to risk imprisonment for homosexual prostitution for socks seems ..misplaced.” I clasped my hands and briefcase behind my back as if discussing the weather, although my mind was racing. “Yes, it was a remarkable lapse in character, but I do not believe his intent was to prostitute himself.” Dubois paused his note-taking, “How can you be sure?”
“Well first,” I gestured to Milou, “Look at him. He’s dressed like an urchin, not a whore. You can tell because whores take baths once in a while.” “Hey!” “Also, that is a terrible area for prostitution. My father’s brother has a habit with the ladies and he never frequents this area. It’s too near the Elysee Business District. I cannot speak for his intent, but even if that was the case, I petition that you pity him for incredibly poor decision making. My best guess? Winter is coming. Milou was probably trying to appeal to that gentlemen for work and his self-conscious nature misinterpreted the whole thing.” Dubois snorted then flipped through his chicken scratch. “So…Milou has never propositioned you?” “No.” “You have never performed a sex act with him?” “No.” Technically that was true. He did the performing. I just stood there with my cock in his mouth. I could sense Milou’s eyes boring into my soul. His whole life rested in my ability to weave bald-faced likes to a man of the law. If I sold him out, Milou would no doubt find out where I worked and ruin my life…. walking a wire, we were. “Have you ever seen him behave inappropriately with any other male clients?” “No.” “…Or the children?” I retracted as if I’d been struck, “Sheriff Dubois, I refuse to even consider such filth. He is kind to the children. Abused children do not smile and laugh.” He put his hands up in defense. “Sorry to have touched a nerve, but it is procedure to inquire.” He shoved the notebook back into its stretched pocket. “We do not have a previous record on Milou, so I’m inclined to agree with your testimony here. I will release him on bail into your care.” My knees nearly gave out. Oh sweet mercy, I did it. “I wince to think the cost, but Milou will return it in free paper after this, I am to assume.” I shot the prisoner a glare, then returned to the administrative office where he drew up the release papers.
I wrote up a bank slip while the sheriff went to collect Milou and his belongings. Not ten minutes later, we were both standing in the lobby free as birds. I shook hand with Dupont, thanked the front desk clerk, and escorted Milou out to the sidewalk.
The sun had not yet set as the days were still long now; however a chill was slowly replacing summer’s humid nights. Milou looked particularly exposed, clutching his newspaper bag, barefoot and clad in only pants. He opened his mouth to say something, but I wanted the first words. I grabbed Milou by his arm and dragged him into the alley next to the station. “Monsieur Rousseau I’m really-” I raised my arm to deliver an open-handed blow to his face, but stopped my hand about an inch from his head, his features already twisted and bracing for the impact. A rush of shame at my almost act of barbarianism flooded through my chest. Instead, Instead, I grabbed the strap of the newspaper bag around his chest and yanked him close. “What in gods name got into you?” I seethed. “Are you an idiot, an imbecile, a child? I offer you for you to take up residence with me and you decide you’d rather spend your life in jail?! or executed? For soliciting sex in a business district? You must be mentally incapable of rational thought.”
Milou held his hands up in defense, too cowardly to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to get involved in this I just thought-” “You weren’t thinking, but go on.” “…-when you asked me to move in with you, it infuriated me. I’m not a stray dog to be taken in and commanded what to do!” Milou’s eyes were wet and bright and he was gesticulating with exaggerated motions. “I’ve taken care of myself on these streets for years. Just because I suck your cock doesn’t mean you own me!” “SSHHH! Not so loud, are you daft!” I hissed. Milou winced, but mercifully lowered his volume. “I just…thought…well, this girl I know is a mistress. She gets paid a lot of money to be a rich man’s girl and I thought maybe I could do the same, be a dandy…” “To a man? I know we are in a period of experimentation but the law disagrees. How did you expect to accomplish this?” The young man glanced at his bare feet. “I was…doing research…”
I released the strap and ran my fingers through my sandy hair, “I apologize if my offer sounded like you’d be my slave. It was not my intent. I just…Milou, I want you to have some sort of security When I saw the telegram, my heart nearly froze. You said you can take care of yourself, but out of all your friends and co-workers, you chose me to bail you out. Your subconscious is trying to tell you something. Milou, you can’t live like this when you’re forty…fifty. No man is an island, mon cherie, there is nothing wrong with accepting an offer to get ahead.” “What…?” “Well if you don’t have to focus your time and energy on day to day survival, you could study for an education certificate. Attend business classes. Bring some skills to your trade of selling newspapers.” Milou stared at me with an uneven gaze, his bruised eye socket a deep purple hue. Our adrenaline was crashing. His stomach growled. Mine answered. He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, unsure what to say. “Oh you are such a trouble maker, Milou. It’s getting late. You are going to come home with me. I am considering punishing you for scaring the wits out of me, but you will take a bath, eat, and spend the night because I cannot worry about you anymore today, I’ll have an apoplexy. Tomorrow morning we will talk about how you will pay off the debt for your bail,” I stated, adjusting my clothing and straightening my back, doing my best to maintain my air of an authority figure.
Milou turned his head toward the city scene beyond the alley, business persons rushing to and fro. Automobiles competing with horses for street space, the overhead lamps casting their oily glow on it all. It called to him, its grungy dim corners and hidden alcoves, so easy to disappear. I could almost hear the clock gears of his mind turning.
The lad was shaken from his brush with captivity, his face pale and half swollen. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his arm. “Alright. For one night, I will let you take care of me, in thank you for the rescue. But no sex play… I need to think.” I smiled. “That’s a smart lad. Just…one more question, Milou?” “Oui?” “On the telegram, why on Earth was your last name listed as Sur La Table of all things?” A grin slid across his face. “I don’t have a last name. My father’s was not worth carrying. When the arresting officer asked me it for the arrest form, he had me bent over on a table at a cafe in the Square… so I told him to put that down.” I patted him on the back, “Oh Milou, you’re exhausting. Don’t go teasing me now with images of you bent over a table.” He blushed from head to toe.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
______________________________________________ Sorry this took so long to get out. I didn’t expect there to be a chapter 3, so I had to work out some plot holes as big as Miami. The photo of Lambert (which is pronounced Lahm-behr, not Lamb-bert) is from a series titled the Ultimate Dandys by Karl Lagerfeld, published in Numero Magazine. If you see any typos or errors, please message me.
