by Romi Hart
“Which—?”
“BOTH,” I corrected, blinking my way through my first Dom talk. “I want you both. I want a threesome with both of you.”
“What a dirty boy!” Kika said. “Just for that, we’re going to have to discipline you.”
“Yes!” Marie said. “Dirty boys get what’s coming to them.”
I was confused…was I doing the “sexy talk” wrong? I thought. I hadn’t any experience in this sort of thing. I thought I was mimicking the soft core porn stars fairly well. But it turns out when the girls said “discipline”, they were serious about training me in matters of love.
When we started fooling around each of them took turns spanking my bare bottom. When they went down on me they made sure to linger around my shaft and gently kiss my erection for what seemed like an eternity. They wouldn’t let me cum.
They wanted to make sure I asked for such a privilege in the right way. They ignored me when I begged. They cock-tortured me with gentle sucks when I joked around. They slapped my shaft around and spit on it when I asked questions.
Finally, I figured it out. I told them I wanted to cum. I told them exactly what I wanted—NO, what I demanded they give me.
“Swallow that dick, you whore!” I belted out. My eyes bulged as tight as my balls.
I was shocked I said that…but they were turned on. They obeyed when I talked down to them. They sucked harder when I commanded them, forcing their delicate lips to take my full erection into their mouths.
I came three times that night. I sort of remember what it was like to release…but more than anything, I just remember the pretty image of me, being surrounded by breasts, by beautiful uncovered breasts all over my bed. The same bed that I grew up in, that I played video games in…now a place of filth, body fluids and juicy tongues.
I can’t even say that my father took any creepy perverted pleasure from the experience. He actually never said a word about it.
The next morning, the girls were gone before I woke up. I never saw them again.
I saw my father eating breakfast in the dining room. I smiled at him…but he didn’t mirror the feeling back. He merely looked at me and sort of raised his brow, suggesting that no words could aptly describe what just happened so why the hell even bother?
“Sit down, boy,” he said, welcoming me to breakfast. “You know, a long time ago, I had an interesting chat with your uncle Walter.”
“Oh…” Now that was a strange shift in conversation.
“Turns out Walter had overheard me and another schoolboy talking about something obscene. You see, my friend and I had been out collecting change and we happened to mention something very distasteful about one of my teacher’s genitalia.”
“Oh…” Talk about not knowing what to say! I stared at him stupidly and nodded in terror.
“It was an absurd comment, not just obscene in nature but insulting to the poor woman of whom we were speaking of. Anyway, Walter overheard that comment and he told my buddy to get a move on already, that it was suppertime. Well, when Walter spoke to me alone, he made it known that he heard the comment.”
“Uh huh?”
“I was nervous and ashamed. So I blamed it all on my buddy. Said it wasn’t my idea to say it.
“Walter didn’t respond in anger. He simply nodded and gave me an even-tempered warning. ‘Boy, the intimacies of a man and a woman is sacred talk. Not the sacred talk of god, you see, but the sacred talk of womankind. No one’s ever going to tell you to be classy, to be discreet. But women ASSUME you will. Because real men don’t tell stories. Juvenile men, boys, and jackasses tell stories.’”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
And we literally never spoke about sex ever again. He knew I was getting lucky. He always had that proud look on his face, as if I was keeping the Troy Stag Reputation alive and well.
But we were men and we never spoke of such things. Maybe that’s why I’ve always LIKED talking about sex. Because even now, just as it was back then, it was a dopamine rush to talk about such juvenile things as tits and asses. The real forbidden fruit was not what I did in those early days, but in admitting to other people what I did. Always in fear, always in red-faced shame. But the jubilance of telling someone, and that man giggling in jealousy, was the real RUSH.
But, by God, I can’t remember a time I was ever innocent.
KEEP READING…
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