I waited. He moaned, a low sound, while rolling from side to side. I let go of the ropes and let my left hand fumble about until it found my knife again. I passed it over to my aching right hand. In a series of jerky, sawing strokes, I cut up the left side of his panties. When I reached the waist, they sprang apart. Now I leaned forward and cut open the right side. I put the knife down and steadied the boy’s butt in my hand. With my left, I reached under his panting chest and pushed him up. Next, I grabbed the soaked front of his panties and pulled. My right hand felt the back end come slithering from both sides into his crack and up the crevice towards his balls. I watched his face contort as the fabric brushed up and up his still-too-tender shaft.
I shoved his left shoulder gently. He dropped slowly to his knees, dragging his drooling dick along the denim, leaving behind a silvery streak like a snail’s trail.
Once he landed on his knees, the real dumbshow began—he was bobbing up and down like a puppet with a broken string. One awkward attempt after the other to balance the weight of his body on his calves without letting them actually touch his butt. For a minute, it was amusing. Certainly more arousing than his striptease. But he kept on squirming and I grew bored. I bent sideways and fumbled along the floor. I was looking for the other thing I’d brought back with me from the kitchen. My hand patted the rug until I saw it glint in the candlelight. It was one of those tiny spoons used for cracking the boiled shell of an egg and scooping out its jiggling white insides.
I opened my left hand and dug around in the pink wad with the spoon. I slid it under a shimmering blob of cum. “Open wide.” I turned towards him. Even with the blindfold, I could sense his blank stare. “Your mouth, brainiac.” He hesitated, then dropped his jaw. “Here comes a little spoon for my little man. Filled with man essence. Your man essence. Eat up.” I rested the spoon’s cold underbelly on his lower lip. Instinct and that even crueler master, desire, made him do the rest.
“That’s it. Eat up all the sacred man essence. We wouldn’t want your sex to grow up without a gender, would we? No, we want your sex to have a gender,” I said as I wrapped my hand around his plump cock and squeezed. “A manly gender.”
I scooped out an even larger dollop. And, while he sucked down that spoonful, I smiled to myself. I was humming by the time I made him lick the still-sticky insides of his panties. And it wasn’t because I knew my little man was ready to be fucked. It wasn’t even because I knew, from that night on, I could have this little man as long as I wanted him. It was simply because nothing soothes the forever-broken like breaking another.
The First Branding Journal
Cornelius Conboy
Sunday, May 21
In three weeks I will brand my number one boy. A month ago he asked me if I would mark him permanently, and after much thought and negotiation we arrived at the branding. It will be an “11” on his butt. Eleven is our number; I was born on one, he was born on one, we met on one. On 11/11, that is to say November 11, eleven years ago, we snuck into St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City and, before they had a chance to throw us out, we married each other.
Since that time we have explored and expanded our limits. His request for a permanent external mark is an outward manifestation of the commitment, love and trust that we have for each other. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, May 24
In three days I will be attending a workshop on branding being held in a de-commissioned army barracks (God, I love San Francisco). A friend sent an in-depth magazine article that has proved invaluable. Online, I have discussed a New Yorker’s experience being branded six years ago. Others have offered their experiences, good and bad, with the subject. I am not ready to administer the kiss of fire today but I know that I soon will be.
Friday, May 26
The anticipation of the branding is making the boy insatiable. Last night’s sex was transcendent, the kind of over-the-top power exchange we fantasize about often and achieve too rarely. I have a new element of play with him. Once his hungry ass has been opened up, after he allows my hands full play inside him, I press my fingers against the inside wall of his butt and trace the brand inside him.
When the moment comes for the red-hot iron on his quivering flesh he will feel it this deep, he will know that my energy will be on him, will go through him to his center and will transform him forever.
He asked that the first thing he feels on his flesh after the iron is my cum.
Saturday, June 2
Last night I realized that, although I am left-handed, the boy has a right-handed butt. While I was inside him tracing out the 11 from within, I got a sudden charge by the thought of having my right hand inside him while applying the iron with my left on the outside. He may end up breaking my wrist, but it is too hot a scene not to pursue.
Saturday, June 10
Tomorrow night we do it. This week has been the most mentally intense period I can remember. One month of foreplay is nearing fruition and it has already exceeded my wildest fantasy. I stopped drinking for the week prior to the branding, he has fasted for the last three days. The sacrament we are about to carry out is not being taken lightly, nor is the potential risk. The branding iron is completed.
I will do the brand in two strikes. The interlude between strikes will fuel his desire and send our endorphins into overdrive. Eleven guests have been invited. At least two are skilled with a whip. The boy’s backside will be red hot before a torch ever gets near metal.
Tuesday, June 13
It is done. The night went so far beyond my wildest fantasies that I don’t know where to begin. Saturday afternoon the first of our guests from New York arrived. Uzi is an old friend, a filmmaker whose work I have long admired, and I was honored that he could share the ceremony with us. My boy was beyond feeling by this time, he drifted almost in a trance through the day’s routine. Finally eleven P.M. came. I look at the assembled guests. Each brings a distinct energy.
At this point my boy needs to be alone, and I take him into a back room and hold him. Our eyes and spirits lock together in anticipation and terror of what is before us. He strips down to his boots and I lock the jewelled collar around his neck, noticing how the large ruby burns with an inner fire, knowing that he will soon burn from an outer one.
I go to see how things are progressing and find the entire party preparing the dungeon. The sling is hung as I instructed, the flogging post is cleared and there is much debate over the height for the stocks. The bottoms are different heights and each has their own preference. I move through the room, picking up the floggers and the cats, laying them out near the whipping post, arranging the candles, double-checking that all restraints are where they need to be and in good condition.
At last I am satisfied that we can begin. I go into the back where my boy is waiting. He shakes as if his spirit is breaking free of the body; he knows that the journey we are embarking on will take us where few have gone, will test us physically and emotionally, will sear through us in ways we have no way of knowing. We lock eyes and souls. We are ready.
Earlier in the day my boy presented me with a wrapped box. I open it to discover a leather hat, its brim as polished as mirror. I put it on and feel a power surge through me. I lead him outside to where the guests are sitting. I thank our friends for coming tonight to help with our ritual, to bear witness to our love, trust and devotion. I look into my boy’s eyes and tell him that soon he will be wearing my mark, our mark, that he will have it on him forever just as I am with him forever, just as we have always been and always will be together forever. He speaks softly. He tells me that he is more scared than he has ever been, but with the love and energy and help of our friends he knows that it’s going to be great. We laugh and embrace.
I lead him to the flogging post. Slowly, deliberately, I fasten restraints around his wrists and around the pillar. Not too tight, but they will hold him well. I buckle other restraints around his ankles and connect them with chain. I make sure that he has enough room to ke
ep his balance, and know that the pillar will support him no matter what. Finally I bring out the blindfold. Black leather slips smoothly over his head. Softly I whisper in his ear. “Boy, are you ready?” He nods and we begin.
Slowly I lift the flogger over his head, its leather tails cascade down over his shoulders and lower back. I caress his body with my whip, let him get the feel of each pointed strip of leather on his body. Gradually I settle into a rhythm, slowly and gently I increase the force, bringing my arm down over my head and hearing the cadence of each successive strike on his body. The cat dances up and down his back, from shoulders to butt, paying special attention to the right cheek, where our mark will soon be placed. The rhythm increases steadily. The force behind each stroke grows in intensity. I shift speed and my flogger becomes an extension of my arm. With each blow, I transfer energy to the boy. We dance like that and I lose track of the time, I see welts raise up on his body and bring him down slowly, as I had taken him up.
I pick up a new whip, an innocuous-looking instrument to the unknowing, a simple group of a dozen rawhide strips woven together at one end to form a handle. Much lighter than my favorite cat—but this one holds a surprise. At the end of each strip is fastened a sharp metal spike about three-quarters of an inch long that comes to a splendid point. In the wrong hands, this little baby could do serious damage. In mine it takes him to the next level of ecstasy. The boy’s backside glows red. He has stopped screaming and now emits only the occasional “Thank you, sir,” his voice coming from far away.
Then it is another’s turn. Steve is a major Daddy who is well known for his skill with the whip, and I turn the boy over to him. I watch nervously as he uses a leather slapper to supply delirious sensations, and the boy is off again. Though I trust Steve, it is difficult for me to watch as he takes the boy into unknown realms. Their dance together thrills me and I remember that when playing with friends you should always share your toys. With permission, Leather Daddy moves on to my flogger. I am surprised to see it in someone else’s arm. His style is different from mine, side strokes prevail compared to my overhead motions. Daddy Steve is exhorting the boy: “Show us how tough you are, show me how much you can take, so that when that red-hot metal comes down on you, you can take it. Show me how strong you are!” To his sublime credit, the boy answers from another plane: “It is not tough, sir, it is want.”
I direct Steve away and proceed back into our special communion. The boy has just experienced the flogging of his lifetime and I know it is time to let him down. Pressing my body against his, I slowly undo his wrist restraints and hold him as he collapses against the whipping post. I remove the chains around his ankles and we breathe together. I will not let him come too far down for there is still much to do. I lift him up and lean him against another pillar.
I turn on the torch. The boy is turned around with his back to the pillar, his wrists locked with handcuffs. Again the chains surround his ankles, fastening him securely as I heat the iron. The hissing sound of fire fills the room and a blue light gives out heat freely. The iron takes on a glow of its own, pure heat shines in the darkened room. Slowly I remove the branding iron from the heat and bring it towards my boy, immobile, powerless to resist that which he so wants. I comb his pubic hair with the glowing wand, the smell of burning hair fills the room. Never touching steel to flesh, I stroke his pubes, singeing the curly mass above his dick into a burnt tangle. I hear his breathing coming shorter now; his dick stands rigid out from his body. The hair is gone.
Now he is led to the sling. I watch as he is strapped into place and compose myself for the ultimate focus of the evening. At the table, I handle everything that I will need: the torch has proven its efficacy, the iron is resting. Rubber gloves are in place next to a new jar of Crisco. We are ready. The boy is surrounded by our guests. His butt faces me hungrily and I caress it. I lube up my hands, first pressing one then the other against his waiting hole. Slowly I let him pull me inside, first one finger, then two and three. My hands are alive unto themselves as I work them in and out, back and forth, my thumbs pressing above his balls from the outside as my fingers work the internal muscles they knew so well. He rocks slowly in the sling as with each caress I am pulled further inside him, now four fingers, now six. With parts of both hands inside, I stretch him wide.
Deep inside I see him red and throbbing as I relentlessly stroke his sphincter, urging it to open up and accept me. With four fingers from each hand inside I rotate slowly, rocking the hole back and forth, readying it for the final thrust that takes me totally inside. His sphincter hugs my wrist and I hold it in place, feeling his pulse surround me, feeling the connection of our two bodies. His heartbeat pounds against my arm in a steady rhythm and my wrist responds in kind. I open my fingers and explore the boy’s depths. Lightly I brush against the top and bottom of his insides. The left cheek is thoroughly massaged and I move my hand into position on the right.
I can see through his flesh, I can see a straight line from the inked 11 on his outside to where my hand now rests inside. My fingers trace the 11 on him inside and they go through to the surface where it will be marked in fire. I nod to a slave who ignites the torch. He holds the iron over its heat and soon the familiar glow appears. The steel tool stirs from within and comes alive. Our guests gather closer and I remind them to hold down the boy. Eighteen hands are on his body as our eyes meet. “We’re going to go there now, boy,” I say. I take the iron from our slave. Holding it over the torch, knowing that it is full of its own fire, I move it deliberately to the inked guide.
I didn’t hear him scream until later when I watched the video. What I remember is the sudden bucking up, the involuntary reaction when flesh met red-hot metal. The first strike slid for an instant until I exerted more pressure and held it on him, letting my arm and the iron follow the movement of his body. I removed the iron and dropped back, little expecting how drained I would be. I saw the mark, the “1” clearly burnt into his body. There was also a shadow strike, much lighter, but there nonetheless. Our friends had indeed held him but it was a loving laying on of hands—not the immobilizing grip called for.
The iron is repositioned at the torch and I am overcome with the beauty of the brand. This time I make sure he is held securely. I look over at the boy, who is in trance state. His glazed eyes bespeak a bliss unseen before. He now knows what awaits him and desire fills the space. Again the steel glows red, again I take it in my hand and calmly make the second strike. Securely held down, his only movement is a clenching of the teeth, the handle of my flogger held in his mouth for this eventuality. It is done.
I pull myself up, using the chains that hold the harness for support. I walk around to where the boy rocks gently, a drained look of pure ecstasy on his face. I lower myself into his chest and we cling in an embrace of souls. Our bodies have exploded. Like Daedalus and Icarus, we have flown close to the sun. Its energy does not destroy us as we soar through it, rather it caresses us with warmth and light and lets us go, every molecule in our body shattered and drifting back down to the plane of existence we know as reality. I can feel us intermingling on the way down yet somehow we reassemble intact. Physical bodies are altered and psyches are forever changed. At last I am aware of my breath.
The boy is lowered out of the sling. He stands, shakily, his feet connecting with the earth and grounding him. We touch and remain that way as the guests release their energy. Is my boy sucking on Sur’s huge black dick? Do I fist one of the boys? It is a blur. I know that when at last I ejaculate it is directly on the brand. Over the next few days I come on it eleven times.
How many of us passed out in my bed later? When I woke there were five. The rest of the weekend blurs: some friends went out, some home. Some returned later, needing to be with others who had shared the experiences. At one point Uzi came by and we watched the video. Eighty minutes of unedited footage, footage I knew had been shot but had been totally unaware of. When we get to the actual branding I lose it. Lying on our bed with my
boy’s body against me, I know what is coming yet at the first strike I break down and sob uncontrollably. Hearing him scream, seeing him buck, is more than I can handle. I watch as it continues and only regain my composure later, seeing the bliss in his face, matched only by the ecstasy in my own.
The next week in summary
The other boys behaved well, checking in several times a day, stopping by after work. They and I made sure mine spent the next week with his naked butt in the air sipping martinis, eating bon-bons and watching TV. Some boys will do anything to get a week off from work.
Friday, June 22
After ten days, I picked up the flogger again. It was all I could do to remain in control, to only work his upper back and left ass cheek. I had to move around to his front and whip his tits, knowing that the brand is not yet ready for heavy play, as much as both of us want it to be. There will be time for flogging soon enough.
Wednesday, July 12, Final Entry
A month has gone by. My “11” has become a raised mark of pride for the boy. Its flesh responds as sensitively as his nipples and offers all of their possibilities.
Yellow
Kirk Read
Mama died peaceful. She didn’t want us wailing and squeezing her hands as she made her exit, and she knew the only way she’d win was to beat our planes. The neighbors had called us all, seven kids, and said “Come now, ’cause she’s close.” We’d obliged, hopping into bereavement-discounted aisle seats to accompany her to the next world. But, as usual, Mama got her way.
By the time I got there, she’d been gathered up into a neat pile of bones and taken away for cremation. She wasted no time, even in death. Slow was never Mama’s way.
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