I’d put on a different music mix than I usually used when we played together. I hoped that would help us both feel fresh. Martin took his time looking around, checking the setup, inventorying the supplies. Finally he nodded at me. “Looks like everything’s in order. Good job, um, punk.”
I bowed my head, hiding my smile as the unaccustomed word worked its way past his lips. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve had some practice.”
“Yeah,” he grinned back, his eyes flicking across the room to the case of Elbow Grease I’d opened at our last session. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and got very serious. “I really want to do this, Karl. The way your ass responded when I put my finger in you, that was so hot, Si—.” He blushed. “Aw, hell. You know what I mean. When I realized you’d greased yourself, I about blew my wad right then.”
“You did blow your wad.” I kissed him. Impudent, but I couldn’t help myself. Martin didn’t notice. He was grinning again, eyeing me up and down, nodding approvingly at my attire.
“You were hot. Now strip to your jock and get in the sling. Punk!”
He helped me lie down, steadying the chains as I moved into position. Suddenly he put his hand on my leg.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” When I nodded, he sighed heavily. “Good. I’d assumed so, but I just realized I should have asked—in case this was your first time, too. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us both to be virgins at a time like this.”
At the word “virgin,” I burst out laughing. “Martin, it’s been a long time, so I’ll probably be tight as hell. But I have definitely done this before. And I love it.” I settled back into the sling and lifted one leg toward its strap. “Think of me as a very experienced virgin.”
He grinned all through adjusting my feet into the straps. He was still smiling as he walked around to my head and picked up a wrist shackle. “Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“Give me your hand. I’m going to restrain your arms.”
I froze, my guts suddenly clenching. I hadn’t expected that. For some reason, it made me, well, if not afraid, anxious. “Why?”
“Because I want to.” The puppy-dog eyes had taken on a distinctly wolfish cast. “I want you completely at my mercy. I’m going to make you come the way I’ve always dreamed of making a bottom come.”
He waited. Patiently. His eyes locked on mine. When I finally, slowly, reached up, he took my hand and squeezed it, waiting for my answering grip. It was such a familiar motion between us. Yet from that angle, it felt surprisingly new. I could see how closely he was watching me, learning my body language as he buckled my wrist into the cuff.
“Tell me to stop anytime you want, Karl. Just regular words, so I don’t get confused.” When I nodded, he lifted my other arm. “I want to go nice and slow. Get your ass as loose and hungry as you get mine. Then I want to fuck you with my hand until you come.” He tugged on the cuffs, testing them. “I can’t climax with a fist up my butt, but I think you can. Right?”
“Yes, Sir.” My mouth was suddenly very dry. My asshole twitched with his every word.
“I hope you’re not in a hurry. It’s going to be a long time before you get to come.”
I groaned as my cock again pressed up into the now-damp cotton of my jock. Martin moved between my legs and started petting my thighs, getting me accustomed to his touch, himself to my responses. The friction over my leg hair made my skin feel alive. I lay back and enjoyed watching Martin learn my body. His hands were firm and strong, his nipple bars gleaming in the soft lights as he ran his hands up and over my asscheeks, gradually moving toward my crack. He was a beautiful bottom. He was also a beautiful top.
I jumped when he snapped on the glove. The smell of lube filled the room. A cool glob touched my asshole, and his hand slid up and down my crack. I moaned contentedly. His large circular motions gradually became smaller, until eventually he was concentrating almost exclusively on my hole. I sank deeper into the sling, my shoulders relaxing as he massaged me. He took his time, letting me savor each touch as first one finger, then another, worked its way inside and started tugging—long, slow, sensuous strokes that loosened me to my bones as he stretched my slowly opening asshole. I closed my eyes, lost in the sensations.
“Do you use these toys on anyone but yourself?”
“Huh?” I opened my eyes, blinking up at Martin as his question pulled me out of my reverie. I’d put out my own toys for him to use on me, but I was suddenly embarrassed to realize he was thinking of my having had them up my ass already. “Ah, just on myself…Sir.” I blushed.
“Good. I like thinking about you being fucked.”
I arched up as a greased plug slid up my butt. My ass tightened down hard. Martin grinned nastily. He alternated between dildos and plugs, stroking them in and out, letting the vibrating ones loosen me for him as my cock drooled and he ran his hands over my body.
“Mmm,” he whispered, kissing my navel. He was fucking me with a particularly large dildo. “Your belly’s telling me it wants me to fill it up with something even better than this fake dick—something alive and warm.”
“Uh-huh.” I gasped. My greedy ass was in heaven, my dick twitching every time the huge toy stretched me. I was sensitive in a way I didn’t remember being the last time I was fucked. I’d been used to it then. Now, everything felt new. I shivered as the dildo slid out. Then Martin’s fingers kissed my asshole. I knew what I must look like, stretched open, glistening with lube, slightly puffy from the toys.
“I need more room.” His pocketknife flicked out. He snipped one leg of the jockstrap, then the other, yanking the remnants off me. Then his fingertips were teasing over my asslips. “So pretty, Karl.” He leaned over and kissed my thigh, licking softly. “I want to suck your dick, but I’m afraid you’d shoot.”
My cock oozed at his words. “Sorry, Sir,” I panted. “I probably would.”
“That’s so hot,” he laughed. His hand pressed. He had four fingers in, and was going for the thumb. He stuffed gobs of lube in front of himself, methodically greasing his way in.
“Unh!” No matter how much a toy stretches me, the first push of a man’s hand is always harder to take. But it’s so fucking much better than any toy could ever be.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Open for me. That’s it. Just a little bit more…”
Martin was using all the tricks I’d used on him. Holding his hand against me with a steady, unrelenting pressure. Making my asslips beg for him, making them stretch and suck him in, making them kiss their way up his hand. I gripped the chains hard, groaning as he slid on the cool layer of grease, his knuckles pressing against me. The friction burned as I stretched, wider than my sphincter thought it could go. I wanted to scream—couldn’t stop the cry that worked its way out of my mouth. It hurt so fucking good.
“Open for me, punk…”
I yelled as his knuckles slid in. My sphincter screamed at the burning stretch of his hand. My asshole snugged up around his wrist, and as he made his fist, the orgasm washed over me. The waves spread out from deep inside me, and my jism spurted uncontrollably through my cock. I could hardly breathe. My whole world revolved around the fist that filled my guts with another man’s hand, with the touch that wouldn’t let me close him out.
Martin stayed stock still, holding me steady, keeping me from hurting myself as the climax tore through me and my whole body shook. Eventually, my breathing slowed.
“Fuck, Martin,” I panted. “I’m sorry. I thought I was too old to do that.” I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain control of myself. “Fuck, your hand feels good.”
“I almost came watching you.” His face was flushed. He was breathing as hard as I was. “I felt you come, Karl. Your ass pulsed and grabbed me, like it wanted more and more of me. Shit, I wanted to push my arm all the way up inside you.” He shuddered. I looked down at his crotch. His dick was so hard it was stretching the leather.
I relaxed back in the sling and I started to
laugh. In relief. At the pleasure, the release, the sight of the beautiful man standing between my legs with his fist up my ass and his raging hard cock straining to be free. “Martin, unsnap that thing before you hurt yourself.”
“Huh? Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. He reached down and yanked the codpiece off. His cock sprang free—dark red, the tip drooling a thin line of precum down toward the floor. He sighed contentedly as he stroked his free hand over himself. “Thanks.”
“You have talented hands.” Then I remembered myself and blushed. “I really am sorry, Martin. I mean, Sir. A bottom shouldn’t come without permission.”
“I know,” he said, turning his head and kissing my calf. “I should probably beat you or something. But that was still the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve heard some people could, you know, come just from being fisted. But I’ve never heard of anybody coming just from a fist sliding in.”
“I used to do it all the time,” I laughed shakily. “Took me a helluva lot of beatings to learn to control it. That and a top who pinched my dick to keep me from coming.”
“Well, this time, you came on my fist.” He slapped my ass, then rubbed at the sting. Suddenly he stopped and looked down at me. “Do we have to stop now? I mean, I don’t think I could take having somebody’s hand in me after I came.”
As he spoke, he moved his hand slightly, twisting it gently inside me. I cried out, arching toward him, suddenly very glad he’d restrained me. It was nice not to have to hold myself still, to be able to lose myself in the burning pleasure/pain in my asshole and the pressure in my gut. It was embarrassing, though, to realize one of my punks was seeing me be such a slut. I looked up to see him smiling at me.
“We don’t have to stop.” I gasped, shuddering as I looked down at his straining cock. “Just go slow and use lots—and I mean lots—of lube. I’ll be sore, but you should have plenty of time to come before I need to stop.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure are bossy.”
I blushed. He was right. “Sorry, Sir. I was just noticing…”
“You’re noticing too much.” I jumped as he draped a folded towel over my eyes. “Today, I’m topping you. So shut up, close your eyes and be a pig while I fist you.” He swatted my ass, hard enough to really sting. “Unless you have to tell me something for safety’s sake, the only words I want to hear out of your mouth are ‘yes, Sir’ or ‘no, Sir.’ Do you understand?” He punctuated his question with another resounding smack on my ass.
“Yes, Sir!” I said, half laugh, half groan. This punk was too smart by half.
“All right, then.”
I groaned as he slowly withdrew his fist from my ass. Deprived of my sight, I finally relaxed and gave myself up to the feelings. A cool glob of lube touched my asslips. I moaned, loudly, as his hand slid in again. This time, I didn’t come, but the sensations were so wonderful they were almost too much to process.
“That’s better,” he laughed. “You have a nice butt.”
I didn’t answer. He hasn’t asked a question. I lay back and enjoyed the heaven of another man taking my ass. Martin twisted and explored, slowly and carefully. Letting me feel his steady, relentless strength. Letting me give up control of my body. Letting me make myself vulnerable enough to trust—to float, wallowing in sensation. My whole world was my ass. I squeezed back in pure bliss each time he checked my firmly restrained hands. He ignored my dick. That made me feel like even more of a hole.
Each time Martin’s hand slid in, his breathing quickened. I imagined his shaft, hard and red and ready to shoot, the way it had when he’d had his finger up my ass the other night. With a start, I realized I was going to come again, too. The feeling was building, slowly and steadily, but it was there, and it was growing. My dick had stretched out hard again. Each time his fist twisted in me, the awareness of an impending orgasm grew stronger.
“You like that, punk?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered. The coolness of more lube slicked into me.
“You have a beautiful ass.” His fingers stroked my asslips. I could feel how puffy I was. “You feel good around my hand. Warm and silky and hungry.” I groaned as his fist slid in. He rocked it slowly, side to side. “I think your ass likes being fucked by my hand.”
“Yes, Sir.” I groaned as he pressed firmly on my prostate. Fluid I hadn’t expected to be there slipped down my cocktube.
“Your dick looks pretty hard, too.” He pressed again. I shook as another drop slid through. “Bet I could make you come again, punk.”
Fuck. Oh, fuck, it was going to happen again. “Yes, Sir,” I gasped.
“Real soon.”
“Yes, Sir…”
He was fisting me hard now. Deep, slow, steady strokes. Each one causing a mini-orgasm to reverberate from my prostate.
“Gonna come…” I gasped.
“I know you are, punk,” he growled. “You’re going to come because I’m going to make you.” His breathing was heavy now. “I’m going to make your beautiful punk ass come all over my hand, gonna make your dick shoot because your ass is coming.”
My whole body was ready to erupt. I couldn’t talk anymore. Nothing but embarrassing grunts left my lips.
“Fuck, oh fuck, yeah,” he gasped. “Damn, Karl, you are so fucking hot. Do it!”
His hand slid in again. I cried out, uncontrollably, as the spasms started. Hot juice again sluiced through my cock. This time, the pleasure consumed me. My whole body shook as every nerve exploded. I yelled. I couldn’t stop yelling.
“Yeah, man, let it happen. Fuck, you’re beautiful. Your ass is coming on my hand, Karl. It’s making me come. So good, it feels so good… Oh, fuck!”
I felt the tremor through his hand as his body tensed. He roared out his climax. My ass wrapped itself around his fist as spurts of his hot cream splattered against the back of my thigh. He shuddered above me, panting and shaking, straining as he held his fist rock steady in my ass.
When I could breathe again, I became aware of Martin’s face resting against my calf, the fine stubble of his evening’s beard scratching against me as he started to laugh.
“Damn, Karl. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my entire fucking life.” He kissed me, tonguing his dripping cum off the back of my leg.
I wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. My whole body was exhausted. I winced contentedly as he slowly worked his hand out of me. When his fingers were free, he patted my asslips, carefully tracing the outline of my hole. I was sore now. I knew I’d be more sore later.
“Thank you, Sir,” I sighed contentedly. “You sure know how to make a bottom happy.”
He pulled the towel off my eyes. I blinked, slowly adjusting to the light. His sparkling brown eyes were the first things that came into focus.
“Will you do that for me next time?” he said. “Come just from being fisted?”
My guts clenched in response. “I’ll try anytime you want, Sir.”
“Next weekend.” Martin tossed the glove and gently smoothed his palm over my asscheek. “You have a beautiful butt, Sir.” He paused then grinned. “Now I’m hungry for lasagna. Let’s go eat.”
MR. LEE’S MEN
Joe Marohl
Mr. Lee tells Kent to go wash the blood off his face. Kent walks down the hall, me trailing behind. He lowers his face to the sink and splashes water on his lips and chin. I stand behind him, rubbing my fingers down the ridge of his backbone. Specks of Kent’s blood circle the drain like Arabic consonants and then disappear. Maybe he looks like he’s been crying when he walks back to the workout room. I don’t know. That’s what I tell myself when Mr. Lee glances up at him and then over at me with furious eyes. “Proud of yourself?” he asks.
I really don’t know what he’s talking about. Kent is tough as nails, I say. I’ve never seen him even wince.
“I ought to kick your ass myself, punk,” Mr. Lee growls, scratching the sandpapery whiskers where his jaw takes a sharp turn up to his earlobe. Anger for him is a performance.
Always. He plays with his natural intensity like a toy.
I tell him to go ahead if that makes him happy. I don’t care. Then I add a provocation, “Or you can try.”
Mr. Lee ignores me. His fingers are on Kent’s face, turning it one way and then the other, like he’s inspecting it for scratch marks. Then he pushes his lips against Kent’s freckled forehead. Kent grunts. He isn’t supposed to talk today, so he grunts and points at things with his nose. Mr. Lee touches him behind the ears, and Kent looks down, averting his eyes. Mr. Lee’s hands slide down the boy’s neck to his shoulders and give them a reassuring pinch.
“Sweet,” he says, with minimal expression. Kent is pleased with himself. I can tell by how his eyelids fall slowly like the last snow and then open just as slowly. Not a blink but a drowsy gesture that conveys total trust in the man touching him, joy in the man’s lavish attention. Mr. Lee has about twenty years on us both, not that either of us knows his age exactly—or much of anything about the man. He is our trainer and our protector. When I first met him, he told me he was an artist. He took my chin and held my face to the light, leaning in to examine its lines. “You’d make a good subject for my next project,” he told me, his eyes on the cigarette he was stubbing out against the wall. I didn’t say anything, but I wondered what kind of project—a statue, a painting, a porn film? I wondered what this tall and distinguished man did for money. But something convinced me I could rely on him, and I didn’t ask questions. That’s not like me, not to be suspicious, not to hold back, but such was the sway Mr. Lee held over me from the start.
This is February. I have been in this house for two years. Kent has been with us ten months. Before Kent, Mr. Lee and I would work out together five times a week, and twice a week we’d fight. At first it was sparring, with gloves, as Mr. Lee taught me how to defend myself, then how to put up a strong offense and finally how to hurt a man if I ever had to. Kent’s a few inches taller than I, but we’re the same weight. Kent’s black hair is shaved to the skull, which looks like a knob or a lightbulb or a potato. Kent is from Derry, but his family moved when he was little. His cargo shorts ride low on his hips, exposing the waistband of his striped boxers. He’s got a long, lean torso and the most nearly perfect iliac furrow I have ever seen. The hair on his chest feels like loose threads at the bottom of a silk pocket. His belly slides out and in as he breathes. His pale skin shimmers with perspiration. Mr. Lee tells Kent he is the most beautiful boy in the world. He is the most beautiful boy in the world, too, and what makes it weird for me is that he knows it and it does not make any difference to him. Kent acknowledges his beauty but ascribes no importance to it. That knocks me out.
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