The following fictional story deals with sex among males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or reside in an area where it is not allowed, depart. Though not observed in this story, care enough about yourself and humankind to practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
EBradley33@Excite.com Chapter 7
Still Life Sketches in Domination/Liberation
Ever since Robert's tumultuous visit to my home a week ago, I was different. Even more, I had changed much in the month that had passed since I received the sketch. I couldn't put a name to it, draw the boundaries of the change, connect the dots, or fill in the spaces, but I knew that those ambushes had shaken me up. A different Evan was going to arise from the dust. A better Evan.
I was observing other markers of change. Driving to school this morning, I hadn't played any music. I hadn't heard that interior voice for seven days. I kept to myself, holed up in my classroom and home, didn't go out of the way to visit with anyone. I wasn't dead inside, just quiet. It seemed that my behavior's purpose was to maintain that interior quiet. . . . Couldn't imagine why. Was I waiting for something? . . . . Couldn't decide. I was probably going through some kind of transition. If all went well in this "cocoon stage," I would emerge completed in that change.
At the beginning of my first class, I was standing behind my desk with my head down, taking roll.
"E-h-h-van, Honey!"
"Oh, no," I thought. "LaRonda is feeling her ginger." LaRonda Hughes and I got along well, engaging in frequent light bouts of teasing. She was dangerously attractive. I could see mothers putting a delaying grip on their sons' arms when LaRonda came on the scene. Long, black curly hair, big dark eyes, full red lips, and curves that wouldn't stop, already buxom. She knew how many inches of bone she put in a man's dick, and she enjoyed it. In all other respects, she was nearly as formidable as Susan Connolly. But addressing me as "honey" in the classroom was over the line. I didn't move my head up, but I raised my steely blues so that I was looking over the top of my glasses. My brows beetled in disapproval.
"Mr. Halsey, Honey," she corrected herself.
Okay, I could live with the "honey" this one time since she had stepped back. "Um- hummm."
"I hear you been married."
"Blast," I thought. "Every week from now on I'm going to have to field at least one question about being married or divorced. But before that, they'll expect me to tell them why I'm not still married, especially the LaRondas. No way!"
I looked up and raised my eyebrows.
"But you aren't married now."
"LaRonda, you are telling me things I already know."
"What happened?
"We married, we divorced. End of story."
"We were blown away when we heard. Don't you want to tell us about it?"
"My teaching contract doesn't require that I divulge facts about my personal life."
"Well, you teach us things about life; we could learn from you about marriage too," pushed LaRonda.
"I am not the person with whom you should be discussing marriage. Take Mrs. Howser's Marriage and Family class."
"Maybe we can't fit that class in our schedules. So one of us might come to you to ask if we should marry some guy," jumped in Wendy Fielding. "What would you tell that person?"
I clasped my hands behind my back and walked to the end of my long, former chemistry teacher's desk/demonstration table. "That no one should tell you either to marry or, usually, not to marry. It's your business; you have to live with the consequences of your decision. That's why you don't want the decision coming from somebody else."
Greg Dunwoodie pounced on the conditional part of my reply to Wendy: "Why should someone USUALLY not tell another to marry?"
I whirled around, heading in the opposite direction. "Sometimes people are headed toward disastrous mistakes. If you care for them, you want to warn them about the impending disaster. One of my brothers married and divorced the same woman twice. Nearly everyone in the family told him not to marry her the second time. He didn't listen. Another life lesson here: don't be surprised if people ignore you when you tell them not to marry someone."
I continued, "You are all too inexperienced and lacking in the right kind of knowledge anyway to be considering marriage at this point in your lives."
Ever the doubter, LaRonda charged back: "Is anyone in this class ready to be married?"
"No."
She adopted her sly look. "Not even Susan and Troy?" Both of them looked a little startled.
"Not even Susan and Troy."
"Why not?"
"Two reasons: our society does not prepare its members to conduct successful, loving relationships, probably because such an idea seems to legislate against our cherished ideal of independence. Another reason is that you don't possess skills fundamental to a successful marriage," I stated as I strode quickly to the end of my desk.
"What skills?"
I wheeled around and scooted back to the other end of the desk. "Expressing your love frequently. Listening well. Saying you're sorry and meaning it. Forgiving a lot. Sacrificing. Suppressing your wishes in favor of those of the person you love. Growing together. Praising, thanking, and rewarding your partner. Communicating when it is important to the relationship and to your partner even if you want to clam up. Making certain he or she laughs every day. Giving each other space and time alone. Not taking your partner for granted. Possessing a clear vision of where you started with your partner. Stopping occasionally to assess the health of the relationship. Supporting your partner in his or her vision. Maintaining a positive energy balance as much as possible in the relationship. Putting yourself in your partner's mind and heart in order-if you are really good-to understand what that person is thinking and feeling. Keeping the magic alive." Another wheel around to change directions as I sped back to the other end of the desk.
I looked up to see Susan covering her mouth, her eyes shining, and shoulders caught up in little shaking movements. She was trying to stifle laughter. I looked puzzled. "Something is wrong. Do they know something I don't?" I thought to myself.
Suddenly I reddened, looking down at my fly. The men guffawed; the women giggled. No. My fly was not open (every male teacher has taught through a whole morning at least once with his fly open). Susan's laughter was moving toward the uncontrollable. Finally, I looked at her and asked, "What?"
She replied, attempting to suppress giggles that came out like hiccups, "Ever since you started talking about marriage, you have been pacing behind your desk like a caged lion."
"Not a lion!" popped off Jeremy Wilder. "A buffalo maybe. Or a wild boar." Giggles from around the classroom.
"Buffalo do not pace," I stated. "They charge. A wild boar just watches you, trying to decide if it wants to expend the energy of taking you out." I tried to look menacing. I probably succeeded in looking only sleepy or stupid.
I looked back at Susan. "I told you I am not the person with whom you would want to discuss marriage."
"I'm doomed," moaned Paul Hartford. "I couldn't remember all of those skills at once."
"You don't need to remember them all at once. If you really love that person, if he or she fills your heart, mind, and even better, soul, the important skills pop into your mind when a related issue or occasion emerges," I responded. "If you wonder how you stack up, determine if you engage in any of those activities at all in your relationships. Then determine the quality you have achieved with each of those skills that figure in your behavior. You will have a sense of how close to the mark you have come."
I glanced over at Kenny who was staring raptly at me. I had looked his way only to see if he was thinking of Robert and him. I shifted my gaze quickly to the side. Damn! Susan had caught my glance and turned quickly to see at whom I was looking. I walked back to my grade book, picked up a pencil, then dropped it back on the grade book and stepped back to lean against the chalkboard.
"I don't think I've heard of half that list," admitted always-practical Beth Walter.
I asked Beth, "What in your developmental experience ever acquainted you with those skills' ability to contribute to the success of a relationship?"
"Nothing," she answered.
"Exactly my point."
"Whenever I think of marriage, I get this trapped feeling," Paul admitted. "Doesn't everyone feel something like that at some time or other?"
I zipped to the other end of the desk. "They will if they enter marriage blindly, choose the wrong person for a mate, or seem up front to accept conditions that are suffocating. But not everyone feels trapped in a marriage. Some feel liberated. Remember the poem we studied where the bird, upon being loosed from its cage, roams the world over? But at the end of the poem, it's seeking a cage. Do you recall the parting line of the poem?"
No answer.
I snorted impatiently. "Maybe I should put that on our quarterly exam." Universal groan. "Well, when are you guys going to learn that these literary works offer you virtual reality? And from that, you can fashion wisdom. The bird's parting observation hits squarely on the paradox of freedom. 'A cage is not escape, but need.' What does that mean? Troy?"
He looked stunned. "Okay, buddy," I thought, "here is your opportunity to dazzle Susan. Seize it!" She looked at him, smiling encouragement. Yeah, he was looking at her too. They were going to have a moment. I smiled inwardly.
Troy paused for about 15 seconds. I swear I detected a little gulp. Then he looked at me. "You can only feel free within boundaries of some kind. Without those boundaries, there is nothing to be free about." Susan shot him a smile that nearly wilted him, but it brought his dimples out, wilting me.
"Give us an illustration from your own experience, Troy," I requested. Another pause.
"I feel most free when I'm playing basketball. School work, family stuff, worries fall away when I'm out on the court. But I'm not really free. I have rules I have to play by.
"EXACTLY," I enthused, hopping a little. "You have it. Now let's bring this principle a little closer to home. You all are dreaming about graduating and getting out on your own where you will be free to do anything you want. Guess what. When you are free to do almost anything you want, you quickly discover that it loses its allure, that you don't want to do it so much anymore. When you get out in the real world, you also learn, if you have any prospects at all, that you are going to spend a lot of time working and honoring responsibilities. And the more you move into what our society regards as 'having arrived,' the more you will work and the more responsibilities you will honor. But you can actually be free within those structures as long as they are not too confining and do not stifle you. As long as you don't lose yourself in them."
"Have you ever lost yourself?" asked Greg.
"Look at this haggard brow and care-worn visage. I'm offering my life on the Altar of Education for you guys, and I'm paying big time for it."
BIG groan from the class. I heard it punctuated with a "Yeah, right" out there somewhere in the room.
Paul persisted: "What can you be liberated from when you are married?"
"Depends on who you are," I said.
"Always wondering who you're going to be with," responded LaRonda, rolling her eyes.
"Always having to rely on your friends for somewhere to go, someway to get there, something to do," added Angela Walker.
"Wow," I thought, "we've actually gotten Angela to volunteer an answer. What is happening today?"
"Liberated from the crowd so that you can focus on just one special person," contributed Wendy Fielding.
"Hey, men. Where are you? All the good answers are coming from the women," I taunted.
"Liberated from always having to go hunting for it," popped off Jeremy Wilder. The class roared, checking out my reaction.
I allowed a little smile and staged a look of mild forbearance. "Jeremy--always the romantic," I said. "Now ladies, you know what you are going to get when you take this man on as date material." I whirled back at Jeremy: "I know what you're thinking, Jeremy, and don't you dare say it." The class laughed with glee, for they knew Jeremy.
"Isn't marriage just about sex?" Jeremy came back-with a gleam in his eye.
"Well, what would the prospects be for a marriage based only on sex?" I asked.
LaKeisha, not to be outdone, jumped in: "I have the perfect example from MY experience. I love sports. I love the excitement filling an entire evening. I love seeing the man I'm with all stirred up over a game. I love seeing men's bodies on the team struggling to win. But when I dated Monroe, all he cared about was sports, not me. Even after a game, it's all he wanted to talk about. He didn't care if I couldn't go with him or not. He went with friends. Sports, sports, sports. That's all it was with him. I very quickly became bored with sports and bored with Monroe. One evening, this guy was sitting on the bleacher across the aisle," she dropped her voice, a gleam in her eye. "When I went to the restroom, he was waiting for me when I came out. He introduced him self as Roland Jackson. We talked a long time. That loser Monroe didn't even miss me. So when Roland, my man now, called me up for a date, I dropped Monroe. Roland and I go to games, but he enjoys being with me as much as the game. And we still talk about other things. I'm not bored by sports at all now that I with Roland. It may be a little hard to imagine, nothing but sex could be like Monroe with his nothing but sports- boring!"
"Ou-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u. I wouldn't want to wear sex out. It's so much fun!" said Jeremy, clowning again.
"Now that LaKeisha has answered Jeremy's question, consider some other kinds of liberation that might attend marriage. Liberation from having to make all the decisions and bear all the responsibility alone. Liberation from always having to be in control. [I know I blushed.] Liberation from holidays alone, from being odd man out, the third wheel, the extra chair at the table at a dinner party. That's only a beginning of the list." I blushed again, realizing that I was disclosing more bout myself than was wise.
"So did you practice all this stuff when you were married?" queried LaRonda.
"No. And it's not stuff. It's wisdom."
"Will you marry again?" asked Wendy Fielding.
"Not in this lifetime."
"Why? Don't you believe in marriage?" asked Tony Francini.
"Tony's engaged enough to ask a question?" I thought. I was surprised but delighted.
"I believe in it for the people who have prepared for it and can make it work, Tony."
"In my church, we believe it is a sacrament," explained Rosalie Rodriguez. "Do you agree?" Sweet Rosalie. Always quiet unless I called on her. I could tell by the earnest look on her face that both this question and its answer were important to her.
"Some people make their marriages a sacrament, Rosalie. If other people have no such intention, then their marriages will not be sacramental. This answer may not square with the theology of your church, but it's what I have observed. It seems to me that a lot of people marry for the wrong reasons. Societal, family, and peer pressures make them decide to marry. The natural process would be to allow the possibility of marriage to arise from satisfactory interaction with another person."
"It's bad to marry as a response to pressure?" asked Jarod Paine.
"Marrying as a response to pressures of the kind I identified is rather like our Presidential elections the last two decades. Much of the electorate was voting AGAINST a candidate, not voting FOR a candidate. A negative vote like that rarely produces a satisfactory situation for anyone, certainly not a fulfilling one. Marrying just to escape pressures is not the same as choosing to marry another. The former is negative; the latter is positive."
"Are you sorry you aren't married?" asked Troy Morgan, surprising me a little with his question.
"After the divorce, I was sorry. Later I was not."
"My parents fight a lot," stated Jeremy. "I think they shouldn't be married anymore. They certainly don't act like they love each other at all." I wasn't going to comment on parents' marriages, so I said simply, "I'm sorry to hear that, Jeremy."
"Are you and your ex still friends?" LaRonda was not going to rest until she had this information under her control.
"We aren't unfriendly, but we really haven't been in contact for a very long time."
LaRonda: "Does she live here?"
"No, we're blessed by the fact that we are states away from each other."
"Gosh, I'm feeling down," Paul moaned. "If you can't make it work, how can I?"
"Because you have goals and because you realize that the person who interests you has similar goals, will be a good partner in the achievement of their goals. Moreover, you both may be lucky enough to recognize strengths in that other person on which you can draw. And your reasons for considering marriage are not superficial or frivolous. Good relationships don't just happen. You have to create and then maintain them. I say again, I am not representative of the benefits and joys of marriage. Take Mrs. Howser's class."
"We can learn all we need to know about marriage in Mrs. Howser's class?" asked Troy Morgan.
"No, it's only a beginning, the start of a journey toward some kind of potentially wonderful fulfillment. It will provide the information you need to set proper expectations, to learn what dangers to avoid, to make you aware of the power of some skills," I responded.
"If you understand all of this, aren't you depriving someone of a good husband?" challenged Wendy.
"No."
"I think you are," Beth reinforced Wendy.
"Folks, my lesson plan says nothing about a discussion of Evan Halsey's suitability for marriage."
"Is having children a good reason to marry?" asked Rosalie. Goodness, I was observing more reaction from her today than I had all semester.
"No, not if that is the only reason a couple is considering marriage. Children neither make nor save a marriage. The marriage should be relatively sound to begin with before a couple thinks about children. The marriage has to serve as a foundation to support the children as they grow and develop. If a couple hasn't established that foundation, they let everybody involved with them in for a lot of stress. And the children end up paying a major price [I suddenly thought of Jeremy's comment but avoided looking at him for fear of marking him in front of the class]. Deciding to parent is a whopping challenge. You little critters consume vast amounts of energy, space, resources, money, and pizza."
"Speaking of pizza," observed Jeremy, "I'm starved."
"It's only 9:20 in the morning!" I exclaimed. "Which reminds me-marriage has nothing to do with adjusting syntax to strengthen prose voice." I grinned, thinking to myself, "Well, not in any terms that we could discuss in the classroom."
"So let's move to today's lesson, please." For once, the class didn't groan upon being reminded that we had work to do. Instead, they seemed rather more reflective. Unusual. Wonder what that betokened. Maybe they were thinking.
The morning's classes marched on to noon. I sat alone in my classroom, having my usual lunch, fruit and juice and then coffee while reading poetry. By habit, I avoided the cafeteria and the faculty lunchroom. I left my classroom briefly for a visit to the bathroom. When I returned, a now-familiar envelope lay on top of my grade book. "When did that get there?" I asked myself. The note inside read "Tonight. Same as last time: your house, no porch light, no locked door, be ready."
Whoa! The last visit had been jarring. I wouldn't say that I never wanted that visit to have happened, but I wasn't certain that I wanted to go through a repeat of it. "Yeah, like you're going to scotch the visit," I was challenged by that interior voice. "Well," I thought, "at least one thing is normal again-that smart-ass voice is back."
.........
I had prepared the stage as usual. I was sitting in the dim light in the living room, wearing only a pair of running shorts. Again, a footfall on the front porch. The doorknob turned and the door swung open more slowly than last time. A shorter figure, again wearing a ski mask cut off just above the nose entered the foyer, looking around. Little Kenny alone? "Wonder why?" I thought.
When he spotted me he walked over, stopping about five feet away. Without much preamble, he launched in, "Hi, Mr. Halsey. Are you disappointed?"
The question surprised me. "No. Why would you think that?"
"The Lion is not with me. I know he turns you on. You turn him on too, but in a different way. He said you came down more the last time he visited you than he expected. He's worried about you. He thinks I can build you up a little. But he'll be back with me next time. Wanted me to be certain you knew that."
There were several threads of thought, not to mention a couple of potential puns, that I wanted to follow in Kenny's remarks, but he moved on. "I want to sketch you this time." He slowly walked around the living room, turning on a few more lights. "I like this room, the colors, the furniture," he said. I want to sketch you in here."
"Okay." I wondered, with some disappointment, if he was only going to sketch me.
"Take off your shorts," he said, as he dropped his backpack on the floor and began removing his clothes. I watched closely as he unbuckled his jeans, pulling them down his lightly sculpted legs. He slid his sneakers off, then his socks, dropping them on the sneakers. Nice small, slim feet for his height. He dropped his jacket and pulled his tee shirt carefully over his head so as not to dislodge his mask. There were those shoulders, just the right width for his body. Those lightly defined pecs. The hair peeking out from his pits. He slid his briefs down his legs, revealing his cock going half hard, set amidst a bush that I wanted to nuzzle into. I slid my shorts down my legs.
He walked over, took my hand and led me to one of the wing chairs. "This will be great," he remarked. "This upholstery cloth looks like the paper inside the cover of an ancient book. Great colors. Sit diagonally across the chair with your head in the corner of that wing. Put that leg up over the arm of the chair. Let your other leg stretch in front of you. Uh-m-m-m. I want your dick only half hard. Can you keep it that way?"
"He must be crazy," I thought. "Here I am in front of a sweet, attractive, sexy, adorable guy and he wants me to keep my cock semi-erect."
"I'd sooner be able to cross the Gobi Desert with only a Dixie cup of water!" I exclaimed.
He actually giggled. "You mean I turn you on that much?"
"Oh yes, little one, and you can't even see the fires raging inside. Why would you think otherwise?"
"You seem so strong, so . . . separate, like you don't need anybody or anything. Sometimes it seems that nothing could turn you on, especially not a student like me."
I had to have looked surprised because I was. "What do you mean a student like you?" I asked as he arranged me a little more and then walked over to his backpack, pulling out a sketch pad and a box of pencils, his sweet, curvy ass capturing my attention. Then he walked over to a side chair and pulled it to where he had been standing. He sat, opened the pad, and began sketching quickly. He bent over his pad, looking up only to check the scene.
"I'm not interesting, haven't done anything big like you and the Lion. I'm not popular like Troy Morgan or funny like Jeremy Wilder. It takes something like that to turn someone else on."
"Allow me to straighten some crooked thinking here, little one. You are correct: at your point in life, it's less about what you have done because you have had neither time nor opportunity to do much. But it is entirely about the kind of person you are. You are an extremely desirable man. Not just because you are attractive-yeah, sexy too." I caught the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. "You are genuine too. Remember in the movie "Poltergeist," where the medium describes the lost souls drawing near Carol Ann because they are attracted to the light of her life-force?"
He thought a moment. "Yes."
"Why are they attracted to her, touching her, wanting to keep her with them?"
"Because she's alive, her light is warm, it pushes back the darkness and cold of their trapped state."
"Your authenticity, Little One, is like Carol Ann's light. It makes you extremely attractive, especially in a world where SO many young people are trying to discover who they really are that no one seems to be anyone yet, a world of illusions, a world where everyone is becoming but no one is. Of course, if they are wise, they are creating who they want to be. Whatever the Lion has accomplished, you know how attracted to you he is."
He chuckled. "Yeah, he is."
"Troy and I have discussed popularity. Even he knows that it isn't enough, that it doesn't automatically bring what one may want. And popularity may not be very important to someone else to whom he is attracted. As for Jeremy, I am afraid his humor is meant to cover up difficulties in his life. Probably pain too, but I try not to think about it much because it hurts to think of him in pain like that, and there's nothing I can do to relieve it. Except in class where our joking may build him up a little bit, if not in his own eyes then in the eyes of his classmates."
"Troy must have been talking about Susan," the Little One observed. "We all hope they become a solid couple. If they don't, something isn't right." He looked at me under his brows: "Susan's a really exciting woman. Everyone thinks they are lucky to be in your section with her. And we all tell our friends during lunch about Jeremy's taking you on in class. Sometimes, students in other classes ask what you two locked horns about that day. They know they are going to get a good laugh. But I hadn't thought about how his clowning might cover up unhappiness."
"Maybe you would see it if you sketched him sometime. And if you gave him the sketch, not only would he know that someone really cared about him, but it might open the door to his talking to you about his life. I have a feeling that just talking to you would be a gift for Jeremy. For all his clowning, I don't see him in the company of friends. Whenever I see him, he's alone in a crowd."
Little One thought about that for a while, still sketching away. "Remember in the exercise room when you said that someday my sketches would capture the inner realities of my subjects?"
"Yes."
"If I sketched Jeremy, that could happen? My sketch could liberate him as marriage liberates some people?"
"Yes."
"It's happening already but not with Jeremy. Sometimes when I'm alone, I sketch people from memory. Not just Ro . . . the Lion, but people from school. When I sketch you, I see things."
"I don't think I'm going to like this," I thought.
"Oh, Mr. Halsey," he said as he arose and walked over to me. "You are supposed to keep this half hard," whereupon he grabbed my cock and slowly pumped it while squeezing it. Then he reached up and gently removed my glasses.
"Sorry. I guess I was caught up in the discussion."
He turned, walking back to his pad and continuing his sketch. He had begun using colored pencils, obviously shading in areas of the sketch. "You aren't happy are you?"
"I'd rather talk about you."
Pause. "Don't you respect me?"
I was taken aback. "Yes, but I don't know why you asked me that."
"If you respect me, you won't dodge my question. You'll treat our discussion of you with the same degree of respect and purpose as our discussion of me."
I chuckled ruefully. "And you think you aren't strong."
"I didn't say I wasn't strong, just not strong like you and the Lion."
"You are inaccurate in your self-perception, Little One. You are every bit as strong; it just doesn't manifest itself the same way for any one of us."
He leaned back, holding the pad out, studying it. Then he arose and came over to show the sketch to me. It was remarkable, an amazing balance of my plainer figure set off with the colors and pattern of the wing chair, but he had muted those colors. He had my head looking rather intently out of the frame at someone or something. The angles of my limbs contrasted cleverly with the pattern in the chair upholstery. The square of my shoulders offset the rectangularity of the wing chair. He had caught the bundles of muscles in my legs and the curves of my deltoids and the flat planes of my chest. My legs were cocked apart in lewd suggestiveness, my cock was half hard. He had captured the hair in my crotch perfectly. "That must be difficult," I thought, "to give substance to what was not very substantial." My balls were just slightly emerging from shadow.
"Little One, this sketch is marvelous."
"I'm glad you like it. Now we're going to do the next one. It's going to be hot! Where's your bedroom?"
I started to rise, but he put a hand on my shoulder firmly pushing me back down. "Just tell me. You wait here."
Following my directions, he returned in a couple of minutes with a fistful of my ties. "Sit over here on the sofa." He took the different colored pillows on the sofa and piled them into a corner formed by the back and the arm of the sofa. "Sit here," he pointed at the cushion right by the pillows. Now lie back into the corner of the sofa on the pillows, but let your upper body slant into the corner."
I did as he commanded. He grabbed the backs of my thighs and suddenly jerked my body down a little lower. "Wow," I thought, "he's stronger than I expected."
He sorted through the ties, picking one that harmonized with the sofa upholstery and pillow coverings. Grabbing my wrists together and pulling them over my head, he bound my hands with the tie. "Leave your hands up like that."
Then he bent down, grabbing my ankles to pull my legs out straight, crossing my ankle over the other, binding them with another tie. "Keep you legs separated at the knees so that they bow out from your waist and then come back together at your ankles. But no angles, just a smooth bow."
I did as he asked. Then he fell to his knees and began to lick up my inner thighs. I gasped because it was so unexpected. But it felt great too. He gave my inner thighs small love bites. I couldn't help it: my back arched and I gasped in a breath. He looked up and smiled, then started nibbling on my nipples. I groaned my pleasure. He was certainly working the wrong way if he wanted my cock half hard, for it was boned up stiff. A glance told me his was as well. He began licking my balls, occasionally looking up at the tip of my cock. Finally he exclaimed, "Oh, good, here it comes." I could see precum oozing out of my piss slit and slowly running down the shaft of my seven inches.
He quickly moved back to the pad and began sketching. "So you're not happy, are you, Evan. Ha-ha. Thought I forgot, didn't you?"
"An Aristotelian scholar I read says that we Americans confuse happiness and contentedness," I began.
"No," he said. "No dodges into philosophy, Evan. Respect me: answer my question."
"What a little dominator," I mused.
"I have my moments."
He stopped sketching and stared at me. Silence. No movement. Seconds passed. "Oh," I thought, "he's doing an Evan."
"Okay, damn it," I exclaimed. "Most of the time I'm not happy." Again, just a slight turning up of the corners of his mouth. "That cute little stud thinks he's controlling me. Well, maybe he is. Maybe it's time," crossed my mind.
"But I've been happy in the pride."
He set the pad aside, arose, and walked over to me. He leaned in and gently placed his lips on mine. Then he captured my bottom lip lightly between his lips, slowly pulling out only a little, then moving back in. How erotic! He began stroking my pecs, my sides, my stomach as he kissed me, gently sliding his tongue into my mouth. Back down to run his fingernails up my inner thighs, over my balls, but he was careful not to touch my cock. Another exclamation: "Oh good, here comes some more." He gently took my cock and pushed it toward my side as precum rolled slowly down in a different channel from the first.
Satisfied, he moved quickly back to his pad and began sketching. Only a couple of minutes passed when he again put the pad down and knelt beside me. He placed his fingertips lightly around my nipples, every so gently running them in rings around my nipples. "That feels so hot, your nipples against the skin of my fingertips. It's giving me goose bumps," he admitted. Again he kissed me softly. Then he licked my ears, down my neck, across my shoulders. He caught my ear lobes gently between his teeth, tugging on them.
He moved to my knees, nibbling all around them. "Wow! I never knew that could feel so good, I thought. My dick stiffened even more. All the while he had been tickling my balls. Again, precum was oozing out of my slit. Kenny held my cock to the other side so the precum slid down in a third channel. He hustled back to his pad, sketching quickly. He snatched up the colored pencils and began using them on the sketch. I was glad the conversation had ended. He worked silently for ten minutes. Then he arose and brought the sketch to me.
How wanton he had made me look, a man bound hand and foot who was still inviting love with his body. The ties brought color accents to the shadows in the sketch and drew attention to my bound state. The hair in my pits fuzzed up. What was startling was the realism of the three streams of precum running down my seven-inch cock, looking like topping running down a scoop of ice cream. Somehow, they gleamed, were alive. "I wonder how he did that." Even the hair on my legs was drawn to complement the curve he had insisted on for the arrangement of my legs. I was staring boldly out of the picture at the viewers. "I wish I looked that bold in real life," I thought.
"Now, for the last sketch," he announced. "Come with me." He led me into the bedroom. He pulled the bedroom door into the bedroom, tying one of my hands with a tie to the doorknob. He did the same with one of the double doors on the closet, pulling the door open into the bedroom and tying my other hand to that doorknob so that I stood between the doors. He pushed the doors wider apart. Standing behind me, he kicked my feet wide apart. He turned on all the lights and then walked out of the room, returning with a belt in his hand. He walked up behind me, gently pushing his nude body against mine, slowly standing on the tip of his toes and then slowly lowering himself, making his body rub against mine. My nipples hardened as did my cock. He nuzzled and then kissed the back of my neck. He stuck his finger in my mouth.
"Get it good and wet," he warned. That was followed by love bites on the back of my neck and across my shoulders and down my shoulder blades as he slid that finger against my hole, teasing it. Then he pushed his finger into me, slowly pulling it in and out. He stepped back, and then the belt landed on my back: SWAP! He hit hard. The pain radiated out from the mark he must have left on my back. Seven more stripes from the belt followed.
"Why?" I gently asked.
"Want me to stop?"
"No. Just tell me what you are thinking and feeling," I answered.
"I've been feeling myself grow stronger, but I haven't acted on it. Now I am. When I lash you, I prove my strength. But I'm giving you what you want. You want proof that I care for you. I'm giving you that. If I told you what I feel, you wouldn't believe my words. But each strike of the belt tells you that you are so important, so valuable to me, that I want to put my mark on you, Evan, physically and emotionally. You want me to exert my strength over you, right?"
"Yes."
SWAP!
You can't doubt the blows-the force I put behind them, my drive to dominate you. We are both too intense in our ideals to regard the chemistry between us as gamesmanship, phoniness, pretend play.
"Yes."
SWAP!
"You are assisting in the birth of this strength, this power in me," the Little One explained.
"Yes."
SWAP!
"But you are being born as well."
"Yes."
SWAP! The blows were moving from my upper back down to my ass and legs. The pain from the blows was growing, accumulating, especially in the area of my ass. For some reason, it seemed to gravitate to my hole, perhaps because my ass was still feeling Little One's finger fucking me even though he had pulled it out some minutes ago. My hole was beginning to burn.
"Has anyone ever loved Evan Halsey in this way?"
"No."
SWAP!
"I love the Lion," Little One boasted.
"Yes."
SWAP!
"I love you, Evan!
"Yes [fainter]."
SWAP!
SWAP!
SWAP!
SWAP!
SWAP!
"Yes!" I shouted.
SWAP!
I was having some difficulty keeping my balance, standing up. I heard the belt fall. I felt the touch of his lips on my back, my ass cheeks, my legs.
Little One moaned: "The heat from the beating is entering my lips. He stood and gently eased his body into mine. "Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h," he moaned, "the heat is entering my chest, nips, stomach, cock, balls, legs. Oh, Evan, I've never felt anything like this! Your heat is warming me, Evan. I've painted you with my love."
"Yes."
Kiss.
Now I want to sketch you from the back. Can you stand long enough for me to do that? I'll hurry. Then I'm going to claim what is mine. Your ass, Evan."
"Oh, yes," my answer flowed out of my mouth.
He moved back to sit in a chair to sketch me.
I retreated into the pain, the heat of the beating, and his words, which seemed to lift me off the carpet. I don't think my cock has ever been this hard. I relived the lashing. I knew I was dripping more precum.
I lost track of the time, but once again he was standing behind me, gently holding my arms with his hands. He had eased his dick up against my hole. "I think we both know that this moment together is a pinnacle in our relationship."
"Yes [gasped]!" He jammed his hard dick, lubricated only by his precum, up my ass. The pain radiated out, connecting with the heat on my back, ass, legs. "Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h- h-h yes."
As he gently fucked, he spoke to me: "You have taught me well, Evan. You are not my creator. The Lion is not my creator. I am my creator. But you two are the catalysts that allow me to bring out the best in myself."
I was humbled by the power of his intellect n this moment of his vision. I thought that he was actually stronger in some ways than the Lion! What beauty-self-transformation! Whoever ended up as the object of this man's love would be blessed a hundredfold.
I had brought myself to this point where it took a man's lashing me to convince me of the truth of his esteem, his love. With every painful plunge, Little One kissed me gently but passionately. Velvet glove, hell! Velvet bullwhip!
Little One began chanting, "Love me, Evan."
SLAP, came his hand down on my ass cheek.
"Believe in me, Evan."
Kiss.
"Be happy, Evan."
Kiss
"Join with me, Evan"
He reached around me and began slowly jerking me, but his hand was squeezing my cock hard. He pushed his fat cock as far into my ass as he could, then started delivering little jabbing thrusts deeper in me. "Man! I could feel the incipient orgasm grab my cock, balls, and hole. My back arched and I moaned. I had never felt anything so powerful. Suddenly he seemed to rise into me, almost become one with me. I could feel the warmth of his come deep within me. Suddenly I shouted and loosed a jet of cum. As my ass muscles clamped down on his cock, he fired again. Back and forth we shot. Finally, I sagged, and he held me up with one arm as he loosened the ties binding me to the doorknobs. He helped me to the bed.
"You will see the sketch later, Evan. The marks on your body are as beautiful as the ties. But the Lion, you, and I will enjoy them together. I will not soothe these marks, Evan, for I want you to feel them for as long as possible. They are not pain; they are not shame; they are love, Evan. I want you to feel my love for you as I feel yours for me every day. I love you, Evan." He kissed me gently.
"I love you, Little One. I am yours."
"Sleep now," he whispered as he gently lay a sheet and blanket over me. "I'll let myself out. You sleep now." Another gentle, lingering kiss. I shivered with joy.
(To be continued.)