Andrew Jackson High

Sprout

Andrew Jackson High 2

by George Gauthier

1. Plant Boys

"Hey, Sprout! You back there?"

"Sure thing, Zach. Get naked, pull up a toad stool, will you, and park your bare bum."

Just one of my bad puns. Almost any subject was fair game for one, but as a budding botanist, anything to do with the plant kingdom earns extra points, even a pun as feeble as that one. So Zach came around back and joined me in my herb garden, already starting to peel off his clothing.

Zach is Zachary Taylor, no relation to the president, my neighbor, classmate, and best friend. We met in kindergarten at age six and bonded instantly, as only the very young can. In the ten years since then we have become inseparable. Our houses are just minutes apart by bicycle and we are always going over to visit one another. We go to the same school, Andrew Jackson High, and have pretty much the same classes and teachers.

Our interests overlap, and we share a fascination with the world of plants. Zach is aiming for a career in forestry with an emphasis on IT support since he is a real whiz at IT. My goal is to be a research botanist. Zach and Sprout, the "Plant Boys" they called us at school.

My real name is William but almost no one calls me that or even Billy. My teachers call me Will. Everyone else, except my pops calls me "Sprout", and my botanical interests are only part of the reason for it. One look at me and the reason is obvious.

I am a little guy, a sprout that stopped growing too soon at five foot two (158 cm). Only six extra pounds keep me from being that proverbial 98 pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. Except no one would really call me weak or soft. That phrase "hard body" could have been invented for me. I have a wiry physique from all the running and swimming I do. My body fat is like two percent and I do taiqi for flexibility. Think Eike von Stuckenbrok only blond.

My full name is William Pierpoint Tagliaferro, IV. It really should be the VI except the middle two of us William Ps took it into their heads, right after the Civil War, to Anglicize the name and spell it the way it was mis-pronounced: Toliver. The following generation decided to honor tradition and resumed the original spelling. We claim to be descended from one of the First Families of Virginia who settled there in the seventeenth century, though I have my doubts.

I know. The name looks Italian, doesn't it. Well it is. Tagliaferro means "iron cutter" in Italian. The Italians pronounce it as four syllables not five; the silent g combines with lia to sound like the y sound from the double ll in the English word million. Forgive me for showing off. With two years of Italian and a whole lot of home study, I can follow the television news on the RAI.

Anyway, just like with the Eisenhowers (German for iron cutter), ours is really just another prosaic surname taken from a trade, no better really than Baker, or Smith, or Butcher. Or Taylor, come to think of it.

So why did my many times great grands not just call themselves Iron Cutter or maybe just Cutter? My guess is that those names might be good enough for tradesmen but not for aspiring aristocrats. So those men of yore who crossed the Atlantic so long ago, kept their foreign names with their exotic spellings, only yielding somewhat on the pronunciation, either from practicality or because the family had abandoned the Italian language, just as they had abandoned the old country itself for England in the sixteenth century.

All this made me wonder how many US Presidents had surnames taken from trades. It turns to be only three:, Taylor, Eisenhower, and Carter, and only the middle one was a success. So maybe my many times great grands were on to something.

Now what I wrote just now about trades as presidential surnames was on point, with some relevance to my family history. As I looked up the list of the presidents, I made several other observations that interest a brainy kid like me with a lively curiosity, but are not for everyone. If you do not care to indulge me in a digression, skip the next few paragraphs on Presidential trivia.

Did you know that no less than fifteen chief executives had surnames that just mean "son of so and so":, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, John Quincy Adams, Jackson, William Henry Harrison, Hayes (I think), Andrew Johnson, Benjamin Harrison, McKinley, Wilson, Johnson again, this time LBJ. Even Nixon (Nick's son or son of Nicholas), and I will bet you didn't know that.

Eight surnames were derived from places; Washington, Van Buren, Garfield, Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt (original family surname was van Rosenvelt), FDR, Ford, Clinton.

And I don't know about Obama. There are several places with that name but all of them in Japan. Wrong continent.

Back to my story.

Zach walked over by me then shucked his shirt, shorts, and sandals, getting naked like I already was, like I always was while gardening. It was early summer in South Florida, time to work on our tans even as we work the land. Well my garden. Neither of us care much for tan lines. They are too much of... well too much of an interruption, if you know what I mean. The deep even tans we develop by the end of summer testify that most of the time we spent in the sun, we were stark naked, something we actually want folks to know. I know that is terribly naughty of us, but that is who we are.

In truth. Zach and I go about nude just about every chance we get: at my home and in the back yard, at the unofficial nudie beach which lies beyond the jetty, and as naughty nature boys in nearby nature preserves, our woodsy retreats where we can take it all off and get away from the cares of civilization.

With my moms gone and living with just my pops, it easier for me to lead a clothing free lifestyle. Whether because he is a social liberal or because he had read one too many child rearing guides, he doesn't mind my habitual nudity, except at meal times. Easy going he might be, but when he lays down the law, we minions snap to attention and to obey. So when we sit down together as a family around the table, my bare bum has to be covered if only in a pair of bumming around shorts, no pun intended. No, really.

All over bare is how I like to do my gardening, getting close to nature, no clothes no gloves, no knee pads, maybe just a straw hat atop my head. So what if my hands, knees, legs and even my face get streaked with dirt. It is good dirt, topsoil, mother earth. A quick douche and scrub under the outdoor shower out back soon gets my skin shining and squeaky clean.

Sometime I work alone, a slender nude youth, bent over at stoop labor, planting, weeding, and hoeing. Often it is the two of us together, me and Zach, two bare-assed youths kneeling on the ground, brown cheeks resting on our heels, lithe torsos leaning forward, genitals dangling between slender thighs, ribs and spinal bumps prominent as, trowel or short handled hoe in hand, we bend to our mundane tasks, firm muscles playing under our skin. I've got video of us working together like that, two naked youths exuding wholesomeness and vitality, fine specimens of the human animal, bronzed and bare-bottomed.

By now you must be wondering about my looks. I didn't say much about them earlier. If I do skip around in telling my story, mark it down to the natural flightiness of gay guys, especially super cute twinks like me. There, I said it straight out, and that is straight talk, no brag.

In all modesty, I would have to describe myself as an athletic boy with a slight build and an impossibly cute face, blessed with delicate features including a chiseled jaw line and killer cheekbones. I am a green-eyed beauty my orbs set wide apart under finely arched brows, with lashes too long to have ever have been meant for a boy. I was always glad my eyes were the color of growing things, so totally appropriate for a gardner and botanist.

On top, I can boast a head of close-cropped blond hair the color of corn silk. A person less long-winded than myself would describe me as "an earthly vision of youthful male pulchritude" or "a walking wet dream close enough to touch if only you dared". Think Richie Stringini at my age.

As to my physique, as I mentioned I stand only two inches over five feet, and only 103 pounds (47 kg) So I am small, skinny, and smooth muscled, with the face of an angel and skin like porcelain out of the sun. Entirely free of body hair too, even at the fork of my legs, thanks to the application of the new depilatories which put hair follicles permanently into their telogen or resting phase.

Some guys automatically assume that anybody that cute and sexy has got to be insufferably vain, someone far too much in love with himself to acknowledge lesser mortals. Not true. And just as well. The last thing AJHS or South Florida needs is another vain pretty boy cutting a swath though high school society, hanging with only the in-crowd of beautiful people, snubbing anyone who cannot make the cut. Cliques are the bane of a teenager's existence, so I try not to make things worse by becoming the center of one myself.

If I don't seem to have as many friends as some, it is because I value quality over quantity. Like really, who needs four hundred "friends" on Facebook.

I like to think that I have a friendly and outgoing personality. At Andrew Jackson High I chat with everyone, from nerds to jocks. I am a closet nerd myself, if the truth were known, one of the brainier kids at AJHS, with the marks to prove it. Over the years, I never joined in the cheering when school let out for the summer. I like school.

Oh I do look forward to the end of the school year, not because of what I can get away from but what I can get away to. I love the hot weather of a Florida summer. It allows me to run around starkers outdoors, letting the sun turn my skin that tawny shade that goes so well with my blond hair. Then there is the delicious feel of the sun's heat on my bare bum, incontrovertible evidence that I am out in public in a state of nature. And it really is a nice bum too, twin globes of firm boy flesh, a deep cleavage in between, the buttocks flexing and twitching and dimpling as I walk or run.

And I so love to run the back trails in the rude nude. Nothing makes me feel more naked than knowing that several miles lie between me and the nearest clothing. I could be Tarzan in Africa or maybe Mowgli in India or a denizen of the Hyrcanian rain forest. I would like to swing on vines, but they don't really grow that way, hanging free like in the movies. They have roots, like most plants do.

Robinson Crusoe got it all wrong on that desert island of his when he sewed himself an outfit from goat skins: trews, shirt, high crowned hat and even a parasol to keep the sun off him. Old Rob there shoulda ditched the threads and worshipped the sun, like me and Zach.

The fact is, I have an exhibitionist streak in me. I love to show off this sexy little body I have so recently grown into. Don't get me wrong. By exhibitionist I don't mean rain coats and flashing old ladies. I would never do something so offensive or so crude. Not only am I Mr. Nice Guy, I don't get turned on by old or by female either.

Fact is, I am gay, fey, and okay with it. I think my pops is okay with it too. I am sure that, even without the big announcement, definitely not a "confession", he knows and likely has known for a few years, that his oldest and only son is as queer as a three dollar bill. Actually I keep hoping they will issue that denomination, now that the dollar bill is worth only thirty cents on the dollar of a decade ago. Meanwhile I do what I can, asking at the bank for any two dollar bills they have in the drawer. I have made it my mission to get them back into circulation. I don't like those dollar coins at all, too much like a quarter, you ask me.

Anyway, enough of me. Back to Zach.

Now Zach is quality folk, though maybe not to look at. Unlike me, all out there on the surface, Zach has hidden depths. Outwardly he is pretty much medium everything: medium height, 69 inches, medium weight, 125 (OK that is on the light side), hair so black it looks blue, cut medium length, of course, and hazel eyes. Zach has ordinary good looks; he is a nice looking boy with a pleasant face but not one to turn heads. Not like me.

Sometimes people ask me what I see in so ordinary a guy. I find that hard to answer. Our friendship is not something I have ever felt I needed to justify, especially not to myself. Zach is Zach, my friend, my lifelong friend. What do they say, friends are the family you choose for yourself. I chose Zach and have never regretted it. Zach is special.

First he is super smart, smarter even than me, and that is saying something. Zach has the kind of mind that sees outside of the box and makes the breakthroughs. Look how last year when he was fifteen and working all alone on a science project, he improved the algorithms in software used in satellite forest surveys. Zach more than tripled the accuracy of species identification. He got recognition for himself and for the school. Recruiters from some of the better technical colleges came to recruit. Zach had really put Andrew Jackson High School on their map.

I think Zach would be wasted in forestry, very much an applied science. He should work with me on basic research. Actually with his abilities, I wouldn't be surprised if there were multiple masters and doctorates in his future.

You would never take him for a jock but he has brown belts in several martial arts. That is one area where our interests do not overlap, though he has shown me some basic moves, probably all I would ever need in a confrontation, enough to break loose and take to my heels. He good enough, he doesn't have to go around proving it. No chips on his shoulders, just a level head.

And he is loyal. I watch his back; he watches mine. Anyone takes after me takes after Zach too and vice-versa. We absolutely love being in each other's company, whether to study, to work in the garden, to surf the web or watch the wall screen TV we have at my house. Pops is pretty well off, so we subscribe to a hell of a lot of content providers. Often Zach and I sit idly and chit chat. We are on the same wavelength, often finishing each other's sentences. He is, as the Italians say, molto simpatico.

Lately though another dimension has developed in our relationship, physical attraction. I have always loved Zach but now I am in love with him, in a way I yearn to express physically. In short, I have the hots for him. I am just not sure how he would react were I to "plight him my troth" (I got that out of a book.) I am sure he has noticed that when we rassle around out back or at the old swimming hole, that I sometimes spring wood. We laugh and pass it off as of no significance, something that happens to horny teenagers. The truth is my body aches to make love to his. It is all I can do to restrain myself and not smother him with kisses, feel him up, grab him down there, or mark him as my own with love bites and hickeys.

And yet, he says nothing. You see, the one taboo subject with us is sex. Meaning girls. For us they just do not exist, not the way they do for most teenage males. He never takes a girl out on a date. Neither do I. We say we are too busy. We fancy we are like those studious Asian boys who have no social life. We never gossip about the physical attributes of the local beauty queens at Andrew Jackson High or about which cute boy is currently boffing which pretty girl.

What to do?

1. Jungle Boy

As I said, I often run the back trails stark naked, like some jungle boy. Now it is just possible to sneak from my house, thread your way through the unbuilt-upon parcels of land around us, cut across school grounds, and reach a nature preserve. I only wished I could stop right there on the school grounds and circle the track, but good old Andrew Jackson High is not quite ready yet for its male athletes to emulate the ancient Olympians and train and compete in the nude.

More is the pity. I would have no problem circling the track, running past the stands, waving to folks I know, putting my trim little body totally on display. Would I arouse lascivious thoughts in the heads of the student body (or is it student bodies) at Andrew Jackson High? All the better. I like to think that I am not only incredibly sexy but physical poetry in motion when I run.

Admittedly the genitals do look silly bouncing and jouncing and flip-flopping when you run nude, though that is still no excuse for the invention of the athletic supporter, a torment devised by perverse folks in the nineteenth century alarmed at the outline of male members visible through the cloth of athletic uniforms. It's not like any amount of jouncing about will shake things loose. Look at that Athenian kid who carried the word of the Greek victory at Marathon back to the city. He died because his heart gave out, not from damage to his dangly bits.

Alas I was born too soon. Public attitudes toward nudity are changing but not in time for my generation. At least the boys on the swim team get to train naked. Coach Conlon insists on it. I had thought to try out for the team but realized that I would be naked only indoors. No tan. No public nudity. Not for me.

I do like the super skimpy swim briefs the kids wear in competition. Wow! Those things are so exiguous as to be more of a suggestion than a garment, leaving a boy next thing to naked as can be. The guys on the team were all attractive, but the one who caught my eye was the little guy, the towel boy Alex Conlon, who is the coach's nephew, the one they call Squirt. I go to swim meets these days just to ogle Alex and that huge tallywhacker of his barely contained by his briefs.

If I don't have much time, the closest nature preserve is where I go for a nude run, but that all too familiar ground gets old very soon. For the sake of variety, I take off along roads or streets or trails barefoot but in my onionskin running shorts. Made of an ultra-lightweight, very thin, but strong parachute fabric, very low rise across the hips, and split all the way up the sides, the back barely covers the ass cheeks and the split sides allow glimpses of the tiny white panties supporting my manly parts. So I start off maybe ninety percent naked.

Depending on where I am running to and how far, and whether I can get a drink along the trail, I sometimes carry a bottle of water. When I get into the woods, the jungle of my imagination, I stash the shorts and water bottle, if any, and take off running, reveling in my closeness to nature, nothing man-made or artificial on my person. There is just me, a slender nude boy out for a run, no clothing, no ID, no keys, no money, no map, no phone, no nothing. Just prime leg of boy on the hoof. (Or am I mixing metaphors, again?)

I am not always entirely alone on those outings. Sometimes I meet another runner. If he is naked like me we giggle and run along together, smiling, joking, and feeling terribly naughty, especially if it is a kid I know or have seen in the hallowed halls of Andrew Jackson High.

The law is much more relaxed about public nudity these days especially at designated beaches and such. It is not automatically an offense anymore. The authorities take into consideration the totality of the circumstances in the light of prevailing community attitudes. More likely than not they don't prosecute. Naturally there are limits. You wouldn't want to try walking into a post office to buy stamps while in the rude nude.

Another favorite outdoor past-time of mine is botanizing, preferably in the nude, often in the same nature preserves though I don't stay on the trail when I hunt plant specimens. The borders of the trails are all picked out. So to find specimens I must literally go off the beaten path. Some I collect. Others I photograph in place. I use the GPS function of my phone to document the exact location.

The price for going off-trail without the protection of clothing is inevitable close encounters between naked boy flesh and injurious plant life like blades of sawgrass, nettles, prickles and thorns. Poison ivy, oak, and sumac aside, I really don't mind the minor damage to my bare skin that occurs. Not that I seek to mortify the flesh, heaven forbid, I am no masochist, but minor hurts like cuts, punctures, and tears are no big deal. The fact is that I take a degree of perverse delight in these minor injuries, visible reminders of my own adventures as a naked "jungle boy".

For now the closest I can come to that lifestyle is my botanizing expeditions, even with all the heat, sweat, bugs, and minor injuries. I proudly bear my wounds like so many badges of honor, attesting to my fortitude and commitment to the advancement of botanical knowledge.

You are probably thinking that last remark was total bull-shit and you are right. I am a brainy kid, and I like to play around with the language.

I once read a novel set in the seventeenth century. A Dutch sailor boy, a pretty blond of thirteen, is shipwrecked on the coast of Ceylon. He swims ashore, the sole survivor, equipped with just a knife and pair of canvas trews to face the dangers of the jungle: tigers, panthers, and headhunters to name just a few. One scene is unforgettably engraved on my mind. When a bear attacks the boy, he scrambles for safety up a tree and does get away though at the cost of his trews. During the attack the bear snags the canvas of the trews on his claws and rips them clear off the lad's narrow hips, de-pantsing him at the start of six years of life as a naked jungle boy.

The book had an illustration of the incident, the frightened boy pulling himself up into a tree while looking forlornly back over his shoulder as he loses his pants, his last link to civilization. The angry bear has his claws hooked in the fabric of the legs of the garment and has pulled the waist band to the top of the thighs, baring the boy's buttocks.

Another scene has the eighteen year old hanging from a vine against a cliff, collecting honey from a hive while the bees buzz all around the nude and utterly vulnerable youth.

I have always wanted to be that naked jungle boy.

I wanted to run around nude not just for hours but for years at a time. Not just to have my clothing our of reach but to have none at all. To reduce life to its essentials, not food, shelter, and clothing but to just the first two or maybe just the first one. After all what need was there of shelter from rainfall. Far from being an inconvenience, in the hot jungle a rain shower would cool and cleanse the body. Plenty of shade in the jungle under the canopy. I could just sleep up a tree.

That Dutch jungle boy was the inspiration for some of my best masturbation fantasies.

When I am on one of my jungle treks, I carry a pack hung from a stick hobo style. It holds my notes, camera, specimen glossies, pen-knife, magnifying glass, and water. Not my clothes. Those get stashed. Why carry my gear hobo style? It is not only handy in itself, it keeps the pack away from my sweaty back and leaves my body totally unconcealed. I mean, if you are going to do the naked jungle boy thing, do it right.

The stick provides a modicum of protection. Thanks to Zach, I am getting pretty good with the single stick but I would not carry one around daily, like to school or around town. It is too awkward, too provocative on the street, and looks too much like a cane the old folks lean on.

1. Sir

Came the day, I emerged from the woods, a bit scratched up from thorns, to head across a dirt road. The pond on the other side, really a drowned sinkhole, looked inviting in the heat. I could hear folks were there already, but I figured no one would much mind a little skinny dipping by a skinny little sixteen year old boy.

Stopped right in the middle of the road, still astride his propped up motorcycle was this cyclist. I stared mesmerized. Here was someone out of my wet dreams and masturbation fantasies. Six feet tall (183 cm), maybe one-sixty (73 kg), muscular but lean, he carried himself like a predator, a great black panther. Neither young nor old, I pegged him at his early thirties.

The cyclist was dressed just the way he ought to be: laced up boots, tight jeans ripped in strategic places, visored cap and dark glasses, leather jacket open all the way in the heat to expose a ripped torso. Chains, leather wrist band, and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt

Boing! I was in lust, instantly and totally.

"Like what you see, kid?" He said, a grin on his face. He had me pegged right off.

I gulped and managed to get out a strangled: "Yessir."

"Care to go for a ride?"

"Yessir."

"What's in the hobo pack?"

I told him.

"No clothes?"

"Nossir. Stashed a couple of miles from here."

"Why?"

I flushed, reluctant to admit that my sexuality was so perverse that I got a charge out of knowing that several miles lay between me and the nearest clothing. It was not enough to be out and about stark naked, but in a situation where I couldn't do anything about it. But I couldn't bring myself to own up to that right off.

The man stood there, staring at me evenly, one eyebrow raised expectantly. I could see that my silence was not acceptable, that the man insisted on an answer to his question. I got the impression that here was a man who wouldn't take sass from a kid naked as a jaybird. He confirmed it by sliding his wide leather belt out of its loops and folding it in half as a strap, snapping it to emphasize its menace.

"Out with it boy, why?"

I turned red and stammered out my confession, even revealing my fantasy life as a naked jungle boy, while the rider looked me up an down, taking in my nudity and my lack of body hair, even at the fork of my legs. I clutched myself down there, shivering with the frisson of my own naughtiness.

"Sounds like you're telling the truth boy. Good. You don't ever want to lie to me, boy."

"Nossir."

"Of course, I shouldn't have had to ask you twice. You need to be punished for that. Now if you really want that ride, you'll lay yourself over the seat and take a strapping. You do want that ride, don't you boy?"

We both knew that the ride he was really talking about wasn't me on the motorcycle but him riding my ass.

Trembling, I let my pack go and laid myself over the seat. He felt up my buns then gave me three good whacks with the leather belt. It stung but perversely made my bum tingle in anticipation.

"Anything in the pack you cannot afford to lose, like ID, keys or phone?"

"Nossir."

"Good. Leave it all behind and hop on."

By this time he was standing next to his machine. I climbed aboard the seat and slid back thankful that my beaten butt didn't hurt too much. Meanwhile he clipped his phone to the front of his jacket.

"Should I put my arms around your waist to hold on?"

"What, you think I would present my ass to a punk like you? Not hardly. Here grab the bitch bar just behind you."

Meanwhile the motorcyclist reached into a saddle bag and came up with several zip ties. Before I knew it, he had fastened my right wrist to the curved metal upright just behind the seat, the bitch bar.

"What are you doing?"

"That's, what are you doing, sir? Understand?"

"Yessir, I understand, sir. What are you doing sir?"

"Strapping you in, kid, just like a three point seat belt only safer because it's got four points."

Those four points were my wrists and ankles. Soon I was helpless, in bondage and naked astride the seat of a motorcycle. I should have been scared witless, and I was, trembling with fear. With lust too.

This was a dark fantasy come to life. The leader of a motorcycle gang captures me and carries me off to who knew where to be his sex toy or better a sex slave for the whole gang. My fate would be in his hands as he trained me to give him pleasure or tormented me for perverse thrills. I would be passed to his friends or pimped out. Those are the sort of things that happen to young innocents, who fall into the clutches of brutes who use and abuse them in appalling ways to gratify their bestial and perverted lusts. Suddenly I was the protagonist of one of Aaron Travis' hyper-thermal stories. (If those screeds can't get your blood pumping, then you are either dead or straight.)

"The way you started trembling just now, I wasn't sure whether you were frightened or glad to see me. Now I understand it is both. Good. We are getting off on the right foot. What is your name, kid. I can't keep calling you kid, can I."

"My name is William Pierpoint Tagliaferro, IV, but everyone just calls me Sprout. Sir."

"That is right. I am always Sir to you, Sprout. Now let's take a good look at you."

He straddled the seat only this time facing backward. He smiled as he studied me visually and tactilely, running his hands over my torso, starting at the shoulders, the deltoids, pausing at the pectorals to circle the aureoles with his thumbs and to pull on and pinch the nips. Satisfied, his hands slipped lower, over the chevron of my ribs, lightly fingering the corrugations of my abs, gauging the sharpness of my hip bones, his hands perilously close to the fork of my legs.

Blood and heat rushed to that region. My face was aflame as he toyed with my painfully hard erection, slipping back the foreskin, pinching the piss slit open as a drop of pre-cum oozed out. He scooped it up on the tip of his finger and motioned for me to stick out my tongue which he coated with a circular motion. He did that twice more, the last time, using his pinky to coat the inside of my nostrils with my own juice."

"Pheromones to keep you in the mood during the long ride." He explained. I was harder than ever, responding to the way he had taken charge of my body, doing what he would with it. And why not. Hadn't I surrendered myself to him and meekly let him render me helpless. I shivered with the thought of my own helplessness. He smiled as if he could read my thoughts and bent my stiff prick forward almost horizontal then let it spring back and slap my belly with a thwack.

"I can see you are really into this. Good because there is plenty more where that came from. Well that is settled. Just a few final preparations and then we take off."

"Take off? Where to? What are you going to do to me. Sir?"

"Whatever I want to do to you, son. I mean Sprout."

He got a large butt plug out of his saddle bag. It was much larger than the one I had sent away for along with assorted dildos and anal beads. All stuff I had read about in that sex guide, what was the name, "Gay Sex for Dummies." Their first X-rated offering, actually.

"Get this wet, kid," the man said putting it to my mouth. I complied, slobbering it, knowing where it was going next. He put a hand in front of my face. "Spit".

"Now bend forward."

I did so trembling with the fear that someone might walk in on us, see the leather man playing with the twink, a twink in bondage and trembling with lust for that very reason. I am afraid I was thinking more with my balls than my brains at that moment. Embarrassed as I was and as nervous about my helplessness, I wanted this scene played out. The truth is, a bondage scene like that turns me on unbearably.

Sir applied my own spit to my boy hole and worked the butt plug in. He took his time doing it. I hoped he was trying to minimize my pain rather than just being careful not to tear my anal ring. Anyway, he finally got it fully inserted as my sphincters closed around the stem. The T bar running fore and aft kept it from slipping inside me entirely.

I felt stuffed, like I had a good sized one up inside me. Having addressed my nether hole, Sir turned his attention to my mouth. Loosening the buttons of his fly, he pulled out his cock and presented it to me for oral service. We were right out there on a dirt road, me the naked teenager in bondage, bent over, one hole plugged with cock of flesh and blood, the other with a cock made of rubber or plastic, Bound hand and foot as I was, I should have been trying to free myself. Instead I was slobbering over the cock head in my mouth, while the man played with the artificial cock up my anus and my own cock of flesh and blood, standing rampant between my legs.

Despite the urgings of my sex drive, my brain had not yielded entirely to my balls. I began to realize how much peril I was in or at least might be. I knew nothing of his stranger, nothing about what he might do to a naked and horny teenage male who had so fortuitously fallen into his clutches.

I wasn't exactly sure where this was all leading, but it clearly was not the scenario I had imagined in which I'd lose my cherry. No help for it now. Unless the cavalry came riding over the hill very soon, I was Sir's for the duration. I kicked myself for yielding my body up to him without a struggle, letting him bind and plug me. I tried to protest, to say that we were moving too fast with this whole enslavement scenario, to demand he release me. A length of clear packing tape across my mouth and cheeks enforced my silence. Finally he put a spare helmet over my head and lowered the tinted visor.

Smiling with immense satisfaction he pointed to the camera clipped on the front of his jacket.

"You are a natural, Sprout. And the good news is that every moment of your subjugation is being captured for posterity. You will be able to relive these exciting moments again and again in the months ahead. As will thousands of others on a pay per view site behind a secure pay wall. I am going to make a lot of money off you boy, as well as take great pleasure in your ongoing degradation."

Months? Videos? Public degradation? OMG. I suddenly realized I had made a terrible mistake, allowing myself to be taken captive. I cursed myself for a fool, thinking with my balls as I had, and me such a brainy kid too. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as the enormity of my predicament sank in. No one knew where I was or even where I had headed toward. I had left no itinerary. And except for a few spots like the pond, not many folks visited these parts.

1. Slave

I wondered how he planned to carry me to his lair on the public road. It gave me some hope of delivery till I realized that the only outward signs of my captivity were the inconspicuous zip ties on my limbs. As for my nudity, he could probably pass that off as bitch kink, pulling up at an intersection and letting folks ogle the hyper-sexed kid on the bitch seat, his soldier standing tall. Give them a laugh or two, then ride on.

That is exactly what happened, and more than once. It was the most humiliating experience of my entire life, especially since my erection never flagged, partly due to the constant stimulation of my prostate by that butt plug, which conducted the vibrations from engine and road right to my inner joy spot.

What was wrong with me? If we stopped for a traffic light, sir would reach back and tweak me for a moment, both nips and cock head. I could only hang my head in shame and in self-reproach as he pointed down at my groin with a smirk when passers-bye wondered about how voluntary my presence was.

"Hard and plugged in back as well", he assured the curious. Several actually explored my cleavage and my hole to confirm this news. It only made me redder and harder. I could not help but wonder what kind of a slut I was turning into. Or being turned into.

I tried to keep track of the route we took, but Sir kept to back roads and I could not see very well through the tears in my eyes. We finally stopped at a driveway with a bar across it, which Sir opened then locked behind us. We were somewhere along the spine of Florida, a country of firm ground, pine forests, fast dwindling orange orchards, and cattle ranches. This looked to be an old cattle ranch.

Sir saw me taking it all in and said.

"That's right Sprout. An old cattle ranch. Went of out business a while back, but it is still a livestock operation, in a manner of speaking."

Meaning me. He laughed at his own bad pun. I was hoist on my own petard, as they say.

After he cut the ties around my wrists, he ratcheted handcuffs around my wrist behind my back. Next was a leather lined collar made of stainless steel. As he locked it around my neck with a luggage lock, he mentioned he just might rivet it closed permanently. Sir then pulled my crossed wrists up to my shoulder blades and connected their chain to a D-ring on the back of my collar. Leg shackles completed my new look. Finally he ripped the tape off my mouth but warned me not to say anything just yet. The time for questions would come soon.

Standing me under a skylight in the surprisingly modern barn and locking my collar to a chain dangling from overhead, Sir examined his new acquisition.

"Hmmm, I see you must have used the new depilatories that put the hair follicles to sleep permanently. Good. No beard and nary a feather anywhere on your body. The smooth glabrous look the ads describe it. No jewelry. No studs or rings in the ears. None here in you nips, nor lower down either. I think we can improve on that."

He pulled up a stool and sat down to examine my groin. He said he was a big fan of ringing his boys and went into detail about the rings he had in mind to install over the next few weeks. First simple golden rings in the ear lobes and tits, nothing too large, nothing like those grotesque slave rings in porno flicks, two inches across, which just got in the way. For now he would hold off on a nose ring which interferes with kissing. No belly button ring either. He thought that would interrupt the lines of a boy's torso. In the porno I have read masters run a triangle of chain through rings on nipple and navel. Sir was satisfied with easily removable tit clamps and the chain connecting them which he could tug on or hang small weights from.

Sir had ideas for lots of rings for the groin, though he admitted it would not be safe to install all of them, so he wouldn't try. Too much chance of infection. Over the next two days, Sir installed by rings.

The first was a pretty standard cock ring, initially partly open as he drew my gonads through and clamped it shut with a pipe wrench forming a really small cinch around my package. The cock ring served to lift my manly parts away from the shelter of my groin and present them for use and abuse.

Next was a Prince Albert. An open end was pushed through a hole punched through the flesh at the bottom of my cock just behind the head and out through the piss slit. Before he closed that ring, it interlocked with two more. One was at the upper end of the shank of a stainless steel sound inserted all the way up the urethra, the second to a small gold ring inserted through the skin near the bottom of the scrotum. Taken together, the metal locked the shaft and head of my cock to the scrotum, making an erection impossible.

"I want you to focus your sex drive on your holes, Sprout, not on your cock. Cock is my department."

Finally there was a quiche, a ring which pierces the fold of skin that makes a line between scrotum and anus, a small ring just big enough to insert a finger, a small chain dangling from it, drawing the eye to it by its jingling motion. Besides its decorative purpose, the quiche controls arousal. Tugging on it early in sex arouses; tugging later interrupts climax. Sir didn't mind if I had an internal orgasm as long as long as it was his cock rather than my hand that stimulated it. And of course, he came first even if that meant he left me unfulfilled, my engorged cock trapped painfully in its bondage.

With both my limbs and genitalia shackled, I was a sex slave indeed. And from the way Sir was talking, this would be no weekend lark. I would be his captive indefinitely.

As it all sank in I started to cry in earnest, chest heaving in great sobs, unashamed of the tears which ran freely down my cheeks. You just try being brave when you are only sixteen years old, a mini-flyweight, alone, naked, shackled, and facing the rest of your life as the sex slave of a man grown. This was not what I wanted from life. Silly sex fantasies aside, I wanted a normal life. I wanted Zach, not Sir.

Experienced in the art of breaking a boy, Sir first gave me a drink of water to prevent dehydration, then walked off leaving me to my crying jag. He knew that this job required patience.

Sir left me alone for a while to give me time to think, maybe to lose hope. Over the next few days, I came to realize that resistance was futile. Sir was simply too strong, too wily, and too experienced in livestock management for me to escape. He took my cherry, right there in the barn, me standing up, collar still attached to the chain hanging from a rafter like some flesh puppet. He took me from behind and later from in front, impaling me on his very large cock.

As with the butt plug, he was careful not to cause permanent damage, but he played rough. He liked foreplay with a whip or a paddle. He did not strike so hard as to leave permanent marks, but the man did like to leave temporary welts on a boy's body. Sir never took me to a real bed for a fuck. It was either hanging in chains, belly down on a bale of hay, or locked into his home built rape machine.

This was a contraption made of metal bars fixed flat to heavy table. One long rod, two cross-pieces, with cuffs at their ends for wrists and ankles. He would put me on the table on knees and elbows and lock my wrist and ankles. A metal collar atop a short vertical member closed around my neck. When I was ready, he fucked me doggy style. To this basic approach he could add refinements like nipple clamps and ball weights or drip candle wax on my back or on my manly parts, pulled back and through the legs for that purpose. And of course, my bum was available for strap, paddle, or whip.

He was a fiend at getting the most fuck and humiliation out of his captive without inflicting permanent damage or leaving ineradicable marks. Not so much from mercy as a preference to start with a fresh canvas each session. As he was screwing me particularly hard on day, he expressed his satisfaction.

"Ah yes, the sound I love to hear from a boy when I break him: that soft whimper of defeat and resignation with trickle of tears to add the note of sincerity. Here boy, lick your tears off my fingers. Now you know, really know, that this is your fate. You will never again know freedom, dignity, or choice. In a few months, your earlier life will come to seem like a dream, something that happened to someone else."

I saw no one else I could identify but I knew some few others had come to visit, to check me out. A couple of times I heard trucks drive up and footsteps crunch on the gravel. Sir used tanning cups over my eyes to blindfold me while I was being shown like a prize colt in the barn. The white cups covered so little of my face, the visitors could see that I really was exactly as advertised, just like the teaser videos Sir had sent them.

I cannot complain too much about the conditions of my captivity. My quarters were a cell with tile floor and walls, like a bathroom or kitchen, and smelling faintly of Pine-Sol. One of my tasks was to keep my quarters clean enough to satisfy my strangely fastidious captor. The cot was comfortable enough. I slept locked in my cell with one shackle around an ankle. My cell was provided with running water and one of those prison-style steel plumbing fixtures. I supposed the facilities could have been much worse, say a horse stall with straw for bedding and a slops bucket.

Sir fed me well, providing home cooked meals which he told me was what he fed himself. He made me keep fit with regular sessions on an exercise cycle and calisthenics. The comfortable quarters and decent food were really for his own benefit, not mine. He wanted me looking good: healthy and fresh and perky for his sex games.

From the scope of the facilities, he kept only one boy at a time, though I could not have been the first. At least Sir was not part of a ring that trafficked in humans. His aim was to keep me for himself and make me earn my keep with those videos he would eventually offer, though not till the heat had died down.

1. Angel

Two weeks later, as I hung exhausted from my chains after a brutal fuck, I had a vision of Zach standing in a pool of light, calling my name. Figures in uniform moved around him, but all I focussed on was Zack in the guise of a guardian angel. Was this an hallucination or a near death experience? It was incredibly vivid and realistic, like the very best CGI in the movies, whatever it was. I wanted it to go on forever. In my confusion, I called out.

"Pray guardian angel, tell my Zach that I was in love with him. I never got to tell him so myself."

"He already knows, Sprout. He... I am standing right here in front of you, and yes, I am head over heels in love with you too."

When my hallucination physically embraced me, it broke the spell and I realized that Zach really was there with me in the flesh. I shouted, a cry of relief and happiness then fainted dead away.

The cops used the key hung on hook to free me from my collar and neck chain. Their own standard cuff keys freed my limbs.

I learned later that I owed everything to Zach who was not only my guardian angel but also an avenging angel of justice. He did not give up even though an initial check of traffic cameras had provided no clues. Zach couldn't be sure, but he thought it likely that my image had been caught on camera, there were so much surveillance these days. It was a matter of filtering my face out of thousands and from images taken from many angles under differing light conditions He asked the authorities for access to the raw data, explaining why he thought his own visual search software could do a better job than theirs. The police refused. Departmental business. Civilian amateurs need not apply.

Now if there is one thing I know about Zach is that he does not give up easily. To get what he needed from the Department he needed leverage, so he hacked into their computers. Now the data he sought were off-line, but a lot of really sensitive stuff was not. He penetrated both operations, the police department and the office of the district attorney, analyzed their security, then wrote a devastating report.

I only wish I had been there when he met with the authorities and cooly blackmailed them into cooperating with him, letting him have access to the data he needed. They did not realize it, but Zach made an audio recording of the meeting. This reconstruction of that meeting is based on that recording and Zach's memory.

"Gentlemen," Zach began. "I know that your position is that, as a civilian without any official status, I cannot be granted access to the data I need. Today I am going to change your minds about that."

"That sounds like a threat, young man. You might want to reconsider your position." the district attorney replied stubbornly.

"We know why you feel you must stick your oar in son." the Police Chief said. "But no way we are going to turn those files over to some lovesick teenager pining for his boyfriend."

"What? I never said anything about that. I wasn't even sure myself till just recently. How can you know that I am in love with Sprout, er Will Tagliaferro?"

"You forget son," the Chief replied patiently. "First, that we are detectives and second, just how much the kids at Andrew Jackson High gossip."

Zach flushed, but held himself in check. He knew an emotional appeal based on his love for his lifelong friend would get him nowhere. So he laid his bombshell on the two lawmen, handing them the first part of the report he had written, the executive summary. Its basic message was that security at Police HQ and the Office of the DA was a bad joke. The facts outlined in the executive summary were appalling. Two millions dollars for IT security had been thrown away for nothing. The good news, according to Zach, was that the fix would not take big bucks. Many of the changes were procedural or easy tweaks. See his recommendations.

"I get the data, you get the rest of my report. Otherwise I go to the papers and CNN."

"That's blackmail!"

Zach smiled evilly. "Blackmail? That has such an ugly sound. I prefer to think of my approach to negotiation as 'creative persuasion'".

"He's got us Chief. Anything else you want Zach?"

"Complete immunity from prosecution. Local, State and Federal."

"Agreed. We will have to get the Feds aboard on that, of course. In return you agree to keep your mouth shut and not take credit for the improvements to security. And you won't get paid for the work either. We will implement your recommendations all right. We would be fools not to, and we are not fools. But we will make it look like it was our own idea. Chief Hendricks, make the arrangements."

Which is what lead, in due course, to my liberation. A search of the video data lead to witnesses of my motorcycle ride who eventually lead to Sir.

The doctors said I was basically all right, though my anal ring was a little strained. They cut off my hardware. Good riddance. I don't know how a man could be so cruel as to want to imprison a teenage boy's sexuality. Surely that is one of the chief glories of being sixteen in the first place. A carefree existence was another, but Sir had taken that from me, though only temporarily.

Sir was arrested and implicated in the disappearance of two other boys over the last decade. No bodies turned up despite a through search with ground penetrating radar. The FBI later tracked down one of those boys. Now a man grown, he was working at a leather bar in San Francisco. Sir had let him go after the youth had passed the upper limit of his age preference, twenty-five. Whether from embarrassment, Stockholm Syndrome, or a skeleton in his own closet, the man refused to testify against Sir. The other kid has dropped below the radar.

Still Sir faced a mess of charges in connection with me. Against my testimony, the surveillance cameras, and his home video, the best he could do was take a plea which the State offered to save the cost of a trial. I hear he is going to get consecutive sentences adding up of 8 and one-third to twenty-five. Fine by me, I am not out for blood, only justice. It's not like Sir killed anyone. When he gets out, he will be a registered a sex offender. My lawyers expect to collect several million through a lawsuit, though that will still leave Sir a rich man. I do feel sorry for any kid he turns into his punk in prison, but nothing I can do but about it.

Sir's videos were a terrific embarrassment. I cringed watching that dumb kid, me, act so heedlessly, utterly clueless to the danger he was in. I acted like one of those idiotic teenagers in a slasher movie. You know the type. The bodies start to pile up and the distraught girl asks herself what she should do. Suddenly a light bulb goes on and she announces to the world:

"I know! I'll take the path through the dark woods and go skinny dipping in the lake, by myself, at midnight!"

The video of my capture and torments went viral despite the best efforts of the authorities to quash them. I suspect Sir's business partner was at work, trying to make what money he could from the advance footage Sir sent him. I got a lot of sympathy though everyone agreed I had foolishly stuck my head in a noose. If I could take back those few minutes, I would. At least most of the critics acknowledged youth, naivete, and hormones as mitigating factors in my blunder.

Not all the feedback was positive. I did not much care for the creeps who wanted me to reprise my role in the videos. Some offered to pay me. Others expected me to do it for free, just for the kicks. I wanted to kick them, and Zach offered to help me do so, but of course we didn't.

Zach was there with me, step by step as my physical and psychological wounds healed. Three days after my release he laid his first kiss on my lips. My heart soared. I returned it, but we both knew it was too soon for intimacy. Still we smiled, giddy with the thought that we both wanted this new kind of love between us and would soon have it. I did kid him about what he had said to me when he found me in chains.

"Why do we always say 'Head over Heels in Love' when we actually make love with our heels over our heads? Or at least I plan to. Am I missing something here?"

Zach and I pledged to each other our hearts and minds, our bodies and our souls. We were far too young to think of formalizing our union, but it was and is a very real thing in our young lives.

We are even more inseparable now, Zach and I, since we share a bed. Our lovemaking is energetic, enthusiastic, and acrobatic. We can do loud and boisterous or gentle and sweet. I am more of a bottom and Zach more of a top, but we are versatile and readily switch roles. I like it best when Zach puts me on my back and rolls me onto my shoulders, draping my legs over his shoulders, as he addresses my fundament.

Did I describe Zach as medium in everything? Wrong! There is nothing medium or mediocre about his endowment. Zach has a big one. Even flaccid, it dangles hugely. I like to think my own manhood is more than adequate but I won't be scaring the horses. It takes both my small hands to cover an erection, but only one when I am soft.

Zach also likes me to play all submissive, to get down on my knees between his legs as he towers over me, my face turned up worshipfully, my pouty lips around the fleshy tube that connects us. He ruffles my short hair and stares at my face, drinking in my beauty, as he likes to put it. As I work on his cock with tongue and lips and even teeth, he plays with my erection with his big toe.

One time just recently, I was so horny Zach's foot foreplay brought me off before he himself was anywhere near orgasm. Fists on hips, he glared down at me as I rocked back on my heels and shuddered and spit, while he promised to punish the miscreant who had abandoned him to attend to his own lusts. I got a spanking for that infraction, though just hard enough to get my buns red, foreplay for the main event, my ass. So Zach did get his rocks off, after all.

Ours was one of those rare teenage love affairs that promises to become a lifelong commitment. Guys do sometimes marry their high school sweethearts and live happily ever after, as I fully expect we will too. That was the most important lesson I drew from my ordeal. I found out the difference between lust and love. With Sir it was all give and take. I gave and he took. With Zack, love is a sharing between partners who want the best for their counterpart as much as for themselves.

I decided that the second lesson to be learned from what happened was not to avoid bare ass hikes in the woods. Just don't go there alone. So now two nude teenagers can be seen running the trails of the local nature preserves or botanizing, Zach and Sprout. We have a whole new reputation as the Nature Boys. Depending on the tone it is said in, it's a nice nickname, cute and endearing. It had better be, we don't take shit off anyone. We have our single sticks and we know how to use them.

Should any hikers stumble upon two gay teenagers making love in the open air, they should just count themselves lucky, sit back, and enjoy the show because we really are two beautiful people, especially Zach.

My pops is really cool about Zach's frequent sleep-overs at my house. He is grateful to my lover and will forever respect him for the way he had let no obstacle keep him from rescuing his son. Pops allowed that he knew all along that I was gay but was never sure of Zach's orientation, though he always hoped that we would extend our bond as a couple, lest different sexuality drew us apart.

Zach's folks were clueless beforehand, but their love for their son swept aside all other considerations. Soon I was welcome to sleep-overs at Zach's house. His moms adjusted admirably to the new situation. Maybe Zach will not be giving her grandchildren, but at least he has provided her with a good-looking son-in-law.

Author's Note

If you have enjoyed this story and others like it, I hope you will consider making a donation to the Nifty Archive. It is so easy. They take credit cards.

This tale was inspired by my recent story 'Squirt' and is the second in an emerging series set in and around a fictitious Andrew Jackson High School in South Florida. For some reason, a story that I had intended to be another light comedy turned darker for a while. I am not sure why. Stories sometimes surprise their authors.

Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I am writing my first novel-length story, which is already at 110 thousand words. Mostly I publish novelettes of 10 -15 thousand words.

The novel is in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in that genre it is set on an imaginary world in an imaginary universe where wizards and druids and others work real magic, a world populated by several sentient races including humans, elves, giants, and dwarves. Unlike most such worlds, this one has an awful lot of cute young guys running around in the skimpiest of costumes or even nothing at all, and taking every opportunity to hop into bed with each other and to switch partners.

Sorry, no dragons, but I'll bet you never read a tale that featured a naked teenage druid leading the charge of a herd of brontotheres against an army of Amazons. What is a brontothere? Look it up, but not in the dictionary. Try the Wikipedia instead.

Look for publication of my very first novel this summer on most of these same stations.

Readers who like this story might want to try my two series 'Daphne Boy' and 'Naked Prey' in the Gay/Historical section of the Archive or my 'Jungle Boy' series of Hollywood tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section. Also available are my older 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome.