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Getting Brad
"Brad?!"
"Yeah! I'm in town 'til Friday, and I really want to see you, Chris. You free for dinner or something?"
Bradley Williams. Gorgeous, scary Bradley Williams. Calling me out of nowhere for a dinner date? "Umm," I said, eloquently.
"Dinner? On me? Please?"
Please? From Bradley Williams? "Sure! Name the plime--place. Time."
"No use wasting time. How about tonight, say seven-thirty?"
Any time you want. "Sounds great."
"Scipo's?"
"Scipo's? Kind of pricey, you know."
"I remember. And I remember a braised walleye of some sort. On me--what do you say?"
"Sure! Love to!"
"Great! Seven-thirty tonight, Scipo's!"
Call ended. I put my phone in my pocket. I stared at the suddenly unfamiliar parking lot. "Get out of the car. Get to work," I told myself. Bradley Williams. I went through the morning on auto-pilot.
Fortunately, managing the morning shift at Second Round Sports didn't take a lot of conscious effort. We specialize in reconditioned sports equipment, and mornings are mostly about dusting and making sure everything's in the right place. Bradley Williams. I had him, once, at a party, drunk and gorgeous. "Shit, man, why not?" he said, and we slipped into the bushes in Mindy Corruthers' back yard and he dropped his pants.
Bradley Williams, rock-solid body, irresistible face, glistening curly black hair, and I was kneeling in front of him, staring at his half-erect cock. Everyone deserves a moment like this, alone with the man or woman of their dreams, actually touching them, just at that first moment of intimacy. I approached it like a sacrament, blowing lightly at the head, daring to touch it with the tip of my tongue, inhaling the scent of a high school god--"Come on, man! I'm gonna burst!"--and then his hands on my head, pressing my mouth onto him, taking over, eager, huge; me grateful that I'd learned to control my gag reflex and all too soon the throbbing pump of his shaft filling my mouth.
"Yeah," he said, pulling his pants back on. "Thanks, man!" and he was back to the party while I knelt in the dark with the feel of him, the taste, the scent still on me. In me. I thought, just for a moment, of staying on my knees in Mindy Corruthers' back yard forever.
I drifted through the morning, Bradley's "seven-thirty" echoing in my head. I handed things over to my assistant manager, went home, showered and pulled out my good suit. Scipo's, for god's sake! I'd never been there; Scipo's was the place the rich kids took their prom dates, the ultimate status symbol in high school. Of course, that was seven years ago, before we stepped from high school off the cliff and into the rock-strewn real world. I looked pretty good, all dressed up. It was entirely possible, of course, that Bradley didn't. It was entirely possible that twenty-five-year-old Bradley Williams was only an echo of himself. Maybe, god help me, he was selling insurance, or something. Still, Scipo's was a pretty steep investment for a sales pitch. My expectations rose and fell through various possibilities as the afternoon dragged on, until seven-twenty-eight, when I stepped through Scipo's over-decorated doors. I searched the room, trying to see past the other waiting diners.
"Chris?"
He was behind me. I turned to face him.
He was still Bradley, and still gorgeous. The years had matured him, and like good wine, made him even finer. "Hi," I managed to say before he wrapped his arms around me, then almost carried me to the maitre'd.
We were through drinks and most of dinner before ordinary catch-up chatting ended and the silence that precedes the real business fell. "Here comes the sales pitch," I thought.
"Look, Chris ... You're going to have to give me a couple of minutes here. I sort of rehearsed this."
I nodded, smiling.
"Do you remember that party at Mindy Corruthers' house? What happened? What you--I--we did? Because I do. I woke up the next morning and I couldn't believe it happened, and I did my best to forget it. I told myself it was because I was drunk, that everybody does it once, that it didn't mean anything." He took a breath. "But it did. Took me almost five years to admit it. I'm gay."
"Brad--" He raised his hand to silence me.
"I did the scene for a while, until I realized that I was measuring everyone against you. So eventually, I told myself to stop looking for replacements and try for the real thing. I know I've changed, and I figure you've changed, and maybe it was just because it--you were my first time, or something, but until I know, one way or another, I won't be able to...to get on with my life." He paused. "Does that make any sense?"
I nodded. "You want to have another go at ... with me. Sex."
"Not just sex. I mean, if it feels--if I feel, and you feel like there's more there ..."
"Can I offer you gentlemen dessert? Or an after-dinner drink?"
"Just coffee," Brad said, then turned to me. "And whatever my friend wants."
"Coffee's fine," I smiled, mostly to shoo the man away. I turned back to Brad. "They say for gay men, having sex is about as intimate as shaking hands."
"But we--I have to start somewhere, you know?"
I wanted it. I wanted Brad--but was it the man across the table, or the god in my memory? And I guess he was trying to say he was wondering the same thing. Except for the god part. There's no way I was, or ever had been, a god. So for me, the question was whether or not I wanted to risk finding out that Brad was just ... a hunk. "Not that there's anything wrong with hunks," I told myself, and admitted that, yes, I wanted to find out what was still there, just as much as Brad did.
So we went to his hotel room.
He unbuttoned my shirt like he was opening a present. I undid his tie, slid it slowly out of his collar. He lifted my shirt out of my pants and I unbuttoned his shirt and we undid each other's belts and I started to kneel down and he grabbed my arms and kissed me and I kissed him and from then on it was a tangle of arms and legs and clothes until we were both naked. He had more hair than I remembered.
"You work out?" he asked.
"Some. I work with a bunch of kids."
"Teaching?"
"We sell second-hand sports gear." That was a deal breaker. I knew it as soon as the words fell out of my mouth.
Brad grinned. "I'm a carpenter. For a construction company. We build houses and garages and--"
I nodded. "I know what carpenters do, Brad," I smiled. "That's great! You're in great shape!" I slid my hands down his chest, embraced him as he gathered me to him.
"What would you like to do?" he whispered.
I didn't know. Lick him from head to foot? Swallow his cock and balls? Eat his ass and then fuck him until he screamed? "Whatever you want, Brad."
"So, if I said get dressed and we'll go to a movie--"
Oh, shit! "If that's--"
"I was kidding, Chris!" He took a step back and scanned me from top to bottom. "Turn around, please."
"Yessir."
"You're even hotter than in my memory, Chris. You're like...I remember this sculpture exhibition, this faun--"
"I remind you of a baby deer?"
"No! Faun like the Greek god, or whatever it is. Wood nymph or something."
"My turn to joke, Brad." I stepped back and gave him an appraising look. "I don't know what statue you look like, but somebody sure as hell should sculpt you!"
"Oh, fuck it!" Brad said, embracing me and tumbling with me onto the bed. For a few minutes, we tried to touch every part of our bodies with every part of our bodies.
Brad felt good. Brad smelled good, tasted good. The sounds of his breathing sounded good. We wound up in a sixty-nine, and I took his cock again and knew so much more about how to make it feel good. Brad was doing a damn good job, as well. I grabbed his ass to pull him deeper, tried to hug his head with my thighs, and we boiled over and into each other.
And then, sometime later, we rolled apart and stared at the ceiling and tried to remember every detail. "Strictly speaking," I said, "it's not love at first sight."
"Is for me. I never saw you naked before."
"I never saw all of you naked before, so maybe that counts."
"So ..."
"So ..."
"Are you ... do you have a ... someone you're ..." Brad stopped.
I let a little pause grow between us--mean of me, maybe, but he looked so hopeful and helpless. "I'm free as a bird. You?"
"Hopelessly devoted to you. Again. Still."
"So now what?" I asked, as carefully as I could. "I mean, if we want to, you know, have--"
"A relationship?" Brad looked as eager as a puppy.
"If it's going to feel like this, hell yeah! How about ... you have stuff you have to do tomorrow?"
"I'm supposed to be meeting guys all day tomorrow and Friday. Architect and a general contractor. But I could stay for the weekend."
"Well, if you're willing to give up this incredible bed, you can stay with me, right through Sunday."
"What about your job?"
"I'll quit, or something," I laughed.
Scene two: six months later.
"I don't know, Brad. Looks more like a tear-down than a fixer-upper."
"Trust me, Chris. It's got good bones."
So we scraped together our life savings and bought the place, and spent every spare moment resurrecting it. Brad got me over my fear of power tools--mostly, anyway. And I showed Brad some of the wonderful ways our bodies could work together.
Nobody makes a career out of selling used weight benches. On the other hand, the schedule was reasonably solid and regular, while schedules in the construction trades tend to be all or nothing. As a result, we weren't too predictable: there were some wonderful weekends (after which even the most clueless Second Round employee could tell what I'd been doing) and there were some quickies where I'd just sit in bed afterwards, eating Brad's sleeping moonlit body with my eyes. Even the smell of sawdust could turn me on.
Anyone who's owned a "fixer-upper" knows that it's never fixed: there's always another surprise behind the wall or under the floor. But for us, that was a good thing: working side by side, bare-chested, sweaty, being "manly," and then squealing with delight when something finally came out right.
For some reason, the place had a one-and-a-half-story garage--something that belonged more on a farm than a city lot. For a while, we didn't know quite what to do with it, so it was on the bottom of the work list. But one night, after Brad had proven that he could fuck me into heaven, he said, "Have you ever been ... done ... tried ... kink?"
"I drank piss, once," I replied. "And this really hot guy--not as hot as you--asked me to spank him once. A few times. But you know how it is."
"What?"
"He wanted ... I guess he got bored, or something."
"Miss him?"
"Not exactly. I mean, there was something about having this powerful man at my mercy, I guess." I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe ... he didn't want anything else except a good spanking and a fuck."
"You wanted more?"
I laughed. "Well, in my wildest imaginings ..."
"What?"
"I don't know, Brad. I mean ... it's kind of silly ... embarrassing ..."
"What?" Brad pressed. He was very good at pressing.
The room was dark. I stared across the darkness toward a picture I couldn't see. It was easier than turning to look at my lover's face. "Well, if he was tied up, or something, maybe. Or he was ... somewhere he couldn't escape and I could ... I don't like to think I want to do shit like that, you know?"
"Shit like what?" Brad whispered. I felt his breath on my neck, just under my ear.
"Hurt him. Torture him--not, you know, injury torture, just force him to ... suck my cock, or something. I mean, he was perfectly happy to do that already, but--"
"Like a power thing?"
"Exactly!" The word was like a light bulb turning on. "I wanted him under my power! Is that sick, or--"
"No. It's ... To have someone else in charge, you know? Making the decisions? Forcing me to his will, to do what he wants, like a slave, or something?" He tumbled us over until I was facing him. "That night? At Mindy's? You know what I was thinking? What it would be like if I was tied to a tree, or something-- if I couldn't get away from you!" He was quiet for a moment, and then he kissed me. "And I guess I couldn't, come to think of it."
"Do ... do you want me to spank you?"
"I want you ravish me. I want you to take me down a peg, or six, make me your sex slave. All through high school I was this super-jock stud--or at least people thought I was, and ... high school, you know? You know how you feel like you have to live up to your reputation, to what people want you to be? I was kind of an ass to some of the girls. God, I'm ashamed of the way I--never mind. I was a jock and a jerk, and somebody should have slapped me silly--sorry! It sounds like a therapy session, or something."
Another lightbulb went on. "Or maybe you were setting yourself up for the punishment you really wanted."
Silence.
Brad's voice emerged softly from the dark. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Look, guys do this shit--you've seen the porn, right? You've seen the crap they sell at Marquis, the smut shop? It's ... maybe not 'normal,' but neither is being gay. It's just different, that's all. And if you want to explore that ... and if I want to explore it, well shit! Who better?" I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. "I love you! Underneath it all, Brad, I love you. And I'll beat the shit out of you, or whatever, because I love you."
"There is ... we haven't decided what to do with the garage attic, yet, you know."
"Like a ... a playroom, or something?"
"We'd have to--"
"You'd have to, slave!" I laughed.
Well, of course it was a "we" project. It's not a good idea to do construction work naked, and four hands are much faster than two. But we took more than one "break," planning things, and putting things together, and fantasizing at night, muscles aching after hauling everything up above the garage. I won't bore you with the details, but by the end of the summer, it was ready. We decided we'd not have sex, or jack off or anything for the week before we broke it in, which was a kind of torture for both of us: we'd gotten into good shape, we were both tanned, and work--for both of us--was a breeze. We decided we'd inaugurate the playroom (we called it "The Tower") at midnight on Friday so we could have a good supper and get ourselves all ready.
Brad wanted me in leather--brown leather, actually. It took a while to find brown leather jeans, and we got Marquis to recommend a guy who could redo the crotch so there'd be no zipper, but a codpiece. We also found a harness that looked incredible on me. (It's embarrassing when you find something like that and your lover just gushes over it, right there in the store!) We had to settle for black leather chastity shorts for Brad, but since he was wearing them, he didn't really have to look at them, so that was okay.
Brad cleaned out his ass--Marquis had a whole booklet on how to do that--and put on the shorts and I made him sit on the floor blindfolded while I took care of a few last minute details and flipped through some porn for inspiration, and then we were ready to go.
There's a really steep stairway to The Tower, and just before midnight I led him to the garage and stood him at the bottom, still blindfolded and still wearing the shorts. I had set up a recording of a big church bell to go off at midnight, so all of a sudden, Bong! And Brad jumped about a foot. He stood there then, frozen, while the next eleven strokes sounded, and then I pushed him up the stairs.
We'd done the place up right, with flicker lights like candles, and various shades of gray and black on the walls and foam tile matting on the floor, and all sorts of toys hanging on the walls. There was a St. Andrew's Cross against one wall, and a bondage table, and this adjustable pipe thing that could be put together all sorts of different ways, and a little cell tucked under the eave so Brad could be locked into it, but there was no way he'd be comfortable. But until I pulled the blindfold off, I was the only one who'd seen it all together and lit up. Brad just moaned and dropped to his knees.
I slid my fingers into his hair, gripped his head and tilted it back. "You're my slave, and I'm your Master. You do exactly what I say. No bullshit, no fuckups, or you'll get punished. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
I slapped him. "Who am I, slave?"
"My Master, S--um, Master."
"Don't forget!"
"I won't, Master."
"Stay!
"Yes, Master."
I walked over to the wall and picked up a collar and chain. I walked back to him, dangling it in front of me, and locked the collar around his neck. Then I slid one boot under his balls--I have these sixteen-inch lace-up lineman's boots--and raised the toe behind his nuts. "Those shorts feeling good, slave?"
"Yes, Master," Brad answered, squirming against the boot toe.
I picked up the end of the chain and led him to the St. Andrew's cross. "Face the cross and get in position!" I ordered.
"Yes, Master." Brad spread his legs and raised his arms, and I quickly secured his limbs and waist. I attached the chain from his collar to a hook overhead. The lights were just about perfect to emphasize the hills and valleys of his muscles. I ran my hands over his body, stroking his arms, thighs and calves. I tickled his feet, so he'd jerk around and see how solid the cross was. I caressed his butt through the leather chastity shorts, then took a couple of good whacks at it.
"Thank you, Master!" he said, with just a hint of happiness in his voice.
I got the slapper. Brad actually made the slapper out of an old belt and a wood handle he finished himself, and it was a beaut. One. "Thank you, Master." Two. "Thank you, Master." By six, it was "Thank YOU, Master!!" and by ten I could tell it was hurting. I undid the back flap of the chastity shorts and gave him ten more. His "Thank you, Master!" was basically a series of gasps and pants by the time I was done.
I undid the straps and turned him around, stripped off the shorts, then strapped him into place on the cross again. His cock was just shy of hard: a long, fat, downward-pointing arc. I leaned over and nibbled his right tit, and felt his shaft tapping my side. I slid across his body and attacked his left nipple. After a few seconds of that, his cock was hard. I began caressing it and rolling his nuts. "You are not to cum without my permission. Do you understand, slave?"
"Yes, Master. It feels really hot, Master."
I love to suck cock. I don't mind a good butt fuck, mind you, but when I jack off all by my lonesome (which I don't do much, anymore, come to think of it) I always imagine cocksucking. Brad likes getting his cock sucked, too. He's usually pretty involved, I guess you'd say. But at the moment, there he was, with a nice hot cock and nothing to do but get hotter and hotter.
I took the head between my lips, just behind the corona. I swirled my tongue around on it, for a while. I took the bottom of the shaft between my lips and slid it back and forth. I spent a few minutes stroking the hair on his balls with my tongue, then bathed them, one by one, in my mouth. I worked my tongue back behind his nuts, teasing that wonderful sensitive spot between balls and asshole. I slapped his cock around with my tongue, worked my way down and up each side--I think the right side is a little more sensitive. I slobbered all over the top side. Then I went back to the head and slowly worked my way down, then back, then down a little further, then back with just a hint of teeth, then down a little further, twisting my head as I went.
I'm not sure when the whimpering began. Brad was getting desperate, trying to jam his cock down my throat, which he couldn't do, of course, and at the same time trying not to cum. My own cock was going crazy behind the codpiece. This was a win-win for me. I could get a throatful of his thick, abundant cream, and get to punish my slave afterwards. Or he could resist, and I could just keep working his meat- stick, using it to caress my mouth and throat exactly the way I wanted.
I have my gag reflex under control, like I said, but there's always this little clutching action when his cock hits it, and I know he likes that feeling, and I can give it to him endlessly. I really worship my poor slave's cock. But next comes the big gulp: all the way back to the head, then all the way down so my nose is buried in his crotch hair. (I thought about shaving the hair off, but frankly, I like the way it feels against my face.) And back to the head, and plunge again, and on and on while the whimpering becomes squealing, and then gasping, and begging and if I time it right ... bingo! I pulled away in time to watch that poor cock squirt all over the place!
That's what I call torture! "I told you not to cum, slave!"
"I'm sorry, Master! You're so hot, Master!"
"Yeah," I agreed, walking away. I returned with tit clamps. Brad is not exactly in to tit play. I mean, he doesn't hate it, but it's not high on his list. On the other hand, they are sensitive. In a just society, he'd love tit play. Instead, he just has to wince and bear it. So I clamped his tits, and put a spoon in his mouth, and hung a fishing weight on the chain between the clamps, and set the weight on the spoon. All he had to do was not let go of the spoon. "It's simple, slave," I smiled. "When the weight falls, you get twelve lashes. For every minute it stays on the spoon, I deduct one stroke. Hold it for one minute, and I only give you eleven strokes. Two minutes, ten strokes. Understand?"
He did his best to answer me without moving his head or opening his mouth.
"I suppose it will help if you can see a clock," I smiled, and set one up where we could both watch it. I checked the time, pulled a chair over in front of him and grabbed this feather duster thing with a nice long handle, and sat myself down to dust his cock and balls. And his sides, and the insides of his thighs, while he tried not to laugh or lose control of the spoon. Torture is easier to take before you cum, of course. There is clearly something about this play space that inspires me.
To his credit, Brad held out for almost two minutes before the weight fell. He held onto the spoon until the weight yanked the clamps, then yelled "Shit!" and it clattered to the floor.
"Too bad, slave. You were about five seconds shy of two minutes." I got up and methodically cleared everything out of the way: chair, feather duster, clamps, weight and spoon, then I strolled over to the wall and got the flogger. We have both practiced with the flogger. I pride myself on my self-sacrifice! And I have to admit there is something really hot about being tied to the bed and getting my ass whipped before it gets pounded.
I took a few practice swings to get my arm loose, then got in position to go after my slave's chest and nipples. My plan was to hurt, but not break skin. Just get everything nice and rosy. "Count, slave!"
"Yes, Master. One, Master!"
And we were off. He was panting pretty heavily by the time I got to eight, so I took my time with the last three. He looked ... lickable, so I did: face, neck, finally that nice reddened chest. It's salty. I pulled his head to mine and kissed him, deeply. "Happy?"
He nodded eagerly. "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
I released him, ankles first, and helped him to his hands and knees. I grabbed the riding crop, straddled him, and tapped his ass to get him moving. He started crawling forward and I steered him around the room by pulling the collar. "There's the bondage table, slave!"
"Thank you, Master."
"And there's your cage."
"Thank you, Master."
"And here's your Master's chair."
"Yes, Master."
I stopped him, stepped off, and sat. "And there are your Master's boots. And they need licking." "Yes, Master!" And Brad went to work like my boots were covered with chocolate frosting, or something.
"You like my boots, slave?"
"Oh, yes, Master!"
"You do a good job on them, slave. Keeping my boots nice and shiny is one of your most important jobs."
"Yes, Master."
"Look at the big high school jock licking my boots. Look at the superstud down there on his knees with his face all over my boots. You get your sorry-ass tongue in all those grooves, make sure you lick every damn inch of them, slave!"
"Yes, Ma--"
I jerked his chain. "Shut up and lick, asshole! Big old football player! You should be used to leather, slave. You ever lick your football? I bet you did, you big-ass pervert." I crossed my legs. "Don't forget the bottoms, slave. Show your Master how much you love his boots. Get your tongue down there! That's where you belong, isn't it, slave? Under Master's boots! Roll over! On your back!!"
"Yes, Master!"
"There, I made it easier for you, slave!" I planted my boot on his face. "Now get your ass to work, slave!"
I played with his face and chest with my boots, not quite kicking him. "That taste good, slave? Do Master's boots taste good?"
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master!"
"Your little slave prick is getting stiff! You like being my slave, don't you? Big-ass football player likes slobbering all over my boots, don't you, pervert?"
"Yes, Master!"
I stood up and pressed Brad's shaft between his legs with my boot. "Enough laying around, slave! Get over to the bondage table!"
"Yes, Master!"
"Freeze! Don't you dare climb on it! Bend over across the table and stick your butt out!"
"Yes, Master!"
"You want me to fuck that hole, pervert?"
"Please, Master."
"Ask nice, slave!"
"Please fuck your slave's hole, Master. Please fuck me!"
I grabbed a couple of ropes and tied Brad's legs apart, then walked around the table and secured his arms. I grabbed his hair and lifted his head. "Can you breathe, asshole?"
"Yes, Master." He sounded a little puzzled.
"Hold your head up!" I walked over to the wall and came back with some lube. I planted myself right in front of his face and lubed up. "Like what you see, slave?"
"Yes, Master."
"What should I do with it?"
"Fuck me, Master. Please fuck my slave ass, Master!"
"Okay." I walked around the table, added a bit of lube to his hole, and went to work. I pushed. He whimpered. I pushed harder. He groaned. I pushed even harder and got through the gate.
"Thank you, Master! Fuck me, Master, please fuck me! Fill me up with your cock, Master! Make me your bitch!"
"You asked for it, bitch!" I plunged into him as hard as I could, and kept slamming at him while I resisted my own urge to cum. His ass was spectacular: solid buns, tight hole, and a great view of his back. "Thank me, bitch! Tell me how it feels!"
"Thank you, Master. It's so big, Master. It feels so full! You're tearing me up, Master, tearing my slave ass up! Oh, god! Thank you, Master. Oh, god! It feels so good, Master! Breed me, Master! Fill my slave ass good, Master!"
I did.
Next time, the slave revolts!
Life is good.