This story is a mosaic of partly true events involving a variety of places, people, and situations, which I've compiled here into a work of fiction. How the story evolves beyond the first two chapters, if at all, depends on reader feedback. That doesn't mean that every sick fetish I'm begged to write about will be included, but it means I invite you to help shape the fictional parts of the story by sharing your thoughts with me by emailing ffv1624 at yahoo dot com.
The Governor's Brother Chapter One
I stood in the corner and sucked a ball of prosciutto-wrapped melon off a toothpick. I hated fundraisers. Condensation ran off my cocktail glass of tonic water on the rocks, dripping onto my shiny black bluchers. I scanned loathingly over the crowd chaotically disarranged in front of me, stretching for yards between the wall against which I had propped myself and the stage bedecked with campaign signs, flags, and ribbons. People mingled, exchanging patronizingly self-serving greetings, followed by the inevitable anecdote and shallow laugh of feigned amusement. God, this shit sucked.
Although I'd run Tyler Hayes's first campaign for the state legislature four years earlier, I was sitting out his campaign for governor. I was a week away from my last semester of law school, and prep for the bar exam would conflict with the summer primary. It would be a tight primary, too--the telegenic, thirty-one year old "retired" dot-com startup CEO vying against the current, and curmudgeonly middle-aged, state attorney general to take on whomever the Republicans decided to front against us this year in a fight for the Executive Mansion.
I had started in politics at fourteen, while in boarding school, mostly because boarding school was boring as fuck. Sure, a lot of fags think boarding school would be fun--bacchanalian orgies with horned-up teen boys in the dorm rooms. And there had been a few. But, there's only so much cock you can suck in the dorms before it loses its thrill and, just like sailing, golf, soccer, and tennis, once I got the technique down, I was ready to move on. So I'd volunteered for a campaign, and ended up walking door to door with little paper slips of propaganda, or stuffing little paper slips of propaganda into envelopes and stuffing the envelopes in the mail.
Democratic politics back then had been a growth industry--in a half-dozen years, I'd gone from volunteer to volunteer coordinator to campaign manager. And after getting neophyte Tyler Hayes elected, beating out a twenty-year incumbent in a general election, at twenty-one I'd become the hottest thing in state political consulting in decades. Naturally he'd wanted the whiz kid to run his gubernatorial campaign four years later, but I turned him down. After being in the business for more than a decade now, I'd developed the veteran's sense of cynicism and was ready for a break. The bar exam was really just an excuse. But I'd accepted the free invitation to the $1500-a-seat cocktails and hors d'oeuvres reception out of habit--and to see the replacement team in action.
"Are these things always this lame?" a voice asked.
"Yes," I answered, not bothering to turn to my left to see who had sidled alongside to ask the question.
"So why did you come?"
"Free food." A cynic's answer. But that's what I was now. I reluctantly turned my head to see who was bothering me.
He leaned against the wall on his right shoulder, a half-smile revealing white teeth. His eyes were either pale blue or pale green--it was hard to tell in the dimly lit hotel ballroom--and wrinkled at the outer corners. He wore a navy blazer and open-necked pink button-down over fitted khakis. His straw-colored hair was carefully tousled and set with molding paste so his bangs spiked a fraction of an inch straight out over his forehead. In fact, in its deliberate disorganization, it rather looked like straw.
"I'm Jack," he said. Tyler's younger brother. The accident, coming along nine years after Tyler. Though I'd heard of him, I hadn't met him on either of the two legislative campaigns because he'd been in California, at Stanford, and didn't really care about what was going on here. Obviously he was home now. He reached out his hand. I flicked away my melon toothpick to free mine.
"I'm ..." I began.
"Oh, I know," he interrupted. "We all know." His smile widened. He turned out to the madding crowd. "Even they know. The most pedestrian of them. They want to know because they think knowing you makes them seem more...well, in the know." We stood in silence and watched for a moment.
"God, politics sucks," he continued. "Well, of course, unless you're you." He turned back to face me. The musical cue began, some cheesy, patriotic campaign theme chosen by the rank amateur running Tyler's campaign in my place. "How do you put up with them all?"
I returned his gaze a moment before turning back to the crowd, now on its feet, cheering and clapping as the music drove Tyler out on stage. "I understand them. It's intuitive, almost visceral. I know what they want, how they'll react to an idea, to a phrase. I know how to shape a message to turn them on or off," I replied.
"You toy with them. Like a cat with a mouse."
"As flies to wanton boys..." I muttered in agreement as the cheering died down and Tyler began his bland stump speech. Mentally, I noted that I should have agreed to keep writing his speeches. For his sake, not mine.
Jack moved in front of me and started fiddling with my bowtie. "Are you a wanton boy?" he asked quietly under his brother's speech. He bit his lower lip and tilted his face down, his eyes holding mine darkly under his brow. He jerked the knot out of my tie. "What else gives you your sport?" Satisfied with himself, and my tie as he released the navy paisley amoebae on their burgundy background to flop down limply from my collar, he stepped back and smirked. His gaze ran slowly down my charcoal suit. He stepped forward again, closer this time, so we nearly touched. I smelled his cologne as he moved his mouth to my right ear to whisper into it. "I'd give it to you. If you could handle it." My back stiffened as his hand slipped between my legs, groping me through my trousers and sliding my silk boxers across my dick.
Without pause, I pushed him aside and scowled. "I don't work that way." I turned on my heel to leave and had made it to the door to the lobby before he'd composed himself and caught up.
"David! Wait!" he hissed. I didn't break stride. I stepped into the long, empty corridor leading back to the lobby and he slipped out after me. "Come on!" he called. I stopped and he circled around in front of me. "Jesus, David, not many people turn me down, you know?"
"Because you're a spoiled brat? Because you think you can have whatever you want?" I asked the question to provoke him, because I knew it wasn't true. I knew that before his brother had gotten lucky in the IT world, their family had had next to nothing. Worked hard, yes. Firmly middle middle-class. Mother a high school history teacher. Father a low-level desk jockey in the state department of transportation. They'd pinched and saved to send Tyler to a state university--of impeccable quality, but inexpensive. But a decade ago, Tyler had struck oil, so to speak, and now Jack had been sent to Stanford and been plied with every easy luxury his brother and his parents had never known.
Coming from me, with my elitist background, the threat was pure hypocrisy, to be sure. My family had always been in the state, going on almost 400 years now. One of the blue-blooded liberals who never quite fit in with the working class set, but advanced their cause from a sense of paternalistic noblesse oblige only nominally better than the greedy hoarding of our Republican counterparts.
The taunt had hit home. Instantly, his eyes iced over, his gaze steeled. "Fuck you, you arrogant prick." And before he could react, I slapped him across his face. It was the slap a pimp lays on a back-talking whore, and we both knew it. He clutched his reddening cheek as tears involuntarily sprang to his eyes from the sting of the blow. His features darkened with anger and I didn't wait for him to hit me back. I moved towards him, clutching the lapels of his blazer and forcing his back against the wall. I loomed over him with all of two inches, my 5'10" to his compact 5'8". But he was 160 pounds of pure muscle and I was 130 pounds of skin and bones.
He grunted as his back hit the marble façade. "Don't you ever talk to me that way again, you piece of shit. Your brother worked for what he has, it's true, and I respect him for it. But you're just a free-riding bitch. Off enjoying yourself at college, driving the tricked out car, wearing your fucking silk blazer. You have no self-discipline. Your parents spoiled you as a kid, and your brother's spoiling you now." I backhanded him across the other cheek and this time he yelped.
"I'm not one of your faggoty little college boy toys," I continued. "You want to fuck with me?" I reached between his legs as he had reached between mine, but rather than grope, I closed my fist around his balls once I'd found them and applied enough pressure to get his undivided attention. His hands went to my wrist, trying to free himself as he simultaneously tried to defy gravity by wriggling up the wall. "Do you?!" I asked louder.
"Sorry! I'm sorry!" he said. His voice broke.
I pressed up against him and locked my lips over his while I increased the pressure on his trapped balls. His mouth opened to protest and I fucked it with my tongue. Slowly the rigidness in his body began to fade and I lessened the pressure. His hands moved to my chest as if to push me away, but I could feel his cock getting hard and poking into my leg. I let go of his package completely and placed my hands on his face as I kissed him hard. His hands relaxed, and I felt them slide haltingly down my abdomen to my hips, then around to rest on my ass.
I released his mouth but moved my face only a fraction of an inch away. "I asked, do you want to fuck with me?"
"Yes," he panted.
"Are you driving back tonight or are you staying here?" The fundraiser was being held in the state capital, and if he was staying with his parents who lived in the northern part of the state, he had an hour drive home. "No, he got me..." his voice trailed off as if realizing for the first time the truth of my claim that he was spoiled.
"Tyler got you a room, didn't he?" I asked. He nodded and tried to look down. I let go of his face so he could hang his head. "What room is it?" He gave me the number. "Go upstairs. Take off all your clothes and kneel beside the bed. I'm going back to finish listening to the shit that bitch has written for him as a stump speech, and then I'll be up to deal with you. And leave the door unlocked. I won't be knocking."
"Yes, sir," he replied instinctively. I smiled. On the inside. I reached between his legs again and gave his junk a hard squeeze.
"And don't touch this, either."
"Yes, sir!" he yelped. I grabbed him by the top of his tousled hair and licked up the side of his face from his chin to his forehead, relishing the heat of the burning red splotch where I'd slapped him. Then I let him go and turned abruptly without a word and stepped back into the ball room.
I hung around after the speech was over, longer than I usually do. I'd tolerated the seemingly incessant line of well-wishers and minds inquiring about my availability for new projects. I'd done it to build up in myself some frustration with the banality of amateurs--frustrations I could take out on Jack--and to keep him waiting and wondering. About ninety minutes elapsed before I stepped out of the elevator onto his floor and stalked the corridor to his room. The knob turned easily as I twisted it and I casually walked in. And there he was, kneeling naked, facing the door, his head low--he'd titled his face up as the door opened but, seeing it was me, quickly returned his gaze to the floor. His cock at half mast now, but the discoloration on the carpet between his legs told me he'd been hard and leaking at the beginning of his wait. His hands were clasped behind him.
I strode to the bed, sat on the corner, and began to pet his hair. "Do you want this? Because once I start, I'm not going to stop."
He paused and I indulged him as he organized his thoughts. At last he stammered, "Wha-what are you going to do to me?"
"Whatever I want, once I start. But nothing more than I think you can handle." I already knew what I was going to do, but he didn't need to know yet.
"Why does it have to be like this? Why can't we just fuck or something?"
"Because this is what you need," I answered. "You're a spoiled brat, Jack. You've taken everything that's been offered to you, and you showed me downstairs that you're already started to expect things that you don't have claim to. You need to be put in your place. And you're going to find out what your place really is. I know. I knew as soon as I saw your face. And soon, you'll begin to know."
"Are you going to hurt me?" he was almost trembling, despite the heat cranking out of the climate control unit to ward off the January cold.
"Absolutely." I had no hesitation. I was definitely going to hurt him. Hurting him was what I looked forward to most. As I noticed his dick swelling again, and moisture glistening on his knob, I knew he was looking forward to it too. But I had known that before.
"But will it feel good?"
"For me? Hell yes. For you? There will be times when your body will feel good, sure. When I fuck you and you feel me inside you. But that's not the point. The point is that as time passes and you begin to understand what you are, your brain is going to feel good. You're going to feel at home. Like you've discovered your purpose in life. Because you will have. In fact, eventually, you're going to feel awkward, uncomfortable, incomplete whenever you're not getting what I give you.
"Think about it, Jack," I continued. "I know what's in your head. You just graduated last spring and you're still floundering. You haven't decided what you're going to do with your life. You feel restless, and that's why you act like a piece of shit to people. You're bored. You don't have a purpose. You don't know what it is, and you wouldn't know how to do it if you did. I'm going to make that all go away. I'm not only going to help you learn your purpose, I'm going to help you learn how to live up to it. That's no small thing, Jack. Tonight's just the beginning. I'm making a big investment in you, a big sacrifice to help you."
He knelt in silence. With his head turned down I knew he saw his dick, now fully erect and openly drooling again, just as well as I saw it. I knew that inside his mind, doubt and lust were swirling together. He wanted to try this, but he also wanted to be able to stop it if anything he didn't like happened. And, despite his size and the muscles I could see lining his body, that was not going to be permitted.
"OK," he almost whispered.
I stopped petting his hair and dug my fingers into it, grabbing it tightly and jerking his face to tilt up towards mine. "What did you say?" I demanded. His eyes were watery. And not just from the pain of having his hair pulled. From the beginning of realization.
"OK, sir?" he asked.
"Ask me to help you," I instructed.
"Please help me to learn who I am, sir," he begged. I let go of his hair.
"Not who, but what. But that's good enough for now." I stood, towering over him. His eyes darted from mine to the crotch of my suit trousers. "Stand up," I ordered. He complied and I began to inspect him, tracing the ridges of muscle with my finger, taking him by the hips to turn him, pushing between his shoulder blades to bend him over, spreading his ass cheeks to see how his hole had been used. Very little action back there, which told me he'd either thought he was a top or had been more selective in college than I'd believed. There was hair on his arms and legs and in his crack, but otherwise nothing noticeable. His pubes he'd trimmed himself to an eighth of an inch in length. They'd have to go altogether eventually, but he was in good enough condition for me tonight to start his education.
"You're twenty-two now, right?" I asked. Having never met him and only knowing he'd graduated in May, I wasn't sure.
"Yes, sir. Last June, sir."
"I don't care when. I want you to lean the rest of the way over, so your palms are on the floor, hips bent at a right angle, feet spread to shoulder width." This position was ideal. His glutes, thighs, and calves were taut and his balls dangled down between his legs. I maneuvered around him to the desk chair in the corner, over which he'd draped his clothes. I was delighted to find that, rather than a narrow, 1" leather dress belt, he'd laced a 1.5" wide, rugged calfskin belt into his khakis. I removed it and dumped the pants into the floor. He thought he knew what was coming. I corrected his misapprehension.
"A lot of guys think their asses are sensitive when it comes to corporal punishment. It is. But it's far from the most sensitive. And it's definitely not the most effective. Do you know why I'm going to beat you?"
"No, sir," he answered.
"Because I can." I let it hang in the air for him to reflect on. He could get up at any time, couldn't he? And he could beat the shit out of me, too. But he wouldn't. And we both knew it now. It wasn't just that he'd agreed to it. He wanted it. And, more importantly, I wanted to give it to him.
"You get twenty-two, then," I eventually announced as I stepped back behind him. I doubled the belt in my fist and checked the clearance for my swing. "You'll count each stroke. You're not going to want to thank me for them, and I'm not going to train you to lie to me, so don't. But any stroke you don't count before I deliver the next one is repeated until you do count it. And I don't care what kind of fucking noise you make. The room isn't registered in my name, so I don't give a fuck how thin the walls are. But think about your brother and what would happen to his campaign if it got out that the neighbors called to complain about whipping and screaming in here."
I shrugged out of my suit jacket and laid it on the bed. Cuff links out, sleeves rolled up. I watched him tense his muscles in anticipation. Perfect.
The first stripe landed across the lower end of his left thigh, a bit above the crease of his knee. "MMMMMMMM!!" he screamed in agony through clenched lips. Low pain tolerance. I smiled. I prepared the second blow an inch above the first and, sure enough, delivered it before he announced the count. He screamed again, his legs trembling.
"If you stand up or fall down, we'll start from one again. Which, incidentally, we're still on," I reminded him.
"One," he squeaked.
"Good boy." I delivered the third blow, again, an inch above the second. A sob this time.
"Two," his voice quavered. The fourth blow--third in the count--was a surprise: I doubled back and landed it expertly between the first and second, easily overlapping the red welt that had sprouted on each. He opened his mouth and screamed for that one, but quickly announced the count. I proceeded with the rhythm, never changing tempo between swings: the fifth an inch above the third, the sixth between the second and third; the seven an inch above the fifth, the eighth between the third and fifth; the ninth an inch above the seventh, the tenth between the fifth and seventh; the eleventh between the seventh and ninth. Of course, the eleventh blow was really only the tenth in the count--and he never lost count again, despite the increasingly inhuman sounds he made before announcing the number and the increasingly nasal quality of his voice as the snot backed up in his nose while he tried to cry in his inverted position.
And at eleven--ten in the count--I moved around him, switched hands with the belt, and repeated the pattern on his left thigh. When I'd delivered twenty-two strokes, there was one left in his count. And 14" inches up each thigh, from the curve of his ass to his knee, was a glowing mass of red, with thin purple gradations from the overlapped strokes. The next day, it would be beautiful. But I had one stroke to go, and I unfolded the belt and laid it right across the curve of his ass, where his weight would rest if he tried to sit on the edge of a seat to avoid putting pressure on his welts. His body was outright quaking by now, and I left him in position as I mopped the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief. Then I walked over and laid my palms gently on my handiwork. He grunted as I relished the throbbing heat, massaging it into his muscles.
Naturally in that position, I couldn't avoid noticing his ass, which I intended to claim as my own. In fact, thinking about fucking him made my dick swell for the first time. He hadn't been through enough pain yet to really turn me on, after all.
I ordered him to stand up and he did so, wobbling on his feet. His dick had gone soft at some point, but the goo smeared over the knob and puddled on the carpet told me it had taken quite a few strokes to get it there. His face was a mess of tears, snot, and drool on a canvass of bright red from the blood in his head from being inverted so long. I threw him the handkerchief and told him to clean himself. I unbuttoned my shirt and trousers while he did it, still sniveling and whimpering.
"That's not the last time that will happen, either," I informed him.
"Yes, sir." He dried his eyes then looked up at me. "Sir?"
I sat on the bed to untie and remove my shoes. "Yeah?"
"I'll be good, sir. I won't disappoint you. I don't want you to have to do that to me anymore."
I scowled and glared. "That wasn't punishment. You haven't felt punishment yet. You'll be good, yeah, you're right. But not to escape that. Because being good isn't going to get you out of that."
His eyes brimmed over again. Shoes off, I stripped to my boxers and undershirt. I handed him my clothes and pointed to the chair. He neatly folded them over his own. When he turned around again, I was naked and he got his first glimpse at how lanky--one could say wimpy--I am. I'd beaten any sense of superiority out of him though, and I saw the lust in his eyes ratified by the pulsing in his cock as it began to fill again.
I'm not a superstar in the cock department. Barely above average with 7", cut, average thickness. But on my bony body, it seems bigger. Flaccid, as it was when he first saw it, it hangs about 4". There was no hint of disappointment in his expression, though. I laid down on the center of the bed and beckoned him to join me. He laid down on his side, his head on my chest, and I wrapped an arm around him.
We stayed that way as I waited for him to relax again as he rested against me. And once his breathing returned to normal and his hands began to idly stroke my body, I announced his new task.
"You've got an hour to get me off. That sounds easy, but don't misunderstand. If you get me off before the hour is up, I'm going to hurt you to fill up the rest of the time. And if you don't get me off in that hour, I'm going to do it myself, in whatever way I choose. So for the next sixty minutes, you get to choose how to pleasure me. And that's all you're to do. Pleasure me. In fact, if you get off, I'll use the sole of my shoe to paddle your balls until the hour is up. Oh, and you can be as creative as you like, but you don't get to get off the bed."
He looked up at me, partly surprised but mostly afraid.
"Yeah, I know. you've got a narrow sixty-second window between being one minute too early and one minute too late. Tough. That's your problem. And just to keep us honest..." I reached over and set my chronograph for sixty minutes.
"But I don't know what you like!" he protested.
"Your job is to find out. But one thing: I never bottom. And even if I did, you will never, ever fuck me. But that's obvious, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." He sounded almost mournful, but he wasn't surprised. And as I put the watch back on the bedside table, his hands started massaging my chest. I closed my eyes and began to relax myself, melting back into the mattress. I felt him straddle my hips, never breaking rhythm as he fingers kneaded my shoulders and pecs--such as they are. As he progressed down my ribcage, he leaned over and I again smelled his cologne. He began to kiss me along the jaw line towards my ear, and then down my neck to my Adam's apple. I stretched my arms out perpendicular to my body, as if preparing for crucifixion, and he quickly stuck his snout into the hollow of my armpit, sniffing and, eventually, licking. I wear unscented stick deodorant, mostly because I dislike smelling like anything, but it carries the added benefit of being particularly disgusting on the tongue. Not that I cared--I never licked my own pits.
Jack, on the other hand, seemed fascinated with the taste. His whole body moved progressively lower, shifting from straddling my hips to my thighs to my shins, as his hands continued to massage, but his tongue stayed in my pits, licking, alternating right and left. With apparent reluctance, as his hands neared my crotch, he repositioned himself so that his mouth was on my navel as his fingers explored my pubes. As they began to stroke my sack, at last the tingle began at the root of my cock signaling an approaching erection. I grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his face to my slowly swelling dick and he eagerly took it between his lips.
At this point, I opened my eyes and looked down at him by tilting my head forward. His eyes, too, were closed, a look of serene tranquility on his face. Exactly what I wanted. I used both hands on the back of his head as I relaxed my bladder and, with a twitch, the first dribble of piss was released.
It took him a second to comprehend what was happening. The combination of the taste and realization that I wasn't hard enough to cum or precum visibly shook him and he tried to pull away. "Look at me," I ordered. His eyes flickered open and his face tilted up, my dick still between his lips. "Take it. You're going to have to get used to it anyway." A wave of melancholy washed over his features, then melted as he nodded and caressed my knob with his tongue and added a hint of suction. I bit my lip and smirked at him as I slowly released my urine into his waiting mouth. He gagged twice as I drained myself into his guts, and a small trickle ran down the underside of my cock as he struggled to keep up but I was content with his effort. Acknowledging his acceptance, I left go of his head and fell back limply against the mattress, eyes closed again.
Once I was empty, he tentatively began to suck and lick the length of my flaccid cock. "Go ahead," I confirmed. "You've earned it now." And for the next thirty minutes, he did, and thoroughly impressed me with his skill as he fellated me to full erection and brought me to the edge a half-dozen times. And each time he sensed my impending climax, he dutifully pulled off and turned his oral attention to my balls, rolling them over his tongue, taking them into his mouth, and rutting like a pig in my day-old crotch scent, all while my throbbing cock slapped him on the face and splotched him with precum.
It was on the last of these alternations that, rather than returning to my cock once the precipice of my early orgasm had been averted, he slipped his hands under my knees and raised them towards my chest. Warily, I opened my eyes and looked down just in time to watch him bury his flushed face between my ass cheeks. I found his performance eating my ass to be quite satisfactory, but he seemed to harbor some frustration with himself.
"Please, sir?" he asked. "Can you please roll over on your stomach?" I nodded and he impatiently rolled me over just as I moved my arm out of the way. Instantly, his tongue resumed its seemingly natural place inside my chute. I used the added position to give him something new to worry about: I began gently rocking my hips, sliding my cock against the bedspread as he continued to eat my hole, probing with his tongue and slurping noisily as his spit coated my crack. Several minutes later, he regained enough presence of mind to realized what I was doing. He quickly knelt behind me and raised my hips so my lower body rested on my knees. The new position not only gave him better access to my hole but kept me from fucking the bed as he hungrily licked inside me.
He seemed to lose all track of time while worshiping my ass. He kept at it for just over fifteen minutes and by the time he remembered the details of his assignment, he had less than five minutes left to get me off. Panic pervaded his voice as he pulled away and hastily begged me to roll back over. I took my time doing it. I kept my eyes open as he looked indecisively at my erection, and watched as he quickly sucked it to the root and pulled away, leaving it glistening with his saliva. He rushed to straddle my hips again, and his haste is no doubt what caused him to lower himself onto my cock before he had relaxed his ass ring. But the intense pain that registered on his face almost took me over the edge as he settled his strap-beaten ass on my pubes. Unfortunately for him, that pain kept him immobile for precious minutes as he strained futilely to relax around the invader. He'd only taken two strokes up and down before the chimes tolled to signal the end of his opportunity to get me off without my intervention.
His face still reflecting the pain of his sudden impalement, he looked down at me with a mixture of fear and sorrow. He waited for my judgment. "Keep going," I told him. And as he resumed squatting up and down on my cock, I reached for his balls. I closed my right thumb and forefinger around his sack, pulling the orbs away from his body. I watched his consternation grow as I continued to pull and began to close my other fingers in towards my palm with his nuts in between. As the pressure increased, so did his tempo, and I watched through half-lidded eyes as his whole upper body flushed and his legs corded with effort and his abs and pecs and arms rippled. But all the while, his cock slapped up and down, slinging prefuck between our bodies even though I was tugging and squeezing his balls in my fist. His hole clenched increasingly tighter as his body fought to rebel against the pain but his conscious and subconscious mind knew that he dare not try to escape.
The first time he gagged from the excruciating nut stretching-squeezing action was when I felt it: that perfect coincidence of friction, speed, and tightness. As sweat rolled off his now nearly iridescent body, I closed my eyes and began to give in to the sensation. "Oh, fuck!" I hissed as my hips began involuntarily to meet his ass on his downstroke and pull away on his upstroke. He gagged again, nauseous from the pain I was causing his balls. My own muscles began to convulse, my breath catching in my throat, as I tried to hold off for just a few more seconds, savoring the feeling and relishing the knowledge that now, certainly, absolutely, I owned Jack. I owned the hot blond boy with pale blue-green eyes. I owned the lacrosse and soccer jock with his tight, lean muscles and compact form. I owned the next governor's brother. And as I came, I clutched his balls in my fist and shot my thick spunk into his raw ass, panting and spattered with his sweat as it rained down on me.
Once the afterglow faded, I pulled him down to my chest and again waited for him to relax and his breathing to normalize, stroking his back as he continued to groan at the pain in his groin and as my dick began to soften and slip free from his ass. Eventually, he seemed almost ready to drift off to sleep, so I gently pushed him down to my crotch again. He realized what I wanted--for him to lick my cock clean--and he began to resist. "Come on, don't ruin it all now," I chided, and with a shallow sob, he accepted his chore. And after I'd felt his tongue on every inch of my dick, I eased it back into his mouth and pissed again. When he drank it down without complaint, I decided he'd earned a spot in bed with me for the night--in bed with me in his hotel room, the one his brother had rented for him.
I owned him, and his training was just beginning.