Training Chris and Mark Chapter Three
Bonerboy Chris Gets His First Lesson
Stunned by my question, "You are my bitch, aren't you?" Chris sat in the passenger seat with his discarded jeans bunched up in the footwell, obediently stroking his leaking cock, my words echoing around in his head.
"What the fuck, man? No, no, I'm not your fuckin' bitch!" he finally gasped.
I didn't argue. Instead, I smiled and said to lean against the door and put his knee on the seat like it was at Blake's so his junk was displayed for me. Then, I started the engine and guided the Bronco out of the lot and back onto Mulholland. There was no reason to point out to Chris that he was riding around L.A. naked from the waist down and jerking his dick at my command.
Less than ten minutes later, as we approached my home, the gate at the end of the drive swung open so we could glide through. I brought the Bronco to a stop before the center of three closed garage doors next to a black Jeep Rubicon. The Jeep belonged to my long-time sub, Ron, who mostly stayed with his girlfriend but seemed to unexpectedly be at my place that night.
When I shut the engine off, Chris moved to put his jeans back on. I told him to leave the jeans where they were and his shoes, and to strip off his shirt and toss it in with them. Then, I turned and began walking toward the front door. I didn't have to look; I was confident that, fully naked now, Chris would be right behind me, still obediently stroking his hard dick.
I could see lights were on in the foyer and living room. Before Chris could ask about that or voice a complaint about the presence of others, I opened the door and stepped inside. I knew he would follow.
Music was playing, and the tunes were more those Chris would listen to rather than sounds more to my taste. I knew Chris would quickly pick up on that and, because he was naked and the possible presence of other young people in the house, be concerned by it. When I turned to speak to him, he was silent, looking past me across the room through its rear glass wall. I had forgotten the effect entering my home and being struck by the view from any of its rooms had on people.
I was thinking about the effect of first seeing the millions of tiny twinkling lights of L.A.'s office towers, neighborhoods, streets, boulevards, and avenues, east from downtown out to LAX far in the distance and west to the Pacific Ocean, laid out below had on most people when I noticed Chris stiffen. I turned to see what caused that and noticed Ron floating in the pool.
I met Ron four years earlier in a bar known to be frequented by working boys while I lived in Washington, D.C., a few days after his nineteenth birthday. Attractive, bordering on cute, definitively masculine, with a great body that never entered a gym, he was perfect. When we met, Ron was one of the millions of guys who do not consider themselves gay or even bi but will, when the need arises, be gay for pay. I do not analyze, nor do I judge.
I could not have enjoyed my time spent with Ron that afternoon more. Although he made clear his tight, obviously virginal little asshole was off limits, his capacity to endure several hours of intense obedience, positional, mouth and throat, and cum control training more than compensated for that limitation.
When it was time for Ron to leave, I drove him home to the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. He called a week later. When I left work the following evening, I swung by the bar where we met and picked him up.
I paid Ron the first two times we got together. The third time, before we left the bar, I told him that if he didn't already have a one-dollar bill in his pocket, he should change a larger bill or borrow one from somebody. He said he did have one. Later, just as he was about to go down on me, I made him stop. I told him to crawl into the living room, take a dollar out of his jeans, place it between his lips, and return to me.
Paying to suck my cock, even if only one buck, was a watershed moment for us both. Seeing Ron kneeling naked between my thighs, looking up into my eyes with that dollar bill between his lips, I knew I'd struck gold.
Ron became the only guy I saw. He came over every Wednesday like clockwork. We were not what people call partners or lovers, but he was very close. I had that once with a boy, my best friend and lover. My soulmate. Shortly after we both turned eighteen, midway through our senior year of high school, he was killed.
Thanks to expensive lawyers and a technicality, the person who killed my partner escaped punishment. I never got right with that. Grief and trauma derailed the button-down, Ivy League future for me that my folks had planned. I did get there, though, after completing what I hoped would be a suicidal plunge into the depths of the worst warfare could offer. Instead of finding the end I sought, I climbed out of the chaos with a prized and lucrative skillset.
Two years into our weekly relationship, Ron failed to call. When he didn't call the following week, I went to the bar where we met. Twenty bucks to the bartender had me sitting with a guy who knew Ron. He told me Ron was arrested a couple weeks earlier for having a joint and was in D.C.'s notorious Jail awaiting arraignment.
The District of Columbia is a federal city; the courts are federal courts, and Congress has ultimate control over almost everything. I had a lot of very private phone numbers belonging to people for whom I had done confidential favors. Of equal, almost more importance, I had done some less confidential but still sensitive favors for federal and District staffers, who were the ones who really made things happen. I called in every IOU.
About an hour and a half later, I received a phone call from a young woman who said she was a clerk for the Chief Judge of the Superior Court of the District of Columbia. She asked if I could come to the Judge's courtroom in thirty minutes because he would reconvene Ron's case then. Before ending the conversation, she said the Jail had already been instructed to immediately move Ron from the General Population and place him in Protective Custody.
I stood at the back of the courtroom while the woman who met me at the courthouse door went up to the bar and got the attention of the presiding Judge. Suddenly, he cracked his gavel down and said he was declaring a brief recess.
The Judge and the U.S. attorney exchanged words. Then, the Judge looked out over his courtroom, called my name, and asked me to come forward.
The Judge asked if I knew Ron. I acknowledged that I did. He then asked if I would agree to take custody of him. I said I would.
The Judge instructed Deputy U.S. Marshals to escort me to the D.C. Jail and present an order he signed to the Jailer, ordering that Ron be immediately released to my custody. Four deputy marshals escorted me to the Jail in two cars. When we arrived, two Marshals accompanied the Jail's guards to bring Ron to me and ensure he wasn't harmed. With Ron safely in my Audi, the U.S. Marshalls escorted us to my condo near the Pentagon.
A month later, at Ron's arraignment, a lawyer friend made the pot charge go away. Since then, Ron has been my boy. I let him have a girlfriend. I like that he has a girlfriend. When I told Ron I was moving to Los Angeles, I didn't ask if he wanted to come. He asked when we were leaving before I had the chance. He took charge of the move, and it went off flawlessly. The Jeep was an early birthday present upon our arrival.
Ron was twenty-three now and mainly staying with his girlfriend in Studio City. I didn't know why he was at the house that night, but it made no difference since it was home for us both. My predicament was to find a way to quickly place Chris back into the docile, submissive state of mind I had been working very hard to get him comfortably settled into all evening.
The first thing was to address Chris's state of undress. Let him know he was not alone.
Even if I shouted, my voice would not carry the distance, through the thick glass, over the music, out to the pool. Since Chris and I had Ron's attention, I motioned Ron to stand up and expose himself. I knew he would be naked.
Clever boy, him. Three strokes of his strong arms had Ron at the closest stairs, and a few seconds later, all five-foot-nine inches of his naked, muscular, nearly hairless body was standing beside the edge of the pool.
"There, you see, no reason for you to be bashful," I said, looking at Chris as if he was behaving like a child.
"Come outside. I want you to meet Ron." I explained as I moved across the room toward tall glass doors leading to the pool deck.
Slowly at first, but once he saw Ron was naked, more confidently, Chris came down the two steps to the living room and over to where I stood. I was so pleased. Despite his surprise and fear, my hot young roofer had not forgotten my command to never stop stroking his hard cock without permission.
As Chris passed through the door, I continued talking to him.
"You and Ron have a lot in common," I said as we slowly walked toward the pool. "As you can see, he's naked too. Also, like you, he's straight. And like you, I met him in a bar when he was trying to make money."
"I think you two are going to be such good buddies," I whispered into Chris's ear as we arrived beside the pool where Ron waited.
Introductions took no time, nor did explaining what I had in mind. Ron's presence eliminated a lot of what would have been the foreplay of continuing to move Chris along the process to his new role as bitchboy. Having a straight guy compartmentalize so he can fully accept that role in one specific segment of his life can take months.
I decided "Show and Tell" would be an enjoyable and likely amusing way to quickly bring along my new young, straight acquisition.
Moving to an oversized, comfortable deck chair, I sat down and, without looking up in a conversation tone, said, "Ron, present."
In a flash, almost as if he had lept to it, Ron was on the deck before me, his hands and knees wide spread, his young solid back tightly arched with his muscular dimpled ass thrust up high in the air, his shoulders held high on outstretched arms, elbows locked with his handsome, almost cute face tilted up, his eyes open and looking directly into mine. Ron's cock, always awaiting my command, was already beginning to dance for me.
Looking up at Chris standing where he was a few feet away, I asked," Do you see, Chris?"
Silence.
"I asked if you FUCKING see, Bonerboy?!!!" I demanded in my professional voice, a voice Chris had not yet heard.
"Yes!" Good. I have his attention.
"Yes, What?!! I don't want to keep reminding you," I demanded, not quite in that frightening voice that Chris instinctively knew meant danger.
"Fuck..."
"Wrong answer," Good, he's coming back to me. "Try again, boy."
"Yes, Sir...I see," A soft, hesitant surrender.
I stood up, called Chris over, and instructed him to stop masturbating, kneel beside my chair, and remove my shoes, jeans, and boxer briefs. At first, he protested as I expected him to. Still, a couple moments later, he was on his knees, lowering my boxers and gasping as my thick, honest eight-inch cut dick snapped up as the waistband slid over its big head and slapped his chin. I let Chris remain there on his knees, staring at my cock for a moment before I sat back down.
"Ronnie, lift my cock straight up and hold it so Chris can get a good look," I directed.
Ron immediately encircled the base of my thick shaft with his left thumb and index finger and lifted the long, warm column of pulsating meat up so it was fully displayed.
"Isn't that a big beautiful, powerful cock, Ron?" I asked my boy.
"Fuck, yes, Sir. I love your cock," Ron responded from his heart.
"What do you think, Chris? Isn't that a big beautiful, powerful cock, Bonerboy?"
"Fuck..." So softly from Chris.
"Tell him, man...," Ron whispered without his eyes ever leaving my dick.
"Ron, stretch your tongue out and tap the head of my dick against it," I directed while looking over into Chris's eyes that had not wavered from my hard cock.
Still looking up at me, Ron began to tap the underside of the big head of my cock so very lightly against the flat surface of his outstretched tongue.
"Tell me, Chris... Isn't that a big beautiful, powerful cock?" I ask again, this time teasingly.
"Oh...ffuuuccck," Moaning now.
"Come closer, Bonerboy; maybe you need to see it better." Pointing to the deck beside my left foot, two feet from where Chris knelt, almost beside Ron. With straight, naked, masturbating, Chris now on his knees, watching from the side, his face no more than a foot away as I cock slapped Ron's tongue.
As the once arrogant, straight, would-be hustler crouched naked and masturbating at my feet, I suddenly said, "Chris, look up at me."
The sound of my voice and the suddenness of my command caused Chris to turn his face instantly and look up at me with big, expectant eyes.
"Chris, before you begin to earn the money you said you hoped to make tonight, we do need to clarify one thing," I said calmly and patiently, almost as if I was explaining something to a child. "I need you to answer that question I asked you at the lookout again. You remember the one when I asked, you are my bitch, aren't you, Chris?"
There was silence, then when I could tell Chris was about to speak. I stopped him.
"Sshhhhhh...open your mouth. Hush, not a word. Just open your warm, moist mouth." There it was, that scary voice again.
And hearing it used, the now thoroughly submissive soon-to-be sub surrendered and, with eyes still looking up into mine, Chris slowly opened his mouth.
The big head of my cock immediately slid between his lips.
"Now, you were about to say something. I'd like to hear it," I said, smiling.
A hot, straight man never looks more sexy than when he realizes he is naked on his knees with a cock in his mouth.
"Speak up, Chris. I don't mind you talking with your mouth full," I encouraged again, using his name.
"Yeshhh, Schurrr," The poor, struggling twenty-four-year-old until now mouth virgin mumbled, coughed, and choked bubbles of drool leaking from the corners of his lips, "Ahh, emmm urrrbithh."
"Great! I knew you were, Chris, but it is so important that you know that too."
"Now that you've got my cock in your mouth, keep it there and swing over next to Ron. Place your hands on the floor like his. Arch your back like he is. Get your pretty little ass up in the air where it belongs, and continue to look up into my eyes," I commanded.
With Chris positioned for the next phase of his training session, I sent Ron off to get him and me drinks, lube, and a palm-sized leather-covered paddle.