It was Friday night. My boy hadn’t cum for seven days – not since he came over last Friday for a scene. Normally, my boy jacks off three or four times a day. Ah, to be young again! So going without for an entire week was really rough on him.
Of course, I didn’t help things much. Over the last week, I took great pleasure in tormenting the boy. One night, I made him sort through hundreds of porno pictures, cataloguing them for me by special fetish type: rubber, leather, fisting, bondage, etc.
The next night, I had him grease up his favorite dildo a ride it for a half hour, not being able to touch his dick the whole time. He was a good boy – he knew there would be rough punishment if he shot. But I got to watch him on webcam, and saw that there was a lots and lots of precum.
But now it was the end of the week, and my boy was finally here. He deserved a reward – which he would get if he worked hard enough. But most importantly, *I* would get a reward… the joy of watching him suffer a little bit more.
We had all night, and into tomorrow morning. I had a feeling neither of us would be getting much sleep that night.
I ordered the boy from the next room. He knows better than to delay. He had shucked off his jeans and t-shirt, folded them neatly on the floor, and was pulling down his underwear when I walked into the room.
The boy knows better than to question an order, and he stood up straight again, sweating a bit in the dungeon warmth. His white briefs pulled down around his thighs, his muscular abdomen breathing heavily in and out, partly from the rush of undressing, and partly from excitement. His hands were clasped obediently behind his back, his dick half-hard and sticking out, waving in the wind.
I walked around my boy, looking at him from all angles. His new workout regimen was suiting him well, and his chest was starting to show muscles. He had a little hair, not much, on his chest – just a golden down kind of like a swan’s down feathers. Soon, I knew he would be a man, and his body would change. Until then, I could have fun with him.
I grabbed a hood from the wall – one of my favorites. It has rubber on the inside and leather on the outside. So, from the outside, it looks like a normal S & M style hood. But inside, the boy is sweating and drooling, the unforgiving black rubber hot against his face. I’ve made my boy wear this one to the gay bar more than once, and by the end of the night, he’s always a sodden sweaty lump. That’s why I like making him wear it.
Plus, the hood makes very little sound. There are no eyes, and only a small hole for the mouth. It’s an effective gag – yelling causes the boy to use up too much air. So, he usually stays quiet. Or tries to, unless the pain makes him yelp.
Yeah, I like it when my boy tries not to cry out, but his body gets the better of him. Struggling to remain silent, knowing any little noise will cause ten more swaps to his already-sore behind. Then twenty more, then thirty, until the punishment seems like it will never end, punishment adding onto punishment in a never-ending cycle.
But tonight it’s about pleasure, not pain, although the two are often not so far apart. I grab my boy roughly from behind, hugging him tightly. He jumps at the sudden touch, but I hug him tighter. I squeeze the breath out of him, my arms crossed over his chest, my hard dick through my jean grinding into his round ass. Yeah, I could fuck him right now, easily.
I let go of my boy and get down on my knees behind him. With my teeth, I bite down on his right cheek. I leave a mark, a vampire bite. Man, his ass tastes good. I take my hands, and rub them up and down his meaty thighs, pulling his shorts down over his knees until they hit the floor. The boy steps out of the, as I walk around in front of my boy.
I start pinching his nipples, and my boy doesn’t like that. He starts to squirm, but he knows better than to complain. And even though he’s hurting, his dick gets harder and harder, until it’s sticking out straight from his body, the head starting to turn a shade of purple with the blood flowing into it.
Yeah, that dick knows what it wants, and what it wants is to cum. I bet if my boy rubbed against anything for a minute, he could shoot. So, I’d better make shure he can’t accidentally touch anything.
I lead the boy over to my low padded table. He know where he’s going – he’s been in this dungeon for hours, many many times before. He lays down, and positions himself in the center of the table, his head on a leather pillow, his legs obediently spread.
The table has a lot of options: leather straps, rope, or chains. We’ve also tried saran wrap, rubber bands, metal weights, rocks, the pressure of my body. Anything to hold my boy down so he doesn’t hurt himself. That’s my job.
For tonight, I loop canvas straps around and around the table. Yeah, I’m in the mood for a medical type scene. I start describing my fantasies to my boy: I’m the mad scientist and he’s my monster. Or he’s the patient at the insane asylum, and I’m the psychiatrist who is restraining him tightly. Or even more scary: *he’s* the doctor, and I’m the crazy lunatic who has turned the tables and tied up the doctor.
At this last one, the boy’s dick starts dripping… a single bead of pre-cum falling off his dick onto his peach-fuzz belly. Yeah, I know how to push my boy’s buttons. He likes the danger of being at the mercy of a insane top that has no mercy. The fear that this is real, that this scene will never end.
Little does he know that the scene will go on a lot longer than he thinks tonight. There’s no way my boy is going to cum after his usual requisite hour of pain and torment. Nope, not after an hour. Or even two. Maybe after three, I’ll start thinking about it.
My goal is to keep my boy on the edge that whole time. Not cumming, not getting soft. I actually *don’t* want to touch him. I want my fingers to do as little work as possible. Instead, I want my boy’s mind to play tricks on him, his dick sensitive to the slightest touch, a hot breath from my mouth, a drop of sweat from my brow. I want him to be aching for any stimulation, any feeling to relieve his lust, to bring him to a long-awaited orgasm. But I won’t let him, until he is a shivering, gasping mess.
My table is great because it has cut-outs in strategic places. I am able to thread a single canvas strap over my boy’s bicep, then through a hole in the table between his sweating armpit and his tricep. Then under the table and back out near the elbow. That was, his upper arm is trapped in a canvas tube, which can be set in place with the convenient Velcro on the strap.
Twenty six straps in all. There are bindings over each bicep. Two each over each forearm, ones over his palms that his can hold onto when the pain gets too great. There is an extra-wide strap over my boy’s chest, and one tightly over his stomach, making it hard for him to breathe. The tight one over his neck is uncomfortable, but the one over his forehead is my favorite, making sure that he is trapped inside his rubber and leather hood – unable to turn his head to the side or up or down.
My boy has powerful legs, so I make sure that he isn’t able to raise his crotch off the table. Two straps go from his asshole to each hip, like a jock strap on backwards. Heavy canvas holds each thigh to the table, as well as one each on calf, and two on his ankles. If I was in the mood for heavy heavy bondage, I would tie each toe separately, as well as each finger. But tonight isn’t remaining still. It’s about wanting to move, and not being able to.
By now, there is quite a pool of precum on my boy’s belly, and I bet he can feel the hot wetness of a stream of it flowing over his pelvic bone and dripping down his right side, forming a puddle around his right asscheek. I’d lick that up, but there will be time for it later.
My boy is panting, partly from the tight straps and partly because he has no idea what comes next. Here’s what comes next: nothing. I leave my boy and get out the toys for the next few hours. Feather, cock whips, icy hot. Oh fuck, what else? Candle wax, cotton cloth, rubber gloves. A single silk cord with a know at one end. Pins, needles, matches. Thumpers and stingers. Electrical wands and vibrators.
I lay all of these out on the table next to me, and choose one at random. Ah, the wardenburg wheel. My boy hates this one. But it goes nicely with the medical theme: a nasty-looking spiked wheel, like a small sadistic pizza cutter. The idea is not to pierce the skin, although as sharp as the points are, it could very easily do that. And it has.
Instead, it’s an instrument to test a patient’s sensitivity. And man, my boy is real sensitive tonight. It’s been five minutes while I’ve been preparing the toys, and his dick hasn’t gone down at all. If anything, it’s harder than ever. I was going to tie his balls and cock up tight so the blood can’t leave it and he’s hard in spite of himself. I’ve even got some Cialis tablets waiting if he starts to flag and need s a little chemical incentive to stay hard. But I see that it won’t be necessary.
At the first touch of the wheel, my boy jumps. Or at least he would jump if he wasn’t tied so tightly to the padded table. Every muscle of his body flexes, pulling against the rope. But I’ve done a good job, an outside observer wouldn’t have even seen the boy flinch. Movement is impossible. Good – I’ve tested it. So we can proceed.
The wheel is a nasty device for the bottom. The skin doesn’t know how to react. It’s like touch, but the nerve endings can’t quite place where the sensation is coming from. For some bottoms, it’s a tickling feeling, and it’s not uncommon to lead them to uncontrolled laughter, crying and sweating. For some the wheel is painful. But not my boy. He’s turned on by it, and a loud moan escapes the hood as he realizes what the first toy will be and what will happen for the next half hour or so.
For the top, the wardenburg wheel is a lot of fun. I race it up and down the boy’s stomach. I make tracks over his legs, tracing red pin-prick lines in a swerving curving path. And every now and then, I race the wheel towards my boy’s groin. He senses where the wheel is going, and his dick throbs, hoping for touch, any touch, some sensation to relieve the dripping and twitching that is making his cock bob up and down in the dim dungeon light. But at the last second, I’ll stop the wheel. Or back up, or change direction.
It’s been thirty minutes now, and I still have never touched his cock. Time to change that.
I get out a rubber glove. I snap it on my hand noisily. I don’t need to make that much noise. But I want my boy to hear the sound, and know what I’m doing. Man, that makes his dick hard – and angry purple color. The veins on the shaft bulging out like a weightlifter’s biceps. My boy likes rubber, and the gloves add to the medical feeling of the night. I guess we got a theme. Too bad I don’t have any chloroform.
I bend over and breath on my boy’s dick. I know he can feel my breath. His cock is so sensitive, I know that just the heat from my breath could send him over the edge. I desperately want to trace the drop of precum that’s forming on his piss slit all over the head of his dick… make lazy wet circles over the frenum, up and over the ridge. But I know that would send him over the edge. Instead, I get on my knees.
I told you that the table has strategic holes. Naturally, one hole is positioned perfectly below my boy’s tight ass. From underneath the table, I can see his small moist hole winking at me. His butt checks are pinched shut, so I jam my fist unto his crack to spread him open a bit.
Oh fuck, my boy starts moaning into his hood. Yeah, my boy is a butt boy, just a little ass slut. I think he gets more out of having his ass played with that his dick. He’ll get both tonight. With the index finger of my gloved hand, I can feel the pucker of his hole. I don’t want to rush things, so I move my finger around and around, never quite touching his hole. I take a glance at the top of the table – oh yeah, this is working. His dick keeps pumping out precum, adding to the pool he is lying in.
After I while, I decide to give my boy what he wants, and I grease my finger up with some KY. With one motion, I plunge my finger in his ass, all the way up to the last knuckle. Oh yeah, that get his roaring. My boy is babbling – not making any sense. It all comes out in a blur “Thankyousirohgothankyoufuckohfukcohthan
I leave my finger in his ass, not moving it. Instead, his ass is milking my finger like a hungry mouth, I feel his ass muscles clench and unclench on my finger. God I wish it was my dick. Oh well, maybe later tonight. This boy is tight, and I need to loosen him up a little bit.
I pull my finger all the way out and sit back on my haunches. The boy gasps at the withdrawal, and I can hear a bit of sadness in his voice. I knew his ass feels empty know. He has forgotten about his dick, but his dick hasn’t forgotten about him. It’s still sticking up, looking for a hole or a mouth, anything warm and wet to sink into. But I won’t let it, not yet.
I sit back for a minute and then two. The boy, confused, wonders what’s going on. A just when I feel like he is going to stir or say something, I jam the finger back up there. He yells again, an animal noise of surprise and wounded pride. But I don’t let my finger be still, not this time.
Instead, I start attack his hole. It’s clean – I know he wouldn’t be coming over to my dungeon any other way. But for fun, I check every internal inch of his rectum by feel. I’m touching it all over, up and down, inside and out. Pulling on his hole from the inside with a crooked finger. I don’t let my finger be still for a minute, and I know this is torture for my boy, a flood of feeling and pain and pleasure.
The constant motion is making his hole open up, and soon I put two fingers in my boy, then three. I have a feeling I could fist him with a little more effort, but that’s not what I’m in the mood for tonight. Instead, my group of fingers finds the boy’s prostate.
Yeah, that delicious little walnut inside of each man. My boy knows where his is, and love having it played with. I know his eyes are closed inside his hood, even though he couldn’t see anything. My boy is in a special place of bliss that he likes to go to. His voice is constant moan, and long drawn out bellow of pleasure. With every curve of my hand, the tone changes, so it seems like I am playing him like a violin.
My hand goes in, it come out slightly the moan saws in two with every insertion. A quick turn of my fist brings a high squeak, a low slow circle brings a gurgle of delight. My boy doesn’t care what he sounds like, his animal brain isn’t even registering that he is making noise at all. I like to keep my boy in this start for an hour, and when I’m done he will swear only ten minutes were up. It’s a way of making the human part of him shut off, if only for a little while.
Massaging the prostate also has the fun effect of making tons of liquid leak out of my boy’s dick. It’s a veritable flood - the pre-cum dripping out the ass-hole cut into the table and hitting the floor in a long rainbow colored stream. Of course, I’ll have him lick it off the dirty concrete later.
Some night, I’ve milked his prostate dry, and then sent him home without an orgasm. Or, I’ve kept his dick and balls and chastity and made the prostate stimulation the only joy he would get that week. But tonight I decide to stop after fifteen minutes. It’s not about his ass, it's about his dick.
My boy is gurgling and bubbling, out of his mind with pleasure and desire. His ass is twitching, ever nerve ending electric and throbbing. And I haven’t even touched his dick yet. I’m not sure how much precum is left in my boy, or how much more sensation he can take.
But he will have to take several hours more, I’m afraid. I stand up, and bend over the table, and stick my tongue out. I touch the tip of it to the head of my boy’s dick, and his boy stiffens instantly, his mouth opens into a roar as if I had punched him. I wait until he settles down, and I whisper to him:
“Don’tcumboy,don’tcumboy, don’tcumboy, don’tcumboy, don’tcumboy, don’tcumboy, don’tcumboy…”