Bath, Bed, and Beyond (No Relation to the Famous Chain of Stores) - Bed Part II: The Promise
Siktici 2004
Despite his drippy cock and his intense feeling of lust, another emotion steadily rose in Bernie: frustration. Sitting at Gary's feet seemed useless, a waste of valuable time. Soon, morning would intrude, the encounter would be reframed, and like the others, this stranger strapped in leather would send him away. "I don't even know the guy's name, but do I really need to know?"
As if hearing the thoughts, Gary offered, "From this moment I am Sir to you and you are boy to me. I don't need to know your real . . . in fact, I don't want to know . . . and if you insist on telling me, we stop and you're gone." He pause for objections, or at least, to see if the boy would ask permission to speak. The boy did neither. Finally, Gary granted permission, "You may speak."
I understand your instructions, Sir."
"Good," Gary said, but the monosyllabic response didn't describe how impressed Gary was with the boy's "performance." As to the boy's willingness to submit, Gary wasn't convinced. Trust didn't come easily to him. He tried to frame the situation with indifference: basically, he had brought home a trick, nothing more. Looking at the swaying chains from the rafters, Gary decided to alter his usual session; he decided to pursue "truth."
His eyes fell on a small crop used to localize effort, such as on the nipples, just above the cock, in between the thighs, or on the feet. He learned that prolong strikes at these and other areas could drive a man mad with sensation.
"On the table," Gary ordered the boy, and then tucked the crop under his arm. As soon as the boy got into position, Gary secured the restraints. Laying the crop aside, he returned to the supply table to put on surgical gloves. He poured a cup of heated oil the length of the boy's body and rubbed its thickness over the sensitive areas. With a gentle and warm touch, he pressed and kneaded the oil over the boy's chest, along his contracting and expanding abdominals, and along his muscular legs, purposely avoiding the boy's twitching cock. He oiled down to the boy's feet, where he placed oil between each toe, and even on the boy's soles. The entire process sent the boy into shivers that rippled from his toes to the top of his head. When Gary poured the rest of the oil over the boy's twitching cock, the action caused the boy to arch his back and strain against the cuffs.
Barely cupping the boy's shaft, Gary slowly stroked the twitching cock up and down, up and down, up and down; and with his other hand, he smooth the boy's sac and patted the sac's underside with varying force. The patting sent through the boy another round of shutters and sent his pelvis thrusting upwards.
"You like that, don't you boy?" Gary asked.
"Yes, Sir," the boy said while luxuriating in the intense pleasure of being slowly jerked.
"But I think you'll like this better, Gary said removing a glove and taking up the crop.
Tap, tap, tap began at the boy's left nipple. Initially, the feathery application sent shivers spiraling from his erect nipple, but after a while, he grew tired of the constant tap, tap, tap to the same area. Yet, as the tap, tap, tap continued, the boy began to feel a warm sensation that gave over to a slight stinging. And each time the crop contacted his nipple, lightning arced between it and his cock. The incessant tap, tap, tap began to fill his mind, causing the boy to expect the next tap, wanting the next tap, anticipating the next tap.
Gary saw from the boy's reaction that the rhythm had to change. He tapped then paused, and the boy opened his eyes to make sense of the action. Gary waited for the boy to cease straining and brought down the crop.
The anticipation of the taps drove the boy mad with pleasure and with annoyance. He wanted the tapping to stop, to continue, to lessen, and to increase. The thoughts blurred into confusion. He wanted to yell but didn't dare. He just wanted relief from the tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
The taps did stop . . . on that nipple until Gary moved to the other and started the process again. The boy didn't know how much he could take, but he had to try. His left nipple began to sting in earnest and the right wasn't far behind. The sensation was something he had never experienced, and it brought the stiffest hard-on he had achieved since his teen years. He hadn't guessed that his nipples connected directly to his cock, but of course, he never had them tapped into hypersensitivity.
Gary followed the a-rhythmic tap of the crop to the sternum, along the oil-slick hair that flowed through the gully of the boy's torso. He lingered just below the navel and increased the intensity of the blows.
Glowing red filled the boy's mind as the warmth radiated from the spot. The warmth moved like crawling fingers around his cock, behind his balls, and in his ball sac. The sensation of the tapping at his nipples didn't compare to the tapping at this area. With eyes shut and teeth clinched, he bucked and pitched through each tap. And although his cock only oozed, he was sure he had come several times. Yet, the taps continued to riot each cell of his body, continued to ripple along his surface, and continued to push him into another reality.
Tap, tap, tap moved along his legs, found the inside of his thighs, but always returned to the spot above his cock. The taps moved along his calves, over the insteps, and even to his soles, but the journey that brought them there was closely traced back to the space above his cock. The sensation was now beyond maddening. The tap, tap, tap, tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap, tap caused the boy to cry out, "Sir!"
"What, boy?" Gary answered. (. . .TAP. . . TAP)
"Sir, please!" (. . .TAP . . . )
"Please, boy? (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP) That doesn't tell me shit."
The taps became more frequent and demonstrative as Gary rounded the base of the shaft and tapped moderately at the balls, keeping a watchful eye on his potential boy. "What do you want to say?" (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP) Huh? (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP) You have something IMPORTANT to say, boy?" (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
"Sir, I can't . . ." (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
"You can't what?" (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
"I can't take much mo . . ." (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
"Hell, boy, we're just gettin' started. (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP) You can't take a few to balls? (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP) This is fuckin' unbelievable." (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
"Sir, please." (TAP . . . TAP . . .TAP)
Then Gary stopped and looked at the boy with a disapproving expression. He sat the crop aside, pulled off the other glove, and wiped his hands with a wet towel. He put on another pair of surgical gloves and brought over another cup of oil. Slathering tenderly and slowly the areas assaulted by the crop, he spoke to the boy in a low, controlled tone.
"I'm not sure if you can handled this, boy," Gary said with a feigned sigh. You don't seem to have the right attitude."
The boy looked puzzled but remained silent.
"You don't seem to trust me," Gary said and continued to smooth the oil over the boy's torso.
"May I speak, Sir?" The boy asked, his breathing still unsteady.
"Speak."
"I don't know how to show you that I can be a good boy, Sir."
"Don't you?" Gary asked with his eyes narrowing to slits. "I think you do, but you are afraid. Is that it?"
The boy remained silent.
"Speak!" Gary barked the words so quickly and so loudly it made the boy jump. "I don't want to waste time, here. What? Do you think this is a workshop? Am I doing this as some sort of fuckin' therapy?"
"N-No, Sir."
"What then?" Gary asked.
"Please let me try again, Sir."
"What will that prove, boy?"
"Let me show you I can be a good boy, Sir."
"And how will you do that?" Gary asked.
"I'll do whatever you want," the boy said. The words slipped from his mouth before he could cut them off.
"Oh?" Gary asked, his expression dripping with suspicion.
"Just don't send me away," the boy finally said, and the effort in the saying caused him to flop back on the leather table. "Just don't send me away," he said again and looked to the machine in the corner.
The words stopped the flood of frustration in Gary's mind. This last plea tugged at him, because he heard vulnerability in the words; and at that moment, he flashed back to more than a decade ago, when lying on a similar table, he made the same requests . . . a request not to be sent away. He saw the need in the boy's eyes, felt it in his own heart, and made a concession.
"You must do everything I say . . . and," he said, inches from the boy's face, "if you want to stay, you must submit to me."
"Yes, Sir." The boy said, his eyes searching Gary's, his breathing labored, and his resolved brittle. Yet, when he saw in Gary's made him want to endure and made him want to pass whatever tests Gary had planned.
"Your submission to me is in your hands. I can lead you to it, but after that it's up to you." Gary had learned the power of The Singularity, but wasn't sure if the boy could handle such knowledge. "Oh, he but has such potential," Gary thought.
"The boy must submit to me without losing The Need. It is The Need that bonds man to man and bounds slave to master; it is the hyphen that lies between S and M; and it is The Singularity that holds the Perfect Knowledge to satisfy The Need."
After moving to the table to dispose of the gloves, Gary kept his eye on the boy. Obedience, submission, obedience, submission traded spaces in the boy's mind. "The chanting of words makes them flesh," he once read. The boy didn't know what was coming, but he did want to show obedience and did want to give submission. His silent prayer, his wish, at the saying entered The Singularity.