Matt's New Life By Terry b2655@aol.com
Chapter 1
19-year-old Matt ate as if he were starving, practically gobbling up the food I had set before him. I saw him only once a month, two or three days before pay day, when he was flat broke. Over time we had worked out this understanding. I'd provide the food and cash, he'd strip naked and take whatever I dished out.
Even though he had a kid and live-in girl friend, he had developed a taste for rough male-on-male sex. As time went on he got more and more into it. No matter how much pain I inflicted on him, he never lost his hard-on. I realized he was only 20 years old and horny all the time, but still. The kid had amazing stamina and pain endurance.
The first time I encountered him I picked him up outside his work place. He was out of money and out of gas -- no way to get home. I didn't ask many questions, and he didn't give many answers. I rolled down the car window and asked him if he needed a ride. He said "yeah" and got in. Neither of us said a word for a couple of minutes. Then I asked how he was set for cash. He didn't answer, but his hesitancy said it all. I asked if he was willing to earn some. Still staring straight ahead, all he said was, "Fuck yeah."
He didn't say another word until he was putting his clothes back on thirty minutes later. I handed over a fifty, and he said, "Thanks." He didn't utter a sound during the ride to the gas station. He got out and I pulled off. He was close enough to walk to his car.
I think he was as surprised as I was at the way he responded to gay sex, even more at how he developed an erotic response to pain. Before he met me, he said he had never had sex with a guy, not even playing around as an adolescent. I believed him. The first time I fucked him he screamed like a banshee, but he didn't try to get away from me. He took it like a man and eventually stopped shouting. The shouts turned into moans, which finally turned into sighs of pleasure. Matt was "vocal," and not at all embarrassed to let me know how much it hurt or how good it felt. Even when I was making him take real pain, he asked for more. I think he assumed that gay butt-fucking sex was supposed to hurt like this. I was not about to let on otherwise.
"Yeah, you fucker. Make it hurt."
Music to my ears. I wanted to make it easy for him to continue. I never called him, because it would scare him off. He had to make the next move. I was surprised to get a text message about a month later.
"Can I come over?"
I returned the text. "Sure."
"B there in 15."
I took a steak out of the fridge and fired up the broiler. When he got there it was just coming off the heat. I plunked it down onto the dining table and tossed him a beer from the fridge. He ate noisily and just stared at his plate. When he was done, he pushed the plate away and said, "Thanks."
There was an awkward silence as I rinsed the plate in the sink. I cracked open another beer and gave it to him.
"Things bad at home?" I asked.
"She's a bitch. Does nothing but complain."
"Well, there's no hassle here. No crying babies, either."
He didn't offer a reply but stared into my eyes with a serious, knowing look.
"Need some cash, Matt?"
After a long pause, all he said was, "Yeah."
I waited a bit before I said anything else. Finally, I decided just to go for it, pressing my luck.
"It won't be so easy. I like it rough. I went easy on you last time, because you had no experience. This will be difficult, believe me. It will also yield a larger financial reward."
He just stared at me, showing no sign of fear.
"I ain't no wuss."
Foolish kid. He had no idea what was about to come his way.
Matt had royally fucked up his life, getting his girlfriend pregnant. She wouldn't get an abortion and couldn't work to earn her share of supporting a household, so Matt took on two jobs. Hardly ever saw the kid and girlfriend. And when he did, the baby cried all night and his woman bitched about how he was never going to amount to anything. She said she deserved better than this.
Matt worked construction and had to be at his first job by 6:30 am, then drove across town to work inventory for an auto parts store. He never got home before 8:30, and when he did, he just chugged beer, ate cereal and watched TV. Nearly every night he fell asleep on the sofa, grabbed a quick shower the next morning and started all over again. His relationship with me provided a little variety from that monotonous life.
Our routine never varied. He'd send me a text message a couple of days before rent was due. I'd broil a steak, pop a beer and watch him eat. Then he'd thank me, strip off and let me have my way with him. He'd leave a little bruised and battered, but with cash in his pocket.
I got rougher and rougher, but he kept coming back. His dick stayed hard, no matter how kinky or painful the activity. It was rare when I couldn't make him cry, but I had to train him to stop the screaming. Neighbors.
I always made him jack himself off to orgasm when I was through. Never a problem. The kid could cum buckets. Afterwards he'd take a long, hot shower and walk out wearing just a towel. He would strut around a bit, obviously enjoying being able to show off his body to appreciative eyes. He would sit next to me on the sofa and watch TV. During commercials I'd get him another beer. Once, when I came back into the room, I pressed the cold can against his sore nips. He nearly leapt out of his skin. When he took the can from my grip, he looked up at me and said, "Pervert."
All I said was, "Smarter than I thought."
He didn't laugh.
It had been about a year since I first picked him up. Our monthly get-togethers had become an addiction for both of us. In this short a time he had transformed into a willing bottom, a natural masochist. The kinkier, the more difficult the sex, the more he responded. He'd let me spank his ass until it was welted and bruised. I worked his tits hard. They had become super sensitive and now stuck out from his chest, hard as pebbles. Once he came without touching himself while I was really working his nips over extra hard. I squeezed his balls until he thrashed and heaved, but he never tried to knock my hands away. He just took it.
I was surprised to get his text message today, because it had been only 10 days since he last stopped by. But I knew the drill. I broiled the steak and cracked open a beer. Neither one of us said a word. I didn't ask him why he was paying a visit in the middle of the month. He didn't tell me, and I didn't need to know.
Too much talk scares away these so-called straight boys. I never ask if they consider themselves gay, straight or bi. And I don't give a flip about labels anyway. I just let their dicks do the talking. If they think having man-on-man sex doesn't make them gay or even bi, fine with me.
If you want to try this at home with a "straight" boy, don't attempt any kissing or sweet talk. Your chances of success will be increased exponentially if you limit your topics of conversation to money, food and cars. Provide the food and beer and learn to be a good listener.
I cleared the plates away and did the dishes. When I walked back into the dining room, he was already facing the table, completely naked and bent over. His legs were spread wide, just as I'd trained him. I walked over and ran my hands over his shoulders, then down his back, stopping to pay special attention to his lats. He was proud of his body, and my hands let him know I appreciated it. I smoothed my palms over his muscled arms and cupped his biceps, hard as baseballs. I stroked his thighs and gradually worked my way up to his butt. I delivered a few light swats as he settled into position. Instead of spanking him, as I usually did, I caressed and massaged his butt cheeks some more, spreading them open so that I could see his twitching hole.
"Come on, man. Do it."
I still held back, chuckling at his impatience. He wasn't used to being teased. But since our last session I had sound proofed the dining room, boarded up the window and installed sturdy doors at the openings to the two other rooms. I had lined the walls with thick cork tiles and hung heavy drapes over the boarded up window. I was eager to give it a test drive.
"Maybe I won't spank you tonight, Matt."
I moved about the room, shutting the doors, sealing off this special place from the rest of the neighborhood. I returned to the table and kneaded his butt harder and harder, but I still didn't spank him. After a few minutes he lifted his chest up off the table and said, "Then work my nuts. Hard."
He fell into my trap. If I wouldn't spank him, he'd think of some other way to take pain. What he didn't know was that I was going to spank him anyway. Two punishments instead of one. Matt pushed his chest down against the tabletop and gripped the edge. He spread his feet so far apart he was practically up on tiptoe. He raised his ass off the table, and I reached under him and gave his hard, leaking dick a few strokes. Then I cupped his balls in the palm of my hand and just held them for a few seconds, enjoying his vulnerability. Matt exhaled loudly as he settled onto the table top.
"Come on, man. Make it hurt. I want it rough tonight."
I nearly choked. He made it sound as if all we'd done so far was hold hands and kiss. We both knew that in a few moments his whole world would change. Whatever pleasure he might be feeling at present would be transformed into a crippling wave of pain. Matt braced himself for the punishment.
I squeezed harder. Harder still. Matt was controlling his breathing nicely, taking deeper and deeper breaths. He let out a sigh of pleasure as he settled across the table top. I took my time, gradually increasing the pressure in my palm, warming him up before we'd get to serious pain.
"Oh yeah. Do it, man."
Finally I was ready. Matt was ready.
With that I smacked his ass. Hard. Again and again. Brutal, forceful swats rained down on his hard, hungry butt. I settled into a rhythm as he raised his punishable ass up off the table, offering me full access to his tender bottom. I hit him harder, faster, showing no mercy. Matt entered into agony.
"Fuck yeah. Hit me!"
I tell you, this boy inspired me. I beat his butt until it was an angry red. It was as if he were daring me to make him scream. He beat his fists on the table, gasping and moaning. I spanked his sexy butt a dozen more times, until my hand hurt so much I had to stop. Matt was panting and sweating, growling into the table top. Once he got his breathing under control a bit, he started humping the wooden surface, sliding his hard cock around in the pool of his pre-cum. I'd never seen a guy leak so much. Watching his ass muscles flex as he humped the table top was more than I could take. I had to do something to make this last. We were both about to pop.
We both knew what this was leading up to. We'd faced this challenge before. I drew the belt from my trousers and doubled it in my fist. Matt looked around and saw what I was doing. He lifted his butt higher off the table and spread his legs as far as possible. Then he reached back and spread his ass cheeks, exposing his hole, stretching it wide open. I took dead aim and brought the belt down with a resounding crack, right across his man hole.
His yelling sounded inhuman. I kept belting his butt until his legs were flailing around, kicking at the air, trying to shake the pain. Again and again I strapped his ass, watching as angry welts rose across the surface of his glutes. Finally he let go of his cheeks and gripped the edge of the table. He pumped the table top like a mad man, moaning and grunting with an intensity that seemed almost demented. Finally he let out one long rhythmic shout, but it was not a cry of pain. Matt was spraying cum all over the dining table, still pumping his hips in hard thrusts. I threw the belt down onto the floor and just looked at him. He was a blubbering, sputtering mess, heaving and choking, trying to get himself back under control. But I couldn't wait any longer. I tore at my trousers, fumbling for my zipper. I shucked my pants down to my knees and took aim. My cock had never been harder.
Matt shrieked as I roughly speared his hole. I knew I wouldn't last 30 seconds. The scene was too damned hot. I fucked him as rough as I new how, knocking the wind out of him. In spite of his protests, he pushed his hips back against my punishing cock.
I fucked like a crazed man. Over and over I thrust hard into his hole.
"Oh, please. Please. Hurt me! Fuck me! Cum in my fuckin' ass."
In another ten seconds, it was all over. I was drunk with lust as I pumped shot after shot of hot man cum into his willing hole. Then I just collapsed, throwing my torso down against his back, knocking the wind out of him. My dead weight kept him trapped beneath me. When my head cleared a little, I could hear Matt softly crying.
I didn't offer any words of compassion. I didn't offer any words at all. Cocky youths don't want words. They want to be loved, but can't vocalize their need. They're too macho to admit to any needs or weakness. But I made sure Matt got his quota of love. Not the kind that's served with kisses, tender words or cheap affection. We had never kissed. That was not the kind of love Matt needed.
I gave him the kind of love best expressed between two men. I came to understand that his aphrodisiac was pain. What he wanted was for me to hurt him, test him, so that he could show he'd take it for me. Bigger pain. Brighter pain. He wanted me to be proud of him. He might be a disappointment to his girlfriend, but he wasn't going to be a disappointment to me. Taking pain for me made his spirits soar.
I was going to do my level best to make him happy.
I staggered to my feet and stared at the defeated boy resting upon the table. He was a beautiful sight. Rugged, masculine and completely fucked over.
I wiped the sweat and cum off my bare skin as I kicked his legs apart. Matt raised his head and stared at the wall.
"Stay where you are, Matt. I'm not through with you yet."
I grabbed his hips and pulled him back toward me, until his cock cleared the table, flopping down, hanging free from his crotch. Fresh cum splattered everywhere. The room positively reeked with the smell of cum. I reached under him and grappled until I had his slick cock in a tight grip. I pulled down and bent it back, then pushed him back away from me, until his dick banged into the table apron. I let go, because it wasn't his cock I was interested in.
I got a good grip on his balls and pulled them toward me. My hand closed tight, and the cupping became a heavy grip, constricting Matt's testicles. I repeatedly opened and closed my hand, each time squeezing tighter, then tighter still. Discomfort soon became real hurt.
By now Matt talked in a language we both understood -- oohs' and ouches' and finally goddamns,'which lead to fucker!'. The language of a boy taking pain.
Now I set about crushing his nuts, as he'd asked me to. My punishing grip squeezed hard and harder, until his balls were squashed almost flat. Matt tried to fight the pain, even lifting one leg to shake away the hurt. He began to sweat. His back took on a sexy light sheen as he struggled and twisted in agony. Beautiful.
I steadied myself as I pressed my thumbs against my index fingers, trapping his balls in a devastating grip. Matt was delirious. He gasped and banged his feet against the floor. "Oh shit! Fucker! Son of a bitch!"
His suffering was exquisite, a thing of beauty to be savored. Now it was time to get serious. I wrapped some thin rope around the base of his balls, stretching them tight in a makeshift noose. I pulled down, constricting his balls until they were tight at the bottom of his sack.
I ran my fingernails against his balls' pebbly surface, teasing him a bit.
"Scared, Matt?" I asked.
"Fuck no," he gasped. He was lying, because he thought tough guys weren't supposed to be nervous or frightened. I reached under and grabbed the head of his dick, spreading his spent cum over the table top. Pumping his cock onto a slick surface would help him take the pain.
"Just fucking crack my nuts, OK?" he pleaded.
I let go of his cock and pulled the rope even tighter. With my other hand I gripped his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. The pain took his breath away, and he gasped and coughed.
I held the rope tight and squeezed again.
"F-U-C-K-E-R!" he yelled. "You bastard!"
He cussed a blue streak, choking and pounding his fists against the table, all the while grinding his hips hard into his slick pool of cum. I squeezed again. Hard. Then twice more. The boy struggled and cried out, trying to absorb the agonizing pain.
I kept up heavy tension on the rope, but I let him try to collect himself for a few minutes. I was going to make him scream. I crushed his balls again and again, with brutal force.
"It fucking hurts, man! It hurts."
"Sure it hurts, kid. I want it to hurt. We both do."
Without warning, I let go of the rope and grabbed his balls with both hands, applying as much pressure as possible. He let out a stomach-churning wail, but before he could catch his breath I repositioned my hands and squeezed even harder. Matt went nuts.
I thought he was going to tear the table in half. His legs flailed and kicked. He made loud noises, but I couldn't make out any words. He was speaking the language of undiluted pain. His hips thrust hard into the table top and he pounded his fists as he yelled. I stopped squeezing him, but I pulled hard on the rope trapping his balls.
Suddenly he shouted out obscenity after obscenity as he humped the table. His hips thrust savagely against the wood as he shook his head back and forth.
"Oh Jesus. Fucking J-E-S-U-S!
It took us both a moment to realize that Matt had just cum from having his balls squeezed and stretched. That boy could come all day. I felt proud for both of us. He was a natural for this scene. Matt gradually came down from his pain high, relaxing his legs and loosening his grip on the table.
"Fucking bastard."
Matt was in such bad shape he couldn't pull himself up off the table. I picked up his dead weight and sat him down on the table edge, wiping the cum off his torso and crotch. Matt hadn't yet come back down to earth, offering neither help nor resistance.
Matt stayed at my house that night and never went home. It took him about two days to recover, before he could walk without wincing. I don't think anyone knew where he was. No one called, and he made no effort to contact his bosses or girlfriend. I took matters into my own hands. I threw away his cell phone and made him quit his jobs. In the dead of night I followed him as he drove his car back to his house, parking it on the street just a few doors down. He turned off the lights, shut the door quietly, and left his keys in the ignition. He climbed into my Jeep and we drove away. I don't recall that he even looked back at his house.
Even though Matt had quit his jobs, he earned his keep. The hard way. We had intense, rough sex every day. With me, Matt had the kind of home he needed. He set about improving things, installing the window screens, bracing up the porch, all on his own initiative. In just two weeks he had re-insulated the attic and painted the whole house, trim and all. One night, as he crawled into our bed exhausted, worn out from another bout of our special kind of rough sex, he put his arms around me and spooned against my back. Again, I had waited to let him make the first move. After a few more weeks he was comfortable enough with affection to walk up behind me at the kitchen sink and press his body to mine as he gave me a generous hug. Neither of us said anything, but it just felt right. He also become more and more comfortable being naked most of the time when I was home. I let him know he had a sexy body and I enjoyed admiring it. He freely offered up his body to let me grope his muscles, knowing that in a short while I would strap them, punish him. Affection became a prelude to rough play. Over time we grew to love each other lustily, fully, passionately -- without ever ruining it by saying the words.
But our little time of domestic bliss was short lived. One month to the day of his moving in was when the troubles started.
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