St. Valentine's Day Competition
First Place Winner

A BOX OF CHOCOLATES

BY OWENM

The fire roars in the hearth, bathing the room in a warm, comfortable light, chasing away the chill of a frigid winter’s night. On the thick sheepskin rug, a boy kneels. He may be poised on the brink of adolescence but he shows no outward signs, nothing to mar the perfection of his delicate, smooth, and thin form. His clothes are nowhere to be seen, the flames licking close enough against his bare backside to be just the slightest bit uncomfortable, yet he shivers. Behind his back, his crossed hands are bound tightly with soft cotton rope, pulled up into the small of his back by another rope secured to the thick leather collar padlocked around his neck, forcing his head slightly backward. Another rope binds his crossed ankles, also tied off to his collar to prevent him from standing. The padded leather blindfold plunges his world into darkness, heightening his sense of the crackling fire, the pungent smoke, and the fingers tracing lightly down his taut chest.

“How does it feel?” the man whispers in his ear.

The boy can only moan as the man’s hand wraps around the stiff shaft of his three inch hard-on. His body moves in rhythm with each expert stroke. With his other hand, the man reaches behind the boy, admiring the simple magnificence of the striking red blossom peeking out from the crevice of the boy’s ass, the unseen stem exploring the depths of that glorious body. What better place, the man thinks, to place the most perfect rose of the dozen the boy so thoughtfully bought him. The man turns the stem, a thorn digging mercilessly into the tender flesh between his cheeks, causing the boy to gasp and jerk suddenly.

“Shh,” the man says soothingly. “Are you ready?”

The boy nods, the gentle dip of his head full of anticipation and dread as he struggles to maintain control, his face slightly contorted not just from pain as the thin trickle of blood down the back of his thigh tickles him.

“Taste,” he man whispers, pressing the first chocolate to the boy’s trembling lips. He opens his mouth slightly, the man’s fingers sliding in along with the candy. The boy licks the melted dark chocolate from the man’s fingers as he slowly pulls them out.

“Coconut,” the boy whispers.

“Coconut,” the man acknowledges. The boy swallows, his body rigid with anticipation, waiting for the man to say something, but the man remains quiet, returning to gently fondling the boy’s genitals.

“Next,” the man says, pressing another chocolate to the boy’s mouth.

“Peanut,” the boy answers.

“Peanut,” the man acknowledges again.

Five times over they repeat the ritual, the man’s hand never ceasing to tease the boy’s rigid penis, eliciting the occasional moan interspersed between the declarations. Strawberry. Toffee. Vanilla Crème. The man sets down the box on the floor, his hand lovingly caressing the boy’s face.

“I will never stop thanking my luck that you came into my life, my sweet boy who buys me chocolates and flowers,” the man says. The boy smiles gently, his cheeks slightly red. “My sweet boy who understands me as completely as I understand him.”

“Tell me,” the boy says. “I want to know.”

“Are you sure?” the man says gently. “With a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.”

The boy nods slightly again, shifting to get comfortable yet unable to find the right spot to relieve the delicious strain in his arms and legs. The man picks up the envelope from the floor, tearing it open. The boy jumps as he hears the paper unfolding, his fate about to be revealed.

“Coconut,” the man reads from the paper enclosed, smiling gently at the sloppy boyish handwriting. “Tie me spread eagled to the bed and give me a full body massage ending with sucking me off.” The boy breathes outward. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” the man teases.

“Please, tell me the rest.” The boy’s voice cracks.

“Peanut,” the man reads, his voice darker. “One hundred hard strokes with the whip on my back and butt.” The boy whimpers, but does not speak. “Strawberry. One whole night of torture with my most severe clamps on my nipples, dick, and balls.”

The boy cries out. “No, please, not that.”

“You wrote these words, not me,” the man says softly. “Toffee. One month of not being allowed to cum. Sweetie,” the man says in sympathy.

“It’s not so bad,” the boy says with a slight grin. “After a whole month, cumming is going to feel fucking awesome.” He giggles. The man joins in raucously with him for a few moments, the room gradually becoming silent again as the last echoes of their laughter die out.

“Vanilla crème,” the man whispers, his voice catching for in his throat as he reads the words to himself before speaking aloud “The big one.”

The boy’s face becomes ashen. “No!” he shouts, shaking his head back and forth as much as his collar and bondage allows.

The man continues reading. “Two weeks locked in the dungeon.” The boy begins to cry, tears streaking his freckled face. The man bends forward to lick up the salty sweetness from the boy’s cheek, speaking the rest of the words directly into the boy’s ear. “Every day I get tortured for two hours or more. When I’m not getting tortured I get left all alone in the stocks or locked in the cage, gagged and blindfolded. I have to suck your cock and swallow your cum whenever you want and I get fucked whenever you feel like it. I have to drink your piss and lick your asshole clean.” The man lets out a sharp breath, the boy’s chest heaving with his sobs.

“Please,” he begs through his tears. “Please let me pick a different one.”

“If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t have written it,” he man says firmly, picking up the ball gag that lies in easy reach on the brick hearth, the boy’s mouth reluctantly opening as the man forces it in and cruelly pulls the strap as tight as it can go. “And you wouldn’t have picked the exact length of your school vacation that started today either.” The boy only moans, resigned to his fate as the man throws his victim over his shoulder, carrying him downstairs. It isn’t long before the desperate high-pitched screams of a boy in unspeakable agony ring through dark house.

The man comes back up alone hours later, exhausted, the last hoarse pleas of the boy still running through his mind. He picks up the paper, then throws it into the fire, the flames quickly blackening the edges, consuming it in a matter of moments. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says bitterly, tears stinging his eyes as he recalls the words written there.

“Vanilla Crème: A shoulder to cry on, a hug whenever I need one, and a kiss whenever I want one, for the rest of my life.”