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Subject: Title story: "BOY'S TEST" Author: Anonymous 98573779
From: TheXfan <ryzij@poczta.fm>
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Date: Sat, 10 Feb 2007 01:19:56 +0000
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BOY'S TEST
There I sat. Still dressed from the bar. Levis, work shirt, black harness
boots. Vague ache in the back of the skull from one too many beers. But fine.
Real fine. Relaxed. Belly full of scrambled eggs and beer. A good social
evening. Lots of laughs, lots of leather. Swat Jim on the ass and press my hand
up his crack, knowing he enjoyed it but would go home with his master to moan,
whimper and obey.
No slave in the house means silence, except for the dog's wheezing sleep next to
my chair. And that's fine, just fine: at least for now, at least for tonight.
Just fine.
I had opened a cold beer, dropped my jacket on the sofa and plunked myself down
in front of the computer to check my mail. Jack said he might be able to come
down for the weekend next week. Nice idea. Tall slender guy with a smooth body
and tits that ignite at the slightest touch. Nice small nipples that grew under
my hand till they were like pencil erasers. And when I flicked them with my
fingers, his whole body trembled. His head rolled. Blond hair flopping across
his face. Just from the tits. Nice.
Mark was still eager for training but didn't know if he could get away from his
wife for a few weeks yet. "Please be patient, sir." Well, maybe. He showed
promise. His chest was, had been, covered with a thick mat of dark hair. On my
orders he snapped a picture, dishwasher and potted fern in the background, and
sent it. Then, on the next order, shaved a wide path down the middle, snapped it
again, chintz sofa and a pile of mail behind him, and sent it off to me. His
eyes in that one. Intriguing. Trying to be very cool, but narrowed at the
corners. And his mouth. Small, but with fine sensuous lips. Trying to smile and
not look scared. I smiled back at the picture, imagining what that mouth would
look like when it was very hungry, traces of spit at the corners, and stretched
wide to take my hot meat. Hmmmm. "Patient?" Well, for a while, anyway.
Paul enjoyed his visit. He hoped he could come again some time. His ass still
ached. His buns were still sore. If he looked over his shoulder in the mirror
he could still see traces of the belt marks on the pale skin of his ass. "Thank
you, sir, for letting me take the leather thong home with me. I put it
on....around my slave balls some times and look in the mirror, remembering how
you tied it on...and the weights. Oh, sir!" Again? Indeed. Paul was a first time
slave. He was visibly shaking when I opened the door to let him in.
By the time he left he knew how to say goodbye, dropping to the floor to kiss my
boots and tongue the shiny metal rings on the sides. The only problem with this
slave, I thought, remembering the pale peach fuzz on his chest and ass as he
hung from the hook moaning and begging to be used, was that he was starting to
think he had found love. Too fast, too much a heavy crush brought on by the
rush, by the belt and the willow cane. And on the rebound from a failed and not
forgotten love. Slow. Slow, boy. We'll see. Your fuzzy butt is beautiful in the
candle's glow, but leather love takes ripening.
Strolling out to the kitchen, stretching and yawning, I got another beer: this
one to last, to be last, to sip and finish about the time the lights went out.
As I looked out into the yard I remembered Joel. The corkscrew willow was
shining with slick dabs of ice. Bits of snow in the crotches of the branches. A
whole other thing from the night Joel was here just before he left for San
Francisco. Late. After. Calmly and quietly, we sat under the trees in late
august. Not far from dawn. We talked, smiled, chuckled. He winced every once
and again when he shifted his weight from one side to the other. Still some
sting left in those sweet olive buns. He moved the empty bottles into patterns
on the table.
Talking. And playing some new chess game with the bottles. Looking into my eyes
and smiling from time to time. "You know," he'd said. "I always liked ...
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