Bow bow (Oh yeah)
Bow bow (Oh yeah)
So my first year of college wasn’t great. Who would have thought that a student with my stellar high school attendance record would rack up nine unexcused absences in just two semesters?
Whatever. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while… well, you know.
Being back in this garage, the morning light glowing on everything through the windows, gives me such a feeling of nostalgia. Not the garage at my house, mind you. The one at Cameron’s house. We promised each other we’d meet here as soon as we both got back, to spend the day together.
I don’t think I’ve been in this room since, well, the incident.
An incident that nearly cost Cameron his freedom, his teeth, and his life.
But he made it. We made it. Now I’m here, and, soon, I assume, so will he.
“He’s not coming.”
A voice from behind me. Not Cameron’s. Deeper. Scarier. I turn around.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Frye,” I say, instinctively putting on my best guilless face.
“He’s not coming,” Mr. Frye says again, advancing towards me, a mean look on his mean face.
“What makes you say that, sir?”
“He told me you would be here. He let it slip. That’s why he’s not coming.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Do you have any idea how much that car cost me?”
“What car do you mean, sir?”
“I don’t have to tell you I mean the Ferrari. Did you know that it was one of only 100 ever made?”
“I did not know that, sir.”
Now he’s just about nose-to-nose with me. Or he would be, if he weren’t a full head taller.”
He asks me, “Did you know that the statute of limitations for property crimes is five years?”
I’m actually a little scared now.
“I didn’t know that either, sir.”
“How long has it been? A year?”
“A little more than a year, sir. Since Cameron wrecked the car.”
“‘Since Cameron wrecked the car.'”
I think he’s going to kill me. And I think he knows that Cameron didn’t wreck the car.
I mean, he did wreck the car. But one could make the technical argument that it was my fault.
Inexplicably, Mr. Frye calms down. He even smiles. He asks, genially, “Now, what do we do about it?”
“I don’t know that there’s anything to be done, sir. I believe it was established that Cameron–“
“I know perfectly well what happened. I’m asking you, what do we do about it?”
“What do you think we should do, sir?”
“I know this is just your Eddie Haskell routine…” he says, “…but I like that you call me ‘sir.'”
I gulp nervously.
He leans in. He says, “I’m starting to get used to it.”
Absurdly, I think Mr. Frye is going to kiss me.
It’s gentle, a lover’s kiss. He tips my chin up with a knuckle and kisses me. I freeze in place. Then he kisses me again, with tongue, this time.
I kiss back, also with tongue. I have no idea what else to do.
His skin is rough, the beginnings of five o’clock shadow, but his mouth is soft and wet. He smells like I imagine every scary Republican dad smells. Like faint sweat and English leather.
Immediately, I’m erect. I know it’s visible through my pants. I hope he doesn’t look at it.
He breaks the kiss, still holding my chin. I don’t dare move.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “A written agreement. I know your family’s gone today. I made sure my family would be gone today as well. You’ve incurred a rather significant debt to me, and I’ve thought of a scenario where you can wipe that debt clean. Nod if you understand.”
I nod, stiffly.
He releases my chin.
“Follow me,” canlı bahis he says.
I follow him to a drafting table at the corner of the room. He sits down, retrieves a pen and paper from a drawer, and lays it across the desktop. I stand before him, trying to talk myself out of having an obvious erection.
He prepares to write. He looks up at me and says, “You will stay with me today. Whatever I want you to do, you’ll do it, no matter how strange or unexpected it seems. No objections, no bargaining.”
He waits for me to nod. I nod. He starts jotting these things down.
He continues, writing as he goes.
“As far as I or any other parties involved are concerned, when you say yes, you mean yes. If you say no, you mean yes. If you cry or whimper or fight back, it means continue.”
Everything he just said has my stomach in my feet. Starting with “other parties involved.”
I ask, tremulously, “What if I really mean no? What if I really need to stop?”
He smiles that genial smile. “Well, we’ll need a special word, won’t we? A word that’s just for us. We’ll say–“
He writes it down before finishing his sentence.
“What happens if I say Ferrari?”
“We stop. We check in. If you need to pause, whatever you need, we’ll do it before continuing.”
“What if I just want it all to stop?”
“Then we stop. We all go on with our lives. No questions asked, no harm done.”
“What about the car?”
“Water under the bridge. I will consider your debt relieved, in recognition of your cooperation with these terms.”
“What if I say Ferrari right away?”
“That depends. If you say Ferrari right away, do you think it constitutes cooperation?”
I think for a moment before I answer.
He smiles again. “Very well, then,” he says.
He’s drawn up a little place at the bottom for me to sign, date, and initial. All very proper and legal. He slides the pen and paper over to me. I take the pen and prepare to sign.
He says, “By signing this, you’re acknowledging that you have no boundaries that can’t be crossed. There is no service you won’t perform.”
“Until I say Ferrari.”
“Unless you say Ferrari.”
I sign the paper. He looks pleased. He folds it up, puts it in a drawer in the drafting table, locks the drawer with a key, and puts the key in his pocket.
“Now,” he says, standing up, “Walk to the center of this room.”
I walk to the center of the room and face him. It occurs to me that I’m standing where he once would have parked the Ferrari.
He remains next to the desk.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, “and fold them neatly in front of you.”
“What if the floor is cold, sir?”
“You can keep your socks on. Everything else, down to your bare ass.”
I do as I’m told. There is no longer a point in hiding my erection.
“What now, sir?”
“Just stand there. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the garage, heading towards the house. I stand there. I don’t dare move.
Time passes. I become aware of my reflection, faint, looking back at me many times over from the floor-to-ceiling windows dividing the garage from the lush green nature outside.
I look pale and scared. Older and stronger than the last time I was here, with shaggier hair and the beginnings of a beard. But I still feel like a kid who’s gotten in trouble with the grownups.
I think I hear his voice, coming from the house. It sounds like he’s on the phone. I can’t hear what he’s saying.
Then he’s back, sauntering over to me. He casually picks up my belt from the pile of clothes in front of me.
“Kneel,” bahis siteleri he says.
I kneel, putting my knees on the clothes.
“Hands behind your back. Clasp them together.”
I do as I’m told.
He’s behind me, tying my wrists together with my belt, then tying the belt to my ankles. The braided leather is cold and rough on my skin.
“Now,” he says, “I have some work to do. You’re going to stay there like a good boy. We have company coming. When they get here, we’ll begin.”
I gulp nervously again.
I admit, after a while, the waiting bores me more than it scares me. Mr. Frye is over at the drafting table, doing whatever it is that he does. I’m kneeling on my clothes. My erection is long gone. Being naked and hogtied on my knees is almost starting to feel normal.
I hear a door slam, out of my view.
Then there’s someone in front of me, uncomfortably close.
“Hello, who do we have here?” the voice says. I look up.
Dean Rooney looks down at me, grinning underneath that pushbroom mustache of his, the devil in his eyes.
I spent four years of my life narrowly escaping Mr. Rooney. I never once thought he would catch up to me now.
“Mr. Rooney and I have formed a little club,” Mr. Frye says, standing at Mr. Rooney’s side.
“About me?” I ask, hesitantly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Rooney says.
“We… socialize,” Mr. Frye says. “And among our socializations, your name has occasionally come up.”
“We do talk,” Mr. Rooney says, unbuckling his belt.
Mr. Frye says, “We made a deal that if one of us had our chance to get you alone in a room, we’d make sure the other had a chance to address his grievances.”
Mr. Rooney has his cock out, about a foot from my face. “I assume he signed the paper?”
Mr. Frye nods. “That he did.”
Mr. Rooney starts pissing. Not on my face, thankfully, but all down my chest and stomach. Hot urine gathers in my pubes, trickles down my thighs into my clothes.
He keeps pissing until he’s done, then shakes the last couple drops out and tucks it back into his pants, as if he were peeing into a urinal.
“Don’t worry about your clothes,” Mr. Rooney says. “We’ll take care of them.”
Mr. Frye is behind me, wordlessly releasing my limbs from the belt. I wonder how much of this they discussed beforehand.
“You’ve been here before, I’m sure,” Mr. Rooney says. “Now you’re going to take a shower.”
Hestitantly, I stand up. My skin runs with rapidly cooling urine, causing me to shiver.
“March,” Mr. Rooney says.
I head into the Fryes’ house, towards the first floor bathroom with the shower stall. They follow close behind.
Mr. Frye enters the bathroom first, reaches into the opulent stall, and starts the shower. Steam plumes almost immediately. I stand there in the middle of the floor, grateful for the warming air. Mr. Rooney is a threatening presence behind me.
“Wash up,” Mr. Frye says. I have to squeeze past him. In the shower, the hot water makes short work of the urine on my skin.
I find the bar of soap on a small shelf and begin soaping myself.
“How about a few bars of Danke Schoen?” I hear Mr. Rooney say over the sound of running water. They laugh. I can’t really see them anymore through the steam.
I’ve just about got myself lathered from head to toe–taking as much time as I can–when I hear the click of the stall opening. Cool air hits my ass.
Mr. Frye, nude, squeezes in front of me. I don’t have to look to know that Mr. Rooney is behind me.
Mr. Frye pulls my body to his and kisses me, more aggressively than before. His body is a little soft, but his bahis şirketleri penis is hard against my belly.
I make out obediently with Mr. Frye, holding him chastely while his hands roam my hips and buttocks. I’m hard again.
I feel another penis against the crack of my ass, followed by the fat belly and rough embrace of Mr. Rooney from behind. I’m sandwiched between them.
Mr. Rooney begins kissing my neck. Big, open-mouthed, sucking kisses. His mustache tickles me.
I think Mr. Frye and Mr. Rooney are reaching around me to touch each other. Mr. Frye’s mouth has released mine and he, too, is sucking at the flesh of my neck.
How could I doom myself so? To be stuck, naked, between the two men in the world who hate me the most?
Our bodies slide around together. I’m lubricated on both sides by a thick film of soap. One of them has slid a finger in between my buttocks, touching my anus. A shock runs through my nervous system that I try not to betray.
“I think you missed a spot,” I hear Mr. Rooney say. The finger goes away, then comes back. He vigorously strokes my anus. I’m a little too petrified to enjoy it.
Mr. Frye stands back. He says, “Your job is to say yes.”
“Spread your legs,” he says.
I plant my feet apart. Mr. Rooney takes advantage of the easier access. He really gives my asshole a good sudsing. I’m starting to feel less scared and more turned on.
My throbbing erection is on full display to Mr. Frye. He glances down at it and slaps the underside of it. It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation makes me recoil. He slaps it again.
Then Mr. Frye rinses off and leaves the shower, leaving me and Mr. Rooney alone.
He’s still behind me. I don’t dare turn around.
His arms are around me. His body presses into mine, impressing the weight of his cock into the small of my back. One hand squeezes my face; the other clutches the light pad of fat above my pubic hair.
“What do you think’s going to happen?” he says into my ear. It sounds like his teeth are gritted.
“Are you going to jerk me off?” I ask.
His hand moves away from my cock and up to my throat. He has his hand on my throat, but he doesn’t squeeze.
“Only if I feel like it,” he says. “What’s going to happen is that you’re going to be okay with whatever we decide is going to happen.”
“What do you think we’re going to decide?”
“Are you going to fuck me?”
“I don’t want you to ask. I want you to tell me what you think we’re going to decide.”
“I think you’re going to fuck me, sir.”
“You think I’m going to fuck you.”
“That’s interesting. That is very interesting.”
He releases me. I feel him leave the shower. Then I’m alone in the stall.
I rinse off, again taking as much time as I can, then switch the shower off.
On the closed toilet seat is a neatly folded terrycloth robe. On top of that, an assortment of buttplugs of various sizes and a small bottle of lube.
I don’t have to ask what these are for.
I select one that seems about right–a bright red one. Biggish, but not frighteningly so. I gather some lube on two fingers. I lube the buttplug, then myself. The angle is awkward, but I manage to get my fingers in past the first knuckle.
Satisfied, I perch the tip of the buttplug at my anus, clench down, and breathe deep.
Then I exhale, relax my asshole, and tip the buttplug in, all in one smooth action.
It feels overwhelming at first. I may have overshot how much I can take. But as the fattest part slips past and my asshole settles into place, my worry mostly subsides.
I feel full. The pressure inside my rectum is halfway between discomfort and pleasure.
I put on the robe–it’s very short–and wander off to look for Mr. Frye and Mr. Rooney.
~TO BE CONCLUDED~