Sex in the Sky

“To Readers: Please be aware that this is fiction and involves some scenes of BDSM that should not be attempted without research, practice and great care.”

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*Chapter 3: Fancy Man and the Fourth Prince *

Hadji left the guesthouse and Nigel, who’d been pacing out side, slipped in.

“Refresh that drink, Gov?” he asked.

Robbie, seated on the bed, his frustrated cock sulking on his thigh, fairly snarled at the Brit. “You forgot to tell me about that little rule. The one that says my ’suitors’ are only allowed to tease.”

“I did neglect to tell you that, and I’m very sorry. But I’ve gotta say, you’re looking at this all wrong. It’s a fairytale. Each prince has got a gift and they’re going to offer it to you. The best they’ve got and you get to pick the one that pleases you most. That little lad put his heart into showing you his gift. Why complain about what you didn’t get?”

“I didn’t ask for this fantasy,” Robbie grumbled.

“See, now you’re looking at it all wrong again. You don’t ask for birthday presents, you get them because folk like you and want to show it. You’ve got to learn to enjoy what comes when it comes. God knows, you might not get it again. I sure don’t,” Nigel added ruefully. “Now, how about some more wine?”

This Englishman was a treasure and I was going to buy him a new pair of cowboy boots after this! Hadji stepped into the dungeon, looking dejected and ashamed. He’d pulled off his turban so that his dark hair fell about his delicate, brown face. His head was bowed. Charles and Terry glanced my way, worried. And well they might be. Hadji was my responsibility and I had to take care of him. I got up and relieved the boy of turban and cape, setting them aside.

“Terry, get ready.” I said, surreptitiously snatching up a rounded paddle. I didn’t want Drew to notice and he didn’t, but Terry and Charles did. I saw them both shift. Between that voyeuristic rimming and what they knew was coming to Hadji they were probably feeling a little…wound up.

I grabbed Hadji by the arm and took him down to the most distant spare bedroom. It had a good, stiff-backed chair in it. I shoved the boy in, locked the door, and sat myself down.

“What’d you do wrong?”

“You told me to stop before he got too aroused,” Hadji whispered. “I didn’t. I got into it and forgot. I’m sorry, sir.”

“You know sorry’s not good enough.”

“No, sir.”

“You almost fucked it up and you left him mad. Take down your pants.”

Hadji gulped, and did as he was told. He pulled them off slow, a mix of strip tease for my benefit and dread on his part. I knew he wasn’t wearing underwear and I’m sure his bare skin was very sensitive to how the cloth slid over his ass before pooling around his boots. He had lithe legs with a down of black hair. The tunic hid his crotch, but not the hard-on tenting it. His breath was shallow with fear and excitement.

That’s how it is with bottoms like Hadji. They yearn for pain, restraint, humiliation, even as it terrifies them. It’s important, however, that this pain and restraint be administered by someone who can tether them, someone who knows exactly what they need and how much. Hadji, I’d been informed, had a daddy complex. So he needed a stern father figure to anchor him.

“Come here.”

He took tiny steps, not just because he had to shuffle with his pants down, but also because it was part of his ritual, to draw it out. His focus was growing tight now, entirely on me, and that paddle. As he stepped close I grabbed his arm and jerked him over my lap, bending him head down. I easily captured his slender wrists and pinned them at the small of his back. His bare legs I trapped between my thighs. I could feel his hard cock, slender and not very long pressed against my knee. I used two fingers of the hand holding the paddle to slowly lift his tunic and expose that cute, brown bubble butt of his.

It was high and vulnerable, and I loved the way its exposure created goosebumps down his spine. He squirmed with shame. I rubbed the paddle over that ass, teased him by tapping it. He whimpered.

Wack! I brought down that first smack. His body jerked and he yelped. I wondered if Nash’s arm was as heavy.

Wack! Wack! Wack! The paddle stuck with satisfying slaps on those orbs, mashing them, reddening them. Hadji cried out and struggled. I figured he liked that, feeling helpless in my powerful grip. He tried to kick, which had no effect at all.

Wack! Wack! Wack! I sped up the spanking. I couldn’t take too long with this.

“Please, no, please—” he was weeping now.

“Your butt’s not going anywhere, young man,” I told him. Paddling it harder. “I’m going to punish you till you can’t sit down!”

I aimed my slaps up, as in ping-pong, getting him under the curve, then at one tender cheek, then the other. His erection was half-gone, from the pain. The rubbing against my leg, however, was keeping it from completely flagging.

He was sobbing now. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll be good.”

I paused and eased away my thigh from him. He remained draped over my knee, shaking legs barely able to hold him up.

“Spread em,” I told him.

“Sir—”

“Do it!” I snapped. Fucking twinks. Charles would have already had his legs apart, daring me to do my worst. He would also have been swearing at me, not sniffling.

Hadji opened up as much as he could given the pants about his ankles. I closed up my muscled thighs again. His brown nuts were exposed, his asshole too, if one parted those abused cheeks with the edge of the paddle, as I did. That made him shiver and gasp. My cock, which had been rising up, went rock hard there in my formal trousers.

Wack! Wack! Wack!

He bucked and wept and pleaded for mercy. Finally, I put aside the paddle and rested back, feeling quite calm. I stroked his hot, sore ass, liking how my touch made him catch his breath and wiggle in pain and arousal. Unfortunately, I now had one hell of a hard-on. I checked the clock. It had seemed long for Hadji and me, but it hadn’t been more than about seven minutes. Could I do this quickly?

Given how I felt, hell yes.

“It’s over,” I said releasing him, “Now show me how grateful you are for your punishment.”

He slipped right down to his knees, his trembling hands going for my zipper. My cock popped out, stiff and pulsing with excitement. Hadji put his very wet mouth to it and I felt his tears falling on my shaft as he began to suck and bob. His lips and tongue were even softer than I’d imagined they’d be, and certainly as clever. He licked the ridges and the throbbing vein underneath, delved into my dripping slit with the tip of his tongue. That made me thrust into his hot mouth. He gagged a little then found a way to take me. Not to the root, I was too long and thick for him, but he did his best to suck and swallow.

In no time at all I felt that hardness in my balls, the jerking pulse of an orgasm. I grabbed him by the hair, cock pumping and came in his mouth. My cream spilled beyond his lips, but he swallowed as much as he could. He licked after me as I finally pulled out.

Quick, but satisfying. I pushed Hadji away as my cock went sensitive and started to shrink. His face was tear streaked, his face gooey with cum and snot.

“Please, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered.

I petting his head. “Apology accepted. Except for that one mistake, you did a perfect job. I’ll let Master Nash know that. Whether you tell him about this is up to you.”

“Thank you, sir.” His wet eyes gleamed at that. Puppy happy now that the rolled-up newspaper was gone. I sighed. It had been fun, but I really could not understand a steady diet of such submissive bottoms.

“I have to return,” I said. “Wash up. Come back when you’re ready.”

“Yes sir.” I noted that he was rubbing at his very sore tush and would probably spend a good amount of time admiring it in the mirror. I wondered if Nash would make him relate the paddling, relive it, jerk off to it. Probably.

Leaving the paddle, I headed back to the dungeon. Charles stood up as I came in and Terry paused in fastening the double rows of buttons on his jacket. They kept their eyes down. Only Drew, completely in the dark, glanced up.

“Get over there,” I said to Terry. He snatched up his belt and gloves and rushed out. “What’s going on?”

“Nigel’s moving the table and chairs,” Charles responded, eyes still down. “He’s been talking about how red hair isn’t liked in England, and how nice it is that Americans know how to appreciate it.”

“You were at the Cockpit a week or so ago,” I heard from the screen. Robbie, now dressed in a white caftan, was resting back on the bed. “Weren’t you?”

“I was indeed,” Nigel was putting aside the last chair to leave an area of bare floor. “Not my usual scene, but I’d gone chasing after Charles.”

“I take it you caught him?”

“Hence, my role here,” Nigel acknowledged. “A favor owed to the Fancy Man for his generosity. Well worth it.”

On the other half of the screen, the outside camera showed Terry at the door. He was putting on his belt and white gloves.

“So you’re not really a British butler,” Robbie went on.

“Ah, no. This,” Nigel touched on his costume, “is Mason’s revenge for my typecasting all Americans as cowboys. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t cast me as part of the royal family.”

“Do you mind playing butler for the night?”

“Well, that depends,” Nigel said gravely. “I was promised that at some point or other you’d dress up like Batman.”

That got a laugh from Robbie, a big one.

“I’m going to be sorely disappointed if you don’t,” Nigel continued. “I’ve always wanted to be buggered by the caped crusader.”

A knock at the door.

“Ah,” said Nigel, “Looks like your next suitor has arrived.”

“Send him in, Alfred.”

“Very good, Master Bruce.”

The door fell open and Terry marched on in, bowing at the waist. Robbie gasped, and well he might have. I’d found Terry a lovely, nineteenth century military outfit: cream jacket with gold buttons and epilates complimented by dark trousers with gold stripes down either side. He looked liked he’d stepped right out of Cinderella, white gloves included.

“Greetings,” he smiled that charming (yes, charming!), boyish smile of his. “I am the Monarch of the West.”

Nigel smirked and with a wave, left them.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Robbie said, getting to his feet. He seemed to be conflicted, impressed but also bemused and uncertain.

“I clean up good,” Terry remarked.

“Damn straight. Okay, Monarch of the West…I’ll bite. What gift do you bring?”

Terry stepped over to the stereo with its waiting iPod and quickly found his playlist. With a press of the button, a waltz sounded through the speakers. He bowed again, and held out a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”

Robbies brows shot up. ‘You’re shitting me.”

In answer, Terry pulled the muscular man in. His feet began to move, so smoothly that barefoot Robbie found himself following. Terry led them about the small patch of floor. He expertly avoided knocking them into the bed or table or tub.

“Will you look at that,” Nigel said, appearing at our backs. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Heh-heh. Get it? Ginger?”

We blinked at him.

“For the hair?” he tried to explain, then sighed at American ignorance. “Never mind.”

“Terry’s really good,” Charles said.

He was, and so was the playlist, which seamlessly melded out of a waltz into Count Basie and a quickstep. Terry was grinning now and Robbie, still stunned was beginning look delighted.

Damn. I was jealous. All I ever got to do with Terry was enact fraternity hazings.

I glanced at the clock. The dancing was going to go on for a good twenty minutes. Time for another bathroom break.

“Pit stop guys,” I said. “Charles, come with me.”

I led him to the same bedroom where I’d taken Hadji and locked the door. I noticed his eyes glancing anxiously to the paddle I’d left there, wondering if he’d done something wrong.

I crossed my arms. “What’s the problem?”

“Problem?” he echoed.

“I overheard, Charles. Don’t try to shit me.”

His face paled. “Sir, Drew was wrong. There is no problem.”

“I say there is. You’re keeping something from me and that’s a problem. Now spill it. What did Drew think we should talk about?”

He hesitated, then finally coughed it up: “Christmas.”

Okay. That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. “What about it?”

“Drew wanted to know why I was going to be spending Christmas alone. Why you weren’t going to be with me, or, alternately, why I wasn’t going to be with you and your family.”

My turn to flush, though Charles couldn’t tell. My dark skin hid my blushes quite well. “That isn’t any of his concern.”

“No, sir. I tried to tell him that, but he assumed that you hadn’t come out to your family. I insisted that wasn’t so. …I shouldn’t have gone into it, but I don’t like someone making those kinds of assumptions about you.”

Translation: Charles had felt compelled to stand up for me. It was difficult to fault him for that. Slave-types are intensely loyal, even when it hurts them to be so. It was one of the qualities about them that I loved and admired.

“So he thinks I’m jerking you around,” I concluded.

“He doesn’t understand our relationship. It’s not a problem.”

“No,” I agreed. Strangely, in spite of Charles insistence, I was now less sure of that then ever. “But something else is. You’re still holding back. You have been for a while.”

He tried to meet my eyes, but he couldn’t. That was admission enough.

“Do I have to beat it out of you?”

Rosy spots appeared on his cheeks. “I’ve been with you for three months,” he said, “and I don’t know where you live.”

I found it very hard to swallow of a sudden. My throat had just closed up.

“Sunday, Tuesday and Friday nights you sleep at my place, and on Saturday you go home with someone from the bar. The other days you’re at your apartment. I don’t know where that is. The one time I asked you what part of town you lived in, you said you were in the boring part.” He sucked in a breath, “But that isn’t the problem.”

“It’s not?”

“No, sir. The problem is: “no one” knows where you live. I asked ten different people and got ten different answers. You live by the lake, in a penthouse, by the train tracks, in a secret room under the Cockpit bar. From what I understand, no one’s ever gone home with you. Not even Robbie has seen your place.”

Body language is revealing. A man crosses his arms when he gets defensive. I crossed my arms.

“Is that all?”

“No,” Charles continued on; it seemed this can of worms was now well and truly opened. “No one seems to know anything about you either. I know you have a sister, but you never mention her name.”

“Loretta,” I said flatly, though, tellingly, my throat got even tighter, as if trying to keep it secret. “We call her Lo.”

“Thank you, sir.” Charles was holding more rigidly to protocols than he had in weeks, like a soldier on review. “But that’s not the problem.” He sucked in a breath. “The problem is, I asked Robbie what her name was…and he didn’t know you had a sister. Mason, he’s your best friend and he didn’t know you had a sister.”

My back muscles were tense now.

“And you never mention your father—”

“That’s enough.” I didn’t raise my voice or snarl. But I made myself clear. My father was no one’s business.

Silence between us. It occurred to me that I still didn’t know what this was all about. Charles said he had no problem with what I did or did not tell him, which, given our relationship, was only right. I was the master and I got to decide what he needed to know. So why should it be a problem that others were in the dark as well? And why was my stomach turning over and over again with dread.

“I’d better get back. We’ll finish this later.” I felt cowardly, but I really did have to get back.

Charles followed me to the dungeon. The others were too engrossed with whatever was happening on the screen to notice or care, though Drew’s almond eyes did give us curious glance.

Sultry rumba music was coming from the screen. Terry, I saw, had progressed. Considerably. He was pressed up behind Robbie, hands roaming over the bartender’s body. As they undulated to the music, Terry brushed at Robbie’s erection, which was poking up against the caftan. His hands slid up from there to find and pinch at nipples. He set his mouth to Robbie’s muscled neck, nipping and nibbling before licking up to his ear. The bartender, lost in the drumbeat, swayed and rubbed up and down against Terry.

“Should I, er, interrupt them?” Nigel asked.

“I’m hoping we don’t have to.” What happened with Hadji ought to have been warning enough to Terry. I guess it was because as the rumba came to an end, he stopped chewing on Robbie’s earlobe and, spinning the bartender around, gave him a long, tongue-twisting kiss.

“That’s all I’m allowed,” he whispered. Both of them were flushed, their faces spangled with sweat. “But if you decide to pick me, I promise we’ll dance all night long.”

Good God. I didn’t think Terry had it in him. He ought to dance more. A lot more.

Robbie, dreamy rather than pissed this time, watched Terry bow himself out before sinking down on to the bed.

One hell of a second act. “Drew,” I said wondering if Charles friend could match that, “You’re up.”

#

Drew passed Terry as they crossed the lawn. “Good luck,” Terry waved to him, and I gave my attention to the images being sent from the interior cameras. The door opened.

“Greetings,” Drew stepped in.

Robbie, still getting his breath back, frowned with confusion. “Who are you?” I suppose he’d anticipated knowing all three princes.

Drew bowed. I’d found him a pretty cool Samurai outfit. (Don’t ask. Let’s just say that’s it damn hard to find a Vietnamese prince costume in this town.) He had on flowing, gray silk trousers, a gray silk tunic with equally long sleeves and a red and purple vest with huge, winged shoulders. The whole enchilada was all held together by a pair of gold and purple sashes. No katanas. Swords, I’d decided would just trip up my princes. No topknot either, but I’d given him a nice, gold headband to wear.

“I am the Emperor of the East,” he announced with that southern drawl, and I found myself rubbing at the pain between my eyes again. I half-expected him to ask Robbie if he wanted grits with his sushi. “And I have every intention of winning that dinner with you.”

Robbie gave Drew the once over from head to foot. He seemed to like what he saw. “What are you going to do? A Noh play?”

“Something like,” Drew smirked and made adjustments to the iPod. With a press of the button, the deep music of “Madame Butterfly” came wafting out.

Going to one knee, he began to sing in a sweet, clear tenor.

Between decorating the guesthouse, fitting the costumes, blocking out the action and teaching Nigel to drive, there’d been no time for a dress rehearsal. So I hadn’t heard Drew sing. His voice was good, the pitch on target. And his Italian, as far as I could tell, impeccable. All the same, I cannot tell you how weird it was to watch this. Robbie didn’t know what to make of it either if the amazed expression his freckled face was anything to go by.

“I thought I was joking when I mentioned the “Twilight Zone”,” Nigel murmured.

“He was classically trained, ” Charles pointed out. “But it’s really hard to make in opera. Especially in Atlanta.”

It was, of all people, twinky Hadji, back with us again, who said it: “That’s pretty queer, eh?”

“Sir?” Terry was at my shoulder. He looked anxious. “May I speak with you?”

What now? I stepped out of the dungeon with him, still hearing the strains of “Madame Butterfly”. “What?”

“Did I do well, sir?”

“You did fantastic,” I said, wondering all the while why he had gone formal with me.

“Naw” he said, “But I can feel it if you touch it ‘igher up where there ain’t no scars.” And then for first time I felt that exciting tingle in my balls and dick which announces that blood is beginning to run freely into them. I soon had a hard-on. It was the same for him too, because I saw the soft curve of the pubic bulge begin to change shape and the outlines of his stiffening dick appear beneath the fabric of his underwear. “That’s it” he said, “Touch me there - and there - an’ a bit higher.”

It didn’t take long for me to deftly extract his dick. It was a wonderful sight : not over-long (about six inches) but thick and veiny - a bit like the trunk of a woodland tree to look at. Though it was fully stiff, the skin was wrinkled so that it had a soft feel to it. It was obviously much “played with” (to use his own way of speaking) and there was a lot of loose foreskin. The whole shaft had a feeling of looseness and when I peeled back the foreskin the knob was large, shiny and smooth.

“What do you call this gorgeous thing ?” I asked and he said “It’s me willy.” Nomenclature when you meet someone for the first time can be a delicate business, but not here, apparently. “Does it take you long to come off ?” I asked and he said “Not when I’m excited, like now. ‘old it ‘ere” (and he showed me how he liked it to be held) “an’ just rub away. Start slowly and when I say, speed up a bit. I’ll just tek’ me clothes orf.”

After he had done that, he lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and I started to stroke him. His “willy” really was a splendid instrument and I held it with relish, my own dick straining at the leash inside my trousers. It wasn’t long before he said “A bit quicker, please” and I could sense rather than see the rising excitement in him. “Quicker still” he gasped - and now I could see his balls starting to move up towards his groin and he was beginning to pant. He gave me no further warning. Suddenly the whole thing erupted in my hand and a jet of spunk flew from the tip and landed with a splash on his belly. It was followed by four or five further spurts (I couldn’t count them I was so exited watching it happen) and then a dribble. Then it all went limp.

He opened his eyes. “By ‘eck that were a good’un” he said. “Best I’ve ‘ad in years” and he smiled at me. “I’ll just clean up an’ then it’s your turn.” He reached under the pillow and extracted what looked like a discarded face-flannel and proceeded to mop himself down with it. Then he hopped off the bed and invited me by gesture rather than by words to lie on it. So I took off my clothes and lay down while he scrutinised what I had to offer. “You’re like me” he said. “What’s that word - uncircumcised ?” I nodded and he proceeded to feel me and to draw back my foreskin. “Not as thick as me” he said, “But a touch longer. Does it cum quick, like me ?”

I wanted to say “Try it and see” but he was already stroking me and I was amazed how well he did it. A lifetime of wanking lay behind those sensitive fingers. I could feel the sensation building up in me, building, building, building - and then, with that final, wonderful tightening in my groin, I knew I was going to explode. I did - shooting my cum all over my belly and his fingers.

“That were good’ an all” he said, visibly pleased with himself and my performance, “When did you last ‘ave it off, then ?”

I didn’t have to think too long about that because it had been the night before, fantasising about what I might do the following morning. I told him this and he laughed and said that he had done it too. “We’re quits then” he said. He got up off the bed and limped over to a wash stand (there was no running water in the room) and fetched me another discarded flannel. “That’s me spare” he said, and laughed.

Back in the living-room below we made arrangements to meet again the next Friday. And the next Friday we made arrangements to meet in ten days’ time on the Monday. I wanted to use different days of the week to avoid creating suspicion back at work, so we planned a rolling programme which missed out Tuesdays (his day for going to the village) and which went Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. He turned down my offer to help him with his shopping, saying people would notice if he changed anything, but he made a note of my mobile phone number and, because I had no way of contacting him, he promised to phone me if for any reason we couldn’t stick to the programme. When I left his cottage that morning we were both, I think, very pleased with ourselves and each other.

The next two months were very enjoyable. Because he had been so long without a sexual relationship he became fond of me while I liked him in return. I thought it ironic that it was the reverse of the case with Darren and me, where I had been the one who was fond. I never forgot Darren but I found Billy straightforward, I admired his honest way of life and I liked being with him. Our meetings developed into a pattern whereby I would arrive at the cottage, Billy would meet me at the front door and we would tour his garden together. Then we would go inside and have a cup of tea and then, when we felt “comfortable” with each other, we would go upstairs to the bedroom. He always “came” first before turning his attention to me. It seemed to work well like that.

I think it would have gone for a long time if Dorothy had not become ill. I arrived one day to find the Social Services minibus unloading her and Billy on the doorstep, anxiously waving me away. He had not had time to phone me to forewarn me. The following Tuesday there was a recorded message on my mobile answering service telling me not to come later that week because Dorothy was at home and not to come again until he phoned. I kept expecting his phone call, but it never came. The time came for my annual holiday and I went abroad to Switzerland. When we got back there was a lot of business to attend to and it was some time before I got the opportunity to drive out into the countryside to check up for myself what was happening.

You can imagine my distress when I found that the cottage looked deserted. The flower garden at the front was full of weeds and the vegetable garden at the back was untended. I went to the village Post Office to enquire, saying I was a friend of Billy’s, and was told he had moved there after the death of his sister. They had a forwarding address - somewhere in Northumberland - and if I cared to write to him at his old address, they would forward my letter on to him.

In due course I wrote but didn’t really expect a reply. At Christmas however I received a card from him and as I opened the envelope a small piece of lined paper fell out. On it, in pencil and in the school-boy hand of someone not used to writing, was a message, remarkable for its omission of the personal pronoun and not being signed. It said “Got your letter. Lost your phone number after Dorothy died. Sorry. Still playing well and missing you. Hope to get back home when Auntie feels better.”

I was glad he was still “playing” but thought he would have to wait for another death in his family for him to return to Cragside. He must have felt very lonely after his sister’s death and frustrated that he could not contact me. Then I looked at the card he had sent. He had made it himself and on the front was a colour photo of his home in the hills, with the flower-beds on each side of the steps leading up to the front door. At the top of the steps was Billy himself, looking self-conscious as he peered at the camera. Inside was the briefest of greetings :

Happy Christmas

With love from

Billy

And underneath the signature in his childish hand he had put a big ‘X’.

We had never kissed, but I knew what he meant.

I was very moved.

meone from that angle. It”s kinda awkward, you know? But that was okay – it didn”t need to be hard. I was only doing it for effect, to make him suffer that little bit more. Shit – I wasn”t trying to kill him or nothing, just make him see who was top dog.

I got bored after holding him there so long, so I finally let the fucker go. He didn”t move much, laying there under me all limp, head to one side, arms outstretched, breathing really heavy. I knew he was a goner so I got up and walked around him, circling like a vulture.

I grabbed his hair, pulling him to his feet, then decided that maybe he hadn”t had enough after all. Someone as tough as him needed a much fuckin” tougher lesson than normal, so I grabbed him in a reverse headlock.

Fab wrapped his arms around my waist, trying to break free. I barely felt it, he was so fuckin” weak now, but the cunt still managed to push me back against a tree. Fuckin” incredible! I don”t know how he did it. Must have been one last surge of adrenaline or something. But whatever it was, I made sure it didn”t happen again. I dropped to a crouch, slamming his throat into my knee as we went down.

When I let him go, he rolled over onto the ground gagging. My move was brilliant, if I do say so myself. I”d crushed his windpipe and he held onto his throat gasping for breath, rocking back and forth. I grabbed his hair again and pulled him up to his knees, pushing his face into my crotch.

“Suck me,” I said.

He shook his head as much as he could with me holding onto him like that. He was proud. I liked that. It made my cock go even harder when they resisted.

I tightened my grip on his hair, making him wince, and said it again.

“Suck me, you fucking faggot, or I”ll fuckin” ripped your ears off.”

I pushed his face into my crotch harder and growled, “Suck me” a third time.

The prick was determined though and he tried getting up from his knees. I let go of his hair with one hand and punched him hard on his back, knocking him back down so he was kneeling again.

“You fuckin” suck me off or so help me, I knock you into tomorrow.”

Fab whimpered and I saw his hands reached up to pull down my shorts. I yanked his head back and made him look up at me.

“With your mouth, you little pussy. Pull it out with your mouth.”

I thrust his face back into me and smiled. I loved seeing him helpless against me. Fab was good, his strength made that moment all the more sweet. It”s like, if there”s no challenge, then you just do it, you know? But when you gotta work for it, like with Fab – then it”s real special and I cum all the more and fuckin” drown the bastards!

I felt his teeth grab the top of my shorts and pull them down a bit. My cock was rock hard now and fuck did it fly out! It hit him in the face like a fuckin” wet fish slap or something! And when I felt the cool air touch it, man did I go apeshit! I didn”t think I could get hornier than I already fuckin” was!

“Take it,” I ordered.

Fab whimpered again, just like all my cocksuckers did, but he took it like I told him. I pushed it in further, making him choke and thrust faster and faster till I came in his mouth. Then I grabbed the top of his head and his jaw and forced his mouth shut so he had to swallow it.

After that, Fab avoided me as much as he could. When I did see him at school, he tried to be defiant but I could see that he was afraid of me. He thought that I had won by a fluke and challenged me one more time, but now that I knew how strong he was, I was ready for it and quickly made him suck cock again.

From that day on, he treated me with the respect I deserve. I still make him suck me off every now and then, “cause it turns me on so much to have such a strong guy on his knees pleasing me with no choice, unlike the other wimps that service me sometimes, but other than that, I let him join my gang of friends and he hung out with me and them as much as I let him.

I made him buy contacts and get rid of the glasses so that he didn”t look so much like a nerd. And after a while, the chicks realised that he belonged to me and lost respect for him. They still drooled over me lots and once I put Fab in his place, they soon forgot about him and went back to dreaming about me only – just like it should be.

Talking about the kids at school, it reminds me of that football coach, Mr Agliadis. He was here way back at the beginning of the year, though not any more. He had to leave once I”d showed him a thing or two. Tried to get me onto the football team, you see? I wasn”t interested though. I hate football – it”s a game for fags. All that hugging and arse slapping, and chasing around after another man”s ball. Sure, society says it”s a “man”s” game, but I reckon it’s for faggots. It”s like “scrums”, you know? It”s just an excuse for a group hug. Hippie-lovin” crap if you ask me.

Anyway, he wanted me to join the fuckin” football team and when I said “no”, he kept asking me, again and again, like a broken fuckin” record. But I soon showed him though. I found out what he really wanted and taught him what it’s like to mess with me.

That”s the problem with being so fucking hot. Everyone wants a piece of you and there”s only so much I can give, you know? Doesn”t matter if it’s another kid, a teacher, or some faggot”s big brother. They all want the same thing. And I”m the man to give it to them, but one at a time, you know? I can only do so much to please my adoring fans. They all fuckin” want me, but they just have to take a number and wait.

That coach, Mr Agliadis – now there was a hot bod too. I like older men. They”ve got the definition, and the domination that I like to take away from them. And when you do that once, you”ve done it for life, “cause they know they”re not supposed to do it with students. Doesn”t matter how old they are.

But right now, I gotta get to school. Geography is first today – fuckin” learning about “this goes with that” and that strong winds mean more than a ripper fart.

I wanna tell you about Mr Agliadis. He was a fuckin” hot session, he was. It”s like that faggot”s brother. Man! Was that Awesome with a capital “A”, or what?! I”ve had so many fuckin” encounters that it’s unbelievable. And that”s just with other people – not counting my sessions with myself in front of a mirror.

I”ll tell you about them next time, when I”ve got more time. Right now, the old man is yellin” out for me to move my arse. Gotta go. Fuck I hate this school biz sometimes.

Outta here.