Naked boy on a bed; fourth installment of “Closet Case” …

Hi, friends and readers:

Well, as they say: sometimes a picture says a thousand words. That’s certainly the case with this morning’s photo post, isn’t it? Aye-chee-wowah, what a sight.

Our dinner last night was great. We came home afterward and went straight to bed; we were both tired after getting up early yesterday and doing our full workout at the YMCA in the afternoon. Now, I’m up early again, getting read to edit Convict Ass, after a walk on the beach and my usual swim in the Gulf. I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but it’s already 85 degrees F outside and I will be staying indoors for the most part, where it’s cool and dry.

Okay, I hope everyone’s enjoying my story, Closet Case, I’ve been posting the past three days. Here is installment number four. Remember, it comes wiht the following caveat:

This story is not for the squeamish, nor for those under eighteen years of age. It contains graphic descriptions of a sexual encounter between two males. It also contains elements of BDSM. If this sort of material offends you, don’t read Closet Case. 

* * * *

I peeled the briefs to his ankles and he kicked them aside. His ass cheeks were like two cantaloupes, smooth and white as porcelain, firm to the touch. I slapped one buttock and the sound of the swat echoed in the room.

I said, “If you’re smart, you’ll do what I say too.”

He flexed his toes and didn’t speak.

A willow switch is a fine corporal punishment tool. It stings like hell, imparting wicked stripes, but it doesn’t make much noise, nor does it break skin if properly applied. I’m handy with one, and now I introduced Danny to my technique, a series of strokes delivered with an inconsistent tempo, tormenting his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. I got him dancing in short order, yelping and twisting about, and after a half-dozen blows he shouted, “That’s enough. Quit.”

I responded by switching his thighs anew, several strokes in quick succession. The assault produced threats and curses, in between yelps: “When I get loose I’m gonna—ouch—kick your ass.” And “Ouch. I’ll kill you, motherfucker.” And “You’re dead meat, you…Jesus that hurts.”

I told myself: This pussy couldn’t kick his grandma’s butt, much less mine.

Now, a guy in Danny’s position must cross a certain threshold. He has to learn that, despite any prerestraint assurances to the contrary, he’s lost control of his situation. I didn’t dignify his threats with a verbal response. Instead, I kept on switching, giving him another dozen strokes, raising more angry welts on his ass and thighs, bringing forth shrieks and wails. By the time I ceased, Danny had lost control of his bladder and pissed all over the floor. He sweated buckets and pled for mercy. (“I swear I’ll do anything you want—anything.”)

Whipping him was fun—I could have continued for hours—but I didn’t want to kill the guy. I just wanted him to know I considered him a punk, a closeted weasel.

I sat on the padded bench, placing the switch beside me, and I drank bottled water, studying Danny’s visage. His face was crimson and distorted and ceiling lights reflected off his skin. He sniffled while his eyes flitted between mine and the switch, no doubt wondering if I planned to whip him further.

“Having fun?” I asked.

He shook his head like a panicky child.

I approached and seized his nipple between my thumb and index finger, using my nails, pinching and twisting, making Danny squirm. I changed nipples, pinching and twisting some more, and went back and forth while Danny whimpered. He said, “Please, don’t,” but I kept on till both tits were purple and swollen.

His penis had gone soft during the switching, but now it stiffened, ticking upward till it pointed at the ceiling. I fetched a leather cock ring, the kind with snaps, and slipped it beneath his scrotum then secured it to the base of his cock so his nuts bulged and his erection wouldn’t subside. I flicked at his boner, making it jiggle. I pinched his sac and listened to him suck air through clenched teeth.

Okay, I’ll admit I enjoyed doing these things to Mr. Closet Case. His chest heaved and he trembled. He flinched each time I touched him, as if my fingers delivered electric shocks to his body. His armpits smelled funky and their scent got me horny. I licked them nice and slow, savoring their salty taste, using my teeth to tug at his spit-soaked hairs.

Danny whimpered. He said, “Stop, please. Let me go.”

I lifted my face from his armpit and frowned. Seizing the switch, I whipped his buttocks again, a series of ten strokes that drove him into a frenzy, making him howl and bounce his heels. His ass looked like he’d sat on a hot barbeque grill, more than once. When I’d finished I stood before him and took his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. His breath huffed and sweat coated his forehead. Fresh tears leaked from his pretty eyes. I said, “I’ll release you when I’m ready, not until. Understand?”

He nodded, blinking more tears.

“Now, let’s talk about sex,” I said.

He dropped his gaze.

I said, “I’m a faggot and I’ll bet you are too.”

“I told you, I’m married, I’ve never—”

“Don’t feed me your bullshit. The sooner you admit you’re gay, the quicker we’ll be finished here.”

I toyed with Danny’s nuts, rolling them around in my hand.

“Is that what you want to hear?” he said. “That I’m gay?”

“More than that.”

“What?”

“Ask me to fuck your faggot ass.”

He hung his head, but I chucked his chin with a knuckle and made him look at me.

“Go on,” I said, “ask.”

When he didn’t speak, I seized the willow switch, but before I could use it Danny started babbling. “Okay, all right; I’ll say whatever you want”

I tapped the switch against the palm of my hand. “I’m waiting.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m queer,” he said. “I’ve always been.”

“Then how come you’re married?”

He looked at me then dropped his gaze. “I’m a chicken shit, that’s why.”

“Ever been butt-fucked?”

“No.”

“So, this will be your first time?”

He nodded.

“Go ahead, now: ask me.”

He swallowed and his voice shook when he spoke. “I want you to fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck what?”

He lowered his chin. “My…faggot ass.”

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2010

* * * *

Okay, folks, that’s all for today. I’ll post the fifth and final installment of Closet Case tomorrow. I appreciate the comments I’ve received from many of you out there, giving me your thoughts on this story. I know it’s quite graphic and violent, but wait until you’ve read the entire thing before passing judgment, okay?

Have a nice Thursday, everyone.

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