Catamite Pt. 5

There was a steaming bath tub, almost large enough to swim in, flanked by decorative marble swans and an enormous urn holding an overflowing bunch of lilies. He slowly eased into the water, his first bath in a month, nervous even to be hesitating at one of Annette’s orders, though she seemed unruffled. She was rolling up the sleeves of her navy blouse, up to her forearms, smiling her small smile. He saw that as she periodically did her hair colour had changed, though this time only a few tendrils of green and chocolate brown escaped the neat confines of a charcoal grey and black scarf.

Hot water soaking in, he didn’t resist as she took his head in her hands, gently sloshing water over his scalp. He felt her palm laden with something cool and viscous, a shampoo that she worked into the short regrowth of his hair. She soaped and rinsed him, using a rough white wash cloth to scrub his shoulders and down his back and belly, massaging and rubbing.

At her instruction he stood up, and she did the same to his buttocks and legs, turning him so she could reach. Splashes of water stained the front of her dress, turning the indigo darker in splotch patterns over her breasts. She left his crotch alone, but the washcloth found its way into the split between his buttocks before Annette told him to sit down again.

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Catamite Pt. 4

Neither mercy nor imagination defined the next week. He saw Annette once a day for about three hours, when she would painfully and painstakingly go over his behavior. She described it as ‘pulling teeth’, because every bit of obedience she beat into him was hard won.

She kept her instructions clear and simple, training Phillip to eat from a bowl on the floor, face down with his mouth in the bland mush she served up and licking the bottom of the bowl like an animal, to keep his defiance bottled up, and to wait as he listened to her, sitting on his heels with his hands on the back of his head. Despite the simplicity he would lose control and back slide, shouting out his real name and his hatred for her and everything she represented, and then she would punish him again, with more pain and hooding, and denial of his one meal a day to soften him further.

Now food was a few feet away from him, chunks of beige and red just out of reach. His arms were tied behind his back, winched so they were pulled up uncomfortably behind him. He’d missed yesterday’s dinner for his defiance, getting nothing but water. His weight was still dropping, though he figured out the daily orange pill was a multivitamin. Phillip looked at the meal in front of him. He was hungry and even with the limited flavour he was drooling at the thought of pressing his face into the bowl. But the restraints were holding him back and Annette held him in place, her hand on the release for the rope.

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Catamite Pt.3

Groin tingling and oddly insensitive from the pain killers, but still distantly aware of the wrongness, Phillip knelt with his forehead pressed to the cool, rough but clean cement floor wearing nothing but a medical scrotal support. The doctor had long since left, leaving pills and instructions for Annette and not even a backwards glance for his patient.

He would have rather defied his captor, and the weight of Annette’s foot on the back of his neck was light enough he could have shrugged her off, but she was backed up by her ever present bodyguards, and a long prod she held in her right hand. She’d shown him how it worked once, on a lower setting, pain of the shock still leaving a hard cramp in his calf.

Maybe if he could catch her off guard, he thought, he could take the prod from her and hold it to her neck, or maybe find some weapon and force her guards to back down.  So he listened, quietly as she spoke, hating and waiting, listening more for the pauses not the meaning of her words.

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Catamite Pt.2

They’d given him a prison jumpsuit again, one piece washed out grey, and the bag went back on his head.  Now his hands were cuffed with heavier transport irons, as was his legs. His balls ached.  He guessed, as they moved him, that he went up an elevator out of the jail, with a guard holding each of his arms.

The car they fed him into sat low, with large comfortable leather seats, suggesting the long body and comforts of a limousine. He could hear Annette talking to the guard on either side of him as they handed him into the car. Once inside another male arm clamped onto one of his. He guessed it was a man servant or a bodyguard by the gloves on his hands. The car door slammed shut.

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Catamite Pt.1

He was not some loathsome rapist, a thug who’d killed for the sake of money or an addled addict thieving for a fix. Neither was he insane or slow witted. She made sure of that. He was her social equal, at least by background, and his crimes were political and symbolic.

Of course they’d tortured him, so he arrived with a bruised body, cuts and punctures on his bare limbs and torso. He had a slice under one eye, and the men who’d made it told her he’d flinched when they were threatening to kill him, but otherwise kept his cool.

Now he was kneeling on the tile, just as still as when they’d worked him over in the basement of the jail. His only motion was to twist his hooded head, listening for what he could not see. Just shy of six feet, with a body earned from living well, but not the ridiculously sculpted physique of a gym junkie. His hands were chained together in front of him, mitts locked over his fingers to keep him clumsy.

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Vampire Rape Porn: Huntress Takes

Vampire rape porn now with classic art wheeeeeIf you came here looking for “vampire rape porn” or some permutation, the most common search to my blog leave a comment for what you were actually looking for (raping vampires or being raped by vampires or..?) and I’ll try to toss a link to it.

Maybe this is more what you were looking for?

Lithe masculinity with its elbows on the bar, all casual and sizing up the room with a comfortable potency. They tell you women aren’t very visual but sometimes you see the shape of the back and the jaw line, the squaring in the hands or the right V shaped torso and the full weight of your heterosexuality hits you, right in the eyes and the space behind them and makes you jerk your head back and shove your tits out. You draw in a breath and you know that moment that you’re a mammal, sure as any mouse responding to the bold ear wiggles of a male mouse or a dog howling in heat behind a garden fence.

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Flashflood

A short piece, originally published on fetlife.

He’s wearing the button down shirt you like, ironed flat and neat because you have a thing for that. Once upon a time, when you were a little girl, Barbie hurled Ken off the edge of the bed and your mother found you stringing them both up by the chewed up feet. Now you hurl him onto the bed, push him back aggressively.

Oh god, oh god. He’s taken your fetish to heart. Clean pressed black slacks are about to get really rumpled and you have him down to socks and boxers faster than peeling a banana. Fuck, you can stroke up an erection through his underwear. You can see the lines in his shoulders when he throws his arms up (hands up! you said to that indulgent 13 year old boy when you were 11, and you had a water pistol on a hot summer’s day). That was a boy, this is a man, with a man’s smell and muscles under the skin and much more potential than shy awkwardness and your first kiss at gunpoint, ten years ago.

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Nailed Hard

More porn.

She’d taken her time with his bondage, spread eagled with scarves not ropes on the four poster bed. Pashminas, available in every colour of the rainbow, made soft thick holds around his wrists and ankles. Blindfold, ball gag (he could spit it out if he really worked at it), safeword more for her comfort than his and indicated by a raised little finger.

Flesh, and the abuse thereof came with its own clichés. His torso was not an unmarked canvas waiting for the touch of an artist or a pristine landscape without footprints, it was hairy and warm, every pore on his skin releasing that delicious pheromone she had to call musk because there wasn’t a word for the cloying, back of the nose taste that came with sex.

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Wax & Water

A short story with D/s.

She put her thumbnail behind his ear and began to press hard, into the fold where it joined his skin, pinching and pulling as her nail dug in and scratched. It was a hidden spot, one of her favourites, where she could slash and scratch and nobody would be the wiser.

“Come on,” she barked, at his distressed, sleepy face. “Hurry up!”

Leading him off the bed, she yanked in the direction of the closet, with him stumbling after, his long limbs never meant for a journey on all fours. She made him kneel and open his mouth, wrenched the closet open and grabbed the large cardboard box, with the marker scrawl ‘Toys’.

“I don’t want the neighbours to hear.”

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