6 comments/ 7046 views/ 2 favorites Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 01 By: tazemebro Mr. One Fifty-Eight picks up where Chris Donaldson left off. Chris Donaldson and Justin Corvino were roommates during their sophomore year in college, which has just ended. Justin began the year by forcing Chris to suck his cock, and their daily sexual activity gradually grew into an intense, Dom/sub oriented relationship. Chris' feelings for Justin deepened into adoration and love; he rushed his macho roommate's homophobic fraternity in the spring, and hoped he would bond with Justin deeply enough there that his love would be returned. Chris' bid for membership in the fraternity was ultimately rejected; it turned out that Mason Evans, Vice President of the fraternity (and Justin and Chris' RA), had issued Chris the invitation to pledge as a cruel joke. The night of Chris' rejection did appear to cement his bond with his roommate, however, when Justin helped him escape to avoid further humiliation. All people depicted in this story are over 18. ***** The late June morning sun streamed cheerfully through the bathroom window, the blinds open just enough to admit the natural light without allowing a clear view of the slim and toned body within. A young man stood in front of the sink, naked, running his hand over his chin. The two-week beard was redder than his dark blond hair, and had come in nice and full. It made him look older than his 20 years; in his mind, it also made him look a bit more butch. He would give up some youth for a little extra masculinity any day. He was certainly manly in the body hair department, he thought, eyeing his chest and legs, but quickly passing over his crotch. His pubes were thick, but his dick was not. It wasn't big in any dimension, really, which was something he had always been self-conscious about – although he had also discovered over the last year that he sometimes got off when a particular hot guy would make fun of it. He turned around, looking wistfully at the almost-faded bruises on his firm, white ass. They were from a belt and a paddle, and had been left there by the guy who liked to make fun of his dick - Justin, who had been his roommate last year at college. Chris was glad his butt didn't hurt any more, but was sad to see the marks go. They felt like his last tangible memory of the past year – a year that had been filled with daily service to his roommate, both sexual and otherwise. They had had a rough start together – literally. Justin had slapped his face the day they moved in and forced him to suck his thick, uncut cock. But as the year progressed, Chris had warmed to his place as Justin's devoted cocksucker and spankee, his asslicker and foot worshipper. It had not been a hard role to fall into. He'd been attracted to Justin since he first laid eyes on him – his shaved head, large and warm brown eyes, and friendly smile; his hot jock bod, which wasn't cut or shredded, but just big and beefy without being stocky. You could see a little bit of a six-pack on Justin, but what Chris liked the most was how the muscles bulged and rippled in a generous and easy way, inviting you in. It was a hard body, but you wouldn't break on it. Chris sighed at the flood of memories – it was really amazing luck that he had wound up in the same room as Justin. He had even tried to rush Justin's fraternity, but that had ended in disaster. Best not to dwell on it. Despite his rejection at SAE in April, the last several weeks of their spring quarter had been incredible in many ways – full of constant, awesome sex, Dom/sub bonding, and even a little bro-style camaraderie. That awful night at the beginning of Hell Week had connected them deeply – the night when Chris had been cut from the pledge class, and when Justin had finally made his way into his roommate's tight, nearly-virgin ass. After that, it had been pretty much non-stop fucking for the rest of the quarter in their fetid dorm room, where Chris had been reluctant to open the window despite the overpowering odor of Justin's un-deodorized armpits, socks, feet and nuts, the pungent smell of their regular anal sex, and layer upon layer of jizz. Chris had felt like he was living in the dank toe of a worn-out sneaker that had been used as a cum receptacle for about seventy unwashed cocks, and he loved every minute of it. True, the affection that Chris craved hadn't come as readily to his roommate after that very emotional night, but the young sub was sure it was still there under the surface. It had been a fantastically difficult road to navigate: how to maintain the closeness with Justin without seeming clingy, how to bring more feeling into what was essentially a one-way, Dom/sub sexual relationship. And over it, of course, had hung their imminent separation, which was now two weeks old. Justin was wealthy and well-connected. His summer would be spent at a paid internship in New York. Chris, on the other hand, had blown a sizable chunk of his inheritance from his mother on fraternity dues which he could not recoup, and he was still angry about the bill he had received in May for "de-pledging fees". He hadn't told Justin about it; they had never brought up Chris' unsuccessful foray into Greek life after that night. All of it was still too raw. Last week Chris had started working a temporary position at the historical society downtown, which wasn't glamorous, but suited his little introverted self just fine. And the money wasn't too bad. No, it would actually be a great summer if there weren't a gaping hole in the boy's heart left by Justin's absence. September would not necessarily bring a reunion, either; Justin would live in his frat house for his junior year. Chris had found a cozy room on the third floor of a house about a mile from campus, which he would move into after the summer break. It was also a very nice situation . . . but a far cry from living a few feet away from a beefy hunk, who was always close enough to smell, and whose scent had made Chris continually hard. Hard, Chris thought, is what your life is gonna be for a while. Suck it up, boy. He padded to his old bedroom in his dad's house; living with his father for the summer wasn't ideal, but they basically never saw each other, making an effort not to cross paths. Chris hadn't stayed out late much yet, and was careful to be absent whenever it was meal time. His dad was a general contractor, and was almost always on an earlier schedule than Chris. His father knew absolutely nothing about the boy's life other than what he might have guessed; certainly he had no idea about his son's sexual relationship with his roommate, or his stint as a pledge. Chris hadn't even told Pat, his older friend who owned a gun range, and the only person to whom he had ever truly come out, about Justin or SAE. Deep down, he had never completely believed he would get into the frat, and so he had kept it all to himself to save potential embarrassment and unwanted commiseration later. Now he was glad he had. He got dressed quickly and headed out to his beat-up Jeep, not looking forward to the hour-long commute into the city. For the hundredth time, he wished his old man hadn't insisted on living so far out. Justin was also from the area, but lived in one of the richer suburbs closer in, not in the next county like the Donaldsons. Oh well. As he did every day, he composed a love letter to Justin in his head as he drove, to pass the time. "Dear Sir," they always began. He didn't dare actually write one, for fear of driving his precious jock away. Justin had made a few comments about all subs being like women between their ears . . . the lines had never been pointed at Chris exactly, but it was obvious that any sign of devotion other than sexual would be tolerated to a point, but not appreciated. Not unless Justin's boy was in extremis. Only then would Justin step up. Like that night he had hustled Chris out of the frat and warned him to get away, even setting up a hotel room for him. Justin was great when it really mattered, Chris thought. I just have to figure out how to get him in that place more often, where he's not afraid to show he cares about me. Without resorting to manufacturing a crisis, though. Ugh. Are all dominant men like that? Well, be fair to him though, Chris continued to himself. He didn't completely stop kissing you after your birthday. It just didn't happen much, and never had that incredible, passionate abandonment you felt from him that night. He let himself be seen for who he was only once; you just have to appreciate that he showed you at all. And Justin prevented you from having the worst possible birthday. The beginning sucked, but the rest of it was pretty damn great, as long as he was there with you. So there's that. The pace on the expressway was a crawl. Chris started turning a sentence over in his mind – something Justin had said that night at the Four Seasons. So much of their long conversation during that intense stay in the hotel had been so powerful, so memorable, but this little nugget, this throwaway, had been nagging at him for two months now. "He was the first dude who blew me that I gave a shit about." Justin had been talking about Andy, the guy who was so similar to Chris, and who had killed himself at the end of his senior year because he couldn't deal with being gay. It was an awful story, and Justin clearly still carried a ton of guilt with him for not having recognized the depths of Andy's distress; Justin blamed himself for missing the signs, and failing to prevent it. And yet . . . So casually, Justin had referred to guys blowing him regularly. Chris wondered, not for the first time, exactly how many dudes HAD sucked his former roommate off. And while it was nice to know that Justin cared about him more than the dozens (hundreds?) of other guys who had put their lips on Justin's fat cock, he did sometimes wonder if the affection the frat boy felt for him was more like what you'd feel for a pet. Wow, this commute just got longer, Chris thought. Stop it. There is nothing productive to be gained from thinking like this. Write your Sir a nice submissive letter in your head, and find some other outlet for all this angst. Fall quarter is a long way away. You know you're not going to see him before then, and he'll probably only call you if he's drunk. He sends hot texts every now and then. It's not a lot, but it's all you have at the moment. Be patient and strategize. Trying to imagine a way to get closer to his man when they weren't living together was one way to ignore the traffic, and the remainder of the drive and the morning at work both went by quickly. Chris' job was mostly a bunch of filing and data entry, but his colleagues were nice, and the building was deliciously cool in the awful Midwestern humidity, which had started early that year. No eye candy, though. The office was all dowdy women and nerdy, bookish men . . . and Chris sure didn't care if any of those guys' still waters ran deep. He had absolutely no outlet for his constant horniness, and no one to peg his fantasies on except a frat boy who was 800 miles away. Chris usually brought his own lunch to save money, but hadn't felt like making anything this morning. He went out to the deli down the street a few minutes before noon, eyeing the folks at the swank Thai restaurant on the way with envy. He was just about to open the shop door and get in line when he heard someone call his name. "Chris?" He turned around, and found himself staring at a tall, very handsome, bearded man in his late twenties with deep, dark blue eyes, and a great smile. Looking fit in a tailored summer suit, he was a little sweaty in the sultry sun, but still . . . sexy as hell. "Mark! Wow, I wasn't expecting . . ." The older man came right up to him and gave him a big hug, which immediately stiffened Chris' whole body, including his little rod. "How the hell are you, kiddo? It's been way too long." "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it has," Chris replied uncomfortably. He was always thrown for a loop by Mark. This was the man who had taken his anal virginity, but who had also ignored him afterward. This was the man who had wanted to meet him for a friendly coffee, and then essentially had called him a slut. This was the man who had an uncanny sense of when Chris was feeling low, and seemed to text at that exact moment. Or in this case, show up on the street. This was the man for whom Chris still felt a strong attraction, despite the awkwardness of the post-cherry-popping interactions, because the boy could not forget how wonderful the man had briefly made him feel. "What are you doing down here?" Mark asked. "Summer job," Chris mumbled. He was suddenly embarrassed by his uninteresting employment, what he was wearing . . . everything. Mark was so successful and put together, and Chris felt he certainly was not. "Cool, where at? Hey, do you have time to have lunch? My treat. I'd love to catch up with you, Chris." Mark was delighted to see the cute, once-more-bearded boy again. When they last met, Chris had been clean shaven. Mark liked this look better – it made him feel less like a cradle robber. "Um, well, I was just going to . . ." "Go to the deli? There's a fantastic Thai restaurant just a few doors down. Wanna join me?" "Sure, yeah . . . I guess I could." As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Chris felt bad for sounding churlish. "Yes, I'd love to." Mark squeezed Chris' bicep. "Excellent." Chris' stomach was in knots. He was caught between attraction and resentment, pleasure and abnegation. His desire to remain not only physically, but emotionally faithful to Justin was strong. But . . . Mark was hot, and usually fun to talk to. And you can't say no to a free lunch. Ever the pleaser, Chris allowed himself to be propelled to the Thai restaurant. Swat Dee, he read over the door. A place where you eat AND get spanked? Sounds fun, he thought. Titillated despite his better instincts, he enjoyed the feeling of a man holding the door for him. The little things felt nice; Justin would never hold a door. After they were seated, Chris eyed the menu. Yikes! Entrees started at $24. "Have whatever you want, kiddo," Mark said warmly. "If I tell you some boring story about the agency, I can expense it." His eyes twinkled. Chris grinned, happy to be in on something. Still, he was a bit disconcerted at how they were sitting – instead of across from each other like normal guys, they were at adjacent sides of a square table. Mark sat with what, in a men's room in Minneapolis six years before, had been termed a "wide stance". That meant his right leg was practically surrounding Chris' body. The boy felt subtly dominated, and increasingly turned on. The waiter arrived. "How about a glass of wine?" Mark asked. Chris reddened and tried to demur, for reasons both of afternoon work and lack of majority. "Two glasses of the zinfandel, please." "I really shouldn't!" Chris whispered as the waiter retreated. "Live a little, kid. You know you want to. It's ok. Daddy says so." Mark seemed to swallow Chris whole with his friendly smile and kind eyes. "Just one, though," he added with a raised finger. And Chris, in a sudden overwhelming rush, remembered one of the sexiest things about Mark. It was more than Mark's deep voice, his handsome face, and his enormous uncut cock – it was being with an adult. For a submissive 20-year-old, that was an elixir as powerful as the red wine. Mark was adept at small talk, and Chris felt increasingly comfortable as they ate. It wasn't just the alcohol. He told Mark about his job, and staying home with his father for the summer. He carefully skirted around any reference to his old roommate. "So . . . I don't know if it's ok to ask," Mark said shyly, momentarily seeming slightly less the alpha male. "But you remember when I texted you on your birthday?" Chris nodded, embarrassed. "So you were kind of upset that night. Can I ask what was going on?" Chris swallowed. He tried for bravado. "Well, sure, you can always ask," he smiled, emboldened by the wine. "I don't know that I'll tell you, though." "That's a sassy response, young man," Mark growled, but his eyes showed his amusement. Chris looked sheepish and a little worried at Mark's response, which made the older man's dick throb in his tight pants. "It's just dumb college drama." Chris paused, then almost whispered, "Sir." "Are you sure?" Mark was turned on by the gesture of respect, but his deep blue eyes were trained on Chris' paler ones with a sympathetic gaze. He grazed Chris' forearm with his thumb. "That stuff can be intense." Chris paused, filled with a sudden urge to unburden himself to someone about Justin, finally . . . and then decided to keep himself to himself. Melodrama might elicit momentary sympathy, but might also lead Mark to disengage. And Chris needed a friend. A sexy friend. Someone to confide in, yes, but not too much too soon. "You're sweet . . . Sir." Chris blushed again, and Mark's cock jumped again at the title. "But it was just a bad night. Happens sometimes." "When we last saw each other, you told me you were . . . doing some stuff with your roommate," Mark said carefully. "Was it about him?" "No!" Chris responded vehemently. "Not about him. It was just, you know . . . classes and some social stuff. Not Justin." So that's his name, Mark thought. Justin. Hmm. And it was obviously ALL about him. "Well, I meant what I texted that night. And I'm really glad I ran into you by accident today. If you ever need to talk to someone, I'm here." Chris jumped as Mark's thigh touched his. "Sorry, kiddo, that wasn't intentional." Now it was Mark's turn to blush. He was still incredibly attracted to the younger man, but was trying very hard not to hit on him. The boy had his own life to lead and discoveries to make; if he had been interested in having Mark as a fuckbud, they would be already. Some guys are just about sex. This boy was about real connection. Which I could offer, Mark thought, if he weren't so damn young. That said . . . he is so fucking adorable and submissive, it seems a shame not to offer him some . . . guidance. "It's ok, I don't mind," Chris replied, mildly tipsy. "I was just startled. You know I like your touch, Sir." FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, why did you say that??? Chris immediately castigated himself. Flattered, but aware the boy was floundering, Mark just smiled. Time to gently take control. "I like it when you call me Sir, Chris. We can leave it at that for now." "Um . . . cool. Thanks." This poor, sweet boy, Mark thought. I wish I knew what the fuck was going on in his complicated little head so I could help him. Maybe I should try and spank it out of him . . . that would be fun. "I actually have to use the men's room, Sir," Chris said quietly. Is he telling me, or asking me for permission? Mark wondered. Too fucking hot. Let's see how this develops. "Where do you think you're going, young man?" Mark fixed Chris with a firm stare as the boy stopped, frozen halfway out of his seat. "The bathroom?" Chris said nervously. Mark looked at him sternly. Chris tried again. "The men's room, Sir." "You said that. But I didn't give you permission, boy." Chris blushed again. "Now you will have to wait another ten minutes before you're allowed to go. Is that clear, young man?" "Yes Sir." Chris sat back down, his urge to urinate now overcome by the stiffening of his little prick. "I realize we haven't seen each other in a long time, Chris, but do you really expect to be able to get away with that kind of behavior with me?" "Um . . . I hadn't really thought about it. Sir." "Well clearly you've thought about it some, or you wouldn't be calling me Sir." Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 01 Chris was caught unawares, but appreciated the twinkle in Mark's eye. He wasn't quite sure where this was going, but if they were going to have a little harmless fun, Chris would welcome it. He missed feeling sexy and being dominated. "That's true Sir. But please, I really have to go." His blue eyes shone too, as he played into Mark's scene. The wine made it easier. "Sir." "I said ten minutes, and you are going to have to wait until they're up." Mark glanced at his watch. "You may get up at 12:38. And I don't want to hear another word about it, young man. Do I make myself clear? Or do I have to pull your pants down and give you a bare-bottom spanking right here at the table?" They were now both incredibly turned on. Chris blushed and mumbled, "No, Sir." He shifted in his chair and crossed his legs, playing up how bad he had to pee. "That's better, boy. I'd better not hear any more lip from you." "Definitely not, Sir." "Have you always had a small bladder, young man? Is it small like your penis?" Mark spoke just loudly enough to make Chris uncomfortable, but not loudly enough to be heard by the men at the next table. Barely. "Yes, I guess it's small too, Sir," came the meek reply. "It figures, boy. You're a born sub, aren't you Chris?" "Yes sir." "You don't have the equipment to be a real man, so you serve them instead, isn't that right, boy?" "Yes sir." "You need to be controlled, don't you? When you piss. When you cum. Everything you do with your little boy-dick, isn't that true?" Mesmerized by Mark's bright eyes, rich voice, and firm tone, Chris answered, "Yes Sir." There was something so different about the way Mark dominated him – he was so experienced. He knew how to get into Chris' head . . . and the way he always seemed to sense when Chris was in trouble was uncanny. "I should lock your little wiener up in a chastity device. Isn't that what you deserve, boy? What you need?" Chris shook his cute, dark blond head. He had seen pictures of cock cages, and the thought of being locked up like that with no release was too much for him. "I don't think I could handle that, Sir." Mark smiled. "Could you handle it for an hour, boy?" Relieved, Chris answered, "Sure, an hour, yes, Sir." "That's a good boy. Baby steps for our baby dick sub." Chris blushed, flattered and embarrassed. And tipsy. "You like it when a real man makes fun of your little cock, don't you boy?" "Yes, I do Sir." Mark grinned. "You're a very promising young sub, Chris. Have you ever wet your pants before?" Chris moaned. "You're not going to make me hold it until I do, are you Sir?" "Just answer the question, boy." "Not that I can remember, Sir." Mark raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Well, maybe once or twice when I was a kid, Sir. I don't really remember it." "So you don't remember warm piss running down your leg, and a spot growing on the front of your pants so big that everyone could see, and then it getting all cold while you waited to change?" Chris looked horrified. "No Sir!" "That's too bad, boy." Mark held out his glass of water to Chris. "Drink all of this, young man." "But Sir!" "DRINK IT, young man." Mark was no longer smiling. Chris slowly drank the whole glass of ice water, now beginning to worry. He was afraid to ask the time. "That bladder feeling nice and full, boy?" "Yes Sir," Chris gasped. "Good. You have one more minute." Chris squirmed. The discomfort was now real. Mark made him wait for a moment in silence, holding the boy's gaze. He kept his face serious, but inside he was completely entranced by Chris' natural good looks, the adorable, closely-trimmed scruff on his fine but strong jaw . . . and above his quivering pink lips. He considered for a second whether he should . . . and then slipped his left wingtip off. He found Chris' leg under the table, and slowly traced his way up it with his socked toes, ending with his large foot clamped over Chris' small crotch. He pressed firmly with his toes above Chris' dick, right on his bladder. Chris looked like he was going to have an aneurism, and Mark chuckled. "Easy, boy. It's just my foot." He lowered his toes and gave Chris' genitals a squeeze with them, as he had pressed the boy's arm earlier. Chris felt like he would faint with desire, not just from the touch, but also because he could faintly smell Mark's ripe foot, and the odor made him even hornier. "Please don't do that," Chris gasped, fearing the pee was going to stream down his leg just like Mark had said. Mark lowered his leg. "Sorry," he grinned winningly, "Couldn't resist." Finally, Mark looked down at his watch; it was 12:38. "Very well, young man, you may now go to the men's room." Chris stood up. "Thank you, Sir!" He made his way as quickly as he could to the back of the restaurant. Both restroom doors had push-down handles; they must both be one-seaters. He tried the handle of the door marked M, and groaned. Locked. He paced in a tight circle, dying. After only another minute, the door open, and an elderly man walked out. Chris nearly knocked him over as he ran into the lavatory. He turned to close the door, and found it blocked by Mark's hand. "Not so fast, young man," Mark said sharply, and entered, locking the door behind him. "I'm here to make sure everything comes out ok, boy. Hope you're not pee shy." "Fuck!" The curse came out before Chris could prevent it. He definitely was pee shy, especially in front of a hot, well-built man like Mark. "What was that, young man?" "Sorry, Sir, I just have to go so bad." Chris turned around, unzipped, and brought his little penis out. He pointed it at the toilet bowl, and prayed. "Is that how you're planning on relieving yourself, young man?" "Sorry, Sir?" "Boys with tiny dicks don't get to urinate standing up." "Huh? "You heard me, boy. Sit down." Chris looked mortified, but began to spring a boner. "Yes sir." He lowered the toilet seat, and placed a flimsy paper cover on it. He sat down, concentrating so his dick would get soft enough to piss. "Good boy." Chris' dick softened, but he faced the dilemma he always did when sitting on the toilet – his penis was too short to hang down, and pointed straight at the rim of the bowl. If he didn't push it down with his hand, he would splatter all over the place. Mark smiled broadly as the boy shoved his little clit down so his urine would go in the bowl. "Do you always have to do that, young man?" "Yes Sir," was the pained reply. Mark stepped in front of the peeing sub. "I'm waiting. You said you had to go. Now go, boy." Chris looked down and thought of waterfalls. His pee was gushing in no time. The stream lasted well over a minute. "Nice job, young man." Now that his bladder was empty, Chris was unable to resist his other urges. He leaned forward, his lips less than an inch from the Mark's tight fly. He kissed the clothed bulge in front of him. "Now who told you you could do that, sub?" Chris doubled down and licked the cotton which barely restrained Mark's enormous uncut cock. "Very bad boy. Stand up." Chris continued to lick. Mark hooked Chris' arm and pulled him up, then expertly bent him over. SMACK! "That was completely inappropriate, young man." SMACK! "You need permission for that." SMACK! "Now pull your pants up, and march yourself back to our table. You're in big trouble." "Yes SIR!" Chris winked and buttoned his jeans. He left the men's room, groping Mark's crotch on his way out. He was day-drunk, frisky, and bold. He sidled to the table; the check had come. Mark sat down a minute later, frowning in mock condemnation. "You need a real lesson in manners, boy," Mark growled. "Perhaps so, Sir." Before Mark had time to chide him, Chris looked at his phone. 12:51. "Shit, I'm sorry, Sir! I only have a few minutes to get back to work. I can't be late, I'm basically just an intern," Chris smiled apologetically, thankful to have a way out. "Convenient, boy." "No, I'm serious, Sir!" Mark switched gears immediately, and smiled reassuringly. "No problem, kiddo, I understand. I was there myself just a few years ago." Chris glanced at the check. "Are you sure we can't split the bill?" "Absolutely not, boy. This is on me." Chris made as if to protest, wanting to be taken seriously even though he had just demonstrated how submissive he was. He might be a cocksucker, but he wasn't a freeloader. "Shh. I really enjoyed seeing you again, Chris. You're a great guy, and a lot of fun to talk to. This was hot. Thanks for playing along, stud." "Aw, Sir, I wasn't just . . ." The boy stopped before he said too much. Wasn't he carrying a torch for Justin? Of course he was. And he would remain faithful in spirit. The bathroom incident was a mistake, a momentary lapse. He really did deserve a spanking now. Chris fumbled for his phone again, and saw the time. "I really have to go . . . they're gonna kill me." "No they won't, boy. A few minutes late after lunch won't hurt you. I'm sure you never . . . misbehave . . . there." Chris blushed again. "So you have a little slack you can take now and then," Mark continued. "Unless your boss is a real disciplinarian." Mark grinned evilly. Instantly brought out of his sub space, Chris rolled his eyes. "SHE is not." The mere mention of a woman suddenly made it much easier for both of them to stand up without showing anything embarrassing. Chris spoke first. "Listen, I'm really sorry, I wish I could spend more time with you, but I really, really have to . . ." Chris beat a hasty retreat to the door. "Hey! Don't leave without a hug." Mark caught Chris' shoulder, and pulled him into an embrace. Once more wary, he was careful not to make it too intimate; it was basically a bro hug. But Chris liked getting that close to Mark's broad chest, and being encircled by his big arm. "Great seeing you. Sorry I have to run . . . Sir." Chris scuttled out the door and down the street to his job, afraid to look back. Mark's eyes lingered after him, wondering again what went on in that cute and smart brain. He thought he knew, and then he didn't. Something was holding the boy back, and it wasn't just his job. Was it the old roommate? "Don't be a stranger," Mark said to the empty air. Chris was still conscientious, and even though there was no threat of an RA with a cane (Jesus, let's not think of THAT again), he literally ran back to the historical society, and arrived out of breath, but with seconds to spare. He was flustered for the remainder of the afternoon. Ashamed of how excited Mark had made him feel, he tried to focus on his real Sir. The one who had saved him from untold humiliation at the fraternity. He decided to compose a letter to Justin for real – one he'd actually send. Chris worked rapidly through his filing duties, and surreptitiously opened his phone. He and his former roommate almost never used real email; when they did communicate, it was through text. But this would work better in an email. "Dear Sir," he began. Mark was also completely unable to concentrate after his lunch with Chris. It had been far too short . . . he would have loved to have spent another hour with the young man, plying him with more wine, putting him more at ease with conversation, until eventually he would lead him back to his condo, and . . . Mark shut the door to his office and told his secretary to hold his calls. He sat behind his desk and unzipped his tan slacks. His enormous member was dying to be released, the foreskin already tight around the swollen head. His dark, full bush peeked out from the fly of his light blue boxers, and he pulled the engorged meat out into the office air. Closing his eyes, he slowly massaged his penis, precum oozing from his large piss slit. He thought of Chris, and the boy's gorgeous eyes . . . his cute mouth surrounded by reddish scruff . . . the hairy chest he remembered, and most of all that hot, perky ass, which needed to be reddened and then soundly fucked. Moaning softly, he jerked his dick faster and faster, imagining Chris tight ass lips around his thick meat . . . faster, imagining kissing Chris hard as he shot his load right into the boy's . . . with a muffled groan, he spewed his copious wad all over his lavender dress shirt and silk tie. Fuck, I haven't cum that quick in years, he thought wryly. Eyeing the unlocked door he skipped the post-cum daze and jumped up from his chair. He strode to the corner of the office, where he always kept a couple of spare dress shirts, several ties, an extra jacket, and an extra pair of shoes. Hastily stripping down to his moist t-shirt, he balled up the soiled clothes and stuffed them in his briefcase. He changed into a blue shirt and purple tie. God, what that little man does to me, he thought as he panted and his heart rate returned to normal. I've got to see him again. "Dear Sir." Chris was still stuck at the first line. His mind kept returning to Mark. Focus, he instructed himself. Brown eyes. Shaved head. Remember how his pits smell. How his ass tastes when it's in your face. Now write. "Dear Sir, "I hope your summer has gotten off to a great start. I know we're in touch via text, and I don't want to impose on your time, but I just wanted to let you know how I've been feeling . . ." Scratch that. ". . . how you make me feel even when you're gone . . ." No. Feeling is a dirty word. Try – ". . . how much I think about your hard cock all the time, and how much I want to kneel down in front of you and respectfully take all of it in my mouth. How I want you to put your hands on the back of my head and make sure I've got it all the way down my throat, the way you like it. How I want to swallow your seed, not missing a drop. How much I need . . ." No. Don't be needy. "How much I deserve your firm hand spanking my bare bottom or whipping it with your belt, teaching me how to better serve you, how to be the best boy I can be for you. How I crave your hot, athletic ass in my face when I jack off. "I've been trying to be good, Sir and not jack off too much. Sometimes I text you for permission, but I know you're busy, so I don't want to bother you. I've been holding out for two or three days at a time, and when I do, I always imagine myself covered in your cum and in your manly scent. "Most of all, Sir, I want to feel you in my ass again, pumping your huge cock into me and breeding me. Looking forward to seeing you again, I remain, "Your faithful sub, "Chrissy." Too formal? Yeah, probably. Too obsequious? Never – not for his jock Sir. Chris spent another 30 minutes editing and tweaking it. He took out the word "want", made the language more casual, and tried to be more light-hearted by opening with a sentence about missing the bruises on his ass now that they had almost faded. Edit, rewrite, revise, adjust the tone, find the balance . . . Chris reread the final version twice, and then it was time to go home. Still he dithered, and began the drive without sending the email. He felt he was always on a precipice with Justin. Show too little interest, and the guy might be offended and move on. Show too much – and he might retreat and disappear. Chris finally pulled over and parked under a large shady maple on a cul-de-sac with some vacant lots and houses under construction, a few blocks from his dad's house. Just do it. He hit send, and waited. Don't be silly, he thought, you're not going to get an immediate response. Still, he'd rather sit here with the radio on and fantasize about Justin than have to talk to his father. He refreshed his inbox every few seconds. And thought about his man's veiny, uncut dong. At that moment in New York City, Justin was also playing with his phone. He thumbed idly over to the camera. He opened it, and snapped a photo of the guy sucking his dick. The kid blinked, surprised, but kept sucking, gagging on the size and girth of Justin's meat. He was a young Latino punk, probably 20 or 21, and he sucked cock like a champ. Justin had found him online, and had no idea what his name was. He had loaded a hookup app a few days after he got to New York, and put up a dick pic. He never showed his face, but had not been hurting for cocksuckers. This was his third this week. "All the way down, faggot," he growled, and the boy obediently shoved his head down until he choked, slime coming out of his mouth and nose. "That's it. Breathe." Justin pulled the skinny dude up by his hair. "And again." He shoved the clean shaven face down to the base of his fat, uncut cock, enjoying how his dense pubic hair looked curled around the sub's nose. Justin reached under his tank top and tweaked his plump left nipple idly. He loved his nips tugged when he was getting sucked off. He flipped through his phone again. The pics of his recent cockslaves turned him on. Justin photographed them all, whether they knew it or not. The best ones were the guys who would agree to look at the camera with their mouths full. They all looked so hungry. So obedient. "Keep going, cocksucker." Justin took another pic, and then glanced at the email icon – a new message. He opened the mailbox. Fuck. Chris. He opened it. "Dear Sir," it began. He tossed the phone next to him on the couch and grabbed the Latino boy's head with both hands, mercilessly pumping it up and down on his cock. "Take it, BITCH!" he yelled, face-fucking the cocksucker. "Swallow my load, CUNT!" He ignored the pleading look in the young man's eyes and pounded the gagging throat until he came with an angry grunt. He shoved the boy away roughly. "Get your shit and get out." His cocksucker looked crestfallen, and fingered his own uncut meat. "Uh, I was hoping I might get to . . ." "GET OUT," Justin yelled. "What do you think I am, a faggot like you? I'm not some fuckin gay pervert. You're here to get me off, that's it." He pushed the guy again, hard, barely restraining himself from kicking the boy in the nuts. "GET OUT!" The slender, dark-haired kid grabbed his shirt and his cap, and found his way out the maid's entrance of the pre-war apartment Justin's parents had rented him for the summer. Justin picked up his phone again, and re-read Chris' email. He threw the phone across the room. "FUCK! I'm not gay, you dumb shit, stop texting me and emailing me and acting like I'm your fucking boyfriend!" Justin yelled to the wall. His old roommate ruined everything. He couldn't even get sucked off without being interrupted. Almost every day there was some needy communication, silently begging Justin to react, to care, to feel. Why the fuck had he ever told the boy about Andy? He should never have opened up. And now he needed to move on. Sophomore year was over. He would be living in the house next year. The house that had rejected Chris. He had already caught a few of the brothers looking at him funny after that whole awful pledge period, like they had guessed something. Like they questioned Justin's loyalty to the fraternity. Like they wondered why they had never met his girlfriend. It had to stop. "I. Am. Not. GAY!!" he yelled at the phone, which had slid to a stop by a floor lamp. Justin found his pants, picked up his keys, kicked the phone, and then grabbed it too. He headed out to the nearest bar. Any bar. A STRAIGHT bar. He was gonna get so lit he could plow a chick again if he had to. Fuck it if it was only Tuesday. Chris was still parked under the tree, waiting for Justin to send an email, or text. After 25 minutes, he gave up on a response. Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 01 What a fucking shitty day this had been, he thought. Yeah, he had been extremely turned on by Mark earlier, but that was wrong of him. Wrong of him to flirt with another man, much less nuzzle his cock. He was supposed to belong to Justin, and he had followed another man's orders in his desperation. He had failed, and now Justin wasn't responding. Was Justin like Mark? Could he sense what Chris was doing, even when he wasn't there? Was he withholding communication because he knew his boy had strayed? Shit! He had tried so hard to be good, but had succumbed to his base desires in only two weeks. Even now, he couldn't control his little dick, which was rock hard at the memory of Justin's awesome prick . . . and his lunch with Mark. Chris turned off the radio. He had to think. What would Justin do if he were here? Threaten to lock his little penis up for sure, and beat the hell out of his ass. Or mercilessly fuck his throat or pound his tight hole. Just to remind him who he was. No, WHAT he was. A sub. An object to be used and enjoyed. The slim, hairy-chested boy descended into a spiral of self-recrimination and horniness. He knew what would calm him down . . . he really shouldn't, not without permission, but it had been almost five days now. Chris unzipped his pants, and pulled his 4.5" raging boner out. He spit into his palm. Just get it over with quickly, he thought, then you can concentrate on something else. You haven't ejaculated without permission from Justin in months, and he's not around to give it any more – just do it. Confess it later and let him take a belt to your ass. You're going to explode if you don't, and you can't help it if he's ignoring you. Better to spill your own seed than go have sex with Mark. Which was a very tempting idea. Chris lubed up his thin shaft with spit, and began to pump it with the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand. His mind kept flitting between images of servicing Justin and servicing Mark – between the dorm room and Swat Dee's bathroom. He was leaking precum, but guilt from his earlier dalliance with Mark made it difficult to get himself over the edge. He shut his eyes and concentrated on imagining Justin's sweaty ass in front of him. Licking his roommate's hole had never failed to bring out a huge load. Closer . . . closer . . . almost there . . . and – TAP! TAP! TAP! Chris' heart leapt into his mouth. He turned in the direction of the noise. Immediately outside the car window was a man in a uniform with a badge, hammering the glass. FUCK! Chris scrambled to tuck his rapidly shriveling dick back inside his jeans. Why, why, WHY didn't I wait until I was home?? "Open your window, Sir," the man said. Chris zipped up and complied. He blushed red as a tomato, not knowing what to say. "Sir, can you please tell me what you were doing?" The man in uniform was a bit over average height, maybe 5'11", and beefily built. His arms were muscular and his pecs pushed out the crisp white shirt he was wearing, but his stomach was rounded. He was in his 40s and handsome with brown hair and gray-blue eyes. "Sir?" "I . . . um . . . was just sitting here, Sir," Chris stammered. "Sitting?" The man looked skeptical. "Yeah . . ." Chris' voice trailed off. "That's not what I saw, Sir. I saw indecent exposure. You do realize you're in a public place, Sir?" The security guard's voice was commanding. Chris gulped. "Uh, sure, but I wasn't doing anything . . ." "Sir, please exit your vehicle." "But why?" Chris asked, panicked. "I live just a few blocks from here, I'll just drive home, and –" "Sir, please exit your vehicle," the man repeated firmly and loudly. Cringing, Chris reached for the door handle, and slowly got out of his jeep. "Keep your hands where I can see them, Sir," the man ordered. "Just your hands, Sir." Chris' blush deepened. "Now turn around and place your hands on the top of the car. I'm going to pat you down to make sure you're not armed, Sir." "I'm not armed!" "It'll just take a moment, Sir." The man in the crisp white shirt quickly and expertly ran his fingers over Chris' arms, legs, torso, and briefly around his ass and crotch. "Nothing concealed. Alright. Please turn and face me, Sir." Chris obeyed, but was unable to make eye contact. Instead, he stared at the badge on the man's chest. It wasn't metal, it was plastic. SECURITY, it read. Chris' breathing became slightly less ragged. This wasn't a cop. There was time to deescalate the situation, and maybe even get out of it. Just stay cool, he told himself, and be polite. "Sir, I'm going to ask you again: what were you doing when I tapped on your window?" Chris looked up briefly, but the blue eyes offered no sympathy or humor. "I was . . . um . . . trying to find something in my pocket." "Is that so? And what were you trying to find?" "My . . . um . . . lip balm." "And if your lip balm was in your pocket, why did you have your pants unzipped?" "There's a small hole in my pocket, and it slipped out." "I see. Please turn out your pockets." Chris reddened again. "Is this really necessary? Can't I just drive home? I'm almost there." "Your pockets." Chris pulled his wallet out of his right front pocket, and there was indeed a tube of Chapstick in the left one. His keys and cell phone were still in the car. "Now turn them inside out, please." Chris did so. The man took each pocket in his hands, and made a great show of searching for a hole; there was none. He looked back at Chris. "I don't see a hole in your pocket." "I guess I was thinking of my other jeans, Sir," Chris mumbled, wondering if he could slip back into the jeep and drive away. He didn't see another car in the cul-de-sac; the guard must have been walking around the neighborhood, keeping an eye out anyone who might vandalize the new houses before they were finished. Chris might be able to get out before the guy could follow him. "I see." The taller man looked unconvinced. "I also saw you exposing your penis. In broad daylight. Anyone could have walked by and seen you. Or maybe that was your intention?" "No, no! I was just . . . you know . . . trying to . . . relieve a little . . . tension?" Chris said hopefully. "And you say you live a few blocks from here? Why not just go home?" "Um . . . no privacy?" "I see. Well, you're going to have to come with me, Sir, so I can take your information." "Why do you want to do that?" "For the police report. This way." The guard grabbed Chris' upper arm firmly with his large hand, and began to march him along the sidewalk. "Police report?! No! Wait!" "My office is over here." "But my car! My phone and my keys are still in there." The guard paused, eyes narrowed. He guided Chris back to his jeep, and opened the door, still holding Chris' arm. He took the keys out of the ignition, and reached into the front seat to retrieve the smart phone. "Texting while driving, too? This should have been safely put away while you were moving." "I wasn't moving!" "I see. I'll have to address it in the report." "Wait, please!" But Chris' protests fell on deaf ears. The security guard marched the young man about a hundred yards to a trailer which was parked on one of the vacant lots, adjacent to a property where a house was beginning to be framed in. He unlocked the door, and pushed Chris firmly inside. The guard flipped a switch and Chris saw two rooms: an outer and inner office. The outer office contained a desk, several filing cabinets and a few chairs; the blinds on all the windows were tightly shut. Pushing the boy ahead of him, the guard made his way to the smaller, inner office, and shut the door. In here there was a large desk, two chairs on either side of it, and two more filing cabinets. The blinds were lowered and swiveled shut here, too. "Have a seat." Chris sat in the chair opposite the desk, and the guard crossed behind it, opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of forms. He flipped through them until he found what he wanted, placed the paper on the desk in front of him, sat down, and fixed his steely blue eyes on Chris again. "I need to see your ID, Sir." "Do we have to do this, Mr. . .?" "Fitzsimmons. Sean Fitzsimmons." He handed Chris a business card with his name and contact information: all very official. "Please, Mr. Fitzsimmons, there must be something we can –" "Your ID." The blue eyes were not unfriendly, but they were unyielding. Chris cursed to himself, trying to think of a way out, some excuse, but nothing came. He slowly pulled his driver's license out of his wallet and handed it over. "Let's see . . . Donaldson, huh? Christopher?" Chris nodded. "And you live on Buchanan?" Chris nodded again, and shrank in his chair as the guard looked up, his expression more severe than before. "So I'm to understand that I just caught Tom Donaldson's son masturbating in full public view next to a new housing development? I suppose you think because your dad owns one of the companies that's working on these new homes, that you can just come on in and do whatever you please? Is that what you were thinking?" Chris blanched. "You . . . you know my dad?" "I sure do, Christopher. He was in this office less than an hour ago. Why don't you tell me what he'd say if he knew we were in here now, and I was putting together a report to file with the police about his son, who was just caught exposing himself to the whole neighborhood?" "You can't tell him! Please, Mr. Fitzsimmons, I didn't mean it . . . I wasn't thinking about . . ." Sean put down his pen and folded his hand over the paper on the desk. Now his gaze was patient, resigned, almost sorrowful. "Young man, you are in serious trouble." "I get it, Mr. Fitzsimmons, I'm really sorry." "Sorry is not even the beginning of what you should be feeling, young man." Something in Chris' mind tuned in to the form of address – what had happened to "Sir"? "You didn't answer my question. What would your dad say if he knew you were here and why?" "He'd be . . . pretty . . . um . . . mad," Chris whispered, his eyes falling to the floor. "I'm sure he would be, young man. Public indecency is not a joke. Exposing yourself for anyone to see is not funny. The police certainly don't think so, not out here anyway." Chris gulped. "Now I want you to explain to me, very clearly, what possessed you to do such a thing in public." "Well, that's the thing, I didn't really think it was public. I mean, I was under a tree, in my own car, the windows were up, I knew it wouldn't be long . . ." Chris grasped for any exculpatory excuse. "What exactly about being parked on an open street in broad daylight made you think you weren't in public, young man?" "Well, it's a cul-de-sac, and I saw there were a bunch of empty lots . . ." Chris trailed off at Mr. Fitzsimmons' stern look. "I guess I wasn't thinking." "That much is clear. I can't understand why you were doing it in your car anyway. Don't you usually masturbate in your bedroom, or the bathroom, son?" Chris tried not to roll his eyes. This was so humiliating. "Yes, usually." "So why not today? You are literally three blocks from your own home. Why couldn't you wait? What was going on in your mind, young man?" Chris didn't know what to say. "Son, you can tell me what was going through your head, or I can drive you right down to the police station and finish the report there." Chris looked up. Mr. Fitzsimmons looked serious, but not angry. Maybe there was hope. Maybe he was just trying to scare the crap out of Chris. Well, mission accomplished on that one. "It's been a long day," Chris finally said. "I got kind of . . . um . . . worked up over lunch, and then later, too, and I just had to . . ." "We've all had long days, young man. But even most" – Sean looked at the license – "20-year-olds, as worked up as they might be, can wait until they're in private. What happened to you today that you couldn't wait, son?" Chris sighed. He looked up again; the guard's face was implacable. So he began to explain in a little more detail. "So, I ran into a . . . person I was involved with, unexpectedly, and we wound up having lunch. We were flirting a lot, and one thing led to another, and there was . . ." "Go on." "Some hand under the table and stuff." "So she reached over and rubbed the front of your pants at lunch? Do you do anything at all in private, or is the risk of discovery what makes it exciting for you?" "No! Never in public. I've never done anything like that before." "So, rubbing under the table. What else? Did you sneak into a closet with her?" "Um . . . no." "You're not telling me everything, Christopher." "We did go into the bathroom briefly." "I see. The ladies' or the men's?" "Men's. But it was just for one person, you know, so, um . . . private." "I see. And yet you brought her in there, too." Chris wasn't going to be able to sustain that particular fiction much longer. "Him, actually." He looked up nervously. "Sir." Mr. Fitzsimmons raised an eyebrow. "I see. So you and this other young man were in the single toilet. And what did you do?" "Nothing really, just . . . um . . . some groping and I . . . uh . . . might have licked his . . . you know . . . the outside of his . . . um . . . pants." This was excruciating. But better here than at the police station. "So in fact you've committed public indecency not once, but twice today. Is that right, Christopher?" "No one saw us," Chris said faintly. The room was starting to feel very hot and claustrophobic. He noticed that there was a window air conditioning unit, but it wasn't on. "So you say. So after this quick encounter in the bathroom, you were all worked up. Then what?" "Then I went back to my job." "And you said you got worked up again later. Same guy? Did he come see you at your office?" "No, that was because I was writing an email." "And what was this email about?" "That's kind of personal, Sir." "I see. Well, I'm sorry I couldn't help you," Sean said, standing up. His beefy form loomed ominously over Chris as he gathered some papers in his hands and gestured for the boy to rise. "No! Please, I'll tell you! Just . . . please not the police." Chris' pleading eyes would have melted stone, but the security guard looked unmoved. He did sit down again, however, to Chris' relief. "It was an email to the guy I roomed with last year." "So, a different person?" "Yeah. We were also . . . involved." Sean sat back and folded his hands over his solid belly. "Go on." "And I kind of had a crush on him, so I was writing to see how he was." The words spilled out faster now. "I haven't heard from him much since school let out, and so I was trying to send him an email to tell him how much I liked him. And it was kind of a sexy email, so I got worked up over that too, and it took me all afternoon to write it, because I was also working." Sean raised his eyebrow again at the last assertion, but let it pass. "And I was worried about sending it, and held off until I was almost home . . . and then I knew I had to do it, so I pulled over under that tree, and sent the email, and waited for a reply, and waited . . . and then after about 15 minutes I was just so fu-" Sean frowned. "Sorry, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I was just so incredibly horny that I couldn't wait any more and thought I would just, you know, take care of it real quick since no one was around, and then I could wait for a reply more calmly." "You didn't want to send the email at home? Or wait for the reply in your own house?" "I wasn't really thinking . . . I guess not." Mr. Fitzsimmons' face softened slightly. "Does your dad know you're gay, Christopher?" "No, Sir." "I see." Sean thought for a minute. "You have a complicated little life, son. I get the sense I've only scratched the surface." He leaned forward again, and put his hands carefully on the desk. "You're still in very deep trouble, young man." Chris groaned softly. "But I may not need to take you to the station. Or file a report." Chris looked up, and held his breath. "I have to ask this, Christopher. Is the story you told me completely true? Or did you expose yourself out there in the hopes that you would be discovered by another man with similar inclinations? Were you cruising, son?" Chris had to fight the urge to laugh. Who the fuck picked up anyone while parked in a fucking suburban cul-de-sac? That's what your phone was for. "No Sir, I wasn't thinking of anything like that. I was just over-excited from the day." Sean looked at him searchingly . . . and then nodded. "I believe you, son." Chris was finally able to exhale. "However," and now Sean looked stern again, "that does not alter the fact that you broke the law by masturbating in public. You seem like a good boy. I've known your father for a long time, and I've never heard about you getting in trouble. Only about your academic successes." Dad talked about that? Chris thought, surprised. "But there is NO EXCUSE for public indecency like you committed today. That's the behavior of a very immature young man. Wouldn't you say so, Christopher?" Chris blushed. "Yes, Mr. Fitzsimmons." He felt like he was in the principal's office. "And immature young men can't be allowed to continue with that kind of antisocial behavior. You do deserve to be punished, Christopher, even if it isn't by the police." Chris' small penis started to stiffen despite the tension in the room. Now he knew where this was going. It was Mason, his old RA, all over again – although Mr. Fitzsimmons seemed like a much more decent human being. His heart started beating faster, and he began to sweat from nervousness and the growing heat in the room. He had been dying for another spanking, although maybe not under these exact circumstances. The security guard might still decide to turn him in anyway. "I understand, Mr. Fitzsimmons," Chris said, careful not to sound eager, too relieved, or too knowledgeable. "Understand what, young man?" "That I deserve some kind of punishment for being so dumb. Just please, please don't tell the police. Or my dad. Do you want me to mow lawns for you or something?" "Mow lawns? No. There's work around here you could do, but your dad would know about it. If you want to keep it from him –" Chris nodded fervently. "- then we'll have to take care of this another way. No, what you need, son, is a dose of good, old-fashioned discipline." Sean looked Chris directly in the eye. "On your behind." Chris gulped and nodded again. Sean eyed him for a moment, intrigued. "What, no protesting?" "I don't really know what my choices are, Mr. Fitzsimmons. If that's the best one I've got . . ." "It is, young man. So I take it you accept the punishment?" "Yes, Sir." "It won't be over until I say it is. And once it is, we will consider this matter closed. Is that clear?" "Yes, Sir." The security guard got up from the desk and began to walk around it. "Stand up, young man." Chris stood, head down. Sean turned the chair Chris had been sitting in so that it faced the door of the inner office. He was beginning to sweat now, too. He sat down, and motioned for Chris to stand in front of him. "Young man, you have been a very, very bad boy. Your father would be furious if he knew what you were up to out there." The mention of his dad made Chris' burgeoning hard-on die down, much to the boy's relief. Strong, thick fingers undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and yanked them firmly down to his ankles. Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 02 WARNING: You will probably enjoy this story much more if you have already read the series Chris Donaldson, as well as Chapter 1 of Mr. One Fifty-Eight. The characters' back stories are revealed there. All characters depicted in this story are over 18. ***** Chris laid a ten dollar bill on the counter, trying to keep his hand steady. The portly, bald man behind the glass looked at him suspiciously. "ID?" Chris pulled out a fake driver's license from the special compartment in his wallet. It was the one useful thing that had come out of his aborted pledge period at the fraternity – Jeff Woodard, one of the brothers, had made sure all of the pledges had a fake ID. It had come in handy a few times this summer as Chris had gotten more adventurous. He had only eight more months to go until his 21st birthday, but that felt like a geologic age. The doorman at the entrance to the club squinted at the ID, compared the photograph of the blond boy to the handsome, toned figure in front of him, and grunted. "150 lbs., eh? Sure that's not 145?" Chris stared at him calmly. The doorman gave him a friendly smile. "Beard looks good on you, kid." The man put the ten in the cash drawer. "Ever been here before?" Chris shook his head. "Alright. Here's your clothes hanger. After you go through the turnstile, make a right. Put everything on the hanger, and keep one of the tags in your shoe. Then give the hanger back to me. Keep your shoes on, obviously, and your socks if you want 'em. You can wear underwear or not, your choice. Most guys don't, it's easier to not to have to keep track of it. There's seven rooms, and the bathroom is off the first big room, around to your right. It's got everything you need – mouthwash, soap, lots of paper towels. All the rooms have tables with condoms and lube. It's BYOB, and you didn't bring any, but you can ask some of the other guys if you can share. Got it?" "Got it." Trembling with nerves and excitement, Chris took a deep breath and went through the turnstile. His first sex club. Fuck, he'd come a long way since June. He'd found out about this place six weeks ago, and had been too scared to try it out until tonight. This place was apparently a favorite of the BDSM crowd, and he'd come early to get the lowest price. He already got a discount for being under 25, but it was even cheaper if you were that young and entered before 9 p.m. The guy he'd been chatting with online said it would be slow at first, but that he'd be there by 9:30; he was 22, and his screen name was BoyPunisher. They'd been chatting for most of the summer – BoyPunisher had told him about the club. He'd been pressuring Chris to come for a few weeks now; he had promised he'd show Chris around and that they'd both have a blast. Chris was alone in the first room where he was supposed to disrobe – that made it a little easier. He wondered if he was the only guy here. He decided to go whole hog and skip the underwear. Those had been BoyPunisher's instructions anyway. He handed the hanger with all of his clothes except his sneakers and athletic socks to the doorman, and tried to figure out the best place for his phone. The doorman gave him an appraising look. "Nice chest hair." He stretched out his hand. Chris looked at him, puzzled. "No phones in the club." "You're kidding! But I'm supposed to meet someone . . . how will I find him?" The doorman shrugged. Chris texted BoyPunisher quickly. "I'm here." The doorman gestured impatiently, and Chris put the phone in his shorts pocket before he could get a text in response. Shit. "Don't worry, kiddo, he'll find you. Won't be anyone else your age here." Chris' face fell. What had he gotten himself into? The doorman smiled. "I'm kidding. All ages at this place. You'll be fine, you've seen each other's face pics, right? It always works out. Or you'll find someone better." Chris tried not to look worried. He turned to the right. He'd look at all the rooms quickly, get a feel for the place. Then find somewhere to wait. "Hang on." The doorman pulled out a sharpie. "Gotta give you your mark first." "What?!" "You're here on Dom/sub night. Everyone gets an initial marked on their skin. It's hot. And practical." The doorman smiled again. "Let me guess, you'll take an 's'." Chris was tongue-tied. "Nothing to be ashamed of. Or are you a Dom?" Chris reddened slightly. "No, I'm a sub." "Then why aren't you calling me Sir?" The doorman scowled. "Just kidding. Turn around." "What?!" The doorman sighed patiently. "If you're a Dom, you get a 'D' on your chest. If you're a sub, you get an 's' on your ass. Turn around." Chris turned around. "What if I had kept my underwear?" "Subs don't get to keep their underwear." Chris jumped as the pen made contact with his skin. He felt the cool black ink drying quickly. "All set, boy. Have fun." "Thank you. Sir." Chris set off again, moving slowly. This first room was a long rectangle. There were doors at both ends, and another in the middle of the wall to his right – he saw that it was the bathroom. There were benches and mirrors around the rectangle, like a locker room, and two TVs, each playing a different porn video. There was a raised wooden chair in one corner that looked like a big throne. As Chris eyed it, he saw a ledge for the person in the chair to put his feet on, and stools in front of the ledge. For foot worship? Or boot shining? Either one, probably. He couldn't help but picture Justin, his hot former roommate, in the chair. Chris had loved worshipping the jock's feet, and they had always been nice and stinky. Chris used to save Justin's socks to sniff while his roommate was out. Chris smiled wistfully. That had been an amazing year, living with a guy who had fed Chris his fat, uncut dick and sat on his face almost daily. It sucked that they weren't really in touch any more, but Chris had resigned himself to the fact that Justin had only grown more distant as the summer progressed. The first part of vacation had been ok, with Justin sending regular texts, but those had fizzled out after about two weeks apart. Chris pegged the change for the worse to an email he had sent, voicing his desire for Justin. The Dom's response had been a perfunctory: "Good boy". After that, Justin had replied to Chris' texts only three or four times. That had been the end of June. It was now late August. And that's what had prompted Chris to go back online and look for other Doms, really; he had toyed with the idea of trying to rekindle a relationship with Mark, the very handsome and suave marketing executive in his late twenties who had taken his anal cherry, and with whom he had had a fun and flirtatious lunch in June . . . they had texted regularly since then, but hadn't met again in person. The thing was, every time Chris was with Mark, he felt like he had to make a commitment. And the only person he could imagine doing that with was Justin. So if his shaved-headed, brown-eyed, dreamy hunk wasn't available any more . . . maybe he should just move on from the previous year altogether. Chris had seen all there was to see in the first room; he decided to explore some more. Both passages leading to the other playrooms seemed even darker than the poorly-lit space he was in. Chris walked over to the right-hand door, and into the hallway. The walls were black painted brick – the whole place felt like a dungeon. Very hot, Chris thought. After about ten steps, he found himself in another dimly lit room, smaller than the first. In front of him was a St. Andrew's cross, with padded restraints hanging on chains from various strategic locations. A stair on the left led up to a large balcony, or overlook. Another room, really. Chris glimpsed a second St. Andrew's cross up there, this one with an open cabinet next to it. A very tan dark-haired man in a leather jock was arranging what looked like whips, floggers, crops and paddles. And rope. In profile, he looked handsome, probably in his late fifties, with muscular arms and a small gut. He didn't see Chris, who looked hornily at all the disciplinary implements. Corporal punishment was his favorite thing, although that awareness had begun to dawn on him only in the last year. It wasn't even Justin who had turned him on to it, really; there had been some smacking in the dorm room early on, sure, but it was actually their RA, Mason, who had first really spanked Chris. He had used a razor strop, too. It had been hell, and frankly, unjust, but Chris had gone back for more. He shook his head as he ogled the large selection of paddles. He had been so dumb to go back to Mason. It had resulted in an invitation to join Mason and Justin's fraternity, but the invitation had turned out to be a setup. There had been a whole lot of paddling at the frat, though, and that had been a plus – including one very memorable evening when he had taken 158 swats from Justin in front of everyone. Chris smiled. That had been an incredible night. None of the paddles in the sex club was a real frat paddle, Chris was surprised to see. But was that a prison strap? Hot! Even wider and nastier than the razor strop Mason had used. There were canes, too, lots of them . . . in what looked like an umbrella stand. Were they soaking in water? Chris had read about that. Not wanting to think about his tall, athletic, but evil former RA any more, Chris decided to check out that level later. He moved through the room through the door opposite; in this last room there were two slings suspended from the ceiling. A small table with packets of lube and condoms stood between them. There was another screen with porn on it as well. Chris started to get half hard, aroused by the possibilities that might await him tonight. He knew he didn't want to get gang-banged in a sling, and had gone over a fairly long list of limits with BoyPunisher, including no fucking, but he had told the Dom he'd be up for watching anything at all. BoyPunisher had told him that was fine. Chris had only been fucked by two people. The first one was Mark, of course. And the other was Justin, who had plowed him many times in the last few weeks they had lived together. Chris sighed, excited and stimulated by the environment, but annoyed that this place was dredging up so much shit from the past. He wondered if BoyPunisher were here yet, and wished he could check the time, but without his phone . . . ugh, that was even more annoying. He decided to pass through the main hall again, look for anyone who might be BoyPunisher, and then explore the other half of the club if no one was there. He walked slowly back through the room with the cross, and into the large rectangular space. In his absence, someone had turned on a fog machine – the floor was now mostly invisible. He made his way to the bathroom. He didn't have to pee yet, but thought it best to orient himself for later. There were a few urinals and stalls, and as promised, a big table with rolls of paper towels, hand sanitizer, mouthwash, and paper cups. A handsome guy in his thirties with beautiful smooth pecs was just turning away from the urinals; he smiled at Chris in the mirror as he washed his hands. He had an 's' drawn on his chiseled left butt cheek. Chris smiled back and walked out. He strolled over toward the door to other wing of the club. The fog machine must be over here somewhere; the mist came up to Chris' chest. It was hot feeling a little bit more anonymous. And always a plus when people couldn't see his small penis. Feeling more confident, he walked through the door on the left side of the main room. There was no hallway on this side, just another dim room with more slings in it. There were hooks on the walls with restraints and discipline implements hanging from them. Not as many as by the crosses, but Chris was blown away by how well stocked the club was. No hairbrush, though, he thought with some relief. The other man who had walloped Chris was a beefy security guard who had used his hand and that dreaded domestic corrective device. Chris had been amazed at how much it hurt . . . and the bruises had lasted several days. There was no question he had deserved it, though. In a funny way, the guard was also responsible for Chris' presence at this den of vice. Mr. Fitzsimmons worked security on a construction site a few blocks from Chris' house, and Chris had run into the man four times total – three since his spanking. The first time after his punishment, Chris had been quite embarrassed to see the guard again; but Mr. Fitzsimmons had been very friendly, and had made no reference to the circumstances that had led to their last encounter. Chris had been taking a walk around the neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon – anything to get out of his dad's house, even in the summer heat. He had wandered over to the site, and had been very surprised to see Mr. Fitzsimmons making rounds on a weekend. The security guard had invited him into his trailer office and out of the sun, and they had chatted for about half an hour. It had been nice, really. Chris had already been compelled to divulge a little of his background the first time he had met (and been spanked by) Mr. Fitzsimmons, so he had been comfortable sharing more. Mr. Fitzsimmons turned out to be a great listener. Without going into a lot of detail, Chris had told the older man about Justin – the basic contour of what they had done together, and how he felt about his old roommate. Mr. Fitzsimmons had not batted an eye at the obvious implication that Chris was a sub, but had just asked some easy questions about how the year had gone. And that had been that. The second time they met after Chris' punishment, Chris had told the security guard more about Mark. The boy had also revealed that he had rushed Justin's fraternity. The third time they met, Chris filled in even more details. It had been so incredible to just open up like that, to a man who was clearly not shocked. Chris hadn't been asking for guidance so much as wanting someone to listen, and Mr. Fitzsimmons seemed to understand that. The security guard had asked some questions that led Chris to feel better about his constant horniness, and the fact that he was dipping his toes back into looking for men online. Mr. Fitzsimmons seemed to feel that Chris shouldn't limit himself to fretting about two relationships which were both so fraught. At the same time, there was no question that Mr. Fitzsimmons was vigilant for signs of any risky or ill-advised behavior. Chris had been so desperate for a spanking at their last meeting that he had tried to steer the conversation in that direction – but the guard wouldn't bite. He only said, "I'm not going to punish you because you want me to, young man. Only for something you actually deserve, and which it's very important you not repeat. I'm glad you feel that you can be honest with me, Christopher." So Chris had not told Mr. Fitzsimmons about BoyPunisher or the sex club. He wasn't sure whether or not his new mentor would approve or disapprove, but didn't want to risk being enjoined from visiting the club before he could discover the place for himself. Chris' reverie was broken by a sound from the next room. To his right was another door, and Chris walked through it. This room was lit by one bulb in a corner, and the faint glow of another dim television. It was darker than the others; the sound Chris had heard was the TV, which was turned up louder here than in the other rooms. He noticed the flooring had changed – he looked down. He was walking on gym mats now. Against the walls he could see what looked like low cushions or beanbags. Two guys were lounging on the cushions, fairly close to each other, both naked except for their shoes, and stroking their large dicks. Chris couldn't make out a lot of detail, but they both looked like bears – hairy, stocky, facial hair. He was too far away to see if they had a 'D' on their chests. BoyPunisher had been stingy with the pictures, but Chris knew he wasn't one of these two. His online friend described himself as having a swimmer's build, and was smooth. He had sent two dick pics and a partial frontal nude that went up to his nipples. Chris had been obliged to send front and rear nudes, ass pics (both normal and spanked), and a dick shot, which had elicited the usual mockery. Chris was very excited by BoyPunisher's long but fairly thin cut cock. It was very different from the one he had been sucking for most of last year. He liked the lean, muscular look of BoyPunisher as well. He just wished he had seen a face picture. The Dom had asked Chris for one, and Chris had replied, "For trade?" BoyPunisher had agreed, but had not returned his. Oh well. That happened sometimes. Chris would find out what the guy looked like tonight. Aside from not sending a face pic, BoyPunisher had seemed like a normal but kinky guy – patient with Chris' questions about public sex, and reassuring about Chris' limits. He had promised that Chris would have a safe word (red), and that there was no need to do anything he wasn't totally comfortable with. This visit was just an introduction, so that Chris could see what a kinky sex club was like. BoyPunisher had promised that he would take care of Chris, and that the sub would have an awesome time. Chris walked across the gym mats to the far wall, and noticed one more door in the corner. It was lower than the other doors – you'd have to stoop to get into the next room. Chris peeked through – it was pitch black inside. His little penis shriveled back up with anxiety – what was back there? Don't be silly, he thought, everything here is safe. It's just mysterious to make it hotter. He had read about dark rooms in bars in the 70s – maybe this was one. Figuring it was better to find out what it was before there were lots of guys there, he bent down and walked in. He paused to let his eyes adjust; after about five seconds, he could see a little. It was a small room, and something was glowing dimly on the opposite wall. There were no mats in this room, just a hard concrete floor. Chris walked carefully over to the opposite wall, trying to figure out what was reflecting the light. He realized what it was a few steps into the room: a trough urinal made of dull metal that extended the entire length of the wall. Interesting. Chris noticed it was big enough to lie down in. Hmm. He took a few more steps toward it, his eyes straining to see if there was anyone else in this room. Didn't look like it. He followed the trough to the left to see what was in the dark corner away from the door, beyond the urinal. Suddenly, his foot met air instead of concrete. Panicking, he flailed with his arms, and managed to steady himself against the wall. He squinted into the void. Slowly, the outline of a small pit became clear. He was standing on the edge of it. It looked big enough to hold maybe two people, and it wasn't clear how deep it was. It smelled like sweat and piss. On the floor by his foot, he noticed a thick hose. He traced it back to the trough – it was connected to the closest drain, in which he dimly saw a stopper. Wow. He turned around and walked back to the door, which was easily the brightest thing in the room now. He hurried back through the low opening, and blinked. There were two more guys in the mat room – one looked to be in his twenties, and wore a collar, attached to a long leash, and shoes. He was in decent, but not great shape. The man holding his leash was tall and heavyset, and probably in his 60s. Chris watched, intrigued, as the older man with a 'D' drawn on his hairy man-boob led the sub over to the two bears lounging by the wall. Chris couldn't hear what was said, but the collared boy immediately knelt down and began sucking one of the bear's cocks. Chris was fascinated.