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I opened the front door to discover the young skateboarder I’d met earlier in the park standing before me, grinning lopsidedly. Not older than fourteen, he had shaggy, blonde hair, streaked almost platinum by the sun, and deep blue eyes, his skin smooth and golden. He wore olive corduroy shorts, a loose-fitting, white tank top, and green Vans sneakers, his black Zero skateboard under his arm. The board was how I’d convinced him to stop by my house in the hills, telling him that my son had an old Powell Classic skateboard deck to which he was welcome. I didn’t bother to tell him that my son, 10 year old Connor, lived with his bitch of a mother up north and had no fucking interest in skateboards.
“Hey, uh, Aaron, wasn’t it,” I greeted him, as if fishing for the name that I remembered perfectly well. “Glad you could stop by. You interested in that ‘board?”
“Yeah, dude,” he replied with a grin. “I’m always bustin’ my boards at the park. And the Powell is a bitchin’ deck.”
I invited him in, closing the door behind us. “Come into the kitchen. I think the board is in the garage. Wanna beer?” I offered.
“Yeah, sweet,” he answered, trying to act casual at the offer of a beer from an adult he barely knew. I handed him a bottle from the fridge, flipping the top for him. I lifted my own beer and drank deep in anticipation. “Your crib is rad,” he observed, looking around the large, modern kitchen. “You must make some real bucks.”
“I do alright,” I smiled back at him, indicating the tailored Armani suit and imported silk tie that I had yet to remove since returning home from my downtown office, where I’m a partner in a financial agency. “More important things than money, though,” I laughed. “Come on, let’s check the garage.”
With his board in one hand and beer in the other, the blonde skate punk followed me from the kitchen into the pantry that led to the attached garage. My Porsche was parked in the driveway, leaving the garage clear. When I clicked on the overhead light, Aaron gasped, taking in the customized room, fitted with wall brackets for various implements of bondage and torture: whips, paddles, various chains and clamps, leather hoods, large and imposing dildos. Dropping his beer, he turned to run, but it was too late. I grabbed him from behind, one arm around his neck, the other taking hold of his hands. Despite his youth, he was strong and put up a good struggle, but he was no match for my superior height and muscle. Bringing him to the ground, I rested my knees on the crook of his arms and sat heavily on his chest. “Get the fuck off--,” he started to say, but a sudden fist to the jaw shut him up.
“Quit struggling, boy,” I said to him. “You’re not going anywhere and no one can hear you in here.” He ignored me, trying to buck me off him. I punched him in the face again and again and again. I relaxed my hold on him only when it was clear that he was out for good.
When he awoke, fourteen year old Aaron was hanging from the ceiling of my garage by leather restraints I’d slapped on his wrists. I had allowed him enough slack to rest on the balls of his feet and left him fully clothed, fitting only a red ball-gag into his mouth. The kid was quite adorable hanging there helpless, not unlike a captive angel. His jaw was swelling where I’d slugged him, a deep purple bruise already showing. I reached out and ran my fingers over the darkening contusion. “Pretty,” I said. Still groggy, the young kid flinched from my touch. I slapped him hard, causing his hanging body to flail. “Don’t pull away from me, you little fuck,” I warned him.
I leaned in and kissed the bruise gently, hearing the kid whimper at the touch of my lips. I grinned at his distress. I remained fully dressed in my Armani, but I loosened my tie and undid the top couple of shirt buttons as I walked around the hanging boy, admiring his young body, lean and tan, nicely muscled with regular exercise. Stopping at a work table by the back wall, I pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. I clipped and lit a cigar, a fat Jeroboam, sucking in the flavorful smoke. With the cigar clenched between my teeth, I stood close to the suspended kid, and ran my leather-covered hands over his torso. Taking the collar of his tank in both hands, I tore it in half, leaving the shreds to dangle from his shoulders. His chest and stomach were smooth, hairless except for a slight trail of golden fuzz leading down to his pubes. His body was taut and well-defined. I took his pink rosebud nipples between my fingers and pulled gently. “N-no, please,” he tried to say through the ball-gag.
“N-no, please,” I mimicked in a high pitched whine. “Shut the fuck up, kid,” I told him. “You don’t fucking talk unless I tell you to, understand?” He didn’t reply, only glared at me. I drove my fist deep into his gut, knocking all the air out of him. His body convulsed and tears welled up in his eyes, as much from fear as pain. “Oh,” I told him, leaning in close, “we are going to have such fun, you and I.” Reaching behind his head, I undid the gag, and pulled the kid in close. I took the cigar from my mouth and pressed my mouth over his, driving my tongue deep into his throat. The little fucker tried to bite me, but I withdrew before he could get a good grip. “Faggot!” I shouted at him. “Fuckin’ stupid cunt!” I punched him in the face once, drawing blood from his puckered lips. Turned on, I began driving my fists into this lean body, his stomach and chest, again and again, as if I were working out on a punching bag. He cried out, begging me to stop. “Don’t ever fuckin’ try to bite me, fag,” I warned him. “I could kill you and nobody would ever know.”
He looked right at me. “Aren’t you gonna kill me anyway,” he said. I took a fistful of his blonde hair in my gloved fist and looked right back at him. “I’m not going to kill you, boy,” I told him. “I’m going to break you.” With that, I put my mouth back over his and began kissing him, deeply, wetly, sloppily. Pulling my lips off his, I hocked up a thick wad of saliva and sent it flying down the boy’s throat. I readied another, sending this one directly into the boys face, watching it splattered over his cheek and eyelid. I spit wad after wad of thick, phlegmy saliva over the boy’s face, coating him thoroughly in my spewed mucous. I smiled contentedly at the little faggot covered in my slime, a beautiful sight, but just the beginning. As his tears mixed with my spit, I rubbed my hand all over his face, mixing the two in a glossy lubricant. I ran my tongue over his phlegm-drenched face. The kid sputtered, and I could tell he was biting back a puke.
Returning the thick Jeroboam to my mouth, I undid the kid’s corduroy shorts, letting them drop around his ankles. He wore boxer briefs underneath, white with little soccer balls on them. I massaged the briefs at the crotch, rubbing the boy’s flaccid knob around and around. He moaned in protest, but kept quiet, out of obedience or fear I couldn’t be sure. Reaching into the briefs, I grabbed hold of Aaron’s teenaged pecker in my fist, stroking it languidly, as I pistoned my tongue back in-between his full lips, licking contentedly at the inside of his mouth. The boy retched a couple of times with dry heaves as I continued my tongue probe of his throat. Despite himself, the boy’s cock became bloated under my ministrations, his teenaged nuts tightening expectantly. “That’s right, faggot, you like me stroking that cock for you, don’t you? You like being treated like the sexy little bitch boy you are.”
While working the punk’s teen cock in my leathered fist, I fished my own fat nine inches of uncut wood out of my charcoal Armani dress slacks, fisting it in rhythm to the handjob I was giving the kid. “Yeah,” I told him, holding the cigar between my teeth, “you fuckin’ little hot skatepunk, you and me going to have lots of fun, boy, lotta things I gotta teach you, you sexy little bitch!” The kid threw his neck back as I felt his cock throb in my pounding fist, his splooge erupting all over my glove. “Fuck yes!” I cheered him on. “That’s right, faggot, come for your master!”
As the final spurts drained from his dick, I raised my spunk coated hand to his face, shoving my fingers in his mouth. “Clean me off, boy,” I instructed him. “Get all your filthy spew off my gloves.” I continued fisting my own cock, thick as the bottle of beer I’d offered the kid earlier, simultaneously working my other hand around in his mouth. Again, the kid retched, this time puke filling his mouth and dribbling over his lips like a baby. I shot my load to the sight of the kid drooling his own vomit, my fist still buried in his mouth. He eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out. Content, I left him hanging there unconscious, returning to the main part of the house to finish my cigar and pour myself a scotch.
to be continued
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