The first thing I do is shave his head.

He sits upright in the folding chair as I run the clippers over his head. Hair falls to the ground, bringing the fur on his chest and thighs into sharp focus. He wears nothing but white briefs, black kneepads, and black leather boots. He will need the boots.

“Give me your hands,” I say when I am done.

I buckle them into leather mitts. I buckle an adjustable shock collar around his balls. I buckle a muzzle on his face. Then I lock them all on.

It’s a beautiful day, so we play fetch with the keys. I drink lemonade and watch him struggle after the keys on all fours. Sweat runs from him in rivulets.

When I tire of this game, I call him to heel and he comes. He’s panting with exhaustion, and maybe, incredibly, a little excitement. His cock is half hard when he rolls over like he can barely stay up.

“Piss yourself,” I order him. Not that he could blush with his face this red. But he can’t do it; his cock is too hard. I can see his eyes over the half-mask as he struggles with it. His cock twitches. There’s a dribble, and then nothing.

“Piss yourself! Or do I have to do it for you?”

I push down my pants, squat over him and piss. The liquid pours over him, his abdomen, matting down the hair already clinging to him with his own sweat.

I kick him a few times, hard, in the ribs. He’s terrified now. His eyes are wider than saucers, and I am lost in them. I drop down on top of him, pinning his arms, the quickly-hardening cock pressing into my hips. His sweat and my piss soak my clothes and the reek of it rises up to my nose.

I rip off the muzzle and grab him by the scruff of the neck, pulling his face up to my stomach.

“Lick it up.”

If only this were real, and not what I rubbed one out to while trying to fight sleeplessness here upstate. It’s hot, there are bugs, and I have no AC. The things I do for porn!

Before this particular insomniac episode, PD had to get me thinking: what would I do, if I could run a porn site?

I wanted men. Pretty men. Per our earlier conversation about girl-on-girl, two of them. For a minute I considered orchestrating the perfectly-controlled bondage version of the elusive DP, but that seemed too contrived. Hmm, wait…

I’d have one standing with hands cuffed before him, legs in heavy shackles. Balls in a metal stretcher with a chain. The other standing facing him, bound immobile: hands in rigid cuffs, legs locked in a spreader and to the floor. Me in between them.

Fuck me, I’d tell the first. If I wanted it harder, deeper, slower, I had the pull-cord clenched in my hand. Before me: another cock. I imagined sucking and jerking it to hardness, alternately lazy and urgent, so as to have something in my mouth to bite when I fucked myself to orgasm.

At the vision of toothmarks on his cock, I came again, seeing stars.

Damn countryside and its distance from New York — and my lovers!

Speaking of stars, there’s so little ambient light here that I can see the Dipper out my window without even bothering to put my glasses back on.

Posted in travel, watersports, lust