A Drummer exclusive! The latest original story from Larry Townsend in which the master writer weaves a tale around the classic leather theme.
Six months ago my son Ron came back to Los Angeles to live
with me. While that may seem to be a statement of no earth-shaking importance, his arrival greatly changed the lives of
several people, including myself. Ron had lived with his mother
since our divorce, and because she had moved back to the east
coast, I had all but lost contact with my son… and with both of
my younger children. There had been Christmas cards, an occasional note when one of the kids was in summer camp, but I
hadn't seen Ron since he was fifteen. Now he had completed
two years of college, and wanted to finish up at USC. I had
agreed to help him out, and part of that agreement had been my
less-than-enthusiastic invitation suggesting that he stay with me.
The reasons for my reservations were complex. First was the
natural desire for my own independence, although I had no
great fears that Ron's presence would disrupt any specific activity . At forty-one I was not as troubled as I might have been a few
years before, regarding my son's possible intrusion on my sexual
liaisons. Still, even before my marriage, I had been very much of
a switchhitter. Since separating from my wife, my sexual activi-ties had been exclusively with other men. At the moment, however , there was no particular guy I was seeing. With my son in the
house, there wasn't going to be, nor did this make any great deal
of difference. It was my social life I wondered about. All of my
friends were gay men. Well, somehow, Ron was going to have to
accept them.
More disturbing was the prospect of renewed contacts with
Janice, my ex-wife. With our son under my roof, I knew she
would make frequent phone calls- might even find some
excuse for a visit. She was aware of my sexual proclivities- a
major cause, in fact, for our original separation. What she had
never discovered was the budding sexual interest that had
existed between our eldest son and me. This had never been
blatant, never mentioned in so many words, never openly acted
upon. Yet the feelings were there; I recognized it, and I was sure
that Ron had, too. It had frightened me on the few occasions
when we came close to a physical situation where feelings
would have to have been acknowledged. But at each of those
times, I had always managed to side-step the issue.
Now, my son was returning to me as a man. I wondered if he
had outgrown his childish fascination. More to the point, had I
gotten over my own? After hanging up the phone, following my
assent to his coming, I sat smoking in the darkened living room
for a long time, my mind recalling the series of sexually charged
incidents that now formed the basis for my concern. The
earliest— at least the earliest I could consciously remember—
had happened when Ron was about thirteen. There had been a
storm with heavy rains and wind. A tree limb had crashed
through his bedroom window in the middle of the night. After
doing what we could to keep more water from blowing in,
Janice and I had taken Ron back with us, to our king-size bed. He had fallen asleep.
I can only guess at the thoughts passing through Ron's mind,
but I knew how disturbing his presence was to me. In an attempt
to avoid any physical contact, I lay face up, with my hands
beneath my head. I slept in just pajama bottoms in those days, so
after a while the chill in the room forced me to slide my arms
back under the covers. I was just dozing off when I felt Ron turn
onto his side, pressing his body down the length of mine, one
arm landing across my naked chest. He seemed to be asleep, and
his action completely innocent. However, he had trapped my
left arm under him, extended down my side, so that his crotch was pressed onto the palm of my hand. Whether by accident or
design, his pajama pants were unfastened, the fly spread open,
allowing his pubescent genitals to lie naked against my palm. I
could feel him start to grow erect, and froze in horror as I
realized that I was getting hard as well. Groaning as if in sleep, I
turned onto my side, away from him, forcing my own erection
down against the mattress.
I lay awake for the better part of an hour, Ron's slender,
adolescent body against my back, his fully erect penis pressed
onto my thigh. When I finally fell asleep, it was a slight slumber,
and I came half-awake several times to feel my son's warmth still
spread across me. In the morning he was up ahead of us, and had
left the room before Janice stirred. Since I usually get up with a
hard-on, she didn't detect anything that seemed out of the
Although there were several minor instances of sexual
awareness-Ron sitting next to me in the car, with Janice or one
of the other kids on his other side, his thigh pressed too tightly
against mine, or an overlong glance in the bathroom when one
or the other of us was naked- there was no really tangible incident until the end of the following summer.
I had never been a very stern disciplinarian with any of my
kids, but there were a few transgressions that called for a trip to
the basement and the use of my belt against the culprit's butt.
Ron had committed one of these "family felonies" by going to
the beach with some of his friends during a red tide, against his
mother's specific prohibition. When I escorted him down the
stairs, he had gone along quietly, dropping his shorts and Levi's
without my having to instruct him, and leaning on the stock of
bundled magazines which had become the regular, if seldom
used, punishment dock. In doing this, he had displayed an
attitude of arrogance, almost defiance. His whole posture
seemed to say, "You've got me; I'm in your power, but you're
playing my game, and I'm going to win.'
I gave him a half dozen strokes with my belt, tempering the
force, but striking him harder than I ever had before- an
involuntary response, I suppose to my own perception of his
attitude. I left a pattern of red lines across the untanned portion
of his ass, but he never cried out or sobbed. Instead, he emitted a
series of soft, moaning sighs, and remained in position for half a
minute or so after I had finished. When he stood up, he deliberately turned to face me, looking me straight in the eye as he
pulled up his jeans and jockey shorts. There was a half grin on his
lips, as if he were aware of the surge I felt in my balls. Nor did he
make any attempt to conceal the formidable erection poking
out through the flaps of his shirt tails. He merely pulled the
shorts over his penis, forcing it to lie upward against his belly as
he finished dressing himself.
Almost in a panic, I slid my belt back around my waist and
headed for the stairs, leaving him alone to finish arranging his
clothes. Not a word had been spoken, but there had been a
decided communication. If it was a game Ron had won,
although he had done nothing of an overt nature that I could
use to justify any further punishment. Neither did I feel competent to enter into some discussion with him later. Yet it had been
a physical statement on his part, something I did not understand,
something which frightened me.
Ron was sexually mature by this time, although his body was
still growing and developing. But his genitals were fully man-sized , alreay a darker color than the rest of his skin and surmounted by a thick mat of dark blond hair. Several times when I
saw him entering or emerging from the shower I felt a surge of
pride in his appearance, glad that I had forbidden the routine
circumcision at the time of his birth. But I felt something more
than that, and it was beginning to disturb me… this inability to
stifle the sexual excitement occasioned by the sight of my own
son's body.
The last and most telling experience came only a few weeks
before Janice and I decided to call it quits. I came home early
from work one Wednesday. I was an engineer, supervising a
large construction project, and the damned plumbers had
staged a wildcat strike. We had been forced to stop all operations . Janice was working in a real estate office, and the two
younger kids were in a day care center until she picked them up
on her way home. Ron, I assumed, would be at school, working
I pulled into the driveway and hit the remote control button
to open the garage door. I started to drive inside as it swung up
and out of my way, when I saw Ron. Without thinking about it, I
hit the brakes and sat staring in disbelief. My son's blue-green
eyes stared back at me, an expression of shocked surprise on his
face. He was naked, except for a pair of scarred old boots on his
feet. A web of ropes surrounded his body, enclosing his legs and
torso, wrapping aournd his neck to fasten onto a beam in the
ceiling, another intricately encasing his genitals and secured to
another overhead a couple of yards ahead of him. His hands
were free- he had obviously been jacking off and must have
ejaculated a moment before I hit the control button. A puddle
of semen lay cooling between his feet, while a long strand
stretched down from his swollen, softening cock.
My first impulse was to get out of the car and set him loose, but
that would have been pointless, since he undoubtedly could
free himself. Nor was there anything I could really say to him.
Instead, I slipped the car into reverse, backed out into the drive,
and hit the button again to close the door. I then went into the
house without saying anything to him. But my own response had
been immediate and even more disturbing than the sight of my
son in his net of self-bondage. My cock was projecting like a
tightly wound spring down my left thigh, and my pulse was thudding against either side of my head.
I did not see Ron again before dinner, and although I
expected him to act a little sheepish when we did come face to
face, his demeanor was almost superior, as if he were aware of
the reaction he had caused in me. He looked at me without
flinching as we sat across from each other, and he carried on his
usual bantering conversation with his younger brother and sister . We never discussed the incident, nor did I ever mention it to
Janice. Things were already at the breaking point between us, so
our conversations were strained at best. How much Ron might
have known or guessed about my own extra-marital activites I
have no way to surmise, but he seemed perfectly unruffled in his
day to day relationship with me. He was a cocky kid anyway, a
leader among his mates, and outwardly more aggressive than I
had ever been. With his startling good looks and flashing white
teeth, he could charm the devil with a smile.
I knew I should say something to him, offer some sort of
comment, but I was at a complete loss. I felt I was failing him, but
tried to persuade myself that this was merely another bit of
bizarre sexual behavior one might expect from time to time
among our nation's overly sophisticated youth. It came almost as
a feeling of relief when Janice decided to move across the
country. It did, at least for the moment, relieve me of the
immediate responsibility for Ron's guidance, since all three kids
went with her.
But my family's departure did not relieve me of the residual
effects, resulting from that momentary sight of Ron hanging and
bound in the garage. That tableau became a familiar- admittedly favorite— mental photograph. I could not suppress its
recall, nor could I suppress the inevitable sexual excitement that
accompanied it. I could see his slender, exquisitely defined
body, encased in the bands of white clothesline… those which
held his ankles together… more rope wound around his neck,
contrasting sharply against the deep tan of his skin, before
continuing upward to be secured at the dusty beams. The final
binding had been the loops around his sac, stretching it and forcing his balls to appear as a shiny red globe at the base. A pair
of ropes had led off from his genitals, anchored to some nebulous objects my mind had failed to record. His long, thick fingers
had stroked his cock, pulling back the loose foreskin to reveal
the gleaming head, pulling slowly forward to hide the straining
crown beneath its velvet cover.
With Janice gone, I spent many lonely nights in the big bed we
had shared for so many years. But my thoughts were seldom of
her. It was the image of my son that flooded my senses. It was his
face and body I saw as I tossed about trying to sleep, trying to
ignore the frantic craving in my nuts. More often than not I
would relieve the pressure by surrendering to my own lust, by
lying on my back and stroking myself to a climax. Although it was
my son's image I could see etched upon the darkness of the
room, there was also a certain narcissism in my increasingly
frequent masturbation sessions. I was twenty-one years older
than he was, but my work as an engineer and surveyor had
required a great deal of hiking and climbing over the hilly
country where my company planned its buildings and subdivisions . Also, I had gone regularly to the gym- not only to work
out, but to permit the contacts I craved with other men.
I was hairier than Ron, but my coloring was the same light
brownish-blond and I was proportionately not much heavier.
Thus it was easy to substitute my own body for his in the mental
image that formed the core of my masturbatory fantasy. I could
feel the same ropes wrapped around my legs and throat, the
same warm coils forcing my balls into deep distention. One
night, after fighting the urge for over an hour, I slipped out of
bed and out the back door. Naked, I crossed the few feet
between the house and garage. I found the same old pair of
boots in the corner, slipped them on my feet, and used the ropes
to bind myself into the exact same posture where I had surprised
my son. I felt the same sensual pressure he must have felt as the
ropes pulled against my nuts, and the coils about my neck forced
me to stand straight and restricted any tendency to bend and
watch as my own fingers slid across the spring-steel hardness of
my cock, manipulated the tingling sensations as I felt the loose
skin fold about the head, then retreat as I slid it back.
In this moment of glorious depravity I seemed to merge my
being with his, to become the living counterpart of the image
my mind refused to obliterate. I wanted to come so desperately
it was all I could do to restrain the impulse to force my hand into
a slow, steady rhythm, teasing the sensual lust almost to its
boiling point, then backing off and forcing the tide to recede, to
fall back and await my command to rise again. I could feel the
frenzied pull at my balls as the sperm tried to burst free, and a
stabbing pain shot up my side as a result of the tightly restrictive
bonds
Finally, when my legs were trembling with excitement and my
body was so debilitated with desire that I could hardly maintain
my upright posture, I allowed the flood to possess me. Fighting
its way through the tightly restricted vessels, a frothy discharge
welled up from my guts and burst free, seeming to tear against
the wall of my swollen cock in its frantic rush. I stiffened, gasping
and trying to stifle a scream of anguished pleasure as I shot in
arching spurts, discharging the whole great glob of shame-filled,
guilt-ridden excitement.
This terrible possession had gradually weakened with time,
although it had never completely dissipated. Over the intervening five years I had thought about Ron, trying to imagine how he
must have changed, wondering how much taller he might have
grown. The few notes and snapshots the kids sent me were not
very revealing, and the only communication I had with Janice
was the one-sided dispatch of her monthly check. I had engaged
in a number of affairs with different men during this period, a
couple of them fairly serious and extended. But I had always
been afraid of the bars, and very turned off by the "leather
image," thus depriving myself of any opportunity I might have
found to engage in the type of sex my son had forced me to
want. And I did want it. It was a fact I could no longer deny, and
now the prospect of his return was causing me to face the
dilemma I had previously been able to shove into its own conve-
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nient pidgeonhole. As badly as I wanted him back, my fear of the
possible consequences was almost overwhelming.
The night before I was to pick him up at the airport, sleep was
an absolute impossibility. I was feverish with a mixture of fear
and desire. I recognized the symptoms early on and jacked off in
an attempt to relieve the tension. But I still could not fall asleep,
and less than an hour later I was not only tossing and twisting the
sheets around my legs, I was so hard and desperately in need of
release I might as well have never touched myself. Then something seemed to give way, like a lock suddenly snapped open, or
a window shade released to permit the light to pour into a
darkened room.
To hell with convention! Fuck the righteous hypocrites! I
muttered. If my son and I wanted to get it on together in our own
home, who would know or care? And if bondage were a part of
it, what difference did that make? It would still be an exchange
just between us… between a father and his son.
Ron had been home for a week, and my fantasies were farther
from fulfillment than ever. He had emerged from the airport
baggage pick-up, beaming and dropping his pair of suitcases to
rush into my arms. But other than this brief, public display of
filial devotion, there had been no physical contact between us. I
was afraid to initiate even a conversation that might betray my
interest without some hint of reciprocal desire on his part. Like
Professor Humbert, I could only sit by and watch while the
object of my misdirected desire went enthusiastically about his
seemingly endless series of tasks. He would get up in the morning after I had showered and dressed, sometimes racing about
the house in his jockey shorts, grabbing a cup of coffee from the
kitchen counter, then back to his room to finish dressing and get
on his way to the university or the endless series of interviews
and tests necessary for his enrollment. Although he seemed
genuinely happy to be with me, there was not a suggestion of
sexual interest.
Maybe it had been just a juvenile "phase" I thought… the
stage in a boy's development that psychologists are fond of
recounting as explanation for the bizarre sexual appetites of
youth. But the physical potential he had displayed as a boy was
now manifest in the man. His body was magnificent, and his
handsome features were only accentuated by the seemingly
naive and friendly smile he always reserved for me. Even the
slightly knowing grin I had thought I detected on his adolescent
features was gone. Let's face it, you aging pederast, I told myself,
you've boxed yourself into an emotional corner and your Prince
Charming is never going to come carry you away.
I gradually resolved to live with the reality of my situation,
however frustrating it might continue to be. During the several
weeks prior to Ron's return, I had cut myself off from social
contacts, and a couple of my friends- gay friends- had been
calling on the phone, expressing concern and wondering if I was
all right. Since I had never even hinted at my sexual feelings
toward Ron, they assumed I was upset that his presence was
going to stifle my ability to visit and receive guests. Well, that
wasn't going to happen, I decided, so I invited two of my best
buddies for dinner the second Saturday after Ron's return.
Although my guests seemed a bit restrained at the beginning
of the evening, they soon settled into their usual routine. Gus
was an older man whom I had met at the gym many years before.
A lawyer in private practice, he was a bit on the elegant side, and
he generally drank too much. But he always became "high"
rather than "drunk" and would always entertain his companions
with a series of hilarious stories. Chuck was younger, in his
mid-thirties and had been one of my steady sex partners a
couple of years before. We had now become close friends. A
regular at the gym, he had an exceptionally good build, and was
something of a sexual athlete. The only remark he made regarding Ron, however, was during a brief moment when he caught
me alone in the kitchen as he came in to refill his glass. "Hey,
Alan, your son is a real beauty!" he whispered to me.
"And you're a dirty old man," I replied.
As for Ron, he responded with the same open friendliness I
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to receive this material. had come to expect from him. Although Gus made a few
remarks that could have been taken either way, my son made no
overt response to anything that was said. Still, it would have
been difficult for him not to perceive the situation for what it
was. If he did, though, he never let on. Even after our guests had
left and he was helping me clean up, his only comment was that
my friends had seemed like very nice guys. When I plugged in
the dishwasher it was close to midnight, and Ron asked if he
could borrow my pickup. "Want to see a bit of the town at
night," he said.
He was still out when I went to bed, about 3 AM, but he was
home and asleep when I got up Sunday morning. I made a point
not to ask where he had gone or what he had done, and the next
week I bought him a late model Toyota. We were still living in
the same house where he had grown up- a place we had
originally rented, which was the only reason Janice had not
taken it in the divorce settlement. I had since bought it, thus
precluding an easy move into an area more convenient to Ron's
school- or my office for that matter- and I wanted to make it
easier for him to commute. He was surprised and overjoyed,
hugging me in thanks, leaving me again to reflect on Lolita and
her shamelessly degenerate pursuer.
In September, when school started, we fell into a more regular
routine, each of us in a hurry to get dressed and out in the
morning. Although this resulted in numerous occasions for one
of us to be naked in the other's presence, there was no apparent
response or concern on Ron's part, although my own internal
reactions to his impressive displays were always difficult to conceal . But I managed to control my external responses; or so I
assumed, and still nothing was ever discussed or acted out.
I was working on a large condominium development, not far
from the house, so I sometimes came home for lunch or was able
to break off early and arrive an hour or so earlier than usual in
the evening. One afternoon I came home a little past noon, half
expecting to find Ron, since it was Friday, one of his short days.
However, his Toyota wasn't parked in its usual place, so I
assumed I was alone. I parked in front of the house, because I
would be leaving shortly, and went inside to make myself a
sandwich. The kitchen was in front, overlooking the street,
while the bedrooms were in the rear: mine downstairs, the
others on the second floor. Thinking to call my office and check
on any messages, I picked up the phone and was startled to hear
"…ready, Sir, and I'll wait until you get here."
Chuck's voice: '
Then Ron's voice: "And none of that shitty electronic music
this time.'
"No, Sir. Strictly Mahler and Strauss."
"Okay, I'll see you at ten."
There was a slight pause, and I could hear the click as one
receiver was replaced. Another pause, and Chuck's voice again:
"Is that all, Sir? Ron?"
I realized he was waiting to be sure Ron hung up first, and I
eased the plunger down on the wall phone. Then I braced
myself against the sink, my heart pounding in my throat as I tried
to fathom the full meaning of the few words I had heard. Without thinking, I tossed two slices of bread into the toaster and
continued with my lunch routine while my mind struggled to
comprehend exactly what was going on between my son and
one of my best friends. I was still muddling through the construction of a sandwich I would never be able to taste when Ron
appeared in the doorway.
"Oh, Dad," he exclaimed in surprise. "I didn't know you'd
"1… parked in front," I told him. "Only have a few minutes.
Where's the Toyota?"
"I left her up the street to get the oil changed," he responded
lightly. "Um, tuna salad… looks good. Got enough for me?"
The rest of my afternoon was a gut-wrenching hell that I
thought was never going to end. All the emotional confusion
that had mired my existence before Ron's return from the East
Coast now swelled into my consciousness and obliterated every
other thought. On retrospect I realize how basic and simple all
of this reaction really was, although at the time I was not thinking
clearly enough to see it. It was good old-fashioned jealousy! I
was responding like a betrayed husband, or lover, because
nowhere in my previous fantasies had it ever occured to me that
Ron's sexual lusts might be directed at another person. I was
experiencing a sense of loss, and I was perceiving his behavior as
an act of betrayal—both on his part and on the part of Chuck.
Ron had still been in the house when I left to return to work.
Not really knowing what I was going to do, I muttered something about a meeting that evening and not being home for
dinner.
'That's fine, Dad," he had replied airily. "I've got some things
to do tonight myself."
At 5:30, when everyone knocked off at the project, I returned
to my office. I had trapped myself, so I couldn't go home and
there really wasn't anything else for me to do. I might have gone
to a bar, but I didn't feel like drinking. Instead, I sat at my desk,
trying to think as the light faded outside and the room became
gradually lost in shadow. I finally got into my pickup and drove
to a bluff overlooking the ocean, where I sat and tried to convince myself that I really didn't care, that Ron was grown up now
and had a right to his own self-determination, that I was reacting
stupidly. Nothing succeeded in deflating this bubble of anxiety
in my gut. While every logical argument mitigated against it, I
succumbed to the most irrational impulse of all and decided to
drive by Chuck's house. I knew it was wrong; I knew it was
stupid. But I simply couldn't help myself.
Chuck lived in a fairly large old house on the edge of Hollywood , which had originally belonged to his parents. It had been
rented out for a while after they retired and moved to the desert,
but Chuck had taken possession of it three or four years before.
Although I had been there a number of times, especially during
our short, torrid affair, I had never seen any physical evidence of
his interest in SM or any other aspect of the activities his conversation with Ron had suggested. I knew that he had started going to leather bars shortly after we had broken off our sexual liaison,
but I could not conceive of his being deeply involved in those
games. Or was it just because of Ron, I wondered.
I drove past the house. My son's car was in the driveway,
pulled all the way up and half hidden in the shadow of an old
tree that overhung the fence. The house looked dark and unoccupied , and for a moment I toyed with the forlorn hope they
might have met at the house and gone out for something to eat,
or to a bar. It was wishful thinking, no more than that. I was past
the lot, starting around the block, a lump like fear in my gut, but I
was also aware of a deep, warm surge in my balls. There was an
empty parking space just as I rounded the corner, back onto
Chuck's street. Without thinking about it I pulled in, turned off
the lights and engine. I spent a few minutes debating with
myself, knowing I was going to approach the house, at least…
probably listen outside like some frantic, distraught lover.
Beyond this I wasn't sure… something to make a damned fool
of myself, I thought.
I got out, closing the door quietly, and started down the
sidewalk. I was still wearing my steel-tipped safety boots, so I
clumped along the cracked concrete. Once considered a "better neighborhood," the area had declined significantly over the
years. Many of the big old houses were now divided into smaller
apartments or used as multiple family homes. I heard the Spanish language TV station blaring in one house as I passed. From
another came the heavy cooking odors- cheese and chili. A
woman shouted at her kids, half in English, half in a language I
didn't recognize. I reached the front of Chuck's lot, felt the
terrible pressure in my gut increase, the tendrils of sexual excitement grip my loins.
I paused a moment on the sidewalk, staring at the house and
straining to hear some sound. The street was fairly dark, with big
trees blocking off the light from the lamp posts. Chuck's yard
was in deep shadow, and I could barely see the outline of Ron's
Toyota. I crossed the lawn, moved toward the driveway. Pulse
rasping in my throat, I passed between the house and the little
car, jumped when a sharp creak sounded from the cooling
engine. I was below the windows of Chuck's second floor bedroom . A dull glow showed through a crack in the heavy draperies , but I heard nothing. I moved around a few feet farther,
standing with my back to the detached garage, looking up at the
darkened windows. A car swooshed by on the street and, as the
sound faded in the distance, I caught a very faint suggestion of
music. Rising suddenly in a wave of pulsing rhythm, falling
below the threshhold of my hearing, rising again-unmistakable pattern of notes, a Mahler symphony seeming to waft
upward from the ground.
I knew Chuck's house fairly well, alhtough I had only been in
the basement once, on a day when I helped him store some
wood. There was a side entrance, leading directly to a flight of
stairs, down to the cellar. I tried the knob… locked. Remembering Chuck's custom in hiding his front door key, I reached up
and felt along the frame above this entrance, found a key, and
cracked open the door. I stood stock still, listening to the rushing pulse in my neck as I tried to summon the courage to open
the door. I had absolutely no business being there; I was about
to intrude on the privacy of my son and one of my best friends.
All logic and decency required that I turn around and go home.
But I couldn't help myself. I turned the knob and eased the door
open.
A flood of sound seemed to engulf me, and I was aware of a
dull amber glow from the lower level. This, as well as the music,
seemed to come from the other side of the basement, although I
did not have a clear view until I had descended halfway down
the stairs. Several of the old boards creaked, but the symphony
was loud enough to obliterate it. I could see a partition built
across the width of the basement with a door in it that now stood
ajar. Both sound and light came from the other side. I paused a
moment to orient myself, noting the changes since my last visit.
The other room, I was sure, had not been there. Reflective, I
supposed, of a shift in Chuck's interests—a shift, certainly, since
I had been visiting his bedroom.
I crossed the basement, becoming aware of sounds other than
the music: a series of muffled moans, a muted voice-Ron's, I
realized—speaking softly and soothingly. "It's all right, man, all
right… "Then a protesting moan, and a soft, evil laugh.
I positioned myself well back from the door, still more or less
in shadow, but where I could see partially into the room. I saw
Ron, dressed in black leather vest and chaps, standing over a
long, low table. Chuck was lying on this, stretched out with his
hands secured to the surface above his head. He appeared to be
completely naked except for a leather hood. However, I could
not see his body much below the waist. Ron was holding a
lighted candle, periodically tipping it so that the red wax fell
onto Chuck's skin. Each time he did this, a series of whimpering
moans sounded from the tightly bound figure. Ron moved from
one place to another on his subject's body, depositing the hot
wax and continuing with his soothing reassurances as Chuck
struggled against his bonds and sounded his protests into the
mouthpiece of the hood,
I took a step back as Ron moved closer to the door, turning so
that he was first in profile, then with his back toward me. His
substantial cock arched outward, half-hard, so the crown poked
through the foreskin. The sight of his slender build, with the
well-developed arms protruding through the sides of his black
vest, sent a shiver through my frame, and I realized that I was not
only hard, but already running fluid onto the inside of my jeans.
I shifted my position slightly, trying for a better view of the table.
I could just see Chuck's groin, where his thick, stubby cock lay
upward against his belly, almost completely covered in a layer of
wax. Blinded by the hood, he could not anticipate where the
next drop would fall, so his whole body was tense, sweat glistening across the entire surface. Small mounds of wax were building
on his nipples now, as Ron worked back and forth with his
candle.
This was all pretty heady wine for me. I'd heard of such things,
read a few stories about them, but I had bever been involved in them or realized that I even knew anyone who was involved. I
slipped farther back into the darker part of the basement, staggering almost as if I were drunk. My back pressed against the
cool bricks of the wall, and I leaned against it for suport. The
music reached a throbbing crescendo; Ron's body blocked
most of the doorway, his back still toward me, the smooth
rounded cheeks of his ass gleaming through the black leather of
his chaps. He put the candle down and was doing something to
Chuck: releasing him from the table, bringing him to his feet,
and repositioning the hands behind his back. He pushed the
table away and fastened a leather collar around the other's neck.
the spots of red wax showed clearly, even from my less-than-perfect vantage point, clinging like the breast covers on some
Amazon warrior. His groin was coated even more deeply, giving
him an almost desexualized appearance, because his cock had
been plastered to his abdomen in an upright position. Now,
either as a result of its own substantial weight or some fresh wave
of arousal, the powerful tool broke forth, tearing a large chunk
of wax loose from his body, part of it hanging down like the flap
on a codpiece. His hard, thick tool projected rigidly outward,
horizontal, almost in defiance as Ron secured the rest of his
body into its immobile, standing position.
Watching, I hardly dared to breathe, because the music had
dropped to a barely audible volume, and with it I seemed to lose
its concealing cloak. My whole body was trembling. My legs felt
weak; I was covered with sweat. The only part of me that seemed
to retain the strength to function was my dick, and it was pressing furiously down the side of my Levi's. My balls actually ached
with an intensity that extended into my lower viscera. I heard
Ron say something about taking off the wax, and saw him
approach his prisoner with a small, braided whip. As he began to
apply this lightly across the patches of clinging red, I could
almost feel the impact on my own skin. My brain seemed to
echo the moaning, the muted squeals of the victim, and a few
times I actually twisted in imitation of Chuck's reponses to the
pain. My left hand had been sliding along the length of my dick,
pressing down on the denim to cause a greater flood of sensation . Now I flipped open the buttons on the fly and worked it
loose, pulling my balls free as well.
Ron was applying his whip to the patches of wax, flicking them
loose in chunks, causing Chuck to writhe, trying to twist away
from the stinging contact. At one point he turned completely
around, giving Ron unobstructed access to his ass and back.
Without seeming to pause in his rhythm, my son landed the
braided leather hard across the solid, sweat-drenched cheeks,
striking again before his victim had a chance to draw away. A
pattern of bright, criss-cross lines showed against the whiteness
of the skin, visible even to me as I stood across the basement,
caressing the tip of my dick, sliding the foreskin back and forth
over the head, fingering the moisture and rubbing it into the
glans.
Although I certainly was not functioning in such a way as to
consider my behavior or reactions on an intellectual level, I did
realize— almost with a shock— that I was identifying or empathizing almost completely with Chuck. I was mentally placing
myself in those bonds, and I was feeling rather than delivering
those blows from the whip. I wasn't sure, however, whether this
was due to my overpowering attraction for my own son, or
whether my natural inclinations were leading me to seek the
role of the masochist. Whatever the cause or underlying motivation , I was more turned on than I had ever been in my life, and it
was all I could do not to intrude upon their scene.
As it was, I stayed back from the lighted opening, watching as
Ron etched a skillfully executed design across his subject's well-muscled body. Chuck was jerking violently away from the stinging contacts, and his moans had become a frantic blubbering
against the leather gag. Most of the wax was gone from his upper
body, but several sizeable patches remained around the groin.
Without warning Ron abruptly stopped the whipping, allowing
his subject a few moments to catch his breath. But the respite
was short-lived, only long enough for Ron to select a small,
braided cat from the collection that must have hung on the wall,
just outside my field of vision. Returning with this, he started
working on Chuck's cock and the skin surrounding it. The flecks
of wax disappeared, while the tightly bound figure went
through a fresh series of frantic twisting motions, turning away
from his tormenter, only to have the whip impact across his back
and ass. In the course of his movements, Ron had bumped the
door so that it swung a bit wider, and the outline of light crept
along the floor, closer to my booted feet. If he'd looked up he
might well have seen me, although I was still standing in comparative shadow.
I watched him finish with the whipping and take Chuck down,
bend him over the leather-covered table, and start playing with
his ass. I had reached a point where I couldn't hold back any
longer, and I shot my load in long, spurting arcs across the
cement floor. It was a discharge tht seemed to last an eternity
and to tug at the interior walls of my being, to relieve the
pressure in my balls by a painful implosion. When it finally
stopped, I leaned back against the wall, milking the last of it from
my cock. For a moment sanity returned and I must have blushed
in the darkness at my audacity in coming here uninvited, spying
on my son and our mutual friend. I was ashamed of myself and in
the few moments it took me to stuff my dick back into my jeans, I
made it to the foot of the stairs. I crept upward, trying not to
cause the loose boards to creak, and slipped out the door. I
relocked it and returned the key to its hiding place.
I stood outside for a few moments, trying to collect my wits,
while the swell of music from downstairs rose up around me.
Coming here had been utter madness and I had been fortunate
not to have been seen. Smoothing my crotch down as best I
could, I forced myself to assume a casual saunter back toward
my pickup. As I came out on the sidewalk, I almost collided with
an elderly man walking a small mongrel. The dog yapped at me
and the man drew away as if in fear. Then we passed and I continued on my way to the truck.
There was, of course, no way I could shake the images I had
seen from my mind. The picture of Chuck, bound and helpless,
and Ron more naked than naked in his leather vest and chaps-long thick cock projecting through the opening, working with
the whips and lighted candle. It was making me hard all over
again, and I badly wanted to return. More than this, now that I
had shot my load and returned to a more rational mental state, I
found myself comparing my physical attributes with Ron's, taking a perverse delight in the realization that we really were very
much alike: same general body build, same height and close to
the same weight, same coloring (although my skin had coarsened a bit with age and my beard was heavier), hair line a bit
higher with a few strands of gray. But I was still almost as firm
through the ass and waist as he was, and only a shade thicker. His
cock was possibly a fraction longer than mine, but his balls were
not quite as large. As I drove back to my own house, I filled the
final minutes with a wild fantasy of holding our genital endowments side by side, comparing them, allowing them to expand
and harden in unison.
All of this was making me hard all over again and I badly
wanted to return, to spin the truck about and drive back to
Chuck's. Instead, I pulled into my own driveway and took a long,
hot shower, jacked off to these mentally recreated images: me
standing in that dungeon with Ron's hands cuffed behind his
back, the hood over his head, his body exposed and vulnerable
to my explorations, receiving the punishment he deserved for putting me through this frantic turmoil.
I lay on my bed with the lights off, still too warm to slip under
the covers. I tried to sleep but couldn't. Instead I stared at the
darkened ceiling where the scene I had witnessed kept replaying itself, and my cock responded as if I had not come for a week.
I was lying there, gently playing with myself when I heard Ron
come home. He came in quietly, spent a few minutes in the
bathroom, then padded on bare feet into his own bedroom. I
must have lain awake for another hour or so before I finally fell
asleep, still lying on top of the covers.
In the morning I was up before Ron. I made a pot of coffee and
sat drinking it while I tried to read the newspaper. The lines blurred before my eyes, and my mind kept casting back to the
night before. All I could see were Ron's big dick and balls
hanging out through those leather chaps. These obsessive
thoughts kept running through my mind until I realized that I
really did not want to face him in the flesh, at least not then.
What I really needed was to talk to someone, to try to explore
some of my feelings and to try reaching some sort of mental
equilibrium.
Without reasoning it out any further than this, I went out to
my truck and drove away. At least I was spared having to face my
son's bright, innocent greeting. Still without giving it much
thought, I headed toward Hollywood. I was half-way there when
it occurred to me that Chuck was the logical one to talk it over
with. I wouldn't tell him that I had crept into his house to watch
him getting his ass whipped the night before, but I could pretty
well tell him all the rest, even admit that I'd accidentally picked
up on their phone conversation if that was necessary for him to
discuss the situation with me. I was not angry or even annoyed
with him for getting it on with my son. I'd make that abundantly
clear to him from the start. But if he was involved as I knew he
was, and if he was really my friend as I felt he was, then he might
help me to resolve the problem in my own mind, if no other way. pulled up to the curb a few doors from Chuck's house and
walked across the lawn to his front entrance. It was already after
noon, so I did not feel it likely that I would be waking him. He
had always been an early riser; I was more apt to find he had
gone out. There was no answer to my ring, even after several
tries, so I started slowly back to my pickup, not certain where I
should go next. But as I crossed his driveway, I noticed that his
garage door was partially raised. Because his was an old house
with a small garage, he always had to park this way, because the
door would not close completely behind his big Buick. I walked
back to get a better look and saw that his car was indeed in the
garage. As I stood there stroking my chin and wondering where
he might be, I became aware of music drifting up from the
basement. Odd, I thought. Well, maybe he's down there cleaning up after last night's episode, I told myself. Absently I tried the
door knob, expecting it still to be locked. Instead the door
opened to my touch.
I leaned into the aperture and called: "Chuck? Chuck, are
you down there?"
I got no answer, only the rising swell of music, the same as I
had heard a few hours before. I went down a couple of steps and
called again. Still no answer. I went all the way to the bottom,
thinking to myself that if I found him in his dungeon it might
make an even better opening to start the line of conversation I
wished to have with him. But as I stood on the basement floor,
not far from the spot where I had shot my load the night before,
there was still no answer. The dungeon door was only slightly
ajar, but I could see the same dull light seeping out.
Expecting to find the room empty, I crossed the few feet of
basement and pushed the door open. Instead, I froze in horri-fied dismay, almost blinded by a sudden rush of blood to my
brain. There, hanging from the same neck chain I had seen my
son place upon him, was Chuck- obviously dead, his wrists
cuffed together in front of him, hood with gag and blindfold
over his head. His knees had buckled, causing his feet and legs to
form themselves into a twisted, unnatural pattern. Directly in
front of him, on the rumpled rubber sheeting, lay an open,
spilled bottle of amyl, awash in a drying puddle of urine.
The strength began to ebb from my legs, and I quickly caught
at the leather-covered bench. Leaning my butt back on the edge
of it, I braced myself with the palms of my hands upon the
padded surface. I sat there for quite a while—ten or fifteen
minutes— staring at the inert form that had been my friend, my
mind trying frantically to sort out the facts, to accept the truth of
his being dead. Twice I started up, ready to unfasten him from
the ceiling hook and take him down. But both times I remembered the time-honored lines from every murder mystery I had
ever read or seen: "Don't touch anything." Of course, it was
always a cop who said this. And that would be the next problem.
The cops.
(Concluded Next Issue)
RHOMETONIGHT
TROPHY I
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CHAPTER THREE
D. SEVEN IN A BARN
FIRST TIME AROUND
MALE STAMPEDE
HAW COUNTRY
TUESDAY MORN WORKOUT
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