Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Iowa Farm Boy, Part V
“Rise and shine, barberboy!” The blanket had been yanked off me and a bushy beard was shoved against my ass biting playfully. I was rolled over to my back by NastiBear who pinned my arms down and gave me a huge sloppy kiss. Dressed only in jeans his belly was pushing down on my morning hard-on. Keeping my arms pinned he lowered his head and swallowed my dick whole. Just one simple swallow. “Yum. Boycock.”
“Now get your sorry ass up and make me some breakfast! I understand you’re chief cook and bottle washer–and I’m fucking hungry, boy.” He laughed heartily and climbed down the ladder. I watched him go seeing the red welts on his back disguised only barely by the Brillo pad of hair that covered him. I scrambled down the ladder, put on my jeans and t-shirt and boots and headed for the kitchen.
Just inside the kitchen door CD was sitting, his back to me. He and Steve were wearing blue jeans only and on CD’s back I could see multiple stripes from Steve’s whipping. It looked like lightning strikes of red on the mountaintop. Steve was watching me closely for my response but I lowered my head and went straight for the stove.
A dozen eggs later along with a pound of bacon, a pound of sausages, several fried potatoes, and two big pots of coffee the guys seemed sated. I was washing dishes while CD and Nastibear gathered up their gear and got dressed for their ride back to Omaha. Both guys gave me big hugs before turning their attention to Steve. Nastibear kept muttering “I gotta get me one of those. I just gotta get me one of those.”
As they climbed on their bikes CD shouted out to Steve. “Think about the offer. It’s a good one and we’ll do anything we can to help. Let us know. And thanks for a great weekend. See ya’ soon!” And the engines were kick-started and with great thunder these two gods set off down the lane.
We walked back in the house where I set about drying the dishes. Steve sat at the table behind me. I could feel him watching me. When I turned he said very quietly and simply,
“How much did you see?”
I wouldn’t lie to him. I couldn’t lie to him. “A couple hours probably. I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Sir.” It came tumbling out of me. “I thought someone was hurt, honestly I did. And I ran to help.....”
He stopped me by simply raising his hand. “It’s okay. Finish up. Let’s go for a ride before it gets too hot.”
He left the kitchen to get finished dressing and I dried the last of the dishes and headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. He met me there and we trotted through a wooded area that led to the back of the property where the creek first entered his land. We tied the horses next to the creek so they could drink and rest. Steve found a huge flat rock at the creek’s edge to sit on and pulled me down to where I sat between his legs, my head and back cradled against his warm chest. He wrapped his arms around me. The closeness between us made me feel very secure.
“Did it scare you? What you saw?”
“No, Sir! Well, a little, because it was so....”
“I’ve known ChromeDome and Nastibear for almost 15 years now, since about the time I was your age. Their real names are Roy and Donnie. Nobody could ask for better friends. And for the last 15 years we’ve grown up and come out and developed our lives in the leather community. All three of us have come to be tops, but every once in a while even a top needs to be reminded of where he came from, to remember what it feels like to take the sting of the whip rather than to give it. They respect me and I respect them.
Roy is a fister. Unlike the single finger I stuck up your ass yesterday, Roy sticks entire fists up some willing boys’ asses. Donnie is first and foremost a sadist. Do you know what that means?”
I shook my head slightly. Steve chose his words carefully.
“Donnie is aroused by inflicting pain in others. A sadist is aroused by inflicting pain; a masochist enjoys having pain inflicted upon him. Donnie will use what ever tool he has at his disposal to make another man scream out in pain. With one man it might be hot candle wax, with another it might be strings of clothes pins pinching sensitive areas of a bottom’s body, with yet another bottom it might be the paddling of his ass.
“Pain is an incredible aphrodisiac for some people. The body can stir up powerful chemicals that take your mind on the most incredible flights, and as those chemicals build up the pain becomes a freeing thing.
“Like an athlete who pushes himself to his limits, masochists cross thresholds and catch a second wind. Once pushed past that level where it ceases to hurt, an athlete and a true bottom cross over to a exceptional place where there is no longer pain, only a sort of agonizing pleasure.
“We add elements to this–clothing made of leather, dungeon-like settings, blindfolds, hoods, bondage, humiliation, or whatever else the top or bottom might want to enhance his fantasies. Ultimately though it comes down to trust, an exchange of power, and taking a partner to new levels of being.”
I held on to his massive forearms trying to make sense of all this. His steady breathing showed he was in no hurry, allowing me all the time in the world to absorb this new knowledge.
Finally he spoke again.
“There is one other element that is absolutely critical for you to understand. What happens must always occur between consenting partners. I whipped those men because they wanted me to.” He held me a little tighter. “I will never do that to you unless you tell me you want it done. Even then I promise to stop the split second you say I should. Willing, consensual, bonded partners in a black dance. That is the way it has to be.”
I nodded my understanding. It took me a long time to build up my courage to speak. My voice was a raspy whisper.
“I want to try, Sir.”
He stood up on top of the flat rock and pulled me to him, my face now tight against his shoulder. He stuck his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Let’s go to the shed.”
As the day had gotten much hotter we rode back slowly sticking to the shade when we could. Back at the barn Steve told me to take care of the horses and to hose myself down as well then come to the shed with nothing but my boots on.
I finished the chores and arrived at the open door of the shed. Steve had showered and was standing in the middle of the room. He’d put on tight leather chaps that framed his butt and dick. Two thick bands of leather encircled his biceps. His shiny black engineer boots peeked out from below the chaps. His physique was breathtaking. I shivered at the door even though it had to be at least 90 degrees outside.
“Get over here. NOW.” he growled.
I moved quickly to him. He sat in a big straight-back chair. “I want you over my knees and I want you there now. You are going to punished for disobeying me last night.”
I started to object. “But I thought you weren’t mad about that....”
“Shut up! In this shed you do not speak unless I give you permission to speak. If you ever want to end what is happening just say my name, not my title, and I will stop immediately. Otherwise you will only speak when I allow it. Is that clear? Answer me barberboy, is that clear?
“Now bend over my lap.” I did slowly and he threw me the rest of the way on to his lap. His right hand hit my right buttock.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I’m sorry, Sir”
I bit my tongue to keep from opening my mouth.
“Better. Now count them.”
Smack! He hit the right cheek!
Smack! Now the left cheek!
I was screaming the numbers out by the time he reached twenty. My butt was stinging. I could feel its heat. He rubbed his right hand over my ass massaging the tissue and muscle and skin. I was on fire from the spanking and more so from his touch.
“Good boy, now let’s start over.” He grabbed a leather paddle that was sitting next to the straight-back chair.
In a slow and steady rhythm we went through five sets of twenty before he relented. Each time he reached numbers nineteen and twenty I thought I would have to call out his name to make it stop. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do that. And as promised, by the time we started the fifth set I was somehow floating above the pain. Somewhere in my head I still recognized it as pain, but now I was finding myself wanting that next hit, anticipating it, needing it. It was like the first time I had had two beers–I was fully conscious but I wasn’t fully coherent. I liked this new place I had reached and I was intoxicated by it, by every bit of it–the sound, the feel of his hand against my ass, the smell of leather and sweat, the feel of my chest and stomach and dick against the leather chaps. And I heard myself sobbing,
“Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir.”
Without a word he lifted me back to standing. He stood and squatted in front of me, grabbed me around my waist, threw me over his shoulder and carried me to the corner of the shed. Hanging from four chains was a small hammock of leather, a sling he later told me. He eased me onto it from his shoulder and I gasped as my hot buttocks touched the cool leather. He laid me back in the sling and lifted each foot to fit in a sort of stirrup. At this angle my butthole was gaping open and completely vulnerable. He took my wrists and attached belts around them. The belts had D rings applied to them and to these he attached short chains. He lifted my hands above me and attached them to the chains coming down from the ceiling.
An open can of Crisco sat on a shelf near the sling. Steve reached into it and spread it liberally over the middle finger of his right hand. With this greasy probe he began to first massage my rectum then enter it. With my body at this angle, I was amazed at how easily that finger had gone in. Unlike yesterday in the creek this greasy finger had slid in quickly and comfortably, like a long lost friend come for a visit. I could see Steve’s grin.
“Ah yes, barberboy, you’ve got a hungry hole.”
He pulled out and now applied more grease to the index, middle and ring fingers of his right hand. Again, the middle finger slipped in easily and after a couple of thrusts it was joined by its neighbor, the index finger. I was beginning to groan. I was squirming in the sling, hungry for more fingers, more lube, more depth, more anything. He pulled out again.
“Easy, barberboy, easy. We’ve got all afternoon.”
For the next half hour he alternated between one, two, and three fingers. Sometimes there were slow thrusts, other times he would jab. The only predictable thing was my moaning. It was continually growing more insistent.
“Do you want me inside you, boy? Do you? Can you take me inside you, barberboy?”
“Yes, sir. Please, sir.” I was begging.
A big glob of Crisco was massaged onto his already hard dick and I watched him step closer to me. He grabbed the chains supporting my legs and the sling, and I could feel the tip of his dick right at the edge of my anus.
“Fuck me, Sir. Please fuck me, Sir!”
It was the only encouragement he needed. He slowly eased his dick into me and began thrusting his hips. I could feel all the muscles in my lower body trying to reach out and hold onto that dick. I wanted it inside me, all the way, deep inside me.
As he began to fuck me faster and harder he put his greasy right hand on my dick and began to jerk on it, timing his jerks in rhythm with his thrusts. The leather of his chaps was slapping against my tender butt cheeks. The chains were rattling, we were both breathing in raspy short breaths, and finally I felt his hot load fill my insides, wave after wave of liquid fire released, and I screamed as my own cock shot a huge load onto my chest.
He slowed his pace and eventually pulled his now softening dick from my butt. A thwack on my butt brought me back to my senses.
He released my wrists from their bondage and helped me stand. I was shaky and he pulled me close to him, our sweat, cum, and the grease blending into one. I could hear his heart pounding, or was it mine?
He put his hands on my face and lifted my head to where we were looking at each other. “My little barberboy,” he whispered and then he kissed me long and hard.
Smack! He hit my ass and I jumped. He laughed. “Let’s go make some dinner.”
Again we sat at the picnic table outside enjoying our dinner and watching the sunset. No words were exchanged. Finally, as both of us were cleaning our plates of the last scraps of food he spoke,
“There’s a barbershop for sale in Omaha. It’s next door to the Diamond Lounge and Bar, a hangout for the gay leathermen crowd there. They want me to come down and take a look and maybe get me to put an offer in on the place.....”
The words hung in the air. Only 120 miles away, I’d been to Omaha only twice. It seemed huge to me, overwhelming. And then I realized I might not be included in the future plans. A panic overtook me.
“It would mean selling the farm, the horses, pretty much everything I’ve got here. But it also would mean I could ‘come out’ fully. I’d be buzzing gay leathermen every day rather than 60 year old straight farmers.” I nodded my understanding, even though I didn’t understand. Wasn’t it enough for the two of us to stay together on the farm.
“I’d get a chance to spend more time with Nasti and CD. This weekend reminded me how much I miss them......”
I was horror struck. He was leaving me. Alone. I began to take shallow breaths, trying to overcome the panic that was setting in.
“I’d like you to go with me.” He looked at me with those deep brown eyes and I was transfixed. He continued, “But I don’t want to be in control of your life. You could go to college, get a degree, and really go somewhere with your life. That pathway is one you could choose, and I would respect your decision one-hundred-percent.
“You’ve got what is called a ‘fetish,’ I think. You’re turned on by barbers, barbershops, barber chairs, and everything related. And whenever touched by those elements you’re aroused. Fetishes, however, can shift in life. Or, if overly indulged, can wear out. Submerge a man twenty-four hours a day in his fetish and he can lose interest. I would hate to see that happen to you.
“I also think you have the seed of masochism in you. We peeked below the surface today when I spanked you. What I saw was depths you can’t begin to imagine. It can be a frightening place to go, but the journey could also be amazing.”
I knew the depths he was speaking of. I’d felt them, even if only for a moment.
“I want to go with you.” There was nothing to decide. “I want to be with you.”
That night was the first night I was invited to share his bed. He held my hand as we climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor of the old farm house. He held me close to him all night long and only in the early morning hours was I finally willing to give myself over to sleep.