SkinMarvin Gay Stories

Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3

When a lad wants to give another lad a helping hand in defining himself as queer rather than the kind of fairy what gets itself shuvved up the arses of the effeminate masses today, I ask myself, shouldn't I be there to help my Buttsub help a mate along? Buttsub wants to make his pal a proper British queer. I should be proud that here I am passing on all I know about manliness and the taste for man2man sex to my own Buttsub in a way that indicates how far he's come under his dad's tutelage. Instead, I can hear his crumpled letter falling to the floor only to echo my own resistance in the face of even the slightest change to our household arrangements.

Instead of being flattered with the success I've had these four years in training and molding my lad's character, of putting him through his nightly paces, all I can think of-fear actually-is how my lad is starting to outpace his dad. And I won't have none of that generational conflict at this point in our relationship. Nah.

Besides, something that Mikeljohn said that day he come to pick up his Guzzi got up my pipe. Alf, my Falkland's mate was a bit thick with his flogging buddy. That was their only way of communicating, he insisted. Alf wielding his well-worn whip against the buttocks and back of his mate's ripped delts and glutes, him what used to be a competitive bodybuilder, and the two of them getting lost in the whirl of sweat and blood all played against the music of snapping leather. But that day, Alf seemed a bit more agitated than usual. He only wanted to know if he could store his collection of flogging gear at the back of my shop just in case "they"-and whenever he mentioned them he usually meant the blowdried pols now in charge of our once proud island-just in case they decide to make copulation and procreation mandatory for all healthy males above the age of sixteen.

Naturally, I agreed to let him store there whatever he felt he needed to "secure" from the eyes of an overprotective group of Westminster aunties A mate's gotta be there for his mates or else. And I hadn't given his gear a second thought until then.

I had, of course, taken drastic flogging action against Buttsub's willfulness in the past. on two occasions. Once when he resisted the notion of upping his pa to a hefty 20 gauge. (And that took hardly more than an hour of steady convincing across his bear arse with a tight paw on a well-administered cat-o-nine-tails.) Then, another time when he claimed to have lost the keys to my BMW and I knew he had been out trying to learn hisself how to ride without my supervision. A good length of rope and a few smelly boots in a dim lit corner of the basement was all it took for him to swear he'd never touch my bike without first asking my permission again.

I can still see him stretched out there, spread eagled, nude against that cold, filthy floor, with a pair of his dad's thirtyholers strung not too loosely about his neck to him mindful of my presence nearby. I had carefully inserted a worn jock in his mouth to stop any unwanted yammering and secured it in place with a sufficient length of duct tape. Ten minutes of dutiful flogging with my old army belt was carefully administered to my restrained lad every hour or so for the course of that pleasant day.

There he lay I dunno how long. His eyes begging me to release him from this very unusual but extremely necessary form of corporal punishment. Did I? Nah. So what if it took an entire day just to get my point across his plump arse and hairy legs ? (I was ever so careful to avoid applying that cat within an inch of Buttsub's bulging family jewels.) And every now and then I'd go down to check on his progress with a water bowl so as to help him recycle whatever he'd managed to drink before having gotten himself into that awkward position. So I'd loosen the tape, extract the jock, and smile to watch my Buttsub lap up the healthy stream of warm piss he'd just released for his dad. Lying there in total submission between lashings, he was only too glad to quench his thirst with his own sweet brew.

Of course, I wasn't entirely heartless. Every now and then I'd stroke his Mohawk to let him know that he'd passed the worst of his punishment, and in a truly magnanimous gesture of patience for the lad's immediate arousal needs, I'd lube his beercan just long enough to tease him back up to mid-mast. Then, when I could feel his nuts juicing and the precum begin to ooze just beneath his piercing-he'd purr a little from behind his jockgag to indicate how grateful he was for even that little bit of attention-and when I knew he was ready to release a new pint of Buttsub Cream Ale, I'd pretend to have to go back upstairs to finish some job or other.

That day in the basement was all it took to get my point across, I reasoned to myself. Now, as I look into those boxes of flogging gear that Alf stored with us and I wonder what I might come up with to cure the lad of any desire to assert himself by adopting a Sub of his own, I notice just a few beads of perspiration under my own hairy pits.

But I no sooner decide to call my mate so as to inquire how I might go about applying some of his more traditional flogging gear to Buttsub's arse, then who do I see at shop door but Alf himself. We assess the problem. Two heads are always better than one, I always say. And within an hour he's carefully sequestered in the wardrobe at the rear of a back room ready to put into action the plan we devised as soon as I give him the signal. (I'm ever mindful, of course, to supply him with a necessary pack of his favorite brew and ask that he just wait quietly till the lads return from their respective bootblack benches.)

The longer I waited for Buttsub and his new found mate to arrive, the drunker and angrier I found myself getting. All twisted inside, I was, to think of how I'd go about humiliating the lad in the presence of his Sublad so as to dispel any thought of his ever appearing dominant in that orphan's eyes again. If I only knew what was about to unfold!

The two of them did manage to appear later than usual, pissed to a degree that amazed even his old dad What with my lad groping and shouldering the Sublad for support as they climbed the shopstairs only to ask in one voice, mind you, if they could have their dinner before being put through their nightly paces.

So, I carefully explained, despite the glaze in the eyes of all concerned, that the only feast that had been set for them that night would be served at the end of a rawhide lash. Not a flinch, not a flicker from either lad's beaming faces. They almost seemed pleased at the threat of being disciplined together. Then they just set there with their heads bowed not in shame, mind, but in eager anticipation. I even recall how the Sublad began in whistling a bit until Buttsub indicated that it was not the proper time and place. Theat's when I slam the door of a kitchen cabinet good and loud so as to signal Alf that all is ready for his surprise appearance.

Naturally, I was looking forward to Buttsub's reaction at seeing Alf enter the room with his best bullwhip in hand. But do you know what each of those lads had the bollocks to set about doing next? If I hadn't already been drunk I'd have gone down of my own accord.

Without so much as an "if you please" dad, they both commence stripping for my and Alf's pleasure. Buttsub could sure pick them, I had to admit. The new lad was a perfect match to my lad's already well-toned physique. Only his impressively uncut and finely veined though yet unpierced beercan was dutifully hanging between two elephant ears tattoed to each side of his groin as to complete the image of a gracefully proportioned trunk just waiting to be fed its ration of peanuts! To add to the confusion of the mirror image reflected in each lad's endowments, the new lad had just been given his first Mohawk, Buttsub assures us, and that was the other reason they were so late getting home.

"Wait up here, sirs, while we get everything ready below!" my boy orders us. Too drunk even to resist so respectfully put a plea, each of us sits and waits through a good fifteen minutes of clanking and fastening from the shoproom rafters below.

"We're waiting on you, if you don't mind coming down now, Sir."

Further stymied by what might next be in store for two seasoned mates who reckon they had seen it all by now, we prepare to descend. And just as our boots hit the groundfloor, I can spot something has been added to the suspension bars where Buttsub's sling had hung so long. A new sling with the smell of new leather just waiting for its first royal occupant hung beside the old. And without so much as a "what are you waiting for" dad? Buttsub and his Sublad offer each of us a handful of lube and wait upon our pleasure.

So it ended all well in the lads' ends as you might say that night. And as for myself and Alf, a good deal of priming and lubing had to be exerted on the Sublad's behalf until he was carefully broken in. Doublefisting Buttsub, singlefisting Sublad, even I had to agree when Alf demanded that we take a break from the routine and warm the lads hides for a while before discovering any further surprises in Sublad's buttbag of anal tricks.

And the last thing I recall Buttsub saying, just before we all went up to pass out in one final explosion of giz and body slurping was his asking me whether or not I thought two well-lubed arseholes in the sling were better than one?

A good deal of time has passed since that memorable night. And, proud dad that I am, I'm still trying to come up with a fittingly lubed response.

End...

Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3