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We make time for it.

Chris King chris_king_2005@yahoo.com.au

April 17, 2006


Saturday mornings find us at the grocery store. It’s one of those small domestic chores that we do together each weekend, as soon as the store opens for business. At seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, we can zip in and out and get it all done quickly.

I admire my boy’s ass as he leans down to put the potatoes in their little storage bin in our kitchen. Forty years old and that boy is just fine and prime. When he stands up and passes me on his way to the next grocery sack from the IGA, I snake an arm around his waist and pull him close.

Mike yelps a little in surprise and then snuggles in, automatically tucking his face into my neck. It’s been damned near ten years and we do these things. There are habitual caresses, poses, postures, the way our two bodies fit together without thinking about it.

I skim my hand over his shaved skull. “Sexy boy,” I murmur. It’s true, of course. Mike even believes me most of the time. He nuzzles blindly at me, his stubble roughened chin grazing my neck. Monday through Friday, he’s the clean shaven professional.

I love weekends for the stubble.

“Are we starting early?” he wonders when my hand wanders down to his ass. I smack him playfully and he purrs, arching his back. “Thank you, Daddy. May I have another, please?”

I laugh and shove him away. “Asshole,” I say fondly and go back to unloading the groceries.

“You’re no fun,” he accuses me, but starts in on the next bag, trusting our years together, trusting me. He knows what will come.

It isn’t long before I give him the words he’s been waiting for. “Turn the heat on in the play room and go get ready.”

Even though he knows its coming, I still catch a glimpse of something sweet and hot and hidden, a peek at the elemental boy that slants me a look before Mike is all business again, all strength and competence. I watch the back of his neck as he turns away. Sometimes I can make him blush.

The blush of a submissive is among the sweetest things a man can see on a bright and sunny Saturday morning. I fall in love with Mike all over again every time I see him blush.

Yeah, I love him. So I’m a complete sap. Sue me. I love him and I don’t really give a fuck who knows it. Mike clears his throat. “I’ll just go then and…,” he begins, and gestures awkwardly as a blush rises in his tanned and weathered face. Oh, God. Seeing my boy blush for me makes me throw wood like a damned teenager.

Mike swallows, casts me one last look and fucking scampers off. It’s pretty damned cute to watch. He’s six foot two inches tall, weighs precisely two hundred pounds and he scampers for me.

Sometimes I follow him and just watch. It makes him nervous. It makes him hard. I lean up against the kitchen counter and sip my coffee, knowing that Mike is turning on the heat in the little play space we’ve made out of half the garage. Mike was more than happy to surrender his parking space for the cause. It’s not as if the big assed truck he drives was actually going to fit inside the garage anyway.

I hear a door open and close. My boy is on his way to the bathroom off our bedroom to get himself ready for the day.

Saturdays are special for more than just my pleasure in Mike’s unshaven chin. Don’t get me wrong. Sex with my boy is never a bad thing, but I get off on his submission harder and faster than anything or anyone I’ve ever found.

He’ll give himself two careful and thorough enemas. I think it settles his mind, helps set his feet on the path towards surrender. Sometimes I’ll stand there and watch him as he puts on the cock ring and then kneel down to insert the enema nozzle in his own ass. Enemas aren’t a turn on for either of us, but his submission makes us both hard.

He has strict instructions to get it up and keep it up during his enemas. If I were to walk in the bathroom, I would find him on his knees, his chest pressed to the floor and his legs spread wide, his belly slowly swelling as water filled his guts, one hand steadily working his cock.

It’s almost a form of meditation for him. Mike’s eyes will be closed, his breathing slow and steady. He’ll sweat a little, and cramp now and then, but there’s no rush. He can take his time and relax into it.

I can almost feel it standing there in the kitchen. Sometimes I swear I can feel him sliding into sub space. Submission has a kind of psychic flavour, a scent or sound that is somehow unique to the individual.

The taste of his submission is addictive.

I reach down into my jeans and adjust myself. The day that thinking about Mike’s submission doesn’t make me throw wood y’all can just take me out in the back and shoot me to put me out of my misery, because I’d have to be the better part of dead not to respond to that boy.

I mow the front lawn, still sporting half wood. It’s not a big yard, just a half acre lot among a neighbourhood of older homes on similar lots. I clean the machine and store it away, and go back inside.

Mike’s on his knees again, his belly swelling with his second enema. I pause, leaning down to stroke a hand over Mike’s shoulder, reaching around to toy with his guiche, the entrancing piercing right behind his balls.

It’s my ring he wears in that most intimate location. Mike’s nipples were already pierced when we met, but I guess you could say the piercing ceremony we held when he got his guiche is the day we got married.

“Okay?” I ask him quietly, marital short hand and completely comprehensible to my boy.

“Mmm….”

It’s hardly more than a murmur but it carries a wealth of information. I give his balls a playful tug and then strip off my clothes to shower. I know I'll have plenty of time to finish my shower, get dressed and contemplate my options in the playroom before he joins me. After ten years, it's all a well rehearsed dance.

He comes to me naked. I’m wearing leather pants, to please us both. I reach out a hand to him and he snuggles up to me, eyes sliding away from mine. I trace the length of his spine with one hand and wait.

We breathe together, chest to chest, groin to groin, familiar scents and the warmth of the body that twines itself around mine every night of my life. His cock is full and still sullenly swollen, his skin damp from the shower.

There have been other men before me. My boy was almost thirty before we found each other. Some were good men and some were bad, some filling Mike’s head with the shadows born of their cruelty or their mediocrity. There were a few men that gave him just that little bit of hope he needed to keep going and keep believing until we met.

Mike trusts me, as he should. He lets himself melt against me, a strong, competent man who is confident enough to yield. I will never be able to explain to him how I savour that first small surrender, his body shaping itself to mine, the slight tilt of his head as he fits himself against me.

My hand slides down his back, past the entrancing little dip in his spine, fingers curving over his right cheek. “Ready?” I murmur the inquiry against his shorn scalp.

He nods, using the opportunity to nuzzle his chin against my neck, knowing how much I like it. I smile and hold him close, and then give him a little pop on the ass. It’s time.

Mike steps away from me, and for one second, I catch sight of something wild and shy in his eyes. And then it’s gone, hidden under the layers of confidence, the masculine beauty of the mature male.

Although he weighs no more than he did ten years ago, his body is different. Still hard, still built like the proverbial brick shit house, but there’s a little more depth to that gorgeous chest, shoulders that are perhaps a bit wider. He may be a contractor these days, but construction is still hard, physical labour, even if one owns the company. The running and the weights and the weird martial arts shit he does don’t hurt a bit either.

He prowls across the playroom and reaches over his head to grasp the sturdy bar. There are padded cuffs and even suspension cuffs, but we rarely use them these days. He doesn’t need them anymore. He doesn’t need the comforting restraint of bondage to make him feel safe enough to surrender now. If we play with bondage these days, it’s for the turn on and the teasing.

Mike leans into a stretch, hanging from the bar, loosening his tendons and ligaments and muscles. The only restraint we’ll use is his will and mine.

Mike rocks a little, shoulders rolling until he settles himself comfortably, widening his stance and arching his back, presenting what has to be the prettiest damned ass in the country. My hand is gliding over the offered flesh before I even have time to think. I slide the edge of my palm between his butt cheeks, feeling heat and a lingering dampness from his shower.

I kiss a trail down his spine, licking and biting a path down to that pretty tail of his. His butt fills my hands perfectly as I hold him open to study his hole and admire the gold ring that adorns his perineum.

“God, you’re a sexy fuck,” I growl softly.

“You’re just easy,” he taunts me with a husky laugh. I sink my teeth into his ass and he yelps out a laughing apology. I lick the mark I’ve left in that firm flesh. It won’t be the last.

We’re both in a fine, good humour.

He was always a flirt underneath the doubt and the dark memories; under the layer of tough he grew in order to survive. My boy is one hell of a man. I’m proud of him, proud of having him at my side.

His laughter is drowned in a moaning cry of surprise as I bury my face between his buttocks and thrust my tongue in his ass without preamble. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps and I laugh.

“Not yet,” I remind him, drawing back. “You have to earn it first.” I run my hands over his ass, possessive and sure, soothing my boy with a gentle touch. I press a kiss to the back of his neck and stroke his shaved head lovingly.

I begin with the doeskin flogger. It’s the most elegant whip I own, beautifully balanced, crafted by a master of the whip maker’s art. I send the tails swaying gently, letting the weight of the soft leather swing freely but without force against Mike’s ass and thighs. The doeskin is wicked, sinful and seductive against bare skin.

Mike purrs and leans into the path of the whip. He loves this flogger, particularly for the warm up. He stretches and arches and rises up under the whip kisses like a cat offering itself up for petting. I’m moving up either side of his spine now, up to the big muscles covering his shoulders.

The skin begins to flush, a gentle blossoming of colour as the flogger patiently warms Mike’s back, butt and thighs. I love the sounds he makes, the soft murmurs of pleasure and thanks, the way he moves. He’s fluid and seductive, all power and grace, muscles gliding under sleek skin and silky hair.

I love his body; the wedge shaped torso, narrow hips and world class ass satisfy some personal geometry in my soul. I circle him, admiring the hairless chest, the narrow treasure trail. Sometimes I show him off in a harness and chaps. He arches his back and sticks his chest out proudly, offering up his nipples to the lash.

The rings in his nipples are gold now. He had surgical stainless, which I guess is common enough. But they were the mark of another man, and I’m just old fashioned enough that I wanted to replace that with something of my own. Slinging the flogger over my shoulder, I slip my finger in one nipple ring and tug playfully, gripping the back of Mike’s neck with the other hand.

We kiss, slowly, leisurely, knowingly. Our tongues glide and swirl, a slow familiar dance. He is hard and moving eagerly against me, the magic of my leather and his nakedness enchanting us both once more. Mike undulates in my arms in a slow, sinuous full body ripple, deep and powerful and fluid, all that heat and strength and need writhing hard against me in open invitation.

“Please,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss. Mike nuzzles at my neck, pressing small fervent kisses to my skin. “Need you,” he offers, on barely a whisper of sound.

No matter how many times I’ve heard him say it, the words still make my heart turn over in my chest. I cradle his skull in my hands and turn his face up to mine. His eyelashes are ridiculously long against his tanned cheeks, endearingly blonde and strangely innocent.

Those blue eyes open, heated with equal parts of lust and defiance. “Are you going to make me beg?” Mike demands. “What do I have to do to get whip kisses? I’ll do whatever it takes.”

I laugh, the sound rolling out of me. “You are all kinds of butch, baby, but that pout of yours just cracks me up.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘shut up and kiss me’?” Mike bitched. “Fuck, enough with the foreplay already. Set my tail on fire and then fuck me through the floor, for fuck’s sake.”

His eyes fall away suddenly, but not before I saw something naked in those blue, blue eyes.

“Have I ever let you down?” I ask him calmly.

Those blue eyes come back, steady and warm and soft. “No,” Mike says quietly, proudly. It hasn’t always been easy. But we’ve kept this essential core untainted. “No, you’ve never let me down.”

I nod, satisfied, and kiss him hard. I can taste his hunger in the kiss. We make love on other days and nights. It’s not as if he hasn’t gotten any this week. But sex and submission and erotic pain satisfies something in both our souls that is far deeper than simple lust. It’s that hunger that must be sated in our little Saturday rituals.

The kisses settle Mike, as they have from our first night together. In the beginning, it would take me all night to catch a glimpse of feral boy that hides behind my lover’s eyes. But when I lift my head and study Mike’s face, those blue eyes are vulnerable and trusting and open. What shines out of him is so sweet and hot and strong that my cock twitches and I start oozing into my jock.

I claim his mouth with a ravenous kiss, hungry for him, my tongue plundering and nearly savage. Our teeth clink and then I’m biting his lower lip until we both taste blood. He moans as I soften my kiss, licking the wounded flesh soothingly, tasting the bright copper flavour of Mike’s blood.

Communion...

He is my boy. Partner, lover, brother, son...mate.

He's mine. What more is there to say?

Mike’s breath catches on something that might even be a sob. We’ve both been careful and lucky and are reassuringly HIV negative at our regular blood tests. Despite ten years together, we haven’t given up the condoms, even if we’re monogamous. We both buried too many friends, and remember the prohibitions and the terror of our teens and twenties and the worst of the plague years.

As I soothe his bitten lip, my kiss tells him more than words could ever say, about trust and love and commitment. I taste copper and salt, gratefully drinking his silent moan.

My hands are gentle on his body, gliding down his ribs in slow, soothing strokes, petting him. “Beautiful boy,” I murmur, tenderness filling my heart until it aches. I know what he needs…what we both need. It the only possible answer for such sweetness.

I hang up the doeskin flogger and choose one made of cowhide. The tails are shorter and fatter than the doeskin flogger, and it always feels leaden in my hand after the sheer elegance of our favourite. I warm Mike up patiently, introducing the new whip slowly, letting him taste the feel of it as I run it over his ass and thighs.

I begin slowly, reheating flesh already warm. I fall into the rhythm, dancing, my muscles singing with joy as I use a figure eight pattern to work Mike’s shoulders and upper back. I’m proud of my skill, of the accuracy that lets Mike simply sink into the pain, trusting that I won’t wrap the tails or stray into areas best left unmarked.

I pause, slinging the tails of the flogger around my neck as I run my hands over reddened flesh, pressing a hungry kiss to the back of Mike’s neck. He moans, arching under my hands, hungry for contact with my body. I step closer, easing my leather clad thigh between Mike’s parted legs, my arms wrapping around his chest and hips, pulling him into the cradle of my hips to feel graphic proof of my arousal.

I’m so hard that I hurt. I love Mike’s ass. I love the way it feels snuggled up against my groin as it is every night as we go to sleep curled around each other. He grinds back against me in eager welcome as I slowly hump his ass, fingers finding his nipples to tug and torment.

I step away abruptly, one hand automatically gliding over Mike’s spine in loving caress, reassuring him. I use the cowhide flogger to work his ass and thighs, turning that muscular work of art a perfect shade of deep rose. I never understood the appeal of blondes before Mike, but watching my whip paint that fair skin makes me want to howl in triumph.

Mike is sweating, making small sounds of pain and ecstasy. The lube is in my hands and I have no recollection of reaching for it. I squeeze some on my fingers and rub them together, warming the lube. Some guys get rough with their boy’s butt. I don’t. I treat Mike’s asshole like the treasure it is.

The sound he makes when I gently stroke a slick finger over his entrance would make a dead man erect. Mike arches his back, crooning mindlessly as I ease a finger inside his heat. I go slowly, teasingly, torturing one nipple as I slowly slick up his hole.

“Alex….”

The sound of my name is part plea and part protest, part acknowledgement and part praise. I laugh quietly and ease out of him. I may be a loving sadist, but I am a sadist.

“Please, Alex,” Mike begs without shame. He loves getting fucked, which is a happy coincidence because I love fucking his ass.

“What’s the matter, boy?” I tease him as I slide two slick fingers inside him, homing right in on his spot, fluttering my fingers over the magic button. I laugh when he moans imploringly, his back arching, legs spreading in instinctive animal response. “Looks like somebody needs to get fucked…”

“Fuck, yeah,” Mike growls at me and I chuckle as I nip his left shoulder, sinking my teeth into the hard line of his trapezius. “You spent the whole week riding me.” My boy isn’t sure if he’s bragging or complaining.

“You’ve got a pretty cock and I was in the mood,” I say, slowly twisting the fingers I have buried in his ass. “Are you feeling neglected, boy?” I love the sounds he makes as he pushes back against my fingers, wanting me to nail his prostate again.

The butt plug has a sweet little curve at the end that will hit him in just the perfect spot. Now I do like a good toy, and we took our time, testing and trying butt plugs of various sizes and shapes. It took a while, but we found this one. It’s my favourite for him.

I think a boy should like having things in his ass. Mike had some shit to unlearn when he came to me. Some guys seem to think that fucking is a form of pain play, but I’m not one of them.

After ten years with me, Mike knows that his toys feel good. He whimpers when he sees the plug in my hand. “Please,” he says with a strangely compelling sort of dignity. “Fill me up. I need you so bad.”

“I’ll fuck you after I use the tawse on that ass of yours,” I promise him as I coat the butt plug with a generous layer of lube, carefully covering the entire surface. I don’t want any dry spots that might catch or drag.

I love watching the plug go in his ass. The tip is no larger than my little finger, flaring out into a series of fat curves and then narrowing to a neck no larger than two fingers. Mike croons as I ease inside him, opening up eagerly for the plug until I have it seated firmly. I tug on the base a little and feel the elastic resistance of Mike’s ring. The shape makes it easy to hold.

Mike purrs a little, hips moving slowly. “Feels so good,” he murmurs. I wipe my hands off on a towel and step around to look at his face. Those blue eyes are dark and soft and trusting. The plug always makes him feel safe, loved, and taken care of. I know he wants me to fuck him, but until I’m ready, the toy is both arousing and reassuring.

The tawse is cool in my hands, the surface of the stiff leather almost velvety from regular cleaning and the judicious use of leather conditioners. I don’t want the leather to become any more pliable, but there has to be a certain overall flexibility to it.

Mike lowers his gaze when he sees it, turning his face away slightly. My belly is tight with anticipation as I wait for what I know I’ll see. Finally, he slants me a look from under his lashes, teasing me with glimpses of something as elemental as Pan himself.

“You’re a seductive little bastard,” I grumble. He looks at me again, openly this time, hiding nothing. Mike’s eyes are hot, playful, feral… the wild boy staring at me in blatant invitation.

“Give me whip kisses,” Mike fucking purrs the demand, hips moving, eyes fluttering closed in appreciation as the toy shifts inside him.

I chuckle and plant a kiss on his swollen mouth, feeling the heat from where I bit him. I move around behind him once more, stilling his restless hips with a gentle hand.

I rub the tawse over his ass and thighs, petting him with my other hand as well. His skin feels hot to my touch, still flushed a deep rose. I start easily, letting him remember the unique mix of thud and sting that comes from the tawse, the crack of it against bare flesh.

There’s more pain with the tawse, but my boy’s arousal and the stimulation and emotional reassurance of the plug make it easier for him to take. It takes very little effort on my part, the tawse doing most of the work. I build up the intensity steadily, having prepared the way with the floggers and the pleasure of the plug.

Mike is crying out with each blow, sweat rolling down his ribs, his hips moving hungrily. I lick his back, tasting salt and pain and arousal. The scent of him is incredible, intoxicating me. “I want to fuck you so bad,” I moan against his heated flesh. “Ten strokes. You know what I want to hear.”

Mike is already pleading with me. “Please, please, please....” he pants.

I give him the first one, angling across his left butt cheek, across the hard sweet curve of it, the very tips of the tawse wrapping slightly to bite the inner curve.

“Thank you,” Mike gasps. “Please, more. I need another. Please, sir. May I have another?”

I give him the twin to the first blow, this time across his right butt cheek, leaving a second red stripe. “Oh, fuck. Thank you,” Mike cries, his entirely body rippling in response to the pain. He moans, his untouched cock throbbing visibly, hips twisting. “Oh, God, please… oh, please, Alex.” Mike’s voice is ragged, the sound of it so darkly erotic that I’m almost tempted to fuck him right then and there. “Please, sir. May I have another?” my boy manages to moan.

A sense of pride fills me as I stripe his ass with tender care. He gasps and moans and sobs for me, that pretty cock hard and eager and dribbling the entire time, just as it should be.

By the last four strokes, he’s gone completely non-verbal. He whimpers imploringly, arching his back, offering his ass wordlessly. “Do you want me to stop?” Mike moans a protest, shaking his head. “Do you want another, baby?” I murmur lovingly and he groans again, nodding his head in confirmation.


I know that I talk to him in these moments, but I never quite remember what I say. I’m lost in the Top high, drunk on my love for him. I murmur endlessly to him, spinning out a song of love and pride and fierce pleasure, letting him know how precious he is, how vital he is to me.

He is my joy.

I never want him to doubt that.

Sometimes I’ll take him as he stands, but he’s had his hands over his head for well over an hour by the time I have gifted him with that last, tenth stroke. He sags back against me as I coax his arms down to his sides. I take a minute, massaging his shoulders a little and rubbing his arms, restoring the circulation.

His eyes are dilated, still dazed, riding the endorphin high of pain. I let him float, easing him over to the bed, murmuring words of praise. I tenderly slip the butt plug out of his body and we both moan hungrily.

Mike falls into position, kneeling on the bed with his thighs spread wide, lowering his ass to just the right height. He croons pleadingly into the mattress, his fingers curling and relaxing in spasms, tangling in the sheets in a way that always reminds me of a cat’s kneading paws. I can feel the heat radiating from his reddened flesh, feel the need that burns even hotter.

I deal with the mundane practicalities of condom and lube on automatic pilot. I am utterly entranced by his beauty, captivated by the presence of my ring in his perineum. I tug gently on it as I roll his balls on my fingers.

Mike is begging, pleading, moaning and trembling. I love this heat, this desperate need in him. I soothe him with words and hands, slick fingers gliding inside to twist and tease. When I am satisfied with Mike’s lubrication, I ease my fingers out and nudge him with the head of my cock.

Someday I’m going to make a record of the sounds he makes when he’s begging me to fuck him, the things he says to me and the way he moves. His hunger touches me. I’m proud of him as he tells me what he wants, what he needs, until I ease slowly into him.

We both sigh as the head of my cock slips past his ring. It’s like being home. With the absolute trust of our years together and the patient retraining of muscles, mind and nerves, Mike’s body is relaxed and receptive. He murmurs and sighs, a soft keening as I sink deeper, bottoming out with a luscious little grind that makes him purr.

How could anyone think this was a sin? We fuck slowly, luxuriating in this familiar pleasure. My hands on his hips keep him still, making him wait, insisting that he simply accept the pace and the rhythm I set.

I drown in him, both of us high from the whipping. As much as I enjoyed riding his pretty cock, we both ache with some deep, intrinsic hunger to have my cock in his ass. It satisfies us, and we make it last.

I tumble him from position to position, finally settling into the one we love best. Mike is on his back, strong legs wrapped around me as I move in him and on him. The time for kisses is past and his eyes are locked on mine as I thrust into him, finally shifting the angle so I’m nailing his sweet spot with ever stroke.

I reach down and rip off the cock ring, blessing the pragmatic miracle of Velcro in one small corner of my brain. Mike moans, rocking up against me hungrily, his cock leaving wet trails over the ridges of my abs.

I know it won’t be long. I know the signs.

Mike’s eyes close as his body clamps down around me. I growl in triumph as I feel something hot splatter over my chest and belly, loving the way he comes just off my cock in his ass.

I bury my face in his neck and follow him over the edge into that glorious chaos, grinding ruthlessly into him as I find my own release.

We’ll lie there tangled together, stunned and sated. Mike gets real snugly on Saturdays, and I let him cuddle. He carries my weight easily as I settle on top of his hard body. His fingers comb through my hair idly, petting me lovingly.

Eventually I’ll climb off him to deal with the condom and clean up a little. His eyes are heavy lidded, the blue gaze hot and soft and sated as I tend to him, cleaning him with a warm, wet cloth. It doesn’t take long until we're snuggled together, Mike’s head on my shoulder, one arm flung possessively over my chest, the bulk of his sex nestled against my hip and his heavy thigh wrapped over mine.

I chuckle. Mine, he says with his body. I cradle his shaven skull in one hand, my thumb gliding in lazy circles against his scalp. The boy has the right to his claim on my body. He loves me. He trusts my love for him. It's such a simple magic.

The week may be full of frustrations and flaws, the mundane realities of life in a small town, the friction and comfort of two men sharing a bed, a home and a life. It's not perfect, but it all washes away in the heat of our Saturdays together, the rituals of pain and passion restoring our souls.

I feel Mike’s chest expand on a slow, deep sigh. “I love Saturdays,” he murmurs against my chest.

I smile, and press a kiss to his forehead, holding him close as we drift off into a lazy Saturday nap.

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