This story is bisexual, domination-filled, and only populated by of-age characters.
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Wes and I are in my room. I would like to say that as soon as we got back to the house and had dinner, I ripped his clothes off, but that would be a lie. We had eaten, talked about our days with Ms. Simmons, and did domestic things like packing lunches. Even now, he's freshly showered and on my bed, but I'm sitting in my computer chair, facing him.
I'm helping him study for a fucking final.
"Synecdoche," He says. Even though he's laying back on the bed, his arms are crossed, his brow is knit, and I can almost smell the smoke as his brain works overtime. All sexual tension and charge has disappeared, and I've become his tutor.
"Synecdoche," I repeat.
"Synecdoche," he says
"Synecdoche is..." I say, hoping that all he needs is a push.
His eyes light up, and he snaps his fingers. "It's when you use a different word to avoid repetition in a sentence."
I sigh. "That's anaphora. Synecdoche is like just saying 'nice wheels' when you mean a cool car."
He nods, his smile disappearing. "Again." He's stubborn, to say the least.
I groan and put the flashcard I'm holding on my desk. "It's been an hour and a half of this, Wes."
He sits up. "Yeah. I actually focus when I study."
"Then we'll go for more tomorrow," I say, "but I gotta relax before bed."
He nods again and lets his eyes trace the edge of the ceiling before he sits up. As he moves, his new collar clinks. It's not much, only the slightest twinkle of metal on metal, but both of us hear it. He is making a concerted effort not to look at me. His blond hair is still drying from the shower, and it glows in the lamplight. I can see the outline of his pierced nipples in his shirt and his cage through his thin sweatpants.
No matter how far we go, every time that Wes is reminded of what we've done--what we've *become*, it's like he has to pull away.
"Look at me," I say.
He turns his head, and I see his lips are pursed. He's conflicted.
I don't want to care, but he looks torn up. This is the first time I'm so starkly aware that the non-sexual part of our relationship has changed. Since Ms. Simmons gifted Wes to me, he's been more timid, but beyond that, he actually hears me. It seems backwards, but now that we're on such unequal grounds, we can finally talk like we're just two people. He's that dumb, bullheaded dick sometimes, but he's transformed into someone more considerate.
I clear my throat. "You're a hard worker. Really hard. That means you've always had a lot of control over different parts of your life, right?"
He nods but doesn't speak.
"Now that someone else is in charge of some parts of you, I think you might just be realizing that you like not having control sometimes, and that's okay."
He's quiet.
I let him sit with himself for a moment before standing up. "Let's get ready for bed," I say.
He nods and starts for the door.
"Sit back down," I say.
Wes stops and realizes what's going on. In the midst of his post-orgasmic stupor earlier in the day, he must have forgotten that he was staying in my room tonight, nude. He slowly sits back down.
"Start with your shirt," I say.
He pulls off his shirt quickly and fumbles for his belt. Eager boy. I think he's hoping for another release, although he'll be disappointed if that's the case.
"Pants next," I say, and he slips off his jeans. Underneath, he's wearing silky panties, their smoothness broken up by sharp shadows cast from his cage pressed against fabric.
"Good slut," I say, trying to keep my cool. I had decided to have him wear thongs only starting today. I thought it would be a good constant reminder, but now it's a distraction to me more than him.
"Thank you," he mumbles.
"Louder," I say.
"Thank you, sir," he says, slightly more confident.
"Now take off the panties too," I tell him.
He stands to do so, and I pull down the front of my loose sweatpants as he does, letting my member free from its prison. His small, trapped cock jiggles cutely.
Without being told, Wes gets on his knees and leans forward with an open mouth, ready to lick my shining dickhead.
I coolly move it out of his reach with a simple hip movement.
His brow furrows slightly.
"Only I'm touching this thing tonight," I say. "Grab that pillow." I point to the one he's going to be sleeping on. It's pinstriped cornflower blue.
He's confused, but he takes the pillow in his hand.
"Put it between your legs," I say.
He lifts his hips, and wedges the pillow between his thighs, a leg on each side like a bicycle. The buttplug he wears constantly has to be pushed deeper in this position.
"Grind," I say.
He starts moving his hips rhythmically and stiffly, but his muscles relax as the cotton glides across his cage and balls, and soon he falls in love with the cushion below him.
He stifles moans.
"Tell me you're straight," I say, and I spit on my hand to lube up my cock. It hardens in my grip.
"I'm... I'm straight," he gasps, staring at my dick.
"Say it to convince yourself," I say, "not me."
"I'm straight," he says again. "I'm--I'm straight." He bucks faster, and I stroke faster. I'm so hard that it only takes me a few minutes until I can feel my dick start to pulsate.
"Now beg for my cum, straight boy," I say.
"Please give me your load, sir," he whines, leaning back to give me a better target as he continues to fuck the pillow below him with his nub. "Please give me your cum."
He sticks his tongue out, and that's what sends me over the ledge. My balls tighten, and a thick, creamy cumshot fires across his chest and face, some landing squarely on his waiting tongue. He continues to grind as stream after stream of semen paints his chest.
We're both breathing heavily. "Go shower," I say.
"But I didn't get to--"
"I don't care," I say. "Shower."
He slinks out of the room, and showers. When he comes back, he's shimmering with water.
