Mr. Jones the Neighbor

By the time dinner rolled around, I found Dad whistling away in the kitchen, wearing only his thong. The outline of his cage pressed against the fabric, though it wasn't straining like before. On the counter was an impressive display of food--steak and potatoes and vegetables. He greeted me with a shy smile.

"Would you like some dinner, sir?"

"Sure."

He assembled our plates with impressive precision, making a show of slapping each piece of steak around before landing it onto the bed of vegetables. I made a joke about playing with his meat while he couldn't play with his meat, and he chuckled. It felt good to joke about the cage. Maybe it didn't have to be such a serious thing.

Once the show was over, I walked my plate over to the kitchen table. I gestured for Dad to join me, but he hesitated; he mumbled something about Mr. Jones not typically allowing him to eat at the table. Interesting. That would definitely make sense, given how unequal their relationship was. Still, I wanted the company, so I insisted. It turned out that he could not refuse a direct order; that made sense, too. When I said the words, the straightforward commands, he moved as if by compulsion.

We ate in silence for a minute or two, pretending like the mechanical motion of chewing and swallowing required intense concentration. But I couldn't hold back my curiosity forever.

"So... have you ever been locked before?"

Dad swallowed pensively before answering. He didn't look up from his plate. I wondered if eye contact was part of this whole thing, too. It would make sense.

"Not indefinitely," he managed. "Just for a day or two. And never apart from Mr. Jones."

"You never call him by his first name."

"He says it would be too familiar. We are not equals... as I'm sure you've noticed."

I smiled and took another bite. Silence settled between us for a moment as I thought of my next question; there were so many that I wanted to ask!

"How did you two...?"

He looked at me, gauging.

"You mean... how did I become his bitch?"

That was one way to say it.

"Yeah."

"It's a long story."

"I'm sure." I waited, watching him intently. I wasn't about to let him dodge the question; I wanted to know. Besides, wasn't this what domination meant? Enforcing your will over someone else's? How could I claim to be in charge if I let him get away from me so easily?

He recognized my look, and sighed as he collected his thoughts. It worked! He hadn't pushed me away or tried to put it off. What else could I make him do?

"Do you want... all of the details?"

"You know I do."

He pressed his lips together and I wondered if he was holding himself back from arguing. Or maybe he was just wondering where to start.

"Well," he began, "the first time anything happened was at the Fourth of July cookout, almost a year ago. You were still at school working, so you missed it, but the whole neighborhood was there, of course, and everyone was drinking. Your mom and I... well, you can imagine, we had kind of gone our separate ways early in the afternoon. By the time the sun set, I was about three fourths in the bag. Tony was already puking in the Stevensons' lawn, and Linda Bishop was sobbing about something in the bathroom, so you can imagine the state everything was in. I bet it could give one of your college parties a run for its money."

I nodded, watching with rapt attention. I didn't want to miss a single word.

"I went to take a leak, but Linda was in the bathroom, so I had to step outside to do it. I was trying to go when... when Mr. Jones came up beside me. He took his dick out and started pissing immediately. I got too nervous with him standing there..."

I could picture it in my head as clearly as a movie. A glimmer of voices somewhere by the house. Dad, nervously holding his cock in the dark backyard. Mr. Jones, standing beside him with imperious confidence, his glorious member hanging out.

"You saw how Mr. Jones can be. He saw me looking, and he knew. He saw what I was. He told me to follow him, and it didn't even occur to me that I could disobey. We went out the gate to his backyard, to get away from the party. It was dark...."

Dad swallowed hard, and it struck me how emotional this was for him. It wasn't just sexual; it was a deep, intrinsic part of who he was... and who he could be. Mr. Jones had altered his very identity. That kind of power was incredible.

"He... he touched me. Just here," he tapped the back of his head with an index finger. "He told me that he saw me looking, and asked me if I wanted a taste. I told him that I did. I was surprised I could get the words out. He made me repeat it over and over again. He made me beg for it, beg to worship his cock. Then... then he asked what else I wanted. I said I would suck his cock, swallow his cum, drink his piss. Over and over again. And everyone was still drinking and partying away in the other yard, including my wife. It was..." he shook his head incredulously. "It was so hot. I couldn't believe it. I wasn't even

doing

any of these things, just talking about them, and I couldn't believe how turned on I was getting.

"When he told me to strip naked, that was the only time that I hesitated. Everyone was just on the other side of the fence. What if someone looked over and saw? I couldn't do it, not right away. I was worried he would be mad, but I think he saw it coming. He just leaned in close and said, 'everything will be okay.' That was what I needed to hear. I... I did it."

He sounded shell-shocked, even now. I shivered vicariously, thinking of that rumbling voice crooning in Dad's ear.

"He inspected me... kind of like you did, earlier. He touched me everywhere. He whispered the filthiest things you can imagine in my ear. When he touched my nipples, I nearly lost my mind. I tried to stroke my cock, and he took my wrist to keep me off of it.

"He told me to get on my knees and beg again. I did. He told me... he told me that if I ever really wanted a shot, a shot to do all these things I was talking about, I would have to beg louder. I was shaking..."

I pictured his face looking up from the kneeling position, terrified and aroused all at once.

"I have no idea how nobody heard me. Maybe they did, and they ignored it. The exposure, the submission, it was... it was intoxicating. I knew I wanted more." He chuckled ruefully. "God, my cock was so hard."

"I bet you miss that," I teased.

"Sure do," he smiled. "Anyway, he told me to close my eyes and beg some more, and I did. Had me stick my tongue out and fag out waiting for his dick. And when I opened my eyes..." he paused.

"What happened?" I asked eagerly.

"He was recording," he said hollowly. "He had taken his phone out and was recording me, naked, on my knees, with the party going on in the background. Begging for cock and cum. And do you know what he said? He said, 'what do you say?' I knew the answer, of course. I said, 'thank you, sir.' And I came without touching myself."

He blushed a deep crimson.

"Wow," I said. I had no idea what else to say. I remembered the cum that Dad had sprayed onto the counter that first night with Mr. Jones. How humiliated, how low would he have to feel for that to happen? How deep in his mind could Mr. Jones go, to find a place where no physical touch was needed? I had seen guys cum hands free in porn, but only now did I picture, for the first time, Dad whimpering and moaning as his cock pulsed again and again and again, releasing his load onto the grass. I wondered how that would feel.

I wondered if I could do it to him, too.

"Yeah," said Dad, his voice thick with memory. "Yeah..."

"Then what happened?"

"He asked me how I felt. I was coming down from cumming, of course, but somehow I wasn't freaking out yet. I told him I felt good, humiliated but good."

"That's... good." I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Then he asked me... if I meant it."

"If you meant that you felt good?"

"No. If I meant that I... if I really wanted all of those things that he made me beg for. I told him that I didn't ever really realize. I had no idea, but... yes, I did. I wanted him to do all of those things to me, and more."

"What did he say to that?"

"He told me to unzip his pants so that he could 'christen my faggot throat.'"

I gulped.

"I have no idea how nobody else heard us. Maybe they did. Your mother--" he blushed red again, "--well, I mean, nobody ever said anything. Not to me. I don't know if they would, of course. I'll probably never know.

"I usually don't think of myself as having a strong gag reflex, but the way he was fucking my throat, it was incredible."

"It sounds unpleasant."

He cocked his head as he considered this. "That's not the right way to think about it. It's not about pleasure, or being comfortable. Those help, of course--it's always fun to feel good--but with him, it's... it's complicated. It's not about me in those moments, it's about how he uses me. It's about his power, even if that power comes at my expense. Does that make sense?"

I nodded, but in my head I was turning this over and over in my hands like the key to his cage, studying it, trying to understand it. My own experience with guys was limited. College dalliances, awkward hookups. The goal was always to get off, and generally have a good time. Pain and discomfort were never on the menu; sex rested squarely on a silver platter of pleasure. Anything else was unthinkable.

And yet, watching Mr. Jones accost Dad on the kitchen counter was something else. Sex, pleasure, but... humiliation, too, nestled in as natural as can be. Dad had clearly loved it, loved hearing all of those terrible filthy things, but why? What made humiliation so deeply erotic to him that he would blow his load to it?

But who was I to question that? The same barrage of humiliation had made me unquestioningly eat Mr. Jones' load from my own father's ass. It had made me lock his cock into that tiny, plastic cage.

And now, I was sitting at the table with my dick throbbing precum into my underwear listening to Dad recount how Mr. Jones had made him his bitch for the very first time.

Clearly, whatever was happening here, I wanted to be part of it.

Dad was still talking.

"I don't have a very strong gag reflex," he repeated, "but Mr. Jones... he's a demanding man. He had me try to hold him all the way at the base more times than I can count. He made me recite the alphabet with his cock down my throat. He kept making these... these threats that just drove me wild. He told me if he didn't cum soon he'd give me a facial and make me walk through the party, naked, with his load on my face for everyone to see. He told me he would do whatever he wanted to me. Everything I asked for... and more. I think he took more videos; I was a bit busy. By the time he was close to cumming, I was hard again.

"When he came, it was like seeing the sun for the first time in ages. He was so... satisfied. I could tell from his breathing. I had pleased him, I had made him cum, and even though my throat hurt and my eyes were watering and my legs were aching from squatting, I just felt so..." he struggled to find the word, "...complete. You know?"

I didn't know. I had no idea what that felt like. If anything made you feel empty, it was meaningless hookups in dimly lit dorm rooms. In and out. Figuratively and literally. I had no idea that Dad had found such a sense of belonging. I didn't even know that I was looking for that completeness, myself.

I was torn from my reverie when Dad chuckled again.

"I was so caught up with how good it felt to make him cum," he said, "that I forgot that he had also promised me his piss. It sprayed into my mouth, and I choked and coughed so damn bad that the next yard started to get quiet. I don't think they ever knew it was me, but goddamn, that was a close call, eh? Anyway, I thought Mr. Jones would be mad that I hadn't swallowed it all, but he just laughed and hosed the rest of me down. I was dripping wet by the time he stopped."

"What did it taste like?" I blurted out.

"What--the piss? Or the cum?"

"Both."

"Well, you got a taste of the cum the other night," his voice was light, but his eyes watched me carefully.

"That's not the same," I said, "I barely tasted it. I was so caught up in... in everything."

"Well, it's salty," he said after a moment. "And alkaline. But his has something... sweet about it. Manly, I guess? Something hormonal, I'm sure. Honestly, I can't get enough of it."

"It helps that it comes from a real man, eh?"

"That it does."

"And what about the piss?"

"Oh, it's an acquired taste, but I acquired it quickly. It tastes... bitter, I guess? Maybe salty, too. Honestly, the taste isn't the first thing you notice."

"What is?"

"The temperature. It's so hot, literally. People always compare it to beer, but in my experience it's more like bitter tea, straight from the tap."

"I'm sure it tastes different sometimes, too."

"Oh yes. Hydration matters. Diet, too. Mr. Jones sometimes makes me guess what he's been eating and how much water he's drunk. I've surprised him by guessing right a few times."

"You know you're a faggot when..."

He laughed at that. "I've been trained to be a cum and piss sommelier, I guess."

A thought suddenly struck me. "Does mine taste like his?"

He smiled, thought for a moment. "I guess it does."

I don't know why I was proud of that. Maybe it meant that I was more like Mr. Jones than Dad. Was that something that I really wanted? Or was I just trying to fit this new position I found myself in? I took another bite of dinner, thinking about everything I had heard.

"Do you have any other questions?" Dad asked.

"Not for right now," I managed. "That's more than enough spank-bank material for one night."

"Only a spank if you want."

I realized what he was saying after several moments, then it was my turn to blush. Of course I didn't have to masturbate while I was here. I had Dad's mouth--his ass, too, if I wanted it--to satisfy me. I wondered how degrading him, truly degrading him like Mr. Jones had, would feel. I wondered if I was even capable of doing it the way I had seen. I had never taken a middle-aged man in a dark backyard, bringing him down to the lowest sort of faggot while a neighborhood party continued the next yard over. I had never fed anyone piss until today. Could I do all of that?

Could Dad take it, if it was me? Or was there something special about Mr. Jones that I could never emulate?

By the time I went to bed that night, my head was still buzzing. Mr. Jones was not even there, and yet his perverse imagination withstood the waves of my thoughts like a boulder in the tide. I found myself re-examining every memory I had of him, every word and angle and expression. I thought about his sexy body plunging into my father, over and over...

I thought about jerking off, but remembered Dad's words. I didn't need to jerk off. If I wanted, I could call him into my room right now. It was only fair, I thought, that I cum in him while he couldn't cum at all. Let him enjoy my cock and sperm; all it would take was a word, and he would kneel eagerly on my floor, tongue out. I could just call to him, and it would happen.

But I didn't. I was too lost in my own thoughts. Maybe that would happen another night.

At least, unlike Dad, I could plan to cum tomorrow.