Scott hems and haws outside my door. He glances furtively down at his phone, at my door, and back at the elevator. First timers tend to do that. Heck, even repeat visitors too. Standing at your torturer's door and sending yourself in isn't something you ever get used to.
I watch from my peephole and grin. Scott fits his self-description perfectly. College jock, final year, wants to get his bisexual cherry popped in a no-strings arrangement before he enters adulthood. He has that awkward charm you see in every guy meeting an online hookup for the first time. From the way his eyes dart about, the way he shifts back and forth on his feet, he's practically thinking out loud: chicken out while it's safe or press ahead into the unknown?
"I'm here haha" [7.02pm]
Bitter resolve spreads across his face as he realizes what he's done to himself. Feels a bit poetic, like Dante staring into the gates of hell.
I swing my door open and Scott looks up with a start.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
"Hey, Scott," I chirp, slinging him a sly grin, leaning against my door frame. "Nice to meet you. Welcome to my milking den."
***
"Woah. This looks like it must've cost a bomb."
Scott chuckles nervously. He's standing in the hallway and looking into my den. That's where he'll be spending the next hour or so - a bed with four short posts and ropes already secured to each corner. There's also a chair rigged up with restraints at every joint, a black leather saddle, and a shelf stacked with lube bottles and toys of every kind. He's probably wondering which of these I'll use on him later.
"Yeah, I bought Bitcoin back before it blew up," I joke as I stroll inside, inviting him to join me. Holding his lips together tightly, Scott steps in, watching himself as his body moves gingerly through the space.
"So... what do we do now?" Chewing on his lower lip, Scott jams his hands into his jean pockets. It looks like he's trying not to take up too much space. His attention lingers on the ropes attached to my bed. His eyes bounce between the bed, my toys, the door.
I swish my hand in the bed's direction before turning to my shelf to pick an oil. "Well, you strip, I tie you up, I milk you." I'm already imagining what he looks like under his clothes, how he'd squirm as I rub him wet and glazed all over.
It takes me a moment to realize I don't hear movement behind me.
Turning back, I catch a quick look at the guy. Scott is frozen to the spot and curled in on himself. Quickly, I realize what he's actually saying.
Putting down the oil bottle, I step towards him carefully, like a baker reaches for a hot cookie tray. "Hey, you alright?" I ask, genuinely concerned. I'm annoyed with myself; I should've spotted this sooner. How did I miss this? Scott has the nervous energy of a lost puppy in need of a guiding hand; classic first-guy-sex symptom. Having lived his whole life hiding his love for boys, it must be hard to let that side of him see the light. And how sad it must be, that the first time he feels safe to do so is in the house of an internet stranger.
"This is just... a lot." Scott chuckles nervously. I nod. It's difficult for sure, and I can see how any lesser guy would run for the door.
But that's not why he came. Scott's here because he's brave. It takes so much courage to come up to a rando's house for to explore a new side of you; to heal the part of him that's grown used to the cold. He's making a choice to be himself, and I'm going to honour that journey. That's what I do for all my boys, new and old.
I reach for his hands. Scott almost recoils, but softens. He doesn't dare look me in my eyes.
"You're doing great, buddy. We'll take it nice and slow, and you can tell me whenever you feel scared. Safe word's 'candy' - that means you say 'candy' when you need to quit for real." I'm cradling his head right now, my thumb stroking his ear tenderly.
Slowly, and with a new firmness, Scott nods, and I know he's ready.
"Awesome. Now, take off your clothes and get on the bed."
Scott found me through my account on Recon. He's a college swimmer with the urge to get about with other guys, but that's not something he can just do on campus. He stands to lose too much if people find him sneaking about other men's rooms. He's one of those guys who are trapped in the golden handcuffs of masculinity. Strong, supposedly straight, and nowhere else to go but down if anyone realizes otherwise.
And that's such a shame, because Scott is such a catch. He oozes sensuality, but his hotness is tempered by soft edges. He came dressed just as I asked - a tight white tank top, short shorts and sneakers, and crowned with a head of thick tousled hair. His shoulders pop gorgeously; white cotton fabric stretches teasingly across his pecs and trunk. He must have felt so exposed - so displayed - on the way here.
But that's all in the past. Now, his clothes are hung up on the hooks at the end of the room, and Scott is tied down to my bed. Only his hands, though; I've bound his wrists snugly above his head but his legs are free to move. He can tell me when he's ready to put those on.
Also, I'm so glad Scott did me the favour of coming in his swimming trunks.
I know I say I'm not in it for just the sex, but a young swimmer in his prime... oh man. Luscious lean muscles, every fibre cleanly visible under his liquid bronze skin; hairless like a porn star to boot. And that plump bulge underneath that stretchy black fabric - does Scott even know how beautiful he is?
"When you're on the bed, you'll address me as Sir," I instruct as I drizzle oil down his chest, watching it pool in the valley between his pecs and trickle down into his navel. Now that we're in play mode, my voice is soft but commanding. "All you have to do is make sure you don't cum unless I tell you to."
"I'll try." Scott was cute from the start, but he looks so adorably vulnerable in this position. He's so new to all of this and eager to do his best. I almost feel too bad for him to abuse him. I just want to give him a hug.
"Sir," I remind him, giving his left nipple a pinch. Scott yelps in response. "And don't try, boy. Do." My dominant side rushes back into my head and into my arms. I make my first move downwards; I empty the bottle onto his bulge, soaking him all the way through until the fabric clings to his junk like a glove. He hardens as he bites his lip, afraid to make a sound.
"You like that?" I ask, and Scott nods measuredly. Trying to squeeze out a more expressive answer, I start groping him through the slick fabric as my other hand moves down to his perineum.
