“I love it,” he says, still half-delirious. “I wish it were in my throat too.” He sticks out his tongue lewdly. I’d lovingly call him a slut if it weren’t such a trigger for him.
“I’m afraid all of this sex has addled your brain. We used to have such stimulating conversations and now, whenever I arrive home, you’re already on your knees with your mouth open.”
“Because that’s how you like me, Sir,” he says, pointing out the obvious. I consider abstaining for a few days if only to clear the sexual fog that seems to have permeated my apartment, but then, I’m a sadist, not a masochist.
“Tonight, when I get home, I expect you to have something intelligent to say to me about your studies. You will keep your clothes on throughout dinner and not make any sexual overtures toward me until invited. Do you understand?”
He answers by clenching and releasing his hole so that another globule of cum slips out.
The little shit.
I arrive home laterthat evening to a proper-looking young man wearing fine slacks and a dress shirt with the top two buttons undone—a suggestion, no doubt. The picture of elegance, he’s even styled his hair so that it’s swept back from his face in a spiffy pompadour.
“You look very nice,” I tell him as we sit down to dinner, appreciating his effort.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“And what did you learn in my absence?”
“Did you know some men can insert their own penis into their anus?” he asks, then daintily places a cut asparagus into his mouth.
I lay down my fork and stare at him, suppressing the smirk that threatens to pull at my lips.
“It’s called autopederasty,” he continues. “It’s highly unlikely to achieve climax that way, but it did get me thinking about all those men out there who can fellate themselves and what an achievement it is for mankind.”
“Giovanni,” I warn but without any real threat.
“Here’s a really interesting one. Agalmatophilia. It derives from the Greek myth of Pygmalion, the sculptor who fell in love with his own statue, whom he named Galatea, and it’s a term for people who have a mannequin fetish. I could pretend for you during sex if you’d like that. Just lie there unmoving like a corpse.”
I don’t doubt his commitment.
“I wouldnotlike that, as I prefer my sexual conquests with a pulse.”
He smirks because he’s succeeded in getting me to play along. “There’s a similar fetish called androidism for those who fantasize about having sex with robots.” He makes a little robot gesture with his arms and now I do grin.
“Where did you learn all this?”
“From theEncyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices. You bought it for me last week and it only just arrived today. It’s a little outdated but has some excellent illustrations. I’m only through the A’s so far.”
He must have ordered it when I told him to buy some books for himself. I thought they’d be for more scholarly pursuits. I should have known.
“What do you know about autoerotic asphyxiation?” he asks.
“That it’s very dangerous and it isn’t an option for you because you won’t be masturbating without me present.” If anyone’s depriving him of breath, it’s going to be me.
“Do you like asphyxiating your lovers?” he asks. I haven’t made any attempts to control his breathing, but my hand does have a tendency to migrate to his throat while we’re fucking.
I carefully cut into my tenderloin, place it in my mouth and chew while I consider my answer. “I do enjoy breath play, but it’s something of a 4000-level class of BDSM, and we’re still working through the prerequisites.”
“There are a lot of things we haven’t tried.”
“Are you teaching this class?”
“You’re handling me with kid gloves.”
Because you’re only a kid,I want to tell him, but I know he’d find it offensive, and in a way, it is.
“I didn’t realize you’d become an expert on BDSM in just a couple of months,” I say instead.
