After we'd both cleaned up and devoured what my mom fixed for us to eat, Donald and I headed for my basement bedroom. Once there, Donald wasted no time in issuing another challenge. “Hey, Markie, I'll bet I can jump out of your clothes before you can.”
An easy victory for him, because I was busy locking my bedroom door, something I was forbidden to do when my parents were home. In this case, however, doing so was a no-brainer. Punishment for locking the door seemed far less serious than getting caught in the middle of whatever was about to happen.
Donald queried, “Next?” while standing in the underwear I'd given him and watching me lower mine.
In all my naked glory I replied, “I'll bet I can break your spine before you get off again.”
“Explain.”
All was set. My most frequent fantasy of him. A pretend torture like no other. Custom-made for exposing all of him to my tongue, not just his dick. One of which I'd tried out on myself, by myself, with myself playing the role of him.
I instructed while smirking, “Just follow my lead, and be as quiet as you can.” My finger pointed to the ceiling, or more importantly, the floor of the room where one or both of my parents might be.
He waited with hands on hips while I retrieved my barbell, fifty pounds of weights on each end. Nothing serious, not for him. Taking the bar from me, he placed it behind his neck like I asked with his hands positioned just inside the weights, and the play began.
“Sir Henry,” I sneered in my quasi-Cockney-English accent. “You have been charged with high treason against your queen and state. What say you to these charges?” I winked, shook my head as a “no” ever so slightly.
“These are lies,” he spread his feet apart, pressed the bar against his neck, expanded his chest and flexed his arms. “I have done nothing.”
“You lie! We know exactly what you did. We have witnesses,” I waved toward an imaginary gallery of his accusers. “Will you confess?”
“I will not. I am innocent.”
I approached, reasoning, “Don't be a fool, Sir Henry. You are of strong mind and body.” My finger centered his chest, drawing a line along his sternum. “Confess your crimes, and your punishment will be minimal. A dozen lashes, front and back, and then we will set you free.” Same digit moved down the center of his abdomen. “What is your answer?”
“Never.”
“Fine!” With my finger at his navel, I poked inside his hole and dug around. “You leave me no choice.”
In a huff, I removed my impaling digit and stepped back, as he stood ready, straining against the bar with his lower jaw extended. In the pocket of my white briefs, his cock bulged the fabric. My manly hero awaited his fate.
“Sir Henry, it is the judgment of this tribunal that you be put to torture. Either you will confess your crimes, or you will expire, the latter of which will be proof of your innocence.” Stepping toward him, I scowled, “Strip him,” and with a violent tug I yanked my briefs all the way to his ankles, stretching the hell out of their waistband until he stepped out of them.
Huzzah! His mighty cock was free. It sprang to horizontal, pierced the air while bobbing up and down with each of his rapidly-excited heartbeats. To my knees I dropped. Mouth agape, I covered him. A taste. A tease. A crushing of his meat between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. One stroke forward, one back, and I released him.
“Take him to the dungeon!” |
