Show-Offs, page 13
“Care for a drink?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer will be.
“Mahalo,” he replies.
“Drive in,” I say. “I’ll leave the tractor here.” I’m wondering how the fuck I’ll start it after he leaves, hopefully after dark, perhaps in the a.m. “Stubborn battery,” I mumble.
Kalani shakes his head, pulls out a set of jumper cables and repairs the tractor and my attitude.
“Follow me,” I say, “lots of room to park.”
We proceed along the driveway, underneath arching palm trees, and I direct him to a spot while I pull into the garage. But he parks parallel to the triple carport, blocking the entire entrance. We get out.
“Gotcha,” he says. The key is almost tucked into his pocket when I sidle up to him. I have all I can do not to go down on him then and there. But I do rub his bulging crotch. Nice! Very, very nice indeed! We stare into each other’s eyes.
“C’mon in,” I say with a flick of my head, and grab his hand.
Mail is left in a box near the road, but parcels are delivered to the door. And I know the Fed Ex dyke would be more than tolerant, indeed would grin ear-to-ear, were she to approach in her spiffy, spankin’ new, walk-in white truck. She’s most proud of it, and I’ve admired it several times—seems they go together. We’ve bonded, and she views me as more than just another customer.
We sashay toward the house, arms swinging, remove our shoes and enter.
“Nice,” Kalani says, looking at the four-foot-square glass etching of a plumaria blossom suspended over the counter that separates kitchen and dining room.
I utter a slow, “Thanks,” as I kneel, wrap my arms around his thighs, and press my head into his crotch, savoring the aroma of sweaty Carhartts. I breathe deeply.
“Nice; very, very nice,” I whisper.
Kalani runs his fingers through what little hair I have, moves his hips up and down a bit, and morphs into a circular motion as he grabs the back of my head and pushes it deeper into his crotch. I feel his hard-on, even through the thick cloth. I nibble, he thrusts, and I reach for his zipper.
“Later,” he says, “I’m thirsty.” He pulls me to my feet.
Shit, I think, where’re my manners? But at least his remark is a harbinger of…of what? My head spins with possibilities.
“Lilikoi juice?” I ask. “Freshly picked and squeezed this morning.”
“Sounds good. I noticed all the fruit trees you have.”
I nod. We clink our glasses in a silent toast and take a few sips.
Shit, double shit, I think, my face contorted with embarrassment and frustration. I haven’t even invited him into the living room.
He takes my drink, raises the two glasses in another silent toast, sets them on the breakfront, and steps out of his tan shorts and tighty-whities.
His dick springs forth, thwacks his abdomen, almost reaching his navel, and after a few diminishing oscillations, finds its equilibrium aimed at my crotch. I kneel, purse my lips and latch onto it while wrapping my arms around his legs. My fingernails dig into his inner thighs, he squirms and pushes his fat dick to its limit—his public hair tangles with my moustache. Many years of experience come into play and I don’t gag. I grab his dickhead with my throat muscles and tease him—clench, relax, clench, relax. He hops from foot to foot and throws his head back. Then I capture his dickhead with my lips and nibble his corona—gently, harshly, gently, harshly. I’m able to tease some spit from my pursed lips, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand form a circle that I coat and slide along his shaft—back and forth, back and forth in sync with my lip motions.
“Mother fucker!” he yells. “I’m gonna come.”
“Not yet,” I say as I lean back on my haunches and form an evil grin, watching him pant and clench his fists. I stare at his bobbing cock, glistening with precum.
He reaches for his dick and I swat his hand. I lick his piss slit and capture a large silky drop before it can slither to the edge and float to the rug.
“Your turn,” he says, and tugs at my Speedos. They don’t move. I untie my drawstring with a flourish and stand stone-statue still. He chuckles and guides my briefs to my ankles. My saber springs forth, almost a challenge.
“Let’s go outside,” I suggest. Or was it a command?
“But, but…” he stammers.
“It’s an acre lot, the backyard is deep and surrounded by jungle on three sides. Takes a machete to get through it. We’ll be alone. I promise.”
“Well, okay.” He tries to cover his dick with his hands.
“Relax,” I order, “and help me.”
He follows me into the bathroom and notices my floggers hanging from a rack as we pass my office. He pauses but says nothing. We enter the bathroom and stop short.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“A fuck bench,” I reply.
“I should’ve guessed. What’re those slots for?”
“Straps, to secure the willing victim.”
“Oh.”
He stares at the wooden contraption. Its two angled sides are trapezoidal in shape, three feet long on the floor, two feet across at the top. The rear edges are thirty inches tall; the front, thirty-three inches tall. They support a sloped leather pad, thirty-three inches long, six inches wide. Hinges screwed into a cross piece near the floor separate the side pieces and provide stability. Four padded side cushions support shins and arms.
“Wanna try it?”
“Sure do!” A pause. “But without the straps.”
“Fine with me.”
We pick up the bench and lug it outside. I point to a spot in a grove of dwarf banana trees. Kalani carries the front of the bench, and I bring up the rear, as it were. God, I’m turned on looking at his broad shoulders, traps and supple back muscles. We stop, and raucous myna birds squawk from the top of the catchment. A mongoose darts from a lava outcrop, stops, sits on its haunches, stares, blinks and retreats.
“Romantic, sort of,” he says, fondling a bunch of dwarf bananas. I nod.
“Be right back.” He caresses the leather and I return to the house.
A few minutes later I skip off the lanai with a bucket of towels, lube and bottled water, but catch myself and transform a jog into a saunter, pacing myself to appear relaxed, not overly eager. He’s already stretched out on the bench, head sunk into the leather and pointed toward my private rain forest. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think as I stare at the luscious feast spread before me. Mom would never have approved of my language, and couldn’t begin to comprehend the situation, but, hey, we do find our own way.
“Water?” I whisper.
Kalani jerks his head, a startled motion, like he had been dozing. “Mahalo.”
We drink, him still in a prone position. “Relax. I’ll take it from here.”
He gulps, puts his head down, and I rub his back.
A loud clatter interrupts our reverie. He jerks up.
“What’s that?” He’s trembling.
“The pot police whirlybird just lollygagged by,” I answer. “Nothing to worry about. Sometimes they drop a rope and rappel into a yard or field, but we’re clean. No suspicious plants here. Now try to relax again.”
“Jesus. Exciting neighborhood.”
“Yeah. This is a hippie town. You know that.”
He plops down.
I spread my rainbow towel on the lawn in a neat rectangle, kneel, spread his cheeks and stare. A gorgeous ass, a puckered hole to die for framed by a few black hairs, looks like a sloppy shave, but no, it’s almost hairless like the rest of his body. Not like the haole forest sprouting between my buns.
I blow a steady column of air around his hole, he squirms, and then I attack with my tongue. I lick and savor his musky maleness, cover the perimeter with spit and lick it off. A late afternoon Hawaiian picnic! My curled tongue pushes as deep as possible, and I tongue-fuck him. He squirms and moans and I capture him, arms around his thighs, face buried until I surface for air. I sit back and swat his ass.
“Ohmygod!” His cry begins as a moan and crescendos to a howl of exhilaration.
Might be his first time, I think. Or, perhaps, his best time, I add with self-congratulatory satisfaction.
We slurp more water. He rises up on two hands and looks back at me.
“I’d like to fuck you,” I announce.
“Yeah, bro, yeah, I’m all yours.” He slumps into the leather and clutches the hand rests.
Better hold on, boy, here we go.
I don a rubber. I lube his asshole with one hand, and with my other hand jerk his cock, which is hidden under the bench but not difficult to find since it’s hard. Very hard. Then I enter him. Sort of slowly, but then I plunge to the limit. He gasps.
“It’s okay, we’re there.”
He grunts.
I grab his hips and pump. There’s no holding back. I flop onto his back and heave my weight into my lunges. I bite his neck.
“You’re a good fuck, boy,” I growl.
“Thank you, Daddy,” he answers with what breath he can summon during my assault.
“Puma is fine. No role-playing. Just you and me.”
“Okay, Puma.”
“That’s better.”
I stare into the jungle, not noticing anything in particular, content to be embraced by nature. I gently slap his shoulders with both hands in time to my pelvic rhythm, and then alternate hands as I smack his ass.
Whack! Oof!
Whack! Oof!
“Like that boy?”
“Yes, Puma!”
Praise to the Hawaiian god or goddess of sex, I think. I could go on like this all day.
“I’m going to come, Puma.”
“Go for it boy, I’m with you.”
I feel his trembling, the precursor to his eruption, and I join him.
Kalani lifts himself onto his knees and elbows and lets out a mighty bellow. I follow a few seconds later with a loud “Aaaah!” He collapses onto the bench; I rest on his back and soften within him.
Our breathing slackens, and I pull out. He sits sideways on the bench, legs dangling over the side, palms on the leather. He looks up at the sky.
“Whew, quite a ride, a ride and a half.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“More than enjoy. It was, it was, well—”
I put my index finger across his lips. “Shhh,” I say, and lean into him and kiss him. Our long, floppy dicks rub like two mating snakes. I pull him to his feet and lead him to the patio. We sit and stare silently into the yard. Two red cardinals chase each other, swooping and diving like a World War I air battle, fighting for a lone plain-Jane female watching from a bird feeder. We chuckle in unison.
“Lots of red around here,” Kalani observes.
“A great color.”
“Why? What’s so special about it?”
“Well, it’s snazzy. Always wore red shorts when running laps at the college track after work, or on morning neighborhood runs. And, believe it or not, a recent study shows that reactions become more forceful when you see red—enhances speed, if only briefly. Like a danger signal.”
I pause and put my hand on his thigh. “Or maybe an invitation.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Female baboons get red bottoms when they wanna get laid, I learned in bio class.”
“There’s that. And your bottom has a nice blush to it.”
Kalani squirms. Cute beyond measure. “Feels good, though.”
We’re silent for a few moments.
“I noticed that some of your whips are, what do you say, braided in red and black.”
“Yes, by special order.”
More silence.
“Some of them seemed, like, kinda soft.”
“Like a car wash.”
“Why would anyone wanna be whipped?”
“’Cause they enjoy the sensual trip.”
“But some of them looked mean, real mean.”
“Yes, it can be painful. In fact, I’ve used a signal whip—that’s a short single tail whip used in dog sledding—to make a series of x’s across a person’s back.”
“Wow.”
“But sometimes the person leaves their body and goes, who knows where. And, on rare occasions I go with them—the whips take care of themselves.”
A long pause.
“As a top, I actually enjoy the sensual trips. It’s more of a challenge to be warm and loving using a whip.”
Calmness hangs between us.
“Would you flog me?” A slight hesitation. “Sir?”
“Yes.” Oh, yes, indeed.
“Outside?”
“Where else? Stay here.”
I go inside, throw a few whips over my shoulder and grab a handful of bungee cords and two soft leather wrist cuffs. Kalani stands when I approach. I put my hands on his shoulders and bore into his soul.
“You sure?”
“Uh, yes, Sir. Like, I trust you.”
I put the cuffs on him, and snap the locks shut. His dick jumps with each click. I laugh.
“That’s my boy. Follow me.”
I grab my bucket and towel and head across the yard, boy in tow. We pass under a coconut tree and Kalani stares up at the fronds swaying in the gentle breeze.
“Coconuts were trimmed a few weeks ago,” I assure him.
“Oh.”
I stop at a tall, straight, very solid Ohia. I wrap the rainbow towel around the trunk, secure it with bungee cords, stuff a towel under its upper edge, and tighten another bungee seven feet up. Kalani steps up to the trunk and leans into it, his head resting on the pillow.
I tie his hands to the upper cord.
“Gotcha,” I chuckle. He shudders and I blow a measured, gentle breath across his back.
“You’re considerate,” he says.
“I want you to be comfortable while I pummel you.”
“Huh?”
“No distractions, just the whips.”
“Oh.”
“This is very special,” I whisper.
He nods.
I rub his upper back, reveling in the firm, but supple muscles.
“Here we go,” I announce.
I take my red deerskin flogger, grasp the tails near the handle, and with my other hand slide the dangling tips across his upper back, down his torso, and tease his buttcrack. He remains motionless, almost afraid to breathe.
“Relax,” I command.
He inhales deeply.
“Good boy.”
I take a practice swing, less to gauge distance, more so he feels the tips grazing his back. I strike his shoulder blades using a figure eight pattern, and gradually increase the intensity. He hops from one foot to the other as I progress from pats to pummels, his cries of “Ah, ah, ah,” in sync with each hit. Then I strike. Hard. He screams and rears back. I wait and strike again on the other shoulder. He roars.
I throw my arms around Kalani, my torso to his back, and slither in our sweat.
“Doing okay?”
“I think so.”
“Have some water.” We drink.
“Ready for more?”
“I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
I grab my black, very solid leather flogger.
I hit each shoulder blade a few times and move to his ass. And what an ass it is! I crouch a tad, steady myself and use a gentle backhand stroke on each cheek, switching from hand to hand.
“That’s a big whip,” he says.
“Yep.” I raise my voice. “Don’t worry about the tool, just sink into the sensation,” I shout.
Then I lay into him, let him have it, little or no mercy, but a modicum of care.
He screams. And screams. And screams.
I back off and throw water across his ass. He jumps and yells. His backside is a uniform deep red, almost burgundy. His breathing slackens. We share more water, he gulping, me sipping.
I hoist my one-hundred-twenty-tail whip, custom made with no small amount of grumbling from the master whip maker. The twenty-six-inch-long soft tails are green, black, and turquoise, with a few red tails peeking from the center. I slide them down Kalani’s back and then strike. It takes a strong arm to maneuver this instrument of pleasure. I hit his shoulders as hard as possible; the tails splay and cover his upper torso.
“Holy shit,” he gasps.
“My car wash whip,” I yell.
I continue pummeling him, his body slumps, his weight supported by the cuffs. A few more strokes and I stop. I touch his shoulder blades with my palms.
“We’re done,” I say between labored breaths. His head jerks to attention.
“Huh?”
“It’s all over, you can rest now.” I undo his cuffs, slide the towel to the base of the tree and guide him to rest against it.
He shakes his head. “Where was I, Sir?”
“Only you know that, boy.”
I kiss him and lead him into the bedroom. I move my stack of books and notes from the king size bed. I spoon him, my arms wrapped around my prize. Eventually we stretch out and doze. An hour or so later I climb out of bed and raise the blinds. He rolls over. I point at a palm tree, seventy or so feet tall, ivy swirling about its variegated trunk, climbing and reaching for the newborn coconuts just under its spreading fronds. Nature’s stately umbrella gleams in the low sun, framed by white, downy clouds wandering through an azure sky streaked with pink. I climb back in bed.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Thanks.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder.
“Lots of books around here.”
“Yep.”
“Lots of subjects.”
“Yep,” I respond, running my hand along his chest, trying not to grab his hard dick. “What’s your major?”
“Astronomy.”
“Continue, please, I’m interested. Very much so.”
“Hmm,” he replies. “Unusual. Most folks don’t give a damn.”
I smile. “I’m waiting,” I coax and nibble his nipple, teasing my teeth into a bite.
“As a boy,” he begins, “I was intrigued at the glistening white domes on top of Mona Kea.”
“Observatories,” I interject.
“Yeah, sponsored by several countries. I visited, and was hooked. What do you do…I mean, did, like…like before you retired?” He leans over, tugs a few of my chest hairs, and pinches my nipple.
“Mahalo,” he replies.
“Drive in,” I say. “I’ll leave the tractor here.” I’m wondering how the fuck I’ll start it after he leaves, hopefully after dark, perhaps in the a.m. “Stubborn battery,” I mumble.
Kalani shakes his head, pulls out a set of jumper cables and repairs the tractor and my attitude.
“Follow me,” I say, “lots of room to park.”
We proceed along the driveway, underneath arching palm trees, and I direct him to a spot while I pull into the garage. But he parks parallel to the triple carport, blocking the entire entrance. We get out.
“Gotcha,” he says. The key is almost tucked into his pocket when I sidle up to him. I have all I can do not to go down on him then and there. But I do rub his bulging crotch. Nice! Very, very nice indeed! We stare into each other’s eyes.
“C’mon in,” I say with a flick of my head, and grab his hand.
Mail is left in a box near the road, but parcels are delivered to the door. And I know the Fed Ex dyke would be more than tolerant, indeed would grin ear-to-ear, were she to approach in her spiffy, spankin’ new, walk-in white truck. She’s most proud of it, and I’ve admired it several times—seems they go together. We’ve bonded, and she views me as more than just another customer.
We sashay toward the house, arms swinging, remove our shoes and enter.
“Nice,” Kalani says, looking at the four-foot-square glass etching of a plumaria blossom suspended over the counter that separates kitchen and dining room.
I utter a slow, “Thanks,” as I kneel, wrap my arms around his thighs, and press my head into his crotch, savoring the aroma of sweaty Carhartts. I breathe deeply.
“Nice; very, very nice,” I whisper.
Kalani runs his fingers through what little hair I have, moves his hips up and down a bit, and morphs into a circular motion as he grabs the back of my head and pushes it deeper into his crotch. I feel his hard-on, even through the thick cloth. I nibble, he thrusts, and I reach for his zipper.
“Later,” he says, “I’m thirsty.” He pulls me to my feet.
Shit, I think, where’re my manners? But at least his remark is a harbinger of…of what? My head spins with possibilities.
“Lilikoi juice?” I ask. “Freshly picked and squeezed this morning.”
“Sounds good. I noticed all the fruit trees you have.”
I nod. We clink our glasses in a silent toast and take a few sips.
Shit, double shit, I think, my face contorted with embarrassment and frustration. I haven’t even invited him into the living room.
He takes my drink, raises the two glasses in another silent toast, sets them on the breakfront, and steps out of his tan shorts and tighty-whities.
His dick springs forth, thwacks his abdomen, almost reaching his navel, and after a few diminishing oscillations, finds its equilibrium aimed at my crotch. I kneel, purse my lips and latch onto it while wrapping my arms around his legs. My fingernails dig into his inner thighs, he squirms and pushes his fat dick to its limit—his public hair tangles with my moustache. Many years of experience come into play and I don’t gag. I grab his dickhead with my throat muscles and tease him—clench, relax, clench, relax. He hops from foot to foot and throws his head back. Then I capture his dickhead with my lips and nibble his corona—gently, harshly, gently, harshly. I’m able to tease some spit from my pursed lips, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand form a circle that I coat and slide along his shaft—back and forth, back and forth in sync with my lip motions.
“Mother fucker!” he yells. “I’m gonna come.”
“Not yet,” I say as I lean back on my haunches and form an evil grin, watching him pant and clench his fists. I stare at his bobbing cock, glistening with precum.
He reaches for his dick and I swat his hand. I lick his piss slit and capture a large silky drop before it can slither to the edge and float to the rug.
“Your turn,” he says, and tugs at my Speedos. They don’t move. I untie my drawstring with a flourish and stand stone-statue still. He chuckles and guides my briefs to my ankles. My saber springs forth, almost a challenge.
“Let’s go outside,” I suggest. Or was it a command?
“But, but…” he stammers.
“It’s an acre lot, the backyard is deep and surrounded by jungle on three sides. Takes a machete to get through it. We’ll be alone. I promise.”
“Well, okay.” He tries to cover his dick with his hands.
“Relax,” I order, “and help me.”
He follows me into the bathroom and notices my floggers hanging from a rack as we pass my office. He pauses but says nothing. We enter the bathroom and stop short.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“A fuck bench,” I reply.
“I should’ve guessed. What’re those slots for?”
“Straps, to secure the willing victim.”
“Oh.”
He stares at the wooden contraption. Its two angled sides are trapezoidal in shape, three feet long on the floor, two feet across at the top. The rear edges are thirty inches tall; the front, thirty-three inches tall. They support a sloped leather pad, thirty-three inches long, six inches wide. Hinges screwed into a cross piece near the floor separate the side pieces and provide stability. Four padded side cushions support shins and arms.
“Wanna try it?”
“Sure do!” A pause. “But without the straps.”
“Fine with me.”
We pick up the bench and lug it outside. I point to a spot in a grove of dwarf banana trees. Kalani carries the front of the bench, and I bring up the rear, as it were. God, I’m turned on looking at his broad shoulders, traps and supple back muscles. We stop, and raucous myna birds squawk from the top of the catchment. A mongoose darts from a lava outcrop, stops, sits on its haunches, stares, blinks and retreats.
“Romantic, sort of,” he says, fondling a bunch of dwarf bananas. I nod.
“Be right back.” He caresses the leather and I return to the house.
A few minutes later I skip off the lanai with a bucket of towels, lube and bottled water, but catch myself and transform a jog into a saunter, pacing myself to appear relaxed, not overly eager. He’s already stretched out on the bench, head sunk into the leather and pointed toward my private rain forest. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think as I stare at the luscious feast spread before me. Mom would never have approved of my language, and couldn’t begin to comprehend the situation, but, hey, we do find our own way.
“Water?” I whisper.
Kalani jerks his head, a startled motion, like he had been dozing. “Mahalo.”
We drink, him still in a prone position. “Relax. I’ll take it from here.”
He gulps, puts his head down, and I rub his back.
A loud clatter interrupts our reverie. He jerks up.
“What’s that?” He’s trembling.
“The pot police whirlybird just lollygagged by,” I answer. “Nothing to worry about. Sometimes they drop a rope and rappel into a yard or field, but we’re clean. No suspicious plants here. Now try to relax again.”
“Jesus. Exciting neighborhood.”
“Yeah. This is a hippie town. You know that.”
He plops down.
I spread my rainbow towel on the lawn in a neat rectangle, kneel, spread his cheeks and stare. A gorgeous ass, a puckered hole to die for framed by a few black hairs, looks like a sloppy shave, but no, it’s almost hairless like the rest of his body. Not like the haole forest sprouting between my buns.
I blow a steady column of air around his hole, he squirms, and then I attack with my tongue. I lick and savor his musky maleness, cover the perimeter with spit and lick it off. A late afternoon Hawaiian picnic! My curled tongue pushes as deep as possible, and I tongue-fuck him. He squirms and moans and I capture him, arms around his thighs, face buried until I surface for air. I sit back and swat his ass.
“Ohmygod!” His cry begins as a moan and crescendos to a howl of exhilaration.
Might be his first time, I think. Or, perhaps, his best time, I add with self-congratulatory satisfaction.
We slurp more water. He rises up on two hands and looks back at me.
“I’d like to fuck you,” I announce.
“Yeah, bro, yeah, I’m all yours.” He slumps into the leather and clutches the hand rests.
Better hold on, boy, here we go.
I don a rubber. I lube his asshole with one hand, and with my other hand jerk his cock, which is hidden under the bench but not difficult to find since it’s hard. Very hard. Then I enter him. Sort of slowly, but then I plunge to the limit. He gasps.
“It’s okay, we’re there.”
He grunts.
I grab his hips and pump. There’s no holding back. I flop onto his back and heave my weight into my lunges. I bite his neck.
“You’re a good fuck, boy,” I growl.
“Thank you, Daddy,” he answers with what breath he can summon during my assault.
“Puma is fine. No role-playing. Just you and me.”
“Okay, Puma.”
“That’s better.”
I stare into the jungle, not noticing anything in particular, content to be embraced by nature. I gently slap his shoulders with both hands in time to my pelvic rhythm, and then alternate hands as I smack his ass.
Whack! Oof!
Whack! Oof!
“Like that boy?”
“Yes, Puma!”
Praise to the Hawaiian god or goddess of sex, I think. I could go on like this all day.
“I’m going to come, Puma.”
“Go for it boy, I’m with you.”
I feel his trembling, the precursor to his eruption, and I join him.
Kalani lifts himself onto his knees and elbows and lets out a mighty bellow. I follow a few seconds later with a loud “Aaaah!” He collapses onto the bench; I rest on his back and soften within him.
Our breathing slackens, and I pull out. He sits sideways on the bench, legs dangling over the side, palms on the leather. He looks up at the sky.
“Whew, quite a ride, a ride and a half.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“More than enjoy. It was, it was, well—”
I put my index finger across his lips. “Shhh,” I say, and lean into him and kiss him. Our long, floppy dicks rub like two mating snakes. I pull him to his feet and lead him to the patio. We sit and stare silently into the yard. Two red cardinals chase each other, swooping and diving like a World War I air battle, fighting for a lone plain-Jane female watching from a bird feeder. We chuckle in unison.
“Lots of red around here,” Kalani observes.
“A great color.”
“Why? What’s so special about it?”
“Well, it’s snazzy. Always wore red shorts when running laps at the college track after work, or on morning neighborhood runs. And, believe it or not, a recent study shows that reactions become more forceful when you see red—enhances speed, if only briefly. Like a danger signal.”
I pause and put my hand on his thigh. “Or maybe an invitation.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Female baboons get red bottoms when they wanna get laid, I learned in bio class.”
“There’s that. And your bottom has a nice blush to it.”
Kalani squirms. Cute beyond measure. “Feels good, though.”
We’re silent for a few moments.
“I noticed that some of your whips are, what do you say, braided in red and black.”
“Yes, by special order.”
More silence.
“Some of them seemed, like, kinda soft.”
“Like a car wash.”
“Why would anyone wanna be whipped?”
“’Cause they enjoy the sensual trip.”
“But some of them looked mean, real mean.”
“Yes, it can be painful. In fact, I’ve used a signal whip—that’s a short single tail whip used in dog sledding—to make a series of x’s across a person’s back.”
“Wow.”
“But sometimes the person leaves their body and goes, who knows where. And, on rare occasions I go with them—the whips take care of themselves.”
A long pause.
“As a top, I actually enjoy the sensual trips. It’s more of a challenge to be warm and loving using a whip.”
Calmness hangs between us.
“Would you flog me?” A slight hesitation. “Sir?”
“Yes.” Oh, yes, indeed.
“Outside?”
“Where else? Stay here.”
I go inside, throw a few whips over my shoulder and grab a handful of bungee cords and two soft leather wrist cuffs. Kalani stands when I approach. I put my hands on his shoulders and bore into his soul.
“You sure?”
“Uh, yes, Sir. Like, I trust you.”
I put the cuffs on him, and snap the locks shut. His dick jumps with each click. I laugh.
“That’s my boy. Follow me.”
I grab my bucket and towel and head across the yard, boy in tow. We pass under a coconut tree and Kalani stares up at the fronds swaying in the gentle breeze.
“Coconuts were trimmed a few weeks ago,” I assure him.
“Oh.”
I stop at a tall, straight, very solid Ohia. I wrap the rainbow towel around the trunk, secure it with bungee cords, stuff a towel under its upper edge, and tighten another bungee seven feet up. Kalani steps up to the trunk and leans into it, his head resting on the pillow.
I tie his hands to the upper cord.
“Gotcha,” I chuckle. He shudders and I blow a measured, gentle breath across his back.
“You’re considerate,” he says.
“I want you to be comfortable while I pummel you.”
“Huh?”
“No distractions, just the whips.”
“Oh.”
“This is very special,” I whisper.
He nods.
I rub his upper back, reveling in the firm, but supple muscles.
“Here we go,” I announce.
I take my red deerskin flogger, grasp the tails near the handle, and with my other hand slide the dangling tips across his upper back, down his torso, and tease his buttcrack. He remains motionless, almost afraid to breathe.
“Relax,” I command.
He inhales deeply.
“Good boy.”
I take a practice swing, less to gauge distance, more so he feels the tips grazing his back. I strike his shoulder blades using a figure eight pattern, and gradually increase the intensity. He hops from one foot to the other as I progress from pats to pummels, his cries of “Ah, ah, ah,” in sync with each hit. Then I strike. Hard. He screams and rears back. I wait and strike again on the other shoulder. He roars.
I throw my arms around Kalani, my torso to his back, and slither in our sweat.
“Doing okay?”
“I think so.”
“Have some water.” We drink.
“Ready for more?”
“I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
I grab my black, very solid leather flogger.
I hit each shoulder blade a few times and move to his ass. And what an ass it is! I crouch a tad, steady myself and use a gentle backhand stroke on each cheek, switching from hand to hand.
“That’s a big whip,” he says.
“Yep.” I raise my voice. “Don’t worry about the tool, just sink into the sensation,” I shout.
Then I lay into him, let him have it, little or no mercy, but a modicum of care.
He screams. And screams. And screams.
I back off and throw water across his ass. He jumps and yells. His backside is a uniform deep red, almost burgundy. His breathing slackens. We share more water, he gulping, me sipping.
I hoist my one-hundred-twenty-tail whip, custom made with no small amount of grumbling from the master whip maker. The twenty-six-inch-long soft tails are green, black, and turquoise, with a few red tails peeking from the center. I slide them down Kalani’s back and then strike. It takes a strong arm to maneuver this instrument of pleasure. I hit his shoulders as hard as possible; the tails splay and cover his upper torso.
“Holy shit,” he gasps.
“My car wash whip,” I yell.
I continue pummeling him, his body slumps, his weight supported by the cuffs. A few more strokes and I stop. I touch his shoulder blades with my palms.
“We’re done,” I say between labored breaths. His head jerks to attention.
“Huh?”
“It’s all over, you can rest now.” I undo his cuffs, slide the towel to the base of the tree and guide him to rest against it.
He shakes his head. “Where was I, Sir?”
“Only you know that, boy.”
I kiss him and lead him into the bedroom. I move my stack of books and notes from the king size bed. I spoon him, my arms wrapped around my prize. Eventually we stretch out and doze. An hour or so later I climb out of bed and raise the blinds. He rolls over. I point at a palm tree, seventy or so feet tall, ivy swirling about its variegated trunk, climbing and reaching for the newborn coconuts just under its spreading fronds. Nature’s stately umbrella gleams in the low sun, framed by white, downy clouds wandering through an azure sky streaked with pink. I climb back in bed.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Thanks.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder.
“Lots of books around here.”
“Yep.”
“Lots of subjects.”
“Yep,” I respond, running my hand along his chest, trying not to grab his hard dick. “What’s your major?”
“Astronomy.”
“Continue, please, I’m interested. Very much so.”
“Hmm,” he replies. “Unusual. Most folks don’t give a damn.”
I smile. “I’m waiting,” I coax and nibble his nipple, teasing my teeth into a bite.
“As a boy,” he begins, “I was intrigued at the glistening white domes on top of Mona Kea.”
“Observatories,” I interject.
“Yeah, sponsored by several countries. I visited, and was hooked. What do you do…I mean, did, like…like before you retired?” He leans over, tugs a few of my chest hairs, and pinches my nipple.
