From the bag, he pulls out a piece of cardboard with a bunch of wooden clothespins attached. He removes one and tries to bend forward to attach it to my nipple but the height of the bed means he’s unable to reach. After a few fumbling attempts I cautiously suggest we move back to the living room.
There’s a large wooden dining table behind the couch and I gingerly climb on top of it. The height makes it easier for him, and he begins clamping the pins one by one to my frame. The ones on my dick and balls don’t actually hurt that much. But when he begins attaching them to the flesh along my abdomen I start to squirm. My obvious discomfort goads him on and he begins pulling at the ones he’s already attached. I close my eyes and swallow, realizing that the less discomfort I show, the less he’s going to inflict.
Next, he pulls out a bag of tea lights and a pack of matches and begins igniting them and placing them on my body. A handful of ill-fated attempts at mood lighting as a teenager taught me about the dangers those little candles can offer and I picture a series of red circular burns up and down my torso.
“No,” I say. “We can’t do that.”
He turns his head to me. “I told you I don’t like no,” he says.
“I understand, sir. But I can’t have burn marks on my body for other clients.”
He looks angry, but acquiesces and blows them out.
My refusal to be left with lasting scars seems to have thrown a wrench into his plans and he’s unsure of what to do next.
“Would you like me back on the floor, sir?”
“Yes.”
I resume my position on my hands and knees and he returns to his seat on the couch. He reaches for the black bag, pulls out a bag of Skittles, and pours a bunch into one hand.
“Beg,” he says.
I’m not entirely sure what he wants me to do with his outstretched hand of Skittles, so I rise slightly from the floor, nuzzling my face into his hand. He lets them slide one at a time into my mouth, as saliva runs down my chin. After I’ve consumed them all, he tries to stand again. I move to assist him in getting up before returning to the floor. He pulls me on the leash back towards the bedroom.
Arriving next to the bed, he seems to want to get in, but can’t manage.I stand and offer him my arm as a brace so he can lie down. He looks around for a moment, and then realizing he’s forgotten it, murmurs, “The bag” — less of a command this time, and more of a plea. I don’t bother returning to my hands and knees, instead walking back to the living room to grab it.
Back at his side, I place it next to him on the bed. He pats the other side of the mattress and I crawl in next to him. He unzips himself and pulls his underwear down to reveal his small but rock hard dick — with a colostomy bag hanging next to it. He pulls out a beat-up looking condom. His fingers struggle to tear it open so I take it gently from him, extract the condom and roll it onto his dick.
“Suck,” he says, and I go down on him with his hand pressing the back of my head, the taste of latex in my mouth. He cums surprisingly quickly considering his age and I remove the condom and toss it into the wastebasket next to the bed. A glance at the clock reveals we have just under 30 minutes left and I wonder whether he’s got some other torment up his sleeve — and if he can even handle it before exhausting himself.
We lie in silence for a few minutes before he turns to me and smiles.
“It is very good that you do this,” he says.
I’m wondering if he’s gotten his English twisted around, so I respond by asking if he means I did a good job.
“Yes,” he says. “You are a good slave. But what I want to say is that it is good that you do this work. Important.”
His story gradually starts to pour out. He’s older than I’d thought, 82 in fact. And married. He’d spent his early life as a schoolteacher but was too sensitive to deal with the aggression of the teenage boys he was charged with educating, and quit after 15 years to work at a bookstore. He’d had a sense he was gay from a young age but hadn’t had his first experience with a man until he was in his early 70s.
“You are lucky,” he says. “You have the rest of your life to be with men. For me, there is not so much time left to enjoy this. That is why it is good that you do this. Otherwise someone like me would never be able to enjoy this at all.”
I’ve spent the last two hours hating him. His intense interest in tormenting me seemed less about his own pleasure and more about my pain. But with a few tiny slivers of his life story in place, it’s all suddenly clear. His attraction to men would have started in his teenage years and then he spent his early adult life around a bunch of teenagers who were constantly taunting and abusing him.
Without other outlets, this experience shaped his sexuality in a way that he could only get off by turning the tables; finding a boy who he could substitute for his belligerent students and inflicting pain on him; an act of retribution framed as a sexual experience more than 50 years later.
Despite how much I’ve been repulsed by him, I now I have to fight the urge to throw my arms around him and offer him some kind of alternative; a way to relate to men sexually and romantically that doesn’t involve inflicting pain.
But despite the therapeutic elements of my profession, I’m not a therapist. It’s not my job to try to change someone’s sexuality. It’s my job to offer them what they want and then collect the cash on the way out.
The clock tells me we’ve arrived at the end of our session so I grab him a wet facecloth to wipe up the mostly dried puddle of semen he’s produced and help him up from the bed. Back in the living room he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out his wallet and carefully counts out a stack of 20s. I watch him walk down the stairs to be sure he doesn’t slip. The door clicks shut behind him and he walks out —slowly, crookedly — into the evening.
Next: When your trick doesn’t pay up (Part 1) >
Previous: BDSM with an 80-year-old top (Part 1)
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