Sunday, February 8, 2015

Our First Domestic Part 4

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Alex was persistent, to say the least, but she wasn’t calling me cock-tease or rape inspiration, so she was alright. She also liked slushies, although I had to buy them for her. Not everyone was as lucky as the Lucky Seven—those fair-weather bitches. They were probably trolling around in Annie’s car, cruising the sluts on 17th or something. Of course Mom would shell out for a mint-condition domestic, but when it comes time for my sweet 16, there’s no money for a car. It was typical. Typical of her, of my life.

Alex slurped noisily, her soft pink lips quickly stained by the artificial blue. We actually had a lot in common, more than I would have thought. Similar music, shows, she even liked the specific Takainese animation that I liked, a detective serial called Toshimo. But every conversation seemed to lead inevitably back to the same place: boys. Of course, most of our ideas came from TV and movies, but we had certain insights. Like how they smell. How they smile, when they smile for you. Their weird chastity enforcers. A particular favorite of mine was imitating the noises, from the soft coos to the panicked screeches, to the docile sighs. Alex liked my impressions.

We went to her house, a long walk from the school, but not as long as the walk to mine. We watched Toshimo on the sofa, rooting for our favorite characters, even though we knew the ending, discussing the relative merit of the various romances, sometimes cuddling on the couch, joking, laughing, tickling, touching, giggling. We listened over breathless excitement to the unwitting walking of her parents in the kitchen above us as we let our imaginations run wild, seeing in each other both savior and temptation.

It was never enough. “Touch me,” I’d beg, “force me down. Take me.”

“Come on, Hannie. I want to be the boy for once.”

Never enough.

Mrs. Lamley found out. Alex must have told her. Who else could it be? Who could have seen us—but what did Alex have to gain? Who can say? Attention? Maybe she was vindictive. Anyway, that was the end of that. Backstabbing, homo bitch.

“I hope you two realize that the purpose of this class is rehabilitation, not ‘hooking up.’ I’m not running a dating service here.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“And what exactly did you two do? How far did it go?”

The old cow was probably going to bate about this later. Pervy old lady. “It was nothing,” I said.

Alex disagreed. “We touched. Stimulated... digitally. That’s hands, right?”

Mrs. Lamley nodded.

“Really, it was nothing.” The whole thing was embarrassing, talking about it, sitting in the shitty metal gym chairs in the middle of the day with this freak I wouldn’t have been seen dead with weeks ago. My face from cheeks to ears burned. “Girls being girls.”

Mrs. Lamley repeated slowly, as if savoring the words, “Girls being girls.”

Boy in the dorms, using his academy-issued toy, flashed through my mind—the whole dorm writhing in horny angst. Hormones. Always hormones.

“I used my mouth,” offered Alex.

“Just shut up already.”

The confessions were just the beginning. Lamley called Alex’s mom first. She sounded tired, even bored. But, with her makeup and long hair and all the rest of the impractical bullshit, her mother had no doubt become numb to the humiliation.

The same could not be said for my mom. “She’s with a girl. What more do you want?” she asked, dismissive as always.

Mrs. Lamley cleared her throat. I savored the moments of her discomfort. “It’s not the action that concerns us so much as the context. We are trying to learn appropriate physical contact from inappropriate contact-”

“We?” asked Mom over speaker phone.

“They, Mrs. Fuentes. They are trying to learn and new relationships are not conducive to a reformatory environment. This is a textbook example of transference.”

“Transference? What’s that?”

“I believe that they are imagining each other to be the boys they desire. A way to act out impulses they can’t express. But Mrs. Fuentes, you have to understand, this is harmful to the process. In time I would counsel your daughter to find herself a nice woman, but not yet, and not here.”

“I see. Well I’m sure that Annette has apologized.”

Mrs. Lamley looked at me, lips pursed. “Not exactly,” she said.

There was a pause, a viciously long one. “Hannie?” asked Mom.

“Yuh,” I cleared my throat, “Yes?”


“I didn’t mean to,” I started begrudgingly. “It was just a fling. It’s over now. I promise.”

That took the air out of Alex.

Mrs. Lamley spoke up, “It’s not about being sorry, you see. It’s not that she’s in trouble so much as she’s not progressing through treatment. I mean, when we started it seemed like she had just made a mistake of curiosity, but as the sessions have gone on, she seems profoundly wayward. She simply won’t respect authority during class. She questions everything I say. She confuses the other girls with her challenging tone. I just—I really think we need something more.”

“Something more?”

“Something more… hands-on. Mrs. Fuentes, I think it’s time to bring Boy into the sessions.”

I later found out that she called the principle and then the superintendent, only to get the same response. It was decided. Boy would join treatment or I would leave the school, and with it all the credits I had accrued, since most private schools didn’t accept integrated credits.

“No one touches him but you, okay?” she made me promise as she sent us off to school. Although, like all public schools, my school was integrated, a boy in the building was so rare as to be a spectacle. Most of these bitches had never seen un-wrinkled, un-flabby man skin in person before. I could see the Lucky Seven, my old friends, looking from the popular table, pretending to ignore me as we got question after question, catcall after catcall. Fresh meat on the table. Mmm mmm.

“A relationship,” Mrs. Lamely said, “is a partnership. It’s an agreement between equals to create a bond together. What it is not, is an ownership. We do not own our partners, our wives, we love and support them, but they are now ours. Make sense?”


“Males, however, are property. They are a very special and particular form of property, but they are property nonetheless. I think we should try a little role-playing to see how this works. Can I get a couple of volunteers to be a couple returning from a date?”


“Sabrina and Hannie, why don’t you come up here?”

She had us enter the classroom arm in arm (insofar as my arm fit in that wide cunt’s arm slot) and take off our coats. Boy knew how to play this. He was a professional. He had been to academy. He took our coats, hung them up, and guided us to our seats in the circle of chairs where we had been sitting. “Can I get you drinks?”


Sabrina said, “Of course!”

When he left the room to fill her water bottle, the room broke into uneasy tittering, everyone but me and Lamley. The class shared a laugh when Boy returned with the water bottle and Sabrina loudly asked, “Water?”

“Alright, alright,” said Lamley over the noise, “that’s more than enough. Boy, thank the girls for their orders. With a kiss.”

Without a word, Boy was on his knees, lips pressed firmly against the top of my shoes, then Sabrinas’, even though she fussed a bit and kicked him in the nose. But Boy is a motherfucking professional. Academy graduate. None this amateur hour, high school bullshit. In fact, he suffered so stoically that I didn’t notice his bruises until Mom stripped him down after dinner in her usual frenzy. “What happened to you?” she demanded as she felt the length of his ribs, Boy wincing, blue and purple and red with swelling.

They must have been kicking him when I wasn’t looking, Aimee and Alex. Or else it was other girls, earlier, during class. I never even saw a tear in his eye. I guess Mom’s pain training had made an impact.

It took four weeks and several more threat-filled phone calls to get Boy back at school. This time I resolved not to miss my chance. Mom agreed to let him return only if I picked him up at the end of school myself and kept him in my sight the entire time. I was supposed to walk, I guess, like some kind of pleb, since my mom couldn’t be bothered to arrange transportation. As I’ve said, I didn’t have a car, but Annie did. I didn’t even have to tip off the girls myself, Annie took the initiative herself. Becky was in the passenger seat when Annie picked me up after school. “I just wanted to get a better look at him,” she said totally unsubtly. As if she hadn’t been staring at him whenever she could.

Boy looked particularly boyish when we picked him up, teased hair, makeup, a tight cotton shirt with those pink booty shorts that accentuated his little plastic bulge. In short, he looked like he wanted it. “Cute shorts,” said Annie when he got in the car.


“Really. You look like a big booty bitch from a music video. Those shorts totally pop your ass.”

Boy shifted uncomfortably, touching his exposed thighs. “Thanks.”

Becky asked Annie, “Did you see that clip I sent you?”
“Abused boys, or…?”

“Yeah. With the two black boys… back to back?”

Annie giggled, “Yeah I watched it. Where did you find that?”

Becky lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I think it was from the Deep Net. Someone put it on a supremacy forum. Wasn’t it so hot?”

Annie giggled louder. “So hot. I can’t believe they got them to do that. Do you think it was real?”

Becky said, “The pleading certainly didn’t sound fake. What about you, Boy?” she raised her voice. “Do you have shame?”

He looked at me like I had the answer. “I—um, I have shame I guess.”

Annie wanted to know, “Would you eat a dog biscuit if we asked you to?”

Boy considered. “Like, in exchange for something?”

“No. Just if I asked you.”

Boy nodded. “I guess so. Like a normal biscuit?”

Annie savored his discomfort. “What about some nasty, sloppy dog food? What if Hannie didn’t feed you for a long time?”

“Um… I guess so. If I was really hungry.”

Becky chimed in, “Oh, you’ll be hungry. Really hungry.” We were all thinking about his locked enforcer. I bet he was hungry. Those hormones. All locked up…

Annie wouldn’t let up. “Would you drink a girl’s pee? If Hannie told you to?”

“Ew!” interjected Becky.

Annie defended herself—“Hey you’re the one who sent the clip.”

I watched as we drove straight past the school. It was one of those beautiful spring days when it’s just warm enough when school lets out to enjoy the outdoors for a few hours. We kept the windows down and enjoyed the crisp outside air. Spring is a season for rebirth, renewal, for creation.

When we pulled up at Becky’s house, the girls were already there, including a new girl, Mandy: a broad-faced brunette who wasn’t anywhere near as cute as me. They didn’t even try to find a new “ethnic” friend, they just grabbed another white chick. Typical. 

Chloe had stolen a small bottle of rum from her whacked-out mom, and she kept giving everyone shots, horrible, horrible shots, even sharing with Boy. They made him feel welcome, made him feel sexy, asking him to stand this way and that, to walk around the room. Everyone thought his reactions to the hard alcohol were all too cute, particularly when he hopped up and down from the burn, his tight behind threatening to peek out below the shorts. They got his shirt off in time, asking to see his muscles and chest, asking him about being a boy, living with the other boys at the academy. Eyes hungry, lips quivering, mouths salivating, they asked him to pose, demanded he stay still as one girl and then another licked around his nipples and ears, demanded he stay still when they playfully spanked his ass. “Be a good slut and drink,” implored Chloe as she plied him further. The shorts were off before long and Boy was on his knees, being pulled between legs, zippered crotches scraping his face.

“We want to see a show,” demanded Becky. “I have a toy.” She returned from upstairs with a bright pink dildo, soft plastic bouncing as she bounded down the stairs. A lesser boy would have quailed at the sight, but not Boy, not after what Mom put his through. They gave him some lard for lube, disgusting, white cooking lard, but Boy was still unphased. He started working the toy inside of himself, pressing it flat to the floor and squatting over it. Boys. So cute. So magical. His face contorted into something like a grimace. “Do it faster. Faster, slut!” Becky commanded. Boy looked at me, concerned, maybe even scared, but I couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. “Let’s see it, slut.” Boy groaned as the rest of the toy slid inside. They cheered. “He took the whole thing.”

Annie shouted, “Our own live show! This is way better than porn.” But Boy didn’t exactly have a porn-star smile, or the speed. “Faster! Faster!” they shouted as he squirmed up and down. “Faster!” He flopped on his front and started working the dildo furiously with his hand. “Yeah, you like that, slut. You like it.” It was a command, not a question.

He was exhausted, but they were just getting started. Chloe, by now plenty tipsy (not that I wasn’t), pulled her shorts and panties to one side. “Let me try that mouth,” she commanded. Boy was confused. Mom and I never used him that way. I’m not sure that the academy taught him either. He approached gingerly, pushing his face up into her brown-fuzzed mound tentatively, looking piteously up at her. “Let’s feel that tongue.” He tried to pull back, but her hand was behind his head. “Get in there. Keep looking at me.” She sighed, and again, deeper. Then she hopped up on the kitchen counter and pulled her clothing further to the side. “Good. Get in there.” Annie and Carlie were a little taken aback, giggling nervously at Chloe’s brashness, but the others just stared in rapt attention. It really was better than a porno. Our own personal actor.

Becky was next. “Come on,” she urged, “hurry up,” and as soon as she could, muscled Chloe out of the way. “I want some too.” Boy shot me a panicked, pleading glance but I only smiled and nodded. Yes her too. And her. And her. Mattie, Stacey, Carlie, Annie, one after another, sometimes taking up a position at his other end, manually fucking that ass till he cried out in pain. “Does that taste good? Do I taste better than Becky?” asked Carlie, but he could only make non-committal grunts. By the time they had finished, Boy was flushed and soaked, his hair matted crazily. Finally, the new girl, Mandy, approached, looking at me cautiously.

“Go ahead,” I agreed. It’s your last chance, I thought, live it up. Soon their best friend Hannie will be back and you will be crying on whatever curb they found you.

Mandy wore an almost boyishly tight skirt that she hiked up from her thighs to above her hips, and, like the others, slid her underwear to the side. In air already thick with the scent of sex, Mandy’s smell was particularly noticeable. Sharp and acrid like bleach. Boy screwed up his nose and turned away, but Becky put a foot between his shoulderblades. Something must have been wrong with the girl because he pulled back from his first lick with a viscous string of white grossness still connecting his tongue to her lips. “Ew,” rose a shared consensus. Mandy looked around, embarrassed, but turned back to Boy. “You don’t like that taste? How about this one?” She let fly a stream of piss, spraying out all over like a hose partly covered by a thumb.

“On the floor?” cried Becky. “Come on! I have to clean that shit up!”

Mandy, undeterred, emptied her whole bladder down Boy’s tear-soaked, makeup-lined face.

“For fuck’s sake, Mandy,” moaned Becky. “My mom gets home in like two hours. You better help me clean this up.”

“Can I go next?” asked cautious Carlie.


So it was decided—we all went upstairs to the tub and pissed on Boy in the tub, one and two at a time. “How you like that slut? You like it up the ass; you like being a piss whore too? You a piss whore? Like all boys are?” It was true: the boys in porn usually like getting a nice stream in the eye at the end of some good oral service.

The only problem was that right at the end, when Annie was straddling the tub, her foot slipped and landed right on Boy’s face. We washed him clean, but the bleeding didn’t stop. “Here,” I said, toweling him down, “pinch it up at the bridge, like this.” He shrieked when I grabbed his face. A real, honest shriek of pain. “Woah, sorry.” I said. Blood was getting on the towel. Besides that, his clothes were ripped. “Shit, Boy, look at this. You’d better not get me in trouble.” It was around this point that I realized I may have taken things a little too far.

Part 5

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