[Breeder] Acceptance

[TheBreeder]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

Acceptance. That’s what I learned from Earl.

It’s a simple concept—an easy word to swallow, sweet on the lips and light on the tongue. Acceptance.

I’d taken lessons in it without knowing from the first time I let a man pull down my pants and flip me onto the mattress. I’d had tutoring in it, kneeling on the sticky floors of the park and library restrooms, and from the dusks I’d spent crouched in the darkest corners of picnic shelters, letting grown hands pull my head onto dicks belonging to men whose faces I did not know and often would never see. I’d tasted it when I’d plant my mouth or my ass against a hole in a partition and take whatever came through.

Earl honed those rudimentary lessons. He blindfolded me, cuffed me, gagged me. He plugged me with toys and dick. I would bike home with faint red marks around my wrists one day, dripping with cum from both holes the next, and with reddened cheeks from the walloping my ass had taken the day after that. I knew that on the days I found a leather dog collar on the kitchen table when I entered Earl’s house through his back door, I was to put it on and remove it again only when I was leaving, a few hours later.

But mostly I learned it the day Earl took me into the depths below his house. Into his basement.

It was perhaps six weeks after I’d met Earl that we took that trip together. His home wasn’t that far from mine—perhaps a mile or a mile and a half on my bike—and I had a standing invitation to stop by two or three times a week on the days Earl was home from work, and on Saturday afternoons. I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing him sprawled in a chair, shirtless, hairy chest exposed, arms crossed in a way that made his chest seem even larger and more muscular than it already was. He wore nothing but a pair of 501s with the top button undone. Our relationship was fresh enough at that point that I can remember being taken aback at the sexy visual of him. My pulse quickened at the sight of his fur descending in a trail beneath the denim hanging from his hips. Something about his big bare feet propped on the kitchen table made my dick shift in my shorts.

Usually Earl didn’t meet me this way; I would have to search through the house to find him either in his office off the living room, or watching television in the den, or sometimes up in his bedroom relaxing. Today, though, I could tell he had something in mind for me, and I trembled with mingled excitement and apprehension of what that could be.

The collar lay on the table. I noticed it immediately. Once my clothes were in a pile on the floor, I attempted to fasten the holes in the thick leather through the hooks. My hands were shaking enough to make my progress slow, though. Earl noticed. “Come here, kiddo,” he said in a low voice. When I approached, he took the collar from me and fixed it to my neck, fastening it a notch tighter than I would have myself. The leather pressed tight on my adam’s apple, but it didn’t choke me. I thought of adjusting it myself, then rejected the notion. If Earl wanted it that tight, he wanted it that tight.

Acceptance.

He stood up when he was finished, and ruffled his fingers through my long blond hair. “I don’t think you’ve seen the basement, yet,” he said. His fingers reached out and grabbed the top of my head as he might a basketball. He turned me in the direction of the hallway, and began to steer me into its shadowy length. “I think it’s time.”

I indeed hadn’t visited the basement. Or thought about it, to tell you the truth. Like my parents’ basement, it lay down a staircase across from a coat closet. My parents had a finished basement of gleaming wood paneling and tile, however. Earl’s cellar, I could tell from the moment he pried open the door and toggled a switch to flip on a cobwebbed, naked light bulb hanging from a spare fixture, was more along the lines of the kind of stock movie set constructed for a climactic scene in a serial killer’s home. I licked my lips at the sight of the stark-edged shadows the light bulb cast below, and blinked at the wooden staircase that looked as if it might fall through at any step, but I didn’t say anything or pull away when Earl piloted my steps down, down, into the musty-smelling depths.

The natural cool of the cellar was a pleasant relief from the hot Virginia weather, but there wasn’t much else to make it seem welcoming. The floor was concrete, though area rugs covered portions of it to make it easier to stand or kneel on for longer periods of time. A toilet sat out in the open in the room’s far corner; a sink and a pre-fabricated shower stall with no curtain or door were next to it. There were a couple of wooden chairs along the wall, and on the other side of a series of studs, the house’s furnace, but it was otherwise unfurnished.

Save, that is, for what looked like a swing made out of leather and metal that hung from chains, in the room’s center.

I’d never seen a sling before. I didn’t know what they were. All the fucking I’d done had been in toilet stalls and over urinals, or clinging to trees in the woods or face-down in the brush in the parks. I’d been fucked in beds and dark corners and on sofas and easy chairs. I had no conception that things such as slings existed, however; I didn’t have a notion that anyone would make furniture specifically for sex.

Earl mumbled something about his boyfriend, Jim, fucking around with the chains again, and left me to watch as he made some adjustments to the sling’s height. When it met his satisfaction, he turned to me once more. “Come,” he commanded.

I obeyed without question. I still didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew better than to ask. I’d learn the way I’d learned all else—by doing.

Earl put his hands on my sides. “Ups-a-daisy,” he said as he lifted me up. With my assistance, he settled me into the leather seat. Tall as I was for my age, I weighed next to nothing, but still the sling swung back and forth in a wobbly and alarming manner. Earl steadied me, then lay me back. When my center of gravity was lower, I felt more secure. “You need this,” he murmured, retrieving a small cushion of sorts from one of the chairs. He tucked it below my neck.

I felt awkward in the contraption. My legs were hanging uselessly off the sides; the leather edges were cutting into the flesh, and the metal chains were cold. He grabbed my hairy calves, one after the other, and hooked ankles through leather straps hanging from the chains. With my heels hooked in the air, I felt more comfortable.

I also felt more exposed. If I hadn’t a clear notion of the sling’s purpose until that point, I did the moment I found my ass hanging off the edge of of the leather, exposed by my spread and anchored legs. I’d been restrained several times by this point—to Earl’s bed, to various pieces of furniture, and to Earl’s favorite improvised device, my legs strapped and separated onto a sawed-off broomstick. This was a different beast entirely. I was equally immobile and helpless, my ass was made as available as possible, but I wasn’t really restrained. My hands were free, though Earl ordered me to hang onto the chains nearest my head and not let go. My ankles were in straps, but I could have gotten them free if I wanted.

Only I didn’t care to. I accepted my helpless state. And as I relaxed into it, I began to enjoy it.

Which is not to say that Earl fucked me gently in that sling. Gentle fucking wasn’t its purpose. He lubed up and opened me all at once, making me cry out as my eyes and ass prickled and stung. As he often said, he liked for me to feel it. The sensations of being sling-banged were different. Unlike a picnic table or a toilet seat, I wasn’t cramped into an uncomfortable position or pinned to a hard uncomfortable surface while a stranger grunted into me. I didn’t find my head slamming into a brick wall. I didn’t have to worry about adjusting the angle of my hips while feeling like I was losing my balance on a mattress. All I had to do was lie there, experience the fuck, and accept what Earl was giving me. All I needed to do was enjoy the rocking motion of the sling, the slap of his balls against my ass, the pain of his dick stretching me wide, and the sounds of him vaulting closer and closer to his first orgasm.

Sights, when he allowed me. Smells. Sounds, certainly. But mostly feelings, the sharp, scarlet pains, the dull aches, the almost unbearable hardnesses of my dick and the sensations he’d produce with his stabbing and prodding dick, his wandering hands, his mouth, his teeth. Sensation at its purest, unfettered from care and worry. That’s what I felt that day.

Acceptance has its own, unique reward in these situations. Freedom. The freedom not to have to worry about giving the top what he wants—he’s getting what he wants. He’s making the decisions, adjusting the equipment as he desires. He’s setting the pace, calling the shots. All a young bottom has to do is consent, accept, and then reap the rewards. Resistance and fear lead to their own personal prisons; acceptance of the now, of the what’s-happening, are the paths to that freedom. The realization of what Earl was trying to teach me in that basement came to me as I lay in that sling, immobile and presented for use. It seemed very Zen at that time. Very grown-up, even advanced.

And it was a lesson I remembered every time Earl had a task for me in the future, whether it was taking the men he direct me to, or the toys he selected. When he told me to open up, I learned not to care whether what was coming was made of latex or fashioned in flesh, whether it was old or young or from a smooth-bodied stud or coming from something covered entirely with fur, whether it was white or black or something in between.

I didn’t have to make those decisions. I didn’t have to say yes or no.

All I had to do was accept. In that choice lay all the enjoyment I needed.

More...