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His cuming on his own gave me my first shot at paining him, his acceptance of this reality nice, though I suspected he assumed I would bare bottom spank him, or something similar, well our Joey was no thinker. He submitted to my bonding him, metal cuffs, tight, threaded through the heavy chain choke collar, how cute he looked, his hands at his chin, as if praying. The leg spreader cuffed to his ankles, again I cuff to hurt, the metal already chaffing his delicate skin, legs spread comically wide, his whines, his chokes, my laughs, everytime his hands struggled he choked himself, really choked himself, turned blue several times, mm mm. As I bent him over the cheap, round, imitation wood motel table, three feet around, he realized his vulnerability, his tears real, tough shit, as I secured his torso to the table legs, leaving his glorious cheeks taut and ready for whipping and fucking as I studied his perfect anal ring, the tiny balls he had looked, like all of him, weak, he was more. John Stamper sat in his usual place in the diner. It was lunchtime on a Friday, his day for the diner. The waitresses – Betty and Veronica (he’d had a quiet smile about that, these two were as far from the Betty and Veronica of the comic books as it was possible to get. Betty was three hundred pounds and a brunette with scraggly hair that was slowly coming out and Veronica was a red head, with bad teeth, chronic halitosis and a tendency to swear at the littlest thing.) – smiled at him, like they always did. He just looked back and said nothing, as he always did. He knew he was an enigma to the locals, and he was fine with that. He was part of the local scene without actually being involved in it. John had long ago come to the conclusion that should they know his full story, he’d not be welcome here. Ignorance and fear would see to that. So he limited his involvement to having lunch at the diner when he was in town and very occasionally a nice dinner at the local Outback. He was still.
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