Lost and Found: Erotic Pets

by Syd McGinley

Ben swats his butt. “Not asking you.”

  Mike calls to Chris to bring his sample box out, and twink does his best to escape. All he can do is squirm. He gives an actual shriek when he sees Mike’s piercing supplies on top.

  Ben runs a calming hand over his boy’s ass.

  “Hush boy. No needles. I’ve promised that.”

  How twink ever managed to shoot up heroin, and how he thinks he’ll handle a tongue piercing, I don’t know, but the boy is genuinely afraid of play piercings.

  Twink settles down under Ben’s caress, and he submits sweetly to a gag and tit clamps. His poor prick manages to poke out a little further. Chris is having fun -- he pulls out items one by one to offer Mike and watches twink quiver.

  He laughs, “Oh, sirs -- I think he wants this.”

  Twink shakes his head as best he can, but Ben lubes his boy’s butt and inserts the largest set of gradated anal beads I’ve ever seen. He leaves just a few dangling to tickle twink’s inner thighs in the breeze.

  Chris brings us all a drink and we relax on the grass around twink’s cross. Ben nudges me and points to twink.

  “He’s in the zone.”

  Twink’s breathing and posture radiate contentment. His dick is still twitching in its limited space.

  “So guys,” says Ben softly to not disturb twink’s head space. “I left Charlie’s right cheek unmarked for his commitment mark. He doesn’t know he’s getting it yet. I know you need to interview him first to be sure he’s consented, but I thought I’d like to see the designs on him first.”

  “Did you decide on brand or tattoo?” asks Mike.

  Ben sighs. “I think a brand, but you said the design I like is better as a tattoo?”

  “If you want that level of detail -- yeah. Brands need to be simpler. I can show you the different designs on him. Chris -- get the sample art, boy, and some alcohol. ”

  Twink just nods dreamily when Mike pats his hip and inspects his butt. He doesn’t seem to notice the transfer going on. Ben admires his initials on his boy’s ass, and Chris takes a digital photo. Twink jerks in his bonds when Mike swabs him with cold alcohol to remove the design and applies another. Twink’s looking alarmed, but relaxes when Ben moves into his line of vision.

  We look at several different designs, and Ben decides that he likes the detailed one best. Twink still doesn’t know the ramifications of the discussion, but he’s starting to sag at the knees a little, and his prick has finally wilted.

  Ben pats his clean right cheek and undoes him. I sigh when his gag comes off. I’m almost fond of the boy when he’s quiet. Twink yelps when his nipple clamps come off, and then gives Ben Bambi eyes when Ben makes no move to remove the three large beads still inside his boy.

  “No boy, wait. Later. When you’re ready to come, we’ll pop them out... until then... live with it.”

  Twink moans, but makes no move to disobey. He kneels beside Ben and slowly relaxes again.

  Mike and I work a little more on tweaking the cross, and then we build the branding frame. It goes quickly as Mike’s built plenty before, and he says I may as well keep it afterward as it makes a good general punishment and restraint stand.

  Twink has caught the word brand and has obviously put it together with the attention paid to his butt earlier. He’s looking at Ben with all the color drained from his face. He looks terrified and hopeful all at once. Ben ruffles his hair. “It’s okay Charlie. The brand isn’t for you.”

  “Oh,” says twink, disappointed now he’s not in danger. “So sir, why...?”

  Chris flips the digital camera on and pages through to the picture of twink’s ass with the chosen tattoo flash art on it.

  Twink gasps, then giggles, and hugs Ben. He’s suddenly back to perky twink. He’s trying to get me to look as well, but I just grunt.

  He’s bubbly all afternoon, even though he breaks off every so often to squeal about how the beads are driving him crazy. He scampers around, though, so it can’t be that bad. Mike corrals him at one point to talk him through the tattoo process and confirm that he’s consenting to Ben’s mark, and I know that later Chris will cross-check that twink says the same boy to boy.

  So I am surprised later when twink sidles up to me as I work in my study on a letter to my cousin. He hovers looking nervous.

  “What, boy?”

  “Sir? Chris said tattoos hurt.”

  I nod, and put my pen down. I had a feeling twink didn’t listen properly to Mike, and, now his euphoria about getting a mark and relief that it’s not a brand are dying down, twink is starting to freak.

  “And needles. Sir, I want Ben’s mark, but...”

  “Are you afraid of the pain?”

  Twink shrugs. “No, sir. Getting hurt for Ben is good. It’s the needles... I’m scared.”

  “You can’t see the needles. It’s not like getting a shot.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Look. Mike did this last week.” I roll up my sleeve, and let twink see the tattoo.

  He touches it reverently, and doesn’t gush over Rob’s dates. He nods after a moment. “Thank you, sir. I can do this for Ben.” He stays next to me and runs his hands down my arm.

  I think he’s coming on to me again and brace to rebuke him, but he traces my hands and says, “What would Jamie say, sir? Look how you’ve got your hands all beat up working.”

  Jamie’s name can still give a pang, but twink’s got a point: I can’t let my ragged nails near a boy’s hole. Jamie trained all our boys in manicures, so I tell twink he’d better get a move on and do my nails.

  Twink’s eyes light up. He loves doing little things for me, and thank God, a manicure is something he gets right. He trims and buffs my nails, but I lose patience when he says, “Palm calluses, sir?” and I growl that I like my hands looking like they work.

  “I’m sorry I flirted earlier, sir. But you are really hot in your construction stuff.”

  I swat his butt, and pull one bead out. “I’ll fuck you if Ben lets you play at the retreat.”

  He shouldn’t look that happy, but he bounds off to see if Ben is planning on sharing him around.

  He must have exasperated Ben as he wears the beads all evening, and I don’t hear squeals and moans until well after dark. He looks tired the next day, but he and Chris work well together on setting up a tent and parking plan. When twink turns his brain on, he’s got a good head for admin stuff. Gregorio is genuinely pleased with his tax preparer work, and he got A’s in his spring classes. Ben calls him his own little Elle Woods. I don’t get the joke and my eyes glaze over when twink says something about being a lawful blond.

  It’s a busy day, and the evening is controlled chaos as the guys arrive after their work weeks are over. Gregorio stopped by the pizza store he owns with Tony and brings a stack of pies, so dinner is easy. The boys are all over-excited, but unless they get in the way, or too noisy, we let them socialize. To my horror, there are ten boys. Pete has brought a boyfriend, Owen, who is considering moving in with him, and Brin has brought a potential new member, Steve, and his boy. Well, to be fair, only seven of the boys are running around playing tag in the dusk -- Owen is too shy, Steve’s boy is on a leash, and Chris is in the kitchen.

  Simon had called to see if he could bring a friend from England. When I shake Nick’s hand, damn, it’s like two alpha wolves meeting. The air crackles between us and I swear the hair on the back of my neck stands up. There’s a moment where we both squeeze hard and then let go, making it clear we are not playing the crushing handshake game. I’m on my territory, damn it, and I can be a gracious host.

  “Coors? Or do you need a real beer?” Smooth, John, smooth.

  “When in Rome,” he says, and takes it, although he looks briefly puzzled that it’s cold.

  Simon’s introducing him to Pete and Owen, so I move away to meet Steve. I don’t like him right off the bat, but there’s no challenge signal coming from him like from Nick. He’s just a flashy top. He has leather pants -- he’ll be too hot s
oon -- and his boy looks cowed rather than content on his leash. Steve doesn’t introduce him -- fair enough -- but the boy looks hot and thirsty.

  “Does your pet need a drink?” The snark must be hidden in my voice as Steve just cheerfully gives the leash a tug and says “Rinnie? Agua?”

  The boy nods, and flashes me a grateful smile as I hand him a bottle. He’s beautiful. Huge dark eyes, floppy black hair, South American cheekbones -- I realize Steve wasn’t being pretentious when he said agua.

  “Does he speak much English?”

  “No. Hey, listen man -- I know we just met, but Brin says you’re an English teacher, and my Spanish sucks... could you...”

  I glare across the crowd at Brin. English teacher. Fucker. Still, my literacy tutoring certificate had an English as Second Language component. I look doubtfully at Rinnie, but imagine how hard it must be for a foreign boy.

  “I can try. What do you need?”

  “Just some standard commands. We don’t need to talk -- just for him to obey.”

  I hide a frown. Rob and I didn’t talk much, but that was because we’re both quiet people -- he certainly wasn’t forbidden to converse when appropriate.

  “Sure. I can work with him this week. Give me an hour a day with him.”

  “Thanks man -- oh, and he’s kinda slow -- feel free to spank some vocabulary into him.”

  I nod, and because I want to be rude to Steve, and because little Rinnie still looks lost, I ask if I can walk his pet. Steve hands over the leash without a second thought, and I give a tug.

  Rinnie walks to heel without prompting, so he quite clearly has learned something already. I’m puzzled how he became Steve’s if they don’t share a language, but I can’t be that rude to a guest. I snag Luke from the tag game as I head into the cabin.

  “Hey, Chris -- give this one a little treat. Luke -- you’ve picked up Spanish from your landscaping crew, right?”

  “Spanglish,” amends Luke. “It’s all odalay mi vatos locos.”

  Rinnie squeaks, which I think is a laugh of relief and of surprise. He takes the cookie Chris is handing him and stares at Luke like he’s his new best friend.

  “Luke, have you met Rinnie before?”

  “No, sir. Steve is Brin’s friend from college, but this is the first time I’ve met his boy.”

  “Okay -- can you manage to tell him I’m Dr. Fell and I’m going to be his English teacher?”

  Chris smothers a snort, but Luke stumbles through what must be an adequate translation as Rinnie says slowly and carefully: “Thank you, Dr. Fell, Sir.”

  “Luke -- you’ll be my teaching assistant, and I want you to hang with Rinnie as much as you can. I’ll see if Steve will let him off his leash to play with you all.”

  Rinnie is eating his cookie very fast. I don’t like to see that, and have Luke ask if he’s hungry. The boy nods, and I authorize Chris to make the boy a sandwich. Rinnie’ll be fine with Chris -- he used to mother Rob.

  I tell Steve his pet is being looked after in the kitchen and he nods -- he’s busy talking to Gregorio.

  It’s a good evening. Owen and Rinnie continue to look shy and afraid, but the mood is light, and the guys keep the sex private on this first night.

  As the two single guys, Nick and I end up sharing the porch after everyone else has retired to their tents. I offer him my bed instead of a bedroll on the porch.

  He bristles. “I can handle the outdoors.”

  I shrug. “Dude, my cabin is pretty fucking pioneer even inside...”

  We glare for a minute. His contempt is well concealed, but I know he thinks I’m white trash playing at being a master. If he says one more word I’ll tell that fucking pansy poseur what I think of him. No matter that he’s bigger than me.

  Well, I offered the best bed, and, since he said no, I have no qualms about taking my own damn room.

  ***

  On Saturday, the boys get to play while we have a business meeting. Twink sits quietly with us taking minutes on my laptop. He deserves to be there as well as the main topic of discussion is a plan he helped Gregorio develop. He’s used his homework about 501(c)(3) corporations well and talked Greg and Ben into presenting a proposal for a tax shelter non-profit for the guys. I’m pretty bored by all this finance stuff, but my other option is to entertain Nick or Steve so I supervise twink.

  “...for education about m/m dom violence...” mutters twink as he types.

  “Don’t abbreviate it that way Charlie,” I say in exasperation to twink. “Write male on male domestic violence in full unless you really mean Dom violence in which case capitalize the D.”

  At least their fake corporation has a good goal, and they will have to give away money for it to stay legal. God bless America, I think, and give Nick a sour look. Where else can you get a tax break for D/s education and safety seminars? Nick just waves cheerily at me. He’s sunbathing with Mike and Steve and watching the boys play their own weird version of volleyball. Seven of them at once, almost naked, no clear distinction about who is on which side, and spankings for penalties. Oddly, they seem to think one side is actually winning. It’s quite distracting. Rinnie and Owen are just watching from near the edge of the business meeting.

  I smother a yawn, and realize twink is trying to get my attention. Fuck. I read the last paragraph of his transcript and discover there’s a motion on the floor to have me be the bloody director of their foundation. And Ben has just fucking seconded it. I read back up the page -- they’ve already formed a board, and they’re proposing to hire twink as my secretary.

  “I object,” I say loudly.

  “Wait for discussion, please, Dr. Fell,” says Ben. He ignores my growl. I can’t believe they are using Roberts Rules of Order at a damn D/s retreat in my own cabin’s yard.

  I give twink a nasty look -- if I find he had anything to do with this, he’ll regret asking to hook up this weekend. Pete is reading aloud the full proposal and I make myself listen so I can object in detail as well as in principle.

  I feel my anger build as I realize they’re offering me a salary as well as health insurance. Ben must recognize that look in my eyes as he calls a recess before the discussion.

  I stamp inside my cabin, and head for my study. Ben follows.

  “It’s a tax write off, John. So don’t get all proud. It’s not charity to you.”

  “It’s a fucking sham,” I yell as I wrench open my desk drawer. “It’s one thing if you guys want a tax dodge, but don’t implicate me in it.”

  I’m looking for my cash box, but I’m so mad I can hardly see straight.

  “Then make it not a sham.”

  It takes a minute of slamming through my desk to process what Ben said. I slow down, sit at my desk, and while I count out fifties from my construction stash, I think about what he said. He’s stepped into the kitchen to get two cold beers. It’s not noon yet, but we both need one.

  He hands me one and raises his eyebrows.

  I snap a rubber band around the fifties, and hand it to him. There are only three bills left in my box. Bugger.

  “There. Give that to Pete, or whoever can divide it up right. I’ve paid my damn debt off.”

  It’s a bit dramatic, but I was going to pay them this weekend anyway, and Ben knows it. He shoves the bankroll in his back pocket without counting it. “So? Gonna officially train these guys to be proper owners?”

  I groan. How can I say no? A salary, healthcare, and making sure these guys and their boys get the right training? And giving money to local shelters? Oh, fuck.

  “Okay -- they can offer me the job, but I can tell you right now that I’ll be asking for time to write a counter-offer.”

  Ben grins. “Of course...”

  “And if you lawyers, doctors, and whatevers think you can run rings around me because I’m a Renaissance specialist -- not a fucking English teacher by the way -- then -- ” Ben’s already left, smirking.

  I keep quiet while they unanimously vote to offer me a job, and Pete h
ands me the contract.

  “I’ll get back to you this evening,” I say politely.

  “Adjourned, then,” says Ben. “Until this evening’s commitment ceremonies pre-meeting.”

  Jesus, he’s spent too long in corporate land. I mean, it is important to discuss who is having what mark put on which boy, but do we really need a fucking agenda? I thought ‘retreat’ was just an excuse for a party and some work for Mike, but Ben really does seem to have plans.

  I sigh, and I take a walk in the woods to clear my head. Having all these guys around is fun, but I’m more of a hermit than I thought.

  I get back and Chris has served lunch along with Rory’s help. There’s nothing for me to supervise with those two running the kitchen, so I hole up with Mike and my laptop to write a counterproposal. They won’t be able to shove me around “for my own good” as they tried to do while I was out on bail or in their debt. As the foundation director, I plan on insisting on a mandate to educate the guys in safe ownership and use of their boys, as well as taking boys for training visits. Mike and I have a sharp debate about charging for training, and he wins by saying, “professionals get paid. I don’t work for free, do I?”