captionstojerkby:I’d been working with him for two months before I gave it to him. He was ne
captionstojerkby: I’d been working with him for two months before I gave it to him. He was nervous, I could tell—even more so than he usually was when naked on his knees in front of me, unsure which was coming, the back of my hand or my palm. This time: a present. He pulled the lid off the box gently, parted the delicate gray tissue paper, and smiled. “Part of me thought it was going to be a collar,” he said, relieved. I smiled, too, but at his simplicity. “Put it around your neck,” I said, and he did, draping it over his naked shoulders, down over his collarbone, the long edge brushing one of his nipples. I bit my lip; it didn’t hurt—it helped, even—to let him know it had an effect on me, too. “Touch yourself,” I said, and he did, running his hands over his flesh, putting on a little show for me—cheeky boy—before the feeling of me finally allowing him to touch his cock again got to be too much. Before he lost himself in the pleasure and the heat and the ache and splattered his seed onto his hand, before he ate it as I murmured about what a good boy he was in his tie. The next time I let him cum—it was only two days later, but he said he was desperate for it and needed it “so fucking bad”—he’d called me at home, in the middle of the night. “Okay, I said. I’ll let you cum. But you have to do something for me, don’t you?” “Anything,” he whined. “Put on the tie I gave you.” He whimpered. The next time he wanted to cum, I didn’t need to tell him; he volunteered—he was so proud of himself!—that he already had it on. That’s what training is, after all. I go back and forth—“training” sounds so mechanistic, so distant, to describe something so personal, so intimate, so very close to his skin. But there’s no denying that I provide causes, and he evinces effects; there’s no denying that the first time he wore the tie outside of the privacy of his home, the first time he wore it in his day-to-day life and not when he was about to spill himself into his hand or my mouth, he had a clear, conditioned response. It reminded him of all the many times he’d cum when wearing it; the very feel of the thing, the sight of it, the weight—and he’d thought silk couldn’t have weight!—of it around his neck, made him think of himself hard and eager and obedient. Which is to say that it made him hard, and eager, and obedient. I made sure it was a nice tie, but not particularly flashy. It doesn’t call attention to itself, although he will get a compliment on it now and then, making his dick surge, making his head light as he thanks them, as he thinks about how they don’t know what it is they’re saying. He knows, though, and that knowledge keeps him unsettled, off-balance, makes him walk around all day with his messenger bag slung over his crotch. He always knows what that tie means, and I do, too.That’s the tie he wears when he’s wanton. That’s the tie he wears when he cums. That’s the tie he wears when he’s mine. [Inspired very much by this post of thedandydom, and with thanks for his and bzork’s permission to shamelessly plunder the idea.] -- source link