"This place sure is nice," I thought to myself. And I was lucky to get it. It's a small 200-year old colonial house preserved by the Historical Society of Connecticut. I own it, but I have to leave it's history in tact ... right down to the whipping post in the back yard. It's a T-post about seven feet high with a four-foot-wide cross bar on top. At each end of the cross bar are loops of rope which for noosing around someone's wrists. One balmy night when I was feeling especially horney, I tip-toed downstairs and creeped out into the moonlit backyard. I was glad for the high walls. I couldn't see any neighbor's windows. Wearing only burgundy silk briefs, I slowly walked over to the whipping post, pressed my still hairless chest against its old wooden frame, and lifted my arms. I could only grab onto the rope loops. But stood there for quite a while imagining what it might be like to have my bare back whipped, repeatedly lashed again and again, not too hard, but hard enough to leave a lasting mark for more than just a few hours. I stood there like that for quite a while in fact and eventually came in my silk shorts! Yeah, I'm kinky horney. My name's Kevin.
One fine day, though, I heard a power lawn mower out in the back yard. I'm sure glad I was home because I'll never forget that gorgeous sight before my eyes. He couldn't have been more than 16 or 17. What a body! Wearing only short cut-offs and sneakers, his sweat-laden slender torso glistened in the warm afternoon humidity. His sandy blond hair hung straight almost to his broad shoulders. When he looked up and waved, I guess my heart stopped. He was so cute! And I saw not even one hair on his young body, not even in his armpit.
By the time I got outside to introduce myself, he was taking a break.
"Hi, I'm Kevin. I live here."
"I'm Jesse."
"So you work for the Historical Society?"
"No, I work for you. I've been taking care of this yard for three years now. I do everything--mowing, trimming, weeding, planting, and fertilizing."
"That's nice. But who pays you."
"You do, silly!"
I liked the way Jesse smiled at me when he said 'silly.' "Oh?" I questioned.
"Yeah. They didn't tell you?"
"I guess they forgot. So how much do I owe you."
"$50 front and back, each time I come."
"You mean ... I have to pay you today?"
"You don't have the money?"
"Uh ...," I stammered. I hadn't worked it into the budget. I didn't have enough in the house. Sure I could run to the ATM. Maybe he would take a check. I checked. Just as I thought--he'd rather have cash.
"You don't have the money, do you?" This time his voice has a surly condescending tone to it.
"No ... uh ... sir." Why did I say 'sir?' He was just a boy ... half my age. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" He stood there before me, sweat trickling down his bare chest and stomach, and I hadn't even offered him a cool drink. I could almost feel his hot breath. "What should we do about this?" With one slow steady gaze, Jesse looked over at the whipping post.
"I see what you mean."
"Excuse me?"
"I see what you mean ... uh ... sir."
As if in a trance, not believing what was happening to me, I found myself being escorted to the whipping post.
Part Two coming soon. Feedback is most welcome.
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