It’s nice that Brian’s getting some new hobbies.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love fucking, getting stoned and going to Babylon, but I also love to draw. A man cannot live on whiskey, weed and willies alone. So it’s nice to see him getting interested in growing plants (even if said plants turn out to be marijuana) although, personally, I’m rooting (get it? haha!) for tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes. Eating the kind you buy in the supermarket is like eating a baseball. They have no flavor and they’re hard – and not in a good way like Brian’s dick is right now. I wanted to let him know I was happy for him and his new hobby, but he looked at me kinda funny yesterday when I mentioned that I wouldn’t mind a herb garden in addition to tomatoes. I don't know why he'd found my question so odd. I mean if he’s not getting into gardening, then why buy a giant bag of Roots Organic Soil?

And judging from the amount of Crisco and flour he bought, it looks like he's also getting into baking. And maybe even other kinds of culinary endeavors - like right now he's boiling the shit out of some egg noodles.

Dirt, Crisco, flour, over-cooked egg noodles.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he says, rubbing his dick through his Diesel jeans, the ones he wears around the loft because they’re not expensive enough to wear to Babylon. “Go out to the Jeep and bring in the Costco bags.”

The Costco bags? The Costco bags?? Don't you have to have a membership to shop at Costco? There is no fucking way that Brian has a membership to Costco.

“Had to buy in bulk,” he said, reading my mind like he always does.

I put on my coat and trudge down the stairs. He’s up to something. But what?

When I get to the Jeep, I can’t stop myself from looking in the bags – after all, they weigh a fucking ton. I want to know what I’m being forced to lug around. It's only fair, right? Besides, he never said anything about not peeking.

Olive oil. Bird seed. Molasses. Fish food. Pampers . . . .

Pampers??

Oh, shit.

“No way,” I say as soon as I walk through the door.

He looks at me, oozing feigned innocence.

“‘No way’ what?”

“No way I’m wearing diapers.”

“You might change your tune . . .”

“I am not going to change my tune.”

He turns back to his pot of boiling noodles, singing a mutilated rendition of “I Will Survive.”

“At first I was afraid/I was petrified/Just thinking I could never live with Pampers on my hide . . .”

"'Pampers' has too many syllables,” I say. “Why fish food? Are we getting a fish tank? If so, I want it to be a salt water one.”

“'Pampers' does not have too many syllables, and ‘we' are not getting a fish tank.”

“Then what is . . . ?”

He interrupts my inquiry. “C’mere and check the noodles for me. I want them mushy.”

Mushy? The only thing grosser than mushy egg noodles is mushy lima beans. Ugh.

I walk to the kitchen where he hands me a fork. I pluck a noodle out of the pot and put it in my mouth.

“Ow! Hot! Hot! Hot!” I yell.

“Yes, I know I am," Brian says, sounding bored. "But what about the noodles? Are they cooked enough?”

“If you want them almost boiled to a pulp, then, yes, they are."

He smiles with satisfaction and turns off the burner; then he goes to the sink and pours the noodles into a strainer.

Now what? And, oh, yeah, did I mention ‘What the Fuck?’ He’s not actually making something to eat. He never makes anything to eat, especially if it requires using his stove.

He leaves the strainer in the sink and walks to the corner near the door and retrieves . . . .

Fuck.

A giant spool of plastic sheeting.

“Oh no,” I say.

“Oh, yes,” he replies as he shoves back the couch and unfurls the plastic sheet on the rug.

“So you’re going to put me in diapers and cover me with soggy noodles.”

“You’re almost right. Except you didn’t mention the potting soil, flour, Crisco, molasses, bird seed and . . . yes, fish food.”

“You . . . you’re going to? . . . What the fuck, Brian? This is really, really weird.”

“Of course, it’s weird. We’re working our way through my catalog of sexual perversions.”

“You mean the figging and snowballing weren’t the most deviant practices you can think of? What about the sounding? That was pretty crazy.”

“Sure,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles in the plastic sheet. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any more ‘weird’ practices out there.”

Great. Someone, please remind me why I’m not with a kid my own age experimenting with blow jobs.

“This, this . . . what’s it called?”

“It’s called Salirophilia – with a little bit of Bukkake thrown in, but only if you’re particularly lucky and I’m feeling particularly generous.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Salirophilia is a paraphilia that involves deriving erotic pleasure from soiling or disheveling the object of one's desire.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wikipedia.”

“Who’s calling who ‘Mr. Wikipedia?’ Pot kettle, Sunshine. Stone, glass house.”

He’s mocking my addiction to internet encyclopedias. It’s not the first time. I glare at him, but my curiosity overwhelms my petulance.

“What’s a ‘paraphilia’?” I ask.

“It’s just a fancy word for a sexual fetish,” he replies. “Now take off your clothes and lay down on the plastic.”

I stand there, looking at him while mentally scrambling to think of a way to derail the oncoming paraphilic train.

“What’s ‘Bukkake’?”

“Why aren’t you getting undressed? I’m pretty sure you’re smart and agile enough to walk and chew gum at the same time,” he says. “Bukkake is when someone stands above you and jerks off until he comes all over you.”

Hhhhhmmmm. Now that turns me on. Fish food and bird seed? Not so much.

I strip off my clothes but much slower than usual. I have an issue with what’s about to happen and it’s not just the prospect of getting slathered in Crisco and then rolled in potting soil like a really gross, really bizarre human sugar cookie. The issue is . . . well, if I’m being honest with myself, the issue is that I already feel humiliated sometimes around Brian, and I don’t see the point in humiliating me any further. Yes, he’s tied me up and teased me until I was in begging for release – yes, that’d been humiliating – but this is different. This is . . . well, it's demeaning. The power dynamic between us is unequal as things are. I don’t want to make it even more unequal. I don’t want to be made to look like an idiot. I really don’t. Sorry, Brian. This time I’m putting my foot down.

“No,” I say and cross my arms.

His eyebrows arch with surprise. “No?”

“No,” I say again, even firmer than before.

“No, what?” he presses.

“No, I don’t want to do this.”

His look of surprise turns into a frown, but he’s not frowning at me. He’s frowning at the situation.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now,” he says. “But this is actually really hot. Hell, it makes me hard as fuck. I’m hard as fuck right now just thinking about it.”

He grabs my hand and guides it to his crotch where he presses his own hand on top of mine to make sure I feel him – how rock hard his cock is.

“It makes you hard to humiliate me,” I say. It isn’t a question.

He gives me a “duh” face. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course it does.”

I laugh and he glares at me. “You are such a pervert,” I say and give his dick a squeeze before tugging my hand free of his.

He gives me another “duh” face.

“Have you ever actually done this with someone?” I ask with genuine curiosity.

“Of course,” he says. “Many times. Like I said, it’s hot as hell.”

I walk over to him, wrap my arms around his neck and look him in the eyes. He doesn’t blink. He never does. But I know I have his full attention.

“Has anyone ever done it to you?” I ask. “Or have you only done it to them?”

He regards me for a loonngg time.

“No,” he finally says. "No one has done it to me."

“I thought so.”

“Well my, aren’t you the smartest kid in the class."

“How about this,” I purr and am pleased when his pupils dilate with arousal. “How about I be the one to put you in Pampers and smear you all over with oil and potting soil and . . .”

Fuck. I’m starting to get hard.

He laughs.

“See,” he says gloatingly. “It does make you horny.”

I take a deep breath. I’m well aware I’m walking on thin sexual ice.

“Only when I think of doing it to you. The thought of you doing it to me is a total, complete, 100 percent turn-off.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and steps out of my embrace. He’s looking closely at me again.

“You don’t know what you’d be missing.”

“I think I do, and I don’t care. I want you like crazy, Brian, but I am not a boy-toy you can do anything you want to in the name of ‘education.’”

He rolls his lips in. That’s it. I’m going to get kicked out and told to go back to Deb’s.

I'm surprised - and proud - when realize that I don’t care.

He’s still looking at me closely when he says “okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, you don’t have to do this.”

“Thank you,” I say with relief.

“At least not with Crisco and fish food.”

It’s my turn to glare at him. He’d promised me he’d never force me to do something I didn't want to do.

Without saying another word, he grabs his coat and walks to the door.

I’m furious beyond words.

“Brian,” I yell after him as he presses the elevator button. I run to the door. “You’re being . . . you’re being . . .” I stammer.

“What am I being?” He steps into the elevator and pulls the door shut.

“You’re being a big ba . . .”

He rolls his lips in again, and it’s not in an attempt to keep himself from smiling this time.

“A big baby?”

We have a brief staring contest, and then he’s gone.

Unsurprisingly, I feel like shit.

To distract myself, I dump the noodles down the garbage disposal and wash the dishes he’d left in the sink that morning. Bastard. Why is everything always my fault? I put the Crisco, molasses and olive oil in the cabinet and put the bird seed and potting soil in the corner. I’m in the process of rolling up the plastic sheet, when Brian walks in and slams the door closed.

He’s carrying more Costco bags.

“Hey,” he says. “What’re you doing? Don’t roll that up. We’re not done with it.”

For the first time since we met, I’m really and truly angry at him.

“What now?” I say. “Fertilizer? Dead cockroaches? Engine grease?”

I stop mid-tirade when he goes over to the plastic sheet, kneels on it and starts pulling huge containers of chocolate, marshmallow and strawberry sauce out of one of the bags. And then as my cock slowly swells and stiffens, I watch him pull out whipped cream, candy sprinkles, and a banana.

Then, without saying a word, he stands, strips off his clothes, picks up the container of strawberry sauce and . . . .

. . . . pours it over his head.

All I can do is stare with my mouth open as the sweet, viscous liquid flows down his throat and onto his chest. I’m not only getting the hardest hard-on of my life, but my mouth is watering like I'm a little kid peering through the window of a candy store.

He bends over, picks up the container of chocolate sauce and pours it all over the plastic sheet.

Then he lies down.

“Well?” he says. He voice is harsh and demanding, but his moody temper is undermined by his impressive erection. “What are you waiting for?”

I strip my clothes off so fast that I almost tear a sleeve and trip over a pant leg, which, to my relief, makes him laugh. Who cares that it’s at my expense.

I go over to him and kneel down on the syrup-slicked plastic.

“Now what?” I ask, feeling somewhat at a loss.

“What do you mean ‘now what’?” he says. “Turn me into a banana split. I know you like sundaes considering how many you shove in your greedy maw whenever we go to the diner.”

“But . . .”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Get to it,” he says. “The offer is on the table for only so long.”

That’s all the urging I need – and then some!

I place both of my hands on him. His body is loose and languid as I roll him over a couple of times, mixing the strawberry with the chocolate. When he’s lying on his back again, I wipe his face clean with a wet cloth. I don’t want his beautiful features obscured even if the obscuring syrup is sweeter than an actual strawberry patch. But then I change my mind. I’ve thought of something that I’ll never be able to do again. I dip my finger in the chocolate sauce and carefully draw letters on his forehead.

Mine.

He narrows his eyes. He’s obviously suspicious, but I forestall any question with a deep, tongue-filled, chocolate-flavored kiss. He arches his back and closes his eyes with a moan.

I rise to my knees again so I can admire my handiwork. His chest is slick with chocolate syrup and his pubic hair matted with strawberry sauce. I retrieve the container of whipped cream, scoop out a generous amount and then comb my fingers through the mouth-watering mess. But I avoid his lurching cock. It’s too soon. Far too soon.

After my tongue empties his belly button of the candy sprinkles I’d filled it with, I straddle his thighs, still careful not to touch his cock. Each nipple hardens as I trace the areola with my finger, smearing it with gooey marshmallow. When I lick it off, I finish with a hard suck that draws blood to the surface of his skin. I like marshmallow. It would be a shame to leave some behind. I then soothe his bruised flesh with wet, messy, open-mouthed kisses as he cups the back of my head in his hand and urges me to suck some more.

He loves it when I play with his nipples. It makes him horny as hell, so I’m not surprised when he tries to reach around me and prepare me to be fucked, banana split or no banana split. But I’m not ready. Instead, I move so I’m kneeling between his spread legs. He bends his knees, and I grip the backs of his thighs, pushing them back until he’s open and the head of my dick is poking at his entrance.

Jesus Christ!! Is he going to let me fuck him?? I let go of one of his thighs and hold my dick steady. It would be so easy to . . . I push gently against the sweet (literally and figuratively!) puckered opening . . .

I shift my gaze from my cock to his face. He’s looking up at me, watching me closely. I can’t tell if his gaze is an invitation . . . or a warning.

With reluctance, I treat it as a warning.

I’m rough with disappointment when I roll him over and not in the mood for any of his bullshit when I get between his legs and shove them apart again. I’m only mollified when he doesn’t protest as I spread his ass cheeks.

My mouth waters and not just because I’ve squirted marshmallow in his ass, making it look like someone came inside him. His asshole doesn’t need syrups and sprinkles – it tastes good just on its own, sans sugar. I know this fact even though he’s only let me rim him, like, five times (not that I’m counting or anything) and only after a shower. But he doesn’t taste merely of soap; he also tastes . . . Fuck. Why am I trying to find a metaphor for how his ass tastes when I’ve currently got my tongue inside it? I pull back for a moment and watch it flex open and closed a few times in irritation at the interruption. Yes, you heard me. Irritation. Even his asshole gets irritated. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so incredibly adorable.

Rimming him . . . Jesus fucking Christ. Rimming him is like, well, sorry God, but it’s like a religious experience. Actually, no, I’m not sorry. God made this stunning body spread out before me. He made the sweet hole (again literal as well as figurative) I’m currently slobbering all over like a crazy street-corner preacher ranting about the End Times. My hands are sticky with sugar, which gives me a firm grip as I hold him open, pushing his buttocks up and spreading them apart with my thumbs at the same time, opening him up, revealing him, discovering him.

He’s moaning almost continuously now. I lift my head to look at his face. He has it turned so all I can see is the right side, but it’s enough to see that his eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are parted – he’s too breathless to be able to breathe through his nose.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps. His words make my dick even harder than it already was, which is definitely saying something!

I go back to work, tracing the rim of his asshole with the tip of my tongue and then poking at its center when he raises his hips and pushes back. He wants me inside him. I can tell because I do the same things when I need him to fuck me. I’m wondering whether, at this point, he’d care if it was my tongue, my finger . . . or my dick.

God, if only I had the balls! I’d get to my knees, yank his hips up off the floor and plow into him. Isn’t he already humiliated enough with all the syrup and stuff? How difficult would it be for him to take it up the ass? Isn’t that the whole point of this Salirophilia shit – you make the person you besmirch your slave, if only until a shower rinses away the filth (or in this case the whipped cream and syrup)?

I decide to test my theory . . . even though I resort to subterfuge.

I know he loves having stuff in his ass – I’ve watched him fuck himself before and recently he’d let me do it to him. So, I know my plan has at least a teeny-tiny chance of success.

“Brian,” I say in my most gravelly, sexiest voice. “You told me I could make you into a banana split, right?”

I’m super thrilled when he answers my question with that beautiful sound that means shove-something-up-my-ass-or-so-help-me-God-I’m-going-to stop-writing-excuse-notes-for-your-homeroom-teacher-when-you’re-late-because-you-can’t-get-your-lazy-butt-out-of-bed-on-time-in-the-morning.

Well, as always, his wish is my command. I slick the banana with whipped cream and show it to him. My implication is clear, and he makes that sound again.

“Hurry . . . up and stick . . . it in,” he snaps when he finds sufficient breath to do so.

I take a deep breath and with a pounding heart, I press the tip of my dick against his loosened entrance . . .

. . . and plunge it in with a broken cry.

It’s . . . Uhm . . . Words, brain. Words. They’re sounds that mean something . . . oh, fuck it . . .

“Justin . . . !”

Fuck. Busted.

I freeze. Brian’s body is tense, so very very tense.

I feel like crap.

“I . . . ,” I start to say, but what can I say? I’d just broken the great, great granddaddy of all unspoken rules between us.

Words won’t do, so I start pulling out, slowly so as to not alarm him any more than I already have. I wish my erection would go away, but it’s not even contemplating the possibility. It’d been inside him . . .

. . . Oh. My. Fucking. God! It’d been inside him! It’d been inside Brian! It’d fucked him for a couple thrusts! Fucked him! Brian! I just fucked Brian Kinney! I just fucked him raw!

My mind explodes so when he says “fuck it” under his breath and pushes his hips back, causing his body to sheathe my dick again to the root, it doesn’t compute. Only when he shouts at me to “just fucking do it, already!” that the reality of what is happening sinks in, and I start fucking him like fucking him is water and I'm dying of thirst.

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you that I fucked his brains out for an hour, making him come over and over until he was a quivering, whimpering blob. Hell, I wish I could tell you that I fucked him for longer than twenty seconds, but alas I would be lying. I came so quickly and hard that my nuts exploded . . . or at least, I thought they had. It sure felt that way. Bottom line (and yes, pun intended), it wasn’t him who turned into a quivering, sobbing blob. It was me.

You probably think I’m joking – or at the very least being hyperbolic, but I’m not. I really did cry. And why? Out of sheer, crushing, burning humiliation.

Fucking bastard. At the end of the day, he’d gotten what he’d set out to get even if it wasn’t by the means he’d planned.

He rolls over, positioning himself so I’m in the V of his spread legs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger around his cock so that it’s standing straight up from his delicious (literally) patch of pubic hair.

“Stop blubbering,” he gasps. “And suck my dick.”

Bastard! I think the word again, but when he immediately comes in my mouth, I get it.

He’d just “humiliated” himself, too. He’d made us equal . . . or at least as equal as we’d been before and probably ever will be.

“Fuck,” he moans, shaking all over. “God, I fucking hate that. Coming too soon is a fucking bitch. My dick didn’t even know what was happening before I shot my load.”

I rise to my knees and sit back on my heels with a sigh. Liar. He let himself come that soon. He could’ve staved off his orgasm indefinitely like he always does. I’m nothing but a charity case.

“Oh, shut up,” he says, reading my mind. “That wasn’t an act. I would’ve come from you fucking me in another second or three.”

I blink at him. He almost came on my cock? My mouth opens and closes a couple times. I must look like a guppy.

“Are you hungry? Should I get the fish food?” he asks as he stands and offers me his hand. When we’re face to face, he kisses me long and deep.

When he pulls back, he murmurs against my mouth, “Good job, Sunshine. I maybe, just maybe might let you do that again someday.” He steps back and I look up at his face . . . and then his forehead. It’s still there. The word.

Mine

It's true. That's what he is. Mine. Now more than ever.

I smile, lick my thumb and wipe it away.