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“Yes, Sir,” he said, deflating as soon as he agreed.
“Say it,” I ordered.
“What, Sir?”
“Your name.”
The boy’s face wrenched through a series of emotions, each more vulnerable than the next, and then he whispered, “I’m Mitchell, Sir.”
“That’s right. When you’re here on your knees for me, you’re Mitchell.”
I released his jaw and slipped my hand into his hair, gently at first, but I recalled that tenderness wasn’t what Mitchell wanted, and it wasn’t what he needed either. So, I clenched a handful tightly enough to sting, bringing the tears back to his eyes.
“Don’t move,” I whispered. “Stay very still.”
His gaze held mine, a challenge rising in them the longer I kept him stationary and did nothing, said nothing.
When the challenge dissipated, submission taking over his features, I pursed my lips and spit a glob of gooey saliva onto his face. I aimed for his left eyebrow and didn’t miss. “There. That’s more likeit. You’re a filthy cocksucking whore, aren’t you, Mitchell?”
“Yes, Sir,” he whispered, keeping his eye closed against the spit that slid down to coat his lashes. His breath came in sharp pants and a red blush spread up from his pale chest to his neck and into his cheeks, making them shine with heat.
“Let’s try this again. Why are you here?”
“To get hurt, Sir,” Mitchell whispered.
“And what else?”
“I don’t know.”
This confession was followed by a whimper of unease as I tightened my grip in his hair. With my free hand, I smeared the glob of saliva all over his face, down to his lips, and then back up into his hair at the temples.
“You’re here to be used,” I said. “To be my bitch. My fuck toy. My dick’s slave.”
His breath stuttered, and I noticed the erection now straining between his legs. He’d been mostly soft until I’d spit on him. Humiliation was key then, just as my friend Barry had suggested in our initial discussion of Mitchell. Humiliation, rough use, and daddy issues stood out clearly amongst many other demons that called to and tormented him.
“You’re HIV positive,” I said.
“Yes, Sir.” His voice was so low that I strained to catch the words, and an expression of shame passed over his features. I understood. I’d struggled with that too. It was bullshit, I’d decided though, to feel shame over what came down to bad luck. But for Mitchell, shame was essential for the game between us. It was part of why I refused to use his preferred name. He came to me so he could feel unmoored, uncomfortable, and disrespected in a consensual and sane situation instead of the insane ones he’d been putting himself in before now. If I agreed to call him Minty, he’d feel respected and, deep down, he didn’t want that.
“Yes, Sir, what?” I pressed. He needed to say it. He had to get used to saying it.
“I’m HIV positive, Sir.”
“That’s right. You are.”
He trembled all over now, his cock straining up, his torso flushed, and his one open eye going glassy. My saliva was already drying where I’d smeared it on his face and mouth.
“I am too.”
He blinked his eye open, the clumped lashes making it look like he wore mascara—which I knew he sometimes did, but he’d arrived today barefaced. “I already know that. You told me before.”
I gripped his hair and tugged it, jerking his head. “How do you speak to me?”
He gasped. “Sir! I’m sorry. Please, Sir, you’re going to pull my hair out.” His whine trembled alluringly in the air.
I felt the first sadistic pulse hit, and my lips curled into a smirk as my cock began to fill. “You beg nicely,” I said.
When some of the fear doused in his eyes, I reined in my urge to praise him. “But not nicely enough.”
