A Guy Named Ron

People who get to know me as more than a casual acquaintance will eventually meet Ron. During the first eight years or so of our relationship, I introduced him as "my Boy Ron." He's twenty-eight now, and the Boy part is so intrinsic that I no longer mention the title.

I met Ron when he was nineteen in a bar frequented by working boys in Washington, D.C. Attractive, bordering on cute, definitively masculine, with a great body that never seen a gym, he was perfect. When we met, Ron was one of the millions of guys who don't consider themselves gay or even bi but will, when the need arises, rent their bodies out. I do not analyze, nor do I judge.

Paying guys for sex wasn't something I needed to do or did often. What I wanted that afternoon, though, was a D/s session with great head from a hot guy provided precisely as I liked it with no reciprocation required. I could not have enjoyed my time with Ron more. Although his tight, obviously virginal little asshole was off limits, his willingness and capacity to endure several hours of intense obedience, positional, mouth and throat, and cum control training more than compensated for that limitation.

When we arrived at my home, I led Ron to my den, where I had him kick off his sneakers and assume the standard all-fours position before an oversized, comfortable dark brown leather chair I liked to sit in during the beginning of a training session with a new boy. I, too, removed my shoes and, when Ron was in position, sat before him wearing my jeans and a t-shirt.

The first thing I did was have the nineteen-year-old, five-foot-nine-inch, 165 lb., blond, blue-eyed straight boy crouching before me lift his face so he could look up into my eyes while following my directions, he obediently stripped himself naked.

I told Ron to keep his eyes on mine while he lifted his hands off the floor and removed his t-shirt. He followed instructions perfectly, even holding the shirt until I told him where to toss it.

That accomplished, I said he was to remain on all fours with at least one palm or the fingertips of one hand on the floor while he removed his jeans and socks, but to do so quickly. I tried not to smile as I watched him struggle with opening his belt and the button on his jeans, but eventually, he accomplished that task.

I knew he was going to be a sight, but looking down at Ron before me on all fours, his blond hair hanging almost to his blue eyes looking up at me naked except for the skin-tight tightie-whitie JOCKEY briefs stretched like a second skin over his magnificent young butt was glorious.

"Ron, I want you to arch your back very, very tightly and shove your pretty ass way up in the air for me. Do you understand?" I instructed, looking straight into his eyes.

"Yes," Was all he said, but that was fine for now because his spine was already bowing.

"Good boy, but I think we both know you can lift your ass higher. Get it up in the air for me," I commanded, leaving no doubt that my words were a command.

He instantly complied.

"Excellent! I knew you could do it." I rewarded him with a big smile.

"Now, remain on your left hand, reach back, grab the waistband of those snowy white briefs...why do I think your mother washed them for you... and peel it slowly...slowly Ron... down over your buttcheek. When it's hooked under the cheek, put your hand back on the floor, reach back with your right hand, and peel your briefs down over your left cheek. I want that pretty ass naked and back up in the air where it belongs.

With Ron's accordioned briefs stretching across his thighs just below his butt, cuddling his ballsack, his chin resting on the soft front leather edge of my seat, and his nose and eyes mere inches from my denim-covered crotch, I began his positional training. Now back arched and ass up, it was easy to encourage him to spread his feet, knees, and hands equally wide, just a bit beyond the width of his shoulder tips.

I had Ron lift his chin from the chair seat and push himself onto fully extended arms so I could rise and remove my jeans. Standing with my eight-and-a-half-inch cut and thick dick arcing over his upturned face, I couldn't keep myself from cockslapping him a couple times before ordering him to open his mouth and lay his tongue out over his lower lip.

Ron had sucked cock before. I could tell that. What he had never done was give head to a man who demanded that his cock be sucked properly and the way he wanted it sucked. He spent that afternoon on all fours coughing, gagging, panting, and drooling with his fine young ass up in the air catching up on a lot of missed lessons. What he never did was complain.

At one point, after I came for the second time and I, not Ron, needed a break, I had him under total stress with his back as tightly arched as he could get it up on his fingertips with his head high, his mouth wide open, and his cum covered tongue stuck way out. I got up and told him not to move a muscle until I returned. Then I walked away. It sounded as if I left the room. I stood in the doorway to the hall, watching for almost five minutes as Ron remained locked in position without even his tongue moving.

When it was time for Ron to leave, I drove him home to the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. He called a week later. When I left work the following evening, I swung by the bar where we met and picked him up.

I paid Ron the first two times we got together. The third time, before we left the bar, I told him that if he didn't already have a one-dollar bill in his pocket, he should break a larger bill or borrow one from somebody. He said he had one. Later, just as he was about to go down on me, I told him to crawl to his jeans and get me a dollar.

Paying to suck my cock, even if only one buck, was a watershed moment for us. Seeing Ron kneeling naked between my thighs, looking up into my eyes with that dollar bill between his lips, I knew I'd struck gold.

Ron became the only guy I saw. He came over every Wednesday like clockwork. There was no more pay-for-play. I almost began to keep him, except there wasn't much "keeping" involved. Ron asked for or required little.

The day we met, almost as soon as Ron told me he was straight, he told me his ass was off limits. That was fine, fucking wasn't on my agenda that afternoon. When we continued to see each other, I enjoyed using Ron's determination to keep me from fucking his ass as a way to motivate him to constantly have his mouth provide ever more creative and exciting pleasures. I'm always pleasantly surprised by the ways guys who imagine themselves to be straight will allow their mouths to be used.

Over time, while lacking any commitment, I was at once Ron's Master and Daddy, and in some ways even his partner and lover.

Two years into our weekly relationship, Ron failed to call. When he didn't call the following week, I went to the bar where we met. Twenty bucks to the bartender had me sitting with a guy who knew Ron. He told me Ron was arrested a couple weeks earlier for having a joint and was in D.C.'s notorious Jail awaiting arraignment.

The District of Columbia is a federal city; the courts are federal courts, and Congress has ultimate control over almost everything. I had a lot of very private phone numbers belonging to people for whom I had done confidential favors. Of equal, almost more importance, I had done some less confidential but still sensitive favors for federal and District staffers, who were the ones who really made things happen. I called in every IOU.

About an hour and a half later, I received a phone call from a young woman who said she was a clerk for the Chief Judge of the Superior Court of the District of Columbia. She asked if I could come to the Judge's courtroom in thirty minutes because he would reconvene Ron's case then. Before ending the conversation, she said the Jail had already been instructed to immediately move Ron from the General Population and place him in Protective Custody.

I stood at the back of the courtroom while the woman who met me at the courthouse door went up to the bar and got the attention of the presiding Judge. Suddenly, he cracked his gavel down and said he was declaring a brief recess.

The Judge and the U.S. attorney exchanged words. Then, the Judge looked out over his courtroom, called my name, and asked me to come forward. He asked if I knew Ron. I acknowledged that I did. He then asked if I would agree to take custody of him. I said I would.

The Judge instructed Deputy U.S. Marshals to escort me to the D.C. Jail and present an order he signed to the Jailer, ordering that Ron be immediately released to my custody. Four deputy marshals escorted me to the Jail in two cars. When we arrived, two Marshals accompanied the Jail's guards to bring Ron to me and ensure he wasn't harmed.

I let Ron rest and recover from his jail experience at my home for an entire week before I sat him down in my den to tell me exactly what happened that resulted in me being deprived of his mouth for two weeks. I didn't lecture him about the stupidity of not tossing the joint as soon as he saw police approaching or any of the other dumb things he had done that ended with him incarcerated. When he finished, I stripped the twenty-one-year-old naked and bent him over my desk. I pressed on his muscular back and held his chest down while I spanked his ass until it was bright red.

I wanted to imprint on Ron's motherboard that fuckups like the one he just committed must never happen again. I ordered Ron onto the floor on his knees. Ron looked up at me with his ass on fire while his lips and tongue obediently followed all my obscene commands. I almost laughed when he couldn't help but stroke his cock faster when I said how much I was looking forward to grinding my butthole down on the tip of his warm, moist tongue.

Ten minutes later, that's what I was doing, rocking my pelvis back and forth, grinding my asshole down on Ron's tongue tip while pinching, twisting, and tugging on his small, pink nipples. The soft, continual vibrations created by his moaning and groaning were incredible. Straddling his chest, sitting back on his face watching him masturbate as I urged him to show me how he ate his girlfriend's pussy was almost too hot.

A month later, at Ron's arraignment, a lawyer friend made the pot charge go away. Since then, Ron has been my boy. I let him have a girlfriend. I like that he has a girlfriend. When I told Ron I would be spending most of my time in Los Angeles working on what looked to be a five or six-year assignment, I didn't have to ask if he wanted to come. He asked when we were leaving before I had the chance. He took charge of the move, and it went off flawlessly.

Our home here at the top of Nichols Canyon is our address, but as in D.C., Ron spends much of his time at his girlfriend's apartment in Studio City. We don't involve her in our play, but we occasionally include others, men and women.

People who know us, even a few of my close friends, think my being able to let Ron have a relationship with someone else, even a woman, is too weird. Perhaps. All that matters to me, that makes me smile inwardly at least, is that without fail, if I enter and cruise through a bar or club and notice Ron there alone or talking with someone or with people, by the time I finish my circuit and am back on the sidewalk, he will be there waiting for me.

I published a story, Training Chris and Mark, at the Nifty Archive and Literotica that is a somewhat fictionalized account of time we spent with two straight guys over a three-day holiday weekend. I wrote what you have just read in response to requests from readers of that story who wanted to know more about Ron.