Great Christmas Tree Buy

"Good," I said. I rose from the bearskin rug and picked him up in my arms. Tossing him over my shoulder like booty in a battle win, which he was, I walked him to the door of the master bedroom. I flicked on the light to the room and soft background music came on. "I put clean sheets on the bed," I said That probably meant nothing to Gino, but it did to me. This was almost a ritual, a celebration of worship for me—a pagan ceremony just as Christmas was in its origins. This was the point at which I took late teen youths and turned them into wholly submissive men, just as I myself had been trained to everything a cock demanded on that bearskin rug at eighteen.

Gino was the sacrificial virgin—an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old near virgin each time. He hadn't been fucked before like he was going to be fucked now on the altar of my bed. I could almost guarantee that he hadn't been taken before as I was going to take him now. Now we were going to get serious. He was going to more than earn his fee.

We never drank the beers. The cans sat, getting warm, on the living room coffee table, the Christmas tree lights still blinking on and off, the background music and porn film continuing on their loops, as the sounds of total taking; passionate screams; snaps of the flogger and struggles against the restraints; the screwing in of the dildoes and the pop of the tear drops on the chain; the thrusting, thrusting, thrusting of my shaft, the conquering victory, and the yielding, gurgling surrender, again and again, emitted from the bedroom area through the night.

It was a trial for Gino, as it had been for me at eighteen when a big-cocked man took me and taught me everything. But, albeit he left the next morning sore and temporarily thoroughly cowed, Gino left smiling and purring and thanking me for the experiences acquired and for a Christmas present he'd never forget—just as I never forgot my first time on the bearskin rug. That visit to Lowes for an on-sale Christmas tree had made my Christmas.