I rested my cockhead against his lower lip while he caught his breath. He swallowed hard and spoke in a murmur, moving his wet lips over the knob of my cockhead. “You must have some toys down in your room.” He rolled his eyes up to mine.

“Yeah,” I said. “In a wooden locker by my bed.” I reached down to gently squeeze his nipple. “Be a good boy and go fetch it.”

While he was gone I stripped off my jeans. I flexed my upper body and looked at my reflection in the mirrors. Michael had said I had a fine body—a real compliment coming from a man with such an exceptional physique. And why not? I wasn’t as tall as he was, or as broad; but I was thicker in the chest, more compact. The years I had spent working off the anxieties of New York through sweat and hard exercise had paid off, many times.

I liked the difference in our bodies. My deep tan and stark tan line against his pale flesh, the rich golden hair on my chest and limbs against his sleek nudity. The nine-inch column of flesh that stuck up from my crotch, and that hard round ass of his, waiting to be split wide open. I pumped my left arm and watched the biceps strain against the studded band.

Michael returned. He knelt and placed the long box at my feet.

“Go ahead,” I told him. “Open it. If you see something you like—ask for it.”

He lifted the lid and gazed down at the jumble of steel and leather. He noticed the dozen varieties of tit clamps. He picked up a chain-linked pair and stared at them.

“You’re really into pain,” he murmured naively. “You like to put these on other men’s nipples. Twist them. Pull on them. A way to put pain in them. Make them whimper and beg.”

“Uh-huh,” I said dryly, answering his innocent act with a smirk. “You’ve got big tits. Probably take two clamps each.”

Michael put the clamps back in the box. Afraid of them, I thought. Good.

He took out a pair of padded handcuffs. “To bind them. Put them at your mercy. So they can’t strike back. So you can feel free to use them however you want.”

“That’s right.” I spread my legs and stroked my cock with two fingers. It was throbbing at maximum erection, almost achingly hard.

He set the cuffs aside, on the floor, then took out my pride and joy. My riding crop, an intricately twined handle with a thin two-foot tongue of stiff leather. It had been a gift from a not-very-shy trick in the Village. “It’s yours, Bill,” he had said, “if you’ll use it on me.” And I had. I was amazed Michael had the nerve to choose it.