Mark 11

Mark had said that he would be waiting at the boathouse… "waiting in case you want to make this your landfall, waiting to offer you some further training, a listening ear, possibly some experience, certainly opportunities for you to explore who you are and who you might become."

Mark’s invitation seemed attractive. Mark certainly wasn’t quite the sort of guy that boy had expected to meet that day but nor had he expected to meet uncle – it fact he found it difficult to imagine just what he had expected, away from a club, away from the scene, down here in the suburbs.

Had taking a risk been part of his motive, or had it just been a natural obedience to the authoritarian personality that he had encountered in the Archive chat room ? Again, he was not sure of his own motivation.

‘Rowing seemed safe’, boy had thought, he simply obeyed Mark’s suggestion – he could just row now, but he also needed to think, to think about the people that Mark had described and that he had seen in his imagination of that virtual river and of the people on its bank .

‘Rowing isn’t quite so safe topless with a steel ring in my right nipple,’ boy reflected, knowing that Mark had been right when he guessed that boy hadn’t been out topless at all since his piercing. Today had been a form of coming out, at least to Mark, this guy he simply didn’t know and, ah yes ! To uncle, to uncle who had known him since he was a tiny baby, to uncle who knew him in his family context.

Mark had pointed out the doctor who had circumcised his infant cock "the last man to modify you before you had your nipple pierced." That cut cock, nestling now in the tight borrowed shorts and so studiously avoided by Mark, that hand reared cock so often masturbated by boy himself and, much less often, by those school friends.

Then there had been his old school friends chatting and discovering that each had masturbated him at some stage. Teenage experiences, yes, but some had smiled, half to themselves, as they saw his bare, pierced and ringed chest.

‘Some had smiled,’ boy thought, ‘but others were a bit taken aback just as those sober suited men and women waiting to interview might react – should I say conservatively - to my nipple ring.’

‘Can I keep the ring ?’ boy mused thinking of the risks job-wise; thinking of the risks he ran at his gym now – word could get around – prejudices had not been eradicated but policies against discrimination – and his family had no such policies only – so far as he had known – deeply engrained prejudices.

"And then there’s a group of your family, dressed for a wedding… a wedding which they may see as a dress rehearsal for your own…" Mark had said, echoing the pressure boy felt to be conventional, to become a married man and to father his parents’ grandchildren.

‘How had uncle coped with such pressures ?’ boy wondered, presuming that Mark had no idea that the man in brief cut off jeans, short socks and boots, sleeveless denim jacket and capped T revealing a tribal band tattooed on his upper right arm and a 4mm CBR through his septum echoed by two good sized rings hanging through sizeable nipples was indeed his uncle.

In his imagination, boy again saw so very clearly uncle, his arms, chest and legs hairless with a tribal tattoo peeking out of the right side high up on his leg where the cut off jeans failed to prevent his cock head creeping out of its strap and out of the bottom of the cut offs to reveal a thick steel ring and a large steel ball.

"Row on, boy," Mark had said, "and get ready for your family to spot that nipple ring."

‘In future,’ boy recalled, ‘it wouldn’t just be uncle who didn’t swim with the family !’

Then Mark had encouraged him with those two hairy guys on the bank, one standing in his leather, with the slim, naked guy kneeling to give his Master’s cock a good suck – small wonder the Master gave boy a smile and a cheery wave.

‘How would my family cope with that ?’

"Keep rowing, boy !" Mark had barked as the ear of boy’s imagination heard each deliberate stroke of the lash, separated by thanks and by a voice begging for the next one… and the next one…. and the next – "keep rowing," Mark said, "you’ll see them soon enough."

See that slave – its body significantly modified – even more than uncle – hairless, not even got eyebrows or eyelashes, its groin long since been tidied of its balls and sac leaving but the stub of a slave cock .

‘Way beyond family tolerance levels !’ boy reckoned.

"A generous Master," Mark had suggested, "or may be just a convenience for peeing – little more purpose now for a eunuch slave like it is."

"Fine tribal tattoos, bold, sweeping ones, that embrace its body from the neck to its calves, from its elbows up around its back and round to the nipples which, like its septum, have got good sized steel rings."

‘A body that’s been fully committed to its MASTER,’ boy even felt the capitals in MASTER and the impact of such commitment struck him quite forcibly.

"Row on, boy," Mark had said and boy remembered returning to Mark’s invitation, "we’re coming up to a boathouse. It’s here that I’ll be waiting when you come rowing back, waiting in case you want to make this your landfall, waiting to offer you some further training, a listening ear, possibly some experience, certainly opportunities for you to explore who you are and who you might become, boy."

Those 200 calories were up on the display, boy could row back and must now decide where he wanted to land.