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Subject: Bringing Up Brendan, Part 2 Bringing Up Brendan, Part 2 Toni Daring This is fiction, pure fantasy. As much as I mightn’t have minded having had a step-dad myself to do for me what my narrator does for Brendy, these behaviors are not encouraged in real life. This chapter is still from Brendan’s step-dad’s point of view, some time after part 1 leaves off. Future installments will fill this time-gap from Brendan’s perspective and move forward from there. If you have things you’d like to see happen to him, let me know! If you enjoy naughty stories, consider a donation in support of my hosts at Nifty who make all of this content available for free, fty/donate.html * * * “Daaaaad-dee! I can’t find my old button-flies in the givaway bag!” Brendan called down the hall, the “s” in “button-flies” softened nearly to a lisp by his new tongue and lip piercings. It was almost a month since I had cornered him over a box of sex-toys, and browbeat him into meeting Jace and his friends, and things were going better than I could have hoped. “They aren’t in the giveaway clothes, Brendan,” I called back. “They are in the rag-bag. They’re destroyed – ripped across the seat and missing buttons.” I knew the jeans he meant – they had been the first pair of girl-jeans I let him buy, two years ago, with his own money. By now, they were faded and worn fray-thin, revealingly snug around his boy-parts, and the super-low rise meant they couldn’t fasten without pulling the rear seam right up his crack, leaving almost an inch showing. Jace would love them. “Only three… I need ’em for the cook-out this weekend. Byrone is going to touch up my hair tonight and Tino is bringing his BeDazzler over.” I could hear him rummaging through the worn out clothes in the bag in the hall closet. “Found ’em! Thanks, Daddy!” I heard him approach my study, and closed the window on my desktop where I’d been reviewing his rather explicit instant message history with Jace and all his friends. “Kiss on the cheek.” I gestured to the spot by my chair, my monitor showing innocuous work documents. He came right over. He was learning to take orders without question, if a grown man gave them on the right tone of voice. As I felt his double lip-rings brush my stubble, I rewarded his obedience with a lingering butt-pat. I left my hand there, keeping him close, and he let me. “Aren’t those old jeans just a bit too small for you?” “Not for cut-offs. I can still get into them. And you wouldn’t want me bedazzling pants that were new… Oh! And I need a permission slip signed!” “For?” I put just enough stern challenge in my voice. I knew already, but Brendan didn’t know that. “A tattoo… You said I could get one, if I’d been good….” He did know that I knew he needed my permission. “Nothing above the neck, Bren. I don’t want anyone thinking my boy’s been in prison.” I gave his butt-cheek a gentle squeeze for actually asking, rather than forging a note. Tino had prison tattoos, and they had been much admired. Brendy thought they were hot, especially the ones that meant “a willing bitch”. “No, on my back. A shirt will cover it, usually…” I felt him tense just a bit at the attention to his backside – I was pretty sure he was wearing a toy. “You’ll sign it, right?” “Alright, Brendan – if you pay for the ink yourself. Go get the slip.” I gave his ass another manly ataköy escort pat to dismiss him, took a sidelong look as he backed away. Yes, he was harder. Definitely a toy. “And you’ll need to ride your bike to Byrone’s – I can’t drive you tonight. I have to be in to take a call. Business.” “Oh. Okay…” I could hear the hesitation. He wouldn’t question me, much less disobey, but I knew he was thinking whether he ought to take the plug out of his boyhole before the two-mile ride. “Home before eleven thirty, so I’d hurry if you want to have time with your friends,” I reminded him as he rooted around in his backpack, just to help him make up his mind. “Is your homework done?” “I had time in study hall…” he said, evasively. I’d actually had notes from the school that his grades had been dropping lately, but let him think he had me fooled. All part of the program. “Here’s the thingie to sign.” I knew the shop – one in the Deco District, near my gym. Probably one of Jace’s little muscle-fag fuckbuddies. Whatever trashy design Brendy was helped to pick out for a tramp stamp tattoo would be cute as hell, but something he’d pay a lot to have covered over once he outgrew his twink boyslut look. I signed the slip, and handed it back. “Take a condom from the corkboard if you plan to fool around,” I said, making him blush. There were a couple, thumbtacked right through to a colorful “Play Safe!” flyer he’d brought home with them from somewhere or other and thoughtlessly left lying around. I don’t think he had ever read it. “I’m just having my hair done, Daddy!” I could hear his eyes rolling, as he bent to put the slip back in a folder in his bag. And I could see him pick at the tight seam in the back of his shorts where it pushed at the plug he was definitely wearing. We had rules about that, too, but I let him think he fooled me, usually. “You didn’t ask if you could wear a toy, Brendy… Do I have to take that permission slip back?” He jumped a bit, and I could see his ass clench reflexively at my tone, and got a little hard myself as he turned guiltily to face me. “Um… I meant to. I forgot. Sorry, Daddy.” One hand absently half-hid, half-adjusted the boner in his pants as the tip of his tounge darted nervously over his double lip-rings. “Well… I guess its okay, this time. Give me a good-boy hug, and tell me you won’t forget again.” I gestured in front of me as I pivoted my desk chair and spread my legs. I saw his eyes go to the half-hard package of my khakis, but he didn’t think twice. “I promise not to forget, Daddy.” Once his arms were around my neck, and his boner snug against what he’d been scoping, I gave his ass a playful slap and feigned forgiveness. “Alright, Brendy. If you promise. But if that’s the one with a vibrator like I think it is, since you didn’t ask, you need to let Byrone hold onto the remote while you’re his guest. His roof, his rules,” I said sternly. Byrone was on probation for a sexual offense, and I knew from messages I had read that he refused to fuck Brendy until he was a legal 16, but loved to keep him hard and squirming. “Alright?” I squeezed his ass where I’d slapped, and his hard little cock bucked against mine. “Alright, Daddy.” His lips brushed my cheek and I kissed his neck, bristling with my chin. Brendy hadn’t managed to get laid yet, beyond merter escort the occasional awkward hand-job. But he was avidly practicing head with his dildos on webcam. It was becoming his signature sign-off, using the toy he’d just cum from having up his own ass. He got a lot of viewers, and thirteen cents a minute from the paid views. I could tell from reading between the lines in texts and emails he got that Jace and friends were among those watching, suggesting things to make his performances dirtier, and in general teasing him on purpose so he would be desperate to do whatever they asked when they finally went beyond teasing. We had a “no sleepovers” rule during the school year – but this was his final week, and I had tentatively agreed to let him stay with Jace over the cookout weekend. If he were good. The big cookout which Jace and his friends had Brendan so looking forward to was an annual tradition, the start of “Pride season”, coinciding with the opening of MacAndrew Public Pool, in the big park that marked one end of the Deco district, and made a border with the Latin neighborhood beyond. The park was popular with Jace’s set for the prospect offered of anonymous hookups with the closeted Latinos and blacks who knew they could find them there. The pool was itself a relic of the 1930s era of public works, created with a donation from a silver medalist olympic swimmer of the day. The changing rooms, showers and rest rooms were in sprawling and spacious concrete pavilion, adorned with athletic nude bas-reliefs and terrazzo floors, meticulously restored to vintage glamour through a fund drive organized locally by Deco District merchants a few years ago. Brendan was already signed up for a lifesaving and CPR certification course, and would have plenty of opportunity to make friends there all summer. Naturally, it all started off with the big annual block party, a month before the Pride Parade. In fact, the cookout pre-dated an official Pride event in our town by decades, dating from the seedy ’70s, when the gay ghetto was substantially more of an actual ghetto, and the pool simply offered the largest public toilets in the city. The Pride Committee, when our town finally got one, carefully avoided coinciding with that weekend or making any official endorsement of it. The cookout was widely attended, but never acknowledged by respectable types. Jace and his friends had, of course, been talking of nothing else for weeks, and spackling light-posts and vacant walls with flyers showing a hunky fake “construction workers” flanking a mock construction sign, “CAUTION: RAISED MANHOLES”, to advertise the event. As part of what I called “our agreement”, I had also made it plain to Brendan that he was expected to get a summer job that would look good on his admissions, and he had arranged with another of Jace’s friends to work as a towel-boy for his day-spa, enrolling in a massage certification course there, to be paid for with his wages, leaving just a little over. I approved this arrangement, knowing that Jace and friends planned to offer Brendy “odd jobs” on the side, paying him under the table, and giving them further opportunity to work on him. I don’t know if he caught the undertones in their offers to employ him as, say, a dog-walker, if Tino’s big, unfixed, male great dane “really bahçeşehir escort liked him”, but I did. And I couldn’t wait to see how far they’d lead him on, given the chance. I have to say, by now I pretty much in agreement with Jace about the kind of boy that Brendy wanted to be. He really was a natural, becoming daily more responsive to firm direction, letting his comportment be influenced by the taste and standards of Jace’s set to an extent that he took for normal, now, almost completely unaware of how much his appearance and behavior had become overtly and blantantly sexualized. Anymore, Brendan seldom could keep one hand or the other off his junk, unless he was tugging the back of his pants, and his habitual expression had become an unconsciously suggestive pout from his habit of playing his lips against his tongue-stud and his tongue over his lip-rings, eyes wandering below men’s belts slyly from under a fall of teased, frosted blonde bangs. It was very much the naughty-but-dumb look of the photo that had persuaded Jace, only more so, and he didn’t even know he was doing it. And Jace had proven to be the right choice of mentor in that regard, as well. He and his friends were crude and shameless, equating modesty with prudery, and risky promiscuity with sex-positivity. In their view, condoms were tools of fear and oppression, and whatever the unread flyer on the corkboard said, Brendan’s daily, illicit social-media fare was an endless stream of cum-shots, rimjobs, ten-plus inch uncut cocks, anonymous bareback butt-sex and, recently, even hints at watersports, all in the guise of cheeky motivational memes normalizing their views. Byrone, the big, brash, black hair-stylist had not only given Brendy the faggiest possible haircut. He had, I knew, also given Brendy a Brazilian wax and even shaped his pubes, keeping him bone-hard the entire time. “But he told me I couldn’t cum,” he’d later complained to Tino and Jace and others in text messages when he shared the pics, later, “so I am going to make my black didlo watch while I use the blue one later, instead. Think he’ll get the message?” Brendy was sure getting the message, and a summer of learning oil-massage in a gay day spa when he wasn’t at MacAndrew Public Pool was sure to progress things nicely if I was reading Jace and his friends at all. And that should make sure he was ready to try out for the Gordon-Magnus Academy junior varsity wrestling and swim teams by the time school rolled back around. If Brendy was good, and learned to do what he was told. “I’ll want to see you in those cutoffs before I decide you can wear them at the cookout.” Keeping him trapped between my legs, I pressed my half-hard cock against his. I don’t really prefer boys, tending toward the straight end of bi, myself, but Brendan was almost enough to convert me. “Understood?” I idled my thumb down the rear seam of his shorts and circled the base of the toy. I could feel the muscles in his bare thighs tighten as his ring shivered and clenched. “Understood, Daddy.” “Good boy. Now, go on then.” I released him, hands to his shoulders, standing him back. There was a damp spot just showing at the front of his pants. “Home by eleven-thirty, school tomorrow.” “Eleven-thirty or sooner”, he agreed. He’d probably get a ride home from Byrone or, more likely, Tino. And knew I’d be up waiting. “Be good, Brendy,” I said in tones shading from firm to permissive, “and have fun.” “I will! Thank you, Daddy.” I was more than half-hard as I flipped back through the weeks of increasingly dirty direct messages, emails and pictures while I sat up, waiting to see Brendy in his new cutoffs when he got home.

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