The Perils of Praline (8 page)

Praline realized the easiest thing to do was to give the man something. He didn’t want to give him cash. That was out of the question. But, the man obviously needed clothes so he reached into his bag and pulled out his least favorite pair of Klevin von Cain underwear, the anemic-looking cream-colored ones
,
and offered them to the man.

Quickly, he snatched them away from Praline and put them on his head. “You are the messiah!”

As the man r
a
n away, Praline couldn’t recall any scripture stating the messiah would return bearing designer underwear
,
so he had to face the fact that this poor man was probably mentally unstable. Could that be the reason he was homeless? What if most homeless people had similar reasons for being homeless? For the first time he could remember, he wondered if his mama was wrong about something.

Why did she dislike homeless people so much? he wondered. It didn’t make sense. She was a good Christian woman after all, and weren’t the homeless exactly the kind of people Jesus hung out with? Jesus would have given a homeless man a pair of Klevin von Cain micro briefs without hesitation, he was sure of that.

Continuing to walk, Praline realized with some apprehension that Los Angeles had begun to change him, just like his mama feared. While it certainly seemed that the homeless man he’d just met was harmless, he had to be mistaken in some way. His mother, and a fine man like Malcolm Wright, could not possibly be wrong. It was just that simple.

Just then, he noticed he was standing in front of what he hoped would soon be his apartment building. It was a two-story stucco building constructed sometime in the thirties with about twenty apartments. Walking up to the front door, Praline noticed it had been painted about fifty times in fifty different colors
,
as the framing around the front door was terribly chipped and revealed tiny bits of each and every successive coat of paint.

Praline loitered in front of the building until a bright blue Toyota Truck with gigantic wheels pulled up. A man climbed out. He was heavily tattooed, pierced in several visible locations, and had a van dyke that wrapped around his mouth like a busy centipede. He wore a tight pair of faded Levis, a crisp white T-shirt, motorcycle boots and a black leather vest.

“Hey ya, I’m Warren Filbert. You Peter Palmetier?” He asked.

“Yes, sir…my friends call me Praline. Like the ice cream, Pralines’n Cream.”

Warren gave him a long, intense look, making Praline afraid he might make fun of his nickname. Instead, Warren growled, “I like ice cream.”

Praline giggled and felt his cock twitch in his pants. He wondered if he had just met another friendly Angelino. “Might I see the apartment, sir?” Praline asked.

Warren looked him up and down, then opened the door to the building. “Follow me.” The hallway was narrow and smelled of overcooked vegetables. They walked to the back of the building where Warren opened the door to 1F.

The apartment was disappointing. It didn’t have anything resembling an elegant feel, as it was painted an un-chic electric yellow; the designer kitchen was little more than a sink, a hot plate and a couple ceramic tiles pasted to the wall; the carpet could only be described as new if the entire world had stopped making carpet in the nineteen-nineties. The furnishings consisted of a lumpy four-poster bed, a three-drawer dresser with only two working drawers and a kitchen table that wobbled.

Still, Praline was sure there must be something appealing about the apartment and, since it was the only one he’d found in his price range, wandered around the tiny room looking for whatever that something might be. He found it when he discovered the built-in drop down desk that had more than a dozen cubby-holes. Praline did not have anything to put in a cubby-hole, but nonetheless wanted to be the proud renter of the desk and its cubbies.

“Can I fill out an application, sir?” Praline asked.

After a long leer, Warren pulled a Xeroxed sheet of paper out of a kitchen drawer. Praline glanced at the complicated form. This was going to be difficult, he knew.

Right away there was trouble with his name—there weren’t enough spaces since he liked to write his name as “Praline” Peter Palmetier or Peter “Praline” Palmetier. On this form, there were only two spaces with a tiny spot between them for an initial so he compromised and put his name down as Praline P. Palmetier.

Next, the form wanted his previous address. This was a bigger problem. His mother had a strict rule about giving out her address—she was neurotic about getting caught in some silly DEA sting and this rule was one of many to prevent the Feds from finding her. But, since Mr. Filbert was obviously not a policeman, he really shouldn’t lie to the man. Faced with a difficult moral dilemma, Praline did what many young people do; he decided not to deal with it and moved on to the next section.

Employment History. Profession was not difficult since he’d recently become a prostitute. Employer however was dicey. He could put down Malcolm Wright’s name, though he didn’t know his address or phone number, and he assumed if he was going to be a prostitute he’d need more than one client. A prostitute with only one client was really more of a consort or a kept boy. Also, Malcolm Wright had made no offer of future employment, so in that case he really shouldn’t put his name down at all.

In the end, Praline put down “Social Director” as his profession and “Self-Employed” as his employer. For the address of his business he used the corner where he’d met Malcolm Wright, Santa Monica and Van Ness.

Throughout this process Warren watched him. Finally, he asked, “You having a little trouble?”

“Well…yes sir,” admitted Praline.

Warren licked his lips, “Young kid like you. It’s hard. I understand.”

“You do? Really?” Praline relaxed, and reminded himself that trusting in the basic goodness of other human beings always paid dividends. “So I can have the apartment, sir?”

Warren nodded. At which point, Praline gave the man his first month’s rent, five hundred and twenty dollars, which coincidentally was every cent he had. The landlord studied him and said, “Of course, there’s the matter of the deposit.”

“But, sir, I just gave you all the money I have,” explained Praline.

After a meaningful pause, Warren said “I like it when you call me sir. Maybe we can work something out.” And literally moments later, Praline found himself naked and tied facedown on the four-poster bed with four lengths of silk rope Warren had retrieved from the linen closet. Really he was just being polite calling the older man sir, he had no idea it would be taken as a come-on. And for such specific activities.

Tied to the bed, Praline tried not to be self-conscious about the perky way his ass stuck up in the air, but couldn’t quite manage it. Warren, though, didn’t seem to mind how large it was, and made several very positive comments as he caressed and lightly slapped each cheek.

Since he’d visited tosirwithlust.com once or twice, Praline had a vague idea of what was about to happen. He was excited by the idea that they were about to have sex and he was completely helpless
,
and thrilled that he’d have to accept whatever his landlord decided to do to him. Having barely skimmed the website, really just looking at the artful photos, Praline anticipated being tickled and teased into a frenzy of suspenseful delight, licked from head to toe while dramatically struggling against silken ropes
,
and eventually forcefully taken from behind.

With his cock already hard and digging into a mattress spring, he twisted his head around to watch Warren peel off his clothes
;
Praline saw that the man was beefy with thick veins branching across his muscles, and had even more tattoos hidden beneath his clothes. It took a moment to make them out, but finally he realized they depicted well-known comic book characters having sex.

Even more interesting was the large ring piercing the end of Warren’s flaccid penis. It made Praline a tad uncomfortable, but still he hoped he’d have the opportunity to pull on it ever so gently. Okay, perhaps not so gently.

When he was completely naked, Warren pulled a half dozen candles and a cat-o-nine tails out of the kitchen cupboard. Though these items made him nervous, Praline couldn’t help but marvel at the number of unmentioned features his new apartment had. What else might be hidden in those cabinets?

Warren returned to the bed and slowly dragged the cat-o-nine tails across Praline’s body, the fringed whip teasing and tickling Praline. It felt wonderful; sexy and dangerous all at once. “I’m about to initiate you into the world of pleasure and pain,” warned Warren.

Instantly, Praline had second thoughts, “Oh. Um, I kind of prefer—”

“Sir. Keep calling me, sir.”

“Okay, sir, I prefer pleasure.”

“Are you sure? Have you every really experienced pain?”

“Yes. I’ve been to the dentist.” And just the memory of it made him shudder.

“Not that kind of pain,” Warren said tersely, then reached underneath Praline and played with his dick. He seemed encouraged by the erection he found. “Yeah, this is gonna be hot.”

Then he pulled Praline’s cock back so it lay on the bed between his legs. Climbing off the bed, Warren gently splay
ed
the whip across Praline’s back. He pulled it slowly down the boy’s spine, between his buttocks and over his dick.

Praline did have to admit there was a certain delicious tension in the idea that cat-o-nine tails might lift off his body and snap back down at any moment. Still, he had a desperate craving for chocolate. A chocolate almond bar, a malted ball, a bowl of Double Fudge Swirl Ice cream, it didn’t matter, he just had to have something sweet.

Just then, Warren began to lightly beat Praline with the frayed ends of the whip. Really, he was just dropping them onto Praline’s back in a rhythmic way that reminded the boy of a documentary he’d seen where migrant farmers prepare tobacco leaves for transport to market. It wasn’t so bad; it was even a little bit sensual.

“So, we’ll have a safe word, which you can use if it gets too intense,” Warren explained. “Okay?”

“All right,” Praline said skeptically.

“What word do you want to use?”

Praline thought about it. He didn’t want to choose anything that could easily be mistaken for “please keep doing that” so he said, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Warren said, “I’m not sure that’s quite the right mood.”

“I’m okay with it,” Praline said, certain now it was the absolute right word.

Without warning, Warren cracked the whip right above Praline’s butt. The boy jumped and giggled nervously.

“Don’t giggle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Warren pulled the cat-o-nine tails down Praline’s spine again, this time ending with a sharp stinging tweak to his ass.

“Ouch!”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“Yes, it did.”

Warren did it again.

“Ouch!” Praline exclaimed then said, “Super—”

He couldn’t get the word out because Warren snapped the whip against his ass, this time even harder. “Supercali—”

The whip snapped, tweaking his balls. “Ahhh! Supercalifaa—”

Snap! Snap! Snap! Praline’s ass stung mightily, yet stubbornly his dick remained rock hard. He looked over his shoulder at Warren, whose pierced penis was now sticking straight up in the air. “Sir, I’m trying to say Sup—Superfragcali—Super—”

After a quick succession of lashes that brought tears to Praline’s eyes, Warren stopped and walked over to the nightstand to light the candles.

Praline relaxed. Obviously, the next phase would be more on the romantic side. He sincerely hoped Warren would pull some fresh strawberries out of the magic cupboards and feed them to him. He hoped there would be exploratory touching, some gentle caressing and definitely some cock sucking. Really, he was up for anything as long as it was a little less
Mutiny on the Bounty
.

Warren picked up one of the candles and raised it over Praline’s back. “What are you doing, sir?”

“This is really sexy. You’ll love it.”

When the first drop of hot wax hit Praline’s back, burning and stinging, he said “Supercalifragisticexpedicious—”

“That’s not the right word.”

Drip. Drip. Drip. Sting. Sting. Sting. “Ah! That kind of hurts. Superdociousnocious—”

“Nope, that’s not it either.”

Drip. Drip. Sting. Sting.

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”

“Shit,” Warren said, but he put the candle down. Then he crawled onto the bed, laying himself on top of Praline. He slipped his hands between Praline’s legs, toying with the head of his prick. Then, moving to our hero’s prominent ass he teased the boy’s puckered hole. Nuzzling the spot behind Praline’s right ear, in a husky voice he whispered, “Will you be my slave?”

“No,” Praline said. “But thank you for offering.”

“Jeez, you could at least think about it for a minute.” Warren sulked.

Really though, the idea of becoming Warren’s slave held little appeal, and not just because Praline had moments ago learned pain wasn’t his thing—though, disturbingly, his penis didn’t seem to mind. No, he was disinterested because slave was an obvious step down from prostitute. Seriously, he’d hoped to rise in the world, not fall.

“Oh, come on,” implored Warren. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings. Be my slave.”

“It’s a really flattering offer, it is,” Praline said. “But I have other plans for, you know, the rest of my life.”

Warren sat up and sighed, “Damn it! Why doesn’t anyone want to be my slave? Do I have bad breath? Do I have body odor? Am I ugly?” Praline didn’t have any answers for him, other than the fact that he was getting a little whiny—which couldn’t be attractive to anyone who actually wanted to be a slave.

“It’s because I’m too nice, isn’t it?” Warren asked, and then punctuated his point by standing up and walloping Praline with the cat-o-nine tails.

“Awwwww…I don’t think you’re too nice,” Praline said.

“You’re just saying that.” Warren pouted.

“No, honest, I don’t think you’re nice at all.”