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Stay off my lawn

A kinky moment … written and illustrated by Mister X.




Prescott swallowed nervously.

His mouth was painfully dry. He wasn’t sure what was stuff in there, pressing against his tongue dryly, held in place with a dirty rag over his mouth. He couldn’t see in the dark of the room he was in. A massive headache still thundered beneath his beanie, probably some kind of side-effect to that crap Mr. Gutreich had shoved in his face before he blacked out.

Shit! Mr. Gutreich! That fucker was responsible!

Prescott had been cutting through the man’s big, fenced backyard like he normally did to get home. (Much to the bastard’s numerous complaints. Its not like he was hurting anything, he avoided the plants and shit) But then, as he passed one of the tall shrubs, there was Mr. Gutreich, a fierce scowl on his face and a rag of something in his hand. It all went black after that.

He squirmed against the tight bonds holding him in place. Nothing, he was fixed to the spot. That realization caused a stiffening in the crotch of his pants. 

Fuck, he thought. This was not the place for /that/ interest to become public knowledge. He had to be figuring out how to get out of here! How to escape and tell the authorities what a sick fuck Gutreich was.

His train of thought was derailed by the sound of a door opening and blinding light spilled into the room.

“I asked nicely. Now I’m going to make sure you stay off my lawn, kid…”



His knees quaked and his arms strained. Sweat glistened on bare skin as Prescott drew panicky, shallow breaths. Every few minutes for the last hour the rope had winched a little higher, forcing the youth up off of the chair.

How long had it been? Prescott was almost glad he couldn’t see a clock. To watch each minute go by agonizingly, with no certainty of his future here. It was almost better to not know. Almost.

By holding himself awkwardly aloft he diminished the substantial agony in his nethers, which had turned an angry purple some time ago. Unfortunately, raising himself thus also push him against a rope deviously wound about his neck, making each breath feel labored and exhausting.

Mister Gutreich left the room some time ago, which terrified Prescott all the more. What if he lost his footing and fell? Would he just dangle there by his family jewels or would their be a sickening pop and then … nothing?

Prescott didn’t want to think about it but, at that very moment, there was nothing more pressing on his mind.


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Photostories by Chirenon



Comic Strips by Frank Fellows.


1 comment

  1. Almost every boy is a basic brat by the time he is 14. Along with brat-hood comes a belief that he is entitled to do whatever he wishes to whomever he wishes. At times like this it becomes necessary for someone to take him and things in hand so he can learn or relearn the discipline he had or should have had ingrained into by the time he was 10.

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