Istari

Taming the Tigers

It's 7 o'clock on a rainy Saturday night in late October as I pull into the parking lot of the Ridgeview Athletics Center. Other parents are arriving just as I am. Practice ends promptly at 7:05 and I do not want to be late picking up my sons. My handsome strapping thirteen-year-old Breslin and my impish little eleven-year-old Rhys are both members of the Ridgeview Tigers Gymnastics Club, a special and highly respected team open only to boys aged eight to sixteen. All the young Tigers are serious athletes and the program demands virtually all of the boys' free time. Strict rules and requirements for membership abound, and even the slightest deviation from the club's established guidelines can result in a boy's dismissal from the team. As I said, the program demands a lot from my boys, and it demands a lot from me as their father. Over the years I've grown accustomed to the rigors the team imparts on the boys' lives, and I've come to enjoy certain beneficial elements of the team's strict 24/7 training regime. Normally I'd be there at practice with them, but Saturdays are always closed practices, just the boys and the coaches with no parents involved. Over the years I've learned never to question the team's unorthodox coaching methods, as they always get results.

Membership in the Tigers comes with the acceptance of and compliance with their rather unusual rules and requirements designed to keep the boys' minds focused and their bodies in top physical condition. When Breslin, my eldest, joined up back when he was eight, I was surprised and a little hesitant about letting him get involved, once I learned just how strictly regimented his life would have to be from that day forward, and how strange some of their rules appeared to be. Now I know letting him become a Tiger was the best thing I've ever done for him. As soon as little Rhys was old enough, I made sure he joined the Tigers too. To say that having your sons in the Tigers is a lifestyle would be a serious understatement.

I park the car and join the other parents entering the Athletics Center. By now we all know the routine and stand waiting by the door to the gymnasium which is currently locked from the inside. At precisely five minutes after seven (I don't even bother checking my watch anymore!) the doors are opened by one of the young assistant coaches and we are allowed to enter.

There are fifteen boys on the team this year, the most the Tigers have ever accepted. They are lined up on the exercise floor waiting for us. They stand at perfect attention, their heads bowed, their hands clasped behind their backs, their bare feet spread six inches [15 cm] apart. There is never more than three inches [8 cm] between one boy's foot and that of the boy next to him, and their line is absolutely, perfectly straight, their adorable boy toes just touching the out-of-bounds boarder of the exercise floor.

The head coach, whom we know only as Ivan, welcomes us with a smile then turns to the boys. They are lined up according to height, not age, and so they form an attractive stair-step, from little eight-year-old Jordan to tall and strapping fifteen-year-old Micah. They are, as I've already mentioned, barefoot, and they are all wearing the team leotard and a pair of extremely short gym shorts which show off all of each boy's thighs to perfection. The leotard is white, the shorts are black. As this is their practice and day-to-day uniform, neither are decorated with the colorful orange and black stripes they wear in competition, only the team crest in the center of the leotard gives the outfit any splash of color.

"Boys!" Coach Ivan shouts.

"Sir, yes, sir!" the fifteen boys respond in perfect unison, their voices a pleasant mix of high-pitched boy altos and adolescent tenors.

"Your parents are here. Practice is over. Tonight at home you will do one hundred sit-ups and fifty push-ups. You are dismissed."

"Sir, yes, sir," the boys all shout. "Tigers rule!"

Even after being dismissed however, the boys do not break down into a mindless rabble. They quickly scurry about the gym putting everything back into place, each boy assigned to a specific task and knowing his duties for this particular day. While the boys are hard at work, Ivan and his assistants, several of whom were Tigers just last year but have now moved on to young adult levels of competition, meet with us to discuss the team's progress. It is almost always good news as Tiger boys dominate the local and regional competition scene. I have big hopes for Breslin at the state level this year, and Ivan assures me the many years of special training he's received will really start paying off soon and that a college scholarship is definitely in his future.

Once the clean up is concluded, the boys grab their gym bags and come over to us in a group. They are chatting quietly amongst themselves, but in a subdued and disciplined manner. Everything about these boys' lives is regimented and controlled and they've learned that loud boisterous boyish talk is not the Tiger way.

"Hi, boys," I say as Breslin and Rhys stand before me. At thirteen, Breslin hasn't yet hit his growth spurt, but one look at him tells me it won't be long before it comes. He stands five feet [1.50 m] tall at the moment and weighs a healthy hundred-five pounds [48 kg] of lean boy muscle, with nice broadening shoulders and a narrow tapered waist. Little Rhys is small, even for eleven, just over four-feet-two-inches [1.30 m] tall, but, like his brother he is a lean coltish little stud. Rhys actually appears a bit more muscular than his older brother, but I suspect that is just a result of his smaller frame. They have identical blue eyes, but Breslin's hair is a silky golden blonde while Rhys is a distinctive shade of chestnut which takes on a subtle reddish tint in certain light. The boys wear their hair shoulder length, a bit longer than coach Ivan would like, but it is my personal preference that such beautiful heads of hair should not be wasted, and we are allowed to make small exceptions here and there.

"Hi dad," the boys reply together. Breslin's voice has started to break and is not as high as it was just a few months ago. Rhys voice is still high and soft. I suspect he's going to be a late bloomer.

"How was practice?"

"Good," comes the unified response.

Throwing their bags over their strong young shoulders, the boys follow me out into the pouring rain and back to the car. They remain barefoot. In fact the boys are never allowed to wear shoes unless it is absolutely required. I keep a pair of sandals in the car for each of them for those rare occasions; but generally, keeping them barefoot is not a problem. You see, the Tigers are well known around town and instantly identifiable since the only clothing the boys are ever allowed to wear is their team leotards and gym shorts. School, the mall, the movies, the park, wherever a Tiger boy goes, regardless of the occasion, the season or the weather, he is wearing only his sleeveless leo and his shorts. The idea is to strengthen the boy's body from the inside out by ensuring that he is exposed to all the elements all year round. In fact, from late May until the end of August they are only allowed to wear the leotard at practice and in competition, which means the only clothes on their athletic young bodies during the summer is their embarrassingly skimpy and thin gymnastics shorts. The boys wear a few more special items under their leotards and shorts, items that hardly qualify as clothing, but we'll get to that later. The boys shiver in the cold autumn rain as I load their bags into the trunk. Even though I'm getting soaked too, I take my time getting the doors unlocked.

Once they're in the car, Breslin straps Rhys into one of the specially molded rear seats and then parks his own little butt on the other one, waiting for me to strap him in. The seats conform to their basic body shapes and have straps that buckle around the boys' chests and waists, with additional straps around their thighs, upper arms and wrists. There is also a strap for the headrest.

"Spread your legs a bit more, Breslin," I order gently as I strap the thirteen-year-old's smooth hairless thighs to the seat. My hands brush against the obvious bulge between the boy's legs, but it is not soft boyflesh they encounter, rather the hard solid plastic of his protective genital encasement. He gives me a knowing glance, his young blue eyes suddenly full of want and need. I offer him a sympathetic smile and continue strapping him into his seat. Once I get Breslin's head strapped to the backrest, we are ready to go.

As we drive, safe and secure in the back of the car, the boys finally become talkative. And as talking is generally prohibited during practice, they have a lot of pent-up words to say. We make a quick stop at the health-food store as we are starting to run low on protein shakes and granola. The boys are kept on a strict diet throughout the year. That has proven to be the hardest part of their lives, denying them the sugary sweets and salty snacks all boys naturally crave, but you don't get two muscular young boy gods sitting in your back seat by feeding them chips and chocolate bars. It takes a few moments to get them out of their seats, and a few more to get them back in, but it has all become routine after so many years.

I do decide that I want some peace and quiet during the remainder of the ride home, so I use the optional ball-gag attachment on Rhys, pushing the rubber ball into his little mouth and strapping it to the headrest behind him. Breslin I can trust to keep quiet on his own as long as his little brother isn't egging him on.

"Want some music, Bres?" I ask him.

He smiles at me. "Yes, sir."

I find his i-pod on the back seat, gently place the buds into his ears and turn the device on for him since he presently has no use of his arms.

The rest of the ride is uneventful. Rhys falls asleep, as he almost always does on the way back from practice.

Once we get home, I release Breslin from his seat and watch as he frees his younger brother from the straps. Rhys is happy to have the gag out of his mouth and he starts chattering away once more about today's practice session.

We live in a large ranch-style house in a nice middle-class neighborhood. Fenced yards, mini-vans and SUVs in the driveways, pools in the back, clean streets lined with old trees, kids' bicycles left on the front lawns. Suburban paradise with friendly but not overly nosey neighbors. My sons and I blend in perfectly as just another all-American family, with the notable exception that the boys are members of the Tigers. As I said, the team is well known in town, and no one bats a second eye at Breslin and Rhys running around the yard barefoot, or riding their bikes or playing with their friends while wearing only their gymnastics uniforms.

When we go into the house, the boys immediately hurry into the living room. I follow them after closing the garage door. They are waiting for me in the same position they were in when I picked them up from practice.

"Go ahead," I tell them and they pull down their gym shorts and step out of them. Then I watch as my flexible athletic wiry boys wriggle their way out of their leotards. Moments later they are both naked.

Keeping the boys naked at home is another element of the rigorous program of mental and physical discipline and training that forms a twenty-four-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week regime. When Breslin first became a Tiger at age eight, this was a difficult rule for him to follow and for me to enforce. He was always begging to put on shorts or underwear. It was made worse by the fact that little Rhys, only six at the time, rather loved teasing his big brother about the new rules. Breslin received many spankings and forcible strippings from me on an almost daily basis until he finally realized this was a battle he could not win. If he wanted to be a Tiger, he had to live by their rules and that meant naked at home and nearly naked everyplace else. Finally I solved any further problem by simply giving away all of his clothing. I did the same with Rhys' stuff when he joined the club. From that day to this, the only clothes Breslin and Rhys have is their uniforms.

"Attention!" I say.

"Yes, dad!" the boys respond. They immediately stand straight and face me, with their hands behind their heads, their feet spread wide.

Their naked bodies are simply beautiful. Trim, lean, well-muscled and shapely in the way only boy-gymnasts can be. Breslin's shoulders have definitely started to broaden, as has his chest. He has nicely toned arms and is particularly proud of his sturdy biceps. His cute nipples are about the size of dimes and both of them are pierced with small rings, which do, in fact, show beneath his leotard when he's wearing it. His abdomen is tight and toned and well developed, as a young male gymnast's invariably should be. His legs are magnificent, long and lean and shapely, with well-defined calves and muscular thighs. His bare feet are adorably boyish but growing bigger with each passing week it seems. I'm glad my boys don't wear shoes, as keeping him in new ones as he outgrows the old would cost me a small fortune.

Breslin's body is perfectly hairless. He has started sprouting pubic hair, but I keep that shaved smooth as per the club's standards. His circumcised penis is above average for his age, a soft three-and-one-half inches [9 cm], below which hangs a plump scrotum with a good-sized pair of balls. Breslin's genitals are currently encased in a hard clear custom-molded plastic pod, which prevents any access to his penis and testicles. He can see them, pressed tightly within the confines of the unforgiving plastic, but he cannot touch them. There is absolutely no room inside the pod for his penis to grow, so erections are simply impossible. The small lock that secures the device in place is hidden under and behind his scrotum, once again out of his general reach, not that he could get it off anyway without the key. The device was extremely costly, as it was custom molded just for him. He probably has about six months left before he'll outgrow it and need to be fitted with a new one. The club's general philosophy is one I share. Young boys spend far too much time thinking about and fiddling with their little penises, to the detriment of their grades, their general behavior and their athletic performance. Club rules require that from the age of ten onward, all the boys wear some form of chastity device during practice and competition, and that they be strictly prohibited from playing with themselves when they are at home. The simplest solution most of us parents have adopted is simply to keep the boys locked into their chastity devices on a more-or-less permanent basis. The end result for Breslin and Rhys is that they are far more disciplined, focused and driven than most boys their age, able to transfer all that pent-up energy into more constructive channels. As an added bonus, the chastity pods provide a thoroughly secured protective covering, ensuring that my boys don't get injured down there during practice and competition.

Breslin now stands at firm attention, proudly displaying his muscular young body to me. No longer is he concerned about wearing clothes. He is proud of the way he's developing and eager to show me just how disciplined and focused he is. I notice a little stream of clear pre-cum dribbling from the small hole at the bottom of his pod. This is an occurrence that is becoming more and more frequent of late, but the boy seems unaware or at least not bothered by its presence and so I choose to ignore it as well.

Next to him, eleven-year-old Rhys is a shorter version of his big brother, still with the more softly curved body of a pre-pubescent boy, but with an impressive musculature that speaks of his many hours of training and endless physical activity. He is of a more compact body type than his long lean brother, with a frame just as well suited to wrestling as gymnastics. Rhys' body too is completely devoid of hair and he too is wearing a considerably smaller but otherwise identical copy of the chastity pod Breslin has on. Rhys' penis is definitely a cute and harmless little thing, barely two inches [2 cm] long. As with Breslin's device, there is absolutely no room within the plastic pod for erections. It encases the eleven-year-old's small cock and balls like a glove. This is Rhys' first full year in the chastity device and after a few months of protests and spankings, he is now doing quite well. Breslin has worn his since he was ten and it has become second nature to him, although lately his attempts at having erections are becoming more common and often painful. I am worried that this may begin to effect his focus and performance as he enters adolescence. Coach Ivan has indicated that a metal cock-cage may be the best solution for my well-endowed boy once his penis really starts to grow. I however rather like the streamlined appearance of the clear pod, allowing him, and me, to see his innocent flaccid boyhood whilst keeping it completely confined and inaccessible to him. Or, perhaps, I just don't want to admit that my boy is starting to grow up and will soon need a man-sized device to control his already man-sized genitals.

"Inspection time," I say softly.

Keeping their hands behind their heads, the boys slowly turn their backs to me and then bend over at the waist. They spread their legs wide and I can now see the ends of the metal plugs in their butts. I inspect their plugs at random times during the day to make sure they have not taken them out or repositioned them in a way that might lead to unwanted orgasms. Another of the club's sensible rules requires the boys to wear butt-plugs at all times, even during competition. The 'Tiger Strut' is the name parents of other teams have given to our boys' unique method of walking about the gymnasium from apparatus to apparatus. They mistake it for some form of arrogance on the part of our little champions, when in fact it is simply the natural gait adopted by a boy with a large plug in his rectum.

I correctly figured that having just come from practice, the plugs show no signs of having been manipulated. The boys know that if I even suspect they've toyed with their plugs, either in an attempt to pull them out, or to give themselves some bit of sexual pleasure, they will have their little butts paddled.

"Good boys. Now I believe you have some exercises to do."

The boys nod their heads and instantly drop to the floor to start their push-ups. I love watching my naked boys exercise, seeing every developing muscle in their fine young bodies flex and strain. As suiting their personalities, they take very different approaches to their exercises. Breslin is methodical, powering through his routine at a moderate steady pace. Rhys takes a more attacking approach, doing his reps as fast as he can, but of course wearing himself out in the process. The end result is that they finish within a few minutes of each other, Breslin first and hardly winded, Rhys gasping for air, both of their nude bodies now glistening with a fine sheen of boy-sweat.

"Beat you again little brother," Breslin teases good-naturedly as they return to their feet and resume standing at attention in front of me.

"You can have free time until dinner is ready," I tell them.

"Yes!" my young colts shout in excited unison. They decide on video games and are quickly sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television with the game controllers in their hands. I watch them for a moment, then venture into the kitchen to get their protein shakes and salads ready. The boys are kept on a strict diet of fresh fruits, vegetables, nuts, milk, juice and the twice-daily protein shakes to make up for the nutrients they lose by never eating meat of any kind. I do allow them cheese and low-fat ice-cream for a special treat. Breslin vaguely but fondly remembers junk food and fast food and pizza. Rhys, who was eight when he joined the team but six when Breslin became a Tiger has basically grown up under these stern but highly effective restrictions and doesn't really know what he's missing. For that I am thankful, as Rhys, in spite of his training, can still be quite a handful when he thinks he's being treated unfairly.

When dinner is ready I call the boys into the kitchen. My naked sons appear promptly and take their assigned places at the table. The boys stand while I sit down in the only chair. Aside from their beds and their desks for homework, the boys are not allowed to use any of the furniture in the house.

I'm sharing their salads tonight but have also made a nice juicy burger for myself. The boys eye it jealously, but they say nothing. Coach Ivan believes a strictly vegetarian diet produces lean, quick, flexible boys with sharp reflexes, all of which are important attributes for aspiring gymnasts. None of us can argue with the results. The boys suck their thick pasty protein shakes through straws and clean their plates in a matter of minutes. They're limited to a set number of calories each day, designed to perfectly balance their nutritional needs with their bodies' need for fuel. Nothing is given in excess and though their growing bodies are full after each meal, the boys are always intentionally left with a slight feeling of hunger.

After the boys clean up from dinner it is immediately down the hall to the bathroom for their nightly spankings and enemas. First they take turns squatting over the toilet to relieve their bladders, which by this hour of the day are always full to bursting. The boys are allowed to pee exactly three times per day, only with my direct permission and never during practice or competition. Strict control over their bodily functions is another key component in their daily upbringing. Their chastity pods each have a small hole in the bottom, just below where their young penises are held firmly in place, so that their urine, or Breslin's pre-cum, can escape, ensuring their tightly confined little packages remain nice and clean. Accidents are not tolerated and will result in the boy being forced to wear a catheter for an entire week. Rhys has been punished this way five times this year already, Breslin twice.

Once my sons finish peeing, they each assume their positions on all fours. I gently remove their plugs and set them to soak in the sink. I spank them both twenty times each with my bare hand, alternating from older boy to younger boy. They count them out for me and thank me after each one. Daily preventative discipline is the club's official designation for the boys' spanking regime and the results are indeed positive. With their cute young butts nicely reddened and just sore enough to keep them in line, it is time to administer their enemas.

Given that it is a daily routine for them, I have a specially designed warm-water circulation system installed in the bathroom to deliver the boys' enemas. The warming tank is mounted to the wall. Once I turn it on it only takes a few minutes for the water to reach a safe temperature. While its warming, Breslin and Rhys are taking deep breaths and trying to relax. I pat them both on their cute freshly-spanked butts before attaching the rubber feeder hoses and nozzles to the circulation system.

I grab the lubricant and kneel down beside Breslin. He spreads his legs wider for me. His chastity pod dangles between his smooth thighs. I briefly inspect him for even the slightest sign of any hair he might have started growing back here, but there is absolutely none. I feel my oldest boy tense as I gently finger his hole, making sure the enema nozzle will go into him without causing undue distress. "Relax, son."

He nods and arches his back, indicating that he's ready. I insert the nozzle. He whimpers softly and waits. I move over to Rhys.

"Gonna give me a fight tonight, tough guy?" I ask. Rhys hates enemas and often requires an additional spanking to get him to stay in position.

"No, dad. I'll be good."

When Rhys gives his word he never goes back on it, and although he whimpers and moans as I lubricate his hole and push the nozzle into him, he remains on his hands and knees and does not attempt to pull away.

I set the system to deliver a full enema to Breslin and a slightly smaller one for Rhys. All that remains for me now is to turn the valves and stand back and watch as the system gradually fills the boys up. Twice a day, immediately after they wake up and shortly before they go to bed, we enact this ritual. Neither boy has used the bathroom in a conventional sense since joining the Tigers. This is the only way in which the boys are allowed to evacuate their bowels.

Rhys is full in a matter of minutes. The water stops flowing through his hose automatically. I set the digital timer with his name on it to ten minutes. He remains on all fours and begins to sniffle as the cramps start to come.

Breslin meanwhile is still taking water. When he's finally full his belly is visibly distended. I set his timer to twenty minutes. Getting him to this point of endurance has taken years of practice and discipline. He remains silent and perfectly still even as his cute face reddens and scrunches up in a pained grimace.

Rhys' timer buzzes. He wiggles his butt indicating that he's ready to release his water. I gently pull the nozzle out of him and he hurries over to the toilet. The look on his lightly freckled face is priceless as he empties his bowels. Daily enemas mean there is virtually no odor, simply the purest smell of boy. He flushes, wipes and then jumps into the shower.

Breslin's timer goes off. I remove his nozzle and my thirteen-year-old stands up holding his cramping stomach. I notice that his penis is swelling up inside its pod, but of course it has no place to go. He winces as the tightness of the pod forces his boyhood to soften again almost instantly. He takes Rhys' place on the toilet and sighs in relief. Flush, wipe, and then joining his little brother in the shower. My own rules dictate that the boys' morning shower is with cold water, the evening one with hot. Both of them stand under the stream, wetting their hair and allowing the water to cascade over their smooth flawless skin. I strip out of my clothes and join them. I enjoy being close to them like this. I wash Rhys first, soaping him up with my bare hands, running my fingers playfully over his tight abdomen and his adorable little navel. Ticklish there, he giggles like a little boy.

Breslin is meanwhile using his hands to wash my back for me. While Rhys is rinsing off, I turn my attentions to my teenaged boy, rubbing his skin gently with my hands, feeling the sinewy tightness of his shoulders and chest, running my fingers along the taut contours of his rock-hard abs and down to his smooth hairless groin. By now my cock is hard and throbbing with need. I am fortunate enough to be naturally hairless, and I keep my pubes shaven as well, presenting a nice smooth man-cock to my son. Breslin takes it into his strong thirteen-year-old hands and slowly strokes me. Moments later, as my eyes are closed in delight, I feel a second smaller, softer, more delicate hand caressing my balls and know that Rhys is on his knees between my legs. Breslin is straddling his kneeling brother as he stands in front of me still working my hard dripping cock. It is not going to be long before I cum.

"Who's turn is it tonight?" I ask softly.

"Mine, dad," Breslin says.

"Then take your brother's place."

Rhys crawls under my legs to kneel behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his head against the small of my back. Breslin kneels in front of me and takes my cock into his mouth. He begins to suck me, demonstrating the considerable talents he's mastered over the last five years. Normally I'm skilled at holding back, but tonight the boys are being so affectionate, so intent on pleasuring me that I cannot resist them. I feel Rhys' little index finger probing my butt and finally entering me, joined swiftly by second one, then a third. Breslin's tongue swirls around my shaft and with his left hand he softly grabs hold of my balls, kneading them, squeezing them then letting them go. It all happens in a blur after that. I groan and grab Breslin roughly by his hair. I thrust my cock violently into his throat. He gags for an instant, then continues to suck me off as hard and fast as he can. I cum in powerful bursts, filling my oldest son with a huge load of daddy-cum. He slurps and swallows all that I have to give him, finally pulling off of my drooling cock and gazing up at me with loving eyes. Rhys' fingers leave my butt shortly after and I step around so they are both in front of me again. We share an embrace and finish our family shower.

I am required by club rules to feed my boys with regular doses of daddy-cum, an obligation I am only too happy to meet on a daily basis. The boys can take my cum orally or anally and many is the time when they get both in the course of the day. This is a serious obligation for all the fathers of the young Tigers. Many of them actually wear chastity devices just like their sons, to ensure they are always ready and able to fill their boys with nourishing seed. I pride myself on my self-control and my ability to breed my boys on a daily basis and I have never had the need to use one.

I smack both of my dripping wet boys on their tight muscular little butts as they step from the shower and reach for the towels. They dry me first, then take turns drying their own bodies. They are tender with each other as they do this and it always warms my heart to see how much they love each other.

They brush their teeth together and bend over so that I can reinsert their butt-plugs. Once I've got them plugged again, I send them off to their bedroom to finish whatever homework might still remain.

Their room is spartan to say the least. Two identical beds with no blankets and only a single small pillow. Two identical writing desks each with a short wooden stool, the only things in the whole house the boys are allowed to sit down on. Plain white walls with no posters or artwork. I removed the door since privacy is a concept with which the Tiger boys are simply unfamiliar. The closet contains all their spare leotards and nothing else. They each have two drawers in the small wooden dresser, which contains their gym shorts. Beyond that there is no other clothing for them.

Rhys sits down on his stool and I lock his right wrist into the hand-cuff attachment mounted to the side of the desk. This ensures he will remain at his studies until bedtime at exactly 11pm. During weeknights, the boys are in bed by 9, but over the weekend I allow them to stay up a few extra hours, normally to finish any homework or physical exercises. Rhys wraps his bare feet around the legs of the stool in a cute boyish fashion and starts to work on his fractions. Breslin is standing beside me and I point to his desk.

"I'm done, sir," the boy says. Breslin is extraordinarily intelligent and school has always been easy for him.

It is just as well that he finished everything yesterday, as tonight he has his weekly milking session.

"Milking room," I say.

His eyes dance, somewhere between excitement and fear. Milking is traumatic for a thirteen-year-old boy, but Breslin has developed a definite love-hate attitude toward this weekly ritual.

We started when he was eleven and still a dry cummer, so by now he has grown accustomed to what is expected. I will be starting Rhys on weekly milkings soon, but for now he does not have to worry about them.

Our small spare room has been converted into our 'Milking room'. The milking frame and a small table loaded with supplies are its only pieces of equipment. The milking frame consists of a simple wooden platform with an aluminum crossbar at one end. A leather collar hangs from the crossbar on a short set of chains. The aluminum side posts have leather wrist cuffs attached to them so that I can secure Breslin's hands to the frame. In every home of every Tiger there is a frame just like this one.

Before the boy gets down on all fours, I put a pair of knee-pads on him. Experience has shown that he will be bound to the frame for close to an hour at least, and I do not want his knees getting sore or red as he must both look good and feel good for competition.

Breslin crawls into position and I buckle the collar around his neck and strap his hands into the wrist cuffs. Effectively immobilized, the boy looks straight ahead and spreads his legs as wide as he can.

"Do I get to cum tonight?" the boy asks me hopefully in his soft tenor.

Once a month I allow him the privilege of having an orgasm and ejaculating like a normal thirteen-year-old boy, well normal if being bound to a frame while your father jerks you off counts as normal, but that is as close as we get in this family.

As I am honestly not sure which week we are in, or the total number of demerits he's earned either at home or in practice, I quickly check his logbook. I discover that this is indeed his week to have a real cum, but, after adding up his demerits, I see he has more than five, which means he has lost this special privilege. Breslin is visibly distressed as I break this news to him, along with the awareness that he will now have to wait another four weeks before he gets another chance. This is the second time in a row he's lost out, meaning it has been two months since he last came, and now he's facing another month of denial.

"Sorry, son. I'm going to have to milk you instead."

"Yes, dad. I'm sorry I made so many mistakes since last time. I'll try to do better."

Next I take a set of keys from the table, find the one with the tiny letter 'B' engraved on it and unlock my son's chastity pod. It opens like a clamshell, freeing Breslin's genitals for the first time in a week, since the last time he was bound to the milking frame in fact. The boy sighs as his young balls drop low between his legs. He used to harden instantly when his chastity device was removed, but after nearly three years of strict sexual discipline his penis remains flaccid for a moment, then slowly swells to a semi-erect state. He sighs again, enjoying the feeling of freedom. I reach between his hairless thighs and take his penis into my right hand, rubbing it slowly, feeling it grow. It is hot and smooth to my touch and it gradually hardens. Once I have him fully erect I return to the table, pick up the ruler and measure his erected length, recording it in the book. We do this once a month. I have carefully recorded measurings of Breslin's erections since he was eight years old.

"How big am I now, dad?" he asks softly.

"Five and one-quarter inches [13 cm]," I say as I write down the latest number.

"Is that good? Is that big?"

"Big enough," I reply, proud of how well my son is growing. I measure his penis for its girth and thickness as well, but Breslin only ever seems interested in how long he is, so I simply write these numbers down without passing the information on to him. "No more talking now."

I go to the supply table and select cock-gag for him. He opens his mouth obediently and I insert the gag, pulling the straps tight behind his head.

I see that his boyhood is starting to soften just a bit, so I stroke him again, returning my thirteen-year-old to full hardness.

Again I go to the table and this time return with the orchidometer. I take a quick measurement of the size and volume of Breslin's growing balls and set the device aside. Now the milking can begin.

I stroke him slowly, pressing on his butt-plug, running my fingers along his smooth hairless perineum. He coos and groans and wiggles his butt. I smack him hard reminding him to keep perfectly still. Long slow strokes of his penis, starting at the base and working to the tip, careful to avoid spending too much time on his most sensitive areas which might cause an unwanted orgasm. Pre-cum starts flowing out of him almost immediately, dribbling down into the collection pan between the boy's legs. After about five minutes I feel him tense and gasp. I stop rubbing immediately and press hard on his plug. A large glob of gooey white boy-cum oozes out of the thirteen-year-old's hard penis but he does not ejaculate. I give him five minutes to rest, during which time his penis returns to a semi-erect state, then I start again, rubbing him to a full erection and coaxing yet more cum out of his young balls. I watch the clock as fifteen minutes turns into thirty, which turns into forty. By the fifth time I force him to spill his seed without cumming, Breslin is sobbing quietly. I sense he is nearly done. As we approach the one hour mark, I force him to become erect one last time and stroke him until he screams hysterically into his gag and lets out one last tiny agonizing glob of purest boy-seed.

He is still crying as his thoroughly milked cock shrinks to its flaccid state. I rub his back for a few minutes to console him, telling him how proud I am of him. This seems to brighten his mood and though he is still fighting back sobs, I know he's ready to get back on his feet. I release his wrists and unbuckle the collar. Careful not to disturb the collection pan, which now contains a prodigious amount of his sperm, Breslin backs off the platform and slowly stands up. His penis is soft now and flops innocently over his hairless low-hanging balls. I keep him gagged while I clean his smooth genitals with an antiseptic wipe. His penis remains soft while I do this. I put the chastity pod back on him and lock it in place. Breslin sniffles and looks up at me. I reach behind his head and unbuckle the cock-gag, pulling it gently from his mouth. I run my fingers lovingly through his blonde hair.

"Okay?" I ask.

"Okay," he replies and manages a weak smile.

"You know what to do."

"Yes, dad." The naked boy immediately squats down, picks up the collection pan, puts it to his lips and drinks down his own sperm, licking the pan clean with his tongue. "There sure was a lot this time," he says as he wipes his lips with his forearm.

I take him by the hand and lead him back to his bedroom. Rhys has finished his homework and is quietly reading a book. I uncuff the eleven-year-old's wrist and have my two naked sons stand in front of me. They are so beautiful, so superbly trim and athletic, so full of energy and love. They are a joy to me and I can't imagine a lifestyle better than the one we lead, unusual though it may seem to the uninitiated.

"Who are you?" I ask them.

Their bright blue eyes dance playfully. "We're Tigers!" they shout together. Rhys even growls for me. I kiss them both on the forehead and instruct them to lie down on their beds. The boys do so without argument, laying on their backs and stretching their arms and legs out wide. Their beds are specially fitted with various soft leather straps and cuffs, which we tuck under the mattresses when not in use. I pull them out now and lock little Rhys down first, anchoring him to the bed with straps and cuffs at his wrists and ankles. I pull them taut, stretching his flexible young body just to the point of discomfort. A pull another strap over his chest and tighten it too, then another over his hips and abdomen. Next I put a pair of thigh cuffs on him with a twelve-inch [30 cm] spreader bar between them. Rhys tries to wiggle his body but the little eleven-year-old is thoroughly immobilized. I place a black satin hood over his head and pull it down over his face, consigning him to blindness for the night. I put a leather collar around his neck and anchor it to the bed with more straps. He is breathing slowly and softly. He is not scared.

Breslin is waiting for me and strap him down in identical fashion to his little brother. There are a few harsher additions, as he is older. Rather than the soft hood, Breslin wears a special leather head harness to bed which consists of a blindfold, a penis-gag and a chinstrap. The spreader bar between his thighs is longer, putting more stress on his young muscles. I place his hands in special mitts, which force him to keep them balled into fists for the duration of the night. He is then collared too. I attach two thin chains to his nipple rings and hook the other ends to the central ring on the boy's collar. Any time he twists or turns his head, it will apply pressure to his little nipples, warning him to remain completely still. I tap my fingers against his chastity device and move them slowly up along his abdomen. I hear the boy sigh contentedly and know he will be asleep in a matter of moments.

Finally, before leaving them, I take a little key with a small 'R' engraved on it and remove Rhys' chastity pod for the night. His little penis springs to life instantly, a full cute three-inch [7½l cm] erection, hard as a nail and sticking up at a lewd forty-five degree angle from his hairless little body. I hear him gasp and he desperately tries to thrust his hips up toward me, but the straps hold him down.

"No, no, little man," I say in a loving voice as I fondle his grape-sized balls, "we'll have none of that." I stroke his stiff little cock for a few minutes, just enough to bring him close to a dry orgasm, then just as he is starting to pant and gasp and groan, I stop and leave him hard and frustrated, just like I do every night. Come morning his little cock will still be hard, but an icy cold shower will take care of that and he will again join his brother in his chastity device.

I stand in the doorframe and gaze at my two boys. It was a good day and a good night and tomorrow it will all start again. Raising two champion boy-gymnasts is not an easy task, but one I would not change for all the world.

I switch off the lights and leave my boys bound to their beds.

"Good night, Tigers."

The End