Part I ~
Bringing in the sheaves~ “We shall come
rejoicing,...” Fanny Crosby
When I was in
Nam I was older than the average recruit. I went to college and
completed two years of graduate work to avoid the draft. I got home
from the graduation ceremony, threw my MA sheep skin on the bed and
opened my mail. The second envelope I opened was a nice letter from my
‘uncle.’
"Greetings!" It
said crisply, "You are here by ordered. . ." The next thing I
knew my ass was being shipped to Vietnam. After I'd been there for
about a week I couldn't help notice how empty the heads were in the
mornings. There was no rush of men pushing and shoving to get to a
sink. It was empty except for a couple lifer sergeants. A buddy
of mine solved my conundrum at breakfast one morning.
"They're all so
damned young they only have to shave once a week."
His reasoning
was as sound as it was truthful. Each one was younger than the
next, some not completely out of puberty, learning to become men,
bragging about conquest they never experienced, still almost children
behind their fear filled eyes. They were the pride of a generation sent
to a God forsaken, shit hole of a country, finding themselves looking
down the barrel of a loaded gun, fighting a war for reasons they could
have cared less about. Most didn’t have a clue why they were there.
They quickly learned to hate the country, the people, the climate and
themselves for having been duped into believing they were drawing a
line in the sand to stop the communist hordes. They were sold a
worthless bill of goods when all too often the inflated price was their
lives. Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and twenty-nine men gave
their lives for nothing.
I was assigned
to the hundred eighty-sixth as a field medic, a corpsman. I lived
through horrors no man should witness. It ate me up emotionally, day
after day, patching the wounded, as fast as I could, so I could get to
the next one. Shoveling a man's steaming guts back into his stomach
cavity with my bare hands, lighting him a smoke, knowing he
wasn't going to make it, and assuring him all the while, he was.
The worst thing
was, I came out as a gay man my last year in college and became
an emotional wreck trying to cope with the carnage around me
daily. I can still remember the faces of the beautiful men I
watched die. Some of the most handsome, good looking men you could ever
imagine, died in my arms; no time for tears or prayers; let the
dead bury the dead then on to the next one. I did take time for
prayers and said many with a frightened, dying man in my arms.
They nicknamed
me ‘Ber’Rabbit’ because I kept my head low, got in to patch up a man,
popped my head up to see were the next one was and scurried like a
rabbit to fix him up. They started out calling me “Beau Rabbit”
but they showed “Song of the South” for a movie one evening and I was
“Ber’Rabbit” after that. I don't think anyone but my buddy and the
paymaster knew my real name. I don’t think my commanding officer knew
my real name. He always called me ‘Ber’ Rabbit.’ It was a
service thing. You’re either known by your last name or a nickname.
I bought the
package. I believed I was making a difference, serving, helping, caring
for the dying and wounded; for my country; for my fellow men.
Ultimately, I became an uncaring, disillusioned, nasty-mouthed,
depressed, drug popping, don't give a shit, ‘slave’ for my
country. Slave? Yep, you bet'ch’um, Red Ryder! I couldn’t
stop going back to help those innocent men. Many who died in my
arms, died virgins to either sex.
I was wounded
six times. After the fourth heart I threw the rest away. It wasn't
until they shot out one of my kidneys and I almost lost my arm I
decided it was time to reconsider. I was too lucky too long; it was
reality time; it was time to go home.
You know what,
I've got a news flash for straight America and all you red necked
bubbas. My cocksucker’s blood fell on the ground as red as
any straight fuckers. My blood ran as freely and for the same
purpose. Shouldn’t the blood I shed and the comrades I lost buy
me equal rights in my own country and some protection against the
flames of hatred fueled and fanned by the rabid, right wing,
crypto-Nazi, religious groups?
It didn’t buy
anything for the blacks who fought, shed their blood and lost their
loved ones in WWII; not even equal rights. Home of the
brave? Land of the free? Yeah,— if you aren’t black or have a
hankering to suck dick. The answer to the question for separation of
church and state: if they want to be political and continue to insist
on imposing their hate filled, narrow minded values on others, revoke
their tax free status.
* * * * * * *
After recovering
from my wounds and going through the military muster-out grinder, I
returned and decided to settle in Los Angeles. It was big enough to
lose myself and explore my gayness without anyone from my small West
Texas town finding out. Even though I had quite a bit of muster-out pay
due to a snafu on the Navy's part, I didn't want to spend it all right
away. I wanted to get to work as soon as possible. You'd
think a man with an MA degree wouldn't have any problem finding a
decent job. Not so. I was over educated with no practical
work experience. I couldn't get a job anywhere. Finally, in
desperation, I decided to take any damn job I could get.
As luck would
have it, I got a great job I love with a recommendation from a General
I befriended and the Admiral of the seventh fleet. The manager of the
place I applied took pity on the fact I was a returning Nam vet; he had
been in Korea.
I went to work
in a specialized mechanic’s shop repairing heavy duty equipment and
trucks. I walked in green, off the street, without any mechanical
training. Fortunately, I'd helped my old man repair an old six cylinder
Ford truck he kept running with love and bailing wire. Ford
stands for: Fix Or Repair Daily. So, I was familiar with hand
tools. Within a year I was promoted to junior mechanic and given my own
work bay. For the first time in my life I had more money coming
in than going out. I could buy anything I wanted but I didn’t. I had
this dreaded feeling most of the time that my success was to be short
lived and anything I acquired for myself I would ultimately lose.
I didn't buy a
car. I walked to and from work every day until I saved up enough money
to buy myself a brand new bike. I had a small apartment, sparsely
furnished, with few personal possessions. I wouldn't buy a television
or read a newspaper. I wouldn't talk to anyone about what I’d seen or
been through. I was so disillusioned and demoralized I didn’t want to
know what was going on over there. I'd walk away from a conversation
about the war. I neither wanted to hear about it nor discuss it. I
didn’t buy a television until we withdrew from South East Asia in 1973.
I was in denial and I was carrying around so much emotional baggage it
was hard for me to communicate with other gay men. What I went
through made most of them seem shallow and uncaring. They considered me
dark and brooding. I wouldn't share what was bugging me so they labeled
me a ‘schitzy-cunt.’ I deeply resented the label but rationalized
it to be an easy enough toss off for an air-head queen whose tongue was
split at birth. What the hell, it was probably the only way they could
teach the cunt to talk.
I was a failure
in relationships. (For the first three years I never had a
relationship so I had to be a failure.) I was a failure in Nam. I
couldn't save all those men; I was like King Chanute, trying to
sweep the ocean back with a broom. Why should I be surprised to be a
failure in Los Angeles? I no longer fit in there and I certainly
didn’t fit in with the gay crowd. I didn’t consider myself better, but
I sure as hell knew I was different. Life meant more to me than having
one trick after another run through my life. I lived with the dead and
dying for almost seven years. I forgot there could be any joy in life.
I wanted more, but I couldn’t define it. I neither knew whom nor what I
was looking for. I wanted desperately to find out what the gnawing
hunger and emptiness in the bottom of my gut was all about. I
didn't have a clue.
I didn't like
the bar scene and wanted desperately to find someone to care about who
would care about me and settle down into something that resembled a
relationship. I wanted someone to take care of and love me for my
efforts and affection. Unfortunately, it was 1971, the time of
the ‘me’ generation, lots of meaningless sex and open relationships. I
was sinking fast. The silence of eternity called to me daily.
Then one night,
in one of the leather bars, I met an older gentleman who claimed to be
a broker for introductions between young and older men. I talked to him
for sometime trying to read him. He made no apologies about the fact
his services were unusual. He specialized in arranging
Master/slave relationships. Basically, as he explained it, he
made extra money to supplement his fixed income by arranging sex
between attractive young men he knew, or those referred to him as
trustworthy, and older men who didn't or couldn't go to gay bars,
because of sensitive occupations. Some of his clients couldn’t be
bothered with gay sexual intrigue and had the money to get the most
bang for their buck.
He gave me his
card and asked me to call him to set up an appointment for an
interview; no obligations; just talk to him, tell him a little about
myself and what I wanted. Maybe he could refer me to some men I
would not otherwise have the opportunity to meet. He only asked me be
honest and open about my sexual needs and fantasies. I didn’t get
the impression it was a sexual come on from him. He seemed
serious about his offer. He was a strange man with piercing dark blue
eyes and a soft, southern, baritone voice. He was ruggedly
handsome and attractive like he’d seen a life of hard work. He stood
about six-two and at approximately two hundred thirty pounds still had
a rock hard body. A full, neatly trimmed white beard and ‘stash
rounded his effect. I think the white hair and beard made him appear
older than his actual age. If he had propositioned me I probably
would have gone with him, but he didn’t.
Since I’d never
had a strong father figure when I was a child I found myself preferring
older men. I couldn't find what I was looking for in the average
vanilla gay bar in Los Angeles so I bought a motorcycle and hung out at
all the leather bars. I went on all the major bike runs as a GDI
(God Damned Independent) because the gay bike ‘clubs’ were mostly for,
let’s play dress-up in our uniforms, cocktails, gossip, and Sunday
brunch get togethers. Even at the bike runs something seemed to be
missing. They simply moved the gay bar to an outdoor setting. You still
had the same dull, uninteresting people talking about the same bullshit
you listened to every Saturday night. All the guys I was
interested in were either attached or had their heads up their butts.
Then there were
the types I called the terminal ‘Hollywood syndrome’ queens. They’d go
home with you but couldn't wait to get to the bus stop for their next
trick to come along. It seemed no matter how good the sex was between
you they weren't interested in getting to know you or seeing you again
under any circumstances. If you ran into them later they wouldn’t even
acknowledge they ever met you. It was a, ‘been there, done that’
mentality. They simply didn’t care who you were and didn’t mind sparing
your feelings by letting you know they didn’t care. Elton, was so
wrong, there was no yellow brick road. Leastwise, I never found
it. The land of Oz was populated with far too many wicked witches to
suit my taste and there wasn’t enough flying houses or buckets of water
to stem the tide. They came in various shapes and sizes but they all
had the same irritating laugh. They must be related, they called each
other “sister” and “girlfriend” a lot.
I developed a
maxim I still use to this day and have yet to be proved wrong: never
waste your time or emotions trying to figure out a Hollywood queen. It
can’t be done. Things were getting bad. Weekends, one after the
other, I would stand in a gay bar until my leg muscles started to
atrophy and never speak to a soul. I would go home throw off my
clothes, stand nude in front of a full length mirror, and shout at
myself,
“What the Hell’s
wrong with you? You’re certainly not unattractive. Why, the fuck,
can’t you pick up anyone. Maybe, it’s your mouthwash?”
Hell, I was so
desperate, I would’ve settled for fucking a half-way, masculine
munchkin. Maybe one of those from the Lollipop Guild if I
could’ve found him. I wouldn’t have cared if his damn boots curled up
on the ends and he liked to skip around a lot, just as long as he kept
me belly warm at night and swore he loved me. I could even afford to
keep him; Hell,— they couldn't eat that much.
The idea of a
broker cum S & M/ Dolly Levi sounded a bit strange, but then again,
nothing else was working for me. While it may not have been the land of
Oz, Los Angeles still had it’s moments of high-strangeness, so I
thought, ‘Why, the fuck, not?’ I called the next week to
arrange an appointment. He seemed pleasantly surprised I called
and we agreed to an appointment the following Friday.
When I went for
the interview he had me complete a twenty page application and sexual
preference survey. He was business like and professional like he’d done
this hundreds of times, and I was e pluribus unum. (No, Son,---that
doesn’t mean my last name is ‘Unum,’ it means ‘one among many.’)
As an interviewer and all ‘round handsome, masculine man, he seemed
pleasant and easygoing with a sense of humor.
"I see on your
application your full name is Andrew Beaureguard James Jr. What name do
you use?" he asked.
"Well, Sir,— my
family called me Andy because they called my dad, Beau, but in Nam I
got the nickname, ‘Ber’ Rabbit;’ I guess ‘cause I was quick,— like a
bunny.” I giggled, he didn’t. “A few of my friends in Nam
called me Andy but since Nam everyone’s called me Beau. You may call me
Beau, if you like." I told him.
"What can I call
you if I don't like?" he tested me, smiling.
"Anything but
late for dinner." I replied laughing. He laughed, too, not expecting
such a smart-ass reply.
He answered my
questions honestly and sincerely with no judgement to my preferences;
however, he did question me concerning my interest in pursuing my
passive side.
"Haven't you
ever been a bottom to a man?” he asked.
"A ‘man,’ in
Hollywood?” I raised an eyebrow to his laughter, “I've let a couple
guys screw me, I've sucked off a few, but when I go with someone,
within the first fifteen minutes, if he hasn't made a move, I damn sure
will." I replied. He just laughed.
"Well, Son, I'll
be honest with you. I don't think you're going to find what your
looking for in the L.A. bars. Oh sure, there are some so called tops
who cruise the bars, but the ratio between tops and bottoms is
approximately ten to one. Consider this equation: if there are a
hundred men in a bar and you're one of them then only ten of those
hundred are going to be tops. Out of the ten tops how many are you
going to find interesting enough to submit to. Say you find four who
strum your banjo. Of those four what are the possibilities one of them
would feel the same about you?
Let's say
there’s a full moon out, you find someone you wouldn’t mind submitting
to. You go home with him and while he tops you, screws you, or has you
suck him off, he doesn't give you the control you may be looking for.
You seem pretty strong willed and seem to know what you don't want. I
imagine you see through phonies easily. Yet, you don't know how to get
what you want. So, you go away feeling cheated, empty, maybe even used.
That may seem like a conundrum because you went with him to be used,
right? Then why the empty feeling?"
"I know what
you're talking about, Sir. You're right, and while it does seem a
little hopeless, I don't know what to do about it. I’ve seriously
considered cashing in my chips, going back to Texas, getting married
and raising a family. Them Southern Baptist bible belt little girl’s
mommas tell them to only let their husbands fuck ‘em if they wanna’
have kids. The rest of the time you’re off limits to him. I
could live with that and love my kids." “Oh, fuck!
You’d be miserable in two years. You’ve seen across the river,
Son. You know there has to be a promised land, but you just
don’t know how to get there. It's not hopeless. Look at
you,— you're reaching out by coming to this interview. Even though
you’re not taking it very seriously, you’ve at least made the effort.
You may find some of your answers here, you may not. What you get out
of anything depends on what effort you put into it. Maybe an exchange
of ideas will cause some minor revelation that ultimately might
lead to some situation which could fill your needs. Never lose
faith or give up hope.
You’re a good
looking young man with a fairly buff body and my guess is you probably
intimidate the hell out of most tops. Butch bottoms have a hard time
out there. Most tops and some Master's are concerned they might turn
the scene upside down. That's a small but manageable problem. I
specialize in butch bottoms. I have a ninety-five percent success
rate in training and placing butch bottom slaves with Masters. In
fact some prefer them as a challenge to break them. Kinda turns
me on, too. I've always found they’re the most difficult to break and
train, but if a Master is patient,— takes his time, his payoff will be
one of the most valuable pieces of property any man may own; a devoted,
selfless, companion.”
“Excuse me, Sir,
but I don't think I want to become anyone's slave."
“Maybe I missed
something here? We were talking about exploring your passive
side, weren’t we? From the way you talk about it, your passive side is
important to you. I'm just trying to give you some idea what's out
there and how it works. If you want me to refer you to some tops or
Masters so you can explore your passive side they’re going to expect
you to walk the walk and talk the talk. I can't refer you if you
don't understand what you're getting yourself into. That wouldn't be
fair to you, and it could mean a loss of business for me. You can't
talk about your passive side in the context of S & M without
discussing Masters and slaves. No matter what anyone tells you that
concept is the tie that binds."
"Okay, I
understand, Sir, I guess I've heard the way some guys talk about
passives, bottoms, and slaves in the leather crowd. They’re looked down
upon and considered second class citizens in the bike crowd. I don't
want to think of myself that way no matter what I choose to do
sexually. Men in the leather crowd around Los Angeles have some
really fucked-up attitudes about top and bottom, passive/aggressive,
even those who claim to be Master and slaves. I'd never allow
myself to become associated with that ilk. Not because I feel
superior to them; I just can’t abide the way they look upon male/male
sex.
I’ll be honest,
Sir, my passive side is much stronger than my aggressive side; however,
I’ll be damned if I’ll be any nelly faggot's old lady simply because he
has enough money to buy a leather jacket and ride a Harley to the gay
leather bars. I thought I could explore my passive side by being
a bottom to a top or Master you might refer me to who wouldn’t have
such accepted attitudes. I can certainly see your point,
you feel obligated to educate me about your service and what would be
expected of me. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect when I
came for this interview. There are so many creeps, kooks, and losers in
L.A., I suppose I wasn't prepared for this to be legit or you
being quite so serious. Please, forgive me,— I meant no harm, nor
disrespect. I’ll take this more seriously, Sir. If nothing
else an exchange of ideas won’t do me any harm, and for your time and
effort I owe you my sincere attention."
"You certainly
know the right words to say and have a sincere delivery about you.
That’s good. There’s nothing to forgive. You have every reason to be
suspicious. As for what you've overheard in bars or the bike crowd they
put down what they can't or don't want to understand. Putting the
bottoms down is their way of overcompensating for their passive side.
We all have both. It's just a matter of luck or divine providence
we become imprinted one way or the other. Wanting to explore your
passive side was a red flag to me. I assure you the majority of Masters
and enlightened tops don’t feel that way. A well trained slave is a joy
to a real Master and something to be proud of. There’s little
thought of feminizing their slave because of anal play or any other
sexual apatite for that matter.
Quite the
contrary, we are men having unusual sex with other men. The ass
is just another opening for a Master to pleasure himself and the slave
simply becomes a vessel to receive his seed. I could never survive some
of the trips some Masters take their slaves on in their dungeons. Being
a slave and being proud of yourself because your Master is pleased with
you is a shield against such garbage. If you're a well-trained slave
you aren't even aware of such talk. Such talk becomes meaningless."
"I never thought
of it that way, Sir, but the idea of putting my life in another
person’s hands and giving up my freedom is a bit disconcerting."
"What freedom?
What do you mean by freedom? Most gay men build their own prisons, live
their lives trapped in prisons of their own making, and die. I
suspect you are well on your way to doing just that"
"You're probably
right, Sir." I said laughing.
"We'll talk more
about these things later. Right now let's establish some guidelines or
parameters for working with you. The way my service works is you
don't pay anything to be referred. The men who want referrals pay in
advance for every referral I send them. I have to know if I refer
you to someone you’ll show up and make an effort. I don't expect you to
have sex with someone you don’t find attractive. You’re not a whore and
I'm not a pimp. What you get out of it is up to you. You probably
wouldn't want to jump over the broom with some of our referrals;
however, a fuck is a fuck and if I take the trouble to refer you I
expect you to try, if you can, to have some meaningful interaction or
sex with them.
If it's just a
bust, I'll understand. Just be honest with me, tell me the truth about
what happened, how you felt and why you couldn’t go thorough with
it. If you or any of my young men don’t please my customer I must
refer someone else. It can be a unique opportunity to meet some fine
men you wouldn’t ordinarily have access to. You never know when or
where you may find your place in the sun. Like a bolt out of the
blue, fate steps in and sees you through. God bless Ukulele
Ike.” he laughed.
Since you’re
having some fear of what we call hard core S & M,
Master/slave relationships let me ask you what you’ve done to
find out what you want or expect in any relationship? Have you
done any active soul searching?" he paused a moment for my
reaction but didn't get one. "I didn't think so." he continued, "Have
you ever sat down and really asked yourself who or what type person
you’d want to spend a lifetime with if given the chance? I mean,
really sat down with a pad and pencil and listed the things you like
about people and the things you don't. Then on a separate sheet list
the things you like about yourself and the things you don't. You might
take it one step further and make a list about where you are in life,
your accomplishments, your pratfalls and where you see yourself,— ten,
twenty years from today. Do you really have any direction in your life?
Do you admire men who do and have the guts to go out and get it? In
short, do you know who you are or what you want?”
"I don't mean to
seem disrespectful, Sir, but what gay man in Los Angeles does? Do you
think if that sort thing was common knowledge, or any gay male in my
position thought he could find these truths easily, there would be so
many gay bars catering to x-amount of different lifestyles? I'm not
trying to defend the L.A. gay lifestyle but most of us came from small
middle class American towns which always had a town queer and God
forbid you were ever caught even talking to the man. With that image in
mind, we moved to the larger cities for anonymity and a community where
we were comfortable. Then we began to restructure our ideas about
everything from God to dirty sex. Speaking for myself, I never
really had an adolescence until I finished college, fought for my
country in Vietnam, got out, and settled in L.A. I’ d lived a
repressed life due to the well meaning but lethal community I came from.
I’m still in the
final stages of my previously non-existent adolescence. I'm still
asking huge questions about how I can best get through today, let alone
twenty years from now. I like the idea of what you said, the
questions you’ve asked and, God knows, I've tried everything else. I'm
not unreceptive to new ideas, but they have to have a ring of truth for
me. A lot of what you’re saying makes sense, and it’s becoming
unnerving to me."
"No disrespect
taken, Son. You make a strong point. Basically, where do you run to,
who do you ask? There were no manuals to help your parents raise you,
and they certainly didn’t know how to raise a gay son. They
didn’t start out to raise you ‘gay.’ They probably never knew.
That's another point I want to make. When you can't find what you want
or need, does anyone have a schematic to repair your disillusion?
There are no manuals out there to help you find what will fill those
empty feelings you’ve described to me.
Larry Townsend's
'Leatherman’s Handbook' was a start. While there are huge gaps in his
philosophy about leather sex, S & M, Master/slave relationships, at
least it's a start. Townsend’s problem was he approached the subject as
a lifestyle and it isn’t, it’s a philosophy. He sees this
lifestyle as only a junction from the regular gay cocktail party milieu
where you trade your Mercedes for your status symbol slave to be at
your beck and call. Boring stuff at best. Some of his ideas
are dangerous at worst. It leaves little room for introspection;
however, one man dared to try, dared to write about his concepts
and idea while everyone else stood by and either giggled or became
instant authorities themselves. They did nothing but criticize
and find fault. Admittedly, it was a flawed effort, it’s filled with
incorrect ideas, but it was an attempt to say something about a large
area of homoerotic sex that had never been written about before in a
straight forward manner. My point is, Son, few people out there try.
They don't know what they want from trick to trick, spend their lives
trying to catch the brass ring on the merry-go-round. If, by
chance, you do find someone to settle down with, are happy and content,
then those who are still unhappy will try to steal your brass ring."
"I guess you hit
a nerve, Sir. I haven't revealed this to many people because in today's
world of free sex it isn't politically correct. I have a gut need
to find someone to share my life, and I don't mean a fucking open
relationship. I've tried that and it's like living with a lover who has
a swinging door for a brain. I’m probably brainwashed by breeder
mentality that there's someone out there for everyone; however, I
sometime get the feeling I made it to the station on time but the train
left five minutes early.”
"I understand."
he continued shaking his head and laughing, "However, one of the
most simple facts of nature might help you understand your situation."
"What's that,
Sir?" I begged. He laughed.
* * * * * * *
Part II~ Mother
Nature’s a Mother
"Woah! Not so
fast! One of the things you may know all ready is nothing in life is
free. While some things may be a trade off you essentially pay a
price. I'm just kidding. I'll tell you. It's no
big secret." he laughed and continued, "By the way, you'll know when to
pay me back and how much." he laughed again. I was really beginning to
like this man.
One of the basic
facts of nature confirmed by much scientific study is that the male of
our species is easily conditioned to sexual response; which may account
for fetishism in many men. Conditioning and sexual response are major
components of S&M, recreational sex. I call it ‘recreational’
sex because while we're capable of pro-creation we don't choose to go
with women. There is certainly nothing wrong with the idea of
re-creating oneself through sex.
Every male
mammal on our planet has a bone in the penis except man. The sperm
whale has an eight foot bone in his penis. They don't require
stimulation to procreate. Since man doesn't have a bone in his penis he
must have stimulation to achieve an erection for penetration. That
stimulation is highly susceptible to conditioning. Remember Pavlov's
dog? The concept is very similar.
The female of
our species is seasonal. They have periods of ovulation in which
they’re more likely to conceive. That's when they are most likely to be
stimulated for sex. Now, that's not to say sexual conditioning or
fetishism is unheard of among woman, but by and large, it's far more
common among men.
Why did man
develop without a bone in his penis? It's hard to say. No pun intended.
Scientist think it may be because most mammals had to copulate quickly
least they be preyed upon by larger species during the act. Then, too,
immediately after sex, many animals suffer a ‘petite mort’ as the
French call it. It means, ‘small death.’ They pass out after
ejaculation. Ever watch rabbits fuck? The male will hump
the female, thump his hid leg real hard, ejaculate, and fall over into
a dead faint. He’ll lay there for three to five minutes until he
comes around. Many men experience the same thing.
Women have an
anomaly as well that sets them apart from other mammals. They don’t
have a free floating sack in their uterus. Curious, we have developed
separate and distinct physical anomalies from the other mammals on our
planet. Some radical thoughts are that man may be a hybrid species.
They point out that the stable sack would be ideal for space travel
even if a woman were pregnant. The fetus wouldn’t be banging
around inside her.
Now, what does
this all have to do with you and your happiness? Considering what
I've told you it's not hard to imagine that homosexuality itself
may have some causality in early conditioning. I like to think of it as
imprinting on the brain. If you’re a lonely child seeking love and
attention in an unstable family situation, who just happens to
have a stud uncle who wears big boots and shows you attention, treats
you with respect, doesn't talk down to you, maybe pets you, holds
you close to him, and is never rejecting, bamm, you’re imprinted.
You may spend the rest of your life looking for that love or a
facsimile.
Then, as we gain
experiences in life we transfer bits and pieces to our present
consciousness. We look for sexual response that most closely
resemble our earlier imprinting. If we find someone who sends up our
flag, we dabble, sample, reject, and ultimately feel empty and
disillusioned because we can't find the damn key to put it all
together. One night you meet this hunk of a man in a bar whose wearing
the hottest damned pair of boots. He's mature, well met,
sure of himself, and God help you, he's showing interest in you. He
buys you a beer, puts his arm around you in comradery, and hangs
on your every word. He's showing that little boy inside of you his
attention. Attention equals love.
You go home with
him, and he's a take charge kinda guy. Strums your banjo big
time. You’re so taken with him you allow him to tie you to the
ceiling and set your hair on fire. You don't care, it’ll
grow back. He’s showing you attention. He’s getting what he
wants, but he’s thoughtful and generous. Let’s say you really get off
on swinging from the ceiling and his control. You would do
anything for this man to gain his approval. Bamm! You’re imprinted
again. Do you see any similarities between this man and your stud
uncle? Bits and pieces transferred to a new concept of sex. After
a brief but intense affair with this guy you separate, go about your
life, and one day it hits you: ‘My God, I can't have good sex unless
I'm swinging from the ceiling with my hair on fire.’” We both
roared with laughter. I’d made up my mind, I liked this man a lot.
"Did you ever
see the play, ‘Equus’? Prime example of how male sexuality may become
conditioned for unusual sexual response. Look at ex-marines, who,
for all their macho bullshit still retain sublimated homosexual
responses; remember the Corps! Semper Fi! The words, ‘ training’,
‘conditioning’, ‘imprinting’, ‘brainwashing’, all have similar effects
that may be arrived at through clever manipulation of the male sexual
response." He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, then
grabbed my arm tightly.
"This is
conditioning! Do I have your attention?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"If you really
want someone to remember something important, grab them forcibly, then
tell them what you want them to remember. It's a subtle form of
conditioning. Now that I have your attention here comes the important
message: sado/masochism, Master/slave, control/submission, Top/bottom,
are all forms of conditioning to sexual response. They may be taught or
learned responses; however, one way or the other, imprinting
occurs. From that point on, a person’s sexual response depends on
his conditioning. It's just that simple. Got that, Son?" he asked as he
shook my arm he still held tightly.
"Yes, Sir!" I
responded soundly and thought, “Could it really be that simple? Surely
not! If only...?”
"Okay, now, you
tell me how this applies to you?" he asked as he released my arm.
"As a child, I
desperately wanted and needed the love and acceptance of a strong alpha
male. I never got it. Having never had a strong male
influence in my life, all this time, I’ve still been looking for
it. Seeking it has become my conditioning, growing stronger
throughout my life, until— ” I wasn't sure were I was going with
this.
"Yes, keep
going, you’re doing fine, you're almost there." He urged like a
schoolmaster.
"— until it has
become an obsession with me. One I can’t seem to find within my current
paradigm. Unless I’m willing to give up preconceived ideas and
fears of allowing the natural processes of conditioning to occur,
follow my heart instead of my brain, I’ll continue to be
frustrated; however, knowing this, I may have some choices as to how I
become imprinted, now and in the future.”
"Exactly! I
wasn't sure, for a minute, you understood. Good for you, Son. Now, with
this information, what’s the logical conclusion."
"The imprinting
most likely to provide what I'm seeking is,— "
"Once you hear
yourself say it, Son, you're over half way there."
"Slave
training." I almost said to myself but loud enough for him to hear.
“I didn't hear
that, Son, would you mind repeating it?" he yanked my chain.
“Slave training,
Sir." I said directly to him.
"Then what is
there to fear, Son? Should the potential for happiness and contentment
be something to fear?"
I couldn't
answer. I was deep in thought. Stunned! The old man won his point, but
was wise enough to leave me to my thoughts. It wasn’t easy coming to
grips with something you were in denial about for so long. Ask any
recovering alcoholic. He grabbed me in his big arms, pulled me to
his chest, and held me tight without a word. He knew and understood.
Knowing he knew and was empathetic enough to offer comfort to a man
he’d only met an hour ago made me lose it. He was whispering a
lot of "There, there’s,— the hardest part's over," and something
about ‘epiphanies?’
"Somehow,—
you’ve become conditioned to seek what you described for me; however,
you're never going to find anything near it unless you also
consider the price you’re willing to pay. Remember that song from the
‘Fantastics’, ‘It Depends On What You Pay.’ The Gypsy
sings, 'You've got to pay to get the kind of rape you want'?
Well, nothing could be more true; especially, among young gay men. You
have a wonderful opportunity today to find those things you're
seeking, but how do you find what your looking for if you don't
know yourself?
You want a man
to love you like you want to be loved. How do you want to be loved? Do
you know? Must not if you want to explore your "passive" side. You
haven't been too happy with the temporary top routine, and—
another thing,— do you know what love is? Everybody throws that
word around like it means the same to everyone. It doesn't. Love
hardly ever enters the vocabulary of Masters/slaves I know. It's
there, it just isn't thought about in the same way. That doesn't mean
it's a less valid concept or definition. In some ways it's a Hell of a
lot stronger bond than most people will ever know.
I know you have
reservations about the idea of Master/slave relationships, but to be
honest, that's the only kind of long lasting relationships
between men that works. The reason is genetic. Men are in competition
with each other, and two gay men, trying to live on a give and take,
equal basis, never works in the long run. They're constantly at each
other jockeying for position or control until frustration gets the best
of one or the other,— they throw up their hands and terminate the
relationship.
It’s many
people’s consensus there must be a leader or dominant alpha male in a
relationship, and one who is naturally inclined or conditioned to
follow. It’s an accepted fact in nature, the concept of the dominant
‘alpha’ male is standard from species to species. Because of our
reasoning brains we'd like to think we’re above and removed from the
animals on our planet, but the truth is, we’re not. We’re
animals, too. Being animals we’re subject to the same laws of
nature they are with one exception;— because we can reason we’re
capable of breaking those laws from time to time. Don’t ever
believe the phrase; crimes against nature. If it weren’t in our
nature to reason there would be no laws to break.
Actually, S
& M becomes a misnomer in most Master/slave relationships I’m aware
of. I know of no Master who would consciously be sadistic or hurt
his slave. There may be good, rough, male/male sex, the
slave may need to be punished for correction from time to time, but
never for the sake of being cruel. One of the first rules a good
Master learns is never to punish a slave when he’s angry. It’s
unfortunate that title accompanies Master/slave titles and is spoken of
in the same category. Ninety-eight percent of Masters I know aren’t
sadist and an equal percentage of slaves aren’t masochist.
Because a Marine
is conditioned to follow orders would you label him a masochist. It
might not be wise to suggest that to one. The term S & M is some
misguided queen’s idea of what dominant/submissive sex should be all
about. It’s sort of like pop music, thank God it isn’t popular long.
Within the type male bonding I’m describing the ties can be so binding
they last for years. I know Masters and slaves who have been together
thirty or forty years and the Master is still tying the slave to the
ceiling and setting his hair on fire." We both had a good laugh.
"You’re not
going to find that in vanilla situations or most of your average top
and bottom relationship. So,— it seems to me like you have a decision
to make about how badly you want what you’ve expressed to me, and how
much you're willing to change your life to get it.
Remember,— all of life is a trade off. You might consider
letting me refer you to some Masters who might be willing to take you
on as a new trainee slave,— to get your feet wet,— so to speak.
I'm willing to work with you. I know several men who would love to
expand your horizons." he chuckled at his own joke, "They’re Masters
who are employed in delicate professional jobs and are concerned with
the possibility of exposure. They would bring you along slowly
and not go further than agreed. They’re safe and sane men who don't
want to scare anyone away from a lifestyle they wholeheartedly embrace.
However, you
can't continue to play them without a commitment either. After they’ve
invested several sessions playing with you in their dungeon, giving you
sexual attention and control, if they like you they’re going to start
asking about commitments. To train someone to be their slave,
companion, life partner or whatever you want to call it is a big
investment. Any man who has learned the ways of being a Master
and undertakes to train you, want's to be assured he's going to get the
maximum return on his investment. That's understandable, isn't it?”
"Yes, Sir." I
nodded in reply.
"Or,— with
further discussions I might consider training you myself if you think
you’re interested; however, it would require a radical change in your
lifestyle. It would require you to develop a different philosophy in
your approach to life. That becomes part of imprinting, but I think
you're a bit more receptive now than you were an hour ago." he paused
for a response.
"Agreed." was
all I could muster.
“If I agreed to
take you on, these issues must be discussed and resolved. You would
have to understand, when I felt you were ready, you would be sold to a
good Master. I would get seventy-five percent of the sale price
and you would have the rest to put in an account in your name. I don't
wish to take on a permanent slave at this time in my life. Am I reading
you completely wrong? Maybe you just want to dabble at being a bottom
and might be more interested in becoming a good Master? I know
men who would be happy to teach you the ropes,— so to speak."
"No, Sir, you
were right the first time." I felt I could tell this man anything
about my deepest fears and secrets without embarrassment or ridicule.
"Sir," I said hesitantly, "I'd give everything I owned to find a man
who would share life with me, and I would do anything to please him.
Now,— if that makes me a candidate for consensual slavery,— so be it."
I don't know where those words came from, but it seemed to be the most
honest and truthful thing I’d ever said.
* * * * * * *
Part III ~ Oh,
Master, teach me thy ways. Thomas to Christ
"Let's see if
you might be slave material. Beginning right now," he paused for
emphasis, “until I choose to release you, later this evening," he
paused again, “you agree to be my slave. It'll give you a chance to see
how it feels to call a man ‘Master’ and hear yourself be called
‘slave.’ You all ready show me respect when you call me ‘Sir.’ To be
honest, your respectfulness is the only reason you're still here.
That's the first basic step and respect for a Master is much the
same. I would guess you're probably from the South. Anyone older
than you is automatically addressed as ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Sir,’ right?"
"Yes, Sir." I
laughed.
"Okay, you
continue that respect by substituting ‘Master’ for ‘Sir.’ Until I
dismiss you, you're to do exactly as I order without hesitation and no
questions. In effect, you'll have to be trusting enough to place
yourself under my control. Are you willing? Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir,— I'm
willing and I understand."
"Good! Now,— you
may refer to me as ‘Master Jeb,’ ‘Sir,’ or just ‘Master.’ I'll
refer to you as ‘slave,’ ‘boy,’ or both. Try to think of calling me
your Master as respect or manners, if you will,— like when you address
me as ‘Sir.’ Slave manners,— that's what it's all about, Son. Now,
consider,— before you react to anything I order you to do,— if you
hesitate or say no, we’ll stop and our agreement will be cancelled. If
you're not comfortable and choose to stop, I'll understand; however, it
won’t mean you've flunked the interview. I'll still work with you and
set you up with some good men. I just won't waste your or my time and
many of my clients by considering you as possible permanent slave
material,— understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"All right then,
my new slave boy,— we'll complete the physical part of your
application,— strip!" With no hesitation I stripped off my
clothes including my socks and stood at parade rest to wait for further
instructions. He turned, looked me up and down and made a couple of
notations on his chart. He walked over to me, grabbed my cock and balls
in his hands, took his other hand and gently inspected each.
"Not bad,— " he
stated, "not real large but not too small either. Size in a slave
doesn't matter much. Most Masters aren't interested in a slave's
dick anyway; however, some like to suck their slaves dicks from time to
time. I even know a couple of Masters who order their slaves to fuck
them regularly. They are,— after all,— for his pleasure no matter
how he wants it, and there’s Hell to pay if they don't give him a
righteous fucking. Okay Son, kneel on this step and lean over this
examination table."
I followed his
instructions and waited. I heard the pop of a pair of rubber
examination gloves, and knew he was going to inspect my ass. I felt the
cold lubricant he rather forcibly applied to my sphincter. He must have
had medical training, he knew exactly where to find my prostate and
checked it out thoroughly. He didn't stop there.
“You’re clean
inside. You cleaned yourself before you came?”
“Yes, Sir, force
of habit. If I should get lucky I want to be clean. It’s healthier and
safer for me.”
“Wise young man
and one, in whom, hope continues.” I could hear an approving
smile in his voice.
"Now,—
try’n relax. I'm gonna' see how much you'll stretch. Later you could
probably be trained to open twice what you can now." He began to work
two, three, then four fingers into my hole. He stood facing the back of
the inspection table. He placed one arm around my waist, holding me
tight as his other hand cork screwed about half his huge hand up my
butt. He was patient and didn't rush his inspection. I was really
opening up, and at one point, thought he was going to put his
whole hand up there. I’ve never had a hand up my ass, but the masterful
way he was working my hole, I was almost sad he didn’t. I didn't drop
my ass, but kept it high enough so he could get to it easily. I tried
pushing back a couple of times, but he ordered me not to.
"Tight!" he
said, "That's good," he further allowed, as he pulled his hand out of
my ass. "Your bone structure will allow you to be fisted without too
much problem. Are you a virgin to that?"
"Yes Sir, I've
never been fisted. I thought for a minute, there, I was going to be,
but I wasn’t frightened. I trust you know what your doing."
“You’ve hit on
the name of the game, Son. Trust,— if I had inserted my hand, would it
have upset you?”
“”Naw, Sir. You
were feeling so good, I was kind a hoping you might.” he laughed
understandably. I was really getting aroused and he noticed. His free
hand reached to my crotch and gave my dick a couple of strokes.
"Something wrong
down there, slave?"
“Naw, Sir. Feels
like it should under the circumstances. Don't feel wrong to me, Sir,—
fact is,— it feels pretty damn good."
"You have good
natural ass juice secretion for lubrication if a Master should wish to
dry fuck you and many do from time to time. It's good for a slave to
have a sore hole for a day or two to remind him of the good fuck his
owner gave him." He commented and slapped me on my bare butt with his
big hand.
"Has this
examination excited you, slave?" he asked rhetorically, able to see my
stifter.
"Uuh, Yes Sir,—
I believe it has, Sir."
"I haven't
fucked a tight little butt like yours in a long time. You can't have
been fucked too many times ‘cause your ass is still tight. It's almost
virginal. I don't find an ass as tight as your’s very often and
examining it’s got my old cock dripping. Your cocky attitude and butch
bottom persona has turned me on since you walked through the
door. A couple of times I wanted to back hand the snot out
of you 'cause you were being so dense and arbitrary. Then I thought
about just grabbing you up by the nape of the neck, throwing you across
my knee, and giving your butt the spanking it's needed for a long time.
You seem to be
responding though,— slowly coming around,— showing some progress, and
here I am, about to grant your wish to be topped just a little earlier
than you planned. I sometimes top a man I’m considering referring to my
clients to get an idea who I'm sending to them. I'm, sure as
Hell, going to this time. What you need is a good attitude adjustment,
and I'm just the man what can do it. Your ass is so tight, I'll bet
you’ve never had your cherry popped. I haven't popped one in a long
time, but I'm damn sure gonna' carve another notch on my belt today
because I'm just about to bust yours. Then we'll go to work on that
tight little ass, and I think we can open it right up."
I could hear him
remove the gloves, and then remove his pants. He walked around the side
of the exam table with his cock laid across his open hand for me to
see. Damn, it was huge. It was about ten inches and looked like a damn
beer can. He began to speak to me as he stroked it a couple of times.
"I never stick
my dick in a man who won't make love to it first." he said. I
immediately moved to the edge of the table and kissed the big head and
tongued his piss hole.
"Now take just
the head in your mouth and suck on it. You can watch me get hard." I
began to suck on the head and was surprised at how it began to grow. It
became engorged with blood and grew to enormous proportions. By the
time he instructed me to stop I could barely get my mouth around it. He
moved behind me, and I began to get nervous because he was so large. He
instructed me to raise my ass, and I felt his finger explore my hole
again. He chuckled to himself.
"Your little ass
is ripe, slave boy. Your boy-butt juices are dripping." I felt him
reach into my ass, then pause for a few minutes, he reached into my ass
again with two fingers, and then not touch me for a few minutes.
“I'm dipping
into that dripping little butt of yours to get some of your slick
boy-butt juice to lube my cock. It'll make it much smoother when I pop
you open. Man,— is it ever ready to have it’s cherry popped. I know
you've been fucked before, but I'll bet no one's ever claimed your
cherry; however, I'm about to do that right now.” I felt his
boots on either side of my feet on the step as he leaned over me. "Now,
Son, I'm not trying to be mean but I'm gonna’ take your ass pretty hard
to bust your cherry.” He spoke softly to me. I was glad I cleaned
myself before I came to this appointment. I had no idea what I was
getting myself into, but I wanted to be prepared.
“It's gonna'
hurt like Hell for a few minutes, but bite your teeth together and push
back on me. I promise you the pain will soon go away, and you’ll give
and get the best fucking you've ever had,— ready, Son?”
I liked the way
he called me ‘Son’. It was almost like I was going to get fucked by my
real dad. I was scared shitless at what he said he was going to do;
however, I had fantasized about being taken hard, and this was my
chance to try it.
"Yes, Sir." I
replied. Before I could think or breathe he slammed his huge shaft into
my ass almost to the hilt. My asshole went crazy. Nothing
has ever hurt me that much, and I tried to buck him off. He knew the
reaction I’d have, locked his arms around me and held me tight. For an
older dude he was built like a fucking Mack truck, and there was no way
this side of Hell I was going to get off his dick. I started crying it
hurt so much; however, his big dick was doing wonders to adjust my
cocky butch bottom attitude. I finally stopped squirming, and he was
whispering there, there's in my ear. Then I remembered his
instructions, and pushed my ass back and up onto his huge cock. Damned
if it didn't help a little.
"That's a good
boy," he cooed. "You listened to your Master. Your Master will make
that pain go away." With that he took a couple of small strokes,
and I began to open up. Then almost as quickly as the pain had come, it
went away, and I began to feel full, warm, with the most comfortable
feeling of belonging I’d ever experienced. I felt like I’d passed some
initiation or rite of passage into manhood.
“Does it hurt
that much, Son?" he asked. “The first time always hurts the most.
You'll get use to it,— even look forward to it. It serves a purpose. It
gets a slaves attention and serves notice his owner expects a good
fuck.”
"No, Sir,— it
feels so damn good. I just cried because I'm stupid. Your cock is
filling me up, but it feels damn good inside me."
"It's customary
to thank a man who has just popped your cherry or taken you hard like
that."
"Thank you,
Master." That was the first time I ever used the word. Considering the
attitude adjustment I was so righteously given, it seemed natural to
show him respect. Having said it and meant it, I accepted my position
as his slave for the evening.
"You’re
welcome, slave. Now let's do a couple of simple exercises. Let me
feel you bite down real hard with your ass. There,— that's good.
Once again. Yeah,— unhuh,— that's good. I can feel that. Yeah! Uh-huh,—
yeah. Again! Oh, yeah! Now,— let me feel you use your ass to suck
on it. Take a couple of small strokes with your butt.
Oh, yeah,—
that's good. Couple more! Uh, huh,— not bad, boy. That's right. Yes,—
just a little more on the,— ahh, yes! That's it,— you've got it! Now
raise that little butt and push back hard on my dick. I think you can
take it all. I want you to chow down with that tight little ass, and
eat the last three inches yourself. That little ass is
hungry. I can feel it."
I raised my butt
and pushed back,— made my ass suck it for a while,— then, with a
big lunge backward with my ass I took more. He gently urged me back
like a football coach. I found myself feeling the most important
thing in the world was to please this big, grey bear of a man. Soon, I
felt his crotch hit my butt. I kept on eating his cock with my ass
until I was pressing into his belly to get as much of him in me as he
would let me have. With his arms still around my waist he pulled
me to a standing position to get the last little bit inside me. I
welcomed it. We stood with him deep within me for several minutes while
he ran his big hands the length of my body playing with my cock and
balls,— pulling,— twisting them to just the point of pain. He played
with my tits, milking them, squeezing, cupping them,— all the while
lodged deep within my gut.
"I've only found
a couple of men in my life who could take all of me, boy, and one I
never let go. He died four years ago, but don't be frightened, I don't
mean to claim you for my own. I have someone in mind for you who’s
looking for unspoiled talent. He's a very strict, hard Master who would
train you to become a useful slave, but he's also a fair and loving
man. I know this Master/slave talk kinda frightens you," he said as he
took a couple of long slow strokes into my ass, “that's understandable,
but I'll make you a bet,— anything you wish,— after you meet this man
and spend one evening with him,— you will beg to become his slave.
Now,— that's enough chatter,— let's get you fucked."
I’d never been
fucked like that before. I did my best to work with him and meet each
thrust so it might give him the most pleasure for his cock. He fucked
me slow, deep, long and hard. Damn,— he was right,— popping my cherry
was making me give him the best fuck I’d ever experienced. I was so
open he was slamming the entire length into me with no problem. I was
pushing my ass back as hard as I could hoping to get more of him inside
me.
He fucked me
steady for a good thirty minutes. Every now and then he would comment
on how much he loved to fuck tight boy butt. He rested for a while
still inside me and then continued to fuck me like a wild man. Soon
after, he seemed to tire. "Master, I'll
get you off if you’ll relax on the bed and let me ride you." I
don't know why I told him that. I’d never done that sort of thing
before, but I had no problem with the idea right then.
"Okay, slave
boy,— let's see what you've got!" he pulled out and my ass made a small
popping sound.
"Sounds like
that cherry grew back, Son!” He laughed, “You know what you have
do. Now,— don't tell me your gonna’ do something and not deliver.
In other words,— don't let your mouth write a check your ass can't
cash."
"Yes, Master." I
replied.
I positioned my
ass onto the mushroom head of his big cock, and with no hesitation sunk
it all the way to the base. More pain,— but this time I knew it
would soon pass and would help me give him a good ride.
"Was that
okay, Sir?"
"I'm proud of
you, slave." Those were magic words, all I needed to flip the on
switch to my cock riding, ass fucking machine. I don't know where my
butt learned to ride a dick like that, but I became a cock riding
demon. I was a pretty athletic little fuck, and got a good rhythm going
on his big cock. I watched his face and could tell when I was
doing a stroke that would begin to build him up toward shooting.
I hunkered down and began to pound my ass down hard and fast on
his big shaft. I was giving his prick a good riding and could tell his
huge cock began to feel even larger in my butt. I knew I was getting
him near climax. I was taking longer, faster strokes, and I rode him
into the air as his back arched to give me all of it he could. I knew
he was close, and I didn't waist an inch of his huge cock as he shot a
big man load up my hole.
He collapsed in
heavy breathing, but had a big smile on his face. He was spent.
I’d managed to drain his big balls into my ass in one violent
moment. I clamped down hard with my ass, and begin to milk him to
get the last few drops. He reached down and grabbed my nuts in his big
gnarled hand, pulled them tight, and started squeezing them hard.
“Now, slave," he
said, "you don't get off my cock until you shoot. So,— you'd better
take my horse for another ride."
I knew he wasn't
kidding, and the idea of me being forcibly retained, impaled on his
huge cock was enough to make me come without touching myself; however,
out of habit, I reached down to take my cock in my hand.
"Take you're
hand away, slave. You're going to get another benefit from having your
cherry popped. Now,— you open up your little ass and ride that big cock
like your proud of it being inside of you. Ram that come deeper in your
ass. See how far up there you can push it, understand?"
"Yes, Master
Jeb." I started riding him again,— slamming my butt down hard on his
still erect shaft. Damn,— I fucked my ass harder than he probably would
have. I could think of nothing else but his come going up into me
further and further. About the fifth big hard slam to the base I
exploded all over his white haired chest. It drained me completely. I
never shot that much in my life. Where did it come from? I was drained.
I was empty.
"Thank you,
Master." I whispered.
"I didn't hear
you, boy." he lied.
"Thank you,
Master." I said in a natural voice.
"I didn’t HEAR
you, boy!" he spoke sternly.
"THANK YOU,
MASTER!" I yelled at the top of my voice.
"That's better!"
he replied.
"I must tell
you, a slave is rarely allowed to come. At first, that may sound
hard, but considering a slave's only purpose in life should be service
to his Master, it becomes a form of control; a form of conditioning
like we discussed. Beside, when his Master does allow him to come, it’s
fifty times better. I've seen slaves who haven't been allowed to come
for a couple of months pass out when they came. Since you did such a
good job of riding my old hoss for your first time, I felt you deserved
a reward."
He reached up,
pulled me to him, and kissed me gently while still holding his still
erect cock deep in my ass. A dam broke inside me, and I let it all out.
I cried on his big white haired chest. It hit me squarely between the
eyes, this man was giving me the control I was searching for. I felt he
understood I needed to serve him, and he knew I belonged on his dick
enjoying the glow of my accomplishment. I wasn't ashamed to show my
emotions to him. I'm usually not emotional, but all this was happening
too fast for me to process. The things he said made a lot of sense to
me. It was like he opened the book of my life and was reading the most
secret pages. It was as if I was looking through a glass door dimly,
and then someone opened it for me to see. I knew he understood.
Like a good Master should, I thought. He petted me and stroked me until
I got it all out. I apologized, and he smiled knowingly. All the while,
he was taking some long slow strokes into my butt. He knew it was
soothing and comforting as I slowly began to push back to make the
feeling the best for both of us. Damn,— he sure knew what he was doing.
I’d never been fucked that sweetly before. "Don't feel
ashamed, Son. Your Master understands you just had an epiphany which
can shake you to your roots. Sometime we can see further through our
tears than we can a telescope." He paused for a moment and then added,
"You’re going to make some Master a fine slave, Son. Now, sit back on
my dick and clean your boy come off my chest. Then when I give you
permission, you may pull off my cock. You'll clean that, too." I looked
puzzled, but he explained.
"Use your mouth,
slave. Never insult a Master by handing him a trick towel. Use your
mouth to clean him after he's finished using you. It’ll be good
training for you. A Master who buys you or one I refer you to will want
to know you’ve been trained in Master/slave sex manners and this is an
essential one. Now,— get to it!"
There was
something about the way this man ordered me to do things that made me
do them without question. Like someone mesmerized to do one distasteful
task while he thought he was doing another more appealing one. The
funny thing was,— the reality blended into one and both tasks became
acceptable with no feelings of reluctance. I knew I was going to
do it. He seemed to know, too. His control over me was strong and
powerful and,— God help me,— I wanted more. I lapped up every drop of
come I could find. "Now,— pull off
of me, boy." He instructed me. I did and looked at his still half hard
cock. He stood up and ordered me to kneel in front of him. I
obeyed. I thought for a minute, I might hesitate, but I didn't.
I'm proud to say I cleaned him good. I knew he was pleased and
proud of me as well. His strong, commanding voice gently urged me to
follow his orders as you might teach a child to walk,— one step at a
time.
“You're a
natural, boy." he said "Clean it good,— that's it,— go ahead,— clean
your Master’s dick, slave." I took his cock in my mouth, as much as I
could, and he told me he was happy with my cleaning job. I sat
back on my heels, and thanked him for allowing me to clean him
"You need
something to wash the taste out of your mouth." he told me. "Open your
mouth and hold the head of my cock." he ordered. "Now,— grab my butt
with your hands. Okay,— I'm gonna’ give you a little and you swallow."
Damn,— my first
taste of Master piss. It was wonderful. I swallowed with no problem and
began to suck for more.
"I'm gonna’ let
it flow a little faster. If you have a problem gently squeeze my ass
with your hand, and I'll stop the flow, understand?" I squeezed
his ass I understood, and he started the flow again. I drank and
drank, gulped a few times until I could feel my belly was
expanding with his good, hot man piss. Then I sucked for more. He
didn't keep me waiting. He started his flow, full out. I
gulped, gulped, and gulped again.
"I can't believe
this, slave. You like piss." he laughed and rubbed my head, then
started the flow again. Damn, it was hot. What had I been missing?
Gulping Master Jeb's piss down was the hottest thing I’d done in Los
Angeles.
"I've got a
little more for you,— then,— that's all you get." he laughed looking at
my extended belly. I must have had two quarts of piss in my belly. I
didn’t care, I wanted more. I squeezed his butt with both hands to let
him know I wanted it. This time I rammed his cock so far down the back
of my throat I didn't have to swallow. He started the flow, but when he
felt he didn't have to control it, he opened up, full flow, and gave my
belly the rest.
"Good boy! Now,—
that's the way a slave should take his Master’s piss. Stand up
and turn around." He ordered. Master Jeb looked at me like
an admiring father dotes on a son. He made me feel proud of myself. He
pulled me up tightly to his hard body, and reached his big arms around
me. He began to rub my piss extended belly telling me how hot it looked
to know his piss was in there stretching me out like that. He
positioned his hands lower to each side and shook it so he could hear
his piss slosh around inside. He laughed a pleased laugh and shook it
again. He went to the door and called for a friend in another part of
the house.
"Hey, Jim! Get
chur' ass in here for a minute,— got something you should see."
in a softer voice he spoke to me, "Don't be embarrassed, Son. I'm
proud of you and wanna’ show you off."
"Yes, Sir,
Master Jeb."
I was about to
meet the man who floated on the back roads of all my fantasies. A
man of my imagination who caused me to soil my sheets so many nights,
the man to whom I would compare all others, and would ultimately become
one of two men I would, one day, call my Masters.
End of Chapter 1
~ Ties That Bind Copyright 2004
Waddie Greywolf
All rights reserved ~ Mail to:
<waddiebear@yahoo.com>