“There is no
coming to consciousness without pain.” Carl Jung
I lay in the
arms of an angel. Do all angels have wings? My head was passing
back and forth from one dimension to the other. One,— where
handsome wingless angels with sad violet eyes and donkey dicks dwelled.
They swaggered around wearing side arms and the sweetest bad-ass boots
I ever had my mouth on. Then there was another realm where Master Earl
D. Shaw was holding me, petting me, asking if I was all right, waving
his hand in front of my glazed eyes, snapping his fingers for me to
focus.
“Beau!
Beau! Can you hear me?”
‘He was doing
all this,’ I thought, ‘that handsome devil, for me? How nice, all
that, and yet, somehow, he managed to pinch that poor angel’s
cock.’ I could see the headlines: Cop Confiscates Angels
Cock! Film at eleven. I laughed at my own craziness. What’s wrong with
this picture? What’s going on? Go ask Alice, I think she’ll
know. Rabbits down a hole.
‘My brain,’ I
thought, ‘oxygen starved. That’s the ticket. Try breathing you idiot!
Deep breaths! That’s it! This is Los Angeles, live dangerously,
take a deep breath.’ The cobwebs began to clear. There was Master Earl
looking at me with concerned eyes. Could lavender eyes be concerned?
Well, they seemed to be. Nice of him to let me sniff his plastic cod
piece or whatever that damn thing was he held over my nose.
'Goodbye,
Buddy.’ I spoke through glazed eyes. I saw a beautiful man
standing next to the bed waving at me. I was talking to him
earlier about something, but I couldn’t remember about what. ‘I know
I’m returning, I’m coming around, I’ll see you again, bye.’ He
lifted a hand to wave. One full minute of oxygen, the fog lifted, and
reality came rushing in like a slam dunk.
“What the Hell?
How’d I get here?” I sat up with a start. Master Earl removed the
oxygen cannula from my nose.
“Woah, steady,
young man. You’ve been drifting in and out for about an hour now, Beau.
Are you all right?”
Earl D. found a
hit of oxygen would clear most people’s head in a matter of minutes,
but the alpha state is seductive. People want to return. It’s like when
you wake up after sleeping really hard and you’re still ‘sleep drunk.’
You want to lay back down and go to sleep again. He watched me
carefully and decided to get me up and moving.
“I think I’m all
right. What happened? Where’s my friend?
“What friend,
Beau?”
“Maybe he wasn’t
real. He was my friend David from Nam. I loved him. We had the sweetest
sex.”
“Do you remember
our conversation about thirty minutes ago?”
“I remember
someone telling me I didn’t lose my plug, but I didn’t believe them. I
don’t remember getting to this bed”
“No,— you didn’t
lose the plug. I’ll explain the details later let’s get you up and
walking.” Master Earl said as he picked me up to a standing position.
Damn, he was a strong man, but he could be so gentle. Fuck! He smelled
so good I wanted to take a bite out of his asshole so bad my tongue got
hard. My legs were just a bit rubbery, but I managed to walk around.
Things were coming back.
“Gee, Master
Earl,— that must have been one Hell of a fuck. Wish I’d been there.”
Officer Earl D. Shaw threw back his head and roared with laughter.
‘Damn,— that
felt good.’ He thought to himself. He hadn’t found much to laugh about
since Wes died.
“We
haven’t gotten to that part, slave-boy.” Earl said
pointedly.
“No,— well,—
from what I can see I’m definitely gonna’ enjoy it.” Earl laughed
again. He was concerned about me because I seemed to be more
susceptible to the pull of the alpha state than anyone he’d
encountered before. I was like a man coming down from a three-day
drunk. He’d seen this sort of thing before but not to this degree. What
a change in my personality. I went from carrying the collected guilt of
the world to having a sense of humor.
* * * * * * *
Earl had seen
the whip work miracles. He was good at what he did and knew almost to
the number, how many strokes of the whip it would take for any given
slave to ‘cross over;’— a term Earl D. invented. You won’t find it in
any medical book, but it fairly well describes what they experienced.
He watched Wes grow from the whip. Wes was deathly afraid of the whip.
He was physically abused as a child, but Wes insisted Earl let him try
again and again. Slowly, Earl D. brought him along. He never went
further than Wes could. He was more concerned for Wes because he was so
small. Wes would always let him know when he could go no further. They
had a signal between them. Earl would stop immediately and praise Wes
for how much further he progressed than last time whether he really had
or not.
Discipline
didn’t come easy for Wes. It was his idea that Earl begin to mold him
to be the slave he needed. Earl never pushed him to the dungeon. His
promise to obey Earl’s order to trust and his acceptance brought new
areas of exploration for Wes. He began to solve the dichotomy of ideas
within S & M sex. How could anything equating the brutal beatings
he received as a boy from his father be sexually stimulating? Wes began
to separate the violence of the whip and its symbol of punishment to
the greater idea of a rite of passage and an unfailing trust in his
Master. He trusted Earl with his life and Earl returned his trust with
pride and unspoken love for his slave.
Wes’s father
caught Wes masturbating in the back of the barn one day and went
insane. He grabbed Wes by his little cock and balls and practically
dragged him to the back porch. There was no screen on the porch, just
flat boards for a walkway. He grab something as he left the barn with
Wes in tow. Wes was in great pain and screaming loudly. He was sure his
father was going to either pull his cock and balls off or cut them off.
Maybe that would have been better than what his sadistic father was
about to do in the name of teaching the boy God’s way. He held
Wes’s penis to a flat board on the porch which came up to about Wes’
waist and with one swift movement drove a sixteen D common nail through
it. Wes screamed and cried.
“Oh Daddy, Oh
Daddy, please take it out! I’ll never do it again, I promise! It hurts!
It HURTS, DADDY!! Oh God! Oh, dear God, Daddy it hurts. Please,
Daddy! Please take it out. Oh, please, Daddy! I can’t stand
it, it hurts so bad! Oh, God, please, Daddy! Daddy!
Daddy! Daddy! Don’t do this to me, Daddy. I love you,
Daddy. How can you do this to me? Take it out, Daddy!”
The son of a
demon bitch slapped Wes hard across his face, as hard as he could
almost knocking the small boy out cold.
“Don’t you call
on the Blessed Lord’s name again you,— YOU, LITTLE HEATHEN PERVERT!
Only heathens and queers play with they's selves! Now you think about
what chu' done for an hour or so.”
He left Wes
alone with no way to get his little penis off that board. He stood
there, almost in shock, bleeding, looking down at his little boy penis,
his blood running out onto the board, in the hot Georgia sun. Wes
had no idea how long he stood there. Born by chance to a monster and
his spineless spouse, the small, beautiful, hapless child, a victim of
cruel and unusual punishment, for a normal human act that was made
dirty by the most unholy perversion of self righteous, backwoods
fundamentalism;— disorganized religion;— Satan’s playground. The Holy
Bible becomes an instrument to play any tune the Devil can dance to as
well as the angels. Hallelujah,— praise God and pass them snakes!
He stood
there for two full hours or more before his father returned and
unceremoniously ripped the nail from the board and his little prick.
Wes didn’t scream. He had none left in him. His dad didn’t bother to
sterilize the wound or bother to bandage the child. He forbid his
mother to care for him when he came to her for help. Wes wanted to die.
He lay that night in severe pain in the cold barn. His father threw all
his clothes from the house into the back yard. He was banished to live
in the barn. He felt lonely before but this was the end of the road. He
prayed to God to take him to heaven. He didn’t want to stay here any
more. If there was a God,— how could he let this happen to a little
one? An innocent child Jesus claimed he loved so well? Wes prayed. It
was his only hope. Night after night the small boy prayed to send an
angel to rescue him. He would be good, he promised. How long must he
suffer his father’s sick torture.
If demons there
be, Wes’ father was their high priest. He would regularly go into Wes’s
room to tuck him in, take his clothes off, crawl in bed with the boy,
and bugger him in his little butt. He would leave his son crying and
laugh as he walked away. Sometimes he’d turn at the door and mockingly
speak to Wes.
“Well, what’ju
you ‘spect? You wanna’ be a queer. Don’t blame me none. That’s what you
get’s for being queer. You get fucked in both your holes for a real
man’s pleasure. I’ll learn you how to be a good cocksucker and
cornholer. I’ll use you to get’s you ready fer when I take’s you’s to
Macon and sells’ yur ass to a real butt fuckin’ big queer I knows. You
fucked right good tonight, boy. I think’s tomorrow yus can suck
me off,— queer!”
Wes was
relegated to the barn. He felt he had no home. He didn’t. He was very
much alone. Wes’s mother never came to his defense. She was deathly
afraid of his father. He tried to kill her twice because he thought she
was 'a’witchen' and trying to cast a black spell on him because he
caught syphilis fucking a whore over to Waycross. Hell,— he knew’d she
weren’t church people when he married her. That’s why the Goddamn boy
turned out to be a queer. Weren’t his fault.
Weren’t having
no son of his’n bein’ no fucking queer. Get rid of the little bastard.
Get some moneys for him. ‘Cause once them queers gits a taste of a
man’s dick, or takes one up the butt, they be queers the rest of they
lives. Can’t change ‘em none, neither!
They’s like a
chicken killin’ dog. Can’t never get the taste of fresh blood out they
mouths. Have to kill ‘em. No good no more for nuthin.’ Take ‘em out and
shoot ‘em;— gets rid of ‘em. Might’en as well get rid of the kid
as well. He’s no damn good to me. Let him live his life in sin away
from here. If’n you’s right hand offends you, cut it off. See!
Says right there in the good book. Right there in Leviticus. Cast
out them demons. He’d keep ‘em a while longer to train him to suck and
get fucked good by a real man. Get’s more money for him if’n he’s
trained real good. Wes tried to run away when he was ten but his father
caught him.
“You wanna’ be a
queer so bad boy I’m a gonna’ see to it you gits yur wish.”
His demon father
took Wes and one small suitcase to Macon to a big queer he knew’d and
asked him how much he’d give him for his queer son. He’d trained him
really good to suck and git fucked in his butt so’s he could git a good
price for him. The man happened to be a Master and saw the look in
Wes’s face, of terror, anger, fright, hurt, pain, anguish,
embarrassment and worst of all a resign that he was worthless. Wes was
so humiliated he felt less than nothing. He tried to be invisible. Wes
happened to look up at the man and saw the face of an angel. He was
older with the lightest powder blue eyes that looked like silent pools.
He had the kindest face Wes ever saw on a big man and he was a very big
man. He had a full beard and a neatly trimmed mustache.
He reminded Wes
of a big, kindly bear he had seen onetime in one of his cousin’s
children’s book. Wes could imagine this big bear of a man holding him,
keeping him from harm, sitting in his lap, away from this horrible
scene his father was creating. This man was a handsome, well dressed
masculine man. He looked into Wes’s eyes and Wes looked back as
if to say I’m yours, do with me as you will, please take me away from
this. The big man’s heart grabbed Wes’ soul into his with one swift
look, and told him he would be his champion. Then the big man looked
back upon the face of evil. The Master looked at Wes’s father wondering
what awful, unspeakable things he’d done to his own child?
“How much you
asking for him?” the man ask with cool disdain.
“A hun’nert
dollars.” Wes’s father replied.
“For a scrawny
kid like that. Hell, Mister,— I can buy three of ‘em in Atlanta for
that. Bigger! Well fed! Do a lot more work than this one can.”
“Well, what’dya
gi’ me fur ‘em”
“Well, he’s got
a right nice face on ‘em, kinda pretty like. I’ll give you thirty
dollars for him.”
“Forty!”
“Done!” He
handed Wes’s father the money and gently lifted poor Wes into his big
arms, wiping away the tears, dirt and grime from Wes’s little face.
“Don’t be
afraid, Son, no harm will come to you. You’re safe with me.” Wes threw
his tiny arms around the big man’s neck, laid his little head on his
chest, and began to cry softly. He was crying for gratefulness to his
savior. Maybe God had heard his prayers after all. An angel came to him
the day his dad nailed him to the porch for the seventh or eighth time
and told him someone would come. He would go with this beautiful man.
He didn’t care what the future brought. There was no love from his
ineffectual mother after being rejected time and again by her when his
insane father would go nuts. He certainly wouldn’t miss the nocturnal
visits to rape him and then call him queer. The future had to be better
or he didn’t want to live. He would rather take a chance on the future.
Wes’s father’s took a parting shot at his son.
“That big queer
owns you now boy. I’ll bet his gonna’ fuck your little ass ‘til ‘ya
walks bowlegged.” he walked off laughing and counting his forty bucks.
The man who
bought Wes was Big Jim’s brother Walker Johnson. Wes made a solemn vow
never to see his father again. Walker placed his big hand on the back
of Wes’s small undernourished head and pulled him to his big chest in
an effort to cover the boy’s ears.
“Don’t listen to
him, Son,” he whispered to Wes, “He’s a Devil. That won’t happen to
you. You have my word, by God, that will not happen to you. You’re safe
with me and no one will ever hurt you again. Come, live with me, and be
my son.” Through his tears, Wes shook his little head
affirmative. Walker gently nuzzled him behind his ear with his full
bushy moustache. At that moment two important things happened. Wes fell
in love for the first time in is life, and in Walker’s heart he became
Wesley Johnson. Wes lived with Walker for fourteen years. Wes
fell deeply in love with Walker; although, Walker never took advantage
of Wes. He taught him to be a man. His own man. He finished high school
living with Walker.
Because Wes
applied himself and made top grades in high school Walker wanted to
send him to college. Wes was too much in love with Walker to leave him.
Walker became his family and Wes was welcomed into Walker’s big family
as one of them.
The small boy
suddenly came to dwell in the land of the giants. His new dad was big.
His uncle Jim was bigger and their dad was bigger than both of them.
Wes’s new grandmother was an enormous woman; not fat but huge; so were
Walker’s three sister, his aunts and cousins. They came to adore tiny
Wes. He was like a beautiful toy to them. To Wes, Walker was more than
a champion. He became his father, big brother, Indian guide, teacher,
and mentor. It never crossed Walker’s mind to take advantage of
Wes. To him, Wes became the son he knew he’d never have. Wes had other
dreams. Things were going along fine for Wes until the day he got the
letter from the government.
“Greetings! You
are hereby ordered to,— ” A year and a half later found him
in a three foot square bamboo cage being held prisoner by the VC.
* * * * * * *
As Wes’s trust
in Earl grew he knew he could count on him to stop when he gave the
signal. Likewise, the repeated sessions over a period of time began to
imprint on Wes what trust was all about and solidified his increasing
trust in his Master. If he didn’t signal, Earl D. would gladly
take him further, until one night, Wes didn’t signal at the point Earl
expected, and Earl prepared to take him to the next plateau. Wes all
ready stepped across the threshold. It was not fainting. It was like a
trance, an out of body experience that fakirs are known to induce
before their performances. It’s been compared to the alpha state in
bio-feedback. Sometimes, Earl’s partners would remain in the state for
several hours and claim to have unusual experiences. They would meet
strange people, dead friends, feel the presence of evil, or meet holy
people. Most were significantly changed by an extended session in
Master Earl’s dungeon. A large majority wanted to repeat the experience.
Wes began to
understand and enjoy the benefits of the alpha state. He would beg Earl
to take him to the dungeon especially when he was beginning to have
doubts, fears, or insecurities. Straightened him right out, every time.
That was the time Earl could most feel Wes’s love for him. Not from the
act, but from the resulting warmth Wes would radiate for days
afterward. It bonded them together to take these trips and Wes was
never happier or more loving than right after a night with his Master
in the dungeon. Earl would make the sweetest love to him for hours and
get some of the best sex he ever had. He would’ve never guessed Wes
would become such a sexual athlete.
‘Could Wes have
sent him Beau?’ Earl wondered to himself. Beau seemed like the kind of
man who was the salt of the Earth, but some very strange things
happened. Earl never had anyone get all the way through his trip on the
first go. Most dropped out during the first half. In Earl D.’s eye’s
Wes could do no wrong and had to be on a first name basis with the Big
Man in heaven. They played a game, Earl D. would grab Wes, hold him
tight, shove his big hand down the back of Wes’s pants to rub his
little butt to see if it was still tender. Most of the time Earl made
damn sure he kept it that way. Earl would ask him if he was glad his
big, bad ass, Cop Daddy whipped his little butt. It would invariably
flip a switch in Wes that would radiate joy. Wes would truly show his
love for Earl D. He would giggle like a school boy then speak
from his heart.
”Oh, God, yes,
Master Earl,— thank you!” And, he really meant it.
Earl
walked Beau out to the patio deck. It was a warm evening and the lights
of Los Angeles seemed to be dancing a command performance.
“I think I’m
back to normal; thirsty, but normal. Yeah, I’m normal.” Beau’s small
epiphany didn’t pass by Earl D. “Where’s that little guy who was around
here a while ago?” Beau asked.
“What little
guy, Beau?”
“The small,
buffed, short guy who was in the bedroom a while ago?” Earl sat quiet
for a minute.
“Is this some
kind of game, Beau?”
“No, there was a
short, little guy who said goodbye to me when you had that plastic
thing on my nose. Did he leave? He had a flat top, very blonde,
blue eyes, and had on a beige Eisenhower jacket with a blue and gold
emblem on the pocket. Man,— was he buffed out.” Beau said
with disarming honesty, “He was a nice guy. He listened to me. I told
him things about Nam I’ve never told another soul. I feel better. He
said I knew him, but I didn’t. Said I saved his life once, and he was
grateful. He told me he loved me, but I never met him before.” Earl
noticed Beau’s voice began to take on a flat effect and the tone
lowered.
‘Oh God,— he’s
lapsing back to alpha state.’ Earl thought to himself.
“Come on,” Earl
said, “let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll get you some cold water.”
Beau felt
comfortable not to be encumbered by clothes and sex toys. He was
beginning to have those bizarre coasting images where you’re not quite
asleep and not really awake,— you’re just coasting;— the first cousin
to a fevered nightmare.
‘Why do we have
to wear anything?’ Beau thought. Then the vivid memory of cleaning
Officer Earl’s boots slammed into his consciousness. He breathed in
quicky still smelling the wonderful smell of booted leather on his
breath.
‘Ah, yes, that’s
why. Now I remember. So slave-boys can have something to do with their
tongues. Makes sense to me.’ he rationalized to himself.
Earl D. got him
a glass of water, another, then another.
“You may be a
little dehydrated.” Earl D. said. They walked back to the patio, stood
for a minute looking at the lights, and slowly turned to look at each
other. Beau looked deep into Earl’s eyes and spoke in a barely audible
voice.
“Master, there
are other folks here with us on the patio. One just told me to tell you
something,— ”
“What’s that,
Son?”
“Thank you,
Earl,— for everything.” Beau said flatly with no
emotion but a decided southern lilt to his voice.
“For the water?
Oh,— oh, you mean,— sorry, Son!” He grabbed his slave, pulled him to
his chest, and held him tightly. Did the folks tell you to be
disrespectful?” He chided.
“They said this
one time only, you would forgive when you understood the meaning.” Beau
said flatly, respectfully. Earl D. looked him in the eyes and chills
began to tap dance on his spine causing his scalp to crawl in several
direction at once. He felt his forehead join the tingling as the
‘meaning’ shook him to his core. He threw his handsome head back,
looked at the stars, and groaned deeply.
“Oh, God! Oh,—
oh, my God!” was all he could get out. Earl closed his eyes and was
silent for several minutes. He hugged Beau tighter as if he were afraid
Beau would bolt for the door.
“Is there a
meaning, Master?” Beau questioned quietly. Earl D., hung his head,
paused to compose himself, then began to speak slowly and deliberately
like the words were being carved out of his soul.
“I had a slave
named Wesley. Wes I called him. He was a small man. No,— he was
tiny. Wes had the heart of a lion and the attitude of a giant. If
he got angry and pulled himself up to his maximum of four feet eight,
people shut up and listened. I’ve seen him back down a man twice his
size. He was my devoted slave. I loved him dearly. You described him
perfectly a while ago when you ask about the little guy in the bedroom.
I don’t keep pictures out so unless Jeb told you about him you couldn’t
have known what he looked like; especially, his favorite jacket I still
have in the closet.” Beau looked at Master Earl with sympathy in his
eyes.
“God, Master
Earl,— I would never be so cruel to do something like that to anyone,
let alone you. Master Jeb only told me you lost your slave three
years ago in a plane accident,— nothing more.”
“That’s all
right, Son, I believe you. Some remarkable things have occurred
tonight. When I bought Wes he all ready signed all the usual
Master/slave contracts; however, he held out for one small exception in
the wording. The contracts were written by one of our group's attorneys
giving me full power over him. Of course, forced slavery in this
country is illegal but there are very few laws that apply to consensual
slavery. Attorneys hate it when there’s a change in their contracts.
Keep in mind, Wes and I only met a week before the contract was signed.
He was sold into our family at an early age by his homophobic father.
Paternal revenge for Wes turning out gay. ‘I’ll sell the queer into
slavery,’ his old man thought,— not knowing, it was probably the
best thing he could’ve done for Wes.
However, like
every thing else in life, shit happens. Wes didn’t have an easy go of
it. He was sold or given, Master to Master, ‘til one day no one knew
where he was or what happened to him. By accident, a straight friend of
Jeb’s, who liked to fuck the whores in Tijuana, was offered this young
gringo man to fuck for twenty pesos. He thought for twenty pesos a
little boy butt might be a nice change from tuna. He said he started
fucking the kid and realized he was white and probably American. He
said he was a damn good fuck and feeling so fine he paid them extra to
fuck him a little longer. He said when he went back to get a little
more boy butt, he got an idea. He thought the boy was too good a fuck
not to have been trained. Rather than enter him slowly he slammed his
considerable piece of meat into him to the hilt. He said he thought he
heard the kid say,
“Thank you,
Master!”
Then the kid
really started giving him a major, good fuck. He bought another hour
with him and slammed in him again to make sure he wasn’t hearing
things. Again the kid said,
“Thank you,
Master!”
He leaned over
him near his ear and spoke softly as he fucked him.
“I’m not a
Master, Son, but my good friend is. Whose boy are you and why are you
here?”
“I can’t tell
you, Sir. No good would come of it. Just enjoy your fuck, I’ll try to
make it as good for you as I can. Thank you for fucking me so good.”
He said his
heart went out to him and he asked his name.
“Wes, Sir.”was
all he said. Wes was so good he said he couldn’t hold back and shot a
big load up his ass. When he pulled out of Wes he was just gonna’ wipe
his old dick off but Wes begged him to let him clean it for him.
“You’re the
first man whose known how to fuck my ass in the last six months, Sir.
You deserve my respect.”
He proceeded to
lick the mess and come off his dick and cleaned him up good.
“I’m gonna’ tell
a couple of my friends who are Masters about you. They’ll get you out
of here.”
“That’s all
right, Sir.” He told him, “I’m here because I deserve to be, Sir.”
He told Wes
nobody deserves to be kept chained up for someone else’s profit. He
immediately went to Jeb, his big friend Jim, and told them what he’d
found. He asked if they knew a boy named ‘Wes.’ Jeb knew him well.
“Hell, said Big
Jim, he’s my nephew.” Jeb nodded his knowledge of Jim and Wes’s
relationship; although at that time Jeb had only met Wes a couple
of times. Jeb and Jim went down to Tijuana the next day and found him
in the Mexican bordello his friend described. Wes was chained to a
wooden bench and being viciously fucked six to eight times a day by any
Mexican who had twenty pesos. Most of the time the two guards at the
place threw a fuck into him before going home.
Through some
flim-flam Jeb went in as a customer, as if he was going to fuck him,
insisted on privacy, and closed the door. He didn’t want them to get
suspicious so he pulled his dick out and slammed it into Wes. Without
turning around to see who it was, Wes spoke to him.
“Thank you,
Master Jeb.” He recognized the way Jeb’s cock felt in him.
“Give me a good
fuck, Son,— we’re here to get you out of this toilet.”
“Yes, Sir,
Master Jeb,— it feels good to have a Master in me again.”
Jeb fucked him
making loud moaning sounds, talking dirty, and slapping Wes’s ass loud
enough to be heard outside. After he finished he went to the caretaker
and bragged about how good the little gringo was. Jeb speaks Mexican
like a native.
Jim came in with
a bottle and offered the caretaker a drink. Jeb found out he was just
an employee. Jeb told Jim what a good fuck the boy was and paid for Jim
to use him. They proceeded to get the caretaker drunk and he finally
passed out. Jim went in and cut Wes’s chains with a good size pair of
bolt cutters he carried under his jacket. They put him in the back of
Jeb’s old pickup, piled ropes, old rubber boots, an old painting tarp
on him, and drove back across the border.
On the U.S. side
they pulled into a filling station, got Wes from the back, wrapped him
in warm blankets, and drove back to Los Angeles. He never would
tell Jeb, Big Jim or me how he came to be there. He knew Jeb or his
uncle, Big Jim would have silently disposed of the man. Jeb took him in
and nursed him back to health. He gained his weight back and after
about a year Jeb began training him his way. Big Jim worked him out at
a gym three days a week, and Jeb tried to teach him to believe in
himself. Jeb gave him faith to learn to trust, but most of all he
taught him how to trust in himself. Jeb put him on the market about
eight months after that.
Say what they
will about old Jeb, he knows what he’s doing and he produces the best
slaves on the market. He held an open house so anyone interested
could meet and inspect Wes if they wished. No sex. I didn’t go to the
open house, and Wes was to be sold two weeks after that. I was alone,
and a close friend of mine in the family suggested I buy a house
boy. He suggested it might be some comfort to have someone
rattling around the house so it wouldn’t seem so empty. Someone to be
there when I came home from work. A pet, basically. I called Jeb and
made arrangements to meet Wes and take him to dinner. I didn’t bring
him to my home because Jeb has strict rules about that sort of thing.
Jeb Henshaw is not a man whose trust you want to break.
Wes was polite,
intelligent, reserved but unto himself. Not sullen, just didn’t have
much to say. He did ask me one pointed question: If I should find him
worthy of purchase, and he did his best to serve me, would he be
expected to love me? I told him, no. I was honest with him
when I told him my reasons for wanting to purchase a slave. I needed a
domestic slave. I had all the dungeon traffic I needed. I had a waiting
list. Not because I’m that hot, but because I’m a cop. I found out he
had problems allowing people to get close to him because he had been
abused as a child and rejected so many times. I thought with my shyness
problem and his rejection problems, ‘What a can of worms.’
On the other
hand, it might be the best thing for both of us. He’d have regular
duties, his privacy to an extent, and I could have my sex in the
dungeon. I wasn’t expecting him to be so small, but he was perfectly
small. Usually men who are small are good looking in a,— well,— small
man way;— not Wes. He looked like a damn fireplug. For a small
man he was built like the proverbial brick outhouse. He hardly
responded to me at all. We had a pleasant, somewhat quiet dinner, but I
felt good in his company; however, I just assumed he didn’t like me.
I took him back
to Jeb’s after dinner that evening and Jeb walked me to my truck to
feel me out about Wes. Jeb’s a business man, and he wanted to
know if I planned to bid on Wes. I voiced my concerns, Jeb didn’t say
much, but thanked me for being honest. He reassured me Wes did, indeed,
like me but was afraid to try to hope for anything he really wanted. He
was so used to getting fucked over he sometimes sabotaged his own best
chance for happiness because he’d been imprinted he wasn’t deserving
enough. I told Jeb, I was concerned he was so small, I might hurt him
if I tried to fuck him. Jeb smiled knowingly and told me if Wes could
take him or Big Jim several times a week, he could take me. He looked
me in the eye.
“Earl D.,— I’m
gonna’ break one of my cardinal rules by telling you this;
‘cause, ever’ time I break one of my rules, it costs me money,
but damn it, this time it’ll be worth it.”
He grabbed me by
my arm, looked me dead in the eye.
“Earl D. Shaw,
you and this boy belong together. I’m not telling you this to hustle a
sale. You know me better’n that by now. Take it as a word to the wise
from an old fart whose seen the best of ‘em come and go. This slave
needs and deserves a good Master, and you’re the best person for the
job. You know what I think and feel about you. You’re special in my
book and so is this kid. If you’re not interested, he will sell anyway,
and at a good price. I won’t say anymore, but promise me you’ll think
about it. That’s all I ask.”
Jeb and I
have always had a deep respect for each other. Well,— it goes a little
deeper than that, but I won’t go into it right now. Let’s just say Jeb
has done me a lot of favors, and I’ve tried to be there when he needed
me. He never abuses friendships so when he asks,— I’m there. He never
is physical with anyone, only the boys he’s training. I was impressed
by his passion and promised him I would think about it, and I did. I
gave it a lot of thought, then I put it out of my mind until the
morning of the bidding. One thing Wes said that night kept running
through my mind, and I couldn’t shake it. When I took him back to Jeb’s
as he was getting out of the truck, he turned to me and asked if he
might speak freely. I told him ‘yes’ and he looked me in the eyes and
never wavered.
“With all due
respect, Sir,— I’m not for you. You’re a good and decent man. You will
be a wonderful Master for some lucky slave boy. You deserve a slave who
not only can serve you well but can love you, too. I don’t think
I’m capable of that anymore, Master Earl. Please don’t tell Master Jeb
I told you.”
“I give my word,
Son.” I was stunned. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe this was the
sabotage Jeb was talking about. Shoot happiness in the doorway, and you
won’t have to invite it in. Let’s face it, if misery is all you’ve ever
known, happiness to you is going to be,— being miserable. You had to
have your bid in by six o’clock three days from that evening. I thought
about it all day while working and decided not to bid. There were too
many variables. On my way home I started thinking about going home to
an empty place, and my bike suddenly decided to take the off ramp to
Jeb’s place. I made a high-midrange bid, and thought it would probably
insure I wouldn’t win the bid. Was I following Wes’s lead? Shooting
happiness in the foot?
Jeb called me
that evening around eight and asked when I might wish to take
possession of my new slave boy. I found out much later, after Wes was
killed, Jeb had two offers higher than mine. Jeb is a wise and
sometimes mysterious old coot. I told him to have the contracts ready,
and I would pick him up the next day after work. Wes’s only hold out in
our contract was, 'If I should have reason to speak to my Master about
love we will speak as equals.' Meaning, to drop all titles of respect
and on that topic he could speak his mind without fear of reprisal. It
seemed innocent enough. I said sure. As it turned out, we never really
talked much about love. He just couldn’t bring himself to speak the
words. Earl paused for a moment.
When I brought
him home I put him in the other bedroom upstairs. He seemed fine for a
while and then during the night I would be awakened by a muffled sound
of some kind. I silently approached his room and heard him crying into
his pillow like his life was over. This went on night after night until
he would cry himself to sleep. I felt horrible. I didn’t know what to
do. I talked to Jeb about it and he said Wes had some bad dreams but
didn’t cry. Jeb said to be stern with him, not angry or violent,—
just stern. Give him the idea you care enough about his development
you’re going to yank him up by the nape of his neck (figuratively) and
damn well see to it he follows your orders. That night I stormed into
his room and addressed him in a loud voice.
“What’s the
meaning of this, boy? Crying in my home like I mistreat you,— like I’m
some kind of monster?” Wes’s eyes widened, not in fear but surprise and
embarrassment. “I paid good, hard-earned, red-blooded, American dollars
to buy you, boy. I’ve never raised my voice to you since you've been
here until now. God knows you've had it rough, kid, but I didn’t buy
you out of pity. It's time you stopped grieving for what might've been
and concentrate on making your future all you can. It's time you
learned to live again and to put your trust in someone. Well,—
now,— since I paid the big bucks for your ass to own you, boy, who the
HELL do you think that's gonna’ be,— HUH?? I haven't given you many
orders since you been here,— haven't had to,— you've worked damned hard
taking care of me, but by God in Heaven, I'm damn sure giving you an
order now and you WILL obey it! You are ORDERED to TRUST me, slave-boy
and show some faith in me, your Master, until I do something that will
make me unworthy of your trust.”
“My daddy used
to tell me, ‘Son, when you meet a man, he should immediately have on
deposit with you a trust fund. Now, he may choose to withdraw all that
trust in one stupid action. Then he has no more credit with you.
Remember it works both ways. If you squander a man’s trust in one
action, you may be terribly sorry, apologize for your actions, but
it’ll take you a long, long time to build that account up again that
originally was yours, free, for the asking.'
“You WILL trust
me slave! You GOT THAT?!”
"Yes, Master!"
"That's not GOOD
enough, slave! Yes, Master, WHAT?
“Yes, Master
I’ll try to trust you."
"That's NOT good
enough, slave! TRY, HELL!!! You're not stupid, Son! Don't insult
your Master by implying you think he's stupid enough to accept that
lame answer. That leaves you a convenient out of saying to yourself,
'Well, I tried!' That's BULLSHIT!! I won't have it! You GOT
that, boy?”
"Yes, Master,
Sir!" I think, at that point, I had his attention.
"You will repeat
after me, slave. I WILL TRUST YOU, MASTER!!"
“I will trust
you, Master."
"Now, what do I
want to hear from you unprompted by me, boy?"
"I will trust
you, Master!"
"Now,— you try
it one more, Goddamn time, slave, and I better hear the fucking ring of
truth in your voice!"
"Master
Earl, I promise! I promise, I’ll trust you, Sir!"
"So your Master
is really sure you understand, this is not a game and you damn well
better understand and obey this order, I will hear it again ,
slave!" Wes hit his knees in front of me and wrapping his arms
around my legs pressed the side of his face as close to me as he could
and said choking back the tears,
"Oh, Master,
forgive me! God help me, forgive me! Of course, I’ll obey you! I swear
by all that’s Holy, I WILL trust you! I wasn’t crying because you
mistreat me! Please, Master, please don’t think that! I’ve never been
treated better in my miserable life. It’s,— it’s,— just,— ”
“Just what,
slave?”
“I don’t want to
complain, Master.” Wes said with his voice shaking. He was scared, and
I was enjoying my acting debut. It was really hard to be angry with
him. He was so damn cute, but I was resolved.
“Complaining is
a Hell of a lot better than listening to you bawl half the night. You
either tell me what the burr under your saddle is, or I’m going in
there, get that wide belt of mine, and won’t stop whipping you until
you do. You got that, boy!” Damn,— I was good. I was getting an
erection talking to him like that. I almost convinced myself.
“Please, Master,
don’t! I’ll tell you. Every night after dinner you go off to your part
of the house and I come in here,— and after being with you,— well,— I
like being around you, Master. I know I’m a selfish slave,
Master, and don’t have the right,— and,— I know you could never love
me,— but,— but, I’ve fallen in love with you, Master. I just want
to be with you more. I’m so sorry, Master, I don’t deserve to be your
slave. I just get so lonely without you, Master.” Then he started
sobbing like his little heart would break.
Well,— so much
for my acting career. He ripped my heart out and handed it back
to me in several pieces. He kept a large chunk to nail to the wall. I
knew how he felt. To tell the truth, I was lonely in my part of the
house as well. I started towards his room many times and stopped. I was
just trying to give him some privacy. We both remained frozen and
silent for a few minutes.
“Well, it’s time
we did something about that, slave boy.” Wes had no idea what that
meant, and I was enjoying keeping him in suspense. I crawled into his
bed, pulled the sheets down for him to get in bed next to me, and just
patted on the bed for him to join me. The little guy crawled into my
arms, I held him tight, and he cried until I thought about restocking
the ark. They were tears of release, and I wasn’t about to chastise him
for that. I comforted him and reassured him, I wasn’t going to sell
him. We would get through this together and added that the trust he was
ordered to have and agreed to give me, would help. That was the first
time we made love. Wes never cried again. He obeyed my order, he
trusted me. He slept in my arms that night and every night there after.
I wondered why
he wanted that clause put in the contract when we never spoke of love.
Wes could never bring himself to talk about it. Many times I saw the
frustration on his face when he wanted desperately to tell me and
walked away in anger because he couldn’t. He didn’t have to tell me, I
knew. I was reserved with my true feelings for him. I didn’t want to
crowd him. When you tell someone you love them, you expect them to say
they love you in return. Wes was no dummy he could read me like a book,
and I felt comfortable with that. He knew I loved him. There could be
no doubt in his mind. Wes worked his butt off to please me, and he did.
I felt we were bonding; especially, after several intense weekend
dungeon trips. We were like two crippled suns spiraling in on each
other sharing a black hole for a crutch. Love was our crutch that
helped two emotionally challenged men find a middle ground of
understanding, patience, and joy in each other. We were big
Dodger fans, and I bought season tickets every year. We new most of the
team. They called us Mutt and Jeff. Time passed, and I found myself
depending more and more on Wes. We both knew we had fallen hopelessly
in love but never expressed it in words. Jeb told me one night everyone
in our group could tell by the way we looked at each other and were
happy for us. Old Jeb was thrilled.” Unsolicited tears were
running down Earl’s cheeks. “The last words Wes spoke to me, before he
boarded the plane in Los Angeles was, ‘Earl, I love you.’ Without
the trappings of respect. It took him nine years to say that. It
was the first time he’d said those words to anyone other than his
savior, Walker Johnson. Worst of all, for me, it was the first time I
ever told him, ‘I love you too, Son.’
Now I know,
after all this time, why he had to have that clause in our contract. If
he ever told me he loved me he didn’t want it coming from him,
the slave. It had to come from Wes, my equal. He knew in his
heart he would always be my slave. I would’ve never released him from
his bond nor would he want it. For that one fleeting moment it was the
most important thing in his life, to be my equal, to emphasize the
importance and meaning of those three words. He didn’t want me to think
he was saying it because he was a slave and might be doing it to
manipulate me. I allowed him to be my equal at that moment, and he died
my equal. He’s been bothered all this time, if I thought he died my
equal, I wouldn’t need him any longer as my slave. That, was the
meaning, Beau,— that was the meaning. He carried his need to be my
slave, my possession beyond death’s door. If any human might, Wes
would. He needs resolution. He needs to hear me say,— in my heart, he
will always be my slave.
Don’t you see,
Beau? It wasn’t your tears tonight. You may be a sensitive or have the
gift to channel. He’s been seeing through your eyes. He saw how sad I
was and wept from your body. The tears that fell on my boots he loved
so well were from your body but not from you. He was with you in the
chains. No man I’ve ever put in those chains, has ever made it through
the first time, but you did. It just doesn’t happen. He wanted you to
please me, and you did. He wanted us to be together this evening. From
here,— it’s up to us. He knew you were a sensitive. He planned it from
our chance meeting at the lake. You took a huge chance blurting out to
an LAPD officer you’d like to clean his boots. You’ve even wondered
where it came from. I would've never potentially jeopardized my
position by saying the blatant things I did to you. When you said the
message a while ago it was with a southern accent. You don’t have an
accent. Wes did. Wes needs resolution. You unwittingly helped him find
it.”
Earl D.’s heart
broke, and Beau held him until he recovered. Earl had not only found
his way to the healing door, he knocked, it was opened, and he passed
through. The eternal ‘some-one’s' voices in consort with Wes’s
whispered in his ear, 'I’m still your loving slave, I always will
be, but now,— I need for you to let me go.'
Master Earl D.
Shaw, Wes’s only true owner and Master, walked out onto the wooden deck
to the rail. He placed his hands on the rail and looked out into the
night.
“Goodbye, my
beloved slave.” He spoke softly, tears blinding his vision, “You were
my slave, you will always be my slave, there is none other like you. I
will always love you.”
Satisfied, the
spirit of Wes departed. Suddenly, Earl’s heart felt lighter. He knew
Wes understood, Earl would be okay. The slave had set his Master free.
Part II ~
Pastoral
It is not kind
of summer, to be so gentle
in its prime, my Master comes
at sunset to love me one
more time.” Slave’s Song ~
W.D. Dux Posthumous
Master Earl lay
across his huge bed with Beau’s head resting on his stomach. The full
moon traveled the night sky to bathe them in its brilliance. They
hadn’t spoken in a long while.
“Are you with
me, slave?” Master Earl asked.
“Yes, Master,—
are you all right?”
“I’ve not felt
this right in several years.”
“How are you
feeling, Son?”
“Alive,— very
much alive.” Beau replied. Master Earl looked at him.
“I’m not going
to ask for clarification. I’m learning to just accept what you say.”
Earl said softly, meaningfully. “You have a gift, Beau, a wonderful
gift I don’t think you’re aware of.”
“I’ve been
thinking about that, Master, and it’s the only logical explanation. I
saw pain in your eyes, twice, when you took off your sun glasses, in
the kitchen, and the second time my knees gave way. I’m ordinarily not
an emotional person; but, it may explain some other bizarre things that
happened to me in Nam and after I got out. It almost seems as if I have
a guardian spirit by my side at all times keeping me out of harms way.
It seems to nudge me in the right direction and slaps me down when I
don’t listen. The most bizarre thing this evening was my eyes wetting
your boots. I was in heaven serving you like that. It was like winning
the Kentucky derby. Every gay man's ultimate fantasy to serve the
ultimate authority symbol of our society. To say nothing of the fact
that on the Richter scale of looks you score a ten plus, and I held the
winning ticket.
What, on God’s
green earth, would make me cry at a time like that? Even if I saw pain
in someone’s eyes I would feel empathy, perhaps sympathy for
them, but not cry. I really didn’t know you well enough to react that
way. I just knew you probably thought I was a psycho. I have a feeling
someone else was around as well as my permanent protector. Remember
when I asked you to put your arms around me? I felt as if someone else
inside me was hugging you. I didn’t slip and call you Master. You told
me when you phoned me to call you Officer Earl. I heard my words but my
brain didn’t send the signal. I don’t know how to describe it. You’ve
known me long enough to know I wouldn’t presume to tell a Master,
especially one who had done me a big favor, calling him Master was for
his sake as well.
I don’t know a
lot about slave etiquette, but I'd bet that sort of statement would be
frowned upon. If it was Wes talking through me, then it would have been
for your benefit as well. If Wes was the young buffed out man I talked
with, I understand your pain, more than you know. He was patient, kind,
and good to me. He did something no one has ever done, he listened. In
the bedroom as I was coming around he told me goodbye and said to tell
you ‘Ducksworth’?”
“It was him! I
had several nicknames for him. That was my favorite name for him when
we were talking seriously about things. He loved to read Wordsworth.
Sometimes he waddled like a duck to be funny. So I combined the two. He
wasn’t pleased at first but he came to see it as a sign of the “L” word
he avoided at all cost.”
“Well,— I saw
what I saw, Master. I know what I heard. I know what I felt. He
generated a lot of love towards me, and took me to visit some handsome
older man. I laid in the big man’s arms, and we made love. The poor man
soiled his bed. I felt like I had known him before. Sounds crazy, huh?”
“Yesterday, I
would have said yes and ran the other way. Tonight opened my eyes to
some things I never thought I would even attempt to understand.” They
lay there in silence. “I do know one thing,” Master Earl said, as he
rolled over onto his back, his cock hard as a rock stood up like the
main pole on a circus tent. “I’m suddenly horny as Hell.”
Beau rolled from
his side to his back and had no less a boner. Well,— okay,— it
was a lot less, but it was just as hard.
“Let’s not waste
these beauties, slave.” Master Earl said as he roughly grabbed Beau’s
cock.” Beau looked at his Master’s cock and giggled to himself. It was
either exactly the same size or damn near the giant’s happy time ride.
Beau moved his hand toward it and stopped.
“May I, Master?”
“I’d like that.”
Master Earl shot back. The two men lay there in the brilliant moonlight
massaging each other’s cocks and enjoying the moment.
“Beau, I’d like
for you,— no,— let me put it this way. I need you to stay the rest of
the weekend. You may consider yourself under house arrest and, by God,
I have the authority to enforce it!” Earl joked with Beau as he hugged
him tightly. “I have a couple of friends coming from Palm Springs for
brunch tomorrow morning and would enjoy showing you off.”
“I was going to
Master Jeb’s in the morning, but I haven’t called to make definite
plans. I can call Greg, my neighbor, to feed Pusslene. So,—
if I’m under arrest what can I say? You may wish to secure me in leg
irons, cuff me, bind me with chains, whatever you have lying around, an
old phone cord perhaps? I’ve been know to attempt escape, Sir.” Beau
was developing a sense of humor.
“How ‘bout if I
nail one foot to the floor, make you go around in circles, and whistle
like a choo-choo? I’ll stick my dick up your butt and you can pull the
caboose.”
“Does if for me.
I’ll be like the little engine that could and pull your heavy load to
the top of the hill.”
“Sounds damn
good to me, slave.” Earl continued, “Since you’re new to the idea of
slavery, are you shy about being my slave for the weekend? Because
you'll be nude most of the time, wearing my collar and probably have
your butt plugged.”
“If I agree to
call you, Master, which I have, then don’t I become your slave?”
“Damn good
point, Son,— damn good point. I have the feeling you would know
instinctively how to handle yourself in most situations. Besides,
you’re an uncommonly fine looking young man. You rival a slave I know
in Tucson. He and his Master are my close friends. He was Wes’s closest
friend and confidant. He and his Master are world champion rodeo
cowboys in team roping three years in a row.”
“I’ve heard
Master Jeb and Jim compare me to him. I won’t let it go to my head. ”
“Perhaps you
should. I don’t offer many compliments. You’re the first since Wes
died.”
“You’re serious,
aren’t you, Master Earl?”
“Yes, Son, I
am.” He replied softly.
“I just hope I
can be worthy,— untrained and all.”
“I plan to make
sure you are, slave. I plan to strum you like a banjo.”
“Do you take
requests, Master?” I laughed. ‘Where’d that come from?’ Beau thought to
himself.
“Not unless you
can sing with a plug in your mouth, slave.” It was his turn to laugh.
“I want you to know how good it feels to call you ‘slave’.”
“It’s no stretch
for me to call you ‘Master,’ Sir.”
“Good, now let’s
get our leathers on, get downstairs, so your weekend Master can tear
off a piece of his slave’s butt. Hell,— I’ll even tear off a
piece for you if you like.”
“Could you make
it two, Sir?”
“Hungry, huh?
Me, too! Come on, slave boy. Let’s get you fucked!”
* I'll
Servo Padrone e duo (The slave with two masters)
End Chapter 5 ~
The Ties That Bind Copyright 2004
Waddie Greywolf All rights
reserved ~ Mail to:
<waddiebear@yahoo.com>