## Archive-name: cock-collusion

From: Warren Williams <warren@sideways.welly.gen.nz>

Subject: STORY: Gay 094, 1 of 1: Michael and friends discover B&D

Newsgroups: alt.sex.motss

This is an automatic story posting; five stories are posted each day. Sometimes a non-gay story may slip through -- I haven't checked all files. I didn't write any of these, authors names are listed if known. Sorry, but I can't e-mail out stories because of New Zealand e-mail charges -- but can repost if too many people miss a story. File: gay094 (part 1 of 1) ZipN: collusio.txt (filename from zip file) Name: Michael and friends discover B&D

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 8< cut here 8< -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- ~Subject: Story: Cock Collusion Summary: male/male b&d

Later, Micael would come to learn that pain is the parent of pleasure. But it would be a knowledge learned from innumerable one-night sex stands, agonising moments of leather and steel restraints, cigarette burns like bizzare tattoos along arms achine for total embrace and ultimate release. . . .

This would come later within a kaleidoscope of intimate scenes showing Micael that life's direction can change with the suddenness of a rifle volley--or a lover's impulsive kiss. His life at Brierwood Military Academy bore this out.

Night was a velvet mantle over the sleeping Brierwood campus punctuated by crickets snapping in the unseasonable early autumn heat wave.

In Barracks B, first year plebe Michael Reardon gently massaged his cock as he lay atop his cot and watched the lithe, naked body of upperclassman Drake Billings. Michael had suppressed a keen sexual desire for Drake since first meeting him. It was happenstance that found them temporarily sharing the plebe barracks together alone. The rest of Company B was on bivouac. Michael stayed behind with a sore foot. Drake's quarters were being repainted. But only Michael felt it was a big thrill. His cock was at full attention now, and quivering towards climax.

Boom! The door had burst open and the semi-darkness was lit as though from flares as the big strobe on the land camera flashed, catching him in the act of jacking off in tribute to ananism--and Drake's innocent, fitfully sleeping body.

The burly, heavily muscled forms of upperclassmen Brandon Wentworth and Trent Davis were suddenly all around him. Drake, who had supposedly been asleep, was now upright on his cot, his eyes blazing with contempt. "Looks like we've got us a fucken queer here!" Trent observed.

Brandon shook his head. "You mean a sex slave who'll do as we say or we'll blow the whistle to the dean, don't you?"

Drake lit a cigarette, flicking the spent match onto Michael's cot. "You've been drooling over me like a dog over a bone for a month now. Now you're gonna pay for the privilege!"

Michael was dimly aware that he had been set up by this trio of upperclassmen, and would shortly be their victim. He felt fear floor through him.

He looked at the three pictures that were now developed and out of the camera. They showed him pulling his pud alright, but they also showed Drake naked on his back with a half-hard. "You're in the picture, too!" Michael said to Drake. "The dean would have some questions. . . ."

"The faggot wants to resist us," Drake grinned from where he sat. Now he stood up and also yanked Michael to his feet spinning him around. "Bend over, arsehole!"

Fearstruck, Micheal bent over the bed and felt the hands of Brandon and Trent holding him down. Then he felt the warm and rounded head of Drake's smooth cock slide between the crevice of his buttocks, and he whimpered. But there was a yes--yes--yes in his eyes, and now the massive cock was battering against the sphincter of Michael's arse, and forcing entry into his most secret and intimate of male places.

Now Trent sat beside the wild-eyed Michael and stroked his cock to hardness. He grabbed Michael's head and forced it down. "Start sucking, Michael-baby!" he snapped.

Surrendering, his arse being fucked by Drake, Michael submitted completely and fitted his ovaled lips around the throbbing, crimson head of the cock quivering in excitment against his lips. The thick shaft slit far into his mouth until it touched the back of his throat, and Michael managed to draw somewhat back to prevent gagging.

Now Trent placed his hands against both sides of Michael's darkly handsome face and began giving a face fuck that was a mixture of high voltage intensity and sadistic cruelty. Presently he began to spurt cum, some of it into Michael's constricted throat, and the rest of it, the massive main surge, into Michael's face and hair where it hung like strands of tinsel before falling against his shoulders. Several globs of it landed on Trent's boots. "Lick it off my goddamn shoes!" Trent ordered.

Submissively, Michael could only comply completely, even as Drake's thundering cock began erupting like a fire hose nozzle gone amok in his arse! Off in the distance the quadrangle clock stroked the midnight hour. The pale light of the moon flooded across the outwardly placid campus, softening the bronze features of a General Lee statue where he sat on an equally bronzed roan horse near the flagpole and in front of the commandant's office and the administration building.

Brierwood Military Academy looked for all the world like a facility for the making and moulding of young men into mature men. Nowhere in the brochure were their pictures or paragraphs of sexuality such as what was underway in Barracks B.

Michael, despite his bizzare predicament, was coming now, and as his tormenters jeered, he could not stop thje eruption of his own cum, triggered by the excitment surging through him when Drake had climaxed in his arse.

"Not only is he our slave, but a willing one!" Brandon smiled.

"You really had this queer peeged, Drake!"

"Yeah," Drake grunted, "I guess I know how to pick 'em. I owe it to all my early days in Hollywood."

Michael had no doubt as to having been set up now. Both Trent and Brendon had burst through the door with more than blazing flashbulbs. They had thought to bring restraints as well. Nor did they waste any time in putting them to use.

The three captors seemed supercharged with a strange sexual energy that Michael never knew existed, but knew was contagious because regardless of this horrendous circumstance, he felt himself sexually excited in a way he had never known. But, of course, he had never known a circumstance like this. His tortmenters had bagged a virgin.

And now he was trussed, held helplessly as Drake, Trent and Brandon studied the pictures--and then showed them to him. Michael saw himself prone upon his bed, jerking his substantial hardon in his hand as he stared intently at Drake's nude body.

"The dean would have a few things to say about these pictures, once he recovered from the stroke. . . ." Drake smiled.

Trent played advocate. "Nah, Michael here isn't going to make us mail them to Dean Crampton. He'll be a good little slave for the next three years and do what we want him to!"

"And as often as we want him to do it!" added Brandon.

Michael felt a wave of dismay and sickness crowd into his body. It seemed his very soul was being pissed upon by these barbarians.

And adding greatly to his consternation was the realisation, impossible to deny, that he was receiving a perverse pleasure from this subjugation, this humiliation, this bondage. For now his wrists and ankles, spread, were fastened with leather and rope attached to the steel frame of the military bed. The ordeal, far from over, had truly not begun. Michael's brain felt numb.

Yet his body seemed to pulsate with the energy from voltage.

Brandon stepped in front of him now and slapped his stiffened cock across Michael's face before pressing it against the prisoner's mouth--and in. "C'mon, cuntface, let's have some head!" he commanded, and right away began fucking the face imprisoned between his hands.

Despite himself, Michael began revelling in the list-ridden atmosphere, and actually began to get a strange sense of release and relief as now he sucked the gigantic cock plugging into his mouth.

Drake, for his part, began jacking his cock against the side of Michael's face--while Trent positioned himself behind the bound prisoner and slowly forced his cock deep into the small, starfish anus of the helpless youth.

"We'll have him loaded with so much cum, he'll gurgle when he walks!" Brandon laughed.

Michael, his hair wet from exertion, had a searing need to jack his cock off, but the restraints prevented him from touching himself. Regardless, his cock hardened, and as Trent fucked into his arse, and Brandon face-fucked him, he ejaculated a massive wad of cum against Drake's bare thighs.

Drake stiffened. "You'll pay for that after you tongue it off!" Drake thundered.

Brandon came in Michael's mouth then, his pulsating cock glistened in the moonlight filtering in from between the louvres of the venetian blinds.

The limp cock flopped from Michael's mouth, and now Drake stepped forward and pressed Michael's mouth against his thigh. "Lick, you motherfucker!" he snarled. Michael licked, still licking when once more his arsehole wis filled with spewing cum from the eruption cock of Trent.

The eyes of his captors burned with derision and contempt, and Michael sensed that they realised that in some strange way Michael was ignited with a perverse pleasure from what he was undergoing.

It was Drake who administered the whipping, and he did it with brutal abandon. The stinging slashes of the quirt snapped snake-like against Michael's flesh, and in a manner expert enough that they left no welts. In fact, Drake indeed was a master whipsman, skilled in using the flat of the leather against human flesh.

The men were intent upon breaking Michael's spirit completely, not yet willing to acknowledge that indeed the last vestige of resistance had been removed from Michael, if in fact it had ever existed. Along with the testings from the leather, the defilement and sexual use of his body by these three teenaged youths, a new factor swirled in Michael's mind: the awareness that all of this eemed to turn him on, give him some weird sense of deliverance and relief!

Finally, their mutual lust completely spent, the three consipirators prepared to leave. Trent showed the photographs to Michael once more--photos showing him looking lustfully at Drake, and jacking off from the view. "These'll hang over your head for the next three years, slave!" Any mutiny from you and they'll go to the dean!"

Michael had regained some of his composure by now. He wasn't to be bullied now that the excitement and the initiation was over. "I'll have a few things to say to the dean myself, if he sees those photos. Remember, Drake's in the pictures, too. And Drake is naked on the bed..." Michael again repeated.

Drake looked at him, jaws working in anger. "Maybe this jerk is a real asshole after all. And besides, I don't want a fuckhole like this drooling over my cock every waking and sleeping moment. I think I want thim out of my life--and out of my school!"

It was a new idea, and it left Michael dumbfounded. But the idea took hold. "If you ask me, this closet faggot dug what we did to him!" Brandon quipped. Trent nodded, appraising Michael, "Dug it enough to shoot his treacle-wad against Drake's fuckin' leg, right?"

After a few more comments like this, it was decided to simply send the photos to the dean, and go searching for a new sex slave. By dawn a teary-eyed Michael, for reasons that still confounded him, packed the last of his clothes into two suitcases and slipped across the still sleepy campus of Brierdon Military School. The key to his dowm was now only a souvenir. As was the dull pain in his anus. A chapter of his life had just closed. But a new chapter was getting started. . . . .

It took several months of seclusion in a new city for Michael to reconcile himself with a new awareness that had been suppressed for too long and could no longer be ignored. The awareness had been unleashed that night back at military school when he had been ass and mouth raped, then held in bondage and humilitiated through the domination by the three upperclassmen.

Michael had suffered great pain from the awareness, but a great pleasure as well, for he had discovered a major side of his being and had come to terms with it. He had finally accepted his love of pain and humiliation-- and an eagerness to bestow it as well as receive it. Drake, Trent and Brandon had released a part of Michael that was now controlling his very existence on the mean streets of L.A. where Melrose Avenue between La Brea and La Cienega is a garish tenderloin of street people propelled through life by a series of one-night stands to ward off the dawns. Michael had learned the hard way in the string of B&D bars studding the street of garish neon and feverish searches for fulfillment either temporary or permanent in form. Michael had become a familiar figure, having paid his dues while moving even closer to the ultimate realisation about himself. It was a realisation that had its beginning that night in the past when Drake's cock had corkscrewed into his ass and had somehow awakened an awareness that Michael had only vaguely sensed. Until that night. In a way, he owed Drake for that....

The mid-Friday night traffic was a crawl along seamy Santa Monica Boulevard as motorists windshield shopped the sidewalks for the fresh young male meat as they crusied by. For Michael it would be dues time again, yet he was drawn toward the Golden Boot Club like a moth toward a flame.

He turned to the drive of the black Mercedes who had picked him up eight blocks back. "Let me out here, thanks for the lift."

The man reluctantly removed his hand from Michael's half open fly, payment for the ride. "You sure you and me can't go someplace private?" The man was well-barbered. His face was pink from too many minutes beneath a sunlamp. "Maybe another day, daddy" Michael said and pushed the heavy sedan door open stepping onto the curbn. The middle-aged driver gave him a pouting look and threaded back into traffic again, continuing his hunt for boy-flesh. "Fuck you then!" was his parting remark. Michael strolled into the Golden Boot.

To the tourists from Iowa, the dimly lit bar would appear to be hardly more than a cheap saloon atmosphere catering to a young and rowdy type crowd, mainly males favoring flexed biceps, boots and jeans with tank tops. What females there were looked on the tough side and with a curious lack of femininity. They dressed similar to the males. Standing out from these were several strikingly attractive young women of unusal height and timbre of voice. It would be hard for an inexperienced Iowan to recognize these as transsexuals, persons with bountiful breasts and honest-to-goodness cocks beneath the lacy panties.

But you can't gauge the quality of a bar by its front room. Try the backrooms--a trip into an entirely different sexual world.

Michael had entered one of these rooms some fifteen minutes before, after pausing for a sangria at the bar--and a suggestion from several men that they would like to spent some time alone with him. The propositions had been accepted.

To say that Michael was tied up for the remainder of the evening was less than accurage. An hour would be more to the truth.

An hour where every tormenting minute was loved by all concerned, both perpetrators and the victim. But who is truly who? Michael was stripped naked, hands trussed overhead and fastened by black leather restraints.

A single overhead bulb lit the room, revealing the trappings of esoteric sex. Badges of bondage and domination.

Michael was on the upright rack, but at other periods during the evening he would be face up on a restraining slab, or hogtied in a position making his ass most vulnerable, because his wrists were fastened to his ankes. Welcome to the Elizabethan Room. One of Michael's favorites for undergoing the forced pain of submission and domination that brought him closer to his real goal, a master of discipline.

Michael had come to realize that to be a true master one had to experience submission before ascribing to the role of dominator. In was a precept at the world-famed Chateau outside Paris, France, where the Marquis de Sade held forth, and where The Story of O. was penned from true experiences.

The room may have well been designed by some Prince of Darkness. The walls were flat black in places, and in various holders along the walls were the acoutrements of S&M, all in a row.

Quirts and whips of English leather. Ball weights. Several cock cases. Nipple pins. Several enema bags. Piss glasses. A replete complement of equipment for advanced subordination and domination. To Michael they were the tools of the trade needed to transform his sexuality, indeed his very soul.

Just now, the blonde-haired man in his early thirties was clamping a clothes peg on each of Michael's sweaty nipples. He had not touched Michael sexually, and Michael knew that he never would. Sex was something mental not needing physical contact for this man.

The same could not be said for the one called Hog who at the moment was crouched before Michael before Michael's spread thighs. As Michael looked down from his position of helplessness, Hog set aside the quirt with which he had been lightly spanking Michael's stinging buttocks. He was unloosening the leather cock cage, allowing the hard cock to spring outward and bob freely up and down.

And now he began stroking Michael's cock as though it were a tender bird. He did it sensuously, teasinly, lovingly.

The man named Hog took the cock deep into his mouth, and as he did so, he tied a string around the base of Michael's balls, drawing them up against the base of the cock.

He proceeded to suck Michael's coock until his experience told his victim was bursting with the need to climax, but the tight string would act like a tourniquet, now allowing the semen to shoot.

At last he yanked at the end of the string, releasing the string restraint while at the same time he began caressing the pendulous balls now swinging freely.

Hog began pinching Michael's buttocks brutally, inflicting pain and red splotches along the smooth, vulnerable flesh. Michael strained at his restraints, starting to cum now, shooting thick wads of cum out onto the floor until Hog quickly capped the gusher with his mouth. Michael's face was contorted in excruciation and ecstasy.

It was a dark pleasure, but as always, it gave Michael a feeling beyond mere sexual release, it gave him the sensation of being electrically alive and of having moved closer to his goal through allowing the ministration of slavery upon him.

Oh yes, slavery. For the evening in this room had started with Michael forced into oral copulation upon Hog, and this preplay included the cleansing of Hog's feet with his tongue.

Michael has entered a new dimension of human sexual experience, a portal through which very few ever pass among the world's millions.

As men in the room twist his cock and balls, rub their cocks into his armpits from atop chairs, and urinate upon his thighs, he is ecstatic with the humiliation being inflicted. It is a path he must pass along if he is to reach the Shangri-La of true self freedom to inflict as good as he has had inflicted.

His eyes are dark and knowing, his body glistening with the sweat of arousal and pain as the strangers do what they desire with his hired body.

But this meekness has taken on the characteristics of a donned suit, and this meekness can be removed just as easily as it is put on.

Michael is nearing the graduation point in his self-appointed mission along the route of submission and toward the gateway of domination. At times the vanquished do indeed become the victors. And, as always, Michael's thoughts return to Drake, for it was Drake who first made him aware that there was a sleeping sexuality within Michael that needed only the proper prodding to become awake, and a driving force that would guide Michael for the rest of his life.

Looks of terror, cries of pain, moans of self-abasement had become part and parcel of life for Michael now. His self image was that he had born the cross in what was a virtual religious quest into the nebulous world of the deminator. Zealously he had led the life of the submissive from the belief that the know one, you must have at a time been one. Tonight would be his graduation night.

Now he was lowered by a boom, so that his starfish anus was most vulnerable and winking in expectancy.

The cock was delivered by a nameless stranger, it was fed into Michael's body mercilessly, brutally into the tight little chamber, crashing beyond the cringing sphincter muscle and far into Michael's trembling body.

Now he was exploding, spreading his cum over the spasming walls of the anus, and letting it backdraft so that it was dribbling out and down the inner thighs of the volunteer victim.

And through all of this esoteric sexuality Michael thought only of Drake, and how deliciously sweet his cock had felt on that night of rape at the military school which was in reality a night for recognition of what Michael really was--but had not until then had the courage to admit. To a child of sexually rampant need it is sometimes scary to come out of the closet and into a callous and sexually cruel world.

But now Michael was eager to emerge. He had a new discipline that had been forged by the fire of scalding pain, domination, and humiliation. He was at last ready to give as good as he'd ever received.

He felt that there was no better place to prove himself than at the place where it had all begun . . . .

Although three years had passed, Brierwood Military Academy looked the same, yet different too. Of course the bunting in observance of the graduation ceremonies gave the ordinarily pristine and ascerbic atmosphere a flash of colour.

Virtually everybody associated with Brierwood was crowded along the football field and in the bleachers to observe the 47th Graduation Ceremony of the hallowed old school.

And as Michael rapidly crossed the campus, approaching the horsebacked figure of General Lee, he knew that amongst those in formation awaiting the start of the graduation ceremony were Drake, Brandon and Trent.

Michael had kept track of them over the past three years. All three had maintained their listing on the dean's list and were graduating with honors. In his own way, Michael was graduating too. While they were receiving bachelors degrees, he was receving his master--in discipline. The thought made him smile.

He entered Company B Barracks and hurried to the upper level where he knew the trio's rooms would be. In each he placed the carefully composed letters, each identical, each propped upon the severely made beds of Drake, Trent and Brandon.

Before departing, he made a visit to his old dorminatory. It was devoid of cadets, all of whom were on the field. The pang he felt in his heart could not be ignored, regardless of the buoyant feeling surging through him as he awaited his own graduation ceremony that night. And in his memory he could still hear the sharp slapping sound of the paddle used upon his flesh three years ago--when his off-campus education had truly begun.

Michael parked the beat-in VW he had purchased several months earlier on the street and nodded to the doorman as he entered the posh Brady-West Apartments and took the elevator to the penthouse apartment he had rented for the week under special arrangement.

He showered and carefully shaved, after that he laid out a scrumptuous gown and some frilly underthings one would expect to find in the window of a Frederick's of Hollywood--or some such outrageous speciality house for far-out underthings.

After a leisurely bath in scented water he dried off. Soon it would be time to begin the exhilirating experience of applying the makeup to achieve the identity he planned to use.

The high noon sun beat down relentlessly down on the thirty graduates standing at attention in their grey high-collared military uniforms complete with swords in scabbords. Drake sweated profusely, but no more so than Brandon and Trent beside him. Yet they were exhilirated. Acceptance of the coveted degree was minutes away--and now Drake was accepting his, along with congratulations from the steely-eyed Dean Crampton. "Well done, Drake!" snapped the dean. "Thank you, Sir!" said Drake. He returned to the formation, and then it was over! The graduation was done, and the shrill whistle from Sgt. Blyster announced dismissal--and the start of a new life for all concerned.

The trio of Drake, Trent and Brandon strolled across the grounds to their dormitory rooms and blessed the showers as relief from the heat. Their schedules of departure varied, but each of them planned on spending a final night on campus before leaving for their respective homes in the morning.

When Drake entered his room he saw the pink envelope propped against his pillow and approached it warily as though it might explode. It was scented, and at last he opened it, his face a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.

He read:

"Dear Drake,

It's time we met. I've watched you now for a long time, and my sweet
pussy is hot for that big cock of yours. Today, after graduation and
those fond farewells, it will be time for you to meet me and fuck me!
Meet me at 7:30pm in the penthouse of the Brady-West Apartments in
town. I'll be there just for you!

Love,
Sandra"

Both Brandon and Trent read identical letters from identical pink envelopes. Their reactions were identical as well. Elated and excited, and assuming that only he was the target of Sandra's favors. Whoever Sandra was. After all, anyone named Sandra had to have a pussy, and that was all that mattered!

The night was humid and charged with excitment for Trent as at 7:30pm he approached the door to the penthouse and found it slightly ajar.

He entered cautiously, brightening when suddenly soft music went on and his eyes took in the outsized bed with the scarlet spread, and the stand with the ice bucket from which tilted a magnum of expensive champagne. Remy's he noticed. Beside it was a silver bowl of ice cubes with silver tongs. And now at the door stood Trent gaping with displeasure at Drake. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"I might ask the same of you, Trent!" Drake retorted with displeasure. And then Brandon appeared behind Trent, and with shaking heads the pair joined Drake in the room.

"I was invited in writing", Brandon said, apologetically.

"We all were!" Drake replied. "Shit, maybe she's a nympho!"

"So? So let's crack open the champagne", said Trent. The trio was toasting their dubious good fortune, kicking back in the expensive chairs and feeling pleasantly drowsy and relaxed from the champagne in short order.

Drake rubbed his crotch. "Man, I'm hornier than I've ever been", he said.

"My dick is so stiff it hurts!" said Trent.

"Well, if she doesn't come soon, I'm gonna cum in my pants!" Brandon commented.

And then she was there, a vision of female sexuality in a pink gown, jutting breasts, a flow of golden tresses to her waist and a voice dripping with sex.

"I see you all could come--and I'll see that you cum some more", she smiled. "But first, I want you to get naked for me. I want to see your lovely young cocks!"

The trio stared at her in awe of her beauty, eyes glazed, bodies and brains obviously under the influence.

They started getting undressed as she commanded, "Trent, help Drake out of his pants while I ready myself. Brandon, draw back the coverlet on the bed!"

The boys were quick to do her bidding, nor was the authority in her husky voice unnoticed. As Brandon drew back the coverlet he was surprised to see that the sheeting was black rubber, and upon it were paddles, restraints and cock cages. He looked at Sandra, his eyes widening in amazement.

As the boys disrobed and looked at her, Sandra stepped out of her gown to reveal the hidden attire. She stood before them in spiked black heels, a pair of bleaming black lace panties, and a corset that made her waist look about twenty-one inches at most, making her breasts jut out, contrasting with the black silk material. She was truly awesome--and just a little frightening.

"Are each of you willing to be mine completely?" she demanded. The boys were silent.

"Well, I'll have to leave then, unless I own you completely for this night!" She started for the door.

Their voices were a chorus of anxeity. "Please--please don't go!"

Sandra stopped and turned around. The boys were nude now. "Tell me what you want!" she demanded.

"We want sex. We want to fuck you!" Drake said, speaking for the rest.

"Then you must give yourselves to me--now!" Sandra demanded. With that she took Drake by the arm and led him to the bed. "Lay down!" she ordered. She turned and stepping behind Trent and Brandon, she deftly handcuffed them.

Quickly Drake was restrained with leather and subjected to drippings from hot wax as Sandra in turn teased them with a sexual mercilessness, and then with a lavish display of erotic largess that included sucking their cocks to eruption, one after the other.

Without let up each was then paddled, their cocks placed in leather cages where they strained in pain and arousal simultaneously.

Sandra would allow them to fuck her only in the ass, and each of them did, one after the other. The energy that cracked in the room mixed with the snapping of her whip as she aroused them to sexual climax again and again, then cajoled and humiliated them while they strained against their bonds.

They were reduced to puppets, straining to fulfill her every demand, including the tonguing of her asshole and the licking of her spiked shoes before at last she stepped back.

Somewhere a clock striked midnight. "The witching hour", Sandra smiled.

And then she stepped out of her corset and her panties and bra, stepped toward them fully revealed as a man. And with the sudden yanking off of her longtressed wig, each of them gasped in shock as they found themselves looking at a very much in control Michael.

"Yes, slaves, I've graduated too", Michael rasped, her eyes on Drake. "All of you have helped make me what I am today--a dominator--and your master. For this I thank you!"

With that, Michael spanked each of them in turn until she was faced with a trio of erect pricks. These she slapped with a short handled leather slapper.

The three of them were allowed to leave shortly after, never to be quite the same again.

Especially not Drake, who locked eyes with her at the door. "Master .... I loved the pleasure you gave me .... I love ..."

Michael waved him to silence, his face etched in the understanding of far more than Drake was capable of grasping.

"You cannot truly love the pleasure--until you can also love the pain."

Michael shut the door on Drake then. But this did not mean that Drake was shut out of Michael's life. This was unspoken, but it was something that they both seemed to know . . . . Just as Michael now knew that Drake was the same as himself. It was merely a matter of time . . . .

Reproduced without permission from The Master of Discipline No.1; 1 Sep 84.

Last modified (12/24/96 14:20:11) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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