Path: clarkson!rpi!usc!wupost!waikato.ac.nz!aukuni.ac.nz!nacjack!sideways!cavebbs!med.wcc.govt.nz!tornado!warren
Newsgroups: alt.sex.motss
Subject: STORY: Gay 094, 1 of 1: Michael and friends discover B&D
Message-ID: <gay094.1.1X@sideways.welly.gen.nz>
From: Warren Williams <warren@sideways.welly.gen.nz>
Date: Fri, 26 Mar 93 02:46:32 +1300
Organization: Sideways Bulletin Board, Lower Hutt, New Zealand
Lines: 658

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


                      C O C K   C O L L U S I O N

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. . . . .


                     T H E   T R A N S I S T I O N

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 . . . .


                M I C H A E L ' S    G R A D U A T I O N


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.