Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2011 10:06:31 -0700
From: A R <avunculous@gmail.com>
Subject: A Number Of Nights: Chapter 6

This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are
over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male
participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is
illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. If possible, go back in
time and don't click on the link that led to this file; that's probably
illegal too. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.

Author's note:
This is a very long chapter, with no sex. There's some bondage, and some
pain; the whole thing is basically an interrogation scene. But there's very
little sexual content. Skip to the next chapter if this doesn't interest
you; I won't be offended.

A Number of Nights
Chapter 06


"And they lived happily ever after."

The boy smiled, but shook his head. "Master, they lasted about five months
together. An immediate rebound after twenty years in a relationship? It's a
wonder they didn't combust. Adam went on to drum for a couple of local
bands, got some attention, and now he's working gigs in L.A. Honest John's
kind of become the head of a polyamorous household; the last I heard he and
another guy about his age and a couple of guys in their twenties were all
living there, at the same place he's been in since forever."

"One of the younger guys, a slave in the household, was actually a real
slave for a good portion of his life." The boy settled in, got his face
comfortable against the Master's knee. "It's pretty interesting to talk to
him, actually; he told me all about how he'd come to be there one time. I
call this story..."

"Shut up, boy," said Master Ryan.

A sudden look of panic flashed across the boy's face, but he resumed his
calm expression quickly.

"You're done here, boy. You think I'm dense?" The Master rose, unbalancing
the boy so that he fell on his ass.

"No, Master." The slave boy shook his head, looked down.

"I'm not your Master. I'm not anyone's Master. I vowed, a long time ago,
never to own anyone again, and you, with your stories and your incredibly
eager ass... I know what you're doing." The Master stood over the boy, who
was splayed on the floor before him. "I know what you want. And I know how
it will turn out. It always ends the same way. There's a good reason I don't
own anyone. You think your stories are going to make me forget?"

The boy remained silent, breathing heavily.

"Get your clothes on and get out, boy."

The boy crawled out of the room, into the living room. Master Ryan walked in
a few moments later to find him pulling on his socks, sniffing back tears.
He put his shoes on, and crawled to the door. Master Ryan went over to open
it, and the boy collapsed to his feet, sobbing.

"Please, Sir, please... don't send me back out there. This slave doesn't
want to be stray again; please, Sir, this slave wants to belong to Master;
this slave... I want... this slave will live to please Master Ryan, this
slave already lives to belong to Sir; please, Sir, please... I'll do
anything."

Master Ryan had his hand on the doorknob when the boy uttered those words,
and he stopped, doorknob half-turned. The boy sobbed on his feet as he stood
for a moment, looking down at the boy kneeling before him in supplication.

He reached down and lifted the boy by his shoulders, and held him before
him. The boy kept his eyes averted; there were tears on his face. "Please,
Master..." the boy said.

"Quiet, boy." Master Ryan took ahold of the boy's hair, lifted his head back
so he could see into the boy's eyes. He stared intently at them for a
moment, and whatever he saw there must have satisfied him; when he spoke
again, it was softly.

"In two days' time, at nine o'clock, you can be at my door." Master Ryan saw
the boy's face light up, but the boy stayed silent, motionless. "If you
choose to do so, you're going to have the worst night of your life. I will
put you through hell, boy. And not in a way you are going to like."

"A test, Sir?" The boy asked.

"A test. If you pass, it will be the first of many before I'll consider
offering you my collar." The Master smiled at the boy's eager grin. "You
fail, and you'll be gone. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir!" The slave boy's response was immediate, and full of joy. "This
slave will do everything in its power to make Master happy and satisfied
with its performance."

"I'm serious when I tell you that if you show up next time, you'll go
through hell; not fun hell, boy. Hell. You better think hard before knocking
on my door."

The boy actually gulped, then nodded.

"Okay, get out of here," Master Ryan nodded towards the door.

"Sir?" The boy looked at the ankle cuff he'd left on the coffee table.
"Could this slave wear that until..."

"No." Master Ryan's voice was stern. "You're free. You belong to nobody. I
want you to really think about what you are, what you want to give up, what
you're in for, what you'll do. Take the next couple of days and be a normal
guy. No one's slave; no one's boy. Do whatever you need to to find out how
you're feeling. If you show up in two days, I want to know it's really you,
that your decision wasn't made because you felt like you were mine already."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." The slave turned to go, still smiling.

Master Ryan shook his head, and closed the door.

It was at nine o'clock precisely, two days from then, that the slave knocked
on the door again. Master Ryan let him wait a while, then let him in. The
slave went to his knees as soon as the door closed, and tried to get to
Master Ryan's feet to kiss them, but Master Ryan pulled away.

"Stand up," he said.

The boy stood, uncertainly, his eyes downcast.

"You're not going to like what's about to happen here, kid," the Master
said. "I know you think you will, but you really won't. It won't leave any
scars, it won't cause any permanent injuries; it's not going to kill you.
But you're going to hate it, and maybe me. I'd advise you to just walk out.
Leave. Find another man to be your Master."

The slave stood still.

"All right," said Master Ryan, half to himself. "All right. Follow me."

He led the boy into the bedroom. There were chains on the bed; looped all
the way around the bed, at the head and foot, and pulled tight. The only
light in the room was by the bedside, and it was turned toward the wall; the
room was dim.

"Shirt off," the Master said.

The slave took his shirt off quickly, folded it, and put it on the dresser.

"Hands behind your back," said the Master, and when the boy complied, he put
the leather cuffs around his wrists and buckled them on. He pushed the slave
towards the bed, and the slave took his position, his head towards the foot
of the bed, arms spread out.

The Master locked first one wrist down, then the other, and stood above the
boy's head, looking down at him. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket,
and blindfolded the boy's eyes. Then he went around the bed, sat by the
boy's waist, and unbuttoned the boy's jeans, and pulled his fly down. He ran
his hands gently over the boy's chest, spent time caressing his nipples,
played with the hair under his arms a moment. Then he moved to the slave's
feet, and pulled off his sneakers one by one, then his socks. He grabbed the
waist of the boy's jeans, and pulled them down, the boy hunching his ass off
the bed to help; his underwear came off with them.

The Master took the two remaining cuffs from the dresser, encircled the
slave's ankles with them, buckled them tight, and then locked the slave's
feet down to the chain so that the slave was spread-eagled before him.

"Say the safeword, and you go home, boy. You remember the safe word?" Master
Ryan asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm going to ask you some questions now, boy. You are to answer immediately
and completely. You are to tell the truth. If you hesitate, if I believe
you've left anything out, if I believe you're lying, I will hurt you. If I
think it will help your concentration, I'll hurt you. If I just feel like
it, I'll hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You've been telling me a lot of stories, boy. The one thing you haven't
told me yet is anything about yourself. Well, tonight, I'm going to learn
all about you. Everything." Master Ryan emptied a bag of clothespins next to
the boy's chest, and the boy began trembling.

His voice was much smaller when he replied. "Yes, Sir."

The Master sat on the bed next to the boy, his fingers playing over the
boy's chest. "Where were you born, boy?"

"Brooklyn, New York, Sir," the slave answered.

"How long did you live there?"

"Three years, or so I'm told, Sir."

"When did you come here?"

"...um... well, I..."

Master Ryan applied a clothespin to the skin under the boy's underarm. He
could see the boy wince, despite the blindfold.

"Four, five years ago, Sir, for college." the slave answered.

"How do you make your living?"

"Sir, this slave is a busboy and dishwasher at a diner."

"You live with your family?"

A pause, and the Master added another clothespin, this time on the skin
beside the boy's balls.

"Sir, this slave lives with friends who aren't related to it."

"Are you involved with any of them?"

"No, Sir.... not anymore, Sir." Another clothespin was clipped to the skin
of his inner thigh.

"You involved with anyone?"

"Sir, this slave would presume to say that it was involved, in some
capacity, with Sir."

Clothespins got added to the slave boy's nipples while the Master remained
silent.

"You really want to belong to me, boy?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Okay, boy." The Master was silent as he meditatively put a short line of
clothespins up the inside of each of the boy's thighs.

"Why?" Asked Master Ryan.

"Sir?"

The Master put another clothespin on each of the boy's nipples.

"Why do you want to be my slave?"

The slave boy actually let out a little laugh. "If Sir will forgive me
saying so, that's a long story."

The Master smiled. "Well... you're not going anywhere."

There was a pause while Master Ryan added clothespins, slowly, to the boy's
balls. "Very well, then, Sir. This slave calls its own story

Cambion

This slave does not know much about the circumstances surrounding its
conception or its birth. Which is unfortunate, as they form a key part of
the story, a part that this slave has tried to understand and explain
forever. Its first memories are of a home in Pennsylvania, a mid-sized city
there, a tiny house, and a mother who had little time for it.

This is not going to be a whiny confessional, Sir. This slave understands
that everyone is born with burdens, and that everyone either does their best
or collapses underneath them, and that in neither case does complaining help
at all. This slave understands that Sir wishes to better understand it, so
this slave is going to relate its circumstances as best it can, and if the
tale is bleak, this slave endeavors to make certain that it is as a result
of its contents, and not the... owww... telling.

For the first year of this slave's recollection, it was told that someday,
any day soon, its father was coming home. Its mother told it, once or twice
a day, that its father was going to arrive any time, and when he did...
well, several things would happen. We would be taken away from our life,
where its mother had to struggle to make the meager rent, and the roof was
unreliable, and the heat leaked out the windows, and the neighbors had to be
avoided for fear of one's life. All of this slave's behavior issues would be
addressed, as well, upon its father's advent. Also, bad things would happen;
sometimes, its mother spoke of this absent father with fear, as if she would
be subject to correction as well.

And so its father became, at first, a story, and then a legend. Would that
he could have remained a myth. This slave built up the image of a father
he'd never seen into a combination of an old-Testament God and Santa claus;
a judge, a bringer of gifts, a bringer of punishment. He thought about how
much life would change when his father finally arrived; he fantasized about
the riches, about the freedom, about the punishment.

Ohhh... thank you, Sir. This slave was five, perhaps six when the day
finally came; its mother prefaced the event with a frenzy of cleaning and
cooking and making the house look more presentable than ever it had before.
There was an element of panic in her actions, however, a fear that could not
be concealed from the sensitive emotional radar that young children seem to
possess, and this slave became, in turn, frantic. Which fed its mother's
panic, which got it into trouble... needless to say, the young slave was in
a sorry state... owwww... thank you, Sir... a sorry state when the day came.

And then went again. Its father arrived three days after he said he would.
This slave realizes now that the man who pulled up in an old-model car, full
of days' worth of travel debris, unshaven, unkempt, broke, and desperate,
wasn't actually much of a man. But to the boy that this slave was, he was
the second coming, the arrival of Santa Claus, and, eventually, the rising
of Lucifer too.

For the first day, the man, somewhat intoxicated when he arrived and made
more so by the supplies this slave's mother had laid in, was a font of
affection; it was as if he was re-creating all the television sitcom notions
of what fatherhood should be in a 24-hour period. There was a wobbly game of
catch in the front yard, followed by the man unsuccessfully trying to
airplane the boy, but landing him in a hedgerow instead. There was an early
awakening, a trip to McDonald's, an attempt at a heart-to-heart, but the boy
couldn't understand half of what the man was saying; he just basked in the
glow of finally having a father.

The first argument happened that afternoon, between the slave's mother and
its father; there were awful things said, while the boy tried to busy
himself in his room, and there was the sound of a physical fight. The next
fight happened two hours later. In between, the boy was tasked at getting
beers for his father from the fridge, as the man reclined and watched
television, and the boy contemplated the link between the man and himself.

During the second fight that night, this slave's mother screamed; not in
anger, but in genuine pain. This slave ran to the kitchen, and found his
mother cradling her arm, and swearing at the man using words he'd never
heard before. The father put the few things he'd unpacked back together, and
left; before he left, he cursed the both of us.

The following day, this slave's mother avoided going to see a doctor,
despite the pain in her wrist; it was badly swollen when she finally
relented, and we spent the afternoon waiting in urgent care. This slave can
see now that its mother's self-medication had a lot to do with what was said
to it that day, and that both the physical and emotional pain that she was
in contributed to the conversation.

She was never loud; she spoke steadily, and with a contoled intensity as she
detailed all of this slave's father's faults to it in a long, angry tirade.
Just three days before, this slave would have come to its father's defense;
this slave's image of its father was sacrosanct, not to be defiled. But it
was here in this crowded lobby, in which a space had gradually cleared
around it and its mother as her rant had grown in intensity, and it had the
evidence before it that its father was none of the things that it had hoped
for, or feared.

And so, when its mother said with complete honesty, with frightening focus,
"Your father is a demon, boy. A demon from hell," well, it had needed
another image of its father that it could make some sense out of. It knew
what a demon was. Its father's behavior fit the image well; he had been
deceptive at first, had been violent, had cursed us.  And it was easier for
a young boy to grasp the idea of a demon than the idea that adults, even
ones that mean the most to us, are sometimes deeply flawed and troubled
people with burdens we can't comprehend.

As this slave's mother healed, she pulled herself out of the dark place she
had gone due to this slave's father's appearance, and then she just seemed
to keep pulling. Now that she had lost the illusion of the man who would
come to rescue her, now that there was no longer that false source of hope,
she started to take her life in hand. She found a program that worked with
single mothers to get them back in school, and she worked at it diligently;
she worked part-time as well, sometimes, which meant that this slave was
left alone for longer and longer periods.

While its mother bettered their lives as best she could, this slave did what
it could to help, but that was little enough. The remainder of its time was
spent alone, and lonely, without much to do. It got in trouble a couple of
times; petty vandalism in attempts to impress the local kids enough to find
a place with them, for the most part. It became frustrated, and angry, and
bored, and those are pretty lethal combinations for a child of that age.

Its salvation came in the form of a librarian; this slave was killing time
in a library annex in a strip mall while its mother shopped a few stores
down, and a middle-aged librarian took enough interest in him to find a book
that he'd like; it was a juvenile series, laughable in retrospect, but it
opened the doors to a world for him. When his mother returned, he pleaded
for a library card; when she gave in, he brought the book home.

Imagine, Sir, if you will, this slave as a young boy, the stacks of books
that it brought home growing in almost direct proportion to its physical
size, the breadth of its understanding increasing as it read. The modern
books interested it for a while, but it soon outgrew them, and went in
search of the classics; Carroll, and Baum, Lewis and Tolkien, Heinlein and
Bradbury... it feasted on the old tales, the Grimm brothers, Yeats, Kipling.


It learned well, and quickly, but none of what it learned contravened what
it knew in its heart. It was born of demon-seed, and it was damned.

The conviction that had begun back when it was just tiny had blossomed and
grown, and had taken the empty and worthless feelings that so many youth
seem to have and had given it a name. This slave knew that its father was a
demon; that it was half-demon, at least, and that it was, no matter what,
bound for hell. There's a name for the progeny of demon and human that it
found in its readings in an encyclopedia of the obscure, late one night in
its room, and it took that name for itself.

Cambion.

While this was all developing, its mother had, much unbeknownst to it,
started not only her professional life back up, but her emotional one as
well. She prepared this slave as best she could, but the advent of the new
man in her life set off a torrent of emotions in it.

In retrospect, Sir, the man was simply out of his depth. Raising a child is
a difficult task to get thrown into, and it's impossible to prepare for. And
this slave could not have been an easy project at that age; it had withdrawn
so far from human contact that the man would have had to have written a book
to get through to it. It put a distance between the man and itself, not out
of fear of the man, as the man suspected, but out of fear that the man would
discover what it was, and leave its mother, and it would be to blame.

The man responded first with attempts at affection, by making an effort to
bond, by trying to involve the boy in experiences that they could share.
Every effort, though, had an echo in it of the boy's demon-father's parody
of paternal love, expressed over a day's time, all those years ago.

After being rebuffed, inexplicably, time and time again, the man decided
that what this slave needed was structure, responsibility... discipline. And
so began the time of rules, of strict timelines and duties; this slave's
childhood was regimented, his hours determined, his infractions punished.
This slave's mother was glad to hand over the reins to her new man, and the
man was astonished that his efforts seemed to be working. With an emphasis
on 'seemed to be.'

Early on, this slave realized that it was smarter than the man was; that the
rules, as laid down, had built-in points of failure. That there were ways
around everything, and ways to make the rules work against the man. At the
age of twelve, this slave learned all there is to know about topping from
the bottom, in a completely non-sexual way.

The slave's manipulations, and the man's counters, played themselves out
over the next year or so, culminating in an episode where it was found that,
while doing all of his chores and following all rules to the letter, this
slave had become an adept shoplifter; it had only been caught because it was
betrayed by a friend.

With that revelation, the entire structure of this slave's defiance became
obvious, and this slave moved to being overt in its resistance to the man's
attempts to regulate its life. This coincided with, and perhaps partially
caused, a rift in the relationship between the man and this slave's mother,
the end result of which was the man leaving.

This slave was presented with more evidence that its very nature was
corruptive, destructive; it learned, despite what the man and its mother
told it, that it was capable of bringing love to an end. It believed that
was its fate.

The next two years were relatively unremarkable; this slave experimented
with the beginnings of teenage rebellion, drinking, unsuccessful attempts at
smoking, a bit of laughably inexpert drug use. The most consistent factor
was this slave's consistent attraction to what was referred to universally
as the wrong crowd. Despite its bookish nature, this slave found itself
wanting very badly to be with the older boys, the ones on the fringes of the
school, the no-good loser types which, to the very young, seem to be the
definition of cool.

After a time, its advances towards these groups met with a certain amount of
acceptance, and it found itself adopted as a sort of mascot to the group. It
got to know them, somewhat, got to see what their interaction was like, and
as it had appeared from the outside, they were jovial, and rough, and
occasional brutal with each other, and this slave found itself at home.

And, of course, this slave found itself in trouble. Now that this slave's
mother was once again fending for the family by herself, this slave had an
abundance of unsupervised time, and in combination with its new affiliates,
that made for endless opportunities to screw up. The group enjoyed seeing it
drunk, for instance, a youthful parody version of themselves it supposes,
and it was caught intoxicated a few times. Its shoplifting continued when it
found that it could impress the group with gifts. And then there was Milo.

Milo was fifteen, but turned sixteen in the midst of all this. Two years
older than this slave, but at an age when those two years were everything.
He seemed to take a particular interest in this slave, and put an effort
into taking it under his wing, as it were. He cautioned against
overindulgence, and tried to get this slave sober enough to go home a couple
of times; he gave good tips on shoplifting; he was one of the few who would
just sit and talk to this slave when the group was out partying or just
hanging out. He took this slave seriously, even seemed to respect it a bit.

Now, Milo wasn't terribly smart, but he was affable, a big, kind of dorky
tough guy; intimidating as hell to adults, but considered by his peers to be
kind of a goof. This slave came to adore him; he had a good heart, and
seemed to mean well.

One night, we had both had a few too many beers while hanging out in one of
the basements we frequented when possible, and this slave passed out while
talking with Milo. It awoke, probably just a few minutes later, to find
Milo's hand, cold and hesitant, up its shirt, exploring its chest.

It pretended to still be unconscious, and the hand continued exploring;
Milo's beer-heavy breath on the side of its face, as his big hand continued
its way down to this slave's pants. It was only when his hand started
sliding into this slave's underwear that it stirred as if awakening; it
would have been mortified to have Milo find that its cock was stiffening.

This slave was thrown into turmoil, of course, for the next few days, but
soon enough, it found itself hanging out with the group again, drinking
perhaps a bit too much, a bit too obviously; then it found itself with Milo
again, off in a corner, and feigned passing out.

Once again, after a pause, after a hesitant attempt to see if it was awake,
this slave felt Milo's hands on it, feeling its ass this time, but this time
it was interrupted by a fight among the group nearby which threatened to
spill into their area.

Two days later, Milo invited this slave to go out for a drive; he had just
gotten his license, and he had his mother's car for a few hours, and there
was nothing cooler that this slave could imagine. Milo picked it up from a
corner near its house, and for an hour they drove about, talking about their
group of friends, and Milo mentioned that he thought this slave was 'a
pretty cool kid,' and this slave was almost puppyishly enthusiastic.

Milo asked it if it wanted to see where Milo lived, and it said sure. They
drove there; a small gray house in a suburban neighborhood, approximately as
shabby as those around it; a bicycle in the yard, his younger sister's, he
said. They went in, and after a brief tour of the place, which was totally
vacant, Milo presented his room. Sir may have imagined rock posters on the
walls, unmade bed, clothes in heaps, neglected schoolwork, and Sir's
imaginings would have been accurate. To this slave, though, it was a palace.
Milo showed it around a bit, and then told it that he had a surprise; a
fifth of Southern Comfort. They took turns swigging out of it a while,
listening to music and talking, and this slave relaxed by taking off its
shoes and lying next to Milo in his bed. It almost didn't notice when Milo's
hand started moving over its chest. And when Milo kissed it, it felt like
the most natural thing in the world.

Milo's father walked in.

This slave will refrain from describing the scene that ensued, or the scene
after that where this slave's mother was called, and had what had happened
explained to her in front of Milo, who was crying with rage. The next weeks
were difficult for this slave, as its mother brought it to counselors, got
into parent-teacher conferences, and ultimately talked to the police.

This slave cannot imagine how hard it was for Milo, though. It heard, later
on, that Milo had spent time at the police station; that his father had
beaten him; that there was suspicion that he had been molesting his little
sister; that he'd been caught with another boy last year. This slave is
uncertain as to what of that might have been true. Whatever happened,
whatever had happened, it was too much for Milo. He hanged himself three
weeks after the incident.

The group of friends that Milo and this slave had been a part of fragmented;
no-one wanted to be around this slave, whether it was because of what it
reminded them of, or because of what they thought it might be, it never
knew. And this slave was left alone, wondering what his part had been in the
incident; whether, if it had resisted, Milo's life would have been spared.
And it had an answer, ready-made, of course, in the darkness that it
perceived deep within itself.

It was the death of love. It was a demon; it would drive those that it loved
to despair and desperation, it would bring ruin upon any who dared care for
it. It was damned, inescapably.

This slave has mentioned that in their teens, people tend to find a doom to
call their own and cling to it possessively. This slave then did exactly
that. For the next few years, it took the darkness that it believed lay in
the essential core of its being, and it fanned it; it took what it perceived
as its destiny, and made it manifest.

It retreated again to its books; it became as invisible as possible in the
context of its school, a feat which was at first impossible due to the
notoriety that followed it from the incident with Milo, but which gradually
became more workable as it rejected any attempts at human contact. It was
bullied, it supposes, in that time; the taunts of 'faggot' seemed apt to it,
though, and it refused to acknowledge them openly, while considering them in
private. It cultivated an aspect of hostility, of rage, as if at any moment
it might snap and do something unpredictably violent.

Fortunately for it, the climate of the times made this an effective guise;
no-one knew who among them were going to turn a school into a killing
ground, and those that seemed most likely to were left alone. It finished
off its high school career with decent grades, as it had little else to do.
It had no friends, had had no relationships, had an intact virginity, and a
sheaf of questions where its sexuality should have been.

All in all, it was ready for college.

This slave's experiences in college were educational, though not in the
sense that the brochures would have led it to believe when it was applying.
It went to enough classes to keep itself from flunking out, and did well in
the classes that interested it, while bypassing those courses that it
couldn't be bothered with. Academically, this is a viable approach, and will
carry promising students through to about the second or third year, though
it will universally prevent them from  graduating anywhere close to on time,
or at all.

There was more education to be found in the dorms, the locker rooms, the
bathrooms a the library, than this slave was prepared for at the time. From
feast to famine, from rags to riches; this slave went from a world where its
desires were clandestine and furtive, near-impossible to attain, to a world
where everything that he wanted was available nightly. It discovered that of
the godlike men it had once worshiped from afar, a good number wanted to be
worshiped up close. It discovered that its looks, which it had long
despised, were considered attractive to some. And for a time, for the first
year it was there, it overindulged.

The modern miracle of communication, embodied in OKCupid, gay.com, manhunt,
and Craigslist brought to it the entire range of sensual pleasure, and it
responded with gusto. Starting with a quick encounter in a bathroom stall
now and then, moving on to furtive visits to others' dorm rooms and
off-campus apartments for blowjobs and the occasional fuck, this slave
learned how to negotiate the waters of the no-strings-attached liaison. If
it may be permitted to say, it developed a certain amount of skill in some
areas.

There was the occasional admirer who tried to turn one night into two, into
several, into dating; this slave avoided them all as soon as they showed too
much interest. When one is at a banquet, why would one limit themselves to
just the bread table? It learned it had a reputation as somewhat of a rake,
and it cultivated that with libertine abandon. It valued its skills at
avoiding emotional attachment almost as much as its skill as a cocksucker.

This slave smoked more than its fair share of both weed and cocks in those
days; it drank, experimented with drugs and different combinations of
partners; it paid the price in hangovers, quarrels, treatable diseases, and
pain.

And then came Brandon. He was tall, and likable, unpretentious, apparently
unaware of his effect on those around him. He was known to be gay; he
attended the GLBT meetings, was involved in the events. But he kept to
himself, for the most part. He was friendly to everyone, but no-one knew
anyone who had ever been with him.

As it happens, as Master knows, unattainability is an attractive quality,
near-irresistible to some. This slave made it a point to get close to
Brandon, to find out what his story was. And it found out. The story was
simple; Brandon was a simple, smart, honest guy who was looking to love, and
be loved. He was the real thing.

In the course of its investigation, this slave managed, somehow, to befriend
Brandon. By the time it had figured out what Brandon was after, Brandon was
calling it on occasion to arrange the occasional night out; there were the
usual on-campus activities, movies, poker nights, concerts, lectures.
Brandon took to it as a friend, until without either of us really thinking
much about it, it turned into dating.

Which was, for this slave, new. The idea that someone would like it not only
for its scathing wit and remarkable ability with a cock was something this
slave had never thought much about, and was unprepared for. It was being
treated decently, respectfully, as if it was a human being.

It fell in love with Brandon. Hopelessly, inexpertly, impossibly in love. It
was happy only when Brandon was around; it lived for the moments that
Brandon held it in his arms. And when Brandon finally took it into his bed,
and made love to it with real feeling, it felt that it had finally arrived,
that it had found lifelong happiness.

Brandon made it happy, but it had no experience with such things; it had no
idea how to make Brandon happy in return. It was only vaguely conscious of
the need to do so. Like so many young people, it had thought that if it was
happy, the person that loved them couldn't help but be. It tried to share
the things that made it happiest in life, though, in the hopes that Brandon
would enjoy them as well.

Unfortunately for Brandon, the things that made this slave happiest were
toxic. The life it had been leading was one of frequent, binge-drinking
parties, overindulgence in pot and coke and X and meth and pills. Even
though it had given up the sexual encounters to be with Brandon, the culture
it was embedded in was one where all relationships were considered to be
doomed, where monogamy was for suckers, where nothing good could last, and
so why not enjoy everything as much as possible, right now?

This slave had learned to deal with being doomed early on, and so was
innoculated against the worst of the effects that both the attitude and the
substances could have. Brandon had no such defense. Brandon was just trying,
at first, to get to know this slave's world a bit. He was trying to know its
friends, its habits. He was being a good boyfriend.

At first, he skirted the periphery of the group; this slave's boyfriend,
seen occasionally at the parties, mocked gently and not so gently for his
moderation. Gradually, he went from reluctantly agreeing to go to the events
to actually looking forward to them. He got a little drunker, tried pot. Got
a little higher, tried X. And so on down the line.

In the course of a year, Sir, this slave watched Brandon go from being a
shy, affable college student with a bright future to being a dropout drug
addict, barely getting by. From affable, he went to being lethargic; from
good-natured to not caring at all. The drugs and alcohol this slave took for
granted took Brandon completely.

In an apartment near to campus,one of the ones that get occupied by
ex-students still in their college's orbit, but frequented by students
needing a place to party and connections to be able to get ahold of
substances, this slave was lying with Brandon on a mattress on the floor
early one afternoon, dead asleep, when Brandon's parents arrived. They'd
been admitted by a roommate, still half-drunk, and opened the door to the
room to find their son, passed out, naked, entwined around this slave.

There was yelling and recriminations; there were revelations and
accusations. It was the usual family drama, but with this slave as the bone
of contention. Brandon's parents blamed everything on it. The fall from
grace, the drug addiction, the homosexuality. This slave had led their son
astray.

And in the light of that afternoon, this slave saw the room around it; the
beer bottles scattered among the remains of a dinner from days ago, the bong
beside the bed, the stash box beside it better-stocked with weed than the
kitchen was with food. The lack of furniture throughout the house, the
abundance of  semi-conscious people, most of whom they only knew
peripherally, scattered about. The clothes and sheets, unlaundered for way
too long. And it saw what it all looked like from Brandon's parents'
perspective.

And it saw Brandon, his face gone from amiable to haggard, exhausted. His
body, once delightful and pure, now gaunt and pale. The love that had once
been there for it long gone.

It realized that it was everything Brandon's parents said it was. It got on
its clothes, and it left.

It spent a couple of days drunk, of course, staying on the floors of other
houses much like theirs, and eventually it heard that Brandon's parents had
taken him home, several states away, it returned to the house and picked up
what stuff it could, threw everyone out, called the landlord, left the keys,
and was out before the landlord could arrive.

It was fortunate enough to have a job right then, and it was able to
continue at it while living on a couple of friends' couches, and then was
able to take another friend up on an offer of a room. It kept to itself, and
it read.

Brandon tried to get in touch a couple of times, but sometimes you just have
to get out of the way and let people get on with their lives. This slave had
realized that it was true; that it corrupted anyone who loved it.

This was borne out, to it, by the upcoming marriage of its mother to the man
who she had tried to bring into their family almost a decade before. With
this slave in the household, it had been impossible for the man to stay; now
that it was gone, its mother was able to find happiness with him. This slave
attended, done up in a rental tux, and gladly gave its mother away, as much
to save her from itself as to give her to another man.

Its childhood home was sold, and it was cordially unwelcome in the new house
the two of them had together.

And so it determined to be unapproachable, unavailable, solitary, and to
make itself happy as best it could. It buried itself in books, it worked at
its job or jobs, it learned to take care of itself.

It had an idea that it was going to spend the rest of its life like that,
and urban hermit, keeping the world entirely at bay, never having any more
than cordial contact with anyone, and work until it dropped dead in a few
decades. It was sure that that was the best thing that it could do for the
world.

It had, though, discovered the lifeline that gets extended to hermits like
that all over the world these days. It had discovered the internet.

Not that it hadn't known about the internet before, of course, Sir. The
internet had been, up until this point, a source of diversions, a method of
contacting sexual partners, a purely recreational device. Now that it wasn't
seeking out such things, it turned again to the internet, and found in it
the one thing it sought the most, without ever even knowing it. It found a
sense of community.

It joined first a message board, a general and disjointed place; that led it
to others, message boards and community hubs where people were talking,
often intelligently, about things that this slave cared about. From the
safety of its room, without having anyone get too close to it, and without
it getting too close to anyone, it found a community of first strangers, and
then friends, and for the first time in its life, it felt like it belonged.

One of its communities led it to another; a place where sexuality,
especially kinky sexuality, was discussed frankly and openly and most of
all, intelligently. It discovered that out there on the networks, the kinky
people had made their home, and that it was a surprisingly welcoming place.
It read discussions, participated in a few, and gradually started to put a
name to the feelings it had had forever. It discovered that what it wanted
was to serve.

It became involved, over the net only, with a master from North Carolina. He
was calm, and patient, and strict, and he showed this slave a little of what
it was like to be a slave. Despite the limits of the medium, this slave
tried to devote itself to the man, and was, for a time, considering
relocation. The master dissuaded it from that course; he was uncertain as to
this slave's dedication, of its level of understanding of what would be
required of it once it was owned. He wanted it to go out and gain experience
for itself.

This slave ascertained that there was indeed an active kink community in its
area, and it began to become familiar with its members. Almost as soon as it
began sniffing around the periphery of things, it was approached by a
master. This master was alluring, and convincing, and this slave wanted
nothing more than to serve him. This slave ignored, for the most part, the
warnings that were muttered to it in confidence; the stories of other slaves
brutalized and used. This slave believed that it could take it, that the
other slaves were simply not good enough.

If it had not listened at all, it wouldn't have left its location with a
concerned acquaintance, in case something happened. If it had ignored the
warnings completely, it might have had more than a visit to the emergency
room, and a few weeks in a cast.

During that period, it was befriended by another slave, who introduced it to
its master, and still another slave. This slave got to talk to men who were
actually in service, who were collared and owned, and discovered that its
treatment at the hands of the first master was unacceptable, and had been
dealt with while this slave waited for treatment in the hospital. It learned
more about the service that was required of slaves, and the way masters
treat them. It learned that, if it found the right master, it would be
honored to serve.

The whole time it was recovering, it heard rumors; even after it had healed,
it heard stories. The stories told of a master, a strong and handsome man, a
man both cruel and gentle, who required His slaves to serve hard, and used
them well and thoroughly. Who was truly masterful in His demeanor; a Master
who was truly worthy of a slave's complete devotion.

But the Master only took His slaves for one night, and one night only.

This slave heard tales from others about their use at this Master's hands;
their eyes glazed over, they told of finally feeling as if they had come to
belong to a true owner, a masterful Master, a man worthy of any service they
could render.

And this slave determined that it had to see for itself. And that, if the
Master were truly that wise, that strong, that powerful in demeanor and
commanding in manner, it would offer itself to Him completely.

This slave will end this tale as it began; when it knocked, that one night,
at Sir's door.

"That," said Master Ryan, "Was a terrible story."

"Sir?" Even under the blindfold, the slave looked shocked.

The Master applied a couple of clothespins to the side of the slave's
abdomen. "It was missing two crucial elements. Can you tell me," he said,
putting another couple of clothespins on the other side of the slave's
torso, "What they were?"

"Sir, this slave endeavored to tell Sir the facts, all of the... aaaaahhh...
all of the facts, as they occurred." Master Ryan was applying wooden
clothespins in a line down its chest now, quickly. The slave flinched with
each one. The Master remained silent, and started a new thread. The slave
gasped now as the clothespins were applied.

"Sir, this slave doesn't know what Master is referring to. The events of its
life... aaaaahhh... the events are as this slave related them. Please,
Sir..."

The Master began a line of clothespins up the outer side of the slave's
thigh, pinching the skin first, then applying each one carefully and
quickly. He remained silent.

"This slave... didn't mention its very first sexual encounter... it was
eighteen, at college, the guy was... was as awkward as it was... it wasn't
remarkable..." The slave was doing what it could to pull away from the pain
the Master was inflicting, pulling at its leather restraints.

The Master finished the second line of clothespins up its opposite thigh,
and then put one on the edge of its navel, clamping it fast.

"SIR... Sir... could Sir please, please enlighten... this slave... as to
what else... Sir requires?" The slave was a hedgehog of clothespins at this
point.

"What does it take to make a good story, boy?" The Master asked. "What's the
difference between a story and a news report?"

The Master could see the slave trying to think despite the pain that it was
in.

"Character, plot, character arcs... aaaah...." The Master had started a new
line of clothespins under the slave's left arm. "Story structure. Oh...
oh... a conclusion. A resolution of some sort, something learned..."

"Does your story have one of those, boy?" The Master asked.

"Sir, this slave learned... that it destroys the ones who love it... this
slave learned that it should simply live to serve, to ask nothing in return,
as it deserves... this slave learned that it is useless alone, it is driven
to serve, but it cannot allow itself to feel... anything for those around
it..." The slave trailed off, breathing heavily.

"Which leads me to the second element you forgot, boy." The Master removed
one of the clothespins from the inside of the boy's thigh. The boy gasped.
"You related the facts in a very businesslike manner. Now I know all of the
events you considered to be formative." Master Ryan continued removing
clothespins up the boy's leg, and now the boy was flinching, pulling his leg
away. "The one thing you didn't tell me anything about was how you felt.
During any of it."

"Sir, this slave....aaaaaaaaahhh.... this slave felt miserable... afraid..."
The boy was shaking his head back and forth, as if negating the pain it was
in.

"You told me about your friend Milo. How did you feel when you got caught in
bed with him?" The Master continued relentlessly taking off the clothespins;
as circulation returned to the boy's skin, the pain was intense.

"Sir... this slave was frightened when Milo's father burst in; it was
terrified of what would happen to it, it thought the father was mad enough
to... aaaaaaah... do it phyisical harm."

"And afterward, when Milo was avoiding you, when the rumors were spreading?"
The slave felt the Master's fingers toy with a clothespin on its balls, in
preparation for removing it.

"Sir, this slave felt... it felt like it had hurt Milo. It wanted to talk to
him, to make it right, to tell him that it wanted it, that it wanted to try
again, that it was sorry, that it was its fault, that it wanted to....
aaaaahhh... that it wanted to make it better."

"And when he died?"

"Sir... this slave was anguished... it knew it was its own fault... that it
had led Milo on... that if it hadn't been there, Milo could have lived..."

"And when you left Brandon?" The Master was removing the clothespins on the
boy's sides now, on one side, then the other.

"This slave... felt... that it had destroyed a beautiful human being... that
mere contact with it had caused Brandon to break, in so many ways... this
slave felt that it was its duty to leave him, to try to let him heal the
damage it had caused. This slave... felt like corruption."

"And when your father left you?"

"Sir, this slave was so young... this slave cannot recall..."

The Master's fingers moved to the clothespins on the slave's balls, and
started toying with them.

"This slave supposes... it felt... angry... it felt sad, like it was going
to break inside... it wanted him to stay so badly, but knew that he was
wrong to do what he did... it knew that whatever its father was, that was
what it would grow up to be... it saw how mean he was, how he hurt... and it
knew... that it was going to be..."

"You still believe you're part demon."

"No, Sir, that was a fantasy... that this slave came up with... to make some
sense out of its life. It knows... that there aren't demons..."

"Yet, still, you believe it."

"Sir... this slave knows there's something... inside it... that corrupts..."

"Cambion."

The boy started sobbing.

"That's the name you gave yourself, isn't it, boy?" The Master asked. There
were only a few clothespins left; up the slave's cock, on its nipples.

"Yes, Sir."

"You still call yourself by that."

"...aaaah.... yes, Sir."

"You still believe that you're doomed, and you drag the people around you
down with you."

There were tears leaking out from under the blindfold now. "Yes, Sir."

"You believe you're going to do that to me." the Master stated.

"Sir, this slave didn't... this slave wouldn't..."

"What happened when you saw your father again?" The Master asked.

The boy's body bucked, and started struggling against his bonds. "Goddamn
it! You son of a bitch! Let me go! Let me go! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"When did you see him?" The Master's voice was louder, but still calm.

"Fuck you! Get off me! Fuck!" The boy was yelling, crying, struggling. "You
can't do this! You can't... Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!"

With that word, the Master unbuckled the cuff on the boy's wrist that was
closest to him; the boy reached immediately to take off his blindfold, then
undid his other wrist while the Master freed his feet. There were four
clothespins left, one on his navel, one on his cock, and two on his nipples;
the boy removed them himself, crying, and cried out in pain with each one.

The Master brought him his clothes.

The boy dressed himself, quieting his sobbing to sniffles; he didn't look at
Master Ryan as he did so. He winced as he pulled on his pants, and moved
carefully after that. He put his shirt and shoes on, and went to the door.
He looked back at the Master once, and his expression was one of anger, and
hurt, and longing, and desperation.

He left.

"I'm sorry," Master Ryan said.