Date: Sun, 21 Sep 2003 00:17:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Harbour Master, Part 23

AN AUTHOR'S NOTE  (HARBOUR MASTER, Part 23)

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

FROM PETE BROWN

Many of you will perhaps recognise that "Harbour
Master", that is to say "Steve's story", because
that's what it really is, was not really written by
Steve.  I'm one of that band of people known as "ghost
writers", who are employed by celebrities to "ghost"
their autobiographies, turning conversations with the
principals into "first person" narrative accounts of
their lives.  I also accept commissions from tabloid
newspapers, to help fill their pages with stories like
"My daughter ran off with my lover":  again, these are
"ghost written", as the people concerned are usually
Ds and Es and are incapable of stringing words
together.

I am writing this note to readers who enjoyed "Harbour
Master" as I have had many, many requests asking "what
happened next"?   To me, it seems that "Harbour
Master" is complete in itself - we see poor Steve, ill
educated and low in the social scale, enslaved as the
tale begins.  By his own wit and ability he refashions
his life so that he ends up with two handsome, virile
slaves to serve him.   To achieve the kind of wealth
that Steve has, represented by the slaves, would in
itself be a considerable achievement for a man
starting from nothing.  Starting as a slave, it is
perhaps a tribute to the way in which strong men can
achieve great things.

Like many authors, having made the moral point of the
story, there seemed little reason to continue.  As in
Jane Austen's great novels, once the match has been
made we do not need to know the details of the lives
of the characters subsequently:  the point of the plot
is to show the trials and tribulations that the
heroines experience as they search for "success" in
their society, a society that devalued women in much
the same way that the current US slave-owning society
devalues slaves.  Whilst I wouldn't compare my own
writing with the extraordinary genius of Miss Austen,
I feel much the same about "Harbour Master" as she
probably did about her very few extraordinary novels:
once the point has been made, and all the characters
are at some sort of leaping off point for a new life,
it's appropriate to stop.

I'm tired of my e-mail being clogged with requests for
further information, however, and I am going to break
one of my golden rules, by publishing this
"supplement" to tell, to the best of my knowledge, the
remaining story of Steve's life.  But I have a
problem, because of the circumstances in which I met
Steve, and the way in which the original story was
related to me. I simply do not have the detail that
will enable me to give the "blow by blow" account of
Steve's life that you have heard in the 22 chapters of
"Harbour Master" that were published.

Whilst I'm sure that readers will be interested in
what I do know, let me say now that this is all there
is, and there is unlikely to be more.  I will tell you
about how I became "ghost writer" to Steve, and
perhaps you will then understand why the remainder of
the story is less complete.

A MEETING WITH  STEVE

I was on a chair lift at Val D'Isere one February when
it abruptly stopped half way to the top - some of
those idiots who persist in taking trips up to the
high glacier without the real ability to cope, I
thought - they'd fallen at the top, or something.
It's so tiresome, as it cuts down the time us expert
skiers can spend on the piste.

The guy sitting next to me was clearly a good skier,
too, as he had the finest quality equipment, the sort
that you only invest in if you know you're going to be
testing it to its limits.  And I could see that he had
a tough, muscular body and seemed to be one of those
men who simply radiate fitness.  As the delay
continued, we began to speak and it was clear from his
accent that he was an American - since the great crash
there have been fewer and fewer Americans skiing in
Europe, as the dollar/euro rate makes it prohibitively
expensive for many.  I suspected, therefore, that he
had inherited wealth, and was living off the income
from a trust fund.

He had a very easy, very confident manner, and I
really enjoyed talking to him:  we talked about the
stuff all skiers do - opinions on the runs, the
likelihood of good weather for the next few days, the
prospects for good powder, and the qualities of the
different ski schools if you wanted a one-to-one
session for a hard day's off-piste.  Like me, he was
there by himself, and skiing alone - not a good idea,
I know, especially if you need to confine yourself to
the most difficult and challenging pistes in order to
ensure your ability is tested to its maximum.

When the lift restarted and we reached the top, he
asked if I wanted to ski with him down to the bottom,
for a drink.  I agreed, and even for me the run down
was a challenge.  He was the same very high standard
as me, but his obvious supreme fitness enabled him to
tackle and complete manoeuvres that were challenging
and taxing with rather more style than I could - but I
did keep up with him, and we arrived at one of the
mountain restaurants almost simultaneously.

"That was a good run", he told me cheerfully.  "I
didn't think you'd make it in the same time as me."

"Oh, you know what they say", I replied jokingly, "Old
age and experience is always a match for youth and
enthusiasm".  I don't suppose I was that much older
than he was, anyway - he seemed to be in his early
thirties, and I'm only in my forties.

Over our coffees - like me, he didn't take alcohol on
the slopes as he didn't want his abilities impaired in
any way - we talked about skiing, and we discovered
that we were not only skiing alone, but were
vacationing alone.  Tentatively I asked him if he was
interested in skiing with me for the rest of the day,
and he readily agreed.

"I'd have asked you on the lift", he told me, "But I
wanted to see  you in action first.  I don't like
skiing alone, especially off piste, but I didn't want
to be burdened with some guy whose abilities didn't
almost match mine."   Well what he said was true, of
course - I'd thought of asking him myself on the lift,
but had refrained from doing so in case he was just a
rich poser who'd bought all the right gear but had no
real idea how to use it.  But it was his direct way of
saying it that appealed to me:   he'd accepted me as
he'd seen that I could ski as he could, and he didn't
see any reason to hide from me that this was the only
reason why we were now sitting here together.

We had probably the best day's skiing I've ever had -
when I go with a party of friends, there's always
someone who isn't as good as the rest, and we always
get held back waiting for him.  With Steve, I simply
skied and skied, as fast as I could, pushing the edge
of my abilities all the time.  We soon gave up simply
racing downhill as it was just plain boring - we could
both put our tips straight down the slope, bend our
bodies into a crouch, and go down almost without
stopping, needing only to swerve and turn occasionally
as some idiot wavered from side to side on the piste
in front of us.  So we took ourselves off the piste,
and raced trough the trees along those narrow "tram
lines" left by earlier skiers:  there's almost nothing
to match that feeling of fear, is there, as you are
skiing very fast, tips just behind the guy in front of
you, the trees whipping past on both sides, and
knowing that there's no way you could possibly stop if
he had a problem?

As a variation, we went up in the highest lifts, then
climbed higher and higher, our boots biting into the
snow and our skis on our shoulders.  This really was
hard work for me, although Steve seemed able to cope
with the climb, the weight of his skis, and the
difficulty of the altitude almost without noticing it:
 we were up beyond 3500 metres, and the air's thin -
any hard physical exertion and your heart races and
your lungs pant and gasp to try to suck in enough air
(well, mine do!).  Nothing beats the sheer
exhilaration of starting down a virgin snow field, on
a steep slope, knowing that at any moment you might
start a small avalanche, does it?  Steve and I
swooshed out huge broad curves as we raced down,
carving  huge swathes through the un-pisted snow.
It's hard work to climb up there, and it's over all
too quickly, but it's worth it.

By mid afternoon I'd really had enough, but there was
no way I was going to stop until Steve did.  It was
with a sinking heart that we caught the last lift up
for one more run, and I don't think I've ever been
more grateful to get down to the bottom in my life.
As I stood there, I could feel my legs literally
trembling after the exertion they'd been put through
that day.  But I was happy - deliriously happy - the
sun, the snow, the challenge, all combined to make it
one of those special days I'll remember for the rest
of my life.

Steve was standing by me, leaning right forward in his
skis so he was at almost 45 degrees to the ground - I
know he was sending me a message saying "Look, my legs
can still take it.  You finished, sure, but I'm still
ready for more!"

"Thanks for a great day's skiing", I told him.
"You're good, Steve, really good.  That's one of the
best days out I've ever had."

"Well, you're not so bad yourself", he replied.  "I
like a challenge:  if I'd been by myself today, I'd
have taken it a lot easier, but I wanted to push you,
to see how far you'd go, and that made me push myself,
harder and harder."

We both laughed, and it was only later that I realised
that this "pushing", and "challenge" were part of
Steve's philosophy, his values, the things that shaped
his personality.

"Can I buy you dinner tonight?", he asked me, and as I
hate eating alone (and anyway had really taken a
liking to the guy), I readily agreed.  He didn't ask
me what kind of food I liked or anything, but simply
told me to be at his hotel at eight - looking back, I
can again see his personality bleeding through:  he
just told me to be there at eight, and never
questioned whether this was convenient, or if I'd
prefer to meet somewhere else.

We skied off then, and I lay and soaked in a hot bath
for an hour, trying to ease the ache in my muscles.
Lying on the bed afterwards, resting, I leafed through
the local tourist brochure and was interested to note
that Steve's hotel as one of the most expensive, and
even had a Michelin two star restaurant.  This
confirmed the view I'd formed from seeing his
expensive equipment, that he was a "little rich boy"
on a vacation to Europe - although his physical
prowess had shown me that he certainly wasn't a poser!

I hadn't expected to eat in the two star restaurant,
and although I'm OK financially, I don't usually think
about spending that much money on a meal whilst I'm on
a skiing holiday (when I'm already burning euros like
they're going out of fashion!).  Although I could
order what I wanted, and Steve made no effort to
interfere, he never asked me about the wine and when
the sommelier arrived took the list, and ordered very
quickly.  He didn't even consult the guy, which is
part of the "thing" about expensive restaurants, I
suppose - just rapped out his choices and waved the
man away as he clearly did not want further
discussion.  In hindsight, I recognise now that this
was the real Steve in action, as usual.

When the white wine arrived I began to get worried:
if I was sharing the bill, it would seriously damage
my finances.  Even more curious was the way in which
Steve only drank half a glass of the stunning Puligny
Montrachet - I had a glass or two, I suppose (you know
how it's so difficult to tell in these top class
restaurants, as the waiters refill your glass so
easily and unobtrusively).  It was the same with the
Bordeaux - half a glass for Steve, and rather more for
me!

We chatted about this and that all through the meal,
nothing important, but I felt Steve was sizing me up
all the time, trying to discover what sort of person I
was.  In my job you have a natural curiosity about
people, of course - you couldn't listen to them
talking away endlessly unless you did - and I was
probing Steve, trying to find out more about him.  He
gave almost nothing away though, except to tell me he
was in his early thirties, and that he was a
"businessman" on vacation.

"So where's Mrs Steve?", I asked, half jokingly, as I
was picking up those odd vibrations that you get when
you're a gay guy and there's another man that you
desperately fancy, talking to you.

"There was a Mrs Steve", he replied, laughing, "But
that was a long time. We... We....", he hesitated for
a moment, and went on "We broke up.  And since then
I've been alone.  Well, you know... I have friends....
But no permanent relationship."  Of course in the
light of his story, as I learned it subsequently, the
"broke up" bit related to the automatic breaking of
all civil ties on his enslavement.

He looked at me then, very directly, and said "I've
finished.  Come with me to my room, as I need a fuck."

Well, it's not poetry, is it?  I've been propositioned
by lots of guys in my life, but no one before or since
has ever been quite so abrupt.  The change from the
light conversation over diner to the "command" to go
to his room was so sudden.  And it wasn't even a
"would you like to come to my room, and would you like
to fuck?" - just an order to go with him, as he needed
a fuck!

I got my wallet out to find a credit card, but he
didn't even appear to notice, simply signing the bill
that the waiter had produced, and he walked out:  I
can see now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he
expected me to follow him.  He was so confident in his
ability to control that he knew that I would get up
from the table and hurry after him.

We didn't speak in the lift or as we strode along the
silent, luxurious corridor to his room.  It was a big
one - an "executive suite", I suppose you'd call it,
and what was surprising to me was that once inside he
didn't waste any time on preliminaries at all.   Most
guys will offer you a drink, or something, or comment
on the view, or whatever, but Steve simply started to
kick his shoes off, then to undo his trousers and push
them to the floor.

"What are you waiting for?", he asked. "Get naked.  I
haven't cum since this morning, and my dick needs an
ass!"

You won't know, of course, but I consider myself
"versatile".  I can give it, or take it.  If anything,
I have a slight preference for giving it, but I'm
happy  to go along with what the other guy wants to
do.  Even so, the abrupt order, and the assumption
that he was going to top me, got me a bit riled.

"Hey, Steve, slow down....".  I moved over to him, and
ran my hands over his muscular body that was now
exposed.  As I caressed his left nipple and felt it
spring hard in my palm, I felt his whole body tense.
Most guys like you to fondle their cocks, don't they,
and cup their balls in your hand, but as I reached for
Steve's rigid cock he seemed to snap somehow, and my
arm was gripped hard by his big hands and I was pushed
away.

"Hey, sorry....", I said.  "I thought you wanted to
fuck.  Perhaps I'd better go."

"No... It's just that I cant' bear to be touched by a
guy who's still got his clothes on.... When you  felt
my dick... Well, it brings back memories."

I thought it was strange, but now I'd seen him naked,
and had experienced a little of the excitement of his
firm warm flesh, I didn't want to quit!  Even if he
was going to fuck me with the giant cock that was
sticking out from his gorgeous body like a flagpole, I
didn't care.

I quickly shed my own clothes, and he stood there,
looking at me.  As I've told you, I'm not in bad shape
for a guy in his forties, and certainly I'd been fit
enough to keep up with him all day.  I watch my
weight, work out occasionally, and most of the men I
go with think I'm at the very least 'OK'."  (Note to
readers:  photographs of the author are to be found on
the jackets of his books - the usual publisher's face
shots.  There is no point in e-mailing asking for a
whole body shot, preferably naked, as it will not be
supplied!).

He reached out and felt my cock, then grinned at me
and said cheerily "You'll do - nice body you have!
Get on the bed."

That was really all he said until he'd finished
fucking me.  He didn't ask whether I was top or bottom
- it was assumed he was going to do the fucking.  He
didn't ask whether I wanted missionary or doggy - he
just flipped me onto my back.  And he didn't use
chemical lube - I was amazed when he squatted down
beside me and started to wank me:  this had never
happened before, especially without any sort of
discussion, and it was only when he took my cum and
started to massage my asshole with it that I realised
why he'd done it.

When I saw him slicking the remains of my cum onto his
cock, I began to get worried as I don't do bareback.
Well, it's more accurate to say that I hadn't done
bareback before - I now found I had no choice as Steve
hefted my legs onto his shoulders, and began to fuck
me almost immediately.  I tried to protest, but he
didn't seem to hear - or didn't care!  I tried to get
away from him, but his hot cock was inside me already:
 his preparation of me had at least been so thorough
that I'd hardly noticed it slipping past my sphincter.
 Looking up at his superb body as it towered above me
as he fucked away, I gave up:  who cared about the
risk, when this fantastic animal was giving me so much
pleasure.  He was slow and careful, and I saw that he
was "playing" me almost, timing the movements of his
cock in and out to synchronise with my own thrusts
upwards towards him.  I heard myself moaning and
sighing - I don't know what I was saying, but I was
completely carried away.

It could have gone on for ever as far as I was
concerned, but almost as if a switch had been thrown
Steve changed.  My moans of pleasure changed to shouts
- shouts of pain, or was it pleasure?  He was now
really violently fucking me, almost pulling out
completely, then slamming back in to me with all the
force his powerful body was capable of.  If I could
have, I'd have got away from him, but I was impaled by
his cock and he was gripping my knees tight to his
chest to get my asshole even closer to his cock. His
face had altered, to - whereas previously he'd been
smiling and concerned for me, and had his eyes open to
watch me, now they were screwed tightly closed and his
entire face was contorted with some kind of primeval
rage.

Fortunately it didn't go on for too long - I couldn't
stand the violence of it, but he couldn't sustain it:
he shot his load into me with a great shout, and I saw
his back arch as he tried to get his cock the last
millimetre up me.  Then there were the little "after
shocks" as he feebly pushed backwards and forwards -
his eyes were still closed, and I knew he must have
one of those sensitive cocks as he gave little cries
as he tried to pump the last bit of his sperm into me.

When he collapsed forward onto me he didn't bother to
try to take any of his weight on his elbows - it was
as if he wanted to crush me, to cover me completely by
his own body, to somehow totally encompass me.  He was
hot and sweaty, and I could feel his heart pounding
away as his chest lay against mine.  He was exuding
that incredible male pheromone scent that some men do
after sex, and I wanted to lick him all over.

He lay there, panting like an animal in is exhaustion
for a couple of minutes, and it was me who finally had
to say "Steve.... Get up off me.... You're too heavy!"

Only then did he raise himself a bit on his hands, his
cock still buried in me.  I realised that I'd thrown
my legs around his waist as he lay there, as I'd
unconsciously wanted to get closer to him.  He looked
down at me, his eyes were open and sparkling, and he
was grinning again.

"You're a good fuck, Pete."

"That wasn't fucking, Steve, that was close to rape!
I don't do bareback, and...."

"Oh stop whining!  You've just had the best fuck
you've had for a long time, and you know it.  And a
man can't get proper satisfaction when his dick's
wearing a plastic raincoat!"

He pulled out of me, and stalked across the room to
the bathroom.  It was then, I suppose, that I first
noticed the huge swirly tattoo all over his back, and
something on his ass, too.  Why would such a stunning
piece of manhood disfigure himself like that,  I
wondered.

Steve came back now, and I knew from the sound of
running water that he'd been cleaning my ass juice off
his cock.  We'd been lying on top of the bed, but he
now almost tore the covers off, kind of pushing me
over to get hem out from under me.  He threw himself
down on to the bed, next to me, then pulled the covers
over to cover both of us.  He turned me over to face
him, threw a big arm casually around me, and forced
his thigh up between my legs so that my asshole could
feel his warmth.

Actually I love these moments after sex, when you're
so close to another man, and having Steve pushing his
body into such intimate contact with mine was heaven.
I could feel our cocks and pubic hair grinding
together, and his hot breath was on my neck and face.

I was still a bit pissed off with him, though.... Even
though he was right:  it had been one of the best
fucks I'd ever experienced.

"I thought you might say you were sorry....", I began.

"For what?"

"Well, suppose I'd wanted to fuck you?  And I don't do
bareback.  And...."

"Hey, calm down!  You've just been fucked, you really
enjoyed it, and now you're trying to make out you'd
rather have done something else....!  Well, I don't
get fucked, and I only do bareback, so I guess that if
you and I are going to ski together for the rest of
the week you'll just have to accept that my naked cock
is going up your ass several more times!"

He was so frank, so open, so honest, somehow, that I
just couldn't go on bearing a grudge against him.

"Well, if the price of having my body totally worn out
by your skiing is having my ass reamed by that huge
cock of yours.... Well, I'll just have to pay it,
won't I?"   I was smiling as I said this, and as I
finished I leaned forward to kiss him.

He pulled his head away.

"Hey, Steve... Don't you do kissing, either?"

For some reason, I'll never know why, and I don't
suppose he will either, he started to talk to me.  I
could tell that he wasn't used to talking - really
talking seriously, about "life", to another person:
you get a sense of it in my job as I have to listen to
so many people  telling me embarrassing and painful
things.

"No, it's not that I don't do it.... I used to like
it.... It's just that I... Well, after something that
happened a few years ago, I've not wanted to get
really close to another guy.  It's all right to fuck a
guy as I need to release my cum.  But somehow I don't
want any more physical involvement.  I don't even know
why I'm lying here close to you, saying this."

I'm a good listener, and I didn't make the mistake of
interrupting him at this point.  I sensed that I as on
to a potentially good "story" and that Steve wanted to
talk, as there were things he'd kept bottled up for
too long.  But he needed to do it in his own time, in
his own way.  So I just lay there, feeling the warmth
of our bodies together, smelling the heady scent of
his sweat and his cum that was leaking slowly out of
my ass and drifting up to our noses under the covers,
and generally just revelling in that extraordinary
sense of bonding that you have with another man who
has just fucked you.

"This may shock you", he started.  "But I'm a slave
dealer - well, more of a trainer, actually."

This was a very bold thing for him to say, as, after
all, he'd only known me less than a day.  We don't
have slaves in the EU, as you know,  even though we
see the incredible success of the system in the US and
the Middle East.  As you probably also know, the
European Parliament has implemented Draconian laws
against EU citizens  owning slaves or engaging in any
form of slave trading, even if it's legal in the
countries where they are.  If I'm on holiday in the
USA, for example, it's illegal for me to hire a slave,
even for an hour's fucking, or to go for a "pony"
ride, or to carry me in a litter.  If I did, and I'm
reported to the authorities back home, I can be tried
in any of the member countries of the EU when I get
back.  This whole thing got started in the nineties,
when EU countries started to claim
"extraterritoriality" over their citizens, and
prosecuted men coming back from "sex holidays" in
Thailand, even though the Thai authorities didn't care
about sex with minors.  Now the EU is so fanatically
anti-slavery that they not only prosecute their own
citizens, as I've described, but they try to track
down slavers from elsewhere in the world when they are
present in the EU!

So by telling me he was a slave dealer, or trainer, or
whatever, Steve was taking a real risk,  He didn't
know I was an author.  I might have been a policeman,
or a politician, or a lawyer... His "confession" could
have earned him a life sentence in any EU country:
I'd only have to report him to the nearest police
station and they'd arrest him whilst carrying out
enquiries in the USA.  Even though he was doing things
there that were perfectly legal there, the simple
hatred of slavery was such a thing in the EU that they
were determined to make it as difficult as possible
for legitimate businessmen to move outside their own
country.

"It's a long story", Steve went on.  "I went from
being a slave myself to owning one of the most
successful slave training facilities and consultancies
in the country."

I at once suspected that he was making it all up,
spinning me a line.  I knew that the US laws said
"slavery is for life", so I began to doubt him.  But
as we lay there and he started to speak, I heard the
incredible story that I've relayed to you.

Once he'd started, it was as if a dam had burst and he
was unable to stop.  He went on and on, hardly
pausing, with apparently effortless recall.  I lay
there fascinated, and we finally drifted off to sleep
about four in the morning.

I'd never spent the night with another guy in a hotel
room, and I was embarrassed when the waiter brought
Steve's breakfast in and he was still fast asleep, his
arm wrapped around me, his body spooned into mine, and
his cock nestling in my ass crack.  The man looked
down at our two bodies in the big bed, and went to
leave.

Steve woke, saw what was happening, and at once
snapped "Fetch a second lot, as my friend needs
feeding, too."

He looked at me, and burst out laughing!  "Pete -
you're embarrassed!  You're all flushed!!  What's
wrong with a waiter seeing you half naked in bed?  I
bet he sees couples like this all the time."

"Yes... But, you know, couples... Men and women... Not
two men."

"It's not illegal too, is it? " he asked.  "A couple
of guys can fuck, can't they, even if they can't fuck
a slave, as I understand it."

"Oh yes - same sex intercourse has been legal for many
years.  It's just that it's still not.... not entirely
considered to be 'normal'."

"Ah well, that's what comes from not having a good
healthy attitude to slavery.  If you don't have naked
slave around as part of everyday life, I guess you can
be repressed about proper sex, too."

I think he was making a point when the waiter came
back with the second breakfast trolley - as the man
entered the room, Steve got out of bed and walked
towards him:  the waiter couldn't take his eyes off
Steve's gigantic morning erection as it bobbed in
front of him.  Steve found his wallet and gave the
waiter a five euro note as a tip, but as he handed
over the money, he idly stroked his cock with his
other hand.

He came back to bed, laughing, and as we lay there
eating he said "That's the way to treat servants and
slaves - just ignore them, and do what you'd normally
do."

"Well, Steve, there is a difference between the way
you treat a servant and a slave you know."

"What's that?"

"In Europe, you don't need to tip waiters and so on,
especially in places like this.  Service is
automatically added to your bill at the end.  You tip
servants in the US, I know - all those silly small
bills left for waiters and so on.  But you don't need
to do it here - I expect you should jus think of them
as slaves - you don't tip them, do you?  Or maybe you
were thinking of that young waiter as a slave,
stroking that cock of yours as you looked at him:  did
you want to fuck him?  And, if so, why, when I'm
waiting here for you....?"

As I said this I stopped eating my croissant and
reached over and stroked his cock, and he gave a
little moan of pleasure.

"Hey, you're coming on", I told him.  "Yesterday, when
I reached for your cock, you shied away from me...
Now I must be doing something right, as you're letting
me touch you."

As I spoke I'd started to fondle his balls, and as I
finished I reached down and nipped one of his strong
male teats with my teeth, causing him to shift
excitedly in the bed.

"You're right.... You know, I think it's having told
you my story last night.  It's made me feel somehow
'different'.  I've never told anyone all that before,
and just lived as a normal free man. I think I didn't
like men touching my body as it reminded me of being
inspected and handled when I was sold as a slave -
recounting my story has exorcised the ghost."

Well, we didn't fuck that morning as we agreed that we
wanted to be out on the slopes early, and that it
would be fun to leave ourselves full of spunk.  We
decided we'd have a competition to decide which was
the most desirable man we saw skiing, and that when we
stopped for lunch we'd ski off into the trees and wank
each other, whilst  talking about them.

I've never had so much fun as I did for the rest of
that week - skiing hard all day with a great
companion, wanking or fucking in a secluded off piste
area at lunch time, and astounding nights in bed with
a virile, strong experienced lover.

On the second night, after he'd fucked me and we were
again comfortably nestled together in his bed, Steve
wanted to talk again.  He fleshed out some parts of
the story for me, and I was now able to interject
questions of my own.

At an early point I said "You know, Steve, you felt so
much better this morning after telling me the story
last night."

"Yes - that was the first time I'd been able to let
another guy fondle me.... And it's great!"

"Well perhaps if I produced it as a story... A
published story.... You could remain totally
anonymous, but seeing it in print would clear any
hang-ups you still had, once and for all, about having
been enslaved."

He lay there, silent, and  I wondered if I'd really
upset him.  I ran my hand gently over his chest,
letting my palm lie over one of his nips, feeling the
beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his
breathing.  Time seemed to stretch out, as I waited.

"You're probably right, Pete.  Yes, I'll let you do
it.  Do you remember everything I told you?"

"No, but I've got my recorder with me.  We could turn
it on, and you could start again..."  I have one of
those micro cassette recorders, and I always slip it
into a pocket whenever I go out, as I sometimes think
of story ideas, or want to dictate part of a story
when I'm travelling."

"But tell me", I went on, "Why are you skiing here?
There's great skiing in the USA - I've been there..."

"Well  I suppose I'm always worried, somewhere deep
down, about still being a slave.  They keep talking
about DNA stuff and testing all the males in the USA
and keeping a national database, and then I'd surely
be caught.  Every time I see a member of the slave
police I get a little knot in my stomach.  When I go
on vacation I like to go somewhere where there are no
slaves, no slave police, nothing....  No one's looking
for me here, and, even if they were, as an escaped
slave I'd be OK:  I certainly wouldn't be extradited."

It's funny, isn't it, how even when men appear to be
very self assured, very confident, very much in
control - and Steve was definitely all these things,
fifty times over - they can still have small
self-doubts?  I really liked Steve as a person, and he
had the best body of any man I'd ever been with.  It
was probably his personality that made him so sexy -
somehow he just exuded sensuality - and I was really
turned on by him.  His small vulnerabilities, the
little chink in his armour that he'd just confessed,
made him all the more desirable.

I raised my body slightly, almost becoming erect as my
cock slid sensuously over his muscled thigh, and
kissed him.  This time he didn't resist, and I
explored his mouth with my tongue, feeling him respond
to me.  His arms went around my body and he hugged me
to him, and we almost wrestled in the excitement of
the tongue fucking we were doing.

When we broke for air he was smiling happily, and said
"Start that fucking recorder, then, and I'll start
over.  I've almost forgotten how good a guy's tongue
feels, and how great it is to have all this spit
everywhere."

And that was the pattern for the rest of the week:
skiing, fucking, and talking.

My flight back to London was on Friday, and as it got
closer and closer, I came to dread it.  I wanted to
stay with Steve, and I wanted to hear more of his life
- I guess I'm a terrible "voyeur" for human interest,
and his story was certainly packed with it.  But I'm
also a professional author, and I'd focussed on
getting all the detail of his life up until the point
you have read about in "Harbour Master."  It was only
on Thursday night that I got to ask him "What happened
next?", and he started to clam up again - clearly
there was something that he didn't want to talk about.

I used all my skills in open questioning to try to get
him to tell me, but very little more came out.  There
was something deeply curious about the future life of
Matt and Bill, and, of course, I noted that they
weren't here with him - although they couldn't have
been, could they, as slaves were not allowed to be
exported from the USA?  But he hadn't spoken about
them, either, and made no mention of going back to
them.

You know Steve is mentally tough as well as being
physically so, and it was clear that I wasn't going to
make any progress until Steve wanted to.  So I gave
up, and relaxed, and had one of the greatest nights in
bed I've ever had - no, not one of the greatest - the
greatest!  Steve was still absolutely in charge,
absolutely in control (and now I understood more of
his character, it was interesting to experience this
first hand) but he took time to make me completely and
deliriously happy with his fucking before he allowed
himself his own private pleasure, and went at it,
almost savagely, for a few final strokes.  It thrilled
me to see how the animal in him came out at that
point, as his body slammed into me and he gave a great
shout as his sperm pumped deep inside me.

It was a miracle I could actually sit down on the
plane the next morning, my ass was so sore - he'd
fucked me five times that night, every time after we'd
drifted from a light sleep into a drowsy wakefulness.
I didn't care - I only wished it had been ten times!
I was so embarrassed as the bed was a complete mess,
the sheets stained with sweat, semen, and ass juice,
but Steve just shrugged his shoulders and said "Who
gives a fuck?  It's only a hotel."

He came with me to the airport, and after I'd checked
in we sat in a bar on the concourse.  Neither of us
spoke much.  I had a beer, but Steve stuck to mineral
water - just as he had only drunk a little wine at
that first dinner, I now knew he rigorously controlled
the amount of alcohol he took as he liked always to be
in complete control of his body.

"Can I come and see you in the USA, Steve?"

"Look, Pete, it's been great.... But I don't think
that would be a good idea."

"Why not?  I thought we were getting on well..."

He sat there silently, and frankly he looked
miserable.  His head dropped, almost in sorrow.

"Steve, what's wrong?"

"Well, you don't know the rest of the story.  After
Matt and Bill... Well.... Things have never been the
same with guys I really like.  And I do really like
you.  But it wouldn't work.  I'm tired of hurting
guys, and I won't let it happen again."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, Pete, that this is goodbye.  You can publish
your story, and you're right, it has helped me.  But I
won't see you again, much as I'd like you, as I don't
want to hurt you."

"I'm a grown man, Steve, and I've lived a lot of life!
 Nothing's for ever, you know.  I'd rather spend some
more time with you and then you call it quits, rather
than not do it because you think I'd be upset when
you'd had enough."

My voice was rising now, and I went on "Stop being
such a fucking control freak!  I can make my own
decisions about things, you know!  I let you fuck me
because you're one fantastic lover, with a marvellous
body.  But that doesn't give you the right to decide
about everything.  You're so used to dealing with
slaves that you've forgotten that other men can make
their own minds up about things."

"So listen here - I'm going back to London, to write
up the story, then I'm flying to the USA and you're
going to read it through with me as  'author' and
ghost writers do.  So we will meet again,
professionally.  And if I still think you're really
sexy when I see you again I will got to bed with you
again - I think what you need, Steve, is a good
fucking:  you need someone to take charge of you, and
let you really relax during sex."

My flight was  being called, and I got up and left
him.  I thought that would be a real shock to him, as
he was probably used to men begging and pleading with
him.

It was two months before I was satisfied with the
manuscript, and I flew out to the USA to meet Steve
again.  I did hear the story, at great length, as
Steve and I did renew our acquaintance.  As I lay in
his big bed in his luxury apartment in LA, the whole
story came out - at first in dribs and drabs, but
later in a torrent.

It was difficult to get used to having the beautiful
naked slaves around all the time, and I could never
feel completely private with Steve.  He just seemed to
ignore them totally, demanding only absolutely perfect
service and complete and total obedience from them.
They all clearly feared him, and I did see him punish
several of them quite harshly for very minor
infractions of his house rules.

"It's no good, Steve", I said to him one night over
dinner.  "You're tearing yourself apart.  You're
controlling these slaves just as you try to control me
in bed.  And it doesn't work - they'll never be
totally perfect, and so you'll never be completely
satisfied.  You've got to let go, or you'll wear
yourself out."

"Does it really matter if your razor was not lined up
absolutely at right angles to the bathroom shelf?  You
slapped the bath slave's ass so many times, so very
hard, this morning for such a trivial infraction.
This control - well, you can do it, clearly, but it's
not doing you any good.  You were sullen all morning
after that tiny failure."

He only glowered at me, and the rest of the day wasn't
much fun.  He really didn't like advice - he saw it as
criticism - even from someone like me who really liked
him.   Something had to be done!

End of part 23.