Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 23:47:12 -0500
From: Craig <DarkMaster04@webtv.net>
Subject: Steven (chapter two, part three)
This is the third part of chapter two; I really am just winging this,
letting the story reveal itself to me as it will. This piece of the
chapter is a bit complex, jumping around in time and space, but
my hope is that this portion will work in concert with 2a and 2b
to continue shading in the motivations and histories of these
people, so that nothing that happens in subsequent chapters will
ring false or seem out of character.
Again, thanks for the incredible feedback and support. Special
thanks to Ian (a nice long... story, indeed), to John (how's
Maryland?), to PK (again, let's agree to disagree), and to Paul
(hey man, brains AND brawn; nothing like having all the bases
covered!) for your thoughtful perspectives and opinions. Much
appreciated, guys. And for those of you out there ---- you know
who you are ---- who are getting uptight about the contents and
context of this story, read my lips: IT'S. JUST. A. STORY. We
read and write about things that we'll never experience
ourselves; that's why it's called "fiction." And not for nothing,
but the disclaimer on page one of this website clearly states that
you explicitly choose any access you receive to these words. If
you've gotten this far into the site, you obviously want to be here,
so now that you're here, loosen the hell up and enjoy it.
A quasi-related note: just because characters in stories -- all
stories, not just mine -- don't necessarily practice safe sex does
not mean that we mere mortals shouldn't. A condom is just a
stupid piece of rubber, and if you honestly believe that it impedes
true sexual satisfaction, then you're being incredibly foolish,
naive, and dangerous. Sex is a 100% mental game, which is
proven by the fact that you're reading and enjoying these stories.
Safe only means boring if you have no imagination.
You'll recall that by the end of 2b, a high school student named
Steven was crafting himself a charmed Texan life, while, through
flashbacks, a Louisiana paramedic named Jon was riveted by his
old friend Jason's account of how he and his slave Jake formed
their relationship. A future slave, a future master, on an
unwitting collision course with each other, both waiting for fate
to show its hand....
TWO (part three)
The instant he saw Steven Baylor's picture, he knew. The
marrow in his bones trembled with excitement, with trepidation,
with fear, with gratitude. Just a small, grainy newspaper photo,
but he knew immediately this was the boy he had been waiting
for. Terrific smile. Strong cheekbones. Solid jaw. Dark hair.
Greenish brown eyes. There was no doubt.
He was at a coffee shop when he saw it. Nibbling on a muffin,
half-heartedly scanning the sports page of an abandoned USA
Today, searching for the final score of the game that he was too
exhausted to finish watching the previous night. He almost
missed the article entirely, a fact that amazes him still: his
entire future shifted, pivoted on the dumb luck of turning his eyes
toward an illustrated newspaper article.
"The Nation's Best High School Football Players."
He still pulls the article out and rereads it every so often. Even
now, a wave of nostalgia --- after Steven has completed a good
training session, for instance, or after an increasingly rare phone
conversation with his real son (a seventeen year old boy with a
new car, a new girlfriend, and not much interest in speaking to
his stranger-of-a-father) --- will grip him and he'll reach for the
locked desk drawer, where he keeps the mementos of this new
chapter of his life.
On top: four copies of the seminal USA Today article (but not the
original --- the one he surreptitiously stuck under his arm as he
exited the coffee shop that fateful morning --- which hangs,
framed and beautifully matted, on the long wall of Steven's cell,
downstairs, below the house; he placed it there a couple of
weeks into Steven's stay, a few days after the calculated
whipping that finally snapped Steven's defiance, the beating that
turned the tide. He had read the stories, heard the advice ---- that
the only way to truly break and train a slave is to erase all
reminders of the slave's old life ---- but, for reasons he could
probably never explain if asked, he wanted Steven to remember
what he was once capable of outside of that cell, outside of his
downstairs prison. He wanted Steven to look at the wall above
his hard bed and see genuine proof that he was somebody once
upon a time, that the name "Steven Baylor" once meant
something to someone. He wanted Steven to be tormented by
the fact that, in the first days of his captivity, when his mind and
body were still fresh and his new master's whip had not yet
destroyed his spirit, he wasn't strong or smart enough to escape
the clutches of a lowly, lonely paramedic.)
Underneath: a stack of articles --- USA Today, Dallas Morning
News, even blurbs from People, Time, and Newsweek, plus
profiles in Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone, both of which attacked
the question of why some missing persons cases get resolved
and some never do --- chronicling Steven Baylor's mysterious
disappearance from a theretofore peaceful Texas town, where
"nothing like this ever, ever happens." (The articles all read more
or less the same: Teenager, golden boy, football hero, super-nice
guy, everything to live for, simply vanished. No one knew if it
was an abduction ---- family never received a ransom demand, a
phone call, a note. There were no clues. No leads. And after a
few months, the police were forced to call off the search; there
was nothing more they could follow up on, nothing more they
could do.) He had the articles arranged in chronological order,
from the first reports of the disappearance (the initial theory: "a
teenage prank, most likely") to the tearful press conference
announcing the search for the Baylor kid as "suspended
indefinitely" (the USA Today clip offered a photo of Steven's
parents, his mother nearly in hysterics).
Then: a videotape, more than half full. "Dateline." "Larry King
Live." "Oprah." An "America's Most Wanted" excerpt. Countless
talk show appearances, countless newsmagazine episodes.
Different sets, different backdrops, but the same raw emotion:
Steven's parents making repeated appeals to anybody who would
listen, begging for the safe return of their perfect son.
Then: 4x6 photographs, five of them. The first pictures he took
of Steven's naked body, pictures taken while the boy was still
unconscious and chained to the floor in the back of the van.
Then: Steven's personal effects. His wallet (from which nothing
has been removed: a twenty dollar bill and four ones; Texas
driver's license, photo taken after football practice one afternoon
--- sleeveless shirt, sexy cockeyed grin, tousled hair; social
security card; dog-eared picture of he and his girlfriend, taken at
an amusement park; spare house key). His key ring (with keys
to: house, pickup truck, bicycle lock, Master lock of some kind,
and front door of the Market Basket). His wristwatch (Timex,
worn leather band, scratched face). The braided cowry shell
bracelet he'd worn since seventh grade. The thin gold chain ---
bearing a small cross --- that Steven, for as long as anyone could
remember, had worn around his neck. (The clasp of the necklace
broke when he yanked it from the boy's unconscious body after
he had finished cutting Steven's shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs off
of him).
Then: the clothes. The T-shirt ---- prematurely printed,
announcing the Winters Blizzards as state 2A football champions
---- beginning to fray a bit along the scissored slit (he went ahead
and cut the shirt from the boy's muscled torso --- even though it
had already gotten badly torn in the initial struggle, by the
dumpster behind the grocery store, when Steven was fighting like
a maniac, trying admirably to get away from him --- because the
feeling of the scissors in his hand made him feel magnetic, alive).
The button-up Levis (with uneven cuts along the sides of both
legs). Underwear (boxer briefs, black, with cuts matching those
of the jeans). Dirty white tennis shoes (Nikes, worn for years,
said they were too comfortable to be chucked).
Every now and again, he walks in this room (a tiny office beside
the master bedroom) and opens the drawer, ready to examine his
collection anew. It still offers him a secret, concrete thrill, this
process: laying eyes on these items of and about a Texas kid
who had the unwitting misfortune to be named by a national
newspaper as the best high school quarterback in the country.
Remembering the night he finally --- after much anticipation,
much planning, much agonizing waiting --- came face to face, eye
to eye with the boy, precious minutes before he became a
shackled slave. Reveling in the fact that, using his wits as a
guide and his hard dick as an incentive, he managed to pull off a
breathtakingly perfect crime.
* * * * * * *
Texas-sized Talent
by David Wagner
USA Today
Don't be fooled by the fact that he's from a small town you've
probably never heard of (Winters, Texas, population 3200). Or
that a football field is just one of several places in which he
excels. Just know that, even in a state where high school
football is a religion and its disciples are legion, this young man
stands out. In fact, Steven Baylor's Friday night achievements
are so astonishing that he earns this year's title as USA Today's
Best High School Quarterback in the nation.
A four-year varsity letterman with a career pass completion rate
of 78% (including his record-setting senior year performance of
84%, the highest in his state), Baylor has made it look simple in
one of Texas' toughest districts.
"Steven is an extremely special kid, no two ways about it," said
his coach, Randall Barnett. "He's got a talent for this game that
is innate. He's a true natural. It can't be taught."
A sincerely handsome young man ---- 6'3", 195 lbs, the muscular,
athletic, typically all-American boy ---- with terrific grades and a
near-freakish gift with a football, he has led his team to four
straight district titles, plus a berth in the state championship
game, which they lost to the Celina Wildcats in a 15-14
heartbreaker after the Wildcats recovered a fumble that led to a
last-second field goal. No matter. Baylor has his pick of
universities and with the right guidance, can write his own ticket.
So what is he looking toward?
"Well, every Texas boy dreams of wearing a Longhorn jersey,
doesn't he? I'm no different," replies Baylor, referring to the
vaunted University of Texas football program. "I'm no different at
all."
* * * * * * *
Jon took to paying weekly visits to Jason and Jake following the
boy's injury, to ensure that the boy's shoulder joint was healing
properly and that there were no additional complications; the
paramedic was stunned and relieved to find that, week on week,
there were none, that everything was progressing just fine, that
Jake was on the road to a complete recovery. The swelling
decreased considerably after the first few days, and Jon told
Jason to let the boy keep a heating pad on the wound. Jason
refused at first, saying that he wanted his slave to remember this
pain and that, without his disobedience, the whipping that
caused the injury wouldn't have been necessary. But Jon
convinced Jason that this was serious, and Jason finally
complied.
Jon also forbade Jason from fucking the boy for at least six
weeks, said that as much as an accidental jerk of Jake's
shoulder could prove disastrous and that since Jason had refused
professional medical care as an option, he couldn't afford to take
even small chances. Jason was apprehensive about weeks of
forced celibacy but Jon insisted, and added that there were ways
other than penetration for a man to get off. All he had to do was
be creative.
Jon found out a couple of visits later that Jason had taken him at
his word. He showed up an hour earlier than expected and
walked down to the basement, where he found them: Jake, nude,
on the bed, a leather straitjacket --- extended straps padlocked to
D-rings in the wall above his head --- lashed onto his chest,
holding his upper body completely immobile; and Jason, shirtless,
buff torso glistening, wearing crotchless, skin-tight leather pants,
his penis pointing straight at the kid. Jake's mouth was
stretched wide, teeth gnawing the same bit he'd been chewing on
the night of his injury, making soft cooing sounds; his legs were
bent forward, knees above his slight chest, ankles cuffed to two
more rings just below the ones that held the harness in place.
Jason had placed a large pillow under the boy's lower back to
gain perfect access to his butt.
After taking in the scene, identifying the players, Jon caught
sight of the dildo. The glass dildo he remembered seeing the first
night. A lubed white condom was stretched over the shaft, and
the master was hard at work plunging it into and pulling it out of
the slave's clutching asshole. Jon was turned on again,
instantly, in spite of himself. There was no denying, no turning
his attention away from, the erotic lure of these images: a
wicked fantasy that his friend had found the means and the balls
to bring triumphantly to life.
He stood watching for minutes, watched Jason keep a firm grip
on the base of the crystal cock; watched Jake's abdominal
muscles alternate between limp and taut; watched Jason stare
intently at Jake's face, gauging his reactions, changing the speed
and pace of his pistoning motions to match what he observed
from his boy; watched Jake's eyes open and shut in a mechanical
daze, his entire face shifting and contorting; watched both of
their dicks --- the slave's, still quite boyish and thin, and the
master's, dense and throbbing --- drool ahead of imminent
orgasm.
"Have I given you permission to come this evening, boy?" Jason
asked.
Jake shook his head.
"Would you like to come?"
An almost ecstatic nod.
Jason slid the glass penis into Jake's ass until only the flared
base and a half-inch or so of the shaft could be seen, and then
carefully climbed onto the bed. He placed his right hand on his
slave's eager cock, and circled his thumb over the head several
times, coating it with its own slimy pre-cum.
"If you come, you'll be punished," Jason uttered, and reached
over to gently stroke the boy's cheek with his anointed hand,
massaging a bit of Jake's watery fluid into the pale skin of his
flushed face. Jake's coos turned to slight groans. "Am I clear?"
A subdued nod.
"Good boy." He returned his hand to the boy's dick and began to
deliberately stroke the shaft. "God, I love playing with your body,
Jake. Touching your cute little dick." Another moan from the
boy. "Bringing you to the edge." He ran the nail of his index
finger up and down the vein along the underside of Jake's penis.
The boy's entire body was tense, ready. "I love taking you right
to the very edge, Jacob."
Jon could barely see Jake's eyes, could see the clear raw hunger
burning inside them. The buried dildo combined with the spine-
tingling dick play combined with the chilling no-orgasm decree
just had to be pure torture for the kid, and he knew he had no
business standing there, watching it all unfold, and yet his
curiosity consumed him. He stayed frozen in place.
Jason continued to gently masturbate his slave for two or three
minutes and then he finally took his left hand and began to rub
himself. He moved his right hand beneath Jake's plump balls,
carefully kneading and scratching them. Tapping the base of the
dildo, he said, "God, I wish this could be me right now. If this
could be me inside your perfect ass right now, I'd fuck you the
rest of the night. It's all I have right now not to fuck you the rest
of this night." Then he looked toward the door, right at Jon, and
said, "But Mr. Medicine Man over there would string me up."
Jon knew immediately that he was blushing, especially when
Jake turned his head and they were both staring at him. "Jason,
I---" he started, embarrassed.
"Wouldn't you?" Jason asked.
"Jason, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"You're early."
"Yeah, I know, my shift was over sooner than I thought," Jon
said. "I really didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't. I knew you were there the whole time. So don't
apologize. Masters never apologize to slaves, ever." Jason gave
Jake a grin. "You remember Master Jon, boy." Jake nodded.
"Man, you ought to walk over here and feel my slave's cock. It's
hard as cement. I mean, mine still gets awfully hard, as you can
well see, but nothing like this kid's. He's like goddamned steel."
"Jason---"
"Come on, man, loosen up. Live a little. No one knows. It's our
little secret." Jason removed his hands from both of the cocks
he had been stroking and rose from the bed. "Take off some of
those clothes and come join us." He walked out of Jake's cell
and toward Jon, relishing the paramedic's evident discomfort.
"I just came to look at his shoulder, that's all."
"I saw you getting turned on over there, Jon. Watching our little
peep show." Jason was still walking toward Jon, bared cock still
standing at attention. Jon couldn't resist a quick glance at the
organ, perfectly framed by the leather hugging his bulging thighs
and calves.
"Jason, really--"
"Fine," Jason said, stopping in the center of the room. "Fine.
Give me a few minutes to get Jake ready for his examination,
then he's all yours. Would you like to watch?"
"I'll wait upstairs," Jon said, chills racing up and down his spine.
"Suit yourself. He'll be ready in ten minutes."
Before he turned to leave, Jon watched Jason return to Jake's
bedside. Watched him grab the base of the glass cock and
remove it from the boy's rectum with a firm yank. Watched Jake
actually wince as his hole released the invading object.
"He doesn't terribly like this particular dildo," Jason told Jon.
"He loves to get fucked with a good hard cock, though. And he
knows I enjoy watching him try to navigate this beautiful piece of
craftsmanship." He ripped the condom off the dildo and held it up
so that Jon could get a clear view of it. Inch and a half thick, Jon
guessed. Maybe eight inches long, perhaps nine. Large head.
"Don't you, boy?" Jake made indecipherable sounds through his
gag. "He's going to wash his toys and clean himself up, then he'll
be ready for your exam."
* * * * * * *
The night before he was abducted, Steven Baylor got laid.
A Friday night, business as usual in Winters, Texas. He and
Haley had a routine. On weekends (Friday nights and Saturday
nights --- the store wasn't open Sundays), Steven closed up the
store by himself, 7pm sharp. Then he would race home, grab a
quick shower, and be at Haley's by 7:20, where she'd be waiting
in the front yard.
A quick jaunt to Dairy Queen procured them dinner ---- Steven
generally went for the bacon cheeseburger, no pickles, no onions
(had a fair amount of kissing ahead of him after all) and Haley,
the chicken sandwich, small order of fries. From there, it was all
backroads out to the lake, where Steven always spread out a
blanket in the bed of his pickup and they lay, listening to the
music wafting out from the stereo in the cab ---- Automatic for the
People, if Steven got his way (he generally did); one of Abilene's
country stations, if he didn't ---- eating their dinner, enjoying each
other's company.
Steven had been mad about this girl for as long as he could
remember, and Haley had fought his good-hearted pursuit of her
with equal vigor. They were always friends, and she always said
she liked him too much to risk losing that relationship. The
summer between their freshman and sophomore years, he finally
managed to convince her, on a June night on that very beach,
that he was genuinely crazy about her, that it was for real, and
that there was no other girl in the world and never would be. His
irresistibly goofy charm (as well as those effortless good looks
that were the envy of everyone in town) finally wore down her
defenses and she agreed to go out with him.
They spent that entire summer together, inseparable. Just
before school began, Haley made him swear to her that they
would always remain friends, no matter what came romantically,
and he did it without hesitation.
She spent those three months watching the young man's body
transform itself impressively, in preparation of the coming
football season that many felt would be the school's best ever
with Baylor at the helm; one look at his muscular frame,
hormones undoubtedly approaching boiling point inside his being,
and it was obvious: he was ready for sex. On the outside, he
was the easygoing goofball with the killer smile, but underneath,
he positively oozed an unmistakable vibe of pure animal
masculinity, crafting a daring and near-intimidating combination.
Initially, it drew and repelled her with equal force. And one
August night, on the same beach and in the same truck, when
heavy kissing seemed to be moments, inches, from going further,
Haley was almost scared ---- practically in tears ---- when she told
him that she wasn't ready to go that far yet. He kissed her, softly
this time, and told her it was fine, totally fine, told her never to
cry, told her that he had waited since fourth grade and would
wait a whole lifetime if necessary.
That was the first of many nights they spent out by the lake, in
what became their own secluded, special spot: Haley wrapped
tightly in Steven's loving arms, feeling safe, comforted, loved;
Steven holding Haley, the young woman with whom he had
forever sensed an innate, inexplicable connection. He whispered
in her ear that first night, told her to let him know when she was
ready, told her that even if this was as close as he ever got with
her, he would die an ecstatic man.
The one thing that Steven Baylor detested was showing
weakness, of any kind: a box he couldn't lift at the Market
Basket; a measly, insurmountable one-point deficit on a 100-yard
field in the most important football game of his life; having to sit
before his girlfriend, the true love of his life, and ---- wracked with
immense guilt and wrenching pain ---- admit that he had gotten
drunk at a party and fucked a young Texas tramp who smelled an
opportunity to bed the local hero and seized it. The dull,
devastated look in Haley's eyes when he finally summoned the
courage to come clean shattered his heart. He had crushed the
one person in the world that he swore to himself he would never,
ever hurt ---- he tried desperately to hug her, to hold her, to clutch
to her as she cried and screamed about how he was no different
from all the other arrogant young pricks in town, and wouldn't
listen to him try in vain to convince her that wasn't true, that he
was different, that he was sorry, that he....
The experience changed him: she forgave him, months later, but
he was never quite the same, even after they fell slowly back into
their old rhythms. He was always a bit more solemn, a tad more
reserved. He swore on his soul: to Haley, that it wouldn't ever
happen again; to himself, that he would fuck his right hand four
times a day if that was what it took to purge the hunger from his
system.
Prom night, junior year, middle of the dancefloor, Haley finally let
him know. She watched a wide smile overtake Steven's face; the
moment he had awaited, anticipated, for so long had finally
arrived. His strong hand grabbed her delicate one and, before the
song was even over, he had pulled them both into a brisk walk
out of the building and toward his pickup. "Are you sure, Hale?"
he asked, looking her in the eye. "I want you to be sure."
"I'm sure," she said. He opened the passenger door and helped
her inside.
The previous Saturday night, just before closing the store, and
hoping --- praying --- that the coming prom night would finally be
the moment when Haley would tell him that she was ready, he
bought himself a box of condoms, slipping the money into the
register and the rubbers into his pocket. Late that night, laying
awake in his bed, he practiced slipping one onto his painfully
erect dick. He hadn't used one with Stacey ---- it was a drunken,
impulsive tryst, over in a few minutes. With Haley, he wanted it
perfect. He wanted to be prepared, he wanted to be graceful, he
wanted to be confident. No weakness.
* * * * * * *
Does Jake enjoy being a slave? He enjoys feeling my cock inside
his body. I don't know, that's really the best answer I have. The
only answer I have.
Look, I don't expect you or anybody else to understand what he
and I have together. I know you don't approve, and that's fine.
But he chose this. He chose what he is right now. He came to
me in tears, told me he'd do anything to stay in my life, and I
offered him a way to make that happen, and then I offered him
every opportunity to turn it down. Literally gave him right up
until the last second to back out. Of course I knew what I was
asking of him. But I needed to be sure that he also knew.
He was perfectly clear about what he was signing up for here, I
made no bones about it. There weren't any tricks. He knew we
wouldn't be going to cocktail parties and nightclubs together. He
knew he would become a piece of property. No freedom, no
friends, nothing. I had the house completely prepared before I
drove to pick him up. I showed him pictures of the jail cell, the
basement, the whips. Made sure he understood what his life
would become, made sure he understood that once he got in that
truck and left Savannah with me, there would be no turning back,
there would be no changing his mind. He understood, Jon. He's
a sharp kid.
And you've got to understand, though: this kid was completely
alone back in Georgia. Didn't have a clue where he'd be sleeping
from night to night, what he'd be eating. He was on the streets,
fucking all the human trash Savannah had to offer, never knowing
where he was going to wake up in the morning, or if he'd even be
alive by sunrise. I gave him an opportunity to leave all that
behind, and he leapt at it. He has something that's his now. It's
only a flimsy bed in an iron cell in some prick's basement, but it's
his. For the first time ever, he has something he can depend on.
That's not free, mind you, and he has accepted that. But what he
has now is really no different than anything he's ever known his
entire life. He was trapped in a hellhole back in Georgia. And I
know you think he's trapped in a hellhole now, and that's fine.
Think whatever you want. Yes, I abuse him. Fine. But I take
care of him, too. At the end of the day, he can cling to that.
There, he was a sitting duck, one bad choice away from being a
John Doe in the Savannah morgue. Here, he's safe. He keeps me
satisfied, and I keep him safe. That's the trade-off. We love each
other in our own individual ways, and that's why the relationship
works.
When I drove to Savannah for the last time, to get the last of the
furniture and to pick him up to bring him here.... God, you should
have seen the look on his face when I first showed him the dog
cage. Oh, man. His face just drained of color. I guess that was
when it really hit him for the first time. I rented a U-Haul truck
for the last load, and I decided to wait until after midnight to
head out so that no one would see us. So just before 1am, we
walked down to where the truck was parked and I asked him one
final time --- stopped just short of begging him to change his
mind. I just couldn't imagine a teenage boy with his whole life
ahead of him agreeing to what I was proposing. I mean, I think
back to when I was a fourteen year old kid, ready for the world...
my God. My God. But he said he was sure. Looked me square in
the eye and said he was ready to submit. Fuck, just hearing the
words got me so hard I was ready to fuck him right there.
So I looked him in the eye, returned his gaze. Saw that he was
serious. Saw that he was ready to hand his life over to me. So I
reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the collar. The leather
collar with studs, the one he still wears. Told him to put it
around his neck and buckle it as tight as he could stand. He
reached out slowly, took a deep breath, and then grabbed the
collar. I told him it was official now. He was my slave. Forever.
I grabbed him by the arm then and pulled him toward the back of
the truck. The door was standing wide open, and by the parking
lot lights, he could barely see the cage sitting there in the near
corner. He knew immediately what it was. I think he was
expecting to ride up front with me. I needed something to set the
tone from the very beginning, and this was what I came up with.
I needed him to understand instantly that he really was a slave
now, that he was below me, that I was in control of him.
"Climb in, boy," I told him. I said, "We've got a long trip ahead of
us." He let out a soft groan, and I reached back into my jacket
and pulled out a small ball gag. "And put this in," I said. "Can't
have you making any sounds when we stop for gas."
I watched a couple of tears slide down his face, and I just said
very evenly, "Don't make me repeat myself, Jake. Don't start on
the wrong foot right off the bat." He nodded slowly and accepted
the gag. He put it to his lips and allowed it into his mouth. I tied
the strap around his head quickly and then told him to climb up
into the cage.
He climbed up onto the back bumper of the truck and then
crawled into the cage. He's such a small thing anyway, he had
no problem getting himself inside. He curled up into a ball and
began to cry softly. It was so hot, man. It was everything I had
fantasized about for years, and it was finally coming true, and it
was so much bigger and better than I had ever dreamed. It was
unbelievable. It was pure power. That's the only word I can
think of to describe it. Taking this kid that I had fucked for two
years, locking him in a dog cage, driving him to his fate... it felt
like raw, unrefined power, just pulsing through my veins.
And the crying. By the time I had the cage secured and was
reaching up to shut the truck door, he was full-blown sobbing. I
couldn't have scripted it any better. I knew he was having
second thoughts already. And I knew that he knew it was way
too late for that. So I told him, "You chose this, Jake."
Reminded him. Then I told him, "Don't be sad about something
you had the guts to choose."
We made it into Shreveport early the next morning and I backed
the truck into the garage so that we wouldn't be seen. The house
is pretty secluded anyway, but you never know anymore.
I opened the door and stared at him. His eyes were standing
wide open. I guess he hadn't slept a wink. His cheeks were puffy
and deep red. Must have cried the whole way. I unlocked the
cage door and grabbed his hand. "Climb out of there, boy," I told
him. Told him he had done a fine job. He squeezed my hand and
worked his way out of the cage. I told him to move around a
little. His legs seemed pretty stiff. I watched him walk around in
circles for a couple of minutes until he was back to normal. Then
I told him to sit.
I had been rehearsing what I wanted to say to him for weeks.
The entire drive to Shreveport, I just sat there, running my
speech through my head over and over again. I was so damn
excited, I couldn't quite believe this was finally happening. And
all of a sudden, there we were, in the garage of my brand new
house. There we were. Master and slave. It was fucking unreal,
man. I told him to sit, and he did it immediately. Dropped to the
floor fucking immediately. And I could see the fear in his eyes. It
was unmistakable. I had wanted to set a stern tone instantly,
and I could see in his eyes that I had succeeded. The trip from
Savannah to Shreveport in a dog cage in the back of a U-Haul
truck had shaken this kid to his core, and I just ate it up. My
cock was stuck inside my jeans, ready to burst. Just looking at
him. Sitting on the floor. Ball gag peeking out of his mouth.
Eyes firmly on me. I started to speak.
"I hope you had plenty of time to get used to having that rubber
ball in your mouth, because I intend to keep you gagged
frequently. When you're allowed to speak, you will refer to me as
'master' or 'sir.' Am I clear?
"Your life here will be very simple, Jake. All you have to do is
remember two things: obedience will be rewarded, and
disobedience will be punished. I'll never ask you to do anything
that I know you're not fully capable of doing, and when I give you
an order, I expect you to carry it out immediately and without
hesitation. I will interpret any failure to do so as disobedience.
Disobedience will be punished. Am I clear?
"I haven't brought you here to hurt you, I do want you to be clear
about that. I've brought you here so that we can explore a
fantasy, together, the two of us. But don't misunderstand me,
Jake: I will hurt you if I have to. If you leave me no other choice
and I have no other way to get my point across, I will inflict pain.
Am I clear?
"I'll take you down to the basement in a few minutes, let you get
situated. The basement is completely soundproofed, so when
you're not gagged and I've allowed you to speak, feel free to
make as much noise as you'd like. There aren't any neighbors
around for miles, boy. You won't get anybody's attention.
Nobody will ever know that you live here, ever. You no longer
exist out in the world. There is no more Jake Talbot. So that
means you're completely free to commit yourself to this new life.
Throw yourself into it, Jake. You belong to me now. You're safe
here. This is your home, for the rest of your life. You'll die under
this roof. So do whatever you have to do to get comfortable with
it. You know me, you know what I like, you know how to satisfy
me. It won't be that bad once you get accustomed to it, I'm sure
of it. You'll be a magnificent slave, Jake, I'm sure of that too.
But let me tell you one thing, and you better listen well. Don't
ever try to escape from me, boy. You'll never get away from me, I
promise you. You decided that this is what you want, and I gave
you plenty of chances to say no. You said yes, every time. So
it's time to be a man about it. Accept it. I can see you've been
crying all night, and that's fine. I know it's a very big change.
But you've had plenty of time to mentally prepare yourself for
this. And you need to know right now that I will not tolerate a
sniveling crying slave. So take some time today. Get all the
tears out of your system so we can move on. Am I clear?
"I pulled you off the goddamned streets, for crying out loud. I
saved you from a life of disease, a life of eating out of garbage
cans, a life of having to suck filthy dicks for cash. That's all over
now, boy, so what in the fuck are you crying about? You've got a
home now! A bed to sleep in, every night. Your life has a
purpose now, Jake. You mean something to somebody now.
You're allowed to embrace it. In fact, I expect you to embrace it.
Am I clear?
"We're not in Savannah, anymore. We're not the people we used
to be there, do you understand that? We don't have the
relationship here that we had there, do you understand that?
This is a fresh start, for both of us. So if you're going to spend
your time here longing for the way things used to be, wanting
something that doesn't exist anymore and probably never did,
well then you're going to have a miserable life here, and I can
make that life even more miserable if I see your attitude start to
affect your slave training. Am I clear?"
Clear was the magic word, I suppose. Every time I said it, he
nodded his little head. Emphatically. He was eager to stay in my
good graces, I could see it. I didn't know how long that was
going to last so I was determined to enjoy it as long as it did. I
stared at him for a few seconds, then I told him to stand. He
jumped to his feet. I told him to strip, completely. He had been
wearing the same white T-shirt and blue jeans and sneakers that
he had on when I picked him up the night before in Savannah. I
had considered making him ride in the cage naked, but I really
wanted to make a show of him surrendering his belongings to me
once we got here.
He stood there for about five seconds, doing nothing, and I told
him, "Don't make me repeat myself." He reached down and
unlaced his shoes and then climbed out of them. Reached down
and removed his socks. "Good boy," I told him. "Keep going.
Take it all off." Jeans came off, very slowly. Pulled the shirt
over his head. He was standing there in just his briefs. "Those
too," I said quietly, looking right at his crotch. "Now." He pulled
at the elastic waistband and slid them down his legs. He stood
there completely naked, wearing just his new slave collar and his
cheap wristwatch, his little dick half-hard, wondering what was
coming next.
I directed his attention over to the corner of the garage. I had a
good-sized backyard barbecue grill sitting there. It was my dad's
a lifetime ago. I had it in storage and pulled it out for the first
truckload of stuff I brought here from Savannah. I told him to go
get it. While he was fetching the grill, I reached into the front
seat of the truck and grabbed a plastic grocery bag that I had
gotten the day before.
So he drags the grill over and puts it right between us. His
clothes were on the floor next to him in a perfect little pile. I told
him to pick up his shirt and put it inside the grill. Then I reached
into the bag and produced a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of
matches. He knew. His eyes just got this sad look, this
desperate, pleading.... He's never been more beautiful than he
was in those few seconds of recognition.
I had been doing lots of reading, going to bondage websites,
doing all the research I could. All the stuff I read said that you
have to completely erase a slave's identity: to create a truly
successful slave, to totally break his will, you have to eradicate
every reminder of who he was. Tear his human mind down to
absolutely nothing so that you can reconstruct it as a slave's. I
needed something symbolic, something that would devastate
him, something so searing that he could never forget it.
All he had in the world that day were the clothes on his back. So
I knew damn well he'd remember having to set everything he had
on fire. I knew it would demolish his spirit, and that was exactly
what was necessary.
He picked up the shirt and very gently laid it in the center of the
grill rack. I handed him the fluid and told him to douse it. He
started trying to speak to me through the gag, started shaking
his head. He was literally making all these sounds, trying to form
words, it was very charming. I smiled at him and told him, very
simply, "Jake, you've hesitated twice already since you became a
slave. Didn't I just tell you that hesitation equals disobedience?"
He stood there, still, stonefaced, tears starting to roll again. "I
just asked you a question, slave," I said. He nodded his head
slowly. "You'll be receiving your first whipping as a slave later
today. Every time you disobey me, you make your beating longer
and worse than it was already going to be. Am I clear?" He
nodded again. I ordered him one more time to soak the shirt.
He was crying now. Worse than before. It really was a sight. He
knew that this was serious now. I wasn't playing with him
anymore. I wasn't Jason, the Friday night fuck anymore, and he
knew it.
He opened the bottle and began to squirt the fluid all over the T-
shirt. After a few seconds, I told him to stop. Handed him the
box of matches. Told him, "You know what to do next, boy."
His glare turned cold, eyes full of rage, like the Jake that I had
first met almost two years before. God. I still get chills when I
see it in my mind. So hot, so real. After years of going through
the motions, years of artificial emotion, I finally had something
real in my life.
He lit that first match and tossed it onto his shirt, watched it
burst into a bright orange flame. He stood there and just
watched. Forced back his tears.
After a minute or so, when the fire had calmed, I said, "Shoes."
He picked up the old dingy Converse sneakers and laid them atop
the shirt. "Fluid," I said. "Carefully." He dripped the fluid onto
the grill and watched the fire slowly return to full strength,
swallowing the shoes in seconds.
I asked him if he had any money in his wallet. He nodded his
head. I told him to burn it, whatever he had on him. He stared at
me, didn't move. "Boy, before the end of this day, you're going to
find out just how much I hate repeating myself," I told him. Told
him I had a brand new bullwhip downstairs that I couldn't wait to
break in on his bony little ass.
He reached into his jeans and grabbed his wallet. Took out
seventeen dollars. "Burn it," I said. He pitched it onto the fire.
I stood there and watched him burn all of his possessions. He
tossed his wallet into the blaze without prompting. God, it was
fantastic. I told him to just keep going, that he was doing a
terrific job.
When the fire burned itself out and everything was gone, his
expression was just blank. His eyes were completely empty,
completely void. It was magnificent. It truly was life-affirming.
It didn't break his will entirely, mind you, but it was one hell of a
start, better than I had dreamed.
"OK, boy," I said then. "It's time to get you to your room." I
reached back into the grocery bag and pulled out the final item.
Bright blue dog leash. Stepped over to him and hooked it quickly
onto his collar. I started to head toward the door of the house,
but he just stood there. I'm telling you, I loved the fact that he
kept hesitating, that he kept fighting me. I had been secretly
hoping that he would, just so I could his first punishment session
as memorable, as fierce as possible.
I turned to face him and I said, "You can walk, or I can drag you
like a dog. Your choice."
I started to walk again and he followed me this time, keeping the
leash pretty taut. We stepped into the house and through the
kitchen and I led him to the stairs leading down to the basement.
"You ready, Jake? You ready to see the rest of your life?" He
made another sound through the gag and I just smiled at him.
I walked him carefully down the stairs and up to the basement
door. Slid the key into both locks and pushed the door open
slowly. I wanted him to take it all in in stages. I had shown him
all the pictures beforehand, but nothing compares to seeing that
room with your own eyes.
When he saw the jail cell, I literally saw his knees start to shake.
He started backing away, on reflex I guess. I snapped the leash
tight and yanked him back toward me. "This is your home, Jake,"
I told him. "No need to be afraid of your home."
I pulled him into the room and pointed toward the cell. "That's
where you'll sleep, boy." He saw the metal chest of drawers, that
thin mattress and that flimsy metal bed... I'm telling you, I
literally thought the kid was going to pass out. He was just
shaking, sobbing. It was intense. "That's one of the places
where you'll be fucked." I pulled him inside the cell so he could
really see it. I told him, "This bed and that slave collar you've got
around your throat, they're the only things left on this whole
planet that you can call your own. So make them yours. Own
them, completely. Am I clear?" He nodded.
I walked him over to the whip rack and pulled down the bullwhip.
"This is what I'm going to beat you with later, Jake," I told him.
Made him reach out and touch it. I wanted him to feel the leather
in his hands, feel the braids and the grooves and the coarseness.
Wanted him to respect it. Then I opened the equipment cabinet
and let him see all the toys. We had already used a few of the
dildos and plugs so he was pretty used to that, but there was
some brand new stuff in there. I then told him choose which of
the butt plugs he wanted to wear his first day as a slave. He
picked one of the thinner ones. I reached around his head and
untied the gag and pulled it from his mouth, then I took the plug
from his hand and held it to his lips. "Get it good and wet," I told
him. "It's going to be inside your ass for a while." He moaned as
he opened his mouth, but he accepted it immediately. "Good
boy," I said.
I pointed over to a locked door in the corner and told him, "You'll
see the punishment room when it's time for your whipping." Then
I told him he needed to lay down for a while, that he needed his
rest, and I walked him back to his cell. I removed the leash and
reached up to grab the plug from his mouth. Told him to get on
the bed, hands and knees, ass toward me. He did it silently. No
protest. I walked over and grabbed the cheeks, pushed the plug
up to his asshole and then gave it a quick shove. He groaned as
it popped inside his body.
"Relax now," I told him. "Get some sleep. It's going to be a long
day before we're done." I told him I'd come down in a few hours
to give him his first beating. I wanted him to have some time to
think about it.
I looked at the soaked ball gag in my hand and then I looked at
him. He was stretched out on the bed, on his back, starting to
tear up again. I asked him a question:
"Do you want to be gagged again, or do you want an extra fifteen
minutes with the whip tonight?"
He couldn't even look at me.
"Jake, I asked you a goddamn question. Do you want---"
"I don't want the gag, sir," he said, almost in a whisper. His
voice was hoarse.
"Good enough. I was hoping you'd let me give you a good, sound
beating this evening."
I turned to leave then and he said, "Sir?"
"Yes, boy."
"Sir, I'm thirsty."
I stepped over to the metal dresser and pulled out a small
drinking glass, and walked over to the sink outside the cell.
Turned on the tap and filled the glass maybe a quarter full.
Carried it back into him. He was crying when I handed it to him.
"Master, I'm really thirsty," he said in a tiny voice, tears flowing.
"Good," I told him. "You'll remember that, I hope." I left the cell
and locked it. "I reward obedience, Jake. Don't forget that. I
reward obedience. Am I clear?" He nodded. Dropped his head.
"You have a lot to think about today, boy. After your whipping,
you can have a little food and something to drink. Until then, I
want you to think about the different ways you can hone your
obedience skills. Am I clear?"
He nodded.
"Answer me. Tell me."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes what?"
"Yes. Master."
* * * * * * *
They were naked. Laying atop a blanket in the back of his old
Ford pick-up. Listening to the gentle waves. Watching the stars.
Stipe's voice surrounding them, scoring the moment. "The
Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite." One of his favorites.
"Tell me which team you'll play for."
"Pro?"
"Yeah."
"Aww, baby. You know the answer to that."
"Tell me anyway."
"Cowboys. Every Texas boy dreams of being a Longhorn and a
Cowboy. Haven't we gone over that already?"
"Yeah."
"It's in the DNA. In the genes."
"OK, besides the Cowboys, then."
"As long as I would get to lay hands on an in-play football every
autumn Sunday, I would play anywhere. I'd be a friggin'
Seahawk. I'd even be a damn Redskin."
"I love how much you love it."
"The game?"
"Yeah. Most girls think it's stupid."
"Yeah."
"But not me. I think it's amazing."
"You think it's amazing because you're fucking the quarterback."
"Yeah, well.... I get an inside view."
"You're crazy, Hale."
"So tell me how many kids we'll have."
"Ten. Twelve. Six. I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"However many you want, baby, that's how many we'll have.
Whatever you want, you'll have. I'll make sure of it."
"All I want is this."
"This?"
"You. Here. Holding me. Promise me this won't ever end."
"This won't ever end, Haley Stinson. I promise you."
"So.... We're really going to Austin this fall?"
"Got my official acceptance letter in the mail today."
"Wow."
"Just a formality. Coach told me weeks ago it was a done deal.
But still, it was pretty cool opening that envelope. Reading the
words."
"I can't wait. I'm so ready to leave this little town behind, see
what else is out there."
"This town's been pretty good to us, you know."
"I know, and I love it here. I do. I'm just ready for something
different, that's all. Aren't you?"
"Sure. As long as you're there by my side, I'm ready for
anything."
"Always. I would follow you anywhere, Steven Baylor. You just try to get rid of
me."
I know it's been a long time coming, guys. Hope it was worth the
wait. 2d coming soon.
DarkMaster04@webtv.net