Date: Thu, 11 Dec 2014 15:30:19 +0000 (UTC)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: 12 (complete)

12 (complete)

z119z

© by the author 2014

12-1

The intimacy of pain is my gift to you.

Of course, it will hurt at first. That's why you're bound. The body and the
mind naturally tend to shy away from pain. I know you think you are a
masochist, but even masochists can't help themselves. When their bodies
experience pain, they flinch and try to escape. It's a natural reaction. So
I will continue to bind you until you become 12. 12--well, more of 12
later.

You may wonder why I bound only your wrists and ankles to the bench. Well,
I admit that I want to see you writhe and squirm. I could have bound you so
tightly that you couldn't move, but seeing you thrash about is a little
visual reward for all my efforts. This is a training session for
you. Naturally the focus is on you, but even so I permit myself a few
pleasures. Eventually you will become devoted to serving my pleasures, all
my pleasures. But patience is a virtue. For now, I can and I will be
satisfied with a modicum of visual stimulation.

Bondage isn't the point of this session, however. The wrist and ankle cuffs
will be enough to hold you in place for the next few hours. You can't
escape. I know you wondered about that. You tried to hide it from me, but I
saw you pull against the ropes attached to the cuffs. You were curious
about the strength of the bonds, weren't you? You wanted to test them and
see how much you could move. Well, as you found out, the answer is that you
can move to a limited extent. But you can't escape. You will try. As I
said, the mind's natural response to pain is avoidance. Eventually you will
accept that escape is impossible. Then will come the stage when you don't
want to escape. Finally it won't even occur to you that the option of
escaping exists. Of course, you won't be you then. You will be--12.

The harness around your head is there to keep you from talking. I'm not
interested in anything you have to say. Your views are
irrelevant. Sometimes I like to hear the trainee beg, but I'm not in the
mood for that today. Maybe on another occasion. I'll see. It all depends on
what I feel like. Today your moans and groans and muffled screams will be
enough.

Nor is it necessary for you to see. That would divert your attention from
what is happening. You would look at things in the room and focus on them
and try to use them as distractions, to take your mind off what is
happening to you. I can't allow that. I want what is happening to you to be
the only thing you think about, the only thing you can think about.

So the gag and the blindfold are necessary. Eventually you will lose the
ability to speak except in answer to my questions, and you will learn to
see only what it is necessary for you to see. Life will be simpler for
12. Much simpler.

As for why you are lying on your stomach with your backside exposed--well,
as you probably know from your past experiences, the ass is a convenient
target in the beginning. Later there will be other targets, but for your
first lesson, the back of the body is best. There will be pain, but for now
it won't be directed at areas you have been trained to believe are vital.

Notice I said "trained to believe." All your life you have been
indoctrinated--at home, at school, at work, at play. Your parents,
teachers, bosses, movies, TV, books--you have been surrounded by lessons in
how to behave. Today's session begins the process of stripping away those
old, useless lessons. I will make them immaterial to what you will
become. I will re-indoctrinate you. I will imprint new beliefs on your mind
through your body.

Those new lessons can be summed up in four
words. Submission. Obedience. Service. Devotion. Four very simple and
straightforward yet extremely complex concepts that can in turn be summed
up in one word. Me. The Master. The Owner. In the end that's all that will
matter to 12. Me.

I'm not your master yet. That will take several sessions. Ownership will
require more lessons. It will take even more sessions for you to become
12. What is 12? 12 isn't anything but me in what you now think of your body
and your mind. 12 won't have a conception of a relationship with me because
12 won't experience any separation from me. I will be the totality of 12's
perception, of 12's world, 12's universe. 12 won't conceive of existence
apart from me.

See, I told you the body tries to avoid stimulus. You shuddered. You
couldn't help yourself. And that wasn't even painful, was it? Well, it
wasn't meant to be painful. Just unexpected. A surprise. The lightest touch
on the back of your neck. But you see how you reacted. That's normal.

I suppose you're wondering what I have in my hand. What I used to make what
you probably think of as the opening move in today's session. Well, it
wasn't the first move. Today's session started long before now. It started
when you first thought about contacting me. Your training, the molding of
your mind, began at that point. My words made you think about what it would
be like to put yourself in my hands. What I might do to you.

Of course, what you were really thinking about was your hopes for this
session. You liked the sound of my email telling you to report
here--direct, curt, to the point. But admittedly it was short on details. I
left things open. That gave you room to imagine what might happen. You
played with several scenarios in your mind, didn't you? And all of them
involved my taking complete control of you.

But you don't really believe that will happen, do you? No one ever
does. And that makes it so much easier for me. All the trainees indulge in
elaborate fantasies of what will happen, but none of them, not one,
envisions that the end of the process is 12. Each of them thinks it's a
game, and so they go along with it.

As you will do. As you are doing.

That's why I can be so open with you about what's going to happen to
you. You don't believe it can happen. That mindless, will-less state of
perfect submission and obedience to the Master everyone claims he
wants. The state where all that is left of you is what the Master wills to
exist in you. You may say you really want it to happen, you may even really
want it to happen, but you don't believe it really can happen. And by the
time you realize it is happening, it will be too late for you to prevent it
from happening.

All you have to do right now is play along with me. I'll do the rest. Just
pretend that 12 is a possibility. Behave as if you believe in the idea of
12. That's all you have to do.

Remember all my questions about your likes and dislikes. Your limits. Your
preferences. Your desires. Maybe you thought that meant I would take your
views into account. Well, I will. Your answers to my questions were clues
to your psyche. They told me what I can use to mold you, what barriers I
will need to overcome, what I need to eliminate. I began studying you when
you first contacted me. I began training you to answer my questions. I
began teaching you to think about yourself in relation to me, to imagine
yourself in relation to me.

Did that hurt? A bit more stimulus this time. Something for you to think
about. For you to wonder about. Is that all? What's going to happen next?
Will it get worse? Will this guy turn out to be a maniac who will beat the
shit out of me? All those questions, and doubts, and hopes, and fears
running through your mind.

Not knowing what's going to happen--that's part of the thrill, isn't it?

When you walked into this room, I was watching you on the cameras.

Yes, there are cameras. Everything that happens in this room is recorded so
that I can study it later and learn from it.

For example, I noticed your eyes widen and take everything in. You looked
around. You licked your lips in anticipation. You liked what you saw. All
those things hanging on the wall. The plastic bins filled with objects. The
benches and frames and chairs and tables. Well, that's why they're
there. So you can see them. A little bit intimidating, yet exciting and
arousing at the same time. Of course, you were already aroused when you
walked in.

The mirror in the anteroom--the one where you undressed--it's two-way. You
couldn't resist looking at yourself in the mirror, could you? You even
tugged at your cock and balls, felt yourself a bit. Everyone looks in the
mirror and tugs at his cock and balls. Just the thought of what might be on
the other side of the door is enough to stimulate and arouse.

I think you liked what you saw in the mirror. You probably thought I would
be impressed with your body. It's a good body. I'll give you that. But your
appearance isn't important.

A lot of men have looked at themselves in that mirror--some of them have
been obese, some of them have been thin to the point of emaciation. Young,
old, muscular, flabby, handsome, ugly. Sometimes they like what they see in
the mirror. Sometimes they worry that I will find them ugly. Inflated
self-perceptions. Worries and self-doubts. Does anyone truly see himself as
others see him? Well, it doesn't matter. Appearance isn't important, not in
this room. All that really matters is the mind.

Your body isn't important to me because of the way you look. It's important
to me because it's a tool, one of my many tools for reaching your
mind. Just like all the things you saw in this room when you stepped
through the door. All the whips, belts, floggers, paddles, gags, hoods,
chains, cuffs--all those hundreds of objects hanging on the walls. Those
clear plastic bins filled with shiny objects--well. some not so shiny
anymore. The stocks, the bondage chairs, tables and benches, the sling, the
chains hanging from the ceiling. So much for the eye to take in. So much
for the mind to think about--a wonderful mix of anticipation, arousal,
excitement, curiosity, and, of course, fear. That marvelous bit of fear.

And then just as you're enjoying that anticipation, that fear, just as
you're thinking, "Have I gotten myself into something I can't handle? Maybe
I should leave?" you hear the door lock behind you. I admit that's a bit
theatrical. The door could simply close quietly. But I built it so that the
locking mechanism is quite loud. That snick of a lock engaging--it took
your breath away, didn't it? Anywhere else, it would be an insignificant
noise, something you've heard thousands of time. A sound you seldom
consciously listen to. If you notice it at all, it's only a half-heard
confirmation that you have indeed locked the door. A sound you forget the
next instant. But here, when you're surrounded by all these wonderful
tools, it's ominous. I bet your heart skipped a beat. I also bet that your
ballsack tightened and your cock gave a jerk. Fear and arousal. For people
like you, they're fraternal twins. In this room, they will become identical
twins.

After a bit, you noticed that there ahead of you on the table was the hood
that the instructions on the changing room wall said would be awaiting
you. It's the only thing in the room that was out of place. Everything else
was neatly hung up or stowed away. It caught your eye, didn't it? You knew
it would be there, and there it was. I watched you as you touched it and
examined it. It seemed so lightweight, so harmless, didn't it? Just a bit
of dress-up and make-believe.

Now, some men panic at this point. They beg to be released. It's all a
mistake, they say. They rush back to the door. It's only then that they
notice that there's no handle on this side. Some of them start banging on
it to get someone's attention. Others collapse on the floor and start
crying. I ignore them. There's only one way out of this room. I simply
outwait them. Eventually they put the hood on. I know what they really
want, and in the end they always admit it and give in.

But you, you were eager, weren't you? You walked over, picked up the hood,
and pulled it over your head. Were you surprised that you couldn't see
through the fabric? A lot of guys who've worn a nylon hood before think
they'll be able to see out. But not through this hood. How did you feel
when you discovered that you had been denied that little bit of freedom?
What did you think about as you stood there, unable to see? Did you feel
how cold the room is? Did you hear how quiet it is? Did you wonder when I
would arrive? Did you wonder how I would begin?

Are you familiar with the phrase "left on the cutting room floor"? That's
what I do in this room. I remove things and leave them on the floor to be
swept away and tossed in the garbage. Oh, don't worry. Calm down. You'll
only hurt yourself if you struggle like that. I didn't mean "cut"
literally. It's a metaphor for the process you will undergo here. So many
things that you think of as parts of you, maybe even essential parts of
you, are going to be left behind on the cutting room floor. Think of the
process as becoming a zero state, a tabula rasa, an empty vessel, a
vacuum. Emptiness waiting to be filled. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Did you sense that I was in the room with you before I told you to extend
your arms so that I could put the cuffs on? Some of the trainees are so
startled when I speak for the first time that they jump. Others seem to
feel my presence.

You like the cuffs, don't you? They are nice and heavy. Even though you
can't see them, you just know that they are strong and inescapable. And you
appreciate strength in others, strength exercised on your body, don't you?
You enjoy being unable to escape.

I like it that you held out your wrists and ankles to be cuffed without
hesitation. You didn't resist when I put the muzzle around your chin and
mouth to hold your jaws shut. And you didn't try to get away when I led you
over to the bondage bench and secured you to it. That bodes well for your
future training.

As for what's touching you now--that's the business end of a riding
crop. Most likely you didn't notice it when you walked in. There's so much
to see, and you were apprehensive about what was going to happen. Your mind
registered the fact that there was a lot to see, but it didn't actually
look at any particular object.

This crop is about forty inches long. There's a leather loop attached to
the handle. The shaft is flexible. That and the length give it a bit more
snap and force than a shorter, stiffer crop would have. You probably don't
know the terms for the parts of a riding crop, but the keeper--that's the
thin bit at the end that will be coming into contact with your body--is
made of leather. It's about two inches long, maybe three-quarters of an
inch wide, a little less.

That's the part that's tracing a line down your spine right now. It's so
gentle, isn't it? Just a soft, tender touch whispering slowly down your
spine. Of course, you can't see it, but the keeper rises and falls as it
glides over the bumps of the backbone. It's very sensual. Just focus on the
sensation of the keeper moving over your body. It makes you feel so alive,
doesn't it? Across your buttocks and down the back of your thighs. So
sensuous. So intensely mild, so filled with potential. The back of your
calves . . . the soles of your feet. Just focus on the part of your body
the crop is stroking. Slowly. Softly. Tenderly. Almost lovingly. No
hurry. Just relax. That's it. Take a deep breath. All the way in. Now hold
it. And now let it out slowly. And as you do so, just relax. Again. Deep
breath in. Hold it. Hold it. And relax even more as you breathe
out. Excellent.

That's hurt, didn't it? But wasn't it wonderful too? Don't you love how
that pain, that marvelous, unexpected pain, echoes throughout your body? It
isn't just the buttocks that hurt. That's only the center of the pain. The
pain explodes outward until it fills you. That's what's so miraculous about
pain. It's like a firecracker exploding first in your body and then again
in your mind.

And the crop left such a beautiful red welt across your butt. Here. I'll
trace it with the tip of the crop so that you can feel it again. Just focus
on that line. Think about it. Think about how it will soon just be one of
many lines of pain. Think about it.

You knew there would be pain, but you thought you were safe for a while. I
was just talking to you, nattering on about taking deep breaths and
relaxing, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a hard slash across your
butt. Well, that's one of the lessons you will learn. I determine when
there will be pain. And where.

Like here. . . . And here.

I don't even have to expend much effort. Once I make the area sore, a few
light taps are enough to renew the pain. Of course, they don't offer the
satisfaction of the sound of a hard strike against your flesh. Here, let me
demonstrate. . . . There. Isn't that much more satisfying to the ear?
Compare it again. Hard strike. . . . And now gentle taps, mere flicks of
the keeper against the skin. I can also assure you that visually the hard
stroke leaves a much more pleasing record that gentle taps.

And of course, the buttocks aren't the only part of the body we can work
on. There are the backs of the thighs. . . . The backs of the
knees. . . . The calves--although I don't find them as satisfactory as
other parts of the body. Do you?

And . . .

The soles of the feet.

I think you will agree that that is painful. The bastinado. A favorite of
medieval torturers. It's such a vulnerable area--the sole of the
foot. Maybe because it's so often tucked away out of sight. In shoes and
socks. Doesn't it make you feel your helplessness even more to know that I
can strike the sole at any moment? You no longer have any control. None. No
part of your body is safe from me.

For now, however, I'm going to concentrate on your buttocks. I'll leave the
pleasures of the bastinado for tomorrow or the next day--something for you
to look forward to.

Oh, did I forget to tell you that? I may have neglected to mention the
length of this session. You may remember the questionnaire asked if you had
anything planned for this weekend. It may even have implied that there
would be no interference with your plans for the rest of the weekend--an
hour or two on Friday night and that would be it. A painful but exciting
start to your weekend. You may have thought that question showed concern
and trustworthiness, that care would be taken not to hurt you so much you
wouldn't be able to follow through on these other plans. Well, if you
thought that, you were wrong. I was so gratified to learn that you had the
entire weekend free. That meant I could commence your training. A weekend
is the minimum amount of time for a training session. Don't worry. I will
take care of all your needs this weekend. You won't have to lift a
finger. Literally. And you'll be "safely" back home Sunday evening.

So--your buttocks. This part of your body. So far only a few strokes of the
whip. But there will be more. Many more. Your cheeks will be crisscrossed
with welts. For days, it will hurt you to sit. Hard strokes. Rapid
strokes. Slow strokes. Gentle strokes. Loving strokes. So many. Over and
over. Until your mind no longer distinguishes them. Until your entire being
is a field of pain.

Gradually you will accept the pain. You will offer your body up to the
pain. You won't be aware of it, but instead of trying to avoid the pain as
you're doing now, you will welcome it. Now, each time I hit you, you
struggle and try to escape. But that will stop soon. Soon you will resign
yourself to the inexorable whip. Then you will surrender to it. You won't
even bother to cry out. Your cries will become moans, and then even they
will cease. The only sound in the room will be the sound of the whip
hitting your body.

And then something even more wonderful and miraculous will happen. You will
begin to welcome the pain. You will begin to hum with pleasure. Instead of
trying to escape the pain, you will rise to meet it. As one stroke ends,
you will lift your buttocks in anticipation of the next stroke. You will
want the next stroke. If you could talk, you would beg for the next
stroke. "More." "Harder." "Please, don't stop."

That's what I meant when I mentioned the intimacy of pain. It invades your
body. It invades your mind. A penis can only penetrate so far into your
throat, so far into your ass. It's a limited tool. But pain goes so much
deeper, so much farther into you. After a while, it's all you can think
about. It's so intense. There's nothing like pain. It's like an
orgasm. Your body may even confuse the two. You may cum. But you won't even
notice it. Because the pleasures of orgasm will be nothing compared to the
pleasure of the pain. For today, that is the gift that I will give you--the
knowledge of the intimacy of pain.

That will be the lesson of this first session. When you leave, you may tell
yourself that you won't return. But you will. You will because you will
learn that pain is so much more pleasurable than what others call
pleasure. And you will have to come back for more, for different forms of
pain, for ever more intense forms. Pain is an addiction. In the end nothing
else will matter to you. You will want the pain. You will need the
pain. You will become pain.

And that will be your first lesson on the way to becoming 12. I've already
told you something about 12. What more can I tell you? 12 is a state beyond
ego. After a few sessions, there won't be any "I" left in you. And then,
after a few more sessions, there won't be any "you." You will become a
mindless, will-less object. 12 is simply the designation of this
object. Not a name. An object doesn't have a name. But I need a word to use
to refer to this object. So I use 12. There's no significance in the
number. I call all my objects 12. 12 is simply a vessel for my will. 12 is
my mind, my will, in another body.

But enough talk. It's time for your journey, your conversion, to begin.

12-2

"Don't ask."

"That bad?"

"It was awful."

"What happened? Was he as bad as that guy in the red latex suit who broke
his ankle tripping over his ten-inch heels--you know, the one you ended up
taking to the Emergency Room?"

"Oh, don't remind me. I'm trying to forget that guy. No, he wasn't as bad
as that. But he's still in the top ten worst dates of all time. I should
have known he was too good to be true. All that talk about total domination
and brainwashing. He was just like all the other wannabes on
ReMastered. Lots of talk and boasting, but no action." Connor shrugged and
smiled ruefully at Jason.

"It's been weeks since you met anyone worth your time. You should give up
on that site." Jason raised his coffee cup to hide his grin. His words were
sympathetic, but his eyes gave him away.

"Yeah, yeah, you won again. You really enjoy it when I have a bad date,
don't you? So tell me about your weekend. That will make me feel even
worse. Something more for you to enjoy, dickhead."

"Are you sure you want to hear about it? I mean, after your experience, I
don't want to brag."

"Stop stalling. You know you want to tell me."

Jason laughed. "Well, OK, if you must know. He--god, I don't think he ever
told me his name. Maybe when he came up to me at the Circus. You know how
noisy it is in there. Even if he told me his name, I wouldn't have heard
it. Anyway, he wasn't much of a talker, but he fucked my brains out for
three hours, slept for two hours, woke up, and fucked me again. That was
Friday night. On Saturday, he . . . "

Connor let Jason's words drift by him. He nodded and moaned and groaned at
the right places and even said "Way to go, Jason" and "Awesome" when Jason
paused for admiration. Every Monday morning he met Jason for a cup of
coffee at the Starbucks down the street before work. And every Monday
morning, he reported another disappointing Friday night date, while Jason
regaled him with his account of a non-stop weekend of sex. Jason wasn't
lying or exaggerating either. He always interrupted his weekend sexual
marathons long enough to update his Facebook page and post videos and
photographs. Every couple of months or so, when the weekend partner was a
prize specimen, Jason even brought him to the coffee shop to show him off
to Connor.

Jason's account wound to an end. He took a long drink of coffee and leaned
forward with a look of amusement on his face. "So, you gonna tell me what
happened?"

"Ohh, must I? Didn't you get enough satisfaction this weekend? Do you have
to know that I didn't?" Connor waited for Jason to disavow interest, but
his friend simply smirked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"OK. OK. Jeez, you're insatiable. I'd tell you to get a life of your own,
but as you're so fond of telling me, you already have one. So anyway, if
you must know, on Friday evening, I arrive at the guy's `dungeon,' which
turns out to be a tiny two-room apartment in this shitty building over on
Barton. He's dressed in leather drag--the whole outfit--the spit-shined
boots, the chaps, the harness crossing his chest, the studded jockstrap,
the glossy hat, reflective sunglasses, the gloves. You name it, he's
wearing it. I walk in. Oh yeah, get this, he's chewing on an unlit
cigar. He takes it out of his mouth so he can call me a faggot and a bitch,
and then he pulls out his cock. `Suck it, cocksucking faggot bitch,' he
says. As you can tell, he needs to work on his vocabulary. But I figure
what the hell, I'm not there for the conversation. So I kneel and start
sucking him. He grabs me by the hair and thrusts his cock down my
throat. All the time, he's calling me names. Faggot. Bitch. Cocksucker. And
saying, `You like that cock? Yeah, you do. You love it. A real man's cock,
not like that limp toy you call your cock. Suck it, faggot. You're gonna
get to know this mancock real well. I'm gonna shove it up your cunt.' And
so on and so forth." Connor waved his hand in airy dismissal.

"That goes on for a few minutes. Then he tells me to get undressed. He puts
a collar around my neck and attaches a leash. He makes me crawl on all
fours and follow him into the bedroom. He puts a ball gag in my mouth and
makes me get onto the bed face down. He ties me down by the wrists and
ankles. Then he hauls out a flogger and hits me across the ass and back a
few times. Not hard. Just enough to sting. I think finally we're getting
down to business.

"Then he starts talking about the horrible day he had at work and what a
big meany his boss is. He goes on and on about work and bitching about his
life in general. I'm lying there with a gag in my mouth and making
sympathetic noises. He's mincing around the room complaining about his
life. God, he sounds like some teenage girl bitching about her parents. He
talks for about an hour. I'm not shitting you. At least an hour. Doesn't
even touch me. Finally he sits on the back of my thighs and starts beating
his cock against my ass. He's talking about what he would like to do to all
the people who are making his life miserable. He seems to want to pound
them raw and then fuck them. But he's not doing that to me. He's working
himself up into a state. As far as I can tell, he's forgotten all about
me. Then he comes. When he stops, he apologizes for shooting all over
me. He unties me and hands me a box of Kleenex so I can wipe his jism off
my ass.

"And that's it. He pushes me out the door while I'm still trying hopping
around trying to pull my pants on. He tosses my shoes into the hallway and
then shuts the door and locks it. I can hear him sliding the chain into
place. He probably spent more time getting dressed up in his leather
costume than he did on me. All I got was a minute or so of him sticking his
cock down my throat and a few mild slashes from the flogger. I think he
just wanted someone to talk to who wouldn't interrupt him. So he enticed me
over with promises, gagged me so that I couldn't say anything, and then
tied me down so I couldn't get away while he unloaded all his troubles on
an unwilling listener."

When Connor finished, Jason shook his head in sympathy and glanced at his
watch. "Maybe you should redo your profile. You're obviously not reaching
the right type of person. Christ, look at the time. I gotta run. I'll call
you later." Jason gulped the rest of his coffee, picked up his napkin, and
stuck it into the empty cup. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his briefcase,
punched Connor on the shoulder, and then hurried away, pausing only to toss
his cup into a wastebasket. At the door he turned and gave Connor a cheery
wave before rushing off.

Connor took his time finishing his cup of coffee. He didn't need to be at
work for another half-hour.  When a woman asked him if she could share the
table, he nodded and said, "Yeah, I'm just leaving." He pushed his chair
back to get up and bumped into the person sitting behind him. He
apologized. A gruff voice said, "No problem. They don't give us much room."
The other man moved his chair forward to get out of Connor's way. When he
saw Connor leaning forward and struggling to pick up his backpack on the
other side of the table, he grabbed it by one of the straps and handed it
to Connor. "Have a nice day," he said.

Connor automatically said, "Thanks. You too." He had a hurried, vague
impression of a middle-aged man. Glasses. A dark suit. Medium build. Not
his type. The image faded from his mind before he reached the door.

He didn't find the card until lunchtime when he went to retrieve his phone
from his backpack. The card was stuck in the same side pocket.  It was the
size of an ordinary business card. There was no type, however, only a
message neatly written in black ink. "I overheard you talking with your
friend. Check out this website. It will solve your problem." Below this
was: "twelve_past_twelve.com." There was nothing on the back of the card.

Connor scowled at it. Jeez, the creeps you met in this city. It had to have
been the guy at Starbucks, the one he bumped into when he was leaving. He
couldn't believe it. The guy had sat there listening to him and Jason and
then snuck this card into his backpack. Connor crumpled the card and tossed
it into a wastebasket. Then it occurred to him that if the guy had stuck
something into his backpack, he could also have taken something out. Connor
rummaged through the pack trying to remember what he had in it. There was
so much junk, he couldn't tell. All the important stuff was there--his
phone and charger, his tablet, his gym gear and shoes, his water bottle. As
far as he could tell, the guy hadn't taken anything, but who knew? Just the
thought of the guy snooping on him and Jason and pawing through his stuff
made him feel violated. The guy could have some horrible disease. Christ,
sometimes he hated this city. Filthy, dirty place full of psychos and
creeps.

It wasn't until later that night that he remembered the card. He was
watching TV when his phone chimed. An automated text from ReMastered.com
informed him that someone had left a message for him. When he logged in, he
discovered that the idiot from the weekend had emailed him: "Had a great
time. Are you free tomorrow?" Connor deleted the message without
replying. He was so thankful he hadn't given the guy his phone number or
email. When he opened his ignore list to add the man's name, he was
distressed to note the number of names already on the list. It included
practically everyone he had met through the site. His premium membership
still had three months to run. He resolved not to renew it. When it ran
out, he would stop visiting the site. Total bunch of losers.

It was the thought of all the creeps he had met that reminded him of the
card. The program on TV was boring, like all the Monday night
programs. Fillion's smile and body weren't reason enough to put up with the
silliness of the show. He might as well have a look at
twelve_past_twelve.com. It might be worth a laugh. He Googled it first to
check if anyone had commented on it. The search returned only a single
listing--the site itself. That was a first. He couldn't recall having only
one listing in response to a search. He hesitated for a moment. The
antivirus program was up to date, and Google's site-monitoring program said
twelve_past_twelve.com was safe. He clicked on the link.

The site opened immediately. It was minimalist. No pictures, at least not
on the home page. Just seven or eight subject headings. Connor guessed that
they were texts about the site. He clicked on "What Is the Twelve Past
Twelve Program?"

The screen filled with a short message.

"The Twelve Past Twelve Program is for anyone seeking structure in his
life. Applicants inducted into the training program undergo sessions
designed to enhance control and discipline. The successful candidate will
master his fears and abandon all the mental obstructions and reservations
holding him back and preventing him from achieving union. Under the
guidance of the Twelve Master, the trainee progresses on the path to 12.

"Are you ready? Click here to find out."

Not exactly the most informative message, Connor noted to himself. The
right words were there--structure, control, discipline, master. But was it
self-control or control of others or control by others. And what did
"achieving union" mean? Or "Guidance of the Twelve Master" and the "path to
12" What the fuck was that? It sounded vaguely religious. Some sort of
Asian New-Ageism. Zen-like. He would give it one more chance, he
decided. He clicked on the link to the next page.

     Sex
          ? male
          ? female

Connor clicked "male" and was immediately confronted by a new screen.

Use the slider bar to indicate your sexuality:

          ?-----------------------------------------------
          1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
         gay bi straight

Connor left the indicator where it was, over "gay" and clicked "Continue."

     Have you ever had sex with a woman?
          ? yes
          ? no

Connor checked no.

     Use the slider bar to indicate your sexual preference
          ?---------------------------------------------------
          1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
      bottom versatile top

Once again, Connor did not find it necessary to move the slider.

The next page contained a long list of activities ranging from vanilla,
like cuddling and kissing, to hardcore SM, such as scat and
fist-fucking. For each, he was asked to indicate if he had ever performed
the act, and if so, as the giver or receiver or both and whether he enjoyed
it. Finally he had to rate the act on a scale of one to ten, with one being
not necessary to ten being absolutely necessary to his conception of
fulfillment. If he indicated that he had never performed a particular act,
the program asked if he would like to or if the act exceeded his
limits. Once he checked his preference, he was then asked how strong, on a
scale of one to ten, his interest in the act or his rejection of it was.

When he finished that page, he glanced at the clock and was startled to see
that he had been on twelve_past_twelve.com for almost an hour. Rating some
of the activities had been easy, but for others it had been surprisingly
difficult to sort out his likes and dislikes and the level of his
interest. He had got caught up in the challenge of defining himself. To his
surprise, he had enjoyed filling in the questionnaire. When the program
continued on the next page after he had dealt with a final series of items
dealing with breath control, he didn't hesitate. He continued answering the
questions.

The remaining pages dealt more with his psychological profile. He was asked
to rate himself on a submissive-dominant scale and then answer a series of
questions about the degree of his submissiveness. The questions alternated
between his past experiences and his desires. Each time he checked the box
next to his answer, the program fed him another question. He got the
impression that his answers were dictating the next questions. It was
almost as if he were talking with a real person, some sort of psychologist
who was probing his psyche and following up on his answers.  He got so
caught up in the program that he began confessing his innermost desires,
things no one else had ever been interested enough to discuss with him. It
helped that the program was anonymous--he felt safe discussing these things
because he wasn't being judged, just being helped to define his interests.

When a new screen appeared saying "Congratulations, Connor. You have been
accepted as a trainee in the Twelve Past Twelve Program. We are sending an
email with instructions," Connor felt almost disappointed that the session
had ended. It had been like talking with a close friend, that intimate he
had always dreamed of finding. Someone who understood him better than he
understood himself. Someone who sympathized and would help him achieve his
goals. It wasn't until later that he wondered how the program knew his name
and his email address. He didn't recall revealing those.

But he must have. Because there in his inbox was a message from the Twelve
Past Twelve Program. The contents were simple. "Report to 1257 Lemminghurst
Street on Friday evening at 8:30. Ring the buzzer for admittance and then
follow the instructional signs.  Failure to appear will result in
cancellation of your acceptance as a trainee."

The message excited him. He didn't know why. The baldness of its commands,
the formality of its language. Its simplicity. Do this and this or else. No
explanations, no hint of what was to happen. Its take-it-or-leave-it
attitude. As they had many times during the previous hours, his hands
strayed to his nipples and to his cock. It was like he had passed a test
and been accepted. He didn't know for what--judging from the questions, he
guessed that the program had to do with D/s and BDSM, the kind of sex he
liked. But he wasn't sure why he felt so excited. It was probably just a
come-on, he told himself. He'd get to Lemminghurst Street--if he went--on
Friday evening, and all he'd find was some sort of store trying to sell him
something or some old guy wearing a leather vest over a pale, sunken chest
with a few hairs.

He had never heard of Lemminghurst and used Google Maps to find the
address. The street was only two blocks long and was located in the
Edgarsville district. He opened the street view and found that 1257 was an
old brownstone. A flight of seven or eight steps led up to a solid-looking
door, painted black. The house wasn't wide. Maybe twenty-five, thirty
feet. Connor knew the houses in that area. Deep, narrow rooms with a steep
staircase along one wall connecting the floors. Most of them had long since
been divided into condos, with one unit per floor. At the front would be a
relatively large room used as the living room, then a passage leading back
past a small bedroom, with the kitchen and bathroom behind that. The
apartments were much sought after.

He could make out the buzzer to the right of the door. There appeared to be
only one. That might mean that the house hadn't been divided into
flats. That was rare, but it also meant that whoever was behind the website
wouldn't have to worry about the neighbors hearing them--that was a
plus. Maybe he could indulge in a few screams rather than having to stifle
himself.

He would have to take the subway uptown. He needed to check a map to find
the closest station. That is, if he decided to go. He told himself that
he'd think about it. Maybe just walk past and check it out. Have a
look. That wouldn't commit him to anything. At the worst it would just be a
good laugh and a story to share with Jason. He could always walk away if he
didn't like the looks of the place. It wasn't like he had anything planned
for Friday night, or for the weekend for that matter. And there were
several bars in Edgarsville. He could always go to one of those if
Lemminghurst was a bust. So the entire weekend wouldn't be a waste.

It was kind of exciting to imagine the best possible scenario--his dream
sadist who would devote several hours to transporting him to Nirvana, who
would provide the mind-numbing experience he had always fantasized about
but never had in real life. But, Connor reminded himself, he shouldn't get
his hopes up. He'd done that often enough before only to be
disappointed. But it was the hopes that made him keep trying. Somewhere
there had to be someone who could somehow fulfill his dreams of total
domination. With any luck it could be the guy behind
twelve_past_twelve.com.

Yeah, right, dream on, you fool, he told himself as he shut down his
computer and prepared to go to bed.

12-3

You came back. I knew you would. I suspect that when you left here last
week, you resolved not to return. You told yourself that it was more than
you wanted. It was too intense, too painful. Besides there was all that my
talk about becoming 12--that was just weird. I had to be some sort of
crazy. A real nut case.

And there were all those reminders of the pain. The subway ride back was a
killer, wasn't it? You couldn't sit because your butt was too sore. You
stood there holding on to the overhead pole, even though there were plenty
of seats. You tried to keep your face neutral, but your body kept reminding
you of the pain you had just endured. It wasn't just your butt. Your face
felt raw, and you kept touching the places where the head harness had
chaffed against your cheeks and forehead. You hoped that there weren't any
red blotches on your face. You glanced around to see if anyone was staring
at you or taking pictures of you to send to their friends or post
online. "Dude in subway with strange marks on his face."

How do I know all this? I watched you. You never saw me last weekend so you
didn't recognize me. I wanted to make sure you made it back to your
apartment safely so I rode back on the subway with you. You live in a nice
building. Don't worry. I didn't follow you into your apartment. Not
physically anyway--mentally, however, I was present, wasn't I? You couldn't
stop thinking about me.

When you got back to your apartment, I bet the first thing you did was
check your face in a mirror. The marks hadn't faded yet, had they? And they
were so distinct. Red stripes across your face where the straps of the
harness held your jaws shut so that you couldn't talk. But the stripes
spoke volumes about what you had been up to. It was clear what had caused
the marks. That caused you more worry about what others had thought.

Then you took your clothes off and twisted about so that you could see your
backside in the mirror. Were you surprised at how red it was? Did you even
know that flesh could get that shade of scarlet? Your flesh was hot, wasn't
it? And then there were those bloody lines where the crop had cut into your
flesh. So many slashes across your beautiful butt. Did you wonder how long
they would last? How long before you could expose your ass to public view
again? Did you wonder if you dared risk a visit to the gym?

You tried to sit down, but it hurt too much. The only thing you could do
was lie down on your stomach with your butt exposed. It still burned,
didn't it? Each time your heart beat, there was a throb of pain in your
backside.

You didn't venture out again that night, did you?

The pain hadn't lessened much by the next morning. You worried that it
would never end. What if a cut got infected? What if there were scars? How
would you explain those to a doctor? And your face still showed marks from
the harness. Shaving was painful. Even the water from your morning shower
stung as it cascaded over your tenderized flesh. Did you call in sick on
Monday? Did you decide it would hurt too much to sit at your desk and that
you wouldn't be able to pretend that nothing was the matter? What did you
tell that handsome friend of yours about your weekend? Or did you skip that
too? Did you leave him sitting all alone at Starbucks wondering what had
happened to you? Perhaps you texted him telling him that you couldn't make
it. Did you tell him why? Or were you "just a bit under the weather"? Well,
that's understandable. It's still embarrassing to admit that you have all
these urges, all these needs--that you like to spend your weekends tied up
and in pain. That's hard to talk about even to good friend like Jason
Palmer, who finds your little predilections so amusing.

The one thing you were certain about was that you weren't coming back. Oh,
no, you weren't going to put yourself in my hands again. Too
dangerous. Insane. Crazy. Unh-uh. No way. No, Sir. Never again.

But here you are. You couldn't stop thinking about last weekend. It wasn't
just that the pain wouldn't let you forget. There was something else,
wasn't there? Your mind remembered that wonderful moment when you entered
sub-space. When you surrendered to the pain and let it work on you, for
you. That moment of acceptance and acquiescence. You dreamt about that,
didn't you?

Then you got my email. Friday--same time, same place.

Oh, you must have been in a quandary. Part of your mind said, No, don't be
a fool. Stay away. While another part of your mind was shouting, Yes! Yes!
Get your ass over there.

These urges are so hard to understand, aren't they? Do you remember last
time when I explained how the body tries to flee the pain and that's why
you had to be tied down? Part of you wanted to avoid more pain. But part of
you wanted more, didn't it? And that's why you're here. That's why you
marched up the front stoop and buzzed for admittance. That's why you
undressed in the anteroom. That's why you came through the door to this
room and put the hood on again. That's why you stood there waiting.

You trembled a bit, didn't you? I was watching on the monitors. It wasn't
because you were cold. No, you were excited, afraid, anxious, impatient
. . . and uncertain. Such a lovely mix of emotions. It's no use my telling
you not to be nervous. You should be nervous. You want to be nervous. You
want that sick feeling in your gut, that weakness in your legs, the thump
of your heart racing in your chest, your breath catching in your throat,
that ringing in your ears.

So much turmoil and tumult in the mind. But that's part of the attraction,
isn't it? The uncertainty . . . and the greed. Your greed for the
experience. You want more. Always more. Well, you will get more this
weekend. Don't worry. Just relax. You've got a long weekend ahead of
you. And don't be impatient. We'll start in a few minutes.

But first, I'm going to put my hands on your shoulders and guide you into
place. Step forward. Just let me guide you. You're not going to run into
anything. I'm won't let you. I'm not interested in the pain you get from
stubbing a toe. No, we're neither of us interested in that type of pain,
are we?

Good. Now, hold out your arms. No, not to the front, to the sides. Stretch
them out full length. Good. Just stand there. Bear with me for a few
seconds while I lower this bar. Okay, now I'm going to attach some cuffs to
your wrists and along your arms. This will take a moment.

Yeah, sorry about that. I know the bar is cold. It's just a metal rod, but
it will warm up soon. Your body heat will warm it up. Now, hold still while
I finish with these cuffs.

There. Just relax. The chains at the ends of the bar are attached to
pulleys suspended from the ceiling. You don't need to hold the bar up. Let
it hold you up.

Hmm. The bruises on your ass are still swollen. The swelling should go down
this coming week. The bruises are already beginning to turn yellow at the
edges, but it will take another couple of weeks for them to fade
completely. Nice. Your ass still feels hot. That's because the body is
pumping extra blood to that area to help it heal. Try to stand still. I
know it hurts when I touch your butt, but it is so beautiful. I can't
resist. Have you been looking at the welts and scars in a mirror? I bet you
have. It's hard to resist gloating over the record of your experiences last
weekend. It's so much fun to remember how it felt and to relive all the
excitement.

Don't worry. I'm not going to work on your ass today. Today the focus will
be on another part of your anatomy. That's why you're trussed up like this.

Just one more thing and then I'll be ready to start on you. Maybe you can
guess what I'm about to do from the sounds you hear as I gather what I
need. Those clinks and clanks my tools make as I take them down from the
walls. Well, maybe not. As clinks and clanks go, they're rather generic.

So, first I'm going to strap these cuffs around your ankles. Next I'll
attach chains to the cuffs and then attach the chains to eyebolts in the
floor. You won't be able to move your feet very far. I don't want you
kicking out with your legs. I know you wouldn't do that intentionally, but
sometimes it's just an automatic reaction to the pain.

Oh, yes, there will be pain. Just not on your ass today. Today's pain will
be much more subtle. But that doesn't mean that it will be any less
painful. The ass is great for brute force. I can do a lot to your ass and
not have to worry about causing permanent damage or leaving scars.

You like that, don't you? It was on the questionnaire. Your responses to
that section were so enthusiastic. What I like about it is that it's open
to so much variation. What you're experiencing now--let's see, How can I
describe it? The lightest possible stimulation. Just the tips of my thumbs
rubbing over the tips of your nipples. Just picture it your mind. A person
with nipples as sensitive as you say yours are has to have done this to
himself. But it feels even better when someone else is touching the
nipples, doesn't it?

That's because when you do it to yourself, your brain is receiving input
from both your fingers and your nipples. But when someone else touches your
nipples, all the sensations originate from your nipples. The mind doesn't
get confused about what it's sensing. It's all nipple. Those wonderful,
little, useless reminders that men are mammals too. We may not have mammary
glands--we may have beautiful pecs instead of ugly breasts--but we have
something much better. Hungry nipples greedy-for-pleasure. And your nipples
are ravenous for stimulation.

You see the road to 12 isn't just about pain. It's about pleasure
too. Pleasure, the desire for pleasure, the need for pleasure--I can use
that to subvert your mind too.

Was that a groan of pleasure? Are you trying to tell me how much you're
enjoying this? Even with that gag in your mouth, you want to tell me to
keep doing this, don't you?

Don't bother. As I told you last time, and as you will learn over and over,
your pleasure and your pain aren't important. They're just tools. Tools for
destroying you. Tools for remaking you into 12. No, I hadn't forgotten
about 12. Were you hoping that I had? That I would just keep on playing
with your nipples? Stroking them until the areoles contract and make the
nipples become perky and stand up?

No, playing with your nipples is just a brief moment in your journey.

Did that hurt?

Of course, it did. You cried out, and your body jerked from the pain. And
that was just a pinch with my fingers. Your nipples aren't hungry only for
pleasure, are they? Those little guys are also gluttons for punishment,
aren't they? Don't worry. I'll take care of that. I'm going to devote this
weekend to feeding your gluttony.

Remember when you walked in here last week and you saw those clear plastic
bins full of objects? Well, the one I'm delving into now contains my
collection of tit clamps. I have twenty-six pairs of them, plus assorted
weights and other attachments. The pair I'm putting on you now is the most
vanilla one in my collection. Really they're jewelry more than anything
else. Essentially these are just earrings for nipples. I don't ordinarily
bother with them, but you've built your pecs up so that they hang over your
rib cage so nicely. Your nipples stick out just enough that these--what
shall I call them?--these "nip decorations" dangle in midair below your
pecs. They're more eye candy for me. I'm snapping a picture of them. I'll
send you a copy so that you can enjoy it too. I'll see that the pics get
posted on Tumblr and other photo-sharing sites too. I'm sure they'll get
reposted a lot. Many of my pictures are quite popular there. Just think of
it. Your pecs and nips are going to be famous. I wonder how many men are
going to jerk off over them. What a pity that no one will recognize you
with that mask on. You won't receive the recognition you deserve. Don't
worry. Time enough for that later. There will come a time when you won't be
able enter a gay bar without half the people there recognizing you from all
the photos of you on the net. Of course, at that point, you won't think
about other people and you won't be frequenting gay bars. As I said, life
as 12 will be quite simple and straightforward.

There. That's enough photos, I think.

Let's try another pair.

Now these, as you can tell, clasp the nipples a bit more firmly. They
almost squash them flat, in fact. Just like a good hard pinch. But of
course it's difficult to hold a pinch for long. One's fingers get tired and
relax. But these babies never get tired. I could leave them on you for
days.

It's good that you never got your nipples pierced. That was a point in your
favor on the questionnaire. Slaves should never think of their bodies as
theirs to pierce--or to ink up, for that matter. The slave should deliver
its body to the owner in pristine condition. The owner should be the one to
decide whether to pierce it or tattoo it. But I'm lecturing you
again. Let's get back to the business at hand.

Like all nipple clamps, the pain from these begins to dissipate after a
while. One has to constantly renew the pain. Like this. By twisting the
clamps back and forth, clockwise and then counterclockwise. Pulling on them
works too. Once I work your nipples over enough and get them really
sensitive. I won't even have to do that. Just by breathing in and out, you
will jiggle them enough to cause you pain. If you weren't in such pain and
could think straight, you would realize that clamps are such labor-saving
devices. Labor-saving for me, that is. Your body and your mind do most of
the work. I can stand back and enjoy the view.

The pain is exquisite, isn't it? Such a small point of pain. So focused on
just a tiny bit of flesh. Tit clamps are such efficient tools. You may
never have thought of them in those terms, but you'll some come to
appreciate them. Such a small amount of pressure causing such a large
amount of pain.

Another great thing about clamps is how much they hurt when one removes
them. It always comes as a shock, doesn't it? Your nipples were getting
used to the pain. It was becoming a dull ache. And then without warning, I
open the clamps. Shazam. Kaapow. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. A lightning bolt of
pain.

And another lightning bolt when I let them close again. When I abruptly let
go of them and the jaws snap back on your tits.

You see now why I secured your ankles to the floor. Your whole body
shuddered and thrashed about in pain when I released the clamps and they
squashed your tits again. Eventually you will learn to accept that pain
without flinching, but that's for the future.

For now, let's move onto another pair of clamps. You know what alligator
clamps are, don't you? Another ordinary object pressed into service as a
training tool. Did you know they were developed for electricians? To
transmit low levels of electricity from the pole of a battery, for
example. They're just small-scale versions of car battery cables. Just a
little bit of history, a factoid just for you. I like to make these
sessions educational. Yes, you will find that these sessions are very
educational. If you like, you can think of yourself as a battery that's run
down, and I'm using these clamps to recharge you. Oh, you will be so
charged up by Sunday evening when I release you. What I'm going to do to
your nipples will keep you energized all week long.

Now, a lot of alligator clamps come with rubber sheaths over the business
end to blunt the pain. I'm not going to bother with those today. Your tits
are going to get the teeth.

But not all at once. Too many people make the mistake of just pinching
clamps open and then attaching them to the nipple. That's fine if you want
to hear screaming. But I'm after something more. By the time I'm finished
with you, you will beg me to put them on you. You will learn to welcome the
pain, and then I will teach you to turn the pain into something more.

The clamps you have on now are meant to sensitize your nipples. Get you
used to thinking about them. To judge from your reactions, I think they've
done what I wanted them to do. Time to move on. Let's get them off
you. There. See--taking them off causes as much pain as putting them on.

One of the odd things about alligator clamps is that the smaller they are,
the more painful they are. The business end of the ones I'm using
today--the part with the teeth--is, oh, about an inch long. I suppose you
could say they are the standard size for erotic uses. I have some smaller
one--they're for specialists. Those really burn. Well, you find out how
much they burn later this weekend. Something else for you to look forward
to.

Alligator clamps are my favorites. A sublime blend of functionality,
simplicity, and beauty. The KISS principle in action. A pity you can't see
them. You would love how shiny they are. The handles are black
plastic. They're connected by a chain, just enough weight to swing back and
forth and pull the clamps down when I put them on. I wish you could see
them. I would hold them up to your eyes and open and close them slowly so
you could anticipate what is shortly going to happen to you. I would touch
your face, your lips, with them to let you savor the feel of them. I would
let you lick them, to know the taste of them in your mouth.

Right now, I'm outlining the edges of your pecs with them. Just focus on
the sensation. Anticipate the moment when you will experience them
fully. I'm in no hurry. Just enjoy them. A small bit of metal tracing the
boundaries of your beautiful pecs. Luckily your chest isn't hairy, or I
would have to shave it.

And now the areoles. Patience. Have patience, lad. No need to move
about. I'll get to the nipples eventually. For now, just focus on the
movements of the clamps. Focus on them. That's all you have to do. Let the
sensation of the clamps moving over your flesh fill your thoughts. Take a
deep breath in, hold it, hold it, and now let it out slowly. As you do so,
just relax. Focus on the clamps. And again. Deep breath in. Hold it, hold
it. And breathe out slowly. Good. Just keep breathing like that.

Now, I'm holding one of the clamps over your right nipple. Have you ever
noticed how much more painful the clamps are when they're attached to the
end of the nipple instead of the whole length of it? Well, no matter. I'm
going to demonstrate that today. When I used the other clamps on you, I
pulled the nipple out and attached the clamp along the whole length. I even
caught a bit of the areole between the lips of the clamp. What you felt was
really more pressure than pain--although you may not have thought so. But
these babies are going right on the tip of the nipple. Tippy tip tip. Tit
tip. You will love it.

So what I'm going to do now is slowly close the jaws of the clamp until the
teeth just begin to bite into the tip of the nipple. Like that. I'll hold
that for a few seconds, and now I'll open them again. I'm going to continue
to do that. But each time I'm going to let the clamp close just a bit
further.

Just focus on the sensation of the clamp closing and opening on your
nipple. That's all you have to do. Just accept what's happening. Just let
it happen. Closing . . . opening. Pressure . . . release. Pain
. . . absence of pain. More . . . less. A little more each time. A little
longer each time. Just focus on the clamp closing. Anticipate it. Want
it. Welcome it. Need it.

You're really beginning to feel it now, aren't you? I can tell because your
cock is so hard. You're beginning to want the pain. You need the pain. Just
focus on the clamp. I'm almost done with the right nipple. A few more
times. Clamp . . . release.

Do you want me to put the clamp on you and leave it there? Just nod your
head yes. Good boy.

There. Focus on the wonderful pleasure emanating from the clamp. It isn't
just the nipple. The sensation sears your body. Focus on it. Accept
it. Want it. Enjoy it.

I'm going to let you alone for five minutes. Just focus on your
nipple. Don't think about the clamp. Just think about the nipple and the
wonderful pain eating away at you. Let it fill your mind. Accept it. Want
it. I'll come back to you and then I'll attach the clamp to the left
nipple.

` ` ` ` ` ` `

There. That's both of them on. I think you'll agree that it's been worth
the wait. All that buildup just made them feel even better, didn't it? I'm
going to go away again. I'll be back in half an hour.

All you have to do is focus on your nipples and the sensations ricocheting
through your body. You may find that after a while you won't be able to
feel your nipples. If that happens, just swing your body back and forth so
that the chain moves. That will send a fresh wave of pleasure through
you. For now, you should just enjoy what other people might think of as
pain. It will take over your mind. Soon you won't think of anything else
but the pain. Surrender to it. Accept it. Welcome it. Enjoy it. Let it burn
through your mind like a wildfire and cleanse it. Let it fill your mind and
force out all other thoughts.

. . . . . . . .

Now, I'm going to remove both clamps at the same time. You know what an
intense shock of pain that will send throughout your body and mind. Just
let it happen. Experience it to the fullest. Don't hold back. On the count
of three. One. Two. Three.

Excellent. Your response was everything I hoped for. You are doing so well.

You may not have realized it, but your cock was hard before I removed the
clamps. It started oozing pre-cum when I took the clamps off. Some of my
trainees cum spontaneously when I remove the clamps. I appreciate their
enthusiasm and I realize it's not intentional, but then I have to train
them not to cum. I'm the one who determines when they cum. I'm glad I don't
have to take the time to teach you not to cum. Just so you know, I'll put a
metal bead inside your piss slit if you cum spontaneously. It will prevent
any repetition of your misconduct.

Now, I'm going to repeat what I've just done. I'm going to do it over and
over. Your nipples are going to be raw. For several days after I finish
with you, even the movement of a shirt against your nipples is going to be
painful.

Remember how I began the last session by telling you that my gift to you
would be the intimacy of pain. This time you're going to give me a
gift. The acceptance of pain. I will continue to apply the alligator clamps
to your nipples until you give me the gift of your acceptance of pain. Your
acceptance of my right to cause you pain. Your acceptance of pain as a
training tool. Your understanding that pain is a tool to train you. Your
acceptance that pain is necessary for you to become 12.

You're still trying to avoid the pain. As I explained last time, that's
natural. The body shies away from pain. But the first thing you must learn
is to overcome that tendency. You must learn to shed your unwillingness to
endure pain. You must abandon your fear of pain. You must learn to welcome
pain as a necessary step on your path.

When I apply the clamps, just accept the pain. Welcome it. Don't struggle
against it. That will only make it worse. Let the pain arouse you. Let the
pain excite you. Want the pain. Want more of it. Beg for more of
it. Surrender to me and let me determine your pain.

Make your mind blank. Let the pain fill it. Let the pain erase you. Let
yourself become the pain. Only then will you be ready to move to the next
step.

Enough talk. Let us begin.

12-4

Connor's red and swollen nipples ached. Just as the man had said they
would. He couldn't stand to wear even a loose T-shirt. With every heartbeat
his tits expanded and contracted in a wordless mantra of pain. Little
flecks of loose skin clung to them, and there were scabs on the tips of the
nipples where the man had applied the clamps. Over and over.

Sometimes the man attached the clamps slowly, opening and then closing them
a little more each time, teasing Connor's mind with the anticipation of the
moment when he would release the clamps fully, letting the prongs bite
again and again into the aching tip. Sometimes he skipped the buildup and
just let the clamps spring shut over the nipple, sending a searing flash of
pain throughout Connor's body.

At some point, Connor had seen an image of a gigantic alligator clamp,
gleaming in the light, poised over his right pec. He had watched as the
teeth slowly bit into the nipple, piercing it, crushing it between the top
and bottom teeth, squeezing it and forcing the flesh to ooze out between
the jaws of the clamp.

Sometimes the man just left the clamps on the nipples and let Connor
experience the agony spread outward through his body. Sometimes he played
with them, twisting them or pulling on them. Sometimes he attached weights
and let them drag the nipples downward. Sometimes he sent electrical shocks
surging through the metal of the clamps and into Connor.

Connor lost track of time. He no longer felt that he had a body. It
disappeared from his consciousness. Just pain. He was pain. That was
all. Pain. Sometimes the pain was weaker. Sometimes it grew more severe. He
ceased to think about it. He accepted it.

He . . . He didn't know how to think about what had happened. Something had
happened. At the beginning he had been in pain. There had been pain. There
had been him. They were separate. But they merged. He wasn't anything but
pain.

When the pain stopped, he felt wrong. Something was missing. He was
incomplete. But then the pain came back and he felt whole again. He cried
when the pain went away. He begged the man for pain. Had the man removed
the gag? He couldn't remember. Maybe he had just imagined begging. He
wasn't sure. He had seen the clamps. He had seen himself willingly, gladly,
thankfully thrust his chest forward and position the nipple between the
jaws of the clamps. He had seen the clamps close on his nipples. He had
seen his face bloom with the ecstasy of pain. He had seen his cock throb
with the glory of pain. He had sobbed and pleaded with the man for more
pain. What had he seen? The hood--had the man removed the hood? Had he
watched himself in a mirror? He couldn't remember. He must have dreamed it
all.

It must have just been his imagination. He couldn't remember seeing the
man. Just himself. Surely he would have seen the man if the hood had been
removed.

He remembered the voice though. The voice telling him what was going to
happen. The voice walking him through the initial steps. The voice. And
then the voice had stopped talking. The only thing that talked then was the
clamps. And himself. He had talked.

Much later he found dressed and out on the street. A cab had pulled up. He
had gotten in. The cab had driven him to his street. He had paid the driver
and walked up the steps to his apartment. It was dark outside. Early
morning. He thought it was early Saturday morning. That he had spent the
night with the man. But when he checked his phone, he discovered it was
Sunday. 7:30 on Sunday evening.  He had spent two days at the man's place.

He couldn't understand where the time had gone. Sometimes the pain had
seemed endless. And then it hadn't seemed long enough. But two days? He
hadn't eaten. He hadn't gone to the bathroom. He was sure of that. He
hadn't slept. At least he didn't think he had. He had forgotten all the
basic things of life.

Without realizing it, he began crying in gratitude to the man. The man used
pain as a tool. The pain itself wasn't important. What was important was
learning what pain could do to him. How strong it could be. How he could
become stronger by enduring it, by wanting it. By needing it. By becoming
pain. By surrendering to the man and becoming nothing other than a tool for
the man's will. He had found what he had always hoped to find, and the man
had helped him find it. He owed everything to the man.

His nipples glowed. He didn't know what to call the feeling. Yes, it was
painful, but it was also pleasurable. It was a reminder of what he had
found. Of what, he corrected himself, he had been lucky enough to find.

He crossed his arms and began stroking his nipples with the edges of his
thumbnails. He felt. Again he didn't know what. Perhaps it was just that he
was feeling. It didn't need a name. He didn't need to give it a
label. Naming it would only serve to distance him from the sensation. And
the sensation, what it represented, that was the important thing. He had
given his willingness, his desire, his need to have this sensation to the
Man. It was a way of giving himself to the Man, a way of being with the
Man, of becoming the Man's mindless toy.

He wanted that so much now. He knew that. He wanted to become the thing the
Man called 12. He wanted the Man to destroy him and make him into 12. He
pinched his nipples between his fingernails. The Man. That persuasive deep
voice in his ears, in his mind, molding it, erasing the irrelevant and
replacing it with the essential. The Man.

Serve. He wanted to serve. He didn't want to go back to his ordinary
life. He wanted to be with the Man. He had to be with the Man.

His mind emptied of all thoughts but the Man. Without being aware of what
he was doing, he continued to pinch his nipples. They grew even more
swollen. The bursts of sensations were lightning bolts in his mind. Their
thunder deafened him. Nothing registered in his eyes; the hood prevented
all vision. He existed only inside the moment the Man had created him
for. Outside words. Outside feeling. On the way to becoming emptied of
himself. Just being. Becoming 12.

Later that night, he woke up. He didn't know how long he had been lying on
the floor. He found his clothes in a heap beside him. He was naked, dried
cum on his chest and stomach.

. . . . . .

The next morning Connor went through his day like a zombie.

He kept his usual Monday morning date with Jason at the coffee shop and
listened to him prattle on about his weekend and boast of his dates. When
Jason asked him about his weekend, Connor shrugged and said, "It was
OK. Didn't do much."  He didn't want to talk about the Man. He didn't want
to share his experiences. Sharing them would dilute them, trivialize
them. They would just become a story to entertain Jason. Suddenly he was
tired of Jason. Tired of his amusing chatter, tired of meeting him every
Monday morning, tired of catching up. He couldn't think why he had even
started meeting Jason. It was just insipid. He stood up abruptly, said
"Gotta go," and left.

Work was a torment. It was so stupid. He used to think that he had been
lucky to find this job. It suited his talents, his colleagues were fun, the
work was challenging. But he was seeing everything in a new light. He had
been so blind.

His fingers kept drifting to his nipples. At first he tried to be
discreet. He might brush his nipples in passing or scratch his chest in a
way that allowed his fingers to stray across them. He relished the private
electric shock surging through his body. It felt so good. His mind focused
on the Man, on his surrender to the Man.

"Connor? . . . Connor, are you all right?"

"Wha . . . Oh, sorry, boss. I was thinking about . . . about the Armstrong
project."

Matt Simmons, his team leader, had an odd look on his face, concern mixed
with skepticism. "Yeah, well, that's what I want to talk to you about. Have
you finished the cost projections yet?"

Connor looked at his computer monitor. The answers were there somewhere. He
clicked his way through the menu and found the file. "Here's what I'm
thinking. I emailed Plastron on Friday asking if they could give us a
discount on bulk orders. Haven't heard back from them yet. We've been
basing the projections on orders of 1,000 units at a time. But if Plastron
gives us a discount on larger orders, it will lower our unit costs. We have
the warehouse space. It won't cost us more than we're already paying."
Connor mentally heaved a sigh of relief. At least he sounded like he was
working.

Connor swiveled around to face Matt and leaned back in his chair. He laced
his fingers behind his neck and tilted back, stretching the fabric of his
shirt and undershirt across his nipples. He had to force his face into an
expression of interest in what Matt was saying. Something about doing a
good job. And let him know when he heard from Plastron and had inputted the
new figures. So everything was all right then. When Matt walked away,
Connor bounced his pecs. He nearly came in his pants. The feel of his shirt
moving over his nipples was so intense. He stopped himself just in time. He
looked around to see if any of his coworkers had heard him moan or seen the
look of pleasure that had flashed across his face.

Friday night he bathed and shaved. He caught the subway and rode
uptown. The train was crowded as were the streets around the
station. Connor paid no attention. His mind was filled with anticipation of
what would happen that evening, what the Man might do to him that
weekend. He walked at a steady pace through the throngs. They didn't
register on his mind. Lemminghurst was quieter. The further he walked, the
fewer people he encountered. He quickened his pace. There was no one in
sight when he rushed up the stairs to 1257 Lemminghurst. He pressed the
buzzer. When the lock clicked, he opened the door and went inside.

12-5

You came back. I knew you would. Your ass and tits are still a bit sore,
aren't they? Don't worry. I'll let them heal for another week. I will use
other parts of your body tonight.

When you left here last Sunday, you were in pain. You were having trouble
standing up straight. I watched you as you went down the steps to the
street. You walked so gingerly. You moved so slowly and put your feet down
so carefully. Every step hurt, didn't it? That's only to be expected. Once
the endorphins start wearing off, you notice all the sore joints and
muscles.

Did you fall asleep as soon as you got back to your apartment? That's what
most trainees do. You weren't engaged in hard physical labor. You were just
slumped in the frame or lying inert on the table. But all the strain takes
a toll.  Your body was pulsing with pain, and oblivion beckoned. Well,
sleep is a great healer.

The next day, you were still sore, weren't you? But your mind didn't
care. You wanted more. Friday couldn't come quickly enough for you.

And here you are. Ready for more. Because if there's one certainty in this
world, it is that you are ready for more. Every morning you woke up knowing
that it wasn't Friday was a torment. As soon as the daily stupidities
began, you thought about the intensity of the pain and how it drove all the
inanities out of your mind. How it left you feeling so serene, so tranquil,
so . . . so joyous.

That's what outsiders never can understand. They see one man beating
another's ass until it is red and bruised, until it is swollen raw with
welts oozing blood, and they shake their heads and think you must be
crazy. But the bruises and the welts bring a reward, don't they? That
wonderful feeling of release and acceptance of what you are.

The intensity is the key. A paper cut can nag at the mind. It's a
nuisance. It hurts all out of proportion to the damage. But it lacks that
intensity that reduces your being to the pain and the pleasure that comes
from the pain. When you become that still point of essential being and
nothing else. When there are no words, no mind left, when there is only
your existence as an object. That's why you came back. Because you are an
object that circumstances have forced to pretend to be a human being. You
came back because you need me to remove those bonds and let you become an
object again.

Today, you are going to experience a different type of intensity. The frame
to which you are attached exposes your entire body. Again, the hood is
there to prevent you from seeing what is coming. As I have explained, it
prevents you from trying to escape what is happening to you. You can't use
what you can't see to avoid what is happening to you. The blank blackness
you see when you open your eyes is one less thing demanding your attention,
one less distraction. The sensations are so much more intense when they are
all that you have.

Like that. I barely stroked your chest with my fingertips, and your whole
body shuddered. And that nice little moan of pleasure. The harness prevents
you from speaking, but moaning is permitted--and welcome. Just don't overdo
it. I want the moans to be real, not acting or attempts to please me.

So, you're probably wondering what's going to happen to you. You've been
looking forward to this moment all week, and now it's here. You're
prepped. Nothing remains to be done but to begin.

It would be interesting to know what you imagined would happen as you
thought about this weekend. It would tell me so much about you. I will have
to incorporate that sort of feedback into the trainees' programming. But
it's too late now to ask you about your anticipations for this session. Ah,
well, these sessions are educational for the both of us. But enough of
that.

So, this weekend. This weekend you will experience something
different. This weekend's lesson is on pleasure. You will learn that
intense pleasure is as strong as intense pain. Eventually you will reach
the point where you can't tell pain and pleasure apart. What your mind will
crave is the intensity. You won't care whether the sensation is painful or
pleasurable. For you pain and pleasure will be the same. In you opposites
will unite.

Of course, that's only a way station on your path. You are still thinking
in terms of yourself and what you are experiencing. But that too will
pass. What will come to matter to you is that I choose what is
happening. What happens will become irrelevant. It will be enough that I am
doing it to you. The activities will no longer concern you. All that will
matter is me. Of course, at that point, you will no longer be you. You will
be 12.

Do you know the word "hyperaesthesia"? It means increased sensitivity to
stimuli. It's usually considered an abnormal condition, a sign of damage or
disease somewhere in the body. It's a natural response. Many pregnant
women, for example, become hypersensitive to smells. Or think of what it's
like to have a bad sunburn. It's like the raw skin on your ass and your
nipples. The sunburned skin is so sensitive that even the lightest touch
brings pain.

Hyperaesthesia can also be brought about by certain chemicals. Think about
a hangover and how sounds become louder and lights brighter. To dull the
senses, the sufferer resorts to aspirin or other painkillers--or drinks
more alcohol. Withdrawal from heroin and other opiates also increases
addicts' sensitivity. They beg for the drugs that will dull their senses
again.

Addiction makes a man so easy to control. As you will find out as your
addiction to intensity grows. I will feed that addiction until you
mindlessly return to me again and again for your next fix of intense pain
or intense pleasure or a mixture of both. You will offer yourself up to me
because no one else will supply what I have trained your mind to
need. Addiction will make you pliable, malleable. Addiction will soften you
until you become a formless lump of clay ready to be molded into 12.

Have you ever read some of the drivel on the Internet about mind-altering
chemicals? The paranoid fantasies that the government is using certain
chemicals to reduce us to mindless, slobbering idiots. Of course, there are
such chemicals. But they're too easy. They take away the sense of victory,
that incredible moment when you will surrender to me fully, when you give
yourself over to me. My victory will be all the sweeter because you will
want it. Then you will need it. Finally you will be unable to imagine an
existence in which you are not fully mine. It will simply be the way things
are.

There are other chemicals, however, that I may use. Chemicals that induce
hyperaesthesia. Chemicals that make your senses so heightened that the
breath from your nostrils gliding over your lips will cause your body to
spasm with pleasure. A touch of my finger anywhere on your body will send
you into paroxysms. Your entire body will become an erogenous zone under my
hands. You can't imagine what it will be like when all your senses overload
your mind with sensations so intense that they drive consciousness
away. And that's even before I start stimulating what you now think of as
your erogenous zones. Your nipples, your ass, your balls, your cock--all
those really sensitive spots. When I start touching them, your mind will
want to shut down, to escape, but it won't be able to. But those pleasures
are for another day.

This weekend, I will control your mind through pleasure and make it give me
what I want. Just through pleasure. That's all. Like this. You like that,
don't you? Just focus on my fingers and my hands. That's all you have to
do. Enjoy their touch on your body. How flexible, how warm, how tender, how
smooth they feel. Good. You shivered. Just keep focusing on my
fingers. Feel your skin ripple as I touch you.

Excellent. But try not to struggle. I know it's difficult when my fingers
are making you feel so good. But struggling is an attempt to escape. Now,
I'm going to stroke you again. This time, I want you to move into the
pleasure, not away from it. Give your body up to my hands. Enjoy what's
happening to you. Accept it. Good boy. Want it. . . . Need it.

That's better. Just focus on my hands. Your body feels so electric when I
touch it. So sensitive. So ready. Just focus on my hands and the places
that I am touching. That's all you have to do. As you focus, your mind will
empty of all thoughts. That's it. Concentrate on the pleasure. Give
yourself up to it. Surrender to it. Submit to it. Obey it.

Caresses aren't the only pleasure I can give you. There are also
kisses. Like these. Especially if they involve
licking. Warm. Wet. Lubricated. . . . Oh, you like that. I thought you
would.

Have you noticed yet how the body begins to feel pleasure generally? I may
touch or kiss a certain part of your body, and if you think about it, you
can identify that part. But the mind doesn't really care. As long as it's
experiencing pleasure, it doesn't care what's being stimulated. It's the
same with pain. That's because the pleasure--and the pain--is happening
inside your mind. Stimulate the mind enough, and it ceases to think about
the source of the stimulus and concentrates on the sensations coming in.

You may object that the intensity of these pleasures doesn't come close to
the intensity of the pain you experienced last week. True. But patience,
have patience. I have other means of stimulating you with pleasure.

But first a bit of preparation. I'm attaching a transdermal patch to your
upper arm. You're probably familiar with these as patches to help smokers
quit. Those patches contain a dose of nicotine. It's gradually absorbed
through the skin and into the bloodstream, where it satisfies the smoker's
craving for the source of his addiction. But the patches can deliver other
drugs as well. In this case, sildenafil. Or Viagra, to use the name you
probably know it by.

Don't you love the ads for Viagra? The way they warn you about possible
side-effects. "Seek medical help if you experience an erection lasting for
more than four hours." Most people--I'm just guessing now--but probably 95
percent of the men who hear that statement don't hear it as a warning. What
they hear is "an erection lasting for more than four hours." That's what
they want. The four hours.

Four hours. Well, your erection is going to last at least that long. And
when your body has absorbed all the sildenafil in this patch, then I will
put another one on you. I have enough patches to keep you erect all
weekend. Oh, you moaned? Do you like that thought? Do you? Well, I will
choose to interpret the noise you made as an indication of the pleasure you
anticipate from the coming erection. No erectile dysfunction for you this
weekend. Although you may have some next week from sheer exhaustion. But no
matter. What will happen to you this weekend will keep your libido
satisfied until next Friday.

It will take a few minutes for the sildenafil to begin working. Let's get
you all fixed up, shall we?

The harness I'm putting around your waist right now will be used to hold
certain tools in place. It needs to be securely fastened to your body. The
belt may chafe a bit at first, but you'll soon forget about that. Now I'm
going to place this ring around your cock and balls. There. And this strap
goes between your buttocks and fastens at the back. This part's a bit
tricky. I have to get the double ring centered over your anus. Now these
straps go around your upper thighs to hold everything in place.

Almost ready. You can't see what comes next, of course. But I like to
describe things in full so that your mind can anticipate what's going to
happen. That's part of the fun. The next two attachments are clear plastic
sleeves. The first one is semi-flexible. It's stiff enough to insert but
thin and flexible enough to allow you to feel the workings of the machine.

So now you're wondering--"Stiff enough to insert" implies that something is
going to be inserted--no doubt you're wondering where. And what machine?
Anticipation--it's making you hard. Or maybe that's the sildenafil
working. No matter. The result is the same.

Remember those double rings centered over your anus? Have you forgotten
them? Well, I haven't. I'm going to smear a dollop of lubricant over your
anus. Don't worry. I've warmed it up to body temperature. I'm such a
thoughtful man, aren't I? No cold lube for you. We don't want you shivering
from any cold, clammy lube. Ummm. You like that, don't you? Well, if you
like it now, you're going to love it in a few minutes. In fact, you're
going to love it all weekend.

So, more lubricant on the outside of the sleeve. Ready? Doesn't matter. In
it goes.

That just slipped right in, didn't it? I suspect it may not be the first
thing you've inserted in your ass this week. Were you anticipating that I
would get around to your ass this weekend?

And now let's secure it to the harness with the outer
ring. Great. Everything's tightly screwed into place.

The sildenafil is working for sure now. You've got a nice erection. So I'll
attach the second sleeve. This one's a bit different. There is a flexible,
soft sleeve inside a hard plastic container. The soft sleeve is the one
that will be in contact with your cock.

Some lubricant first. That will make sure we have a tight fit around your
cock. On it goes. Oooh. I do believe you got even harder. Now, I'll just
snap it in place so that it won't come loose.

Almost ready. Just a couple more attachments. We'll be all set to go in
another minute or so.  Remember the machine I mentioned? How can I describe
it to you? Think of one of those manga cartoons where the hero is strapped
into an infernal apparatus that is simultaneously thrusting a dildo up his
ass and sucking him.

That's what we have here. I'll just insert the dildo inside the first
sleeve. Don't worry. The initial dildo is on the small side. Once you get
used to it, I'll replace it with a larger dildo. And so on and on, until
you have a very large dildo indeed inside you. But it will take a few hours
to get you ready for that. So for now, just this junior model. You can't
see it, but the base of the dildo is attached to the machine. A piston will
push it in and pull it out. At first, I'll put it on the slow cycle. Later
I will speed it up.

And now the cock. I'm attaching an air hose to a nipple on top of the hard
plastic cylinder on the outside. The air hose is attached to a compressor
that will alternately pump air into the cylinder and pump it out. Your cock
will feel like it's being sucked along the entire length. Again, I'll start
you with milder settings and gradually increase the pressure.

Once I start the machine, you will undoubtedly cum rather soon. Don't
worry. The cock sleeve will automatically distribute the cum down the
length of your cock. It will blend in with the lubricant. Your cock will
become even more sensitive.

Usually you cum, and that's it. Orgasm over. Get up, get dressed,
leave. Not here. No, the machine won't know that you've had an orgasm. How
could it? It's just a machine. It will keep on working, thrusting that
dildo in and out, compressing and releasing the sleeve around your cock. If
I were given to attributing human qualities to the machine, I would say
that all it cares about is your pleasure. But it's just a mindless
machine. It won't stop. That it's giving you unending, relentless pleasure
means nothing to it.

A mindless machine. That's what you're going to become. Hours and hours of
a dildo being thrust in and out of your ass. Hours and hours of a
mechanical blow job. You won't be able to think at all after a while. The
steady rhythms of the machine. In. Out. Pressure. Release. An unstoppable,
heartless, tireless machine creating another machine. Your mind will pulse
with the machine. You will throb with it. You will become an extension of
the machine. Part of the machine. Nothing more.

Beyond the pleasure principle. Do you know Freud? No? Well, it doesn't
matter. Eros and Thanatos. Sex and death. The sex machine will destroy your
ego, a form of death. A necessary form of death on the path to 12.

Well, we're ready. Enough talk. I'm switching it on. Enjoy. I'll be back to
check on you occasionally and insert a larger dildo and change the settings
on the machine.

12-6

Connor awoke on the floor next to his bed. It was night. Thin bars of light
coming from between the slats of the blinds dimly lit the room. His T-shirt
lay crumpled on the floor next to his face. He could feel his jeans bunched
around his ankles. He still wore his shoes.

He was lying on his right side facing the bed, his cheek pressed into the
carpet and his hands clasped together and thrust between his thighs. The
floor was hard, and the fibers of the carpet were scratchy against his face
and body. The carpet smelled stale and dusty. The blanket and spread had
been pushed down on the bed and hung over the side below his waist. He
stared at the dark under the bed. He tried to remember if he had bothered
to make the bed that morning. Friday morning, rather. He had last been home
on Friday, hadn't he? He couldn't remember. He thought it had been
Friday. He had gone to the Man on Friday night at the appointed time. He
was almost sure that he had.

Hadn't the Man said that he would be returned home on Sunday night? Was it
Sunday? The clock was on the other side of the bed. He wasn't wearing his
wristwatch. He wondered if he still had it. He should get up, find out what
time it was, what day. But he was so tired. It didn't matter. He'd find out
the time eventually. For now, he just wanted to sleep.

His groin ached. His balls were dull globes of exhausted pain. His cock
burned. And his ass--he could still feel the dildo pushing into him and
then pulling out. Thousands of times. His body couldn't seem to remember
anything else. He wasn't attached to the machine any more. He knew that,
but it felt as if he were. He had only to close his eyes and let his
thoughts drift, and the machine started assaulting him again.

The Man had turned the machine on. As the dildo rode into him, the sleeve
around his cock had compressed and clung tightly. Then the dildo had
retreated, and the pressure on his cock eased. It was easy at first. He had
given himself up to the pleasure of it.

As the Man had predicted, he came within the first few minutes. He had
thrashed about and struggled against the chains binding him to what the Man
had called the frame. He wasn't trying to escape. The orgasm was so strong
that his body had spasmed automatically, beyond his control.

The machine didn't stop. It didn't register the fact that he had had an
orgasm. It didn't note the sudden wave of fatigue that swept over him. His
usual immediate response to an orgasm--that momentary cataclysmic deflation
into oblivion--made no difference to the machine. But it wasn't a normal
orgasm. His cock didn't get soft. It remained hard and rigid. And the
sensations of pleasure increased as his jism mixed with the lube the Man
had used.

The machine kept on running, simultaneously fucking and sucking him. He
thought he had screamed. He had begged the Man to turn off the machine. At
least he tried to. The harness over his head had reduced his pleas to a
series of moans and stifled sounds.

Voices told him to surrender, to give in, to the machine. To let it take
over his mind. Voices told him he was a good boy because he had
surrendered, because he had given in, to the machine. He was a good boy
because he had let the machine take over his mind. He got such pleasure
from the machine. He found so much pleasure in surrendering to the
machine. The machine's control gave him so much pleasure. He wanted the
pleasure. He needed the pleasure. He was the pleasure. He was part of the
machine.

You are a good boy. Good boy. Good. Boy. Boy.

He could still hear the voice. The Man's voice. The machine controls
me. The Man's voice controls me. It makes me feel so good to be controlled,
By the machine. By the Man's voice. By the Man. And then his voice joining
in. Both voices speaking in unison. Control. Submit. Obedience. Obey.

The next time Connor woke up, the room was filled with light and his alarm
was buzzing. He struggled to raise himself off the floor by clinging to the
bed. The room was heaving. He rolled his head onto the mattress. The clock
on the other side of the bed read 6:34. The alarm was set for 6:15. Usually
he woke up a minute or two before it sounded. Today it had been going for
almost twenty minutes before it penetrated his consciousness.

He got to his feet and stumbled over to the other side of the bed and
turned it off. His phone lay on the nightstand. He checked the day. It was
Monday. He had to meet Jason at 7:30 for their weekly exchange of news. He
thought about cancelling and calling into work sick. His cock was still
sore, and his butt hurt so much he didn't know how he could sit at his desk
all day.

"Are you feeling well? You look really tired."

Connor blinked. Jason was staring at him with a look of concern on his
face. Everybody seemed to be looking at him with concern. What had he done?
Or said?

"How did I get here? How long have I been here?"

"What? You must have walked. Isn't that what you always do? And you got
here fifteen minutes ago. Are you sick? You're really out of it
today. You're not making any sense. Drink some coffee. That will help wake
you up." Jason lowered his voice and leaned across the table. "Jeez, are
you high? Are you on drugs or something? You don't look well."

Connor glanced around. He was sitting drinking coffee with Jason. He didn't
remember coming to Starbucks. The last thing he remembered he had been
looking at his phone and wondering if he should cancel his day. Now he was
dressed for work--suit, tie, the works. He felt his cheeks--and he had
shaved. He had made his way to the coffee shop, ordered his usual Grande
Americano, and sat down opposite his friend.

Jason was waiting for a reply. Connor shook his head as if to clear
it. "Just a bit tired. I . . . I didn't sleep well last night. I think I
have a touch of something or other. I thought I would be all right for
work, but now I don't know."

"Hey, if you're feeling bad, you should go home."

"Yeah, you're right. I think I will. Sorry to bug out on you."

"No problem. I hope you feel better." Jason was already gathering up his
stuff to leave as he spoke. Connor had the feeling his friend didn't want
to expose himself to whatever it was that Connor had. That was fine with
him. He didn't want to share his weekend with anyone. He wasn't ready for
that yet. He still hadn't processed what had happened. He didn't know if he
could process it.

He couldn't have been attached to that machine for two days, could he? No,
it wasn't possible. What about eating and sleeping? Not to mention going to
the bathroom. But he couldn't deny that as far as he could recall he had
reported to the Man on Friday evening, been attached to the machine, and
been conscious off and on for a few minutes at a time. The rest of the
weekend was a blank.

But he couldn't have had a dildo up his ass for two whole days. He was
sore, but he wasn't that sore. And hadn't the Man said that he would
gradually increase the sizes of the dildos? It was crazy. And a two-day
erection? That just wasn't possible.

Maybe he had been hypnotized or something like that. He remembered the Man
talking about things. Maybe the weekend hadn't happened as he remembered
it. Maybe the Man had erased his memories of what really happened and
created a false memory. He must have been attached to the machine or
something like it for a time. His sore cock was evidence of that. And
something had been shoved up his ass. But two days? That was crazy. He'd be
dead by now if that had happened.

Hypnosis would account for the amnesia. Or drugs. That had to be the
explanation. Drugs. Those patches had contained drugs, not Viagra.

"Connor, could you email me the figures for the Riverwalk project? I need
to review them before we meet with the clients."

"What meeting?"

"The Riverwalk project. I told you after the staff meeting yesterday that
we would be meeting with today at 2:00. You said you would let me have the
revised figures by this morning."

"Oh, yeah, just a second." Connor hoped that his face didn't betray his
confusion. The staff meeting was on Monday morning. Hadn't he called in
sick yesterday? What day was it now? He looked down at his computer
screen. "Got them right here. I was just about to send them to you." He
clicked open his email and attached the file. He didn't recall revising the
figures, but somehow he knew that he had. "There. You should have them in a
second. Where's the meeting by the way?"

Matt Simmons, his boss, gave him an odd look. "Here. It's in my office. Are
you OK? I told you all this yesterday."

At lunch, Connor called up his personal account at the company. He had
twenty-two days of vacation coming and fifty-four days of sick leave. He
could take time off. Lots of time. Would the Man train him for days? What
could he ask for? A week maybe? Longer? Did he dare do that?

He decided to let the Man determine how long the session would last. He
logged onto his personal email and sent a message to the Man. "I have 22
days of vacation time. Including weekends, that amounts to over a month of
vacation. I have to give two weeks' notice if I want to take off more than
two days at a time and four weeks if I want to take more than a week
off. So I am available for longer training sessions as long as I give
proper notice." He didn't say anything more. It wasn't his place to make
proposals to the Man. His function was to give the Man information; the Man
would decide what he was to do.

There was no reply. Connor begin to worry that he had inadvertently broken
one of the Man's rules. Maybe he should have thanked the Man for the
weekend. He read his email over and over, trying to imagine how it might
have struck the Man. He shouldn't have used "I" so much; but he hated that
silly "Your slave" business or referring to himself as "it." Some guys
demanded that sort of role-playing right from the start, but the Man didn't
seem to care much for what others in the game thought of as the Protocols.

Maybe the difference was that the Man wasn't playing a role or a game. He
was for real. If he became 12--when he became 12--he wouldn't think of
himself at all. He wouldn't need pronouns or some euphemism to talk about
himself. He wouldn't talk about himself at all. He wouldn't be conscious of
being himself. At least, that's what he thought the Man had said.

It didn't seem possible. How could he not think of himself? But it sounded
right. He had reached a point during the previous weekends when he hadn't
been thinking of himself. He was sure of that. He hadn't been thinking at
all. Just being. And if the Man could bring him to that point, he could
take him even farther and make that state permanent, couldn't he? Connor
didn't know the answer to that question, but he wanted to find out.

The Man answered on Thursday evening. "Tell your office that you will take
the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Thanksgiving week off and return to
the office on the Monday. December 1, following Thanksgiving. Report at the
usual time and place on Friday evening, November 21. You will be returned
to your apartment on Sunday, November 30. Until you report on the 21st,
listen to the attached audio file twice a day, once when you wake up in the
morning and again when you go to bed at night. You may need to adjust your
alarm clock to wake you up an extra half hour in the morning. Use earphones
when listening to the tape. Remain isolated in your apartment as much as
possible. You may leave to go to work or to do necessary shopping. Keep
contacts with others to a minimum. Tell your family or anyone who asks that
you are going camping with a friend over Thanksgiving and may not have
access to the Internet or cell-phone service. You will contact them when
you return. Eat no solid foods after Sunday evening, November 16. Go to the
CVS two blocks down the street from your apartment and buy five six-packs
of Prolac Vitashakes. Drink one shake at breakfast, two each at lunch and
dinner, and one at bedtime. Other than that you are to drink only water."

Connor sighed. Three weeks. He had to wait three weeks. He had been
counting on seeing the Man on Friday and spending the weekend with him and
had hoped that the Man would agree to a longer period in the future. It
wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to the week with the Man, and he was
glad to be given the opportunity for an extended session of training. He
had just wanted to see the Man every weekend.

The audio file was also a disappointment. Connor couldn't resist listening
to it immediately, even though it wasn't his bedtime yet. He expected to
hear the Voice. Instead it had dozens, maybe hundreds of voices. Once when
he was young, the neighborhood around his parents' house had been invaded
by a flock of starlings. Thousands of birds perching in trees and on
electrical lines, each screeching away. The noise on the tape was like
that. Connor was sure that they were human voices, but they weren't saying
anything. He couldn't distinguish a single word. It was just a jumble of
sounds at different pitches. He felt attacked by the noise. Thousands of
voices pecking away at his mind, pinching little pieces off his mind. He
listened to it for a few minutes and then switched it off.

Of course, he would listen to the tape as the Man had directed, but he
didn't see the sense of it. No doubt the tape was part of the Man's plans
for him. But he had hoped to hear the Voice. If he couldn't meet the Man,
at least he would have the Man's voice. He would have liked that.

The tape was restful. He had found that out.the first night. He got ready
for bed, switched off the lights, lay down in bed, and put the earbuds
in. Then he took a deep breath in, held it for a few seconds, and then let
it out slowly. He repeated those actions three times, trying to relax as
much as possible. The Man had made him do that during each session. Connor
figured it made his mind more receptive.

Then he started the file. After a few seconds, he gave up trying to
decipher what the voices were saying. He let the sound wash over him, and
let his thoughts drift.

He woke up.

The voices had stopped. He checked the file. It had ended. He glanced at
the alarm clock on the nightstand. A half-hour had elapsed. The last thing
he remembered was accepting that he couldn't understand the voices. After
that his memory was blank. He must have fallen asleep. That was the only
explanation. He was still tired from the weekend. He took the earbuds out
and turned off his phone. He rolled over and went to sleep.

The alarm rang. He turned it off, put the earbuds in, and started the file.

Again he woke up half an hour later, at his usual time, with no memory of
the contents of the file. Connor decided that he had just gone back to
sleep. Listening to the file wouldn't cause him any problems. He would just
sleep through it twice a day.

He began looking forward to listening to the file. It was so relaxing. In
the evening, it erased all the tensions of the day. In the morning, it made
him feel ready to take on whatever challenges the day threw at him. Both
relaxing and invigorating. What more could he ask for?

Cancelling the Monday morning meeting with Jason had taken only a short
text. "Can't make tomorrow. Work." Connor had waited until Sunday to send
it. If he sent it too early, Jason would wonder why he couldn't arrange his
schedule better. If he waited until Monday morning, it would be too
last-minute and seem too contrived. It would be rude. He didn't want to
insult Jason. He just no longer wanted to meet him. The answer came back
almost immediately. "OK." That was it. Jason and he had met every Monday
morning for three, four years. There had been a time when he had looked
forward to that meeting all week. And all it took to stop it was four
words. Jason ceased to be part of his life. Without thinking, he deleted
Jason's name and history from his phone.

Work went by in a flash. He seemed to be doing what he was supposed to. He
sat as his desk, his ran the projections and cost analyses that were his
job, he answered questions, he replied to emails, he sat through meetings
and spoke up at the right times. He went to lunch with his colleagues when
it was unavoidable. But he was only half there. Part of him did the work
and did it well. The other part gave himself over to the sounds, the voices
no longer just on the tape but inside his head as well. The voices that
brought oblivion and mindlessness.

"You must like these things. I can never stay on them. I get too hungry."

The check-out clerk at CVS held up the third six-pack of Prolac Vitashakes
and slid it over the scanner. The machine beeped. Connor looked down at his
purchases. He hadn't really thought about what he was doing. He had just
wheeled the cart to the right place in the store, loaded it with the packs
of Prolac he needed and gotten in the check-out line. He shrugged his
shoulders in answer to the clerk. He couldn't think of anything to say. He
went back to the voices.

Connor nodded at the clerk and picked up the bag of groceries. The clerk
thanked him for shopping at CVS. The store disappeared. Connor stood
outside 1257 Lemminghurst Street. It was Friday. The time was 8:30 pm.

12-7

Just relax. Take another step forward. Reach out with the hands and bend
forward at the waist a bit. There. That's a platform.. Crawl up on it. I'll
guide the body into place. Good. Now lie down on the back. Move a bit to
the right. Good. Spread the arms and legs.

Open the mouth. That's a good boy. A little bit wider. There. The gag will
keep the mouth open. A breathing tube runs through the gag. We're going to
pinch the nose shut for a second. Don't worry. It's just a
demonstration. Now, take a deep breath in through the mouth. Good. Now
breathe out through the tube. See. Even though we will cover the nose,
breathing won't be a problem. We'll monitor it closely. So there's no
reason to worry. The occasional bit of panic is understandable, but nothing
will interrupt the supply of air to the lungs. Trust us.

Now, why is a breathing tube necessary?

Take a minute and identify what the body is lying on. Of course, it's a
platform, but what's covering it? Feels like what? Rubber? Plastic? Well,
if the word "vinyl" popped into the mind, it would be right. It's a vinyl
sheet. In a moment, we'll thread the other end of the breathing tube
through a gasket in another sheet of vinyl. We'll seal the two sheets
together, and then we'll pump all the air out. The sheets will mold
themselves to every contour of the body. Several months ago, Connor said on
the questionnaire that he had never been in a vacuum bed. Well, now the
body will be. We'll make a very pretty sight. Every muscle, every vein,
will be visible. We'll become a human-shaped object, but
better. Smoother. Shinier. All the flaws hidden beneath the plastic. Anyone
seeing us would identify the object encased in the bed as a one-time human,
but all the personal traits that allow others to identify us are
erased. We'll become more the idea of a human rather than a person, an
individual. A mannequin, a human-shaped objet d'art, possibly the model for
a robot.

A pity the eyes won't be able to see it. So much technology and artistry
goes into these devices, and the raw material on the business end doesn't
get to see it. But, as we've discussed before, the body is just another
tool. The tool doesn't care how it's used or what it looks like. Its only
function is to be a tool. It isn't even aware that it is a tool. It doesn't
care that it's fulfilling its function.

Of course, for the mind, the experience will be very confining. The body
won't be able to move. The most it will be able to do is breathe
shallowly. The mind will probably panic and give way to fear, maybe even
terror. The heart will race. The body will start sweating. The throat will
want to scream. But no matter. All these fears won't change anything.

We'll remove the hood in a moment, but we know the good boy will keep the
eyes closed. Good boys don't take advantage of a situation. And the good
boy will keep the eyes closed as we pump out the air. The vinyl sheet will
mold itself to the face. But it will smooth it out. The result will be more
a suggestion of a face, but without emotion. No smiling or crying or fear
or anger or delight. The face will be a blank slate.

Sight isn't the only sense we'll be erasing. Before we remove the air from
the bed, we'll put plugs in the ears. The body won't be able to hear
anything. The mind will be left alone with its own thoughts. And the body
won't be able to move. It will be suspended inside a rigid shell. But we're
not finished yet.

We'll submerge the vacuum bed in a pool of water. In a sensory deprivation
tank. The water will be kept at 98.6 degrees, exactly body temperature. No
light, no sound, no motion, no perceived difference in temperature between
the body and its environment.

What will happen then?

After a while, the mind won't be able to tell where the body ends and the
surrounding environment begins. It will become disoriented. It won't be
able tell if the body is facing up or down. Or whether it's floating with
the head or the feet up. The mind will not have a fixed point of
reference. For a while, the mind will supply one. But then the senses will
start to blur. Are we right side up or upside down? The question will
become unanswerable and then meaningless.

We'll begin to dissolve. Our sense of the boundaries between our body and
our environment will begin to dim, like the light fading in a room as the
sun goes down. The darkness in the mind will grow dense. All those
certainties we don't even think about--like what direction is up, where
does our body end, where we are, our self as a distinct object--all those
comforting bit of knowledge suddenly won't make sense any more. We won't
know where we are. We won't know what we are. We won't even be sure that
there is a we anymore. Perhaps we are a figment of the someone else's
imagination. A will-o-the-wisp. An illusion.

And that will frighten us. We'll be alone in a way we've never experienced
before. Totally alone. But we won't be us. We won't know who or what we
are.

The mind won't like that. It will rebel. It will see flashes of light. It
will conjure up sounds, maybe even a voice talking to us. We will feel
something touching us. But it will all be in the mind. The mind wants to be
full. It craves sensation. It wants a constant stream of inputs. When it
can't get them, it invents them. And that's when things become interesting.

Our hallucinations will tell us so much about ourselves. Interpreting them
will prove difficult. The mind won't recognize them as hallucinations. They
will seem so very real.

Sometimes we invent such terrors in the tank. It's almost as if our minds
delight in frightening us. That's what happens most of the time. The tank
creates nightmares. We'll soon find out what our mind
creates. Demons. Phantoms. Fierce terrifying beasts. Monsters with savage
teeth ready to pounce and tear the flesh off the bones. Serpents that coil
around the body and crush it and then devour it. Or perhaps our demons will
be other people. All those human monsters of evil. Specialists in the
science of the human body and its terrors. And we will be in
danger. Perhaps we will find ourselves swaying on the edge of a
precipice. In front of us, an abyss will beckon, and we will be falling
through the air. Or trapped in a collapsing room, the ceiling and walls
pressing in on us, crushing us.

The nightmares will be so real, so detailed. Our mind will grasp at the
irrelevant. We want the illusion to be real because even a terrifying
reality is better than the nothingness we know surrounds us. And that need
will force our mind to create a world. That world has to be real if it's
filled with details. Right?

And beyond all that will be death. Uneasy
deaths. Disease. Burning. Drowning. Suffocating. Disemboweling. Guts and
gore spilling out. Throat slit. Blood gushing out. There are so many ways
to die. But the mind will grasp even at death in preference to the
simplicity of nothing.

Maybe we'll be one of the few, the lucky few, who has a pleasant
hallucination. That occasionally happens. Perhaps we will float in a world
of incredible smells--chocolate chip cookies baking, meat roasting,
flowers. Perhaps our fingers will touch cool silk. Maybe we will hear
music. Or perhaps someone will stroke us. A mouth will suck our cock. A
cock will fuck us. An endless orgasm, another form of death to self. We'll
see.

Maybe our mind will invent another person to save us from solitude. An
imaginary friend to help us through the night. Perhaps.

There is one thing we can be certain of. Our mind will try to keep us from
the knowledge that we are alone, that we can feel nothing. But it won't
work.

After a time the hallucinations will stop. Our mind will give up. It will
run down. We will lose ourself. Our mind will accept our dissolution, the
disappearance of ego. We will submit. We will
cease. Peace. Bliss. Serenity. And then loss of awareness, mindlessness,
oblivion.

And emptiness. No thoughts, no struggle. Just emptiness.

12. We will exist as 12. The tank will teach us what it is like to be
12. Once we know what 12 is, then we will be able to return to it when we
need to be 12.

Deprivation and loss of sensation followed by imagined sensations. Loss,
illusion, death. And then a rebirth as 12.

Well, that's enough talk. Let's begin.

12-8

He thought he was awake. He wasn't sure. He had been sleeping. Maybe he was
still asleep. It was difficult to tell anymore.

He wasn't anywhere. He didn't know where his body was. He used to have a
body. He could remember that. He could call up images of his body. Of
Connor. He had been Connor.

And then Connor had begun dissolving. The not-Connor had begun merging with
the Connor. It was like a cup of dye poured into clear water. At first the
dye had been a compact body of color. Then the edges grew film-like and
spread out into the water. The dye gradually dissipated into the water,
until it turned a uniform gray.

For a time after that, his mind had worked. His mind still called itself
Connor. But it was harder and harder to keep his mind from dissolving too.

The Voice had been there. Telling him to relax and let go. He had tried to
resist, but he was so tired, and it took so much effort to keep himself
intact. The Voice invited him to relax, to let go, to merge with the
surroundings. No worries, no cares, no responsibilities, no problems. Just
endless, mindless submission. He tried to struggle but . . . but he
couldn't remember what he was struggling for. It was easier to let go.

The Man was pleased. Very pleased. It was important that the Man be
pleased. The Man was all that mattered. The Man was everything. Objects
existed for the Man, only for the Man. The object didn't think, it didn't
have to be anything. It was just an object.

Later, still, the body was back. It was again a compact object, with edges
and boundaries. It differed from what surrounded it. It was aware of
itself, as an object. There were other objects around it, and the Man. The
Man was speaking. The Man was doing things to the object. He was a mind
again, but he didn't exist inside a body. Well, maybe he did. The mind
didn't know where it was. Maybe it was inside this body. It wasn't his
body, however. It was part of the Man, separate from the Man but controlled
by the Man.  The body did what the Man commanded. The Man spoke, and the
body moved.

The mind felt such infinite pleasure--to exist in the body controlled by
the Man was so wonderful. The mind floated in pleasure. The Man was
emptying it of all thought. It no longer had to think. Thoughts
fading. Ceasing. Colorless. Nothing. Just be what the Man wanted it to be,
what the Man was creating.

12.

12-9

It's ready for you now. The latest 12. The one who used to be called
Connor.

It's become such a beautiful object, hasn't it? I'm really quite proud of
my preparation of this one.

It was such a pleasure to empty his mind. Each time I brought him into my
workroom, I removed more of his independence, his free will, his ability to
function on his own. Each time I took him closer to the state of being
12. His resistance faded to be replaced by submission and obedience. I
strengthened his desire to please until pleasing his owner became so
natural to him that he can't conceive of living outside the owner's
wishes. There's really nothing of his original mind left.

It was so thrilling to watch him surrender each time. It occurred earlier
and earlier with each session. The first weekend, it happened only on
Sunday morning. I was watching his face, and the light just faded from his
eyes. He didn't see anything. He had passed beyond the point of caring
about himself. His only thought was to please me. During the last session
he abandoned thoughts of himself within a few minutes. And with each
session, his vacation from self lasted longer and longer. He's all
programmed now. At a word from you, he will become a 12--for as long as you
like.

Yes, the conversion went more quickly than it usually does. Connor was
ready for it. He really wanted it. And that made it so much easier to
convert him.

He was so vulnerable, you see. That was apparent in his answers to the
questionnaire on twelve_past_twelve.com. He had practically no one in his
life, no one that mattered to him. He needed more than his life gave
him. He hungered for something to fill the void in his life, something that
could make him feel, and someone who would then rob him of the capacity to
feel on his own, someone who would replace all the boredom and the
stupidity of his life with meaning. Any meaning would have done. He liked
to be submissive and obedient, and that made him useful for our purposes.

Just by chance, I happened to be monitoring twelve_past_twelve.com the
night he filled in the questionnaire. It was the same day you or one of
your agents gave him the card with the address for the site. It was a
pleasure to watch his answers come in. He took the survey so seriously. I
knew from his intensity that the subliminal images were beginning to trance
him and draw him in. So he couldn't help but answer the questions
honestly. You can imagine my excitement when his answers revealed that he
matched the ideal profile almost exactly. He had one of the highest scores
we've received in the seven years we've been operating the site.

I wonder who trained him to be so submissive. I am never the first dominant
in the applicant's life. It would be nice if I were. It would simplify my
work enormously if I didn't have to spend so much time removing past
programming and could concentrate on the 12 reprogramming. But it's not a
perfect world. There are always earlier dominants. A trainee may never have
sought out a sadist. He may not have masochistic tendencies. But at some
point in his early childhood, he encountered a dominant--a parent usually,
a teacher for some. Some adult authority figure began indoctrinating him
and shaping him into a submissive.

Have you ever noticed that all the men we have converted into 12s come to
us as damaged goods? All share a posture. They instinctively try not to be
noticed, they take up less space than others, they rarely impose
themselves, they are diffident. And so quiet. They seldom express an
opinion, they don't like to argue, they speak softly, they are studious and
reserved. It isn't shyness. It's just that as children they were taught
that they were unimportant, that their wishes count for little, and they
carry that training over into adulthood.

Obviously, given the goals of the Twelve Past Twelve Program, the
successful applicant has to be submissive. He has to want domination. He
has to need domination, and the need has to be more than just a tendency to
be easily led--there are plenty of people who have been trained to obey
orders without much thought. But the applicant needs to be more than
that. He has to have an aching need for orders. He has to feel that he is
incomplete without another person telling him what to do.

Connor was also a masochist. Submissiveness isn't the same as masochism, of
course. It's not a desire for pain. It's a desire to submit to pain because
the dominant wills it. Accepting pain because the dom wants to inflict it
either has to be part of the applicant's psyche already or has to be
something that the sub learns to accept because the dom wills it. But it is
the acceptance of the dom's will that is important, not the desire for
pain.

In fact, many masochists are quite dominant. They have very specific
notions of the types of pain they want and how they want it to be
inflicted. Their partners assist them by giving them what they need--the
masochist tops from the bottom. It isn't who is doing what to whom that
determines who is the sub and who the dom. It's who decides who is doing
what to whom. And Connor was both a sub and a masochist. I hope you will
find what I've made of him satisfactory.

The successful applicant is never near the final state to which I will take
him, but he has to be serious enough to take the first step on the
way. After that, it is up to me to use my skills to transform him into the
beings we call 12. Lucky for us, Connor was so susceptible to hypnosis. I
don't think he even realized what was happening to him. In answering the
questionnaire, he revealed his name and gave me his email address and cell
phone number without hesitation. He got so used to answering the questions
that he didn't know what he was doing. Answering became automatic. That's
why I felt he was so promising.

It was clear from the beginning that he was easily tranced. The first
session when I began talking to him, he focused on my words, and it was so
easy to lead him, to suggest to him how he would react to what was about to
happen to him. And he did. It was like his mind was blank and ready for
programming. There was no resistance. My words became his reality.

It's not unusual for the trainee to be unaware of how many sessions he has
undergone. The individual sessions tend to blur in his mind. He just shows
up weekend after weekend. The training takes over his mind to such an
extent that he soon loses the ability to separate what is happening to him
at the moment from what happened to him last weekend or last month. Connor
was like that. When I talked to him about the sessions, it was clear that
they had flowed together in his mind, and he couldn't remember them
clearly.

He responded so well to the intensity of the sessions. I've designed each
of them to overwhelm the trainee's mind by overstimulating it. It doesn't
matter whether the stimulus is pleasurable or painful. What matters is that
it drive all other thoughts out of the trainee's mind and make him lose
consciousness of anything but the stimulus. Connor just gave himself up to
the intensity, right from the beginning. It was like he had been preparing
his whole life for them.

He became so addicted to the intensity of the stimulus. Of course, the
intensity is intoxicating. It becomes the trainee's universe. But once
Connor experienced that all-encompassing level of oblivion to anything but
the experience itself, all other experiences begin to pale. Ordinary life
can't satisfy him. He needed the intensity and the destruction of the self
it creates.

Connor came to me in need of control, of a god to worship. He wasn't
perfect when he arrived. He still had so much ego, so many occasions to say
"I." Like all our trainees, he labeled himself with the name his parents
gave him. At least he didn't have one of those silly names people choose
for their online self--one of those aliases that reveals so much about the
person behind the name. Each is a miniature fantasy about what sort of
being the person wants to be. He puts it out there for others in the hope
that they, too, will see him as that
being. Tiger. totalslave. Bossman. Dragonslayer. Charlie.

His name was the first thing I took from him, the first thing I made him
want me to take from him.

I made him into an object.

Beauty is, as the saying goes, in the eye of the beholder. A casual
passerby on the street may glance at Connor and see nothing special. They
won't see what I have made of him. Even Connor won't be able to see it. In
the ordinary world, he will act as he has always acted. If you want him to,
he will continue to work at the job he now holds. In fact, his job
performance has improved under my tutelage. If you want him to, he will
continue to support himself, even to contribute to your support if you like
that sort of thing.

His colleagues and family will find him quieter and less inclined to
socialize than before, but there will be nothing in his behavior that will
alarm them enough to investigate. That may seem odd--that he has undergone
such a fundamental change and yet no one will notice. But it's not so
odd. The questionnaire chose him because he doesn't have close friends and
because his family lives at a distance. That way, no one could interfere in
his transformation. Then I quietly and effectively isolated him even more
than he already was. Of course, if you choose to remove him totally from
society, no one will know. If you wish, you can make him quit his job, give
up his apartment. The few people here who know him will think he has moved
away. His family will be worried, of course, but there will be nothing that
connects him to you. As far as they are concerned, however, he will simply
disappear. It will be a mystery.

He is Pavlov's dog. He could go about his day doing the things everyone
does. Nothing he does will seem out of the ordinary to an observer. Then
you can activate 12. All it takes is a phrase. You can send a text with the
phrase. Or call him and speak it over the phone. You can leave it written
on a piece of paper for him to find at a café. As you can brush by him
in the street and whisper the phrase.

And he will instantly become 12.

His potential uses are limited only by your imagination. He is a blank
canvas waiting for you to paint it. He is an empty vessel waiting for you
to fill him. He can be whatever you want--the docile, mindless obedient
slave, the consummate lover, the caring friend, the top devoted to
satisfying you. It doesn't matter. He is programmed to become the man of
your dreams. And when you grow tired of what you have created, you can
simply efface the current version and create him anew.

I thank you again for this opportunity you have given me of creating
another 12. I do so enjoy the challenge of taking the raw material and
tempting it and then coaxing it along the right paths. It is exhilarating
to mold a person into an object. I suppose I should wonder what you do with
all these 12s, why you need so many mindless objects totally obedient to
your will. But you know, I don't care. Maybe I should, but for me, it's the
process not the result that's important. What you do with the 12s--well,
that's your business. As long as you keep on wanting them, I shall keep on
making them.

In fact, I'm starting on the next one this Friday evening at 8:30 in my
workroom at 1257 Lemminghurst. You're welcome to watch on the monitors. But
I suppose you'll be busy with your 12s. I'll keep you apprised of the
trainee's progress.