Date: Wed, 4 Jun 2014 07:20:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: In the Minotaur's Eyes

In the Minotaur's Eyes

z119z

© by the author 2014

"The Asterion Society has authorized me to offer you employment for one
year at the rate of $10,000 per standard forty-hour work week. My client
will . . ."

Steven didn't hear the rest of the sentence. His mind stalled at 10K a
week. He couldn't believe it. Last year, working as much as he could,
including overtime on a couple of rush projects, he had earned $65,000. Now
he was being offered guaranteed full-time employment for a year at over a
half million dollars. He did some quick mental calculations. His needs were
simple, he never spent much, and he could bank the surplus. Even after
taxes, that amount would solve his financial problems and keep him going
for several years. He could even afford the new equipment he so desperately
needed.

"Mr. Malden?"

It took Steven a second to focus on the lawyer's face. "Oh, sorry. Did you
say $10,000 a week for a year?"

"Yes, that is the amount my client is offering. In return, you will agree
to work exclusively for the Asterion Society. And you must sign both a
nondisclosure agreement and a work-made-for-hire agreement that stipulates
that my client owns the copyright in all work you produce for them during
your term of employment."

Steven nodded. He was still too stunned to take in completely what the
lawyer was saying. For 10K a week, he'd sign anything.

"My client has instructed me to ask you several questions. I will record
both my questions and your answers so that we have confirmation of your
agreement. Do you understand?"

Steven nodded yes. In one part of his mind he realized that he should be
asking questions about what he was getting into, but "10K a week" drove all
other thoughts away. He watched dumbly as the lawyer pulled a small digital
recorder about the size of a cigarette pack out of his desk and turned it
on. "Interview with Mr. Steven Malden. September 7, 2012." The
lawyer—Steven could not remember his name. Hillman? Hitchcock? Hitchens,
that was it. Something Hitchens—pulled back the sleeve of his suit coat
and glanced at his wristwatch. "10:38 a.m. Present in my office at McNair
and Associates are Mr. Malden and myself."

Steven's cell had rung three days earlier while he was out jogging. He kept
on running as he liberated the phone from his waist pack and held it
against his face. The phone slid up and down against his cheek as he
shifted to the right to circle around a young woman wheeling a baby
stroller and then to the left to avoid crashing into a row of boxes stacked
in front of a greengrocer's. An elderly Asian man wearing a denim work
apron and wielding a broom stood in the doorway to the store. He watched
apprehensively as Steven twisted his body through the narrow corridor
between the displays of apples and other fruit along the front wall of his
store and the crowd of pedestrians. Steven flashed him what he hoped was a
reassuring smile as he rushed past. He was having a good run, and he didn't
want to slow down.

It was hard to hear the person on the other end of the phone. A line of
impatient drivers began honking when the first car in the queue at the
stoplight a block ahead was slow off the mark as the light changed to
green. Steven stuck a finger into his left ear to shut out the
noise. Someone was calling him about a job. Somebody's assistant. A
woman. Her boss, she explained, represented the something something
society, who needed a film editor. Someone had seen his work and thought he
would be a good candidate for the job. Could he come for an interview with
her boss? Great! Would he be available at 10:30 on Friday morning,
September 7? Great! She would send a text confirming the appointment and
giving him the address.

McNair and Associates was located in the Pembrooke Building. The street
view on Google Maps showed a row of upscale shops on the ground floor. When
Steven tilted the viewing angle, he found a featureless glass wall rising
upwards to a narrow patch of blue sky. The assistant's text directed him to
an office on the twenty-sixth floor. She helpfully noted that the nearest
subway stop was two blocks away but advised him to take the Sixth Avenue
Line to the 47th-50th Street station and then exit through the underground
mall that led to Rockefeller Center. She thought that would be quicker for
him than transferring. It was only a four-block walk, ten minutes at most
even if all the lights were against him. It occurred to Steven later than
she had researched his home address and then checked a subway map to find
the quickest route for him from Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan. He wasn't
sure whether to be impressed with her efficiency or concerned about her
knowledge of his life.

Steven had never heard of the law firm of McNair and Associates, but the
address alone guaranteed that its clients had to have money. He dressed
carefully for the interview. He decided against the formality of a
suit. Neither of his suits, he suspected, could compete with even the
cheapest suit the lowliest summer intern at a firm like McNair and
Associates would wear. It would be better to look like someone in the
arts—but not slovenly. Definitely not slovenly. Someone with good taste
and an eye for color and balance—his clothes should make a statement
about his work as a film editor. He opted for a pair of sharply creased
brown cotton trousers, a shirt so dark green in color that it appeared
almost to be black, a tweed tie in an understated, light green plaid, a
linen sports coat in a light tan shade, and brown loafers. He thought he
looked good. The clothes fit his body well. They accentuated his broad
shoulders and his narrow hips but not so much that it looked like he was
bragging about them. He brushed his shoes to a high polish and stuck a copy
of his résumé and a list of his clients and projects that he had
worked on into a slim brown briefcase.

He took a final look in the mirror, shrugging his shoulders to check the
drape of the jacket. He unbuttoned the jacket and stuck his right hand into
his right pants pocket so that that side of the jacket was forced
backwards. Too casual. He buttoned the jacket again. That was better. Much
better. He smiled, stretching his lips away from his teeth, just to make
sure that no stray bits of food were stuck between them. All clear. Fly
zipped? Check. He patted his pockets. Keys. Wallet, Cell phone. Breath
spray. All present and accounted for. He was ready. He looked neat and
careful. Dependable. Respectable. Trustworthy. The sort of person who would
impress McNair and Associates as eminently employable, capable of
satisfying their most finicky client. The lawyer didn't have to know that
he usually worked in jeans and a T-shirt, or even just a pair of briefs
when he was working at home on a hot day.

He reached the Pembrooke Building at 9:50. He wanted to give himself plenty
of time. Better to be far too early than to risk a breakdown on the subway
or the delays of midtown traffic. He ordered an espresso in a coffee shop
across the street, not so much because he wanted it as to give himself an
excuse for being there and to occupy his time. A shelf at chest height ran
along the length of the windows facing the street, and he sat on one of the
stools before the window and watched the passers-by. This was definitely a
higher-class neighborhood than those he usually worked in. Most people wore
clothes he could not afford. Granted they might not wear them as well as he
would, but it was unlikely that he would ever get a chance to demonstrate
that.

He waited until 10:15 and then took the elevator to the twenty-sixth
floor. One of the attractive young people sitting behind the reception desk
that stretched for twenty feet along one wall typed his name and the name
of the person with whom he had the appointment onto her keyboard. She gazed
at the screen for a second and then leaned toward Steven as if imparting a
confidence meant to be shared only by the two of them. "Mr. Hitchens's
personal assistant will be with you shortly, Mr. Malden. Would you like
something to drink while you wait? Coffee, tea, water?" Steven smiled and
shook his head no as he murmured his thanks. He had the impression that
anything louder than a whisper would be regarded as profaning the cathedral
that was McNair and Associates.

About twenty small paintings, each about a foot square, hung at different
heights on the walls of the reception area. The highest one was almost at
the ceiling; the lowest at knee level. He walked around the room, examining
them. They were nonrepresentational. Geometric shapes—squares,
rectangles, triangles, circles, ovals—were painted in various shades of
red on a dark background. As you moved clockwise around the reception area,
the colors of the geometric shapes progressively faded from a dark scarlet
to a very light pink and the background from black to gray. The shapes
became more amorphous, their edges dissolved into the background. Each
painting was bisected by line in a contrasting color dividing the canvas
into two parts. Some of the lines were horizontal, some vertical, some at
an angle, some curved, some jagged. Overall Steven found the collection
disturbing. Nothing was quite right. Each geometric shape was slightly
off-kilter in relation to the borders of the painting, which left the
paintings looking like they were hanging aslant on the wall. Steven had to
fight a desire to reach out and straighten them. He couldn't imagine why
McNair and Associates wanted to display them. The artworks were a PR
statement—that much was clear. But you would think a law firm would want
to trumpet its solidity and dependability. Instead these paintings conveyed
an ambiguous message—something was slightly off about McNair and
Associates, they seemed to be saying. He leaned forward to decipher the
signature in the lower right-hand corner of one painting. The scribble
defeated his efforts.

"Mr. Malden? I'm Jean Derby, Mr. Hitchens's PA." The woman gestured at the
painting Steven had been squinting at. "Do you like the work of Jakob
Fremde? Mrs. McNair collects his works, and we have several more throughout
the office. If you would like, I can show you some of them later."

Steven murmured something about the paintings being interesting. He didn't
want to explain his real reaction to them. He nodded sagely and hoped that
he wasn't revealing his total ignorance of Fremde. He suspected it wouldn't
do to sneer openly at Mrs. McNair's taste.

Ms Derby led him down a long corridor to an office at the end. It was
clearly a reception area / secretary's office situated to defend the inner
ramparts from intrusion. She rapped twice on a door in the back wall of the
room. There was a noise within, and she opened the door just far enough to
announce, "Mr. Malden, Sir." She moved to one side and invited Steven to
enter the room with an outstretched hand. The man sitting behind the desk
stood up and stepped forward to shake Steven's hand without speaking. He
motioned Steven into a chair in front of his desk. Jean Derby asked if
either of them wanted something to drink—coffee, tea, water? The lawyer
lifted an eyebrow to query Steven, and when Steven shook his head no,
Hitchens nodded at her in dismissal.

Mr. Hitchens was in his late sixties or early seventies, Steven guessed. He
was expensively dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a stiffly starched
white shirt, and wearing a red tie with a pattern of tiny pale blue
diamonds. His haircut looked recent; his shave was close. But somehow he
didn't add up. He wasn't quite what Steven expected a lawyer at a firm like
McNair and Associates would be. He didn't look comfortable in his
clothes. It was as if someone else had dressed him in a lawyer outfit. The
lawyer's skin was too pale, as if he never went outside during the day, and
his cologne was cloying but not strong enough to overcome a faint odor of
something even more pungent than the cologne. Steven searched his memory
for the smell. It was familiar. Mothballs! That was it. Mothballs. It was
as if Hitchens had been rolled out of storage and dressed for the
occasion. The lawyer hadn't even taken the time to wash. His handshake had
left a film of grease on Steven's hand. He hoped his face wasn't
registering his distaste as he wiped his hand surreptitiously on the arm of
his chair.

A black leather document folder lay atop Hitchens's desk. He flipped it
open to reveal several sheets of paper. Steven could see his picture
paper-clipped to the topmost sheet. It looked like his driver's license
photo. Hitchens glanced at Steven and then examined the photo before
speaking for the first time, "The Asterion Society has authorized me to
offer you employment for one year at the rate of $10,000 per standard
forty-hour work week." He had a raspy voice.

As an opening to a conversation, it got Steven's attention. He had never
heard of the—what was it—the Astersomething Society? But he could get
the name later. Now all that mattered was the salary. Who paid film editors
$10K a week?

Hitchens looked up from the recorder. His eyes lingered on Steven's
clothes. For a second a look of disdain crossed his face, before it was
replaced by a bland smile. "There. I think we're ready. As I said, the
Asterion Society wishes to hire your services for the period of one year at
the rate of $10,000 per week. The period of employment is to begin on
Monday, December 31, 2012, and end on Friday, December 27, 2013—that is,
for a period of exactly 52 weeks. During that time, you will work
exclusively for the Asterion Society. Are you free during that time span
and do you agree to work only for Asterion during 2013?"

"Yes, but . . ."

The lawyer held up a hand. "Please save your questions until later,
Mr. Malden. At the moment we are simply establishing your concurrence to
the basic terms of the agreement. Now, once again, for the record, are you
available to begin on Monday, December 31, 2012, and to work exclusively
for Asterion for a period of 52 weeks, ending on Friday, December 27,
2013?"

Steven shrugged. "Yes, I guess."

Hitchens frowned at him sternly. "Please do not guess, Mr. Malden." The
lawyer picked up a slim gold pen and carefully made a tiny mark on the
sheet of paper in front of him.

"Yes, I am available during that time span, and I agree to work exclusively
for Asterion during the period." Steven found himself repeating the
lawyer's prissy choice of words and hoping that the lawyer was not
tabulating his faults with that gold pen.

"During this period of time, you will work a forty-hour week. Asterion
wants you to work eight hours a day, Monday through Friday. At the
beginning of the employment period, you may specify what hours of the day
you wish to work, but thereafter you agree to work those hours and only
those hours and not deviate from the schedule. This is very
important. Other activities will be scheduled around you, and the Asterion
Society must be able to rely on you to work during the time periods you
specify and only during those periods. There is to be no overtime. If you
agree to work until five o'clock, then my client wants your assurance that
you will leave at five. There will be no days off, no holidays, no
vacations during the year. If you take a sick day, you must make the time
up by working on the weekend. Do you agree?"

"Does that mean that I will work on all holidays, even Christmas and the
Fourth of July?"

"Yes, Mr. Malden. Asterion regards the proposed payments to you as more
than adequate recompense for one years' worth of missed holidays."

"Okay. I can handle that."

 "Good, do you further agree that you will not discuss the terms of your
employment with Asterion or the content of your work with anyone?"

"Yes."

"I should explain that the details of all these points will be spelled out
in the employment contract and in the nondisclosure and work-made-for-hire
agreements that you will sign."

"I understand. I have signed such agreements before. They're pretty
standard in my line of work. I haven't had to agree to work such set hours
before. I usually just keep working at a job until I'm done with it, but it
won't be a problem."

The lawyer laboriously took Steven through the remaining stipulations,
stopping occasionally to explain a point to make sure that Steven
understood the full implications of the restrictions the Asterion Society
demanded. Steven agreed to all of them. He would work in an office provided
by the Asterion Society, using equipment supplied by Asterion. A driver
would pick him up in front of his apartment building in time to get him to
work at the time agreed; a driver would be waiting to take him back home or
wherever he wanted to go at the end of the day. He would not make copies of
the video recordings supplied by Asterion or of the final tapes that he
made. He agreed to be searched before he began work and after he finished
to ensure that he was carrying no recording or data storage devices or
leaving with any Asterion property or with any written notes. He would
surrender his cell phone before beginning work; it would be returned to him
at the end of the day. Meals and snacks would be provided; there would be a
coffee machine, an electric kettle if he preferred tea, and a refrigerator
stocked with cold drinks and water. Tobacco, alcohol, and drugs were
prohibited.

"That is all I have, Mr. Malden. Now, I believe you have some questions."
The lawyer closed the file in front of him and set it to one side.

"Just one. Will any of the work be illegal?"

"No." The lawyer waited for a second and then said, "Is that all?" When
Steven nodded yes, Hitchens picked up the recorder and spoke into it,
"Interview terminated, 11:23 a,m." He paused for a second and then turned
the device off and put it on top of the file. "Now if you will sign the
contracts and agreements. Please sign and date each page." Hitchens set a
stack of papers before Steven and handed him a pen.

When Steven finished, he arranged the pages in a neat pile and gave them to
the lawyer. Hitchens opened the central drawer on his desk and extracted an
envelope. "This contains an inventory of the equipment and editing programs
the Asterion Society will provide. Please review it in the next week or
so. If you need other equipment or editing programs, let Ms Derby know. Her
business card is included with these papers. Asterion will procure any
additional materials you need. A week or so before the term of your
employment commences, Ms Derby will contact you to make final arrangements
for your transportation. I remind you that you are now bound by the
nondisclosure agreement and may not discuss any aspect of your dealings
with the Asterion Society, including this meeting. I am authorized to tell
you that one reason you have been offered employment is that a background
check revealed that you are capable of being discreet. Absolute discretion
is the minimum requirement."

Hitchens stood up. There must have been some signal Steven had not seen,
because at the same instant the door behind him opened as the lawyer
extended his hand for a final handshake. "Ms Derby will show you out."

*****

Steven began work on Monday, December 31, promptly at 7:00 a.m. When he
explained to Joan Derby that he was a morning person and preferred to work
from 7:00 until 3:00, he half-expected her to protest. Instead she said, "I
will arrange for a driver to pick you up at 6:30. Please be ready."

His doorbell buzzed promptly at 6:30 on the last day of 2012, and a voice
over the intercom announced, "Your transportation is waiting." When Steven
exited his apartment building, a man wearing a chauffeur's black suit and
cap opened the nearside rear door of a limo parked in front of the
building. Steven assumed that the car was waiting for him. There didn't
appear to be anything else that qualified as "transportation." He was
surprised at the limo. It was the first one he had ever seen on his
street. It wasn't that type of neighborhood. He didn't know what he had
been expecting, or even why Asterion was supplying transportation. Their
destination couldn't be too far away if it was no more than a half-hour's
drive at that time of the morning. He decided that if it wasn't too far, he
would tell Asterion that he preferred to walk or bike. The exercise and the
fresh air would help him get started.

Inside the car he found a cup of coffee in a holder in the armrest
separating the seats. A cautious sip revealed that Asterion knew his coffee
preferences. That morning's edition of the *Times* lay on the seat next to
him. Again, someone seemed to have researched his habits. By the time he
had settled into his seat, the car was moving. The driver's compartment was
sectioned off from the rear seats by a nearly opaque wall of dark glass. It
blocked his view forward. The driver's head and shoulders were simply a
darker area on the glass. The street ahead was invisible. The side windows
were only a little more revealing. The car turned left at the next corner
and then right at the second street down. They were headed north and east
into a part of Brooklyn that he almost never visited. He soon lost track of
where they were. The street signs at every corner went by in a flash. By
the time he focused on them, they were already out of sight. There wasn't
even much traffic. He wouldn't have guessed that it was possible for the
streets to be so quiet at that hour of the morning.

Twenty minutes later the car stopped, and the driver shut off the
engine. Steven heard the driver open his door and then close it. He pulled
on the handle next to him, but the door was locked. He was looking for the
release button when the driver opened the door for him. "Sir." It struck
him that that was the first word the driver had said. He stepped out of the
car.

"Where are we?" The limo was parked beside a building four stories high
painted a nondescript tan. The front of the building stretched the length
of the block. Opposite was a similar building. There were no signs on the
buildings. Except for the entrance lobby of the building in front of him,
no lights shone through the rows of windows that ran across the façades
of the buildings. They looked deserted—unused for many years.

In reply to Steven's question, the driver touched the bill of his
hat. "Your transportation will be ready at 3:00 o'clock, Sir." He closed
the door and walked around to the driver's side, leaving Steven alone on
the sidewalk. He had no clue what he should do next.

"Sir?"

Steven turned toward the speaker. The man was middle-aged. He wore a shabby
blue padded jacket over khaki trousers. The cuffs of the trousers settled
onto his shoes in several folds, as if the trousers were too long or he had
recently lost a lot of weight and his trousers had settled further down on
his body. "I have been ordered not to reveal my name to you. If necessary,
you can call me John Smith. We are to speak only the minimum necessary. I
am to show you to your office." Smith led Steven across the sidewalk and
then unlocked the door to the building. The lobby was as nondescript as the
building. The walls were painted a dun color. The linoleum floor was a mix
of black and brown tiles, apparently chosen in the misplaced hope that they
would not show dirt. A wooden staircase on the right-hand side led
upwards. There was no elevator.

Smith ignored the stairs and led Steven down a hallway to the left. He
stopped at the first door and unlocked it. He pulled a slip of paper out of
his coat pocket and read in a quick monotone: "This is the anteroom,
Sir. There is a cabinet for your clothes." Smith looked around the room and
then pointed to the right when he found the cabinet. "After I leave, you
are to undress. Please remove all your clothes including socks and
underwear and leave them and all your possessions including your phone in
the cabinet. When you close the door to the cabinet, it will automatically
lock. Then step into the body scanner. Wait until you are told to proceed
and then enter the next room. There you will find work clothes as well as a
coffee machine, an electric kettle, a microwave, and a refrigerator
containing water and juices, as well as your lunch. Cups and silverware are
in the cabinets over the sink. Please leave dirty dishes on the counter
next to the sink. The bathroom is through the door on the left.

"Your office is through the door on the right. You will find instructions
about the work in a manila envelope on the desk. If you have any questions
or requests, please write them down on the pad of paper provided and leave
it in the middle of the desk. The answers to your questions will be waiting
for you the following morning. Your requests will be honored as soon as
possible.

"At the end of the day, please remove your work clothes and leave them in
the kitchen. Step into the body scanner again. Wait until you are told to
leave, and then enter the outer room. The cabinet with your possessions
will automatically unlock as you exit the scanner. When you have put on
your own clothes, press the button beside the door. Mr. Smith will unlock
the door and escort you to the car.

"If there is an emergency, you can use the phone on the desk to call
Mr. Smith. The phone connects only to Mr. Smith." When he finished reading,
Smith folded the sheet of paper and put it back in his pocket. Smith nodded
at Steven and then stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind
him. Steven heard the snick of a lock engaging. The upper part of the door
had a small opaque, milky white window. The shadow of Smith's head flitted
across it and was gone.

Steven undressed and hung his clothes in the locker. There was a shelf in
the locker, and he placed his wallet, keys, and phone on it. He heard a
bolt slide into place when he closed the door. He had dressed up a bit that
morning, but he now knew that didn't matter. He could wear whatever he
liked. He wouldn't be wearing those clothes during the day. He could see
the black jumpsuit provided him as his work clothes on the far side of the
scanner. He wondered if Smith was watching him. The thought was
unnerving. The sudden vision of Smith sitting in front of a monitor
observing his body made him hurry into the scanner. He reminded himself
that he was being paid 10K a week. For that amount he would put up with the
Asterion Society's paranoia and submit to its security measures, but still
he didn't want to expose himself to Smith's gaze any longer than necessary.

When Steven stepped into the scanner, a circular bar of blue light came on
above his head. It slowly moved down his body and then back up again. A
light on a panel in front of him glowed red for a few seconds and then
turned green. A mechanical voice said, "Thank you. You may continue into
the next room." If a recording of a real voice, the sound had been
distorted and rendered inhuman. Most likely, Steven decided, it was
produced by a machine reader.

The jumpsuit had been folded and placed on a chair. No underwear or socks
had been provided, just a pair of paper booties. Steven picked the suit up
and shook it out to its full length. It was softer than he expected. He
stepped into the legs and then pushed his arms through the sleeves. The
front closed with a strip of Velcro. The suit was warmer than it looked,
and it fit him well. Either someone had made a good guess of his size, or
the Asterion Society had somehow found out his measurements. He rubbed the
fabric between his fingers. It didn't feel like cloth. More like
paper. Maybe it was disposable.

Steven quickly checked out the room and opened the refrigerator. It held
all the things that Smith's recital had promised. He opened the door to the
bathroom. It was small, just large enough to hold the toilet and the
sink. There was no mirror. He could see his image vaguely reproduced in the
metal dispenser for paper towels. The image was distorted by the shape of
the dispenser—a black, roughly human shape topped by a head with a
too-long nose. There was a small wastebasket beneath the sink.

The office was much larger than he expected. Like the other rooms it had no
windows, but the lighting was strong. Almost too strong. It might wash the
colors out of the video files. He would have to ask that it be dimmed so
that he could work in lighting closer to that of most rooms and, if need
be, adjust the color on the tapes. The work room held all the equipment he
had requested. He ran his hands over the machines. They were
top-of-the-line, much better than those he was often given to work with. A
manila envelope sat square in the middle of a small desk.

The instructions were simple. Each Monday he would find six new files in
the computer. All six were digital recordings of the same scene made by
fixed cameras, each shooting the scene from a different angle. He was to
combine the six separate recordings to make a new file. The finished file
was to be ready by the end of the workday on Friday. The only requirement
was that the new file was to last exactly as long as the original six
recordings. The new file should be a continuous recording from the
beginning to the end of the scene, with no second omitted. Beyond that he
had complete freedom. He would be told the length of the scene each
Monday. The first week's assignment was 52 minutes 7 seconds long. Steven
switched on the computer and called up the files. All six files began
running simultaneously on a bank of six monitors.

The man was naked. He was trim and decent looking, but not a model,
certainly not porn movie material. Except for the fact that he was naked,
he could have just walked off the street and into the room. He appeared to
be in his late twenties, early thirties. His dark hair was cropped short
all around. His body was lightly haired, mostly in the center of the chest
and on his legs as well as in the usual places. He might be a jogger or a
tennis player. He had the appearance of someone who exercised but wasn't
interested in body building. The face was masculine, with a strong jaw. The
eyes were deep set and almost black. He was clean-shaven but with a
five-o'clock shadow. He impressed Steven as an office worker on the way
home at the end of the day who for some unknown reason had taken off his
clothes and wandered into the room.

For the first minute the room had been empty. The six cameras revealed four
walls, without windows or doors. None of the cameras was visible on the
monitors. Four of the cameras were, Steven guessed, located in the corners
of the room, just below the ceiling. Each displayed all of the room except
for the areas behind the camera and immediately below it. One camera was
located in the ceiling of the room, directly over a platform in the center
of the room. The platform was rectangular, raised above the floor. It was
impossible to guess its dimensions or its height because of the lack of
references in the room. The surface appeared to be padded. The sixth camera
must have been mounted in the wall in front of one of the long sides of the
platform, but much lower than the other cameras—about eye level if the
walls of the room were of standard height. The room was brightly lit, but
no lights were visible. It was as if the ceiling and the walls, perhaps
even the floor were made of some translucent substance that allowed light
to enter from all sides. There were no shadows. Everything in the room was
a dull, matte white—walls, ceiling, floor, platform.

Only the first tapes devoted so much time to displaying the empty
room. Several weeks later it occurred to Steven that his employer had
devoted the first minutes to showing him the setup.

Two of the four corner cameras showed a panel sliding open in the facing
wall. The man stepped through it, and the panel slid shut behind him. In
the two or three seconds the panel was open, only a black, featureless
expanse came into view behind the man. The man took three steps into the
room and then stopped. His body was visible on all but the overhead
camera. He slowly turned around. Five of the screens revealed his body from
various angles. He smiled nervously and looked around. He seemed unfamiliar
with the room. He was apparently trying to make sense of it.

He walked over to the platform and touched it. His fingers dented the
surface, confirming Steven's guess that the top was padded. The platform
reached almost to the man's hips. He walked all the way around it. As he
did so, the cameras tracked his movements, and Steven realized that the
cameras were guided by motion detectors. The man also appeared on the
screens showing the images captured by the overhead camera and the camera
directly facing the platform.

The man suddenly turned to face a sound. A panel slid open, and a second
man walked through it. Steven was sure that it was a different panel. He
made a note to check that out later, when he rewatched the tapes. He could
build in a bit of suspense by focusing on the blank wall for a few seconds
before the panel opened, perhaps splitting the screen to show both the
first man and the wall. Or if he could find the right shot, he could show
the man against the area that was about to open, followed by a close-up to
get a reaction shot.

The newcomer was taller than the first man—by several inches. The lack
of features in the room made it hard to tell, but Steven estimated that he
was about six feet tall, which would make the first man about five feet
eight. Like the first man, this man was also naked. He was slender and
wiry, not at all large, but the edges of his muscles stood out
cleanly. Prominent veins snaked up and down his body. He had the type of
build that testifies to large numbers of reps with lighter weights. He was
interested in definition, not in bulk.

He was also startlingly colorless. His entire body had been shaved—even
his eyebrows and eyelashes. Unlike most men who shaved their heads, his
scalp showed no trace of a darker area where the hair had been. His beard
had either been shaved so closely that it was invisible or had been
removed. Wasn't there some disease or genetic condition that left people
hairless? Steven couldn't remember. He vaguely recalled some murderer with
that condition on one of those crime shows like CSI who had been caught
when DNA analysis had identified the condition. Whatever it was, this man
had it or something like it. The man's lips and eyes were unusually
pale—the lips were thin and barely showed as a line in his face. His
eyes were a watery blue. The pupils were the darkest parts of his body. The
only other areas of color on his body were his nipples, which were small
and pink, and his cock and balls. They, too, were a darker pink against his
body. Something was funny about the texture of his skin. It looked rubbery,
as if his body exuded some sort of protective coating. His might almost
have been a humanoid space alien.

Steven wondered if the second man's skin tone would be a problem against
the stark white background. There was a risk that the man would fade into
the background. But maybe he could exploit that—blur the man into the
background to suggest his unity with the room. The only body parts that
would really show up would be his genitals—a stark comment on his
function in the video. Steven made a note to investigate the possibilities.

The man could be Asian, Steven decided. Or maybe one of those Eastern
Europeans or Russians whose facial features were slightly Asian. He wasn't
beautiful. Nor, like the first man, was he model or porn actor
material. But he was—he had something. You wouldn't associate him with
sex at first glance, but your eyes kept coming back to him, enjoying his
looks, thinking about that body, and how it would feel next to you, what it
would be like to touch that skin. Steven's groin contracted, and there was
that familiar stab of pleasure upward into his gut and chest from the area
behind his balls. Part of it was that the man looked so strange, so
foreign. His differences made him exotic.

As Steven discovered in the first month, every week a new first man emerged
from behind the sliding panel. Every week he looked around the room as if
seeing it for the first time. And every week the second man entered two or
three minutes later, after the cameras had had time to record the first
man's body and his reaction to the room. The second man was the same each
week. Steven quickly came to think of him as his employer, the man behind
the Asterion Society.

Steven had Googled "Asterion Society" even before he began working for
it. There were no hits. He even tried searching the list of publicly
registered organizations in New York State, but found nothing. The only
thing he learned was that Asterion was another name for the Minotaur of
Greek mythology. So he christened the second man the Minotaur. The name was
fitting. The visitors seemed to be sacrifices—a new one each week—to
feed the Minotaur.

*****

The second week in February, the visitor was a white man in his late
twenties. His one distinguishing feature was his shaved and waxed head. It
caught the light and reflected it back at the cameras. It flashed whenever
the man bent his head toward the camera. Steven made a note to avoid
showing such shots if he could. If he couldn't, he would have to process
those sections of the video to tone down the gleam. It would be a
nuisance—he would have to massage each shot in which the man's scalp
appeared. It was another thing that made him certain that he was dealing
with amateurs. On a professional shoot, makeup would have been used to
eliminate the shine. Luckily the Minotaur's skin didn't reflect the light
or it would have been impossible to doctor the tapes to eliminate glare and
reflections. He would leave a note for his employer explaining the problem
and recommending against hiring other men with shiny heads in the future.

Other than his bald head, the visitor behaved much like the previous
visitors Steven had worked with. The Minotaur's entrance startled him. When
he turned to face the Minotaur, he looked a bit apprehensive. He didn't
back away when the Minotaur approached him, but his movements were
tentative and uncertain. It was not so much the presence of another man
that disturbed him as the fact that the man was the Minotaur. Whomever he
had been expecting, it wasn't the Minotaur.

The man didn't resist when the Minotaur began touching him, but he held
himself tensely. Steven found it fascinating to watch. Initially all the
visitors behaved like this. It was as if they had been told another man
would be present and that there would be sex, but they hadn't been warned
about his appearance. Clearly, most of them found the Minotaur
unsettling. Perhaps it was the Minotaur's lack of hair and his almost
complete absence of color. Some visitors smiled uncertainly in greeting and
were clearly taken aback when the Minotaur did not respond to them. He
simply walked over to the visitor and touched him.

But their initial disquiet quickly disappeared. Steven could never figure
out how the Minotaur did it. He just began touching the men, slowly,
confidently, and the men's hesitance dissolved. After a few seconds, the
visitor would reach out and began returning the Minotaur's caresses. But
not for long. Never for long. Steven couldn't see how the Minotaur did
it. He never spoke. There was no apparent command. But somehow the visitor
absorbed the lesson that he was not to move unless the Minotaur moved
him. He was to be docile. The visitor ceased to initiate any action. He
became a puppet that the Minotaur manipulated. It was like watching a dog
being trained.

The Minotaur was a devil. That was the only explanation Steven could think
of that accounted for the control he exercised over the other men. The
other men were so passive. Other than groans and sighs, the visitors in the
recordings never spoke. The never asked for directions or made
comments. Yet the Minotaur was clearly in charge, and the visitor seemed to
learn very quickly exactly how he was to behave. There couldn't be a
script, because in the first few minutes of their encounter with the
Minotaur, the men tried to be active participants, but that soon
stopped. Perhaps they were hypnotized or under some form or mental
manipulation. Whatever the reason for their behavior, the Minotaur always
ended up controlling them.

*****

Steven didn't know when he decided to make the Minotaur the focus of each
video. Later, when he tried to reconstruct the evolution of his editing, he
thought it might have been as early as March. It hadn't really been a
conscious decision. It just seemed the natural, the right, thing to
do. Certainly by the summer the edited videos featured the Minotaur and
treated the visitors as interchangeable objects. "Cannon fodder." He
rationalized it as a means of providing continuity.. Surely, the weekly
appearance of the Minotaur meant that he was intended to be the star of the
series.

But in truth, the Minotaur was simply much more intriguing than the
visitors. It wasn't just that he exercised such complete control over the
visitors. It was the invisibility of the means he used to control them. He
simply touched them and stroked them and gradually aroused each visitor
until he opened up and presented himself to the Minotaur. Each visitor
became like one of those Austrian stallions controlled by subtle signals
from his rider. That was the aspect of each encounter that Steven tried to
capture.

After the Minotaur entered, he positioned himself behind the visitor and
began stroking him, starting with the arms or the shoulders. His touch was
light, the movements of his hands languid. Slow, almost delicate, more a
suggestion of touch than actual contact.

The fifth week the visitor was a blond man in his mid-twenties. Steven
moved the focus of the image to the Minotaur's fingers gliding over the
visitor's body. It was almost as if the Minotaur was stroking the fine
fleece of blond hair covering the visitor's forearms, relying on the faint
current of air stirred by his passing hands. The visitor shivered. He
gasped for breath. The skin of his forearm stippled with gooseflesh.

On the other screens the Minotaur bent forward slightly and kissed the
young man's shoulder near the intersection with the neck. The visitor
tilted his head sideways exposing his neck. The Minotaur planted a row of
slow, thoughtful kisses along the ridge of muscle leading to the shoulder,
as he continued to stroke the man's arms. The visitor's eyes closed, and
his mouth opened slightly. He held his breath and then let it out in a long
sigh of pleasure.

Steven tilted his own head at the same angle, opening a gap between his
neck and the collar of the work clothes. He let the Minotaur's kisses calm
him, make him docile, make him want to let the Minotaur use him as he
wished.

On the screens, the Minotaur began stroking the visitor's nipples, drawing
indolent circles with his fingertips until the flesh contracted and pushed
the nipples out. Again, Steven focused the images in and caught the scratch
of the Minotaur's fingernails against the nipple. The visitor leaned back
into the Minotaur's embrace and turned his mouth toward the
Minotaur's. They kissed. Gently at first, then more insistently, the
visitor's mouth opening for the Minotaur's tongue.

Steven plucked at his nipples through the fabric of the work clothes and
ran his tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth to receive the Minotaur's
kisses.

The Minotaur's hands wandered down the visitor's chest and across his
stomach, tracing the curves of the abdominal muscles. Slowly, always
slowly. Patiently. Teasing the visitor, making him want more and more.

The Minotaur guided the visitor's body onto the platform. The visitor that
week was a young Hispanic man. He knelt on his hand and knees. The Minotaur
stroked the back of his thighs. The visitor's eyes closed, and he moaned as
the Minotaur began touching his buttocks.

The visitor—a middle-aged man that week—lay on his back, his legs
spread apart and raised. Steven zoomed in the overhead camera on the
Minotaur's cock as it penetrated the visitor. He shifted to a shot of the
visitor's face as the cock slowly slid into him. But then as he always did,
Steven split the screen and added a shot of the Minotaur's face. The
Minotaur always stared straight into the camera as he fucked the
visitor. His eyes seemed to grow larger and larger. His face was, as
always, devoid of any feeling. In contrast the visitor's face registered
everything he was experiencing. The visitor groaned. Each thrust drove a
grunt from his mouth. The visitor's eyes closed in ecstasy.

Some of the visitors betrayed the pain they felt at first, their faces
contorting in a silent howl. Some simply mouthed "Oh, fuck fuck fuck" over
and over. There was never any indication on the Minotaur's face or body
when he came. It was the visitor who had the orgasm. The visitor's body
contracted and then shuddered and spasmed with the force of the Minotaur's
ejaculations. The only indication that the Minotaur was finished was that
his body stopped moving for a few seconds. Then he withdrew and left. The
cameras showed only the visitor lying or kneeling on the platform, not
moving, drained of energy. Then the recording stopped.

The first week, Steven had immediately registered that the videos recorded
a sex scene. That fact amused rather than startled him. It wasn't the first
pornographic video he had edited. He didn't expect it to be the last—as
long as there were gay men, there would be a demand for gay porn. And
pornography paid well, although 10K a week was generous even by the
standards of the porn industry.

After he had viewed the first set of tapes several times, he concluded that
the "hook" of this particular video was that the first man did not know
that he was being taped. He decided to play up that angle—the
unsuspecting participant. He almost called the first man the victim, but as
the tape progressed, he realized that the man was enjoying himself too much
to be labeled a victim. The man may not have known he was being
photographed, but he certainly liked the sex.

The second man knew the cameras were there. That much was clear, especially
in the final scene when he stared directly at the camera as he pounded the
other man. Steven found the stare odd. He wasn't sure what to make of
it. Was the man letting those who would eventually view the video know that
he was in on the joke? Was he inviting them to vicariously enjoy the first
man's ignorance? And the man was so unemotional. For all the reaction the
man showed, he could have been exercising—perhaps that was all it was to
him. A series of vigorous pelvic thrusts to work out his glutes and lower
abs. Steven guessed that the man's lack of reaction was important, since
the camera were recording it. The director must have told him to do
it. That was the only explanation Steven could come up with. It was obvious
to him that he should include the stare in the final editing. That's when
he decided to split the screen to show both man's faces.

That weekend he reviewed the final editing in his mind over and over
again. He hoped that the mysterious Asterion Society would find his first
week's work satisfactory. He had been pleased with the results. His
editing, he felt, had enhanced the interaction between the two men and
captured the weird dynamic between them.

He kept coming back to his treatment of the final scene. It worried
him. Perhaps he had overemphasized the image of the second man's staring at
the camera as he fucked the other man. But it was such an odd element. It
was impossible to ignore it and difficult to let it go. He replayed it over
and over in his mind. He paused his mental camera on that shot and let the
man stare at him. It was strange. He felt both aroused and contented. It
was like he no longer had to struggle. He could relax and let go. And yet
he wanted the second man. He wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to make love
to him. He could barely remember what the first man looked like, but the
body of the second man was so solid, so real in his mind.

When he woke up on Sunday morning, he vaguely recalled dreaming about the
eyes. There was something about them that stuck in the mind. It was an off
thing to put in a pornvid. Was it some sort of meta-referential comment?
The second man's eyes staring into the camera's "eye"? The second man's
eyes as a substitute for the viewer's eyes? An observation on the role of
viewing and displaying in pornography? Steven couldn't decide, but he did
wonder at a director who thought it necessary to include such a comment in
a porn video. It wasn't what viewers wanted. Maybe he should have edited it
out.

On Friday, he had left a note asking for feedback. It would make the
editing easier, he explained, if he knew the director's intent. He could
focus the video on what the director wanted. Without such instructions, he
could only make guesses from the contents of the files. He hoped to find
detailed comments on the first tape when he returned to work on Monday. If
he didn't get them, he would have to ask for them. But he was sure that he
would get a reply. At the end of his first day of work, he had left a note
explaining that the lighting in the room was too bright and needed to be
decreased. On Tuesday he found a dimmer switch installed so that he could
adjust the lights to his liking. Whoever was behind the Asterion Society
was responsive. Presumably they wanted the videos to reflect their wishes.

On Monday he found the note that he had left on Friday. Beneath his request
for feedback someone had written: "Message received." That was
it. Apparently he was on his own. The Asterion Society was leaving him, he
decided, to his own devices—for now at least. Unless he heard more from
the society, the only thing he could do was to edit the files in the way
that made sense to him. If the Asterion Society thought it acceptable to
let him produce the narrative he liked, so be it. Without further
directions from them, all he could do was take the raw materials they
supplied and impose an order on them that appealed to him. The Asterion
Society was hiring his eyes, his taste, his sensibilities. So be it. It
would be his story not theirs. He had to trust that they would tell him if
he was departing from their vision.

Until the reappearance of man he would dub the Minotaur in the same room
the next week, Steven assumed that the first tape had been a one-off. He
expected different actors, a different scenario, a different setting. The
second session followed the same general "plot" as the first session and
ended as had the previous week's tapes with the second man staring directly
into the camera as he fucked the first man. The reappearance of the
Minotaur in the same room week after week forced him to re-evaluate the
purpose of the videos. They were commemorations, he decided, a visual
record of the Minotaur's performances. The cameras were eyewitnesses, and
the videos were evidence. They were memories, and he was the author of
those memories through his editing of the raw videos. He took the
recordings and made them tell a story, a story that increasingly spoke to
the Minotaur's control of his visitors. It might not be the story the
Asterion Society wanted, but it was the one they were getting. It was the
one that appealed to him.

Steven increasingly saw the Minotaur as the audience for the film, the only
audience. In Steven's mind, the Minotaur wanted to see himself handling his
partners. There was no director, just the Minotaur. The Minotaur was the
active, dominant man; the visitor was an object on which the Minotaur wrote
his will, an effect not a cause. And Steven was ensuring that the Minotaur
got what he wanted.

The weekly appearances of the Minotaur made him all the more curious about
the Asterion Society. He redoubled his efforts to find out more about the
society and, if possible, about the Minotaur. The Minotaur was too
memorable not to have been noticed. There had to be some sort of public
record.

******

"Looks like it's going to be a nice day today." Steven smiled at the driver
as he got into the back seat of the limo. The same man drove two or three
mornings every week. Perhaps this morning he would open up a bit. If he got
the driver into the habit of conversing with him, he might, he reasoned, be
able to get him to discuss the arrangements with the Asterion Society. He
might know something that would allow Steven to find out what or who the
Asterion Society was. Perhaps the man drove the Minotaur as well.

The driver's eyes drifted over to his face and then glided away again. He
checked that Steven was in the back seat and then shut the door, closing
Steven off from the outside world. Steven sighed. It was as if he hadn't
spoken. Some mornings he felt as if he were being put into a transport van
like those used for prisoners. Granted the limo was more luxurious than a
van, but he still felt trapped inside it.

None of the drivers ever spoke. They just held the door open for Steven. So
far there had been eight different drivers, and all of them treated him
like cargo. Perhaps like Mr. Smith they were under orders not to speak to
Steven. Maybe they were the Mr. Joneses.

Mrs. Cunningham, the tenant on the ground floor, had noticed the limo and
questioned him about it. She had met him at the mailboxes one afternoon as
he was coming home, and said, "Fancy car." She tilted her head toward the
street. "If you got that kind of money to spend, you should move to a
better neighborhood."

Steven could only smile and shrug. He tried to appear nonchalant. "The
people I'm working for now are providing transportation. I'm not paying for
it. The subway's more my speed."

That hadn't been enough to satisfy Mrs. Cunningham's curiosity. Once the
subject had been broached, she wanted to know everything. Steven wished
that he knew the answers to her questions, even if he couldn't have
admitted that because of the non-disclosure agreement. It had been almost
embarrassing to fob her off with, "It's a research group that wants video
documentation of its work. I just edit films for them."

Of course, then she wanted to know more. What sorts of films? What kind of
research? Where? What was the group's name? Steven had to claim that he
didn't understand the content of the videos. Some sort of scientific
research. "All I do is edit the nonessential stuff out of the tapes. I
don't have to understand what's going on." Then he excused himself and ran
up the stairs without waiting for a response.

Steven didn't even know the address of the building that housed the work
room. The limo drivers varied the route each morning. He was sure that the
building was somewhere north and to the east in what had once been a light
manufacturing area. But he wasn't certain.

Nor was Mr. Smith any help. He unlocked the door each morning and
accompanied Steven to the door of the work space, and he let Steven out
when he was through at 3:00 o'clock each day. He was a bit more talkative
than the drivers, but he confined his conversation to remarks on the
weather. Steven had the impression that one of Mr. Smith's duties was to
keep him from snooping around the rest of the building—not that he would
find anything. Other than himself and Mr. Smith, he was sure that the
building was empty. He was tempted to sneak out of the room, leaving the
door propped open, but he suspected that his exit would trigger an alarm
and Mr. Smith would come running. He wasn't even sure that the outer door
would open before 3:00.

For all he knew, the Asterion Society consisted solely of the Minotaur, and
its only purpose was to document his weekly seductions of the visitors.

***** "Oh, I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum."

The man pulled out of Steven's mouth and rolled over onto his back. He
grabbed his cock and began pumping it vigorously. The bed shook in rhythm
with his strokes. He pushed his head back into the pillow and scrunched his
eyes shut. His mouth was open, with his lips protruding in an
O-shape. Hoots and pants came from his throat.  He moved further away from
Steven, as if he were jealously guarding his body and didn't want Steven to
touch him.

Steven watched the man for a few seconds and then rolled over onto his back
too. He studied the ceiling. It needed to be painted, maybe even
replastered. Large cracks ran from the light fixture in the center of the
ceiling toward the walls on all sides. Steven stroked his stomach and then
reached for his cock. It wasn't hard anymore. He raised his head and looked
down at his groin. Nope. Nothing doing down there. Whatever interest he
might have had was gone.

So much for that, he thought. He helps the man get excited, and then the
guy decides to jerk off, jerk being the operative word. He didn't even need
to be there. It was like having phone sex but being in the same room. He
felt like getting up and leaving, but he supposed he should wait until the
guy came.

Steven didn't have long to wait. To judge from the man's cries as he
climaxed, he was satisfied. He took several deep breaths and then
giggled. He glanced at Steven and then bounded out of bed and into the
bathroom, closing the door behind him. Steven stood up and found his
clothes. He dressed quickly, sliding his feet into his tennis shoes but not
bothering to tie them. He was out the door and out of the building before
the man had time to finish in the bathroom. He suspected the man would be
just as happy to find him gone.

It was his second disappointing encounter in two weeks. The previous week,
he had called up a friend. They had gone out, had dinner, stopped in a bar
for a couple of beers, and then gone back to the friend's apartment. They
had begun making out, but the friend had had too much to drink and was
tired. He fell asleep while they were cuddling on the couch. After half an
hour, Steven had helped him to bed and tucked him in. Then he left.

Why did reality have to be so damned frustrating, so damned awful? Why
couldn't it be more like the Minotaur tapes? At least he could manipulate
them to his liking. That was the great thing about his job. He was free to
create the perfect lover. It was a gift from the Asterion Society. They
supplied the raw material, and he used it to create documentaries showing
how sex, how love, should be. Of course, it helped that the Minotaur was a
perfect lover.

In that week's video, the Minotaur had devoted nearly half an hour minutes
to foreplay. By the time he guided the visitor's head to his groin, the
visitor was not just under the Minotaur's control—he was totally and
ecstatically acquiescent. He gazed at the Minotaur's cock with adoration,
and he sucked it as if it were an act of devotion. When the Minotaur
entered him, he was suffused with happiness. He shimmered when the Minotaur
came. It was almost a religious rite.

Why couldn't the men he went to bed with be more like the Minotaur?  The
Minotaur's appearances in his dreams were more satisfactory than the sex he
had with "real" men. No one wanted to make love anymore. They just wanted a
quickie. They didn't want to interact. The other person was more like a
convenience, a set of holes that could be used for a short period of
time. No one was interested in seducing the other's mind and body through
caresses and kisses. Steven couldn't recall the last time someone had
aroused him the way the Minotaur aroused his partners, the last time anyone
had had the patience to allow Steven to arouse him the way the Minotaur
aroused his partners. No one wanted to give of himself, to give up, to
surrender to another person the way the Minotaur's partners did. What was
the Minotaur's secret? Even if he knew it, would other people allow him to
use it? Steven had begun to think not.

It was like his relationship with Ben. One day they had looked at each
other after having sex. It was like a door closing. "You aren't what I
really want. You really aren't at all what I want." That thought had popped
into his mind. He had the feeling that Ben had just had the same
thought. And that had been that. It didn't take them long to agree to be
"just friends." That hadn't worked out either. Occasionally they ran into
each other, and they would spend half a minute asking each other, "Hey,
how's it going? What have you been up to?" But they were always in a hurry
and couldn't wait for answers.

"Gotta run. I'm meeting someone. But, hey, give me a call. Maybe we can
grab a coffee."

"Yeah, that would be great. See ya."

Luckily he had met the Minotaur only a few weeks later. They were a good
match. At least in his porn-abetted imagination, he could find the person
he wanted. And he had such good conversations with the Minotaur. Granted,
they were a bit one-sided and Steven had to speak for the Minotaur, but the
man was so understanding and empathetic. He knew Steven better than Steven
knew himself.

*****

The shiny stain on the front of the work suit was the size of a quarter. It
wouldn't have been noticeable against the black fabric if Steven hadn't
been leaking pre-cum all day. He didn't know why that week's tape aroused
him so much, but at the end of the day the crotch of the suit was spotted
with stiff circles where the pre-cum had dried. Some of them were still
glistening with wet. It wasn't the first time that the tapes had given him
a hard-on, He wondered if the person who cleaned the office each day after
he left inspected the discarded work suits. He hoped not. Each day, after
he took the suit off, he folded it up into as small a shape as he could,
making sure that the crotch area was in the middle. If he were the cleaner,
he would simply push the suit into a trash bag and not stop to check it. He
didn't think the suits were washed. Even if they were, surely the person
would just shove it into the machine and not look at it closely enough to
notice stains. He hoped so. If the cleaner took the time to inspect the
suit he had worn that day, there would be no mistaking what had made the
stains.

The six tapes in that week's set recorded the same general scene as the
others he had seen so far. But the Minotaur had seemed to exercise so much
more control over the visitor. This visitor was so very submission and
obedient. The Minotaur had eased open the visitor's mouth with his hands
and then leaned forward until his own mouth was poised above the visitor's
mouth. A stream of saliva had oozed out of the Minotaur's mouth and slowly
dripped into the visitor's gaping mouth. The visitor looked as if he were
drinking the nectar of the gods. The Minotaur stroked the man's throat as
if pushing his saliva down into the man. Steven felt disgusted and aroused
at the same time. It was as if the Minotaur was feeding the man a stream of
cum. His saliva looked almost like cum. Steven wasn't sure that it was
saliva. But he wanted the Minotaur's fingers to stroke his throat like
that. He wanted to tilt his head with his mouth wide open facing up toward
the Minotaur. He wanted the Minotaur to feed him, to make him obedient and
submissive. He wanted to stare into the Minotaur's eyes and feel all
resistance drain away.

*****

"God, you are so beautiful." The words tumbled unbidden out of his
mouth. It took a few seconds for him to realize that he had spoken out
loud. On the monitors, the Minotaur paused and stared directly into the
camera mounted in front of the platform. It was as if he had heard Steven
speak. He kept his eyes on the camera as he began licking the other man's
throat, tracing a wet trail between the man's ear and his shoulder with
broad strokes of his tongue. Steven grabbed his cock and began stroking
himself. He couldn't stop. The Minotaur continued to lick the man's throat,
controlling the movements of Steven's hand. The stroke of the Minotaur's
tongue began at the base of the man's throat, the entire tongue dragging
slowly upward to Steven's ear. Steven matched the Minotaur stroke for
stroke as the Minotaur licked his throat, as the Minotaur licked his cock.

*****

"God, you are so beautiful. I want you. Please let me join you in the
room. I want to be filmed as we make love." Steven looked down at the sheet
of paper. He used the tablet frequently to make notes but seldom to leave
messages. Every week, he jotted down the camera number and the time stamp
of the segments he wanted to use in the final version. The pages were
filled with arrows leading from one segment to the next, or with circles
drawn around a group of segments. The first day, as he was about to leave,
he realized that he wanted to preserve his notes for the next day's
work. He wrote "Please don't throw away. Notes for my work" on the top
sheet of paper and left the pages in a neat stack next to the keyboard. He
underlined "don't throw away" several times. Whoever cleaned up the room
after he left respected his wishes. Any written notes left next to the
keyboard were always there the next day. Any scraps of paper he put in the
wastebasket were removed. The only exception was Friday. Everything he used
during the week was removed over the weekend. There was always a new pad of
paper in the center of the desk on Monday.

Steven stared at what he had written. Should he leave it? He didn't know if
anyone would read it. Would the person who cleaned the room even notice it?
Did he want the person who cleaned the room to notice it and deliver it? He
carefully tore the sheet of paper off the tablet. He didn't want to leave
even a small scrap of torn paper to reveal the existence of a missing
sheet. He held the note in his hand for a minute.

"Stop being an idiot." Speaking the words gave them more substance. "It
wouldn't work." He knew too much to be a partner. The Minotaur's partners
didn't know what was in store for them, they didn't know about the
cameras. Their behavior showed that. That was the whole point of the
recording. The partners behaved naturally, without artifice, without
awareness.

The Asterion Society would probably fire him if they found out that he
jerked off to the films—practically every day now. At first he had just
had the occasional erection, a bit of pre-cum. Then he had started stroking
himself. And one day he had cum. That broke the barriers for him. Now he
grew excited as he was taking his clothes off in the outer room to prepare
to enter the scanner. He didn't care if Smith was watching and saw his
hard-on. He looked forward to each new recording on Monday. His cock
throbbed as the Minotaur entered the room.

He had to restrain himself from editing the videos so that only the
Minotaur appeared in them. The others weren't really worthy of the
Minotaur. They were only the surfaces on which he operated . . .
automatons, robots. They existed only so that the Minotaur could
perform. They were props, less important than the cameras that recorded the
Minotaur or the platform that served as his stage. The Minotaur was the
only actor in the recordings. The others were there only to be acted upon.

Steven always edited the final segment in the same way he had the first
week. He split the screen to show the faces of the Minotaur and of his
partner. Every week the Minotaur stared into the camera, his face blank and
devoid of emotion. His eyes never blinked. His head barely moved. He just
stared into the camera until his eyes filled it. The half of the screen
that showed the partner's face recorded the motions of the Minotaur. The
Minotaur always positioned his partner so that he lay on his back on the
platform, his legs resting on the Minotaur's shoulders. The partner's face
filled the overhead camera. Each thrust of the Minotaur's hips drove his
cock into the partner. On screen the man's head jerked upward with each
thrust.

It was as if the man had the orgasm for both of them. As the Minotaur
fucked him, delight began to transfuse his face. At the end, he was in
ecstasy.

Steven read the words on the sheet of paper again. "God, you are so
beautiful. I want you. Please let me join you in the room. I want to be
filmed as we make love." He crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and
squeezed it between the palms of his hands. He couldn't chance leaving it
for someone else to find—even as it was, it had too much reality. He
held it under the tap until it was soggy and then mashed it into a pulp. He
flushed it down the toilet. The Asterion Society could prevent him from
leaving with any physical evidence of the films. They couldn't remove the
memories of what he had seen from his mind. He would have to be satisfied
with that.

He still didn't know what the Minotaur's purpose was or what he got out of
the videos. The visitors were the ones who appeared to enjoy the
encounters, not the Minotaur. Hell, even he got more pleasure editing the
videos than the Minotaur apparently did by participating in them. And what
happened to the visitors? Did they eventually recover from their chance
meeting with the Minotaur? Did they sit up groggily and wander out of the
room, get dressed, and then go home? Or did the encounter drain them of all
free will and leave them mindless zombies who had to be helped out of the
room and into a life of drooling idiocy in a mental institution? The tapes
gave no clue. All Steven could surmise was that the encounter had to be
life-changing for the visitors. It would be for him if he were so
lucky. Nothing would be the same in their lives. They would feel forever
bereft if they never saw the Minotaur again. All they could do was feed on
the memories of their meeting.

Because memories were what the films were all about. The Minotaur was an
artist of the body; his canvases were other men's bodies, other men's
senses, other men's minds. The partner was at first surprised by the depth
and the intensity of the Minotaur's art and then overwhelmed by it. The
Minotaur's work was necessarily ephemeral, and the films were a permanent
record. Steven tried to capture the Minotaur's artistry through his
editing, to make the films an invitation to others' imaginations to
recreate within their mind the feelings of the partner.

*****

It was warm for December 20. There was no chance of a white Christmas that
year. That Friday before the holidays was a warm night, and everyone wanted
to be out. The bar was crowded and dark. Blinking strings of Christmas
lights were the only illumination. It took Steven five minutes to negotiate
the distance between the door and the bar and another ten minutes of
waiting to catch a bartender's eye and order a beer. He was surrounded on
all sides by male flesh. He felt confined within a wall of bodies. That
suited his mood. He had to find someone. He wanted sex. He needed sex. He
knew that it wouldn't be as good as sex with the Minotaur, but he had to
have it. The video he had finished editing that day had been the strongest
one yet. He had cum spontaneously the first time he had seen the partner's
face register the Minotaur's climax.

Next week would be his last Minotaur video. He wasn't looking forward to
that. It wasn't just the money, although that was nice. It meant that he
would never see the Minotaur again. He had his memories, but even now he
couldn't remember all the details of the earlier tapes. They were already
fading from his mind, the visitors merging into the generic "partner." Only
the Minotaur stood out clearly in his mind. He felt like he knew every
detail of the Minotaur's body.

He looked around with distaste. He didn't know why he had come. He wouldn't
find anyone like the Minotaur here. Like this guy who was trying to talk to
him. Steven couldn't hear him above the noise, and the flashing
multicolored lights didn't flatter his appearance. The idiot probably just
wanted sex. Steven shook his head no and turned away.

*****

The last Monday. Steven took off his clothes and stowed them in the
cabinet. He no longer worried that Mr. Smith might see him naked. He
stepped into the scanner and waited for it to cycle through its examination
of his body. He wondered if he could smuggle a flash drive into the work
room. Where would he hide it? His mouth? His anus? He did want some record
of his work. He should have tried before. Now it was probably too late.

The voice gave him permission to proceed. He tugged on the jump suit. He
had grown to like working in them. Maybe he should leave a message on the
tablet asking where he could buy them. Or if there were extras, he would
offer to take them off Asterion's hands. He would pay for them. He wanted
something—some souvenir that would prove that he had worked for
Asterion.

He sat down before the bank of monitors. A slip of paper announced that
this week's video ran for 96 minutes and 22 seconds. That was the longest
run time yet. It was like receiving a gift for his final week. A bonus of
several more minutes with the Minotaur. He reached over and removed the
tablet from the desk and grabbed a couple of pens to make notes with.

The six screens showed the empty room for three seconds and then the panel
slid open to admit the final week's partner.

Steven walked into the room and looked around. Curiosity mingled with a
slight apprehension. As every visitor did, he walked over to the platform
and touched it. It was the only thing in the room. So, it was only natural
to examine it. The cameras recorded his body from all angles as he turned,
his eyes vainly searching for clues that would explain the room.

It was as if he had never seen the room before. Over the past year he had
spent close to two thousand hours watching what went on in the room, and
now he was acting as if it was totally unknown. He had no idea when the
video had been made. It could have been the previous weekend. It could have
been long before the Asterion Society hired him to edit the videos.

That was Steven's first thought. It was easier to think about that than the
fact that he had no memory of being in the room. He had no memory of time
unaccounted for. No memory of waking up and realizing that he did not know
where he had been. Yet there he was, on all six screens, apparently unaware
of the cameras or of what awaited him.

In one part of his mind he felt violated. He was about to get his wish and
be ravished by the Minotaur, but he had no memory of the actual
encounter. The experience had been stolen from him. Another part of him
wanted to watch the videos and see himself being the recipient of the
Minotaur's attentions. His cock stirred and grew hard. He stared fixedly at
the screens, holding his breath in anticipation of what was to come.

It was odd to watch oneself. Steven had seen video recordings of himself
before but never completely nude and never from so many angles at once. The
screen version of himself heard the panel sliding back to admit the
Minotaur. He turned at the sound. His face betrayed curiosity at the
entrance of the other man. The Steven on screen had never seen the Minotaur
before.

The Minotaur began making love to his body. His hands caressed Steven. His
lips kissed him. He licked. He touched. He seduced Steven's mind and body
and made Steven his willing puppet. He positioned Steven's body on the
platform. The screen Steven was as passive and accepting of the Minotaur as
all the other visitors had been.

The watching Steven was oblivious to anything but the movements of the two
men on the monitors. He made no notes. The scene ended as had all fifty-one
previous tapes. The screen Steven cried out as the Minotaur entered him for
the first time, an inarticulate groan of pain mixed with pleasure. His face
grew beatific when the Minotaur climaxed. The cameras lingered on his face
and body for a few seconds and then the images disappeared from the
screens.

Steven sat before the blank screens for nearly an hour. At first his mind
refused to function. It was as if he had experienced the Minotaur's orgasm
again. He had no conscious memories of the experience, but his body seemed
to recall the memory of the Minotaur's touch, the oblivion he had felt at
the moment of the Minotaur's climax. The Minotaur's cock had swollen even
larger inside him as he approached his climax. It thrust even deeper into
him. Everything else had faded from his mind. He knew that his eyes were
open, but he saw nothing. He heard nothing. His existence was reduced to
the Minotaur's orgasm. And then there was nothing.

Stray thoughts surfaced and then sunk back into his mind. He gradually
became aware again of his surroundings. He got no work done that day. He
couldn't bring himself to watch the tapes again. He felt too
drained. Watching the tapes again would finish him off. When he left at
three, he was still in a daze. He felt honored and privileged yet cheated
and abandoned.

That night he decided to make the final week's tape perfect. It had to
capture what it meant to be chosen as the Minotaur's partner. It would be
his offering, his gift, his declaration of love, to the Minotaur.

The next morning he was impatient in the limo. Why was it taking so long
today? How could every light be red? He rushed past Mr. Smith and waited
impatiently for him to unlock the door to the work room. He tore off his
clothes, not bothering to hang them up.

A gift of love. He worked feverishly over the next four days, resentful of
any time spent on anything but the tape.

In the final scene Steven juxtaposed the Minotaur's face over his own. As
his own eyes closed in pleasure when the Minotaur climaxed, the Minotaur's
eyes stared out at the viewer from Steven's face. It was as if they had
joined together and were both looking out at the viewer and being looked
at.

When he reviewed the tape for the final time, he paused the video on that
shot. Steven couldn't remember being with the Minotaur, but he could feel
them joined together in an eternal moment and seeing with the same eyes.

Before leaving, he wrote "please call" along with his phone number on the
pad and left it in the center of the desk.

*****

"Ms Derby? This is Steven Malden. We met the year before last. I'm the
person Mr. Hitchens hired to work for the Asterion Society?"

"What?" The woman on the other end of the line sounded as if she had just
woken up.

Steven wasn't sure if Hitchens's PA would remember him. They had met only
that once. He hurried on.

"I'm trying to reach Mr. Hitchens to ask if I can give him as a
reference. Now that I'm looking for other work, I need to account for last
year. I know I'm not permitted to discuss what I was doing, but I thought
if I gave Mr. Hitchens as a reference, he could explain that I was working
for one of his clients and confirm that I did a satisfactory job . . ."

Steven trailed off. He wasn't sure how to continue. In truth, the need for
a reference was just a pretext for contacting Hitchens. What he really
wanted was to be put in contact with the Minotaur again.

The final day had ended like the others. He had left at three. The limo had
taken him back to his apartment. The driver had opened the door for him the
last time and then driven off without a word to indicate that the job had
ended. The man had to know that he would not be driving Steven again, but
he said nothing.

Steven stood on the sidewalk and watched the car turn the corner and
disappear. He didn't even know the driver's name. For all he knew, the
driver didn't know his. He shivered. The weather had turned cold. Snow was
predicted for the first week of the new year.

He spent the last four days of the year alone. He couldn't bear to be with
anyone else. Over the past four or five months he had neglected his friends
so much that he wasn't sure he could call them friends any more. He
couldn't remember how he had filled the hours when he wasn't at work. He
couldn't have spent all that time thinking about the tapes and the
Minotaur. But it seemed the Minotaur had grown to monopolize his thoughts,
even his dreams.

The following Monday, he found himself getting ready to leave his apartment
at 6:30. He watched the street, hoping that the limo would appear to take
him back to the Minotaur. He knew that the job was over, but maybe he had
mistaken the dates. Maybe he had another week. The street remained
empty. It was day before New Year's Eve, and it appeared that everyone had
decided to take the day off to avoid working one day between Sunday and the
holiday. He stayed at the window until the street grew light. He wondered
if somewhere a driver was picking up another film editor and taking him to
the building to edit begin editing another year's worth of tapes of the
Minotaur.

"I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong number."

"Isn't this Ms Derby's number? It's the one I was given last year. I want
to speak to Mr. Hitchens."

"No, you have the wrong number."

"Is this . . . ?" Steven recited the number on Joan Derby's business card.

"That's my phone number. I've had this number for four or five years now. I
never heard of Joan Derby."

"Is this McNair and Associates?"

"Sorry, pal, but she stiffed you with the wrong number." The woman laughed
knowingly and hung up.

Steven called up the directory app on his phone. There was no listing for
McNair and Associates. A Google search returned no hits.

*****

"There's no firm of that name in this building." The guard at the reception
desk in the lobby of the Pembrooke Building barely glanced at Steven as she
signed for a package.

"But it was here about eighteen months ago. They must have moved. Do you
have a forwarding address?"

The guard sighed loudly and with a look of annoyance picked up a phone and
punched in a series of numbers. She turned away from Steven and spoke
quietly into the phone. She listened for a minute or so and then faced
Steven as she finished the call. "Ahuh, ahunh. I see. Thanks, Carl."

She switched the phone off and said, "That was the building manager. He's
never heard of McNair and Associates, and he's been working here for
ten-fifteen years."

When Steven began to protest, she held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Sir. I really
can't help you." She looked past Steven and spoke pointedly to a woman
standing behind him, "Yes, Ma'am?"

*****

Steven stared at the screen. He was trying to edit a series of ads for a
range of hair products. It was a stupid, meaningless task—an expensive
ad campaign for an overpriced product featuring models whose hair had been
fussed over for hours so that it flowed and swirled in enticing waves when
the models tossed their heads. No one in real-life had hair like that. He
hated the work.

The Saturday before last had brought spring weather. He had wheeled his
bicycle out of his storage locker in the basement, reattached the front
wheel to the frame, and then oiled the gears and checked the chains and the
brakes. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he began cycling
to the north and to the east. He rode up and down the streets looking for
the building in which he had worked on the Minotaur tapes. Nothing looked
familiar. When he got home, he pulled out a map and traced the streets he
had checked with a yellow highlighter. On Sunday, he explored another
section of Brooklyn. When he went into a bodega to buy a bottle of water
and an energy bar, he found the clerk and three other men discussing the
outlook for the Mets and the Yankees that year. He described the building
to them. None of them recognized it from his description. "Maybe in Queens"
was their consensus.

The past weekend he had continued the search. He knew that he had worked
for the Asterion Society—the money in his bank account and the tax forms
he had received in January proved that. But the address on the tax forms
led to a private mailbox service. The "suite number" was in reality a
number on a small metal and glass door. The clerk in the store refused to
give any information on the identity of the renters of the mailbox until
Steven slipped him $40. The clerk made a show of consulting his computer
and then said, "That box belongs to someone else now. They've been renting
it since February. I don't have any information on our previous clients."
Apparently the Asterion Society had erased all paper traces of its
existence. So he had to find the building—the Asterion Society could
cancel a post office box. Steven couldn't imagine how they had done it, but
the society had made McNair and Associates disappear. But surely they
couldn't make a building disappear.

Steven pulled out the pocket map of Brooklyn and marked off another
street. He rode one block further east and then started down the next
street. And there it was. He stopped in front of the building and peered
through the door. The dun paint on the walls was the same. The wooden
staircase leading to the upper floors was the same. The black and brown
linoleum squares that weren't supposed to show dirt were the same. He could
see the hallway to the left that led to his office. But the counter along
the right-hand wall was new. So was the directory of tenants in the
building on the wall behind the counter. At least they hadn't been there
before. But they looked like they had been in place for years. The counter
was dented and scuffed. It hadn't been repainted or revarnished for some
time. The plastic letters spelled out the names of a dozen businesses—a
rental agency, an insurance firm, a computer service, a shipping broker.
The letters had originally been white, but they had yellowed with
time. Some of them were chipped and hung at an angle.

Steven took a photo of the directory with his phone. When he got back to
his apartment, he searched for the names on it. There wasn't much
information on any of them—they weren't the sort of business given to
websites. Only the computer troubleshooting service had an elaborate web
page. According to the blurb, it had been "serving Brooklyn businesses" at
the same "convenient address" for twenty-one years.

Steven slowed the swirl of hair, letting it gently cascade forward over the
model's face. That would have to do. He saved the edited version and then
sent it to the ad agency that had hired him. If they approved of the video,
he would add the graphics and the voiceover. He supposed he should eat some
lunch, but he wasn't hungry. He just didn't have much appetite lately. He
didn't have much interest in anything lately.

He lay down on his sofa and stretched out. He was so tired. He didn't know
why. He hadn't done anything except edit that stupid ad all morning. Maybe
he would feel better if he had a nap. He might even dream of the Minotaur
again. That was the only thing that made his life bearable—seeing the
Minotaur in his dreams and remembering the Minotaur's touch on his
skin. That light, gentling touch that made him shiver. But the dreams were
a curse. He couldn't forget the Minotaur but he couldn't remember him
either. All he had were dreams and fragmented recollections of images from
the videos. He welcomed the dreams but he hated waking up from them. It was
like losing the Minotaur all over again.


Thanks to ACL for commenting on an earlier version of this. Comments are
appreciated; you can send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com.