Date: Sat, 15 Nov 1997 19:40:30 GMT
From: Kirk Brothers <kirkbros@gte.net>
Subject: Second Benedict/David Adventure - Hecate's Offerings
* * * * * * * * * *
SECOND ADVENTURE IN THE BENEDICT/DAVID SERIES
* * * * * * * * * *
HECATE'S OFFERINGS
Part 1 of 2
by Kirk Brothers
All Rights Reserved
(Characters copyright 1990 in "Night of the Coven")
"Mr. Benedict," said the slim brunette in the front row of the
Monday night audience, "this is my first time here, so I don't
really know anything about witchcraft--except the old ghost stories
and so on. So I'd like to ask you a very serious question, if I
may."
Benedict nodded his assent. "What I want to know," she went
on, "is just what is the connection between witchcraft and the cult
murder in Central Park last Friday night?"
Benedict, who had invited her question, frowned when he heard
it. He collected his thoughts while glancing around the room on
that hot evening of June 14--the summer of 1999 already promised to
be a real scorcher for New York City. Benedict, a slim man with
long thinning hair in a pony tail and scholarly features, was a
well-known "character" in Greenwich Village--an occultist with a
shop on Christopher Street selling paraphernalia for "magic"
rituals. He had declared himself to be a Shaman, or male witch,
and "white magician".
But this was not his shop, with its skeleton and black cat--
its arcane books and exotic, colorful candles, amulets, and crystal
balls. Every Monday at 8:00 he held a public lecture and discus-
sion on occult subjects in a rented Sunday School room in a non-
denominational gay church. Tonight his audience numbered about
fifteen or twenty. Most of them he knew by name or face from his
shop, but he had never seen the brunette before--nor two men sit-
ting far apart in the back row.
One of them was apparently in his thirties--the other at least
fifty--and Benedict had noticed they appeared to be more interested
in the audience than in his talk. They had sat with folded arms
throughout.
Also in the back row sat David Martinez, a handsome hispanic
in his mid-twenties, in his hustler garb of tight jeans and a black
leather jacket. A pair of handcuffs adorned the left shoulder
strap and a tiny gold ring in his left ear was shaped like the
letter "S".
"Well, Miss--", he began.
"Stone. Diane Stone."
"Well, Miss Stone, I really can't imagine why the media have
been calling this a cult murder from the first news item. The
facts as reported are very few and simple--and horrible, of course.
Perhaps the horror element is the reason for the hysteria of a cult
killing--or perhaps it was the tattoo."
He paused to review the facts in his mind. The "cult murder"
was getting a heavy play in the press--the media had dwelt on the
sordid, sensational aspects of the crime, seeing it as the New York
counterpart of the California and Mexico cult murders of a few
decades ago.
At six A.M. the previous Saturday morning, a rider named
Daniel Ulrich, out for an early canter on one of the many bridle
paths on the west side of Central Park, had nearly been thrown when
his mount shied--apparently scenting the body before the horseman
saw it.
The rider took one stunned look and then galloped off to find
a police officer. Fortunately, Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas
had been on duty since midnight and was nearby. The officer rode
back with Ulrich, dismounted, and used his radio to notify his
command. Within minutes police cars were headed for the scene.
City newsrooms, monitoring police calls as usual, overheard the
transmissions--and in less than thirty minutes the media were out
in force, asking questions and dutifully reporting the findings and
theories of any officer who would talk to them.
The victim had been described in the press as a black man of
light complexion, naked and mutilated. On one arm was the tattoo
that had fueled the stories: a female head with the blank eyes of
a Greek mask, and the name of the pagan deity Hecate: goddess of
Hades.
The man's eyes had been removed, the tongue had been removed,
the hands removed, and the genitals removed--apparently before
death. Bloodhounds were quick to track the victim's scent back to
a tree hidden by dense shrubbery, where physical evidence showed
the man had been tied and tortured before he was strangled slowly--
apparently with his own belt.
The autopsy report suggested death had occurred about two that
morning. An outfit of man's clothing, obviously cut off with a
knife, was found in a litter basket--and the dogs easily located a
shallow hole near the murder site, in which had been buried the
man's missing organs.
By Sunday, newspapers had pointed out the lines from Macbeth
that "witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings", and by Monday
there were rumors that a Caribbean cult with an enclave in Brooklyn
was being investigated. Some TV reporters were asking "the man on
the street" if Satanist cults should be stamped out by police.
Most of those whose opinions were broadcast said yes.
"What are the facts in this gruesome business that even
suggest a cult of some kind is involved?" asked Benedict rhetoric-
ally. "Well, I say the same facts show even more conclusively that
this is not a cult killing.
"Back in 1940 a man was killed by black magic, here in New
York City. The case is even cited in the Encyclopedia Britannica,
in its scholarly article on occultism. But as all anthropologists
and students of Nature religions point out, a cult killing uses
black magic to destroy its victim. And, for the magic to work, the
victim must know that magic is being used against him, and he must
believe in its power. In common parlance he must be superstitious.
Black magic has no effect whatsoever unless it is sincerely
believed to be true. The same is true of white magic, of course.
"There was no black magic here: mutilation with a knife and
strangulation with a belt are not the devices of a black magician.
A member of the Obeah cult, for example, would probably use a voo-
doo doll of his enemy, trimmed with a lock the victim's hair or
fingernail clippings, and stuck with pins."
As he spoke, Benedict noticed that the two men in the back row
were now leaning forward attentively, their arms no longer folded
across their chests.
"Now, some Satanist cults--which are perversions of Christian-
ity, since they worship the Christian devil, Satan--might practice
human sacrifice. Like the Mexican cult some years ago that kid-
napped an American college student and murdered him in a ritual.
But those cults take great pains to conceal the evidence of their
sacrifices. The victim is never found, except by diligent police
work. This case obviously doesn't fit that general rule, either."
He paused again, putting his final conclusion in proper order.
"I suppose--purely as a theoretical possibility--that a witch might
'go crazy' and commit such a crime. So it's not absolutely impos-
sible that the Central Park murder was committed by someone in this
room now--but it's totally unlikely. There's a characteristic
which is unique to witchcraft which we must keep in mind.
"A cult as most of us use the word is a closely-knit group
with a recognized leader and his or her disciples--like the Charles
Manson 'family' in California, which was a Satanist cult, in my
view. Manson was the final authority within his family. Other
cults have had autocratic leaders--such as the one in Jonestown,
Guyana, who ordered his followers to drink poison in Koolaid.
Hundreds obeyed him.
"But witchcraft is in essence a personal and individual
spiritual philosophy. We have a very loose organization, and quite
flexible beliefs. Each witch, to a large degree, determines his
own spiritual needs and the means of fulfilling them. True, we
have a High Priest and Priestess, but the only times we meet are
the eight Sabbats a year, in gatherings called covens. These are,
traditionally, groups of thirteen witches, who celebrate the forces
of Nature and enact rituals of white magic. As a matter of fact,
the summer solstice occurs next week, so I shall take my vacation
starting next Sunday, and there will be no meeting here next Monday
--I will be at a gathering in Ithaca."
Benedict had now reached the central theme of his beliefs, and
he expounded briefly. "So witchcraft is not a cult in the sense of
a rigidly organized group. We do not worship Satan. We reject all
such practices as a mandatory article of faith. And witchcraft is
indeed a religion which teaches, rather than preaches, spiritual
goodness. It is merely a minority and unorthodox religion. It so
happens than at one time I was a priest in the Wiccan church, but
I now follow my own spiritual path, and have my own personal
affirmation of faith which perhaps no other witch uses.
"In brief, I affirm that I am a creature of Nature; I cele-
brate the bounty and wisdom of the Universe; I live by natural laws
in peace with all other beings; I strive to develop my psychic
awareness of a meaning and purpose in our existence; and I affirm
that love of self and others is the only valid moral basis for all
human actions.
"I know of no witch who would seriously dispute any of my
beliefs. And, if that be so, how can witchcraft be involved in the
Central Park murder? Does that answer your question, Miss Stone?"
"You're saying it's not a cult killing," she answered--at
which there were a few suppressed snickers from the audience.
Benedict glanced at the clock on the wall. "I'm sorry, but
our time is up for this evening. The room is mine only by the
hour, so I'm afraid we can't have any more questions. However, if
anyone wishes to talk with me about anything we've discussed here,
please stop by my shop on Christopher Street--you all know where it
is. Blessed be!"
There was a mumbled response of "Blessed be's" from the small
gathering, a scraping of chairs and a shuffling of feet, and the
audience drifted out. Benedict noticed that the two men in the
back row made brief eye-contact, and trailed out after the rest.
In the rear, David Martinez waited for Benedict.
"Blessed be, Benedict," said David, shaking hands.
"Blessed be, David," answered Benedict with a smile. "When
did you decide to use the witches' greeting?" It was casual
conversation, and he did not wait for an answer. "It's good to see
you again--it's been a while. Let's see, when did we see each
other last?"
"May the eighth," answer David promptly. "A week after
Beltane. About five weeks ago."
Benedict picked up a small wooden box that had been placed on
a table by the entrance. There was a slot in the top, which bore
the lettering, "Contributions Gratefully Received. Blessed be!"
He opened the box absently. There were a few bills--all ones--and
a big handful of change.
"About nine dollars," he estimated. "Not enough to cover the
room rent here, but it will have to do. I say, David, what brings
you here? Not the cult murder, I hope. And what are your plans
for the rest of the evening?"
"I wanted to pick up our conversation from where we left off
last time. Do you remember?"
They were now walking down the steps to the sidewalk on the
south side of Fourteenth Street, and turned toward Seventh Avenue
South. "Of course," said Benedict with a smile. "I had given you
your horoscope and a copy of my own--asked if you'd like to be like
a son to me, to study with me and work in the shop--and offered
myself to you as your sex slave for life. You said it was a heavy
proposition, that I'd mixed you up, and you'd have to think it
over. How about having a bite to eat with me, and come home for a
drink and talk? No strings attached. No coercion--either way."
David know that meant no hustling. "Okay?"
"I'd like to," said David, and they started down the avenue
toward Christopher Street. "It's none of my business," he said as
they waited for a WALK sign, "but you have a weekly listing in the
Voice about your lectures--and you rent the room there--and tonight
you took in only nine dollars. And I've never seen your store
really crowded anytime I've walked by. So how can you keep going
and have drinks at Stacy's--and invite me to have a bite with you?"
"I don't mind telling you," said Benedict. "Life has been
good to me in many ways. My shop is in a brownstone that my great
grandfather built, doing most of it himself, back in 1898. I was
born in that building, on the first floor of apartments over the
storefront. Your birthdate, but twenty-four years and eighteen
minutes earlier. I've always known the exact time, because my
mother believed in astrology. We used to have a family joke: the
midwife spanked me--I cried--and my mother said, 'What time is it?'
When the midwife said it was twelve minutes after two, my mother
kept saying to herself, 'two-twelve. Water boils at two-twelve,'
so she'd remember."
They had reached a little Spanish restaurant Benedict wanted
to try. "How about your native cuisine, or are you tired of it?"
David looked at the menu in the window. "This place is too
pricey, Benedict! You invited me to have a bite, not a banquet!"
Benedict laughed, then in a teasing tone of voice he said,
"Any hustler worth the name should be quick to get a good meal on
a john! Why not let me treat you?"
David answered seriously. "Because you're not a john to me!
Damn it, Benedict! I feel different toward you than I would to any
other guy--that's why you mix me up, offering to be my dad, and my
teacher, and my slave all in one!"
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said Benedict sincerely. "But
I haven't eaten since noon, and I feel like a good meal--and you're
invited! Let's go in." David shrugged, and they pushed through
the front door with a tinkling bell that signaled their entrance.
They took a booth for privacy and a waiter brought the menus,
looking curiously at David's handcuffs. "Why don't you order some-
thing you especially like?" asked Benedict. "Surprise me."
David smiled. "Okay." He turned to the waiter and spoke in
Spanish. The waiter answered in the same language, and the two
talked briefly--not a word of which Benedict understood. The
waiter departed for the kitchen after filling their water glasses,
and David again grinned. "I asked him to have the chef fix a
couple of Caribbean dishes I ate when I visited relatives in Puerto
Rico." He took a swallow of water and turned back to Benedict.
"You were telling me about being born in the building above
your shop."
"Yes," said Benedict. "I said my great grandfather built the
brownstone. That talent got him into the real estate business, and
my grandfather and father inherited it and kept it going for three
generations. I went to college, where I met my wife. Her father
was a banker who'd set up a trust for her. Later, after dad and my
wife died, I sold the business but kept the family home and fol-
lowed my own interests. There are four floors above the store with
two studio apartments on each floor, and the rent keeps me in the
black--even if I lose a little money on my shop or lectures."
David nodded. "So you're rich."
Benedict smiled. "By your standards, perhaps. But material
possessions aren't a driving force in my life. I could afford a
half-dozen Brooks Brothers suits, but it's not my lifestyle. I'm
comfortable in turtlenecks and slacks, so that's all I wear now.
I have a comfortable income, low overhead--and no master but
myself."
"Too bad," said David, echoing Benedict's teasing tone of a
few minutes before. "I'd like to be your Master." He glanced
sideways at Benedict to see his reaction. "The first night we met
at Stacy's, I told you I was a hustler, working masochists who like
to be whipped. I could tell that turned you on--I've always felt
strong vibes from you.
"But since that talk I've changed a lot. I used to cruise any
john for any kind of action--even if he wanted to be the top man
and make me blow him, or let him whip me--I used to take it if the
money was high enough. Now I don't. That first talk we had made
me see that I've got to be the Master all the time, and now I don't
work any scenes except S/M--and the john has to be my slave.
"And the last time we talked you said that sex is a religious
ritual to you--even heavy S/M. You said you couldn't just pretend
to be my slave, but you'd want to make it real--for the magic to
work. I remember you used those words exactly. Just what did you
mean? How far would you go for me?"
"You've been thinking about it, then."
"A lot. And what mixes me up is how I could call you dad or
Benedict one minute and be a son or lover to you--and call you
slave the next minute and beat your ass to a bloody pulp! Oh,
here's our food! Doesn't that look good?"
Benedict peered at the serving dishes as the waiter dished out
their portions of two large meat and vegetable dishes, steaming hot
with a spicy aroma to whet the appetite. When the waiter left,
Benedict said, "This looks wonderful! What's it called on the menu
so I can order it again some time?"
"It's not on the menu. Now, back to my question. How can we
be teacher and student one minute, and dad and son the next, and
master and slave the next, and not screw up our relationship, if we
have one?"
Benedict nodded as he chewed the first mouthful of his supper.
"A good question, but it has a simple answer. First, remember that
in our relationship only my body will be enslaved--my mind and
spirit will be as free as yours. Sexually you will always be the
top men and Master of our relationship, and you must enjoy it!
"Outside the sexual area of our relationship, we must agree on
a few basic rules that never change. If we need to talk as man to
man, we're Benedict and Daved. I'm Benedict until you move in with
me--and dad once we're living together.
"At any time we're in the shop, classroom, or in public or
some social group, call me dad. When we're alone, call me any-
thing you want. If you call me dad I'll answer David. If you call
me slave I'll answer Master--or you'll whip me for it. Of course,
you can whip me anyway, whenever you like, as much as you like."
David asked seriously, "How much can you take?"
Benedict was equally serious. "How much can you give?"
David paused and savored the food before answering.
"You wouldn't believe how much I can give," he said at last.
"I have at least a dozen johns who need a good whipping often
enough to call me pretty regularly. Part of my deal is that once
we start a scene, I don't stop until he uses a safe word, or I want
to. Most guys can take it only once a month or less, but one john
is hot for me, and he wants a real rough session just about every
Friday night in his high-rise on Columbus Avenue.
"He always wants the same thing, more or less. He has a gym
horse I tie him over, so his ass is up high, bent over so I can
swing the whips overhead and down across his butt. I never hit a
guy anywhere else unless he asks for it. He has a nice collection
of canes and straps and paddles that can draw blood, and really
hurt!
"A john can set outer limits--like no blood or scars--and he
can use the safe word if I go so far he can't take any more. But
if he doesn't use the safe word, he can cry and bleed and scream
and beg for mercy all he wants, and I just get hotter!
"Well, this guy won't use the safe word--that's the part of a
scene with him I like the best! I always hit full force right from
the start--and I never let up." He paused to recall the memory.
"Last Friday we had a long session--he said he wanted it super hard
and raunchy--all weekend if I wanted to. He paid me plenty." He
paused before grinning again. "He got his money's worth.
"I beat his ass, off and on, for eight solid hours--using his
canes and whips and paddles the way they do in prisons. I burned
the skin off his ass with lighter flouid, and stuck a few hundred
needles in it before I dripped melted solder all over his butt.
For good measure I gave him twenty-five good cigar burns in each
cheek."
His mouth curled in a smile that was somehow cruel and sexual
at the same time. "While I was resting my arm I scrubbed red
pepper liniment into the cuts on his butt! He really howled!" He
looked down at the table and not directly at Benedict as he spoke
next. "At first I was surprised he could take that kind of
torture, but he said he likes to be sore all the time and think
about me when he feels the scabs and burns--especially when he sits
down!
"After his punishment, or sometimes when I'm resting my arm,
I make him blow me, or I fuck his ass with a condom. He's really
tight from the whipping! And of course I piss in his mouth and
make him drink it--as much as I can. I like to stick my dick in a
john's mouth and empty my bladder full force, to see if he spills
a drop! If he does, I whip him extra for wasting good piss!"
David now looked directly into Benedict's eyes. "Last Friday
this john had bought a toilet seat on legs so he could lie under it
with his face under my ass when I sat down."
"A rim seat," said Benedict calmly. "For licking the asshole,
or eating shit. Nothing at all new in either of those acts."
"It was the first time I actually did it to a guy," admitted
David. "I've always liked the humiliation part of S/M best of all,
and I've wanted my own toilet slave since I was sixteen."
He chose his next words carefully. "I always use condoms--
I've never had a sex disease--and I get regular tests on my blood,
piss and shit. I'm in good shape, and I take care of my body. I
eat right and my intestines are super healthy." He looked down at
the table again. "This john said he wanted to be my pig. He said
he didn't want me to--", David paused, "--use the bathroom during
the day, but save it all for him. So I did. And I made him my
pig." He paused. "You know what I mean?"
"Yes," said Benedict calmly. "Would you enjoy doing it to
me?" It seemed a perfectly natural transition for Benedict to
make, and his voice was completely serious. "How often--every day?
And most important--would it really turn you on sexually to do it?"
The waiter arrived to clear their plates and serve the dessert
of flan and Cuban-style coffee. Benedict casually changed the
subject. "So tell me about your career in show business, David,"
he said. "Are you getting any work?"
"Once in a while. I'm up for an off-Broadway play now, and I
get one-day jobs now and then as a movie extra, or making a music
video. Sometimes a modeling job for a magazine ad. But it's not
steady, and the money doesn't last long."
"Well, if you ever decide to quit show business and get off
the streets, remember my offer. You could work in the store and
study with me when you're not in rehearsals or making a little
extra on a one-day job."
David was businesslike. "How much could you pay me to work in
the store?" he asked seriously.
"How about fifty percent of the gross take? I can pretty well
count on an average of a hundred dollars a day, six days a week--so
your half would be three hundred a week. If you live with me, your
rent is free--and all the S/M you want as a bonus."
"That's a good offer. I could say yes to the work and study
part of it--", he grinned, "and the S/M part right now! But I want
to give myself six months more in show business. I'll tell you
what. If I don't get a break in six months, I'll quit show busi-
ness--and the streets--and move in with you, if you still want me.
That gives both of us about six months to get to know each other a
lot better than we do now--with no strings on either side. You can
cancel the deal, or I can, any time we find it's not going to
work."
"Very sensible." They had finished their meal, and Benedict
signaled for the check. "Come home with me for a cognac, and we
can finish our conversation there, where I can show you a few
things about the layout." He left a tip on the table, paid the
cashier, and they walked out together to finish their stroll to
Benedict's shop.
As they walked, Benedict said, "David, I want to ask you a
serious question."
David answered with a chuckle, "Like Miss Stone at your
meeting tonight?"
"Something like that. Suppose you were hustling the upper
west side. Would you work Central Park--near the bridle paths? Do
you know any hustlers, at least on sight, who do?"
"Are you kidding? Central Park at night? I wouldn't go in
there after dark unless I had a cop with me! In the daylight, no
problem--a lot of hustlers score with johns cruising the park, even
now. But after sundown they work the safe bars on Amsterdam or
West End. I can't think of any stud who'd take a chance in the
park at night nowadays. I know it used to be different. Why?"
"I have a suspicion about that murder. You've just made it
stronger. Thanks."
"You think a sadist was pretending to be a hustler--like you
said I was, last time we talked after Beltane?"
Benedict smiled at the recollection. "I did say that, didn't
I?", he asked. But he didn't answer David's question.
David shrugged. "You're welcome for whatever I said." They
walked a few paces more in silence. Then David asked, "Last month
you told me you could make a religious ritual out of any sex act--
even rough and raunchy S/M. Well, I've told you about the action
I like. So you tell me how you could turn that into a ritual."
Benedict nodded. "Have you ever heard of flagellation as a
religious act--a sacrifice called penance?"
"Sure. In school I read how monks used to flog themselves.
--And they still have parades somewhere where men whip themselves
until the blood runs down their backs."
"The Philippines, on Good Friday," answered Benedict. "But
flagellants aren't masochists--they're penitents suffering a degree
of martyrdom for their spiritual development. Flagellants may also
whip each other--so as to hit harder and longer--and often flog the
bare buttocks in the privacy of their commune, for medical safety.
Some of the penitents might secretly enjoy whipping a Brother, I
suppose, but it's not overtly sexual."
"But to witches it is?" asked David.
"Why not?" answered Benedict. "We see sex as a cosmic force
that creates life, and we believe that sexual energy and psychic
energy are one and the same, operating on two different planes of
existence. So a religious flagellant and your john up near Central
Park are both using the same cosmic energy--but for your john it's
merely a pleasure trip on the material plane."
"Do you like being whipped as a sex act?"
"I haven't been punished like that since fraternity-hazing
days--and we never talked about the implicitly sexual aspect of it.
We simply accepted it--as I would accept it from you."
"Do you have any whipping equipment?"
They had reached Benedict's shop, and Benedict paused to work
the electronic combination lock that raised the burglar gate which
protected the front of the store at night. "Yes, as a matter of
fact--a rim seat, too. It's all in a special room in the basement,
waiting for the right time and right partner. Let's have a drink
first, and then we can go downstairs, if you'd like to see it."
"I sure would!" They were inside, and Benedict again worked a
combination lock that lowered the gate again. "How would you get
out in case of a fire?" David asked.
"Kitchen door on the side alley. That's how I take the trash
out. There's another gate for security, of course."
They walked through the shop to the curtained archway at the
rear. "This is where I spend most of my time when I'm not working.
The hallway has stairs down to the basement--there's a big eat-in
kitchen at the rear, and a bath behind this wall." David looked
around the room with curiosity.
"Just a studio?" asked David. "How could another man fit in
here?" He sounded dubious as he seated himself on the sofa.
Benedict walked to the liquor cabinet which held a variety of
stemware. "This was originally the family room, and the sofa makes
into a bed we used for overnight guests. My wife and I had a big
room downstairs with its own bath. If you move in, I'll sleep down
there and you can sleep up here when you want to sleep alone."
Benedict poured two generous shots of cognac into snifters and
carried them back to the sofa. "I know the house could use some
new furniture. I'd like a marble table in the kitchen for food
preparation, and more contemporary things here--but I don't have
time to redecorate, and since I live alone I don't bother." He
handed a snifter to David. "The sofa and recliner chair were my
parents' originally--all good when they were new, but getting
shabby now. If you ever decide to move in, we might do the place
over for both of us to enjoy."
David nodded appreciatively as he savored the aroma of the
cognac. "I'll show you the rest of the place after we enjoy our
brandy. Blessed be, David."
David smiled and answered, "Blessed be, Benedict."
His hand cradling the snifter to warm the cognac, David raised
it to his nose to again inhale the intoxicating vapor. "We were
interrupted by the waiter at the restaurant," he said. "Let's
finish what we were talking about then."
"I was about to. I asked you how rough and raunchy you'd
enjoy going with me, and how often--just so we understand each
other, and not be surprised after we make a deal. I said you may
flog me whenever you want, as much as you want, on condition that
it is on the buttocks only--to be safe and sexual--and I will
submit to all the toilet sex you want me to take. In fact, I'm
willing to take everything you said you did to your Columbus Avenue
john last Friday--as often as you want to. So let's lay our cards
on the table. How far do you want to go with me, and how often?
Up front. No secrets. No guilt trips. Tell me."
David took a sip of his cognac and rolled it around on his
tongue before he swallowed it and answered.
"Benedict," he said at last, "I'll have to admit I like it so
much I'm afraid I might get carried away and almost kill you. I
really love to whip a man! I like being a young stud who dominates
and humiliates an older cock-sucker! I like to make his butt turn
from white to pink to crimson, and then start to bleed! I like
seeing his tears, and hearing his screams, and laughing when he
begs me for mercy! I like having his life in my hands--it's a real
trim for me, because I'm a real sadist.
"I told Mark about this--he's another actor who shares our pad
on West Fourth Street, and he hustles too, sometimes. In fact, you
saw him once. He's the redhead who found me in Stacy's on Beltane
and told me about the phone call from Jacobi. Mark has studied
psychology, and he says I'm a heavy sadist for older johns because
psychologically I want to punish my dad for raping my mother and
never knowing I'm his son. Would you agree with that?"
Benedict smiled. "Anything is possible. The truth is in your
own head. Answer this question for me. If you ever met your real
father--the sailor who raped your mother and conceived you--would
you enjoy beating him the way you beat your johns?"
"You'd better believe it! I couldn't hurt him enough! He'd
have my shit coming out of his ears!" He shrugged, and went on.
"I've never told anyone else this, but you're a special man to me.
I could hurt a john that bad with no hangups at all--I really like
it! But I don't think of you as a john. I'd be hot to whip you,
and all the rest of the scene--but I'm afraid I'd go too far."
Benedict nodded. "I know your horoscope, David. And I'm not
afraid you'll go too far. In fact, you might not go far enough.
In that respect I know you better than you know yourself. That's
how I know I can trust you with my life." He finished his cognac,
set the glass aside, and then knelt at David's feet.
"Please, David," he said, "I beg you to do it all to me, just
the way you did it to your john last weekend--as often as you want.
Just for the sexual pleasure it will give you. I'll explain the
how and why to you another time. It's not important that you know
it right now. The only important thing is that you get sexual
kicks from hurting a man who's at your mercy--and there are no stop
words. If I beg for mercy, laugh at me! Whip me until I pass out
from the pain, if you would enjoy it." He touched his head to
David's boots. "Please," he said. "I'm begging you, David.
Please."
David hastily gulped down his own cognac. "Shit! I'm all
mixed up again! I was just teasing you, but now you're down on
your knees begging me to whip your ass until you faint, and saying
you'll be my toilet and all the rest of it! You shouldn't have
said that! You're getting me hot to do a super heavy scene on you
and make your ass bleed for me!"
Benedict continued to press his head against David's boots.
"Please, David," he repeated. "Please. I mean it. Please."
David stood up. "Okay, you asked for it, Benedict! But just
remember this--to you it's a religious ritual, because that's your
scene! Some day I might get into that aspect of S/M, but right now
I'm just a sadist out for fun! I don't care if you have a psychic
experience from it or not, because I'm still down on the sexual
plane, and I admit it! If you can accept that, maybe we can do
something for each other.
"If you have any limits, let's set them now, because once I
have you tied down it'll be too late to stop--and I mean it! Do
you want to think it over for a day or two?"
"It's not necessary. You've already said you'll torture me on
the ass only--that's a limit to keep it medically safe. And as
long as you keep in shape and eat right--and don't pick up any
intestinal disease or parasite--toilet sex is safe enough. My only
taboo is diarrhea to any degree. So let's just agree on the
basics. We'll lead double lives. On the other side of this drape,
we're dad and son. On this side you're my Master and I'm your sex
slave--all the way--no faking--totally real."
"Agreed. Anything else?"
"A few things. In the special room downstairs, we talk as
little as possible. You concentrate on getting your sexual kicks,
and I concentrate on converting your sexual energy into psychic
form--I'll explain it some time. The point is that before we go
into that room we both know exactly what you're going to do to me,
and once you begin there's no mercy. If you need to communicate
anything, keep it brief."
"Agreed."
"A couple of minor points. I don't smoke, but you are free to
use either tobacco or grass in moderation. How much do you smoke?"
"A little grass once in a while, but mostly cigars. A lot of
johns think a cigar makes me look butch--and, of course, they're
good for burning a guy's butt!" He rose and peeled off his jacket,
exposing a bare chest covered with curly black hair. He tossed the
jacket on the couch and sat down again, extending his booted feet
to Benedict.
"Take off my boots and lick my feet, slave," he commanded.
Benedict pulled on David's boots and slid them off. David
wore so socks, and his bare feet were sweaty and smelly. "Lick
them clean," David commanded. Benedict kissed each one, then
pressed them to his face and licked them thoroughly, using his
tongue to probe between the toes, and meticulously clean the soles.
At length David stood up again, unbuckled his belt, opened his
fly and pulled down his tight jeans. He wore no underwear, and his
body had a pungent aroma of stale sweat.
Benedict removed his glasses and dentures and began to strip.
David grew impatient.
"You're taking too long, slave!" he said--giving Benedict a
vicious slap across the face. The cheek turned crimson.
"Please don't do that again, Master," said Benedict quietly.
"That's not a sex act, is it? It's hostility or contempt."
David paused a moment and blinked. "I'm sorry," he said.
Benedict smiled. "Don't feel sorry--just don't repeat it.
You've always acted out fantasies in one-night stands, and didn't
think in reality terms. This is for real. Oh--two final points.
"If I faint, don't revive me. I'll explain why some other
time. Just let me come to naturally. And, last, never make empty
threats. Always say what you mean and mean what you say. We're
not playing make-believe games--we're creating our own special
reality."
Benedict paused to stare David straight in the eyes. "You
said that last Friday you gave your john an eight-hour flogging,
off and on, with no safe words, and toilet sex all the way. And
you said you want to abuse me the same way, with no mercy. So
that's the pleasure, or job, you have ahead of you now. An eight
hour flogging, if you can--unless I faint first--as hard as you can
possibly lay them on. And everything else."
David smiled grimly and cracked his knuckles for emphasis.
"You're asking for it. Okay," he said, "you'll get it!"
Benedict led the way downstairs to the large bedroom with its
own bath. Everything was clean, but clearly had not been used for
some years. The ceilings were also high, and there was not a sound
from the outside world, thanks to air conditioning to eliminate
windows, and heavy soundproofing. Benedict led David to a door
leading toward the front of the basement. With an inviting
gesture, he opened the door.
The special room, David saw at once, was a torture chamber,
with what was obviously a whipping horse, a toilet bench, an array
of ominous-looking whips, straps, canes, paddles and scourges--and
a table loaded with paraphernalia obviously designed for anal tor-
ment, including a large box of condoms. A jug of murky liquid,
labeled STRONG LINIMENT--USE ON BUTTOCKS ONLY! was full to the top,
with a shallow pan, a sponge and scrub brush beside it.
Benedict picked up a pair of leather ankle cuffs from the
table and handed them to David. "Can you put these on me, please,
Master, while I put on the wrist cuffs?" It took about two minutes
to fasten the strong restraints around Benedict's four extremities.
Next Benedict picked up a wide leather bondage belt and handed it
to David, who wrapped it around Benedict's waist while Benedict
fastened a bondage collar around his neck. Finally Benedict donned
a black leather bondage hood and pulled it over his head.
"After tonight we can save time by having me wear the harness
under my clothes during the day. There are seven chain snaps on
the whipping horse, and one snap fastens to each of the D-rings on
the harness." Before mounting the horse, he added, "Use any of the
whips you want as much as you want." Then he knelt on a padded
shelf on the horse, bent himself over the raised central support so
that he was jack-knifed with his buttocks high and in the perfect
position for overhead flogging, and nodded. "Fasten me tight," he
said, "and don't let me up until you're satisfied."
David quickly snapped the strong steel snaps to the wrist
cuffs, ankle cuffs, waist belt, and collar. Now Benedict was
absolutely helpless and at David's mercy.
David walked over to the array of flogging implements which
were hanging on the wall--all in matched pairs, and all obviously
unused. They were also extremely vicious torture instruments.
David smiled in appreciation of Benedict's design and construction.
They were certainly far more severe than anything David had seen in
the Village sex shops.
He finally selected one of the milder-looking floggers for a
start. It was one of a pair of what appeared to be riding whips,
but was nearly three feet long, and consisted of a length of half-
inch rubber hose reinforced with a flexible fiberglass rod.
He swung it through the air a few times to get the feel of it,
then took his place at one side, where he could raise the whip at
arm's length overhead and swing it down and across Benedict's bare
buttocks with all his strength. He grinned in anticipation.
"Okay, Penitent," he said, "here's the start of your eight
hours!" With that he gave Benedict's rump the first stroke, using
his martial-arts training to inflict maximum force with minimum
effort.
WHACK! Benedict felt nothing for a fraction of a second, but
during that moment saw a flash of white light as the pain impulses
reached his brain and overloaded his nervous system near the visual
synapses. Then the pain surged through Benedict's body in powerful
waves, and Benedict involuntarily gave vent to a shrill scream of
sheer agony at the unexpected severity of that powerful jolt.
WHACK! Benedict's screams blended into a long howl, as he
began to sob violently.
WHACK! David grinned, and continued his unhurried pace.
WHACK! Benedict's buttocks were now scarlet, and already a
trickle of blood began to ooze from still-invisible cuts.
WHACK! "Oh, no!" screamed Benedict. "I can't take it!"
WHACK! David continued to flog with a grim expression on his
face.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!...
By the count of fifty, Benedict's buttocks were bloody. David
set down the whip, shook the jug of liniment, and poured a little
into the shallow pan to soak the sponge. Picking up the sponge, he
rubbed it vigorously down Benedict's bleeding buttocks, from top to
bottom, as Benedict's howls of pain redoubled at the contact of the
mixture of wintergreen and red-hot peppers on exposed nerve ends.
Picking up the scrub brush, David dipped it into the liniment,
and then viciously scrubbed the liniment into each of Benedict's
torn buttocks. He grinned as Benedict's screams of pain shot up an
octave to become shrieks of hysteria.
"Stop! Stop! Stop! Please, David, stop!" Benedict begged.
He was sobbing uncontrollably.
David suddenly stopped, unsnapped Benedict's restraints, and
swore briefly. "This isn't going to work, Benedict! No way!"
"Why not, David? What's wrong?"
"You're not a masochist! You're not a faggot! You're a
virgin to S/M and you want me to give you the worst treatment I
could give a fag slave I don't give a shit about! Do you know how
much I'll hurt you if we go through with our deal? Hell, you'd
never survive it!"
"Let me prove myself to you, David!" pleaded Benedict. "Give
me a chance!"
"A chance! What kind of chance does a straight man have if
he's a virgin to gay sex, much less S/M? You want a chance? You
want me to treat you like a sadist would treat a masochist? Okay,
I'll give you a sample!"
His voice snapped Benedict to attention like the orders of a
military drill instructor. "Turn around, Benedict! Spread your
legs, bend over and grab that whipping horse to brace yourself!"
He was stroking his penis, which immediately swelled to a full nine
inches of stiff muscle. As Benedict assumed the position for his
first experience receiving sodomy, David opened a condom and rolled
it over his tumescent organ.
"Are you going to lubricate me?" asked Benedict quietly.
David grinned. "Sure, I'll lubricate you!" he said, picking
up a tube of Bengay from the table. "My condom is lubricated
already, but this will increase your stimulation!" With that he
inserted the nozzle up Benedict's rectum and gave the tube a hard
squeeze. "Don't make a sound," he warned, "or I may use one of
your dildos on you, too, for a couple of hours!"
Benedict gasped as his rectum throbbed from the Bengay, and he
felt David placing himself in position behind him.
"Don't let go of that horse!" ordered David. He picked up a
pear-shaped leather gag from the table. "Bite on this," he said.
"You'll need to, to keep from screaming again!"
Benedict obediently took the gag in his mouth and waited for
the pain of the first penetration. David maneuvered himself into
the best position for a direct assault on Benedict's anus, placed
the head of his penis gently in contact to make sure of success,
and then grabbed Benedict around the waist.
"This is going to hurt," he said, and suddenly thrust his
pelvis forward with all his strength, forcing his swollen penis
into Benedict's tight rectum, now burning from the ointment.
Benedict bit the gag and grabbed the whipping horse with
clenched hands, making loud moans of pain as David raped him with
deliberate cruelty--thrusting his penis all the way in at each
forward stroke, and pulling it all the way out with each backward
motion. In and out, in and out, all the way with every powerful
thrust. Benedict, who had never imagined how much anal sex could
hurt if the sodomist really wanted it to, managed to hold his
position as ordered, but sobbed as piteously as before.
David smiled to himself in satisfaction at Benedict's genuine
agony. Benedict's suffering brought out David's inner passions.
He was virile, aroused, and in no hurry to terminate his pleasure
with a quick orgasm. "Do you like being fucked, Benedict?" he
taunted. "Do you want it every night? Two or three times every
night?" He continued to fornicate as brutally as possible.
Benedict's sobs became quieter as the relentless assault on his
sphincters gradually forced them to relax just enough to accept
David's deliberate torture.
The rape lasted nearly thirty minutes before David allowed
himself to achieve his orgasm, which he did with loud moans of
pleasure. His passion spent temporarily, he withdrew his penis and
peeled off the condom to squeeze the semen on Benedict's face as a
gesture of humiliation.
"Well, at least you're not a virgin any more!" he laughed.
Then he turned and headed for the door.
Benedict hurried after him. "Please, David, don't go! Wait
a minute and listen to me! We've got to talk this out!"
David was grim. "What is there to talk out? You said you
wanted a super rough flogging, but you begged me to stop before the
first fifty with just a riding whip. You waid you wanted to be
fucked, and this was your first time. You said you wanted me to
make you drink my piss and eat my shit, and you've never done
either one. You've just got a fantasy about me, and you think it's
real. Well, it's not going to work--you ask for action you can't
take. What else is there to say?"
"Will you be fair enough to listen to what I say, David?"
asked Benedict quietly. "The problem isn't with you or me--it's
with the way we feel about each other.
"Suppose I was a john you cruised in a bar, and I told you I
had been married but was bisexual, and I'd be a faggot for you.
Suppose I told you I was curious, and I wanted you to give me all
the action you gave your trick last weekend, and I'd pay you five
hundred dollars for a weekend like it.
"Suppose I told you I didn't want any safe words, and if I
screamed and begged for mercy, I wanted you to laugh at me and keep
going the full eight hours. And all the rest. Force me to drink
your piss, and whip me as much as you had to to make me eat your
shit.
"Suppose all of this, and suppose you'd never seen me before,
and wouldn't see me again. It would be a one-time scene, but I
wanted you to make it as rough as you wanted, whether I liked it
or not. Would you do it to me then?"
David was pulling on his jeans. "You bet your ass I would!"
he laughed. "But you're not a john I cruised in a bar."
"You cruised me in Stacy's on Beltane," Benedict reminded him.
"Yes, but that was before you helped my mother and me," David
said. "And before I got to know and respect you, like the dad I
never knew."
"That's what I'm talking about, David. The problem isn't that
I'm a virgin to S/M but the fact that--" he paused, "--we care for
each other. Isn't that so?"
"Yes. I've said so, haven't I?"
"You have, indeed. I think it's obvious that, deep down in
our hearts, we both love each other to some degree. But love can
take many forms: romantic love, dad-son love, and Master-slave
love."
David was stepping into his boots. "And you want to combine
dad-son and Master-slave?" he asked. "How could we have both kinds
of love--if that's what it is?"
"It's a small problem," admitted Benedict, "but I think the
solution is to shift the emphasis in our relationship. Instead of
being dad and son full time, and Master and slave part time, we'll
need to be Master and slave all the time, and dad and son just some
of the time--only when we're working, or in public. And as Master
and slave, our deal is no safe words, no mercy--but you honor my
limits, as you agreed to. If I'm a virgin, tough luck. If you
hurt me, too bad--I might need first aid after a session, but never
surgery.
"You let your love for me get in the way. You backed out on
your half of the deal--which was to show me no mercy. You said
you were a real sadist, but you couldn't make good on your promise.
That was another cop-out. The deal you agreed to was that you'd
always say exactly what you mean and mean exactly what you say,
with no empty threats and no bluffing. Well, you chickened out,
David--you talked a tough scene, but couldn't deliver the goods.
What kind of sadist are you?"
David turned pale, then he scowled in anger. "Well, shit!",
he exclaimed. "You're the one who begged me to stop, and I'm the
chicken?" He had pulled on his leather jacket--the handcuffs still
dangling from the left shoulder strap. He paused, and his lip
curled in a sneer.
"Okay, Benedict," he said at last. "You said you want another
chance to make it work--right? Okay. But not tonight. I'm turned
off, so I've got a few orders for you, and you'll have a day to
decide what you want to do. Write a list down on a piece of paper,
now." Benedict had a notepad and ballpoint pen handy, and nodded.
"Tomorrow you'll buy a can of lighter fluid. I'll use it to
burn the skin off your ass before I whip you tomorrow night. And
get a pack of five cigars--cheap ones are good enough, because I'm
going to use them just once in a while to burn my initials in your
ass--what's left of it.
"You'll go to a hardware store and get a soldering iron and a
spool of solder I'm going to melt and drip on your ass--and get
some long sharp pins or needles from a sewing store I'll stick in
your buns. A few hundred at least.
"You said your only taboo in toilet sex is diarrhea. Well,
I've got news for you. I've had diarrhea exactly three times in my
life since I grew up--every time from food poisoning. Usually I
shit twice a week--three times at the most. My john on Columbus
Avenue ate part of a two-day load last Friday night, and I haven't
dumped since then. So tomorrow I'll have a four-day load saved up
for you! And you'll eat every lump of my four-day dump before I
stop torturing you--get that straight!"
He unsnapped his left shoulder strap and removed the hand-
cuffs, which he tossed on the sofa. "I'm leaving my cuffs here now
--to remind you. I'll be back tomorrow night before you close up,
and I'll either pick them up and go home for good if that's what
you want--or I'll spend tomorrow night here, working you over the
way you say you want a sadist like me to work you over. If you get
the stuff, I promise you I'll give you the works tomorrow night--
and another session on Friday! I promise you your ass will be raw
meat when you leave for Ithaca next Sunday!
"But if you take it all for me this time, I'll go this far for
you. I'll give up hustling this week, to start working in the
store, and study with you when I don't have a job in show business.
You'll be my boss and teacher in the store and my slave back here,
and I'll use you just like you asked for!
"I'll live on West Fourth Street until I give up show business
for good. Then I'll move in here--as your Master always, but your
son in public. Now it's your decision. You decide before eight
o'clock tomorrow night. I'll be back then for your answer. I'm
leaving now. How do I get out through the kitchen?"
"This way, David," said Benedict, leading the way. "I'll see
you tomorrow at eight. Blessed be!"
David turned at the door. "Blessed be, Benedict!" he
answered.
Benedict saw him close the outer gate to Christopher Street,
then stepped inside, sighed, and started to put the sitting room
back in order for the night.
HECATE'S OFFERINGS
Conclusion
by Kirk Brothers
All Rights Reserved
Characters Copyright 1990 in "Night of the Coven"
The "cult killing" was still in the headlines the next morning
--the victim had been identified from fingerprints taken from the
amputated hands. His name was Carlos Sanchez--a Colombian national
who had done time for drug trafficking--a million dollars' worth of
street cocaine--in Florida. His last known address was in the
Cuban community of Miami.
Newspapers seized on this new information to speculate that
Sanchez was a supplier of drugs to Satanist cults, who were alleged
to be heavy users of narcotics and mind-altering chemicals of all
kinds. It was theorized that he had been killed either because he
failed to deliver promised drugs, or perhaps to avoid paying him
for drugs he had supplied. When he read the latest news reports,
Benedict smiled grimly.
He did a few errands before opening the store, and the day
passed slowly, with a steady but small clientele of faithful cus-
tomers dropping in to admire the colorful merchandise offered.
At about four o'clock the door opened to the jingle of its bells,
and Diane Stone entered. She had appeared last night be be about
twenty-five years old, but after a careful scrutiny by light of day
Benedict now placed her age at closer to thirty-five. Last night
she had worn tailored dress, and had taken copious notes during his
lecture. Now she was in a business suit, with a purse that matched
her shoes.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Benedict," she began. "Do you remember
me from the discussion last night?"
"I do, indeed. It's Miss Diane Stone, isn't it? What may I
do for you? I had the impression you weren't too interested in
witchcraft."
"Oh, I'm interested," she protested, "but not a convert, if
you know what I mean. I happened to be in the neighborhood, and I
thought I'd stop in for a moment to talk, as you invited us to do.
You see, I live up near Central Park, and I'm terribly anxious
about that murderer."
"Murderers," corrected Benedict. "Oviously there were two or
more."
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Carlos Sanchez was a convicted drug trafficker. He was not
taking a pleasure stroll in Central Park at midnight. Or meeting
a hustler for sex. Nobody does any more. So he went there on
business--I don't care to speculate on the exact nature of his
business, but he was no novice at crime. He must have been armed,
and he would never have let only one person overpower him and tie
him to a tree. So there had to be two or more."
"Of course. It's an obvious deduction."
"There are a few others one could draw," said Benedict drily.
"Have you thought of communicating with the police?" she
asked. "Do you remember a man named Peter Hurkos?"
"The Dutch clairvoyant? Certainly. Hurkos was called upon by
police departments in a number of European nations to help on their
unsolved mysteries, using his psychic gifts. Some cases he helped
solve--on others he could give no help at all. That's the way it
is with a real psychic. Sometimes it works, sometimes not."
"But if you have ideas that might help solve the case," she
said, "don't you feel you ought to at least write police a letter?"
"I think I'd be written off as a 'harmless crank'--but let me
ask you a question, Miss Stone. You took many notes during my talk
yesterday. I presume you remember when I briefly mentioned my
Master's degree in Anthropology?"
She wrinkled her nose, as if trying to remember. "Oh, yes,"
she said at last. "From Indiana University in Bloomington."
"Absolutely correct," said Benedict. "But I'm afraid your
memory has played a trick on you--as I have. You see, I did not
mention my Master's degree last night."
She looked at him blankly.
"Yet you knew I had one, and the school and its city. That
means you have access to a dossier on me--obviously, a police file.
So my question to you, Miss Stone, is why the police are curious
about me. Last night there were two other police officers in the
audience--at the rear--one man in his thirties, and the other about
fifty. They sat with their arms folded, which is a bit of body
language showing a defensive or hostile attitude. Symbolically
hiding behind crossed arms. They were watching the audience, not
me. Yet here you are, and now I ask again, Miss Stone, what do the
police want of me?"
She had been biting her lip during Benedict's speech, and now
she flashed a rueful smile. "I underestimated you, Mr. Benedict.
Just as I had underestimated your dedication to your religion. I'm
here today because the identification of the body throws the case
into an entirely different light. We have ourselves discarded the
cult-murder idea. And since you showed a very keen mind when you
demonstrated why it wasn't a cult killing, I thought you might have
some other ideas that might indirectly benefit our investigation.
To be frank with you, Mr. Benedict, we have physical evidence that
there were in fact at least two men involved in the murder--perhaps
a third. Do you have anything else you would care to share with us
--or with me as an individual?"
"Are you on duty now, Miss Stone?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then I am talking to a representative of the police
about a matter of police business, and what I say has a certain
degree of privilege in the event that I make any observations which
someone might construe as libelous. I may say indeed that I have
had certain 'hunches' or 'psychic impressions' about this case from
the first reports. And I believe I could name one of the three men
involved in the crime, but I have no evidence whatseover.
"Nevertheless, if you wish me to play Peter Hurkos and give
you my impressions, I will do so. But remember, I can only surmise
that evidence will be found to support my ideas--once you know what
person is to be investigated. The ways and means of such an
investigation are clearly within your expertise, not mine.
"There are several questions I think are significant. The
first is why did the murder take place in Central Park? The second
is why did Sanchez go there? And the others all deal with the
sordid details of his murder. You remember the tattoo of Hecate
that started the rumor that this was a Satanist cult murder."
"Yes, because she was the goddess of hell."
"No. She was the goddess of Hades."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"No. Hell is a Christian concept of eternal fire and damna-
tion. Hades is ancient Greek mythology, and it's the abode of the
dead." He paused for emphasis. "Also known as the Underworld."
Diane Stone raised her brows.
"So I suspected from the start that the victim was not a
member of a cult, but a member of organized crime--very much like
a secret society within the underworld, the members of which wear
a distinctive tattoo for to mark them as members of their special
brotherhood. And then the facts which have been so widely
published took on an entirely different light.
"As you well know from your profession, the criminal codes of
some nations--those of Islamic persuasion especially--are extremely
cruel. It is the law there that a thief is punished by the removal
of the hand which has stolen. The amputation is performed by an
execution, not a surgeon, and publicly--as a warning to other
potential thieves. The criminal underworld also has severe punish-
ments for those who break the rules.
"I have no evidence, but can only infer that Sanchez' eyes
were removed because they had seen too much--his tongue removed
because he had talked to the wrong people--and his hands removed
because he had stolen from the mob. Perhaps the million dollars'
worth of cocaine for which he served time. There is no pardon in
the criminal mind.
"As for the amputation of the genitals--that I believe to be
simple sadism: an act of blood lust by the torturer who relished
his power over his victim, and inflicted that final agony simply
for the pleasure of making Sanchez suffer as much as possible. And
at last Sanchez finally allowed to die, by being strangled slowly.
I'm sorry--are you ill, Miss Stone?"
She shook her head. "I'm all right. You just reminded me of
the morgue photographs, that' all."
"My apologies. But to get back to the murder, Sanchez's death
was, I believe, a gangland execution. But if so, why was it done
in Central Park? Why wasn't Sanchez simply kidnapped and disposed
of secretly and privately? I believe it was intended as a warning
to all other men whose arms bear the tattoo of Hecate that the
punishment for violating their code is the fate Sanchez suffered
last weekend.
"Now, Sanchez' hands were cut off because he had stolen, if my
theory is correct. But the killers certainly knew his fingerprints
were on file. So, why did they not dispose of the hands elsewhere,
to delay the body's identification and help cover their escape? I
believe the answer is they wanted his identity to be publicized--it
was necessary that his fate be widely known, if other Hecate
society members were to be warned by his death.
"Now, Sanchez had to be lured to his death by some bait--the
nature of which we may never know--but the fact is the bait worked,
and he went to his death last Friday night." He paused to collect
his thoughts. "Which leads to another question. Why was the body
moved from the tree where he was killed to the bridle path? Again,
if the killers wanted time to escape, the longer they could delay
discovery of the body the better. But they untied the body from
the tree which was hidden in deep shrubbery and dragged it along
the path found by the bloodhounds to the riding trail. It was done
deliberately, so it must be important.
"I believe it was because they wanted the body to be found at
a time that would be most advantageous to them." He paused to see
if Miss Stone followed his train of reasoning.
She did not. "Why would it be advantageous to have the body
discovered by a rider at six in the morning?" she asked. Benedict
answered her with a question.
"Would you go into Central Park at night, alone?" he asked.
"Not for all the money in Citibank," she answered promptly.
"I asked someone else I know that same question. He has a
belt in Kung Fu--is a tough street fighter--and very strong. He
said he wouldn't do it unless he had a cop with him."
"So?"
Benedict was now most careful in choosing his words.
"Imagine if you will, Miss Stone, a rogue cop in New York
City. One on the payroll of the underworld. A cop who can meet
Sanchez--perhaps as a member of the group Sanchez plans to see--or
perhaps to falsely arrest Sanchez, handcuff him, and deliver him,
helpless, to his waiting executioners. A cop who acted as lookout,
probably, not taking part in the actual killing, since he doesn't
want any trace of his presence if possible--until the body is
discovered.
"Then Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas will ride back with a
horrified citizen on horseback to officially discover the body,
start the rumor of a cult killing, and trample over ground he had
previously covered--just in case the bloodhounds picked up his
scent. Thomas came on duty at midnight, and would be relieved at
eight. So the body had to be found during his shift, when he could
be on hand to plant the idea of a cult murder in news stories, and
misdirect the investigation.
"Those are my 'hunches', Miss Stone. I now forget them--I
have communicated them to an officer of the law, and what you do
with them is your concern."
Diane Stone's expression was one of stunned surprise. "I'll
keep your remarks absolutely confidential," she promised, "and I'll
consider relaying them to my superiors. That's all I can say.
Thank you, Mr. Benedict."
"Not at all. Blessed be."
At seven forty-five the bell on the door jingled again, and
David entered, wearing the same jeans, jacket and boots he had worn
the night before. The store was empty except for Benedict behind
the counter.
"Blessed be, slave!" said David as a greeting.
"Blessed be, David," answered Benedict--and he raised a hand
as David opened his mouth to speak in reply. "The store is open
for business, and we're on this side of that curtain. In back of
this room, I'm your slave and you're my Master, but on this side of
the drape--and anywhere outside the shop--we're Benedict and David
for another fifteen minutes. Your agreement," he said with a
smile.
David laughed. "Okay. I was just testing you." His voice
was overly-casual. "I came by to pick up my handcuffs. You'll
remember I left them here last night for safe-keeping." His eyes
met Benedict's like bullets. "Do you have a sick headache tonight,
Benedict?"
Benedict suppressed a smile. "No, I feel fine," he said,
"except when I sit down." His tone was a casual as David's. "A
man I know said that scabs on the rump give one an active memory
for how they were acquired." David's mouth turned up at the
corners, but he said nothing. Benedict went on. "I'll have to
test the truth of that for myself, won't I?"
"Where are my handcuffs, Benedict?" asked David pointedly. "I
said I'd be back to pick them up."
Benedict nodded. "I have them right here under the counter to
give to you. They're in a box with a few other things you wanted."
He reached under the cash register and brought up a small
cardboard curtain containing an odd assortment of merchandise.
Benedict withdrew the handcuffs and held them up to view. "Your
handcuffs," he said, returning them to the carton, and pulling out
the next item.
"You ordered a can of lighter fluid, but didn't specify the
brand or size, so I bought four cans, large and small of each of
the two brands, so you have your choice and we don't run out too
soon. I also picked up a big tube of Bengay, since you opened one
last night."
"You ordered a soldering iron and spool of solder, but the
solder was cheap, so I got a second spool while I was there. I
also picked up two packs of cigars we can keep fresh in the icebox,
and while I was picking up pins in the sewing store I got a box of
map pins with every color head available, in case you would like to
make designs of an artistic nature to photograph--and a few boxes
of sewing-machine needles in different gauges.
"Oh, while I was in the hardware store, I thought a few sheets
of sandpaper on a small block of wood might come in handy for odd
jobs you wanted to do. You'll have your choice of extra-coarse,
medium, and extra-fine grit, if you want to sand rough corners off
anything." Benedict, still smiling, returned the box to its place
under the cash register. "Did I miss anything?"
David's handsome face slowly broke into an ominous smile that
managed to convey cruelty, desire, and sexual passion all at once.
He rubbed his hands together slowly as though washing them, relish-
hing the situation. "That was very thoughtful of you," he said.
"I promise you I'll use everything--though not all of them tonight,
or any one night, of course. But I promise you they will all be
used on you at some time or other, and I will enjoy every tear and
scream! I remember you wrote down your shopping list on one of
those little scratchpads you have everywhere. Do you still have it
handy?"
"Yes, here it is," said Benedict, retrieving it and standing
ready to write in it.
"From now on you'll keep that notepad handy at all times.
Whenever you disobey me I'll tell you to write down your offense as
I dictate it--and how many demerits you get for each one. Put down
the date every time, and once a week after the shop is closed we'll
go downstairs for a nice long session, and we'll work off your de-
merits for that week at so many whacks on the cheeks you like to
have whacked! Five hundred demerits--five hundred whacks. I'll
use my studded belt on you, full force, and my choice of any of
your own toys downstairs. You get the point?"
Benedict nodded. "Like a fraternity pledge's notebook," he
said, smiling. "Any Brother could penalize any pledge for anything
at any time. Ten demerits for this, fifty for that, and on Pledge
Night every pledge was paddled by every Brother according to his
sins for that week."
"Yes," said David. "Maybe ten licks for minor violations, or
fifty for serious ones. My scale is a little higher--one hundred
for the first offense, five hundred for the second time you annoy
me, and a thousand for the third count on anything. Friday nights
we'll go to bed as late as we need to, because your bill has to be
paid in full every week, Benedict. No matter if it's ten thousand
or more." He grinned. "I'd rather whip ass than eat--almost.
Remember that."
Benedict nodded obediently. "I'll remember, David."
"Your first order, for the record. In this room we talk man
to man, so David is permissible. In our private world David is not
permitted, unless I call you Benedict or dad first. Is that
clear?"
Benedict raised a hand in question. "Is the word 'sir' also
acceptable in addressing you--and is 'Master David' also permis-
sible, so as to show obedience and respect but also intimacy? We
will be rather intimate, after all!"
"If your tone of voice is respectful, 'Master David' or 'sir'
will be acceptable. Sarcasm or lack of respect in any way will be
punished as insubordination. Severely. Isn't it time to lock up?"
"Five minutes more, David. In our man-to-man relationship in
this room, or outside, we may certainly discuss our Master and
slave relationship, I trust. So if anything is causing a problem
for either of us, we must finish the scene if at all possible but
be able to have a frank talk, as we did last night, to resolve any
problems. Last night you resolved it by leaving your cuffs here
and ordering me to pick up these items and have them now if I was
willing to accept the punishment you dictated verbally.
"We had previously agreed that before we went downstairs I
would always know exactly what was in store for me, because you
would always say exactly what you mean and always mean exactly what
you say. So now, David, as man to man, what will you try to do to
me tonight?"
Benedict's deliberate use of the word "try" provoked an
immediate glare from David's piercing eyes. Then he smiled again,
very slowly, with a sensual and yet cruel expression on his face.
"I'm not going to just 'try', Benedict! I did a lot heavy
thinking today about you and me, and I think I've got my head on
straight now. I'm going to do everything I did to my john last
Friday--only more of it. Doing it to him was fun--but just a
paying job. Doing it to you will be putting you and me in our
right places for the rest of our lives together. It's important to
get your head straight, and my own, on what we mean to each other.
So I'm not going to abort the scene again tonight. I'm going to
hurt you, Benedict! I won't harm you seriously, but you won't
believe how much I'm going to hurt you until you feel it! It will
be awesome, I promise you!"
The clock chimed the hour. "It's eight o'clock," he said.
"Lock up!" He picked up the carton with his handcuffs and the
torture supplies, and walked through the curtained archway into the
sitting-room behind. Benedict walked to the front door, worked the
combination that lowered the burglar gates over the front door and
windows, and switched off the overhead lights. The window display
would be illuminated until midnight by its own timer.
When Benedict stepped through the drape into the private room,
David was still fully dressed and inspecting the lighter fluid.
"From now on you strip first, slave," he said. "You have thirty
seconds to get naked, and have your clothes hung up and put away
and your glasses off and dentures out, ready for action." He
looked at his wristwatch. "Starting now."
Benedict hurriedly peeled off his customary black turtleneck
shirt--a "trademark" for him--revealing his wrist cuffs and slave
collar already buckled tightly in place. He loosened his belt as
he kicked off his shoes, and peeled down his trousers, displaying
his wide bondage belt already fastened around his waist. He
stepped out of them and pulled off his socks, revealing his ankle
cuffs. He was wearing only jockey briefs as he pulled out his
dentures to put in a glass of water, and removed his glasses.
"Time!" called David. "You're on penalty time now, slave, so
keep going and snap it up!" Benedict nodded, and continued to
disrobe. He was totally nude, glasses and dentures and clothing in
hand, in fifteen seconds more. He flung open the left-hand closet
door and hurriedly hung up his clothing as ordered. Then he raced
to the kitchen to put his dentures in water. He picked up a
scratchpad from the table and returned to David.
"I'm ready, sir," he said, pad and ballpoint pen ready. "I'm
writing now, June fifteen, failure to disrobe in thirty seconds.
What is the penalty, sir?"
"That's not your demerit book, slave!" said David. "I have it
here with the stuff you bought from the store. Substitutes are not
acceptable--write your offense again on this one." Benedict did
so, while David looked at his watch again. "Sixty-five seconds in
all, or thirty-five seconds penalty time at one hundred whacks per
second. That's three thousand five hundred--so far--for Friday."
Benedict wrote hurriedly on the notepad. "I'm sorry, sir,"
he said. "What may I do for you now?"
"Take off my clothes, shit head! Slowly and respectfully, and
hang them up properly!"
"Yes, Master," answered Benedict, and helped David slip out of
his leather jacket. As usual, David wore no shirt, and his subtly
erogenous body odor suggested he had not showered since his last
visit. Benedict opened the right-hand closet and took a hanger
from the empty clothes bar inside. David's jacket was now the
first article in his own closet. David was sitting patiently
waiting. "Pull off my boots and lick my stinking feet clean," he
ordered. "That's standard."
"Yes, Master." Benedict put the boots in the closet, and
repeated the humiliating but sensual ritual of slobbering over
David's sweaty feet and licking them clean with his tongue.
"Now take down my pants--very respectfully," ordered David,
standing. Benedict at once unbuttoned David's waistband and
unzipped the fly. As he peeled the tight jeans off David's loins,
David's penis, already stiff with anticipation, popped into full
view.
Benedict ignored David's organ, and pulled the jeans to the
floor. "Could you please step out of them, sir?" he asked in a
respectful tone.
David did so, and when Benedict had hung up the jeans in the
closet, David handed him his demerit pad.
"Write this down. 'Failure to show respect by kissing my
Master's naked erect penis when stripping him.'" Benedict wrote
down David's words with a smile on his face.
David spoke again. "Add this offense. 'Smiling when ordered
to write down the preceding order.'"
Benedict wrote without smiling. "May I ask what the penalties
will be, Master?" he asked.
"Yes, you may. For failure to show respect to my cock by
kissing it, you get five hundred more. For ridiculing me by
smiling when you wrote down my order, add a thousand more."
"A thousand!" gasped Benedict in dismay.
"Make that two thousand," said David. "Your answers to me
will be respectful at all times. You will accept my word as law,
not to be questioned. Do you understand, slave?"
Benedict swallowed. "Yes, sir." he answered.
"Now, how many demerits have you earned so far for us to work
off on Friday night?"
Benedict quickly reviewed the brief list of offenses so far.
"It comes to six thousand so far, sir."
"Very good, slave. We should run it up to well over ten thou-
sand before the evening is over. Now, come over here and stand
very close to me, face to face and eye to eye."
Benedict did so. David was now fixing his almost hypnotic
gaze into Benedict's eyes.
"Never forget one thing, slave," said David. "When we have
anything important to say to each other, as man to man, we do it
like this--full eye contact. No evasion. Straight with each other
all the way. If we're making casual conversation or playing games
with your demerit book, eye contact doesn't matter. But for
anything important we have to say to each other, nothing else is
okay.
"I'm going to say something now I might never say again. But
I'm saying it this one time because it's true." He wrapped his
strong arms around Benedict and drew Benedict to him in a tight,
warm embrace. "I'm going to kiss you, Benedict," he said.
He placed his sensuous mouth on Benedict's, probing inside
Benedict's lips--which at once opened to accept David's tongue deep
in the mouth. Benedict made quiet sounds of contentment as David's
deep kiss lasted a full twenty seconds or more.
At length David withdrew his tongue, almost reluctantly, and
looked Benedict in the eyes, with their faces almost in contact.
"I love you, Benedict," he whispered. "Never forget that--no
matter what I do to you downstairs--because I never will."
Benedict's eyes brimmed with silent tears.
"I love you too, David," he said.
David held the embrace nearly a minute before impulsively
pushing Benedict away. "Okay, slave!" he said in his tough voice,
"now we get down to business. You have eight hours of flogging
ahead of you, for one thing--and don't think what we just said will
get you off the hook for anything. Get your ass down to the base-
ment, and move fast! And take your demerit book with you--we might
need to add to it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At five o'clock the next morning, David finally unfastened
Benedict from the horse, and carried his limp and bloody body over
to a low bench with a foam pad. It was where Benedict was to be
laid if he ever passed out during a ritual--which he had not.
David placed Benedict gently on the cot on his stomach and
stepped over to the sink, where he soaked a sponge and cloth in
warm water, and picked up a towel.
Benedict was moaning quietly, in mild shock from the worst
physical punishment he had ever endured. David gently sponged the
blood from Benedict's buttocks, and washed the area with the cloth.
Benedict's eyes opened slightly and his voice was feeble but
perfectly coherent. His face was tear-stained and showed the
strain of the past eight hours of torment.
"Where's the first-aid stuff?" asked David. "I'll do what you
tell me--you're in no shape to do it yourself."
Benedict pointed to the shelf of remedies and dressings for
cuts and traumas. "Let me see it," he said, and pointed to three
of the vials and dropper bottles. "This one first, a drop on my
tongue for shock. It will bring my pulse and temperature back to
normal fast. That one to heal nerve damage and burns. That one if
the bleeding doesn't stop by itself soon. Once the bleeding stops
all I need is rest."
He closed his eyes as David quickly administered the simple
treatment. The color was back in his face by the time the last of
the lotions had been applied to his burned and lacerated buttocks.
Then he asked, "Can you take a piss again, Master?"
"Probably. I drank a lot of cranberry juice all day yesterday
so I'd have lots of it, and it's still working! You want to drink
another load?" he asked in mild surprise.
"If you can give it to me, Master, yes, please. I need fluid
right now because I'm still in shock. Piss is pretty much the same
thing as shock solution, and it's good enough for a slave, sir."
David felt the pressure in his bladder and grinned. "Okay,
slave. You get every drop, every load, every day and every night.
Open your mouth." Benedict obeyed. David's penis slid into
Benedict's receptive mouth for the fifteenth time in the past
eight hours, and David grunted as he released his urine at full
force. "Don't spill a drop," he warned, "or five hundred more
demerits!" Benedict didn't spill a drop.
"Thank you, Master," said Benedict, when David had emptied his
bladder. He sighed. "I'm very tired, Master. May I go to bed
now, please, sir?"
David smiled. "You may, slave. And we're sleeping together
in the big bed in the next room. Are you strong enough to stand up
and walk by yourself now?"
Benedict nodded, and together they walked to the room and the
king-size bed where Benedict had slept with his wife. David pulled
down the big cover. "From now on you sleep on her side," he said,
and Benedict obediently lay down on David's left side.
David lay beside him, and at once threw his right arm and leg
over Benedict in an act of male sexual possessiveness.
"I have something special to say to you, Benedict," said
David, with a new confidence and maturity in his voice.
"Yes, Master?" answered Benedict.
David smiled. "I called you Benedict," he said. "This is man
to man talk."
"I know, Master," said Benedict. "I just felt like calling
you Master, man to man, to see how it felt. I like it, somehow."
David smiled again. "And how does your ass feel, now that
it's all over at last?" Benedict winced.
"It's throbbing like a hive of bees," he said, "and I don't
think that liniment will ever stop burning entirely--but in a way
it's starting to feel sort of sexy, in a rough way."
"That's what all my johns have told me. It's awful while
you're getting it, but when it's over it starts to feel real good--
a few hours later. How would you like to have another session like
it tonight?"
Benedict took a quick hissing breath, like a suppressed cry of
dismay. He held his breath, paused slightly, and let out the air
in a sigh of resignation to fate. "Are you going to whip me again
tonight, Master?"
David chuckled. "I wasn't planning on it--I need to rest up
from last night. So you get a day's rest, too. Besides, if I whip
you too much too often you'll pass out on me, and that'll end the
scene too early." His tone was calm and friendly. "I want you to
stay conscious, so you feel everything I do to you. So I think
from now on we'll have two sessions a week--every Friday, to
fulfill your vows and knock you out with pain if you can faint--and
every Tuesday, to work off your demerits." He paused. "And any
time in between if I feel like it--special occasions." Again he
paused. "So Friday evening we have a date, and you already have a
string of demerits we can add to over the next week to set you up
for next Tuesday, or the first night you're back in town after your
visit to Ithaca."
He laid his head next to Benedict's on the big pillow and
spoke softly into Benedict's ear.
"Benedict," he said, "I figured out something else during our
session tonight. Something about you and me separately, and the
two of us as a team."
"Tell me, Master."
"I said I love you and I always will--even though we might not
discuss our real feelings very often. This is one time we have to.
This is what I figured out while I was beating the shit out of you.
"You're not gay. You're not a masochist. You're taking this
from me as an act of penance, for some spiritual reasons you'll
tell me about later, when I'm studying with you.
"I've whipped and raped and humiliated a lot of faggots and
masochists, Benedict. They all thought they loved me, but they
didn't. They were just faggots on a fantasy trip with a rough
hustler. They didn't love me, but I made them feel good when I
abused them, and they took it for their masochistic pleasure.
"You're not a faggot, and you're not a masochist--yet--but you
might become one if you start feeling good after I work you over.
The important thing is that you feel a spiritual love for me, and
you know I'm a sadist, so you're giving yourself to me as my slave.
"I know now you give yourself to me because you love me. And
I know now that's why I love you--because you've given yourself to
me. Does that make sense?" Benedict nodded.
"In this bed we're dad and son. You really love me, and I
really love you. And I'm going to prove it with a little mutual
love I'll never do for any other guy." He nudged Benedict. "Get
in the sixty-nine position."
Benedict at once twisted to face David, with his head toward
the foot of the bed. "Take it, Benedict," said David. Benedict
gratefully opened his mouth as David's penis, half erect again,
slid between his lips. Benedict felt David's warm, sensual mouth
around his own penis, which had not been so lovingly worshipped
since his marriage.
David gently licked and sucked Benedict's penis, feeling
Benedict performing the same erotic service on him. "Stop and
start when you feel like it," he said, "and I'll do the same--any
time during the night. It doesn't matter if we cum or not. The
important thing is we make gentle love to each other. You need
that after tonight--and for some reason I want to do it for you."
David snapped off the overhead light, leaving just a few dim
nightlights glowing to show electric switches. "Good night,
slave," he said, as he rubbed Benedict's back with his now gentle
hands and snuggled his face into Benedict's crotch.
"Good night, Master," answered Benedict, returning the embrace
and erotic stroking. "Sleep well."
"I will, slave," said David, "thanks to you." Benedict
grunted, and almost immediately fell asleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Friday evening Benedict, his buttocks raw and crusted with
scabs from Tuesday night's eight-hour flogging, fainted after the
first three hours and thirty-seven minutes of an equally-vicious
beating from David's strong arm.
David smiled to himself in satisfaction at his absolute domi-
nance over his older lover. He laid Benedict gently on the pad in
the dungeon and waited for him to come to.
When at last Benedict stirred and moaned, David asked, "Well,
slave, you fainted. Did the ritual work for you?"
Benedict shook his head. "No, Master. My medicine, please."
David handed him the first-aid kit.
"Tough shit, slave. You asked for it, and you got it. And I
got my kicks from knocking you out. So make up your mind. Do you
still think you can go through with this, full time for life?"
Benedict smiled weakly. "Yes, Master. And thank you, Sir."
David grinned back. "You've got a deal."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In Ithaca the following Monday, Benedict and his fellow Shaman
Paul were watching the late news on television. A story from New
York City was well covered. An internal police investigation had
incriminated a rogue cop, Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas, who had
been indicted for conspiracy in the gangland execution of Carlos
Sanchez in Central Park ten days ago. Thomas had given police
statements implicating two men now charged with the grisly murder.
A police spokesperson, Ms. Diane Stone, said that the rumors
of a cult killing had been started by Officer Thomas. However, an
undercover investigation of so-called witches in New York City had
established that witchcraft is merely a pagan religion which is
protected by the First Amendment. The police department regards
such witches as merely "harmless cranks".
"Thank you, Ms. Stone," said Benedict ironically. "At least
she didn't cite me as the source of her quotation."
THE END