AN AUTHOR'S NOTE (HARBOUR MASTER, Part 23)
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
FROM PETE BROWN
Many of you will perhaps recognise that "Harbour Master", that is to say "Steve's story", because that's what it really is, was not really written by Steve. I'm one of that band of people known as "ghost writers", who are employed by celebrities to "ghost" their autobiographies, turning conversations with the principals into "first person" narrative accounts of their lives. I also accept commissions from tabloid newspapers, to help fill their pages with stories like "My daughter ran off with my lover": again, these are "ghost written", as the people concerned are usually Ds and Es and are incapable of stringing words together.
I am writing this note to readers who enjoyed "Harbour Master" as I have had many, many requests asking "what happened next"? To me, it seems that "Harbour Master" is complete in itself - we see poor Steve, ill educated and low in the social scale, enslaved as the tale begins. By his own wit and ability he refashions his life so that he ends up with two handsome, virile slaves to serve him. To achieve the kind of wealth that Steve has, represented by the slaves, would in itself be a considerable achievement for a man starting from nothing. Starting as a slave, it is perhaps a tribute to the way in which strong men can achieve great things.
Like many authors, having made the moral point of the story, there seemed little reason to continue. As in Jane Austen's great novels, once the match has been made we do not need to know the details of the lives of the characters subsequently: the point of the plot is to show the trials and tribulations that the heroines experience as they search for "success" in their society, a society that devalued women in much the same way that the current US slave-owning society devalues slaves. Whilst I wouldn't compare my own writing with the extraordinary genius of Miss Austen, I feel much the same about "Harbour Master" as she probably did about her very few extraordinary novels: once the point has been made, and all the characters are at some sort of leaping off point for a new life, it's appropriate to stop.
I'm tired of my e-mail being clogged with requests for further information, however, and I am going to break one of my golden rules, by publishing this "supplement" to tell, to the best of my knowledge, the remaining story of Steve's life. But I have a problem, because of the circumstances in which I met Steve, and the way in which the original story was related to me. I simply do not have the detail that will enable me to give the "blow by blow" account of Steve's life that you have heard in the 22 chapters of "Harbour Master" that were published.
Whilst I'm sure that readers will be interested in what I do know, let me say now that this is all there is, and there is unlikely to be more. I will tell you about how I became "ghost writer" to Steve, and perhaps you will then understand why the remainder of the story is less complete.
A MEETING WITH STEVE
I was on a chair lift at Val D'Isere one February when it abruptly stopped half way to the top - some of those idiots who persist in taking trips up to the high glacier without the real ability to cope, I thought - they'd fallen at the top, or something. It's so tiresome, as it cuts down the time us expert skiers can spend on the piste.
The guy sitting next to me was clearly a good skier, too, as he had the finest quality equipment, the sort that you only invest in if you know you're going to be testing it to its limits. And I could see that he had a tough, muscular body and seemed to be one of those men who simply radiate fitness. As the delay continued, we began to speak and it was clear from his accent that he was an American - since the great crash there have been fewer and fewer Americans skiing in Europe, as the dollar/euro rate makes it prohibitively expensive for many. I suspected, therefore, that he had inherited wealth, and was living off the income from a trust fund.
He had a very easy, very confident manner, and I really enjoyed talking to him: we talked about the stuff all skiers do - opinions on the runs, the likelihood of good weather for the next few days, the prospects for good powder, and the qualities of the different ski schools if you wanted a one-to-one session for a hard day's off-piste. Like me, he was there by himself, and skiing alone - not a good idea, I know, especially if you need to confine yourself to the most difficult and challenging pistes in order to ensure your ability is tested to its maximum.
When the lift restarted and we reached the top, he asked if I wanted to ski with him down to the bottom, for a drink. I agreed, and even for me the run down was a challenge. He was the same very high standard as me, but his obvious supreme fitness enabled him to tackle and complete manoeuvres that were challenging and taxing with rather more style than I could - but I did keep up with him, and we arrived at one of the mountain restaurants almost simultaneously.
"That was a good run", he told me cheerfully. "I didn't think you'd make it in the same time as me."
"Oh, you know what they say", I replied jokingly, "Old age and experience is always a match for youth and enthusiasm". I don't suppose I was that much older than he was, anyway - he seemed to be in his early thirties, and I'm only in my forties.
Over our coffees - like me, he didn't take alcohol on the slopes as he didn't want his abilities impaired in any way - we talked about skiing, and we discovered that we were not only skiing alone, but were vacationing alone. Tentatively I asked him if he was interested in skiing with me for the rest of the day, and he readily agreed.
"I'd have asked you on the lift", he told me, "But I wanted to see you in action first. I don't like skiing alone, especially off piste, but I didn't want to be burdened with some guy whose abilities didn't almost match mine." Well what he said was true, of course - I'd thought of asking him myself on the lift, but had refrained from doing so in case he was just a rich poser who'd bought all the right gear but had no real idea how to use it. But it was his direct way of saying it that appealed to me: he'd accepted me as he'd seen that I could ski as he could, and he didn't see any reason to hide from me that this was the only reason why we were now sitting here together.
We had probably the best day's skiing I've ever had - when I go with a party of friends, there's always someone who isn't as good as the rest, and we always get held back waiting for him. With Steve, I simply skied and skied, as fast as I could, pushing the edge of my abilities all the time. We soon gave up simply racing downhill as it was just plain boring - we could both put our tips straight down the slope, bend our bodies into a crouch, and go down almost without stopping, needing only to swerve and turn occasionally as some idiot wavered from side to side on the piste in front of us. So we took ourselves off the piste, and raced trough the trees along those narrow "tram lines" left by earlier skiers: there's almost nothing to match that feeling of fear, is there, as you are skiing very fast, tips just behind the guy in front of you, the trees whipping past on both sides, and knowing that there's no way you could possibly stop if he had a problem?
As a variation, we went up in the highest lifts, then climbed higher and higher, our boots biting into the snow and our skis on our shoulders. This really was hard work for me, although Steve seemed able to cope with the climb, the weight of his skis, and the difficulty of the altitude almost without noticing it:
we were up beyond 3500 metres, and the air's thin - any hard physical exertion and your heart races and your lungs pant and gasp to try to suck in enough air (well, mine do!). Nothing beats the sheer exhilaration of starting down a virgin snow field, on a steep slope, knowing that at any moment you might start a small avalanche, does it? Steve and I swooshed out huge broad curves as we raced down, carving huge swathes through the un-pisted snow. It's hard work to climb up there, and it's over all too quickly, but it's worth it.
By mid afternoon I'd really had enough, but there was no way I was going to stop until Steve did. It was with a sinking heart that we caught the last lift up for one more run, and I don't think I've ever been more grateful to get down to the bottom in my life. As I stood there, I could feel my legs literally trembling after the exertion they'd been put through that day. But I was happy - deliriously happy - the sun, the snow, the challenge, all combined to make it one of those special days I'll remember for the rest of my life.
Steve was standing by me, leaning right forward in his skis so he was at almost 45 degrees to the ground - I know he was sending me a message saying "Look, my legs can still take it. You finished, sure, but I'm still ready for more!"
"Thanks for a great day's skiing", I told him. "You're good, Steve, really good. That's one of the best days out I've ever had."
"Well, you're not so bad yourself", he replied. "I like a challenge: if I'd been by myself today, I'd have taken it a lot easier, but I wanted to push you, to see how far you'd go, and that made me push myself, harder and harder."
We both laughed, and it was only later that I realised that this "pushing", and "challenge" were part of Steve's philosophy, his values, the things that shaped his personality.
"Can I buy you dinner tonight?", he asked me, and as I hate eating alone (and anyway had really taken a liking to the guy), I readily agreed. He didn't ask me what kind of food I liked or anything, but simply told me to be at his hotel at eight - looking back, I can again see his personality bleeding through: he just told me to be there at eight, and never questioned whether this was convenient, or if I'd prefer to meet somewhere else.
We skied off then, and I lay and soaked in a hot bath for an hour, trying to ease the ache in my muscles. Lying on the bed afterwards, resting, I leafed through the local tourist brochure and was interested to note that Steve's hotel as one of the most expensive, and even had a Michelin two star restaurant. This confirmed the view I'd formed from seeing his expensive equipment, that he was a "little rich boy" on a vacation to Europe - although his physical prowess had shown me that he certainly wasn't a poser!
I hadn't expected to eat in the two star restaurant, and although I'm OK financially, I don't usually think about spending that much money on a meal whilst I'm on a skiing holiday (when I'm already burning euros like they're going out of fashion!). Although I could order what I wanted, and Steve made no effort to interfere, he never asked me about the wine and when the sommelier arrived took the list, and ordered very quickly. He didn't even consult the guy, which is part of the "thing" about expensive restaurants, I suppose - just rapped out his choices and waved the man away as he clearly did not want further discussion. In hindsight, I recognise now that this was the real Steve in action, as usual.
When the white wine arrived I began to get worried: if I was sharing the bill, it would seriously damage my finances. Even more curious was the way in which Steve only drank half a glass of the stunning Puligny Montrachet - I had a glass or two, I suppose (you know how it's so difficult to tell in these top class restaurants, as the waiters refill your glass so easily and unobtrusively). It was the same with the Bordeaux - half a glass for Steve, and rather more for me!
We chatted about this and that all through the meal, nothing important, but I felt Steve was sizing me up all the time, trying to discover what sort of person I was. In my job you have a natural curiosity about people, of course - you couldn't listen to them talking away endlessly unless you did - and I was probing Steve, trying to find out more about him. He gave almost nothing away though, except to tell me he was in his early thirties, and that he was a "businessman" on vacation.
"So where's Mrs Steve?", I asked, half jokingly, as I was picking up those odd vibrations that you get when you're a gay guy and there's another man that you desperately fancy, talking to you.
"There was a Mrs Steve", he replied, laughing, "But that was a long time. We... We....", he hesitated for a moment, and went on "We broke up. And since then I've been alone. Well, you know... I have friends.... But no permanent relationship." Of course in the light of his story, as I learned it subsequently, the "broke up" bit related to the automatic breaking of all civil ties on his enslavement.
He looked at me then, very directly, and said "I've finished. Come with me to my room, as I need a fuck."
Well, it's not poetry, is it? I've been propositioned by lots of guys in my life, but no one before or since has ever been quite so abrupt. The change from the light conversation over diner to the "command" to go to his room was so sudden. And it wasn't even a "would you like to come to my room, and would you like to fuck?" - just an order to go with him, as he needed a fuck!
I got my wallet out to find a credit card, but he didn't even appear to notice, simply signing the bill that the waiter had produced, and he walked out: I can see now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he expected me to follow him. He was so confident in his ability to control that he knew that I would get up from the table and hurry after him.
We didn't speak in the lift or as we strode along the silent, luxurious corridor to his room. It was a big one - an "executive suite", I suppose you'd call it, and what was surprising to me was that once inside he didn't waste any time on preliminaries at all. Most guys will offer you a drink, or something, or comment on the view, or whatever, but Steve simply started to kick his shoes off, then to undo his trousers and push them to the floor.
"What are you waiting for?", he asked. "Get naked. I haven't cum since this morning, and my dick needs an ass!"
You won't know, of course, but I consider myself "versatile". I can give it, or take it. If anything, I have a slight preference for giving it, but I'm happy to go along with what the other guy wants to do. Even so, the abrupt order, and the assumption that he was going to top me, got me a bit riled.
"Hey, Steve, slow down....". I moved over to him, and ran my hands over his muscular body that was now exposed. As I caressed his left nipple and felt it spring hard in my palm, I felt his whole body tense. Most guys like you to fondle their cocks, don't they, and cup their balls in your hand, but as I reached for Steve's rigid cock he seemed to snap somehow, and my arm was gripped hard by his big hands and I was pushed away.
"Hey, sorry....", I said. "I thought you wanted to fuck. Perhaps I'd better go."
"No... It's just that I cant' bear to be touched by a guy who's still got his clothes on.... When you felt my dick... Well, it brings back memories."
I thought it was strange, but now I'd seen him naked, and had experienced a little of the excitement of his firm warm flesh, I didn't want to quit! Even if he was going to fuck me with the giant cock that was sticking out from his gorgeous body like a flagpole, I didn't care.
I quickly shed my own clothes, and he stood there, looking at me. As I've told you, I'm not in bad shape for a guy in his forties, and certainly I'd been fit enough to keep up with him all day. I watch my weight, work out occasionally, and most of the men I go with think I'm at the very least 'OK'." (Note to readers: photographs of the author are to be found on the jackets of his books - the usual publisher's face shots. There is no point in e-mailing asking for a whole body shot, preferably naked, as it will not be supplied!).
He reached out and felt my cock, then grinned at me and said cheerily "You'll do - nice body you have! Get on the bed."
That was really all he said until he'd finished fucking me. He didn't ask whether I was top or bottom - it was assumed he was going to do the fucking. He didn't ask whether I wanted missionary or doggy - he just flipped me onto my back. And he didn't use chemical lube - I was amazed when he squatted down beside me and started to wank me: this had never happened before, especially without any sort of discussion, and it was only when he took my cum and started to massage my asshole with it that I realised why he'd done it.
When I saw him slicking the remains of my cum onto his cock, I began to get worried as I don't do bareback. Well, it's more accurate to say that I hadn't done bareback before - I now found I had no choice as Steve hefted my legs onto his shoulders, and began to fuck me almost immediately. I tried to protest, but he didn't seem to hear - or didn't care! I tried to get away from him, but his hot cock was inside me already:
his preparation of me had at least been so thorough that I'd hardly noticed it slipping past my sphincter.
Looking up at his superb body as it towered above me as he fucked away, I gave up: who cared about the risk, when this fantastic animal was giving me so much pleasure. He was slow and careful, and I saw that he was "playing" me almost, timing the movements of his cock in and out to synchronise with my own thrusts upwards towards him. I heard myself moaning and sighing - I don't know what I was saying, but I was completely carried away.
It could have gone on for ever as far as I was concerned, but almost as if a switch had been thrown Steve changed. My moans of pleasure changed to shouts - shouts of pain, or was it pleasure? He was now really violently fucking me, almost pulling out completely, then slamming back in to me with all the force his powerful body was capable of. If I could have, I'd have got away from him, but I was impaled by his cock and he was gripping my knees tight to his chest to get my asshole even closer to his cock. His face had altered, to - whereas previously he'd been smiling and concerned for me, and had his eyes open to watch me, now they were screwed tightly closed and his entire face was contorted with some kind of primeval rage.
Fortunately it didn't go on for too long - I couldn't stand the violence of it, but he couldn't sustain it: he shot his load into me with a great shout, and I saw his back arch as he tried to get his cock the last millimetre up me. Then there were the little "after shocks" as he feebly pushed backwards and forwards - his eyes were still closed, and I knew he must have one of those sensitive cocks as he gave little cries as he tried to pump the last bit of his sperm into me.
When he collapsed forward onto me he didn't bother to try to take any of his weight on his elbows - it was as if he wanted to crush me, to cover me completely by his own body, to somehow totally encompass me. He was hot and sweaty, and I could feel his heart pounding away as his chest lay against mine. He was exuding that incredible male pheromone scent that some men do after sex, and I wanted to lick him all over.
He lay there, panting like an animal in is exhaustion for a couple of minutes, and it was me who finally had to say "Steve.... Get up off me.... You're too heavy!"
Only then did he raise himself a bit on his hands, his cock still buried in me. I realised that I'd thrown my legs around his waist as he lay there, as I'd unconsciously wanted to get closer to him. He looked down at me, his eyes were open and sparkling, and he was grinning again.
"You're a good fuck, Pete."
"That wasn't fucking, Steve, that was close to rape! I don't do bareback, and...."
"Oh stop whining! You've just had the best fuck you've had for a long time, and you know it. And a man can't get proper satisfaction when his dick's wearing a plastic raincoat!"
He pulled out of me, and stalked across the room to the bathroom. It was then, I suppose, that I first noticed the huge swirly tattoo all over his back, and something on his ass, too. Why would such a stunning piece of manhood disfigure himself like that, I wondered.
Steve came back now, and I knew from the sound of running water that he'd been cleaning my ass juice off his cock. We'd been lying on top of the bed, but he now almost tore the covers off, kind of pushing me over to get hem out from under me. He threw himself down on to the bed, next to me, then pulled the covers over to cover both of us. He turned me over to face him, threw a big arm casually around me, and forced his thigh up between my legs so that my asshole could feel his warmth.
Actually I love these moments after sex, when you're so close to another man, and having Steve pushing his body into such intimate contact with mine was heaven. I could feel our cocks and pubic hair grinding together, and his hot breath was on my neck and face.
I was still a bit pissed off with him, though.... Even though he was right: it had been one of the best fucks I'd ever experienced.
"I thought you might say you were sorry....", I began.
"For what?"
"Well, suppose I'd wanted to fuck you? And I don't do bareback. And...."
"Hey, calm down! You've just been fucked, you really enjoyed it, and now you're trying to make out you'd rather have done something else....! Well, I don't get fucked, and I only do bareback, so I guess that if you and I are going to ski together for the rest of the week you'll just have to accept that my naked cock is going up your ass several more times!"
He was so frank, so open, so honest, somehow, that I just couldn't go on bearing a grudge against him.
"Well, if the price of having my body totally worn out by your skiing is having my ass reamed by that huge cock of yours.... Well, I'll just have to pay it, won't I?" I was smiling as I said this, and as I finished I leaned forward to kiss him.
He pulled his head away.
"Hey, Steve... Don't you do kissing, either?"
For some reason, I'll never know why, and I don't suppose he will either, he started to talk to me. I could tell that he wasn't used to talking - really talking seriously, about "life", to another person: you get a sense of it in my job as I have to listen to so many people telling me embarrassing and painful things.
"No, it's not that I don't do it.... I used to like it.... It's just that I... Well, after something that happened a few years ago, I've not wanted to get really close to another guy. It's all right to fuck a guy as I need to release my cum. But somehow I don't want any more physical involvement. I don't even know why I'm lying here close to you, saying this."
I'm a good listener, and I didn't make the mistake of interrupting him at this point. I sensed that I as on to a potentially good "story" and that Steve wanted to talk, as there were things he'd kept bottled up for too long. But he needed to do it in his own time, in his own way. So I just lay there, feeling the warmth of our bodies together, smelling the heady scent of his sweat and his cum that was leaking slowly out of my ass and drifting up to our noses under the covers, and generally just revelling in that extraordinary sense of bonding that you have with another man who has just fucked you.
"This may shock you", he started. "But I'm a slave dealer - well, more of a trainer, actually."
This was a very bold thing for him to say, as, after all, he'd only known me less than a day. We don't have slaves in the EU, as you know, even though we see the incredible success of the system in the US and the Middle East. As you probably also know, the European Parliament has implemented Draconian laws against EU citizens owning slaves or engaging in any form of slave trading, even if it's legal in the countries where they are. If I'm on holiday in the USA, for example, it's illegal for me to hire a slave, even for an hour's fucking, or to go for a "pony" ride, or to carry me in a litter. If I did, and I'm reported to the authorities back home, I can be tried in any of the member countries of the EU when I get back. This whole thing got started in the nineties, when EU countries started to claim "extraterritoriality" over their citizens, and prosecuted men coming back from "sex holidays" in Thailand, even though the Thai authorities didn't care about sex with minors. Now the EU is so fanatically anti-slavery that they not only prosecute their own citizens, as I've described, but they try to track down slavers from elsewhere in the world when they are present in the EU!
So by telling me he was a slave dealer, or trainer, or whatever, Steve was taking a real risk, He didn't know I was an author. I might have been a policeman, or a politician, or a lawyer... His "confession" could have earned him a life sentence in any EU country: I'd only have to report him to the nearest police station and they'd arrest him whilst carrying out enquiries in the USA. Even though he was doing things there that were perfectly legal there, the simple hatred of slavery was such a thing in the EU that they were determined to make it as difficult as possible for legitimate businessmen to move outside their own country.
"It's a long story", Steve went on. "I went from being a slave myself to owning one of the most successful slave training facilities and consultancies in the country."
I at once suspected that he was making it all up, spinning me a line. I knew that the US laws said "slavery is for life", so I began to doubt him. But as we lay there and he started to speak, I heard the incredible story that I've relayed to you.
Once he'd started, it was as if a dam had burst and he was unable to stop. He went on and on, hardly pausing, with apparently effortless recall. I lay there fascinated, and we finally drifted off to sleep about four in the morning.
I'd never spent the night with another guy in a hotel room, and I was embarrassed when the waiter brought Steve's breakfast in and he was still fast asleep, his arm wrapped around me, his body spooned into mine, and his cock nestling in my ass crack. The man looked down at our two bodies in the big bed, and went to leave.
Steve woke, saw what was happening, and at once snapped "Fetch a second lot, as my friend needs feeding, too."
He looked at me, and burst out laughing! "Pete - you're embarrassed! You're all flushed!! What's wrong with a waiter seeing you half naked in bed? I bet he sees couples like this all the time."
"Yes... But, you know, couples... Men and women... Not two men."
"It's not illegal too, is it? " he asked. "A couple of guys can fuck, can't they, even if they can't fuck a slave, as I understand it."
"Oh yes - same sex intercourse has been legal for many years. It's just that it's still not.... not entirely considered to be 'normal'."
"Ah well, that's what comes from not having a good healthy attitude to slavery. If you don't have naked slave around as part of everyday life, I guess you can be repressed about proper sex, too."
I think he was making a point when the waiter came back with the second breakfast trolley - as the man entered the room, Steve got out of bed and walked towards him: the waiter couldn't take his eyes off Steve's gigantic morning erection as it bobbed in front of him. Steve found his wallet and gave the waiter a five euro note as a tip, but as he handed over the money, he idly stroked his cock with his other hand.
He came back to bed, laughing, and as we lay there eating he said "That's the way to treat servants and slaves - just ignore them, and do what you'd normally do."
"Well, Steve, there is a difference between the way you treat a servant and a slave you know."
"What's that?"
"In Europe, you don't need to tip waiters and so on, especially in places like this. Service is automatically added to your bill at the end. You tip servants in the US, I know - all those silly small bills left for waiters and so on. But you don't need to do it here - I expect you should jus think of them as slaves - you don't tip them, do you? Or maybe you were thinking of that young waiter as a slave, stroking that cock of yours as you looked at him: did you want to fuck him? And, if so, why, when I'm waiting here for you....?"
As I said this I stopped eating my croissant and reached over and stroked his cock, and he gave a little moan of pleasure.
"Hey, you're coming on", I told him. "Yesterday, when I reached for your cock, you shied away from me... Now I must be doing something right, as you're letting me touch you."
As I spoke I'd started to fondle his balls, and as I finished I reached down and nipped one of his strong male teats with my teeth, causing him to shift excitedly in the bed.
"You're right.... You know, I think it's having told you my story last night. It's made me feel somehow 'different'. I've never told anyone all that before, and just lived as a normal free man. I think I didn't like men touching my body as it reminded me of being inspected and handled when I was sold as a slave - recounting my story has exorcised the ghost."
Well, we didn't fuck that morning as we agreed that we wanted to be out on the slopes early, and that it would be fun to leave ourselves full of spunk. We decided we'd have a competition to decide which was the most desirable man we saw skiing, and that when we stopped for lunch we'd ski off into the trees and wank each other, whilst talking about them.
I've never had so much fun as I did for the rest of that week - skiing hard all day with a great companion, wanking or fucking in a secluded off piste area at lunch time, and astounding nights in bed with a virile, strong experienced lover.
On the second night, after he'd fucked me and we were again comfortably nestled together in his bed, Steve wanted to talk again. He fleshed out some parts of the story for me, and I was now able to interject questions of my own.
At an early point I said "You know, Steve, you felt so much better this morning after telling me the story last night."
"Yes - that was the first time I'd been able to let another guy fondle me.... And it's great!"
"Well perhaps if I produced it as a story... A published story.... You could remain totally anonymous, but seeing it in print would clear any hang-ups you still had, once and for all, about having been enslaved."
He lay there, silent, and I wondered if I'd really upset him. I ran my hand gently over his chest, letting my palm lie over one of his nips, feeling the beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his breathing. Time seemed to stretch out, as I waited.
"You're probably right, Pete. Yes, I'll let you do it. Do you remember everything I told you?"
"No, but I've got my recorder with me. We could turn it on, and you could start again..." I have one of those micro cassette recorders, and I always slip it into a pocket whenever I go out, as I sometimes think of story ideas, or want to dictate part of a story when I'm travelling."
"But tell me", I went on, "Why are you skiing here? There's great skiing in the USA - I've been there..."
"Well I suppose I'm always worried, somewhere deep down, about still being a slave. They keep talking about DNA stuff and testing all the males in the USA and keeping a national database, and then I'd surely be caught. Every time I see a member of the slave police I get a little knot in my stomach. When I go on vacation I like to go somewhere where there are no slaves, no slave police, nothing.... No one's looking for me here, and, even if they were, as an escaped slave I'd be OK: I certainly wouldn't be extradited."
It's funny, isn't it, how even when men appear to be very self assured, very confident, very much in control - and Steve was definitely all these things, fifty times over - they can still have small self-doubts? I really liked Steve as a person, and he had the best body of any man I'd ever been with. It was probably his personality that made him so sexy - somehow he just exuded sensuality - and I was really turned on by him. His small vulnerabilities, the little chink in his armour that he'd just confessed, made him all the more desirable.
I raised my body slightly, almost becoming erect as my cock slid sensuously over his muscled thigh, and kissed him. This time he didn't resist, and I explored his mouth with my tongue, feeling him respond to me. His arms went around my body and he hugged me to him, and we almost wrestled in the excitement of the tongue fucking we were doing.
When we broke for air he was smiling happily, and said "Start that fucking recorder, then, and I'll start over. I've almost forgotten how good a guy's tongue feels, and how great it is to have all this spit everywhere."
And that was the pattern for the rest of the week: skiing, fucking, and talking.
My flight back to London was on Friday, and as it got closer and closer, I came to dread it. I wanted to stay with Steve, and I wanted to hear more of his life - I guess I'm a terrible "voyeur" for human interest, and his story was certainly packed with it. But I'm also a professional author, and I'd focussed on getting all the detail of his life up until the point you have read about in "Harbour Master." It was only on Thursday night that I got to ask him "What happened next?", and he started to clam up again - clearly there was something that he didn't want to talk about.
I used all my skills in open questioning to try to get him to tell me, but very little more came out. There was something deeply curious about the future life of Matt and Bill, and, of course, I noted that they weren't here with him - although they couldn't have been, could they, as slaves were not allowed to be exported from the USA? But he hadn't spoken about them, either, and made no mention of going back to them.
You know Steve is mentally tough as well as being physically so, and it was clear that I wasn't going to make any progress until Steve wanted to. So I gave up, and relaxed, and had one of the greatest nights in bed I've ever had - no, not one of the greatest - the greatest! Steve was still absolutely in charge, absolutely in control (and now I understood more of his character, it was interesting to experience this first hand) but he took time to make me completely and deliriously happy with his fucking before he allowed himself his own private pleasure, and went at it, almost savagely, for a few final strokes. It thrilled me to see how the animal in him came out at that point, as his body slammed into me and he gave a great shout as his sperm pumped deep inside me.
It was a miracle I could actually sit down on the plane the next morning, my ass was so sore - he'd fucked me five times that night, every time after we'd drifted from a light sleep into a drowsy wakefulness. I didn't care - I only wished it had been ten times! I was so embarrassed as the bed was a complete mess, the sheets stained with sweat, semen, and ass juice, but Steve just shrugged his shoulders and said "Who gives a fuck? It's only a hotel."
He came with me to the airport, and after I'd checked in we sat in a bar on the concourse. Neither of us spoke much. I had a beer, but Steve stuck to mineral water - just as he had only drunk a little wine at that first dinner, I now knew he rigorously controlled the amount of alcohol he took as he liked always to be in complete control of his body.
"Can I come and see you in the USA, Steve?"
"Look, Pete, it's been great.... But I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Why not? I thought we were getting on well..."
He sat there silently, and frankly he looked miserable. His head dropped, almost in sorrow.
"Steve, what's wrong?"
"Well, you don't know the rest of the story. After Matt and Bill... Well.... Things have never been the same with guys I really like. And I do really like you. But it wouldn't work. I'm tired of hurting guys, and I won't let it happen again."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"I mean, Pete, that this is goodbye. You can publish your story, and you're right, it has helped me. But I won't see you again, much as I'd like you, as I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm a grown man, Steve, and I've lived a lot of life!
Nothing's for ever, you know. I'd rather spend some more time with you and then you call it quits, rather than not do it because you think I'd be upset when you'd had enough."
My voice was rising now, and I went on "Stop being such a fucking control freak! I can make my own decisions about things, you know! I let you fuck me because you're one fantastic lover, with a marvellous body. But that doesn't give you the right to decide about everything. You're so used to dealing with slaves that you've forgotten that other men can make their own minds up about things."
"So listen here - I'm going back to London, to write up the story, then I'm flying to the USA and you're going to read it through with me as 'author' and ghost writers do. So we will meet again, professionally. And if I still think you're really sexy when I see you again I will got to bed with you again - I think what you need, Steve, is a good fucking: you need someone to take charge of you, and let you really relax during sex."
My flight was being called, and I got up and left him. I thought that would be a real shock to him, as he was probably used to men begging and pleading with him.
It was two months before I was satisfied with the manuscript, and I flew out to the USA to meet Steve again. I did hear the story, at great length, as Steve and I did renew our acquaintance. As I lay in his big bed in his luxury apartment in LA, the whole story came out - at first in dribs and drabs, but later in a torrent.
It was difficult to get used to having the beautiful naked slaves around all the time, and I could never feel completely private with Steve. He just seemed to ignore them totally, demanding only absolutely perfect service and complete and total obedience from them. They all clearly feared him, and I did see him punish several of them quite harshly for very minor infractions of his house rules.
"It's no good, Steve", I said to him one night over dinner. "You're tearing yourself apart. You're controlling these slaves just as you try to control me in bed. And it doesn't work - they'll never be totally perfect, and so you'll never be completely satisfied. You've got to let go, or you'll wear yourself out."
"Does it really matter if your razor was not lined up absolutely at right angles to the bathroom shelf? You slapped the bath slave's ass so many times, so very hard, this morning for such a trivial infraction. This control - well, you can do it, clearly, but it's not doing you any good. You were sullen all morning after that tiny failure."
He only glowered at me, and the rest of the day wasn't much fun. He really didn't like advice - he saw it as criticism - even from someone like me who really liked him. Something had to be done!
End of part 23.