Hey guys, thanks so much for your overwhelming response to chapter one of this story. When I wrote it, I wasn't really even sure what I was writing, it just kind of arrived in my mind one day out of the blue. I submitted it on a lark and was completely unprepared for the tidal wave of emails I received, and I appreciate very much your kind words and support. I intend to make "Steven" an extended series, so keep the messages coming if you like the direction of the story, and please feel free to throw out some suggestions as well. And keep reading!
TWO (part one)
A high school senior. Lived his whole life in the same tiny Texas town in which he was born, seventeen years earlier. Same friends since kindergarten. Consistently voted "Most Popular." "Most Handsome." "Most Athletic." "Best Smile." Decided and declared in fourth grade that he was madly in love with Haley Stenson, a fact that had yet to change. Thought the night of junior prom -- when Haley whispered into his ear as they danced that she was finally ready to be with him, and they both felt his dick catch fire -- was the greatest night of his life.
Quarterback. Spent all four years on the varsity football team, only the second young man to do so in the seventy-plus-year history of the school system. Led his undefeated team to the state championship game this past season, and cried for an hour in the locker room after the shattering last-second 15-14 loss.
Track star. Owner of the fastest hundred yard dash in the state his freshman year. Found out he could be an ace hurdler last year, after his best friend Brad suffered a ruptured appendix and the coach recruited him as a replacement.
Shelves and cases packed with trophies, medals, ribbons, plaques, all bearing his name: "Steven Baylor, 2A All-State Football Team" "Steven Baylor, District Most Valuable Player" "Steven Baylor, First Place, Butterfly Relay" "Steven Baylor, Second Place, 110 Hurdles" "Steven Baylor...."
A local hero. Small Texas towns are consumed by football on crisp fall Friday nights, and the sport's players become celebrities, get treated like movie stars. And the kid with the powerful, golden arm became something of a god. Haircuts were free, and milkshakes, and tune-ups for his prized '67 Chevelle. Ladies' underwear was offered; blow jobs were offered; good luck fucks were offered (and all but one were declined, gratefully: Haley had his heart, and it was for real, but after a thrilling victory in the state semi-final game his sophomore year, he lost his virginity to a girl named Stacey. There was a wild party to celebrate the game, there was beer at the party, everyone indulged, guards came down, Haley wasn't there, and he couldn't fight the urge any longer. Haley was crushed when he eventually broke down and told her about it, but loved him too much to end it, and forgave him in time.)
Men in town wanted him for a son; women, for a lover; everyone, for a pal.
A strong, supportive family. The Baylors. Oldest daughter Sally: 24, med student in California. Middle son Steven: 17, with a seemingly ceiling-less future. Youngest son Robert: 14, computer whiz, his big brother's biggest fan. Father William: 46, an operator at a local oil refinery. Mother Susan: 45, a nurse in a neighboring town.
A decent student. Not always A's, but rarely lower than a B, even in subjects like geometry and physics, which challenged and often blew his less-than-math-centric mind. (Another chalk mark in the column of his outrageous fortune: Haley excelled in mathematics.) Teachers admired his dedication to his studies, even though his athletic plate was beyond full. Had the attention and interest of several major colleges, and he was determined not to screw it up by slacking off in any area of his life. His dedication was steadfast; his loyalty, assured.
A huge music fan. Favorite band was, without question, R.E.M. -- had every CD, didn't worry about seeming uncool for adoring them. Had a wild fantasy of being in a band like that, of creating something that could last forever, something that could inspire another boy in another small town to dream big. Had even picked up a guitar a few times, but had no true knack for it. Still, knew in his bones that a football career was no guarantee, and would only last a few years even if it did come to pass. And knew in his bones that music would last forever. He kept secret notebooks and journals, with poems. Lyrics. Thoughts. Reflections. Ideas. Song titles. Dreams.
Favorite things on the planet: Mom's apple pie, smothered with rich vanilla ice cream; Haley's pertly perfect tits; R.E.M.'s "Nightswimming"; the thrill of a perfect touchdown pass.
Worked part-time at the local grocery store, the Market Basket. Checker, sacker, stockboy, janitor, jack-of-all-trades. Hands down the most popular employee, both with the store's staff and with the store's customers, especially the women, young and old, who loved it when he offered to help them to their cars.
Worked also, in the summer, as a lifeguard at the swimming pool. Girls quite enjoyed the sight of him in his red swim trunks, with his tan, naturally muscular chest and body -- not exactly lean and not exactly bulky, with shoulders that got a little broader with each passing June, a stomach eternally flat, and popping biceps, the only body part he really paid serious attention to, his throwing arm being his calling card, his ticket out. Handsome, to be sure, and sexy, without question, but he was never completely aware of what either meant. He was never out to coast on anything: not his looks, not his talent with a football, nothing.
He was clearly destined for big things in his life. In his old life, before the abduction, he inspired awe in everyone he encountered. Everything he touched was flawless, golden, and the future, whatever it held, felt limitless. Nice kid. Loyal friend. Fiercely intelligent. Universally adored. He was on his way.
A paramedic. A hero, every day of his life. He had saved lives, delivered babies, comforted families, broken news both good and tragic, stayed calm in the midst of overwhelming situations. He had learned long ago how to detach himself emotionally from his surroundings. How to be and stay objective. Clinical. Cold.
Family life: rocky, across the board. Mom died just before his second birthday. Breast cancer, detected way too late. Dad hung in there for a couple of years but couldn't handle the demands of a young child, two jobs, and his own debilitating grief, so he left his son with his dead wife's stunned parents late one night and then bolted, never to be heard from again.
Left Shreveport after high school and swore he'd never return. Enjoyed his time at LSU a great deal. Married his college sweetheart right after graduation, and they indeed returned to Shreveport. His grandparents, the only family he had ever really known, both died within months of each other during his senior year; in the will, he got a small sum of money as well as the house, a beautiful three-story on an isolated tract of land north of the city that dated back to the 1920s. Didn't want to go back -- he had made it clear, many times -- but there was a decent job waiting for him, and a house, and it was all just too tempting to turn down.
Things seemed okay, but five years and one child later -- a son, with dark hair and green eyes, just like his daddy -- she left, too. Said she couldn't handle his "emotional unavailability," said she'd always love him but couldn't be his wife anymore. He begged her not to leave, begged her not to take his son away from him, promised he'd do anything, change anything. His words fell on deaf ears: she swore she'd never keep him away from his kid, and then promptly moved them both out to Colorado. Louisiana just wasn't home for her, she had said, and it wasn't ever going to be. LSU made her the best offer and she accepted it. It was never meant to be a forever thing. And she wanted her son to grow up with a real family in a real place, she said. He signed the papers, couldn't summon the energy to put up a fight. She wanted only what was best for their son, she insisted, and he convinced himself that he did as well, and that she was probably right. She must have been right. He must be nothing but a detached, cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard.
The first months were incredibly dark and trying. He desperately missed the companionship of his wife and son, missed the responsibility and the safety of having a family to care for. He moped for close to a year, and then literally hurled himself into his job, made it the center of his life. Helping people, rescuing them from terrible, desperate situations, making the world a better place -- it all helped to distract him from his own barren existence. Off the clock, he mostly kept to himself. Always a loner, even as a child, he came to appreciate the silence and solace of his large, quiet home. He ventured out occasionally -- joined a gym, eager to build up his slight body; drove into Bossier City now and again, enjoying a round or two of roulette, sometimes blackjack; got together with the guys occasionally, for a beer, a pizza, a night out. The work could be incredibly stressful at its worst, and a quiet night at home wasn't always enough, especially when he needed to blow off some steam.
There were encounters with women, as well. He always believed that one-night stands weren't his style, but they started to happen more and more frequently. He was done with relationships -- that he knew for sure, and it wasn't negotiable -- but he found himself hungering for sexual contact in spite of himself. Most times he could satisfy himself with a hot shower and a few powerful, solitary moments in the naked darkness. But sometimes he just needed it: the smell, the taste, the friction of a woman. It all proved to be handsomely uncomplicated. As his body improved -- his chest filled out, his shoulders widened, his arms developed, his buttocks hardened -- so did his confidence. Harrah's and the like were seeming breeding grounds for single, interested women. The sex, while not exactly fulfilling, was certainly satisfying, and required nothing emotional from him at all. Two bodies united for a time, each feeding off the other, and then separate again.
He had been dealt some raw hands in his life. In his old life, before the abduction, he had fought hard to simplify his world. After being screwed (and/or screwing himself) out of every single good thing that had ever happened to him, he prayed that things were finally coming together. Good job. A few close friends. Firm body. Sex at arm's reach. He was hanging on for dear life.
The plan for the abduction, from inception to completion, involved several interlocking pieces, each of which fell into place with astonishing ease and speed. But the idea's seeds had been planted several years before, after a chance encounter in a bar with an old friend sent his life in a completely different direction.
He only had a few friends as a kid, and the best of them was named Jason, a boy who lived a couple of miles down the road from him. Jason moved away while they were sophomores in high school -- a new job waited in Arkansas for his father -- and they lost touch after a while. But then they bumped into each other one night at Phil's, a tiny hole in the wall south of downtown Shreveport.
"Jon? Jon McDermott, is that you?" Jason asked him, taking the adjacent barstool.
"Yes," Jon replied.
"I don't believe this, you look exactly the same as when we were kids, man."
"Do I know you?"
"Do you remember a kid named Jason who lived down the lane from you about a hundred years ago?"
"Jason?!" Jon nearly choked on the beer he'd been sipping during the exchange, and then leapt into an ecstatic handshake. "Holy shit, are you kidding me? What are you doing back here?"
Jason explained that he was now a lawyer and had returned to Shreveport a few months ago to accept a job in the district attorney's office. Jon responded that he was a paramedic in the area. Jason asked how long he'd been back in town. Jon told him it had been almost fourteen years since he had returned. Jason revealed that he'd never gotten hitched -- perfectly happy being a bachelor. Jon told him of Connie, of their son Steve, of the painful divorce.
"My son is almost twelve years old. Lives in Colorado," Jon said, after a short lull in the conversation. "I've only seen him a handful of times since he was three." Sip of beer. "That's when they left. Right after he turned three."
"Man," Jason said. "I am so fucking sorry to hear that, Jon."
"It just hurts too bad to see him, you know? Whenever I go up there, it hurts like hell just to knock on the door. And then it hurts like a bitch when I first see him. And then it hurts like goddamned fucking hell when it's time to say goodbye. You just have no idea." Another slug. "So I usually stick with phone calls, pictures. Birthday cards. It's just easier. I can't explain it, it just is."
"I understand."
"She got married again a few years ago. So he's got a man around. He's got a father."
"Jon--"
"It's for the best, it really is. He's going to be a fine man one day. No thanks to me, he's going to be a terrific man."
They drank several rounds that night, exchanged phone numbers, promised to get together again soon, and ended with a toast for, in Jason's words, "two old friends, ever trying to save the world."
Jason called Jon late one night a couple of weeks later, and asked him to come over and to bring any medical supplies that he may have, told him that he needed his help and it was extremely important.
When Jon arrived a few minutes later, Jason met him on the front steps and made him swear that what he was going to see inside the house would remain a secret forever. Jon asked what in the hell was going on, and Jason again insisted that he swear ("I need your help, man, you're the only person I can come to, but it has to stay between us"). Jon promised that he wouldn't say a word.
Jason led him inside the house and down the stairs toward the basement. "Jason, what are you going to show me down here?" Jon asked anew, starting to worry.
"OK, Jon," he said, stopping them at the basement door. "I want you to listen to me extremely carefully." Jon nodded. "There's a boy inside this room, all right?"
"A boy?"
"He's hurt. I've hurt him, and I don't know how to fix it. I have hurt him before, and I have always been able to fix it. But he is hurt badly this time, and I can't take him to the hospital."
"Jason...." He wasn't sure where this was headed. "Why?"
"It's too risky, Jon. Too many questions. Too many things could go wrong."
"Is it your son? Do you have a son?"
"No."
"Jason, I'm confused."
"He's my slave, all right? The boy in this room is my slave. I am his master."
"Oh my God."
"Jon, please--"
"Are you serious?" Jon asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Listen to me, OK?"
"Please stop saying that."
"I'm scared here, I'm sorry. I'm reaching out to an old friend because I don't have anywhere else to turn. I need your help, Jon. We need your help. Will you help us?"
"What have you done? What happened?" Jon asked.
"We were in the middle of a punishment session--"
"Punishment?"
"I don't tolerate blatant disobedience from my slave. When he disobeys me, he is punished. It's that simple. And he knows it."
"Tell me what happened," Jon said.
"What happened is, he disobeyed me, so I tied him up and I whipped him."
"Holy shit."
"He hates the bullwhip. Can't stand it. Whenever I want him to know that I mean business, that's what I use. It's what I was using tonight."
"How bad did you hurt him?"
"I was so goddamn angry at him, Jon. I went overboard with him. He was fighting me, trying to avoid the lashes, throwing himself around in his chains to try to get away from the whip. And that was making me angrier--"
"Open the door, Jason, let me see him," Jon said.
Jason looked at him intently. "It's just between us, man, remember. You promised."
"Open the door."
Jason put the key in the lock and opened the door to his secret life. The two men entered the room, and Jon was flabbergasted as his eyes computed the scene. He didn't know where to focus his attention, it was all so foreign and so beyond his frame of reference.
The basement had been transformed into a dungeon. All four walls were covered in shiny, black leather, the smell of which bowled him over. In the far corner was a small facsimile of a jail cell, couldn't have been any larger than 12'x 12', bars floor to ceiling. Inside the cell: a small metal-frame bed with a thin mattress and a tattered blanket; a metal chest of drawers; and two small stainless steel dishes, one full of water and the other containing a bit of what seemed to be dog food, each emblazoned with one word in bright red letters. "Jake".
Just outside the cell was a toilet and lavatory, with a dirty cracked mirror hanging at eye level in between them. The remainder of that wall was lined with different varieties of cuffs and chains.
On the opposite end of the room was the equipment wall: a huge cedar armoire, spanning most of the height of the room, was standing wide open, and Jon could see more things than he'd ever dreamed even existed. Rubber dicks of all different lengths, widths, textures; a transparent glass dildo; enema kits; bright red rubber balls; latex masks and hoods; leather harnesses, armbands, blindfolds, gloves, codpieces.
Hanging on the wall was something resembling a pool cue rack, but instead of pool sticks, it held whips. Jon's head was spinning, he couldn't get a grasp on what this was, it was like something out of an outrageous fantasy. He saw riding crops, he saw a tightly braided bullwhip, he saw a frightening-looking cat o' nine tails, he saw wide leather straps.
Looking around the room another time, he understood completely that he had just stepped into a torture chamber. He found the idea repugnant and yet riveting. He felt his penis hardening slightly.
"Are you all right, man?" Jason asked tentatively, paying careful attention to his friend's expressions. Jon nodded slowly, deliberately, catching sight of the dead center of the room. Suspended from the ceiling were two equal lengths of chain, shoulder-width apart, black leather cuffs bolted to the end of each. Screwed to the floor directly beneath were two identical chains, the leather cuffs of which were wrapped around two thin ankles.
Jake.
The boy was laying on his side on a black leather floor mat. Shaking. Blindfolded. Chewing on what looked to be a well-worn horse bit that was strapped tightly around his head with a black leather cord that was gently cutting into his cheeks. He had obviously been crying, for a while, and indeed, he was still softly whimpering. Jon couldn't see his eyes, but the kid couldn't have been older than fifteen.
"He's here, Jake," Jason called to the boy. "And you are to do exactly what he tells you to do, am I understood?" The boy sniffled and nodded his head, trying to say what must have been "Yes, master" through the gag. The men watched him tremble. Jon knew he was hurting.
He approached the boy delicately, uncomfortably, and as he got closer, the problem became crystal clear. Jake's shoulder joint had become completely dislocated from its socket. The arm was laying limp, almost apart from the rest of his torso.
"Holy fuck, Jason, he needs a doctor. This is serious." Jon was horrified.
"No. No doctors. No hospitals. Absolutely not."
"Jason, listen--"
"I said no, Jon, and I meant it. I brought you here because you're a trained paramedic. You've reset joints before, don't tell me you haven't. That's all I need."
"Man, he needs x-rays and drugs. He needs real medical--"
"Jon, I am begging you, OK? I'm begging."
"How old is this kid? Who is he?"
"I'll tell you everything later, I promise you. Just tell me you can help him. He's hurt bad."
Jon looked at Jake, who had begun to cry again. Continued to shake. He guessed that the kid had gone into shock and that the adrenaline was masking the intense pain. He had seen people in the past in this condition, and he had indeed reduced and reset joints before. He knew the pain.
"OK," Jon said finally. "I think there's a sling in my ambulance. There are sedatives, too. I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
NOTE: Sorry this chapter has taken so long, guys, but the ideas that I had turned out to be much more intensive and time- consuming than I had originally imagined. The second half of chapter two will be finished and up ASAP, so stay tuned. Thanks again to all you who wrote, and special thanks to PK, John, and Stephen for their interesting perspectives and ideas. Much appreciated.