This is the third part of chapter two; I really am just winging this, letting the story reveal itself to me as it will. This piece of the chapter is a bit complex, jumping around in time and space, but my hope is that this portion will work in concert with 2a and 2b to continue shading in the motivations and histories of these people, so that nothing that happens in subsequent chapters will ring false or seem out of character.
Again, thanks for the incredible feedback and support. Special thanks to Ian (a nice long... story, indeed), to John (how's Maryland?), to PK (again, let's agree to disagree), and to Paul (hey man, brains AND brawn; nothing like having all the bases covered!) for your thoughtful perspectives and opinions. Much appreciated, guys. And for those of you out there ---- you know who you are ---- who are getting uptight about the contents and context of this story, read my lips: IT'S. JUST. A. STORY. We read and write about things that we'll never experience ourselves; that's why it's called "fiction." And not for nothing, but the disclaimer on page one of this website clearly states that you explicitly choose any access you receive to these words. If you've gotten this far into the site, you obviously want to be here, so now that you're here, loosen the hell up and enjoy it.
A quasi-related note: just because characters in stories -- all stories, not just mine -- don't necessarily practice safe sex does not mean that we mere mortals shouldn't. A condom is just a stupid piece of rubber, and if you honestly believe that it impedes true sexual satisfaction, then you're being incredibly foolish, naive, and dangerous. Sex is a 100% mental game, which is proven by the fact that you're reading and enjoying these stories. Safe only means boring if you have no imagination.
You'll recall that by the end of 2b, a high school student named Steven was crafting himself a charmed Texan life, while, through flashbacks, a Louisiana paramedic named Jon was riveted by his old friend Jason's account of how he and his slave Jake formed their relationship. A future slave, a future master, on an unwitting collision course with each other, both waiting for fate to show its hand....
TWO (part three)
The instant he saw Steven Baylor's picture, he knew. The marrow in his bones trembled with excitement, with trepidation, with fear, with gratitude. Just a small, grainy newspaper photo, but he knew immediately this was the boy he had been waiting for. Terrific smile. Strong cheekbones. Solid jaw. Dark hair. Greenish brown eyes. There was no doubt.
He was at a coffee shop when he saw it. Nibbling on a muffin, half-heartedly scanning the sports page of an abandoned USA Today, searching for the final score of the game that he was too exhausted to finish watching the previous night. He almost missed the article entirely, a fact that amazes him still: his entire future shifted, pivoted on the dumb luck of turning his eyes toward an illustrated newspaper article.
"The Nation's Best High School Football Players."
He still pulls the article out and rereads it every so often. Even now, a wave of nostalgia --- after Steven has completed a good training session, for instance, or after an increasingly rare phone conversation with his real son (a seventeen year old boy with a new car, a new girlfriend, and not much interest in speaking to his stranger-of-a-father) --- will grip him and he'll reach for the locked desk drawer, where he keeps the mementos of this new chapter of his life.
On top: four copies of the seminal USA Today article (but not the original --- the one he surreptitiously stuck under his arm as he exited the coffee shop that fateful morning --- which hangs, framed and beautifully matted, on the long wall of Steven's cell, downstairs, below the house; he placed it there a couple of weeks into Steven's stay, a few days after the calculated whipping that finally snapped Steven's defiance, the beating that turned the tide. He had read the stories, heard the advice ---- that the only way to truly break and train a slave is to erase all reminders of the slave's old life ---- but, for reasons he could probably never explain if asked, he wanted Steven to remember what he was once capable of outside of that cell, outside of his downstairs prison. He wanted Steven to look at the wall above his hard bed and see genuine proof that he was somebody once upon a time, that the name "Steven Baylor" once meant something to someone. He wanted Steven to be tormented by the fact that, in the first days of his captivity, when his mind and body were still fresh and his new master's whip had not yet destroyed his spirit, he wasn't strong or smart enough to escape the clutches of a lowly, lonely paramedic.)
Underneath: a stack of articles --- USA Today, Dallas Morning News, even blurbs from People, Time, and Newsweek, plus profiles in Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone, both of which attacked the question of why some missing persons cases get resolved and some never do --- chronicling Steven Baylor's mysterious disappearance from a theretofore peaceful Texas town, where "nothing like this ever, ever happens." (The articles all read more or less the same: Teenager, golden boy, football hero, super-nice guy, everything to live for, simply vanished. No one knew if it was an abduction ---- family never received a ransom demand, a phone call, a note. There were no clues. No leads. And after a few months, the police were forced to call off the search; there was nothing more they could follow up on, nothing more they could do.) He had the articles arranged in chronological order, from the first reports of the disappearance (the initial theory: "a teenage prank, most likely") to the tearful press conference announcing the search for the Baylor kid as "suspended indefinitely" (the USA Today clip offered a photo of Steven's parents, his mother nearly in hysterics).
Then: a videotape, more than half full. "Dateline." "Larry King Live." "Oprah." An "America's Most Wanted" excerpt. Countless talk show appearances, countless newsmagazine episodes. Different sets, different backdrops, but the same raw emotion: Steven's parents making repeated appeals to anybody who would listen, begging for the safe return of their perfect son.
Then: 4x6 photographs, five of them. The first pictures he took of Steven's naked body, pictures taken while the boy was still unconscious and chained to the floor in the back of the van.
Then: Steven's personal effects. His wallet (from which nothing has been removed: a twenty dollar bill and four ones; Texas driver's license, photo taken after football practice one afternoon --- sleeveless shirt, sexy cockeyed grin, tousled hair; social security card; dog-eared picture of he and his girlfriend, taken at an amusement park; spare house key). His key ring (with keys to: house, pickup truck, bicycle lock, Master lock of some kind, and front door of the Market Basket). His wristwatch (Timex, worn leather band, scratched face). The braided cowry shell bracelet he'd worn since seventh grade. The thin gold chain --- bearing a small cross --- that Steven, for as long as anyone could remember, had worn around his neck. (The clasp of the necklace broke when he yanked it from the boy's unconscious body after he had finished cutting Steven's shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs off of him).
Then: the clothes. The T-shirt ---- prematurely printed, announcing the Winters Blizzards as state 2A football champions ---- beginning to fray a bit along the scissored slit (he went ahead and cut the shirt from the boy's muscled torso --- even though it had already gotten badly torn in the initial struggle, by the dumpster behind the grocery store, when Steven was fighting like a maniac, trying admirably to get away from him --- because the feeling of the scissors in his hand made him feel magnetic, alive). The button-up Levis (with uneven cuts along the sides of both legs). Underwear (boxer briefs, black, with cuts matching those of the jeans). Dirty white tennis shoes (Nikes, worn for years, said they were too comfortable to be chucked).
Every now and again, he walks in this room (a tiny office beside the master bedroom) and opens the drawer, ready to examine his collection anew. It still offers him a secret, concrete thrill, this process: laying eyes on these items of and about a Texas kid who had the unwitting misfortune to be named by a national newspaper as the best high school quarterback in the country. Remembering the night he finally --- after much anticipation, much planning, much agonizing waiting --- came face to face, eye to eye with the boy, precious minutes before he became a shackled slave. Reveling in the fact that, using his wits as a guide and his hard dick as an incentive, he managed to pull off a breathtakingly perfect crime.
Texas-sized Talent by David Wagner USA Today
Don't be fooled by the fact that he's from a small town you've probably never heard of (Winters, Texas, population 3200). Or that a football field is just one of several places in which he excels. Just know that, even in a state where high school football is a religion and its disciples are legion, this young man stands out. In fact, Steven Baylor's Friday night achievements are so astonishing that he earns this year's title as USA Today's Best High School Quarterback in the nation.
A four-year varsity letterman with a career pass completion rate of 78% (including his record-setting senior year performance of 84%, the highest in his state), Baylor has made it look simple in one of Texas' toughest districts.
"Steven is an extremely special kid, no two ways about it," said his coach, Randall Barnett. "He's got a talent for this game that is innate. He's a true natural. It can't be taught."
A sincerely handsome young man ---- 6'3", 195 lbs, the muscular, athletic, typically all-American boy ---- with terrific grades and a near-freakish gift with a football, he has led his team to four straight district titles, plus a berth in the state championship game, which they lost to the Celina Wildcats in a 15-14 heartbreaker after the Wildcats recovered a fumble that led to a last-second field goal. No matter. Baylor has his pick of universities and with the right guidance, can write his own ticket. So what is he looking toward?
"Well, every Texas boy dreams of wearing a Longhorn jersey, doesn't he? I'm no different," replies Baylor, referring to the vaunted University of Texas football program. "I'm no different at all."
Jon took to paying weekly visits to Jason and Jake following the boy's injury, to ensure that the boy's shoulder joint was healing properly and that there were no additional complications; the paramedic was stunned and relieved to find that, week on week, there were none, that everything was progressing just fine, that Jake was on the road to a complete recovery. The swelling decreased considerably after the first few days, and Jon told Jason to let the boy keep a heating pad on the wound. Jason refused at first, saying that he wanted his slave to remember this pain and that, without his disobedience, the whipping that caused the injury wouldn't have been necessary. But Jon convinced Jason that this was serious, and Jason finally complied.
Jon also forbade Jason from fucking the boy for at least six weeks, said that as much as an accidental jerk of Jake's shoulder could prove disastrous and that since Jason had refused professional medical care as an option, he couldn't afford to take even small chances. Jason was apprehensive about weeks of forced celibacy but Jon insisted, and added that there were ways other than penetration for a man to get off. All he had to do was be creative.
Jon found out a couple of visits later that Jason had taken him at his word. He showed up an hour earlier than expected and walked down to the basement, where he found them: Jake, nude, on the bed, a leather straitjacket --- extended straps padlocked to D-rings in the wall above his head --- lashed onto his chest, holding his upper body completely immobile; and Jason, shirtless, buff torso glistening, wearing crotchless, skin-tight leather pants, his penis pointing straight at the kid. Jake's mouth was stretched wide, teeth gnawing the same bit he'd been chewing on the night of his injury, making soft cooing sounds; his legs were bent forward, knees above his slight chest, ankles cuffed to two more rings just below the ones that held the harness in place. Jason had placed a large pillow under the boy's lower back to gain perfect access to his butt.
After taking in the scene, identifying the players, Jon caught sight of the dildo. The glass dildo he remembered seeing the first night. A lubed white condom was stretched over the shaft, and the master was hard at work plunging it into and pulling it out of the slave's clutching asshole. Jon was turned on again, instantly, in spite of himself. There was no denying, no turning his attention away from, the erotic lure of these images: a wicked fantasy that his friend had found the means and the balls to bring triumphantly to life.
He stood watching for minutes, watched Jason keep a firm grip on the base of the crystal cock; watched Jake's abdominal muscles alternate between limp and taut; watched Jason stare intently at Jake's face, gauging his reactions, changing the speed and pace of his pistoning motions to match what he observed from his boy; watched Jake's eyes open and shut in a mechanical daze, his entire face shifting and contorting; watched both of their dicks --- the slave's, still quite boyish and thin, and the master's, dense and throbbing --- drool ahead of imminent orgasm.
"Have I given you permission to come this evening, boy?" Jason asked.
Jake shook his head.
"Would you like to come?"
An almost ecstatic nod.
Jason slid the glass penis into Jake's ass until only the flared base and a half-inch or so of the shaft could be seen, and then carefully climbed onto the bed. He placed his right hand on his slave's eager cock, and circled his thumb over the head several times, coating it with its own slimy pre-cum.
"If you come, you'll be punished," Jason uttered, and reached over to gently stroke the boy's cheek with his anointed hand, massaging a bit of Jake's watery fluid into the pale skin of his flushed face. Jake's coos turned to slight groans. "Am I clear?"
A subdued nod.
"Good boy." He returned his hand to the boy's dick and began to deliberately stroke the shaft. "God, I love playing with your body, Jake. Touching your cute little dick." Another moan from the boy. "Bringing you to the edge." He ran the nail of his index finger up and down the vein along the underside of Jake's penis. The boy's entire body was tense, ready. "I love taking you right to the very edge, Jacob."
Jon could barely see Jake's eyes, could see the clear raw hunger burning inside them. The buried dildo combined with the spine- tingling dick play combined with the chilling no-orgasm decree just had to be pure torture for the kid, and he knew he had no business standing there, watching it all unfold, and yet his curiosity consumed him. He stayed frozen in place.
Jason continued to gently masturbate his slave for two or three minutes and then he finally took his left hand and began to rub himself. He moved his right hand beneath Jake's plump balls, carefully kneading and scratching them. Tapping the base of the dildo, he said, "God, I wish this could be me right now. If this could be me inside your perfect ass right now, I'd fuck you the rest of the night. It's all I have right now not to fuck you the rest of this night." Then he looked toward the door, right at Jon, and said, "But Mr. Medicine Man over there would string me up."
Jon knew immediately that he was blushing, especially when Jake turned his head and they were both staring at him. "Jason, I---" he started, embarrassed.
"Wouldn't you?" Jason asked.
"Jason, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"You're early."
"Yeah, I know, my shift was over sooner than I thought," Jon said. "I really didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't. I knew you were there the whole time. So don't apologize. Masters never apologize to slaves, ever." Jason gave Jake a grin. "You remember Master Jon, boy." Jake nodded. "Man, you ought to walk over here and feel my slave's cock. It's hard as cement. I mean, mine still gets awfully hard, as you can well see, but nothing like this kid's. He's like goddamned steel."
"Jason---"
"Come on, man, loosen up. Live a little. No one knows. It's our little secret." Jason removed his hands from both of the cocks he had been stroking and rose from the bed. "Take off some of those clothes and come join us." He walked out of Jake's cell and toward Jon, relishing the paramedic's evident discomfort.
"I just came to look at his shoulder, that's all."
"I saw you getting turned on over there, Jon. Watching our little peep show." Jason was still walking toward Jon, bared cock still standing at attention. Jon couldn't resist a quick glance at the organ, perfectly framed by the leather hugging his bulging thighs and calves.
"Jason, really--"
"Fine," Jason said, stopping in the center of the room. "Fine. Give me a few minutes to get Jake ready for his examination, then he's all yours. Would you like to watch?"
"I'll wait upstairs," Jon said, chills racing up and down his spine.
"Suit yourself. He'll be ready in ten minutes."
Before he turned to leave, Jon watched Jason return to Jake's bedside. Watched him grab the base of the glass cock and remove it from the boy's rectum with a firm yank. Watched Jake actually wince as his hole released the invading object.
"He doesn't terribly like this particular dildo," Jason told Jon. "He loves to get fucked with a good hard cock, though. And he knows I enjoy watching him try to navigate this beautiful piece of craftsmanship." He ripped the condom off the dildo and held it up so that Jon could get a clear view of it. Inch and a half thick, Jon guessed. Maybe eight inches long, perhaps nine. Large head. "Don't you, boy?" Jake made indecipherable sounds through his gag. "He's going to wash his toys and clean himself up, then he'll be ready for your exam."
The night before he was abducted, Steven Baylor got laid.
A Friday night, business as usual in Winters, Texas. He and Haley had a routine. On weekends (Friday nights and Saturday nights --- the store wasn't open Sundays), Steven closed up the store by himself, 7pm sharp. Then he would race home, grab a quick shower, and be at Haley's by 7:20, where she'd be waiting in the front yard.
A quick jaunt to Dairy Queen procured them dinner ---- Steven generally went for the bacon cheeseburger, no pickles, no onions (had a fair amount of kissing ahead of him after all) and Haley, the chicken sandwich, small order of fries. From there, it was all backroads out to the lake, where Steven always spread out a blanket in the bed of his pickup and they lay, listening to the music wafting out from the stereo in the cab ---- Automatic for the People, if Steven got his way (he generally did); one of Abilene's country stations, if he didn't ---- eating their dinner, enjoying each other's company.
Steven had been mad about this girl for as long as he could remember, and Haley had fought his good-hearted pursuit of her with equal vigor. They were always friends, and she always said she liked him too much to risk losing that relationship. The summer between their freshman and sophomore years, he finally managed to convince her, on a June night on that very beach, that he was genuinely crazy about her, that it was for real, and that there was no other girl in the world and never would be. His irresistibly goofy charm (as well as those effortless good looks that were the envy of everyone in town) finally wore down her defenses and she agreed to go out with him.
They spent that entire summer together, inseparable. Just before school began, Haley made him swear to her that they would always remain friends, no matter what came romantically, and he did it without hesitation.
She spent those three months watching the young man's body transform itself impressively, in preparation of the coming football season that many felt would be the school's best ever with Baylor at the helm; one look at his muscular frame, hormones undoubtedly approaching boiling point inside his being, and it was obvious: he was ready for sex. On the outside, he was the easygoing goofball with the killer smile, but underneath, he positively oozed an unmistakable vibe of pure animal masculinity, crafting a daring and near-intimidating combination. Initially, it drew and repelled her with equal force. And one August night, on the same beach and in the same truck, when heavy kissing seemed to be moments, inches, from going further, Haley was almost scared ---- practically in tears ---- when she told him that she wasn't ready to go that far yet. He kissed her, softly this time, and told her it was fine, totally fine, told her never to cry, told her that he had waited since fourth grade and would wait a whole lifetime if necessary.
That was the first of many nights they spent out by the lake, in what became their own secluded, special spot: Haley wrapped tightly in Steven's loving arms, feeling safe, comforted, loved; Steven holding Haley, the young woman with whom he had forever sensed an innate, inexplicable connection. He whispered in her ear that first night, told her to let him know when she was ready, told her that even if this was as close as he ever got with her, he would die an ecstatic man.
The one thing that Steven Baylor detested was showing weakness, of any kind: a box he couldn't lift at the Market Basket; a measly, insurmountable one-point deficit on a 100-yard field in the most important football game of his life; having to sit before his girlfriend, the true love of his life, and ---- wracked with immense guilt and wrenching pain ---- admit that he had gotten drunk at a party and fucked a young Texas tramp who smelled an opportunity to bed the local hero and seized it. The dull, devastated look in Haley's eyes when he finally summoned the courage to come clean shattered his heart. He had crushed the one person in the world that he swore to himself he would never, ever hurt ---- he tried desperately to hug her, to hold her, to clutch to her as she cried and screamed about how he was no different from all the other arrogant young pricks in town, and wouldn't listen to him try in vain to convince her that wasn't true, that he was different, that he was sorry, that he....
The experience changed him: she forgave him, months later, but he was never quite the same, even after they fell slowly back into their old rhythms. He was always a bit more solemn, a tad more reserved. He swore on his soul: to Haley, that it wouldn't ever happen again; to himself, that he would fuck his right hand four times a day if that was what it took to purge the hunger from his system.
Prom night, junior year, middle of the dancefloor, Haley finally let him know. She watched a wide smile overtake Steven's face; the moment he had awaited, anticipated, for so long had finally arrived. His strong hand grabbed her delicate one and, before the song was even over, he had pulled them both into a brisk walk out of the building and toward his pickup. "Are you sure, Hale?" he asked, looking her in the eye. "I want you to be sure."
"I'm sure," she said. He opened the passenger door and helped her inside.
The previous Saturday night, just before closing the store, and hoping --- praying --- that the coming prom night would finally be the moment when Haley would tell him that she was ready, he bought himself a box of condoms, slipping the money into the register and the rubbers into his pocket. Late that night, laying awake in his bed, he practiced slipping one onto his painfully erect dick. He hadn't used one with Stacey ---- it was a drunken, impulsive tryst, over in a few minutes. With Haley, he wanted it perfect. He wanted to be prepared, he wanted to be graceful, he wanted to be confident. No weakness.
Does Jake enjoy being a slave? He enjoys feeling my cock inside his body. I don't know, that's really the best answer I have. The only answer I have.
Look, I don't expect you or anybody else to understand what he and I have together. I know you don't approve, and that's fine. But he chose this. He chose what he is right now. He came to me in tears, told me he'd do anything to stay in my life, and I offered him a way to make that happen, and then I offered him every opportunity to turn it down. Literally gave him right up until the last second to back out. Of course I knew what I was asking of him. But I needed to be sure that he also knew.
He was perfectly clear about what he was signing up for here, I made no bones about it. There weren't any tricks. He knew we wouldn't be going to cocktail parties and nightclubs together. He knew he would become a piece of property. No freedom, no friends, nothing. I had the house completely prepared before I drove to pick him up. I showed him pictures of the jail cell, the basement, the whips. Made sure he understood what his life would become, made sure he understood that once he got in that truck and left Savannah with me, there would be no turning back, there would be no changing his mind. He understood, Jon. He's a sharp kid.
And you've got to understand, though: this kid was completely alone back in Georgia. Didn't have a clue where he'd be sleeping from night to night, what he'd be eating. He was on the streets, fucking all the human trash Savannah had to offer, never knowing where he was going to wake up in the morning, or if he'd even be alive by sunrise. I gave him an opportunity to leave all that behind, and he leapt at it. He has something that's his now. It's only a flimsy bed in an iron cell in some prick's basement, but it's his. For the first time ever, he has something he can depend on. That's not free, mind you, and he has accepted that. But what he has now is really no different than anything he's ever known his entire life. He was trapped in a hellhole back in Georgia. And I know you think he's trapped in a hellhole now, and that's fine. Think whatever you want. Yes, I abuse him. Fine. But I take care of him, too. At the end of the day, he can cling to that. There, he was a sitting duck, one bad choice away from being a John Doe in the Savannah morgue. Here, he's safe. He keeps me satisfied, and I keep him safe. That's the trade-off. We love each other in our own individual ways, and that's why the relationship works.
When I drove to Savannah for the last time, to get the last of the furniture and to pick him up to bring him here.... God, you should have seen the look on his face when I first showed him the dog cage. Oh, man. His face just drained of color. I guess that was when it really hit him for the first time. I rented a U-Haul truck for the last load, and I decided to wait until after midnight to head out so that no one would see us. So just before 1am, we walked down to where the truck was parked and I asked him one final time --- stopped just short of begging him to change his mind. I just couldn't imagine a teenage boy with his whole life ahead of him agreeing to what I was proposing. I mean, I think back to when I was a fourteen year old kid, ready for the world... my God. My God. But he said he was sure. Looked me square in the eye and said he was ready to submit. Fuck, just hearing the words got me so hard I was ready to fuck him right there.
So I looked him in the eye, returned his gaze. Saw that he was serious. Saw that he was ready to hand his life over to me. So I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the collar. The leather collar with studs, the one he still wears. Told him to put it around his neck and buckle it as tight as he could stand. He reached out slowly, took a deep breath, and then grabbed the collar. I told him it was official now. He was my slave. Forever.
I grabbed him by the arm then and pulled him toward the back of the truck. The door was standing wide open, and by the parking lot lights, he could barely see the cage sitting there in the near corner. He knew immediately what it was. I think he was expecting to ride up front with me. I needed something to set the tone from the very beginning, and this was what I came up with. I needed him to understand instantly that he really was a slave now, that he was below me, that I was in control of him.
"Climb in, boy," I told him. I said, "We've got a long trip ahead of us." He let out a soft groan, and I reached back into my jacket and pulled out a small ball gag. "And put this in," I said. "Can't have you making any sounds when we stop for gas."
I watched a couple of tears slide down his face, and I just said very evenly, "Don't make me repeat myself, Jake. Don't start on the wrong foot right off the bat." He nodded slowly and accepted the gag. He put it to his lips and allowed it into his mouth. I tied the strap around his head quickly and then told him to climb up into the cage.
He climbed up onto the back bumper of the truck and then crawled into the cage. He's such a small thing anyway, he had no problem getting himself inside. He curled up into a ball and began to cry softly. It was so hot, man. It was everything I had fantasized about for years, and it was finally coming true, and it was so much bigger and better than I had ever dreamed. It was unbelievable. It was pure power. That's the only word I can think of to describe it. Taking this kid that I had fucked for two years, locking him in a dog cage, driving him to his fate... it felt like raw, unrefined power, just pulsing through my veins.
And the crying. By the time I had the cage secured and was reaching up to shut the truck door, he was full-blown sobbing. I couldn't have scripted it any better. I knew he was having second thoughts already. And I knew that he knew it was way too late for that. So I told him, "You chose this, Jake." Reminded him. Then I told him, "Don't be sad about something you had the guts to choose."
We made it into Shreveport early the next morning and I backed the truck into the garage so that we wouldn't be seen. The house is pretty secluded anyway, but you never know anymore.
I opened the door and stared at him. His eyes were standing wide open. I guess he hadn't slept a wink. His cheeks were puffy and deep red. Must have cried the whole way. I unlocked the cage door and grabbed his hand. "Climb out of there, boy," I told him. Told him he had done a fine job. He squeezed my hand and worked his way out of the cage. I told him to move around a little. His legs seemed pretty stiff. I watched him walk around in circles for a couple of minutes until he was back to normal. Then I told him to sit.
I had been rehearsing what I wanted to say to him for weeks. The entire drive to Shreveport, I just sat there, running my speech through my head over and over again. I was so damn excited, I couldn't quite believe this was finally happening. And all of a sudden, there we were, in the garage of my brand new house. There we were. Master and slave. It was fucking unreal, man. I told him to sit, and he did it immediately. Dropped to the floor fucking immediately. And I could see the fear in his eyes. It was unmistakable. I had wanted to set a stern tone instantly, and I could see in his eyes that I had succeeded. The trip from Savannah to Shreveport in a dog cage in the back of a U-Haul truck had shaken this kid to his core, and I just ate it up. My cock was stuck inside my jeans, ready to burst. Just looking at him. Sitting on the floor. Ball gag peeking out of his mouth. Eyes firmly on me. I started to speak.
"I hope you had plenty of time to get used to having that rubber ball in your mouth, because I intend to keep you gagged frequently. When you're allowed to speak, you will refer to me as 'master' or 'sir.' Am I clear?
"Your life here will be very simple, Jake. All you have to do is remember two things: obedience will be rewarded, and disobedience will be punished. I'll never ask you to do anything that I know you're not fully capable of doing, and when I give you an order, I expect you to carry it out immediately and without hesitation. I will interpret any failure to do so as disobedience. Disobedience will be punished. Am I clear?
"I haven't brought you here to hurt you, I do want you to be clear about that. I've brought you here so that we can explore a fantasy, together, the two of us. But don't misunderstand me, Jake: I will hurt you if I have to. If you leave me no other choice and I have no other way to get my point across, I will inflict pain. Am I clear?
"I'll take you down to the basement in a few minutes, let you get situated. The basement is completely soundproofed, so when you're not gagged and I've allowed you to speak, feel free to make as much noise as you'd like. There aren't any neighbors around for miles, boy. You won't get anybody's attention. Nobody will ever know that you live here, ever. You no longer exist out in the world. There is no more Jake Talbot. So that means you're completely free to commit yourself to this new life. Throw yourself into it, Jake. You belong to me now. You're safe here. This is your home, for the rest of your life. You'll die under this roof. So do whatever you have to do to get comfortable with it. You know me, you know what I like, you know how to satisfy me. It won't be that bad once you get accustomed to it, I'm sure of it. You'll be a magnificent slave, Jake, I'm sure of that too. But let me tell you one thing, and you better listen well. Don't ever try to escape from me, boy. You'll never get away from me, I promise you. You decided that this is what you want, and I gave you plenty of chances to say no. You said yes, every time. So it's time to be a man about it. Accept it. I can see you've been crying all night, and that's fine. I know it's a very big change. But you've had plenty of time to mentally prepare yourself for this. And you need to know right now that I will not tolerate a sniveling crying slave. So take some time today. Get all the tears out of your system so we can move on. Am I clear?
"I pulled you off the goddamned streets, for crying out loud. I saved you from a life of disease, a life of eating out of garbage cans, a life of having to suck filthy dicks for cash. That's all over now, boy, so what in the fuck are you crying about? You've got a home now! A bed to sleep in, every night. Your life has a purpose now, Jake. You mean something to somebody now. You're allowed to embrace it. In fact, I expect you to embrace it. Am I clear?
"We're not in Savannah, anymore. We're not the people we used to be there, do you understand that? We don't have the relationship here that we had there, do you understand that? This is a fresh start, for both of us. So if you're going to spend your time here longing for the way things used to be, wanting something that doesn't exist anymore and probably never did, well then you're going to have a miserable life here, and I can make that life even more miserable if I see your attitude start to affect your slave training. Am I clear?"
Clear was the magic word, I suppose. Every time I said it, he nodded his little head. Emphatically. He was eager to stay in my good graces, I could see it. I didn't know how long that was going to last so I was determined to enjoy it as long as it did. I stared at him for a few seconds, then I told him to stand. He jumped to his feet. I told him to strip, completely. He had been wearing the same white T-shirt and blue jeans and sneakers that he had on when I picked him up the night before in Savannah. I had considered making him ride in the cage naked, but I really wanted to make a show of him surrendering his belongings to me once we got here.
He stood there for about five seconds, doing nothing, and I told him, "Don't make me repeat myself." He reached down and unlaced his shoes and then climbed out of them. Reached down and removed his socks. "Good boy," I told him. "Keep going. Take it all off." Jeans came off, very slowly. Pulled the shirt over his head. He was standing there in just his briefs. "Those too," I said quietly, looking right at his crotch. "Now." He pulled at the elastic waistband and slid them down his legs. He stood there completely naked, wearing just his new slave collar and his cheap wristwatch, his little dick half-hard, wondering what was coming next.
I directed his attention over to the corner of the garage. I had a good-sized backyard barbecue grill sitting there. It was my dad's a lifetime ago. I had it in storage and pulled it out for the first truckload of stuff I brought here from Savannah. I told him to go get it. While he was fetching the grill, I reached into the front seat of the truck and grabbed a plastic grocery bag that I had gotten the day before.
So he drags the grill over and puts it right between us. His clothes were on the floor next to him in a perfect little pile. I told him to pick up his shirt and put it inside the grill. Then I reached into the bag and produced a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches. He knew. His eyes just got this sad look, this desperate, pleading.... He's never been more beautiful than he was in those few seconds of recognition.
I had been doing lots of reading, going to bondage websites, doing all the research I could. All the stuff I read said that you have to completely erase a slave's identity: to create a truly successful slave, to totally break his will, you have to eradicate every reminder of who he was. Tear his human mind down to absolutely nothing so that you can reconstruct it as a slave's. I needed something symbolic, something that would devastate him, something so searing that he could never forget it.
All he had in the world that day were the clothes on his back. So I knew damn well he'd remember having to set everything he had on fire. I knew it would demolish his spirit, and that was exactly what was necessary.
He picked up the shirt and very gently laid it in the center of the grill rack. I handed him the fluid and told him to douse it. He started trying to speak to me through the gag, started shaking his head. He was literally making all these sounds, trying to form words, it was very charming. I smiled at him and told him, very simply, "Jake, you've hesitated twice already since you became a slave. Didn't I just tell you that hesitation equals disobedience?" He stood there, still, stonefaced, tears starting to roll again. "I just asked you a question, slave," I said. He nodded his head slowly. "You'll be receiving your first whipping as a slave later today. Every time you disobey me, you make your beating longer and worse than it was already going to be. Am I clear?" He nodded again. I ordered him one more time to soak the shirt.
He was crying now. Worse than before. It really was a sight. He knew that this was serious now. I wasn't playing with him anymore. I wasn't Jason, the Friday night fuck anymore, and he knew it.
He opened the bottle and began to squirt the fluid all over the T- shirt. After a few seconds, I told him to stop. Handed him the box of matches. Told him, "You know what to do next, boy."
His glare turned cold, eyes full of rage, like the Jake that I had first met almost two years before. God. I still get chills when I see it in my mind. So hot, so real. After years of going through the motions, years of artificial emotion, I finally had something real in my life.
He lit that first match and tossed it onto his shirt, watched it burst into a bright orange flame. He stood there and just watched. Forced back his tears.
After a minute or so, when the fire had calmed, I said, "Shoes." He picked up the old dingy Converse sneakers and laid them atop the shirt. "Fluid," I said. "Carefully." He dripped the fluid onto the grill and watched the fire slowly return to full strength, swallowing the shoes in seconds.
I asked him if he had any money in his wallet. He nodded his head. I told him to burn it, whatever he had on him. He stared at me, didn't move. "Boy, before the end of this day, you're going to find out just how much I hate repeating myself," I told him. Told him I had a brand new bullwhip downstairs that I couldn't wait to break in on his bony little ass.
He reached into his jeans and grabbed his wallet. Took out seventeen dollars. "Burn it," I said. He pitched it onto the fire.
I stood there and watched him burn all of his possessions. He tossed his wallet into the blaze without prompting. God, it was fantastic. I told him to just keep going, that he was doing a terrific job.
When the fire burned itself out and everything was gone, his expression was just blank. His eyes were completely empty, completely void. It was magnificent. It truly was life-affirming. It didn't break his will entirely, mind you, but it was one hell of a start, better than I had dreamed.
"OK, boy," I said then. "It's time to get you to your room." I reached back into the grocery bag and pulled out the final item. Bright blue dog leash. Stepped over to him and hooked it quickly onto his collar. I started to head toward the door of the house, but he just stood there. I'm telling you, I loved the fact that he kept hesitating, that he kept fighting me. I had been secretly hoping that he would, just so I could his first punishment session as memorable, as fierce as possible.
I turned to face him and I said, "You can walk, or I can drag you like a dog. Your choice."
I started to walk again and he followed me this time, keeping the leash pretty taut. We stepped into the house and through the kitchen and I led him to the stairs leading down to the basement.
"You ready, Jake? You ready to see the rest of your life?" He made another sound through the gag and I just smiled at him.
I walked him carefully down the stairs and up to the basement door. Slid the key into both locks and pushed the door open slowly. I wanted him to take it all in in stages. I had shown him all the pictures beforehand, but nothing compares to seeing that room with your own eyes.
When he saw the jail cell, I literally saw his knees start to shake. He started backing away, on reflex I guess. I snapped the leash tight and yanked him back toward me. "This is your home, Jake," I told him. "No need to be afraid of your home."
I pulled him into the room and pointed toward the cell. "That's where you'll sleep, boy." He saw the metal chest of drawers, that thin mattress and that flimsy metal bed... I'm telling you, I literally thought the kid was going to pass out. He was just shaking, sobbing. It was intense. "That's one of the places where you'll be fucked." I pulled him inside the cell so he could really see it. I told him, "This bed and that slave collar you've got around your throat, they're the only things left on this whole planet that you can call your own. So make them yours. Own them, completely. Am I clear?" He nodded.
I walked him over to the whip rack and pulled down the bullwhip. "This is what I'm going to beat you with later, Jake," I told him. Made him reach out and touch it. I wanted him to feel the leather in his hands, feel the braids and the grooves and the coarseness. Wanted him to respect it. Then I opened the equipment cabinet and let him see all the toys. We had already used a few of the dildos and plugs so he was pretty used to that, but there was some brand new stuff in there. I then told him choose which of the butt plugs he wanted to wear his first day as a slave. He picked one of the thinner ones. I reached around his head and untied the gag and pulled it from his mouth, then I took the plug from his hand and held it to his lips. "Get it good and wet," I told him. "It's going to be inside your ass for a while." He moaned as he opened his mouth, but he accepted it immediately. "Good boy," I said.
I pointed over to a locked door in the corner and told him, "You'll see the punishment room when it's time for your whipping." Then I told him he needed to lay down for a while, that he needed his rest, and I walked him back to his cell. I removed the leash and reached up to grab the plug from his mouth. Told him to get on the bed, hands and knees, ass toward me. He did it silently. No protest. I walked over and grabbed the cheeks, pushed the plug up to his asshole and then gave it a quick shove. He groaned as it popped inside his body.
"Relax now," I told him. "Get some sleep. It's going to be a long day before we're done." I told him I'd come down in a few hours to give him his first beating. I wanted him to have some time to think about it.
I looked at the soaked ball gag in my hand and then I looked at him. He was stretched out on the bed, on his back, starting to tear up again. I asked him a question:
"Do you want to be gagged again, or do you want an extra fifteen minutes with the whip tonight?"
He couldn't even look at me.
"Jake, I asked you a goddamn question. Do you want---"
"I don't want the gag, sir," he said, almost in a whisper. His voice was hoarse.
"Good enough. I was hoping you'd let me give you a good, sound beating this evening."
I turned to leave then and he said, "Sir?"
"Yes, boy."
"Sir, I'm thirsty."
I stepped over to the metal dresser and pulled out a small drinking glass, and walked over to the sink outside the cell. Turned on the tap and filled the glass maybe a quarter full. Carried it back into him. He was crying when I handed it to him.
"Master, I'm really thirsty," he said in a tiny voice, tears flowing.
"Good," I told him. "You'll remember that, I hope." I left the cell and locked it. "I reward obedience, Jake. Don't forget that. I reward obedience. Am I clear?" He nodded. Dropped his head. "You have a lot to think about today, boy. After your whipping, you can have a little food and something to drink. Until then, I want you to think about the different ways you can hone your obedience skills. Am I clear?"
He nodded.
"Answer me. Tell me."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes what?"
"Yes. Master."
They were naked. Laying atop a blanket in the back of his old Ford pick-up. Listening to the gentle waves. Watching the stars. Stipe's voice surrounding them, scoring the moment. "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite." One of his favorites.
"Tell me which team you'll play for."
"Pro?"
"Yeah."
"Aww, baby. You know the answer to that."
"Tell me anyway."
"Cowboys. Every Texas boy dreams of being a Longhorn and a Cowboy. Haven't we gone over that already?"
"Yeah."
"It's in the DNA. In the genes."
"OK, besides the Cowboys, then."
"As long as I would get to lay hands on an in-play football every autumn Sunday, I would play anywhere. I'd be a friggin' Seahawk. I'd even be a damn Redskin."
"I love how much you love it."
"The game?"
"Yeah. Most girls think it's stupid."
"Yeah."
"But not me. I think it's amazing."
"You think it's amazing because you're fucking the quarterback."
"Yeah, well.... I get an inside view."
"You're crazy, Hale."
"So tell me how many kids we'll have."
"Ten. Twelve. Six. I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"However many you want, baby, that's how many we'll have. Whatever you want, you'll have. I'll make sure of it."
"All I want is this."
"This?"
"You. Here. Holding me. Promise me this won't ever end."
"This won't ever end, Haley Stinson. I promise you."
"So.... We're really going to Austin this fall?"
"Got my official acceptance letter in the mail today."
"Wow."
"Just a formality. Coach told me weeks ago it was a done deal. But still, it was pretty cool opening that envelope. Reading the words."
"I can't wait. I'm so ready to leave this little town behind, see what else is out there."
"This town's been pretty good to us, you know."
"I know, and I love it here. I do. I'm just ready for something different, that's all. Aren't you?"
"Sure. As long as you're there by my side, I'm ready for anything."
"Always. I would follow you anywhere, Steven Baylor. You just try to get rid of me."
I know it's been a long time coming, guys. Hope it was worth the wait. 2d coming soon.
DarkMaster04@webtv.net