There he was in the distance walking towards me down the long gleaming steel and glass passage way. Then he was in front of me, his hands on my shoulders pushing me backwards to get a complete view of me. I stood like a statue of Adonis for a minute and then I smiled.
Do I please you?
Very much.
Do I look different?
You do.
He kissed me.
Master, I said, beaming with desire. Master.
O, how I burn to give myself to him over and over again, as if each moment of surrender were the first.
I crumble in his arms.
Let me describe myself for a minute. I have spikey blond hair, green eyes and a fabulous build. No, really, I do. I'm in the movies. My six pack is an eight pack. My face has been on magazine covers, gay, straight, men's, women's. I have modeled on the runways for Versace, Calvin, and Armani. There is a nationally known ad for an extra-long cigarette with me in stockings, heels, garter belt, bare chest, eyeliner, shaved head and a rhinestone earring. Hell, that ad is circulated world-wide -- now with the multi-nationals. If I didn't want to I wouldn't have to work for the rest of my life from what I make on that ad alone, and still go on vacation all year long.
Right now in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of one of the chic-er, sleeker terminals at Kennedy airport, I am wearing tight and skimpy white vinyl shorts, a white Fruit of the Loom wifebeater sized for a ten year old that I've stretched over my torso and high calf white leather boots with shellacked white Cuban heels. It's the middle of summer, and it's been in the nineties for over a week. Oh, yes, and a white platinum bracelet on my left wrist and a white platinum pinkie ring with a beryl setting.
Let me describe my Master, too. He is difficult to look at he is so dazzling. I hardly can see him, the force of energy that emanates from him shimmers so intensely. It is like the force of an electric current, and when I touch him the force mesmerizes me, throbbing through the granite finish of his magnificently muscled physique.
We get in a cab and keep the windows open despite the air conditioning. Through Queens; two queans through Queens with all its mess and congestion. Imagine living with a highway running right outside your living room or bedroom window!
It was good to see Chelsea again: bars, brownstones and bare-chested guys with pierced nipples nuzzling against guys in leather vests, boots and hot pants. Everything is simple here. People know what they want.
We went upstairs. We have a duplex penthouse and a large terrace, landscaped as green as Vermont in Spring.
A shower would be perfect right now. Please, Sir, join me?
Out of your boots, he said pushing me to the floor and unsnapping my shorts. Arms up. Off with that wife beater. [Slaps me on the butt. I tingle.] When did you get it? It's magnificent on you.
It was given to me, I smiled.
Slut, twisting my nipples.
Master, I sighed.
Muscle boy, he said before I knew it, and it hit me before I knew it. My trigger words, and I was back in a trance. Don't be surprised that I know my trigger. Doesn't make it any less effective.
To the shower, he said.
The water beat and rolled on us. I soaped him and shampooed his hair and caressed his steel ball sack. As if commanded by its strength I kneel before him. With my lips I grasp him and finger the base of his shaft and take him in deeper and deeper gagging with excitement and each time feeling freer and more excited, capable of accumulating energy way beyond any bursting point.
With each stroke of my devotion to his shaft his whole body grew more tensile until he came to the shattering point, but the instant before he might have flown off in every direction he retracted all his energy to his glowing center. Likewise, I felt mine sweep back, and become a divine muscularity. He grabs my cock and presses it against his. He squeezes the two together, making their heads taut with muscularity. We press our bodies against each other and lash at each other with our tongues, stretching, twisting and grinding our mouths till our nipples scream and our bodies fire like an explosion blowing up a rocky ledge.
We shaved at the double sink with the faucets shaped like dragons exhaling water instead of fire, and dried each other. I styled his hair and made my own extra spikey.
I put on a pair of low slung white ducks. Before I pull on a sleeveless skin tight apricot colored muscle shirt ending an inch above the navel, Master gives me a pair of jeweled nipple rings to insert in my pierced nipples. There was a matching cock ring. I opened my pants and secured it around me, zipped up. It fit perfectly. So did I. My mind was wiped clean. I was breathing with my ass-hole and ready to be fucked. I wore the white platinum choker that matched the bracelet, and a small diamond ear pin.
Master slipped on a pair of exquisite pepper black silk trousers, snug around the butt, but falling loosely. He wore a torso hugging burgundy brown silk sleeveless muscle shirt and a black double breasted jacket with narrow lapels and a burgundy brown handkerchief in his breast pocket. His belt and the mid-calf tapered boots that the cuffs of his trousers brushed against were of the same brown burgundy. His hair was almost black and it was thick; in the back it fell just above his collar; in front it kept threatening to tumble all over his forehead.
We had martinis in Crazy Benny's, but we didn't stay because it was simply mobbed since it had been featured a week ago in the Talk of the Town section of The New Yorker. I was groped a half a dozen times before we got out of there. We took a cab uptown to the eighties and Riverside Drive. You could sense the river reflected in the air; the sky was a crisp blue. The night had cooled. We began our game.
We called it Playing Risk. The risk is that at any point it can stop being a game and become the real thing. There would really be a winner and a loser. And, of course, it involved sex.
A knock out stud, muscular and bronze wearing a silver lamée thong greeted us at the door,
He shook my hand and said how glad he was to meet me. He kissed Brad on the lips.
You're on your own kid, Brad said to me putting his arm round this creature. In the voice of Groucho Marx he said to him Show me your etchings. They walked into a crowd and by myself I flowed into the miasma.
Here he is, Drake Harkin trumpeted pointing to me, a joint in his fingers the way a cigarette used to be. Muscle Boy!
I felt dizzy but managed to smile.
A stunning young woman -- sheath black velvet dress, low cut, tight bodice, skirt slit up both sides -- speaking to him, looked over at me, caught my eye. Slender ankles strapped into high heels; strong square shoulders, arms to enrapture a gym bunny, succulent breasts on a well-muscled chest; beautifully exposed flesh fragrant with youth. She placed her palm over my half bare midriff. Muscle Boy, she said in a voice that crossed a purr with a growl.
It won't do you any good. He's gay and taken, Harkin said.
I get what I want, she said.
Or daddy buys it for you.
Wanna go to the back room with me and I'll tell you how much he'll pay?
But she kissed me with her open mouth before I could answer.
Don't cha get a hard on when I kiss you? She said like a cheap whore in a noir film.
It's not up to me, I said imitating Bogart.
You mean I don't turn you on because I'm a woman. You don't think I have enough power.
Her Bacall wasn't bad.
I hesitated to speak, not wanting to be rude.
You'll be on your knees begging to lick my cunt before we're outta here, Muscle Boy.
As I looked at her I began to get dizzy. She didn't know it was my trigger, Muscle Boy. It didn't matter. I was going under, and it wasn't Brad.
What's the matter?
I can't move.
She smiled. Follow me, she said.
She closed the bedroom door, took off her dress, and showed a pair of perfect legs in shiny black heels and tinted black stockings held up by garter belt over silky black bikini. She left on the bra. Black silk seductively filled, a well defined chest, muscles, abs. She was magnetic.
Kneel.
I did.
Bow.
Lick my feet.
I was unable to resist. I worshipped her.
I kissed her calves and caressed her thighs. She slapped me. Hard.
Not for you.
That aroused me the most, that and my be-ringed cock pressing against the restraining tightness of my ducks.
She slapped me again, and I bent down and kissed the instep of her foot. She kicked.
Muscle Boy. She mocked.
I understood.
She was the Mistress provoking me to make her the slave. I was the slave who must serve by being Master.
I took her thighs, pulled her to the floor held her legs apart, each hand grasping her inner thighs, and pulled at her bikini with my teeth until my tongue was in the thick warm liquid of her salty lust and I was lost in service. She struggled and then cracked, gyrating and moaning, my head and her cunt made one.
She pulled at my hair as if she were trying to hold on, terrified as she plummeted in free fall.
Meanwhile Brad and his silver-thonged Ganymede had gone out on the balcony where Ganeymede was entranced, kneeling before my Master and worshipping him. At this moment sucking his balls. Had I known about it at the time I was staring into Allison's eyes and the two of us were wrenchingly rocking inside each other exchanging power, it would have given the excitement I was experiencing a divine mixture of pain and loss mingled in my gut with pleasure and possession.
Allison had put her dress and heels back on and was tenderly glancing at me on the couch. We were getting joints passed from all over the room.
Your belly and your bowels are on fire. Your muscles are on fire. Orgasms inside you are screaming for release. Gently she was dragging her finger over my lips my nose, my cheeks, my eyelids.
Harkin came over and warned me I needed to get some sleep. We were leaving at noon.
I told him I looked sexier when I'm sleepy.
Allison said I was about to go to sleep.
I wouldn't do that, Harkin said. It could be dangerous.
What do you mean?
He already is hypnotized.
He already is hypnotized?
I told you he wasn't available.
I'll sell him to you for a good price, Brad said coming into the circle from elsewhere, having just entered the room and overhearing the last part of the conversation.
Brad put his head next to mine and whispered in my ear, Muscle Boy.
My head spun, mind went blank and I collapsed on the couch. A moment later I sat up. The rest of the night I moved like an automaton, and my ability to speak was shut off.
How about you rent him to me for a week?
With an option to buy?
I'm not sure I could afford him. He looks expensive.
I don't want to spoil your negotiations, Harkin interrupted, but I have a signed contract, and he's due tomorrow at noon at JFK to fly to Panama, and he's mine until the picture is finished.
Fair enough, said my Master, and turning to Allison: I'll lend him to you for a week when shooting is finished.
Allison thought quickly as she agreed. She could accomplish what she needed to do in a week, and then all his conditions would become superfluous.
ii.
THE POWER OF MY WILL/ THE WEAKNESS OF YOUR DESIRES was shot in Panama, doubling for Colombia. Derek plays Jimmy, buff, cut and ripped, a SEAL on leave in Ohio drinking one night with a buddy who took a different direction.
What's this army shit, man, you goin' through.
It's the Navy, I told you, and it's not shit. There's a mess in this world, and you need someone to clean it up, and keep it from happinin' again, I want to be part of that someone.
Makin' more mess, huh?
Cut the bullshit man.
You gonna make me.
Sure, let's go outside.
Horse play.
Outside.
Friendly wrestling.
Shot of a man across the way watching.
Cut to next shot: Jimmy solitary on a golden beach in a ripped pair of shorts and the blue scrap of a work shirt clinging to his bronzed and gleaming muscled torso. He is running away from the ocean towards the camera. There is the music of freedom, and then silence. Then he speaks. God Damn, he says.
Cut to next shot, Jimmy with nothing on his chest, but a rope across it, and just covered by his shorts which have become skimpier, tied to a chair.
Tell us what you know.
Silence.
You survived.
Several blows coolly aimed, causing as much a sense of what worse might come as well as the present pain delivered.
They realize though that he will not talk, and if they incapacitate him he will not be able to. They look meaningfully at each other and say Hypnosis.
A very sinister man peculiarly handsome and ugly at the same time approaches, is handed a box by a nearly naked zombie servant and removes a jade pendant. It sends out sparkles of light.
He begins swinging it in front of Jimmy's eyes. Jimmy struggles against it, running away from it with his eyes, struggling to shut them. The camera offers a huge shot of Jimmy's seductive watery jade marble eyes. They fill the panorama of the movie screen. Then we see them begin to follow the swing of the pendulum, the pendulum swinging in front of his eyes and in front of ours, too, from one end of the screen to the other.
You are in a deep sleep now and must obey every command I give you and answer every question I ask you.
Even in his vulnerable sleep, interrogation was fruitless. They are satisfied that he really knew nothing.
Can you hear me? the sinister master hypnotist asks.
Yes, Jimmy groans.
You will always say Yes, sir, with the same devotion as you do as a SEAL.
Yes, Sir, says Jimmy snapping to attention.
Very good. I am pleased, the master, smiling.
Thank you, Sir, Jimmy speaks, his voice sharp. He has been stripped of his identity and is completely obedient.
I'm going to bring you out of this trance. When I do, you will do exactly what I tell you to. You will be unable to resist me.
A few days later Jimmy is drinking a beer in a Bogata café. He is wearing a cheap American cowboy hat, a wife-beater, worn, well fitting jeans and cowboy boots. He smokes a thin panatela.
Mr. Jackson, a little man in a pin stripe suit and flanked by two bigger men. He says, I am Mr. Jackson, slowly and hands him an American dollar. You know what to do, he says. I will tell you. The Forest of the Virgin Gods.
After a lot of plot shenanigans and intrigue which I will not bother to relate, including a whole Zulu War and a pastoral interval by a pink and blue lagoon, Jimmy winds up deep in the jungle, called the Forest of the Virgin Gods, tied to a tree waiting to be sacrificed, along with a beautiful native girl, in a primitive fire ceremony. Jimmy manages to scrape the bindings against the tree enough to frazzle them, gets free, releases the girl, and they run away into the jungle night.
A year later. Night. A café in Antibbes, overlooking the Mediterranean. We see the bustle of the waiters, each wearing trousers as tight as a Roxy usher's and little white double breasted bell boy jackets tightly buttoned over gorgeous torsos. Shoe polished hair. The camera closes in on a sultry vocalist singing "Just in Time," then swirls through a floor full of dancers until it finds and isolates them, lost in each others arms, he in a white-jacketed tuxedo, she in a floor length black sheath, slit high up the side, dancing, dreaming. Black out!
iii
Allison and Brad sat on facing chairs in our upstairs living room staring at each other. Ganymede was there too, now in a russet thong with a chain round his neck.
As long as you're away so much I thought I'd get a dog to keep me company, my Master said in mock dejection.
Woof, woof, I said, and shook my bottom like a dog's tail and didn't spill the two martinis I was handing them.
Good boy, my Master said.
I bowed. He rubbed my head.
As we left, he embraced me, kissed me like a branding iron and whispered in my ear an overriding command, a fragment that would keep exploding in me like a time release medicine, "Love cock."
I already did. I adored it. I worshipped it.
iv
Allison lived with Julia, now her secretary, off Central Park on Fifth Avenue in a four story town house.
I say "now her secretary," because this was not always the case. Upon graduation from Bennington, they had been best friends, and their confidences, late at night after they had become Greenwhich Village roommates brought them even closer. They spoke of their rape fantasies and complained about how exciting they were despite the fact that rape was actually horrible and their fantasies vile, seeming in some way to grant acquiescence to rape. They also spoke of the dreariness of the men they saw, how lacking they were in masculinity, in power, authority, confidence, sexual savagery or even money.
They wanted men who could control them, who could make them melt, overpower them, make them -- despite their strength and their determination to be independent and whole -- surrender body and soul. No matter what their daily accomplishments, nor how sure and elegant and cold they seemed to colleagues and passers by, Allison and Julia agreed they were only really sluts thrilled to obey a man who could command them.
Eric was the man. They met him when a five-minute tropical rain hit the summer streets of the hot Village and these three were among those who ran to the doorway of The Paperback Dragon.
Minutes later in the sun, over already dry pavements they accompanied him to his studio off Hudson Street. It looked like an airplane hanger.
In explanation he told them he was a photographer.
When they asked him to see things he'd done, first he showed them several covers for Vogue, Elle, Vanity Fair. There was the already famous six page spread of photos of Derek Madison that had appeared in The New Yorker. But there was more, he told them, if they wanted to see it, but it was tougher stuff.
They wanted to see. Whips, chains, leather, spiked heels and vinyl boots, thongs and chastity belts for women and men, pierced nipples, shaved and bound men and women submissive and tortured. Powerful, bronzed shining, Masters and Mistresses posed in their glory. Stripped and humiliated, slaves bowed and served. All posing for the vast readership of the many magazines that paid Eric for his work.
How do you get them to do all that? the girls asked.
They like it, Eric replied smiling.
You must pay them a lot.
On the contrary. They do it to please me. As I said, they like it.
They like it, the girls repeated, incredulously and simultaneously.
Enough.
What's enough?
Enough for me to get them to go the extra distance for my camera.
The girls shuddered.
You couldn't get me to do that if you hypnotized me, Allison joked.
Amen, said Julia.
You want to try? Eric said very quietly.
Are you serious? said Allison.
Are you? said Eric.
Go ahead, she said.
Relax he said.
I am, she said.
Shush pussycat, he said.
Breathe easy.
Relax.
Breathe
She fell into his power quite quickly. It excited her to obey him.
Julia had fallen meanwhile into a trance of her own and realized how she had never realized until this minute how beautiful Allison was. She desired her.
He used them in several different poses on several covers, but the relation was always the same, Allison some sort of mistress and Julia ecstatically suffering humiliation, servitude and inferiority as her labia were being tongued or her ass hole teased by an exquisite girl whom she had never met whose wrists were tied behind her back. Allison stood over them, haughty and holding a whip, ready although at rest.
After the session he played with them while they still wore their skimpy leather posing costumes. They pretended to be kittens, licked and pawed him and took him into them. They called him master, and when not serving him sexually did domestic service.
He saw Julia's submissive attraction to Allison, and before he released them from the trance, readjusted her and Allison. From then on, it was understood that Allison was her mistress. To give their relationship a social face, so that they could have the added pleasures of engaging in a secret relationship and also being great matter for social gossip and innuendo he suggested that Julia become Allison's paid secretary.
v.
When I got there that relationship had worked itself out in all its details and their roles were defined very precisely. They lived them every minute they were together, and they were just about inseparable.
Allison stripped me bare, put my cock and balls in a silver cage with a lock to which she had a little silver key, and locked me in. She put clamps on my nipples and told me to slip on the black thong she gave me.
We weren't alone, but a group of her friends were there. I was entirely compliant and obedient, as I'd been hypnotized to be.
I noticed her friend Sam immediately. He was astonishing and it pained me not to look at him, but looking at him caused me anguish too, for my captive cock was so caged it could not extend itself in gratitude for such beauty, but was hurt just by perceiving it while immobilized.
Later I was in a bedroom with the two of them, my cock uncased up his ass as he rammed up and down into her.
Everything was burning. I was about to explode. He was holding my thighs, stretching his arms behind him like he was going to make a swan dive.
And then we all crashed with a clanging reverberation of our parts until we buzzed out beyond the last tingle to stillness, our heads all melted together.
She wore me out.
Slowly I found myself losing ground to her, until, after it was totally beyond anything I could do about it I was entirely in her power. I was obeying her every command as if it were an impulse of my own. Then I had no memory of anything but the time I spent in her presence. The rest was blank, non-existent. I became non-existent without her.
I knelt before her, worshipping, in heels, well muscled firmly shaped hairless legs, sun bronzed and gleaming, and I put my head in her V and with my tongue did homage to her magnificence.
I had become so enthralled by my mistress that I had forgotten entirely about my master. I remembered him only after I found myself between him and my mistress, his cock up my ass and mine nuzzling inside her. We eased each other aloft, both of them whispering to me; she with that cross between a purr and a growl saying muscle boy; he, taking me to a profoundly joyous elevation, repeatedly pouring out the words Love cock.