Blue Light

by Aaron Travis (Originally published by Drummer Magazine)

I was new in town, didn't know anyone, needed a place. My old apartment in New York made me sick of cramped quarters; I needed space. I had no intention of moving into some tacky apartment complex with a swimming pool and uptight neighbors. I wanted something different. A room in a house with laid-back people. Cooperative living. I had done that back in my student days. It might be just what I needed to make me feel at home in this fucked-up town. They say New York is impersonal. Give me those hordes on the subways any day over the human automatons in steel modules that cruise the superfreeways in Houston. Forget the sweltering heat; this town is all cold concrete and glass. Maybe that explains the incredible murder rate. Lots of mental illness down here. 

Saturday morning I biked over to Montrose and found a health food restaurant. I leafed through a few of the free underground rags that were stacked in front of the cash register. Plenty of classifieds. One of them seemed to be just what I wanted. "Liberated person needed to share 3-story house w/2 w,1 m. You help in house, garden, get privacy, fresh vegs. $90/month." 

The address was on Beauchamp Street. I asked the cashier if she knew where it was. North of downtown she said. A restoration area. Her guyfriend lived there. Lots of trees and big old houses. Mixed neighborhood: Chicanos, Blacks, old couples, student types. 

I had an alfalfa sprout salad to get myself in the mood and biked up to Beauchamp. I thought about removing the studded band of leather around my left bicep, decided against it. If I moved in, they'd figure out my proclivities soon enough. Better to start out being open. 

The house was set on a corner, and dominated everything around it. Texas victorian style, with yellow clapboard walls and a green roof. Lots of decorative carved wood. The successive stories were set back in tiers; a jumble of gables directed my eyes up to the octagonal room at the top, where the domed roof came to a point. It seemed perched on the house like an eagle's nest, high above the tops of the oaks and pecan trees. 

The yard was like a jumble, dense and green. Shady trees, century plants, stands of wild bamboo, even a few spindly yuccas. So far it looked like a bargain. 

Two women were sitting on the front porch. As I walked up, they stopped talking and looked me over. I did the same to them. 

They both looked a little overweight, and wore their hair long and frizzy. Late twenties, early thirties. Loose, lacy cotton dresses and sandals, circa 1968. 

I learned their names were Karen and Sharon. Karen wore thick glasses. Sharon wore contacts. Karen smoked lots of dope and read science fiction magazines. Sharon smoked lots of dope and rode a Harley, which gave us something to talk about. They both made good money working for Ma Bell and were old, old friends. 

Sharon had to work on her bike, so Karen give me a walk-through. The first floor ceilings were twelve feet high. All the wallpaper had been stripped off. The walls were dark lumber. The women had separate rooms on the first floor. There was also a big bathroom, a living room, library (shelf after shelf of Analog and Fantasy and Science Fiction), and a cavernous kitchen with yellow plaster walls. There was a poster of Janis Joplin over the refrigerator. 

A back door off the kitchen opened onto a small wooden porch. They had turned the back yard into an impressive garden. 

"Now, I'll show you your room," Karen said. 

The stairway was narrow and steep. The second floor was much smaller. A short dark hallway - bathroom at one end, an empty room at the other. 

The room had a low ceiling and narrow, floor length windows. The dark stripped walls made it seem smaller than it was. It was U-shaped, with windows facing every direction. The drapes were gray with age and dirt. The furniture was sparse: the bed was a mattress on the floor. I saw possibilities. I told Karen I liked it. 

As we stepped back into the hallway, I looked up the last flight of steps. They ended in a trapdoor. 

"You might as well see the rest of the house," Karen offered. "I think Michael's out, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind." I followed her up the short flight. She pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside, eyes at floor level. 

"Just want to make sure there aren't any burnt offerings or spilled entrails on the floor," she said. 

"Huh?" 

Karen laughed. "I'm just kidding. Sort of. Michael's into some pretty weird stuff." She pushed the trapdoor open. "Looks okay. Come on up." 

We were in the octagonal room at the top of the house. Four walls and four windows. The windows were covered by heavy black drapes that admitted no light, making the room seem like a sealed chamber. I wondered where the faint light came from, realized it was concentrated in a bar in the center of the room. I looked up. A tiny stained glass skylight shaped like an eight-point star was set in the center of the high ceiling. 

"Michael owns the place. You may not meet him for a while. He keeps odd hours eats up here in his room..." 

As she spoke, I looked around. A large four poster bed against one wall, ancient looking wooden caskets set with bronze hinges, a huge wooden chair that looked like a medieval throne. Pentangles and other symbols, indistinct in the darkness, painted in white on the purple walls and high domed ceiling. 

I walked to a bookcase close by. Only a few of the authors were familiar: Dennis Wheatley, Aleister Crowley, Anton Levay. 

"He's a satanist?" I asked, mildly curious. I had known stranger types. 

"Michael? Oh no! I mean, he doesn't hold black masses or anything like that. At least I don't think so. Actually I don't know what he does up here. Sharon and I stay pretty much on the ground floor." 

I moved in that afternoon. 

That evening I ate in the kitchen. Sharon and Karen were good company. I kept expecting to see my third housemate, but he never showed. 

I was tired and nervy after a day of moving, and decided I needed an evening out. I checked out a couple of bars, then hit one of the baths. I stumbled in around four in the morning, trying not to make too much noise on the creaky stairs. I noticed there was a thin edge of light around the trapdoor to the octagonal room. 

I woke up, headachey. Sometime in the late morning. Sunlight was streaming in the room. I got up, half asleep, to close the drapes. One of the windows looked down on the garden. I saw a man there, shoveling. 

From the steep angle I couldn't see much except his head and shoulders. He was wearing dirty white overalls. His hair was long - almost to his waist - and black, pulled back from his face in a ponytail. His untanned shoulders were broad and solid. They were beautiful to watch as he dug the shovel into the earth and scooped it out. 

He suddenly stood up straight, turned toward the house and looked up at me. 

He was very tall; easily over six feet. The overalls fit tight around his waist, emphasizing the incredible width of his chest and shoulders. Sweat made the sunlight glimmer in the deep cleft between his pectorals. His face was young and spotted with dirt. I was struck by how white and smooth his skin was, like ivory. 

He rested one hand on the shovel at his side, raised the other to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

I stood naked at the full length window as we looked at each other - naked except for the leather arm band, which I never take off. I tried to smile, despite the pain cracking my head. Now why couldn't I have run into that in the baths last night, I thought. Then I closed the drapes and went back to bed. 

I thought I might see him later in the day. I asked Karen if he was around. In his room, she said. Working. 

"What does he do?" 

"I don't really know," she shrugged. "I say 'working' because he doesn't like anybody to disturb him when he's upstairs." 

I took the hint. 

There was no sign of him for several days. I wanted another look at those shoulders and arms. It became a mild obsession. 

I had set my bed opposite the door to my room. I took to leaving the door open when I was in. I lay on the bed, shirtless, reading or smoking, one eye on the hallway. Sooner or later I'd see him pass by. 

That was how I spent my evenings that first week in the house, reading in bed and waiting for a chance to meet Michael. Somehow he eluded me. I must have read Karen's entire collection of Amazing Stories that week. 

It became a game. It was my nature to win games. 

Friday night I was hot. Ready to grab him off the stairs and drag him into my room. And sure enough, around nine o'clock, I heard footsteps on the lower stairway. 

I lowered the magazine in my hands so I could see over it, and watched a man appear headfirst in the hallway. He was not Michael. But he easily drove the week-long obsession with my landlord from my mind. 

He was blond, short hair, butch features, mustache. Dressed in a sleeveless T shirt that showed off a well stacked torso. Skin golden from the sun. A lot like me, in fact. 

He was tall, taller than me; maybe taller than Michael. I automatically glanced at his crotch. No data: the pants were too loose to show. So I concentrated my stare at the nipples that stood out under that tight shirt. I wanted to bite them. 

Obviously gay. Or so I thought; when his eyes met mine, I tried to look him in with a cold stare. I said hi. And got no response, except a mumble. He kept walking, up to the trapdoor. I craned my neck and saw him dissappear into an arc of soft yellow light. The pants made his crotch a mystery, but they couldn't have flattered his ass more. 

I got up from bed and walked quietly into the hall. Looked up at the closed trapdoor. It was quiet for a while, then I heard voices - louder than normal, a fight. The men's voices were distinct; one was much lower than the other. 

Then heavy footsteps overhead. I most bolted for my room, thinking one of them was about to leave. Then the argument resumed. A silence, and their voices returned, quieter. Another silence, then shouting. Then a quiet so long I decided they had made up and gone to bed. 

I returned to my room. Just as I sat on my bed, wondering where I had put my Houston bar guide, there was a dim light in the hallway, and feet on the upper stairs. It was the blond man, leaving. I tried to catch his attention, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. 

Shortly after the blond left, the trapdoor opened again. The game had paid off. 

My cock was hard. It showed as a thick ridge in my jeans. My torso had a thin sheen of sweat from the heat. I rose from the bed and stepped into the hallway just as Michael did. 

His black hair was unbound and hung straight, parted in the middle. It was beautiful, sleek and thick like combed silk. 

He had one of those paradoxical faces, that look more masculine with long hair than short. His face was slightly narrow, features large but delicate, perfectly balanced and made perfect by flawless cream colored skin. His eyes were dark brown. Long lashes. Straight black eyebrows. He had a wide mouth and full lips. They looked red and moist against the pale cheeks. He looked 23. He had to be older than that. 

His body was even better than I thought. Huge square muscled shoulders. His biceps seemed to fill his upper arms to bursting - a pale blue vein ran down the length of each muscle, and split the front of his arms into sharply defined slopes of dark and light. His pecs were two distinct square slabs that rose from his chest. The dark nipples, set far to the lower corner of each slab, were the size of half-dollars and were perfectly flat. His lower chest and stomach was an expanse of gentle ridges that funnelled, V-shaped, to narrow muscle flat hips. The twin arcs of his pelvis were as deep and defined as Michaelangelo's David. 

He was wearing nothing but miniscule white nylon briefs, so sheer that his big flaccid cock and ballsack nestled visibly inside. Below, his legs were fluid pillars of muscle. And over all was his skin, glowing pale amber in the light reflected from the wood, virtually hairless, soft and firm, muting the finely etched muscles, projecting only hugeness and beauty. 

He smiled faintly. "You must be the new guy." His voice was almost artificially deep. 

I extended my hand and we shook, head style. 

"Yeah. Name's Bill Gray." 

"Well, I'm Michael Black. Black and Gray, huh? That's cute." There was not a trace of humor in his voice. 

Our hands stayed locked together and I looked into those deep brown eyes. I knew that while I had been taking in his body, all in an instant, he had done the same with mine. I was ready. 

Then he broke the handshake and turned to go. "Be seeing you," he said simply, and walked to the bathroom. The long black hair fanned over his wide back and almost obscured the breathtaking narrowness of his waist. His ass, small and round with muscle, seemed to shimmer inside the nylon briefs. I noticed for the first time just how large his legs were. My two hands wouldn't have met around his calves. 

The next morning I asked Karen about the blond visitor. "Oh, that must have been Carl," she said. "Yeah, he used to live here. In your room." 

I didn't see Michael again that weekend. After that, now and again. But only briefly. And he was always distant. 

I knew he was gay. The blond hunk Carl turned out to be a regular visitor, sometimes coming three times a week. Carl was so oblivious to me and the band around my left arm, I decided he had to be another top. I knew they had rough sex. I could hear them above me at night. Flesh striking flesh with a sweaty crack. Heavier blows - a distinct whoosh and snap of a whip. Knees knocking on the wooden floor - a man crawling - the thud of a body knocked against the wall, crumpling to the floor. They seldom spoke. I only heard occasional moans in a low, rumbling tone that sometimes rose to a roar - Michael's voice. I would make him do more than moan. 

I had fantasies about him. When I see a beautiful man, I want to own him. Michael was the most exciting thing I had brushed with in months. There were other men with bodies as good. It was the pale skin and long hair that set him apart. The look of natural innocence. 

This game, too, I would win. I knew what I wanted. To see that pretty face, those thick red lips twisted around my nine inches. To hear him gag on it and groan in that deep masculine voice. To strain that bass into a high-pitched whimper. I imagined him naked, erect, on his knees - arms twisted and bound behind his back, big chest thrust up hairless and vunerable, the hair adding a savage twist. I knew how to make those big flat nipples stand up red and sharp. 

His ass had limitless posibilities. Every mark would show across the pale drum-tight flesh. 

His hair would have it's uses. To inflict pain, bring tears. To twist around his neck and choke him. To use as reigns when I rode his face like a saddle. Later it might have a more important use - as a final act of humiliation, to force him to shave it. It would strip his last resistance, like Sampson. It would signal his degradation to slavery. 

I had gotten what I wanted from other men. I would get what I wanted from him. I had plans for Michael Black. 

My chance came the next Saturday. I got up around noon, feeling rested and ready for anything. I slipped into a pair of jeans and went down into the kitchen to make a sandwich. 

The door to the back porch was open. Michael was sitting on the steps, looking at the garden. My heart speeded up. I stepped outside and sat beside him. 

"Mind if I join you?" 

"No." He glanced at me, looked back at the garden. He was wearing a pair of jeans that hugged him from crotch to calves like a glove, and a white tank top that looked a size too small around his shoulders but hung loosely below his pecs. His waist must have been around 28 inches, his chest maybe 50. 

"You must work out a lot," I said. It seemed a natural opening. 

"Yeah. Couple of hours a day. And Lan-Tzu class three times a week." He glanced at my naked chest. "You too?" 

I shrugged. "When I was in New York. I haven't found a gym here yet." 

"I'll take you to mine." 

I accepted that as a compliment. I knew he worked out in a genuine meat factory, not a production line franchise. He was warming. 

"You don't get much sun, though. Sensitive skin?" 

"No," he said. "I'm just not crazy about sunlight. I'm basically a nocturnal animal." He picked up a joint and a book of matches from a lower step. He lit it, inhaled, and offered it to me wordlessly. I shook my head. 

"Gave it up about a year ago, when it started doing strange trips on my head. Thanks, though." 

"Too bad, Sharon grows some pretty mean weed in the garden." He exhaled through clenched teeth. "It helps me focus my power." 

Whatever turns you on, I thought. 

"You're not originally from Houston, are you?" I asked. 

"No. Southern California." 

"Why would you leave that for this?" 

"Too much sun out there, for one thing." He smiled. "And work's easier here." 

"Oh? I didn't think you worked." 

"I work," he said cooly. I got the idea he didn't care to talk about it. But after another hit, he elaborated. "I supply special experiences for people who can pay. Experiences they can't get anywhere else. I like Houston because people here have lots of money and not much imagination. They ask for easy stuff, and pay through the nose for it. Not like the Coast. People there wanted heavy trips, really taxed my energy. And there are a lot more of us out there. Here I'm a rarity. 

The joint was making him talkative. It was pretty murky, but I got the idea: He was a hustler. He had a very special appeal; the paying market might be small, but he had a corner on it. There must be plenty of rich country-born fags in Houston who'd pay to stick it to a muscular young longhair. 

I decided to play dumb. "Shit man - you mean sex?" 

He stared straight ahead, jaw tight, and took another hit. "Sometimes. But I don't always charge for that. I enjoy myself too much." He gave me a Mona Lisa smile. 

That was a relief. I'd never paid to screw a guy and I didn't intend to start now, even with Michael. 

We sat in silence until he finished the joint. He turned his face to mine. His brown eyes seemed to sparkle. Jaw a little slack. A real stone bunny, I thought, in the palm of my hand. I slid my hand over his thigh and onto his cock, rock hard and thick inside the tight denim. 

"Wanna go upstairs?" I said. 

He paused, staring at my face. I stared back and squeezed his cock, until I got the answer I wanted. 

"Sure." 

"My room," he said as we emerged on the first landing. I followed him up through the trap door. 

He made a circuit of the room, lighting candles until the chamber flowed with a soft amber light like a chapel for the dead in a cathedral. He pulled a cord that slid a cover over the tiny skylight, leaving only candlelight for illumination. It was high noon outside, but here it was midnight. Then he made another circuit of the room, pulling open the black velvet drapes. 

The four windows had been sealed over on the inside. In their place were full-length mirrors. 

The deep darkness above, the dim light, the mirrors all around, made it impossible to sense the true dimensions of the room. It seemed to expand into infinity, like those images in those opposing mirrors. I was in his private world now, a place outside of time and space. 

The effect was very special, secretive and hypnotic. And promising. Michael had imagination. 

I walked to the middle of the room and took a stance with fists on my hips. I could feel my cock pulsing halfway down my left leg. Michael finished his preparations and stood before me, hands at his sides. 

"Strip," I said. The word sounded sharp in the muffled silence. 

He looked at me for a moment, expressionless. Feeling me out. Then he grabbed the bottom seam of his tank top and pulled it over his shoulders. Suddenly I knew who he reminded me of. L'il Abner. The exaggerated shoulders and chest, the wasp waist, the bulging thighs and calves. 

"Yeah," I breathed. "Now your pants." 

They were so tight he had to peel them off, turning them inside out. His balance never faltered as he bent over and lifted his feet. He was graceful as a dancer. 

He stood. Slid his fingers under the waistband of the clinging briefs. 

"Leave those on," I said quietly. I wanted to save the sight of his naked ass for later. His cock was hard, causing a bulge that pulled the waistband an inch from his flat belly. 

He pulled his hands clear and waited for the next command. 

I took my time. We had a staredown. Michael never lowered his eyes. I could read no expression in them. 

"Come here," I said. He walked to me slowly. It was beautiful to watch him move. Even a simple act like walking he performed with animal grace, fluid and sexual. 

He stopped a good foot away. I didn't like the fact that his face was above mine. It wouldn't be for long. 

He raised his right hand to touch the leather band around my left bicep. "You have a beautiful body," he said softly. He brought his hands to my chest, combed his fingers through the thick mat of blond hair. "Like Carl," he whispered. 

I grabbed his wrists and pushed his hands to my crotch. 

"Take it out." 

He looked down as he unbuttoned my jeans, spread the flaps and circled his fingers around the thick downturned base of my cock. He had to use both hands to pull it out. 

He held it tightly. I saw a strange smile on his downturned face. He weighed it in his hands. 

"Yeah. Big and heavy. Just like Carl's." 

I tried not to be irritated by the comparisons. They appeared to be lovers, after all. 

"Then get on your knees and suck it. Just like you suck Carl's cock." 

Michael knelt. In the mirrors to my left and right I saw his body, lean and sleek in profile. I watched my cockhead slide between his lips. In the mirror before me I saw his backthrust ass inside the transluscent briefs. I twisted the hair at the nape of his neck into a single cord and pulled it aside, used it to hold his head in place. The twin slopes of his buns flowed up into his back, split by the shadow-dark crease of his arched spine into two inverted triangles of pure muscle. 

His back was untouchd. Maybe Carl didn't want to see that ivory perfection marred by welts. Michael would find out soon enough where the comparisons ended between Carl and me - 

- I yanked his head forward and gave a sudden thrust with my hips, trying to catch him offguard. Start him off gagging. Get his saliva running. Make him take it my way from the very start. 

But it slid down his throat without a hitch. I looked down at his upturned face. His eyes were shut; the long lashes flickered. His cheeks were drawn taut. His thick red lips circled the base of my shaft. His jaw was thrust sharply into my balls. A solid pound of flesh down his throat. 

I looked at our profiles in the mirror. His kneeling body was arched like a bow. The bulge in his shorts looked like a trapped fist. His gullet was unnaturally distended, packed with nine thick inches of meat. 

I deepfucked his face, never retreating more than three inches. Watched his throat expand and contract. The candlelight flashed on the trickles of spit that ran from the corners of his mouth onto his corded neck. I don't know how he managed to breathe. 

I pulled his head back by the hair in my fist and emptied his throat with a jerk. Keep him cock-hungry. He leaned back, gasping for breath. His mouth and chin were wet with spit. The firelight made his full, parted lips glisten obscenely. 

I rested my cockhead against his lower lip while he caught his breath. 

Michael swallowed, and spoke, moving his wet lips over the knob of my cockhead. "You must have some toys down in your room." He rolled his eyes up to mine. 

I smiled. Things were going fine. "Yeah. In a wooden locker by my bed." I reached down to gently squeeze his right nipple. "Go get it." 

He obeyed instantly. 

In the moment he was gone I stripped off my jeans. I flexed, and looked at my reflection in the mirrors. Michael had said I had a fine body - a real compliment from a man with a virtually flawless physique - and why not? I was not as tall as he was, or as broad; thicker in the chest, more compact. The years I had spent working off the anxieties of New York life through sweat and hard exercise had paid off, many times. 

I liked the difference in our bodies. My deep tan and stark tan line against his pale flesh, the rich golden hair on my chest and limbs against his sleek nudity. The nine inch column of flesh that stuck up from my crotch, and that hard round ass of his, about to be split open. I pumped my left arm, and watched the bicep strain against the studded band. 

Michael returned. He knelt and placed the box at my feet. 

"Go ahead," I told him. "Open it. If you see something you like - ask for it." 

He lifted the lid and gazed down at the jumble of steel and leather. He noticed the dozen variety of tit clamps. He picked up a chain-linked pair and stared at them. 

"You're into pain," he murmered naively, half question and half statement. "You like to put these on other men's nipples. Twist them. Pull on them. A way to put pain in them. Make them beg." 

I answered his innocent guy act with a smirk. "Uh huh," I said drily. "You've got big tits. Probably take two clamps on each." 

Michael put the clamps back in the box. Afraid of them, I thought. Good. 

He took out a pair of padded handcuffs. "To bind them. Put them at your mercy. So they can't strike back. So you can feel free to use them however you want." 

"Uh huh." I spread my stance and stroked my cock with two fingers. Maximum hard. 

He set the cuffs aside, on the floor. Then took out my greatest pride, next to my cock. My riding crop, an intricately twined handle with a thin two foot tongue of stiff leather. It had been a gift from a not very shy trick in the village. "It's yours, Bill," he had said, "if you'll use it on me." And I had. I was glad Michael had the guts to choose it. 

"And you use this on their naked skin, as if they were animals." His tone was fascinated but detached, as if he were an observer, taking inventory. guy, he really knew how to ask for it. 

He looked up at me with those deep brown eyes. "Is that what you're going to do with me, Bill? Cuff my hands behind my back, clamp my nipples? Make me crawl after your big cock, beat me, fuck my ass?" 

His deep voice, low and soft, reverberated in my head. I felt the rush of a perfect moment. "That's right, mister." I glared down at him. "Now hand me the crop." 

He held it horizontal, offered it with both hands. Beautiful, I took it by the handle. Ran the tongue through my fist. Touched the tip against his nipple, and gently tapped his pec. Then I drew it up and cracked it across my thigh to make him flinch. 

But he didn't flinch. 

Instead his face seemed to harden, become steady and purposeful. 

He rose to his feet and stared down at me. Suddenly my whole left arm went limp, as if the nerves had been severed, and the riding crop slipped from my hand. I didn't hear it hit the floor. I tried to look down, and found that I couldn't take my eyes from his. 

"Stay." His quiet voice boomed deeply in the silence. 

And I stood, body relaxed but paralyzed, as he walked to a casket across the room. I couldn't turn my head to watch him. I was forced to stare straight ahead into the mirror. It reflected the fear and astonishment frozen on my face. 

Michael returned. Several lengths of thin chain were looped over his right forearm. 

He slowly circled me, examining my naked body. I felt like a paralyzed insect in a spider's web, waiting to be eaten alive. But I did not panic. My mind seemed to be slowing down, shifting into neutral, losing touch with reality. I should never have smoked that weed, I thought. Then I remembered I hadn't. 

I tried to open my mouth to ask him what the hell he had done to me. But I couldn't speak, my jaw was frozen. 

He had said he was into some sort of martial art. Paralysis with a touch? But he had not touched me. There was no way he could have drugged me. 

He ran his hands over my body, exploring my back and arms, cupping my pecs and buns. He inserted his middle finger into my mouth to wet it and slid it up my ass. My mouth stayed open, as his finger had left it. 

He stood beside me, spoke in my ear. Kept the long finger inside, gently probing. He wet his other hand in my mouth and stroked my cock. I watched in the mirror. His lean profile, the rolling muscles in his stroking arm, my mouth left gaping open like an idiot's. 

"I've been paid $25,000 for what I'm about to do to you, Bill." Stroking, probing. "But that was for a man who wanted it. Or thought he did. And he wasn't very attractive. You are, Bill. Big cock. Hard ass." He frowned at my chest. "All that hair is unfortunate. It hides your muscles. You'll look better after the hoop." 

He slid his finger from my ass, released my cock after a hard squeeze. He stood before me, and slipped the chains from his forearm. There were two of them, one long, the other the length of a bracelet. They were made like dog chokers, nooses with sliding rings to control the pressure. 

He put the bigger chain over my head and pulled it tight. The metal was cold as ice, unnaturally cold, around my neck. The loose end hung between my pecs. Then he slid the small chain over my cock and balls, circled them right and left the end dangling from the back side of my testicles. 

He bent over and retrieved the padded handcuffs. Twisted my arms behind my back and cuffed my wrists. He stood in front of me and smiled grimly. 

"And now this," he said, "since symbols are so important to both of us." He unsnapped the leather band from my left arm. I felt as if my last protection had been stripped from me. He tried to fit it over his own left bicep, but the muscle was too big. So he slipped it over my right arm and snapped it tight. 

He stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror. Naked. Cock hard and circled with cold steel. Arms bound. Choker around my neck. Leather strap on the right, marking me as a slave. I groaned inside, confused and helpless. In five minutes, against my will, he had completely reversed our roles. And I had now idea how he had done it. 

Then, fogged as my mind was, I noticed something. I couldn't be certain in the dim light, but the silver chains around my neck and cock seemed to glow faintly, circled by a ghostly blue light, like wisps of phosphorescent blue mist around my neck and between my legs. 

I was not afraid - not quite. Not yet. A numbness was seeping into my head, a comfortable sense of detachment. Damn, I thought, maybe he slipped me acid. But I knew, somehow, that the numbness was radiating from those cold blue chains. 

Michael returned. With both hands he held what looked like a hoop of glass tubing, two feet in diameter. The hoop glowed neon blue. 

Silently he raised the ring above my head and lowered it slowly to the floor. As it passed around my body it seemed to shed a cocoon of light behind. I saw myself in the mirror, encased in a cylinder of blue haze. 

"Now we wait," Michael said, "to let the energy soak in." He cocked his head, looked me up and down as he groped himself inside his nylon briefs. His dark handsome face was relaxed, lips parted, eyes narrowed; sexed-up. 

I felt the hair on my body stand up straight, as if charged with static electricity. Something weird was happening in the mirror. I saw a mass of suspended particles in the space between my body and the cocoon of blue light. Too vague to make out in the mirror. I tried to look down. My neck was paralyzed. Michael saw my eyes strain. He reached inside the light and pushed my face down.

My body was being stripped of it's hair. The process was silent, painless; magic, I suppose. The short hairs detached themselves from my skin and drifted slowly through the light-suffused air, made contact with the field of circling light - and disappeared. 

At first the air was choked with free floating strands, silky yellow ones from my chest and arms and legs, kinky darker ones from my crotch. Then the migration grew sparser, until I saw the last curly strand unfurl from my left nipple, stand straight and pull free. It wafted gently like a weightless mote of dust, drew steadily toward the barrier of light, touched it - vanished. 

I had been shaved once before - long ago, when I was another man. The job had taken hours, and left me with nicks around the base of my cock and around my tits. The master had not been pleased with the effect - said it made my skin like sandpaper. Since shaving had been my idea, not his, he had punished me afterward with a long razor strap. 

My skin had been city-pale then, my body undeveloped. I hadn't liked the look either; the hairlessness seemed to expose every flaw. Now, gazing down at myself in the blue light, I was mesmerized by the smooth planes of my chest, all tan flesh and ridges of muscle, clearer than I had ever seen them before. My nipples looked naked somehow, vunerable. My cock, still hard as it had been buried down Michael's throat, reared big and stiff from my denuded crotch, the tight chain around the base fully exposed. There was no stubble. My body was as sleek as Michael's. 

"It'll grow back," he said. He grabbed me by the hair on my head - thank god he had not taken that - and pulled my face up. 

It was if I saw another man in the mirror. A hunky blonde slave, totally hairless, mouth hanging open like a dog's, cock hard for his master. 

Michael moved in front of me, blocking my reflection. He spoke, and that deep booming voice made me ache to touch him, or for him to touch me. 

"You've got to trust me, Bill. Relax. Give in. You remember how to give in. Cooperate, do your part, and you won't be hurt. Understand?" 

No, I didn't understand. Nothing made sense. All I knew was that he had me in his power - literally, completely. I've been paid been paid $25,000 for what I'm about to do to you. But that was for a man who wanted it - or thought he did - 

He slipped a finger through the steel ring at the end of the chain that hung from my neck - He licked his other hand and put it on my throat, kneading and exploring with slick fingers. The choker pulled tighter. I felt my windpipe flatten. 

"Don't be frightened," he whispered. How could I not be frightened - he was strangling me. The chain pulled tighter and tighter. My throat grew numb under his fingertips. I could not breathe. My paralyzed body convulsed. 

Then - I heard a rattling of metal and saw his right hand pull away. The choker dangled free from his forefingers. I felt myself being lifted up - a sensation of weightlessness and vertigo - the room fell and whirled around me. I tried to scream with horror and couldn't. I caught a glimpse in one of the mirrors - my body, stockstill within the blue light field - Michael standing aside - holding something in his hands - holding - my head - 

I blacked out. Only for an instant, I think. Then I was looking up at Michael. He was holding my face between his hands. He sat in the throne-like chair, shoulders against the back, ass on the edge. My head between his thighs. 

His briefs were gone. His cock loomed above my face. Beyond, his flat-muscled stomach, bunched into tight folds of flesh beneath the sculptured domes of his pecs. His eyes on mine. The look on his face frightened me - a look of contempt and total control. 

"Stop twisting your face up, Bill. It makes you ugly. Cock, Bill. My cock. Look at it." 

It hovered over me, white and thick. It was perfect, like the rest of his goddamned body. Not as long as mine - eight inches - but thick, enormously thick, tapered slightly at the base. The head was huge, a fourth of the entire shaft. The skin was pearly white and transluscent, smooth as glass, showing deep blue veins within. The circumcision ring was almost unnoticeable, the color of cream. The shaft looked hard as alabaster, but spongy and fat, as if it was covered by a sheath of rubbery flesh. I could feel it's heat on my face. 

"My cock, Bill. Taste it." He rubbed my face all over his meat. I felt it's fullness on my cheeks and nose. 

"Lick it. Lick my cock, Bill." And I opened my mouth - yes, able to move now - and stuck out my tongue. He slid my drooling mouth over his meat. Flattened my tongue against the bulging shaft, ran it around the beveled edge of his cockhead, allowed me to probe into the deep slit at the tip. 

He pushed my face onto his shaft and lifted my mouth with cockhead. It came back to me, my old days as a slave, when this was what I craved from other men, the privelage of feeling their meat warm and solid in my mouth. I realized he was trying to pacify me - giving me something big to suck on to make me forget the shock of what just happened - or what I imagine had happened. 

I rolled my eyes up and drew on the massive beauty of his chest and arms the way my mouth was drawing on his massive cock. My throat had grown thick with saliva - I tried to swallow, found I couldn't, just as I couldn't speak - realized I wasn't even breathing. The accumulated spittle oozed around my lips and ran like lava over his shaft. 

He pushed my face all the way onto his cock. There was a bruising pain as it entered my gullet, as if he were shoving a beer bottle down my throat. I retched, and splattered his balls and thighs with spit. I was gagging, but not choking - how could I choke when my breathing had stopped? 

His hips never moved. He forced my head up and down, driving my throat onto his shaft and pulling back till my lips caught on the ridge of the head. 

He fucked my face that way - using it like a cored melon or a pillow - it seemed like hours. He took it slow, pleasuring himself, as if he were alone in his room masturbating. In and out my throat, with slow luxurious strokes. Then bursts of violence - pushing my face into his groin, flattening my nose against his steel-hard belly, grinding deep and hard, making my throat convulse and ripple around his shaft. 

My mind settled into a profound calm. I was aware, alert. But there was a sensation of timelessness, disembodiment. I was outside any normal dimension, as if, freed from breath, freed from my body, I was beyond panic or pain. 

He coaxed me through clenched teeth, voice low and mammoth chest heaving so I knew he was close. "It feels good down your throat, doesn't it, Bill? My cock in your mouth. What you really wanted from me. What you need. To have your throat crammed with meat. You're a born cocksucker, Bill." He would get close that way - I could feel his cock spurting precum - then pull me off till I had only the head, hold off, catch his breath. And start over again. Until my jaw hung open like a broken hinge. Until his surging tube of meat felt a part of me, and I couldn't tell where my throat ended and his thick shaft began. 

He got close again. Pulled my mouth off his cock. Held my head up by a fist in my hair, his other fist around his cock making slurping sounds. The shaft glistened in candlelight, thick glaze of spit. He stroked himself haltingly. His hips bucked gently. On the brink. 

His eyes were almost closed. His pupils flashed like sparks between the narrow lashes. 

"I'm gonna come now, Bill. Yeah." He hissed with pleasure. "My cock is gonna shoot. You want it in your mouth? Sure you do. The big leather guy wants my come in his mouth. Then beg for it, Bill. Beg me to shoot it down your fucking throat." 

I tried. My lips couldn't even shape the words. I flexed my jaw, twisted my tongue and curled my lips like a spastic. There was no sound except the gurgling of the mucous in my throat. 

Michael yelled, and pushed my face onto it, down to the base. It jerked in my throat like a startled snake. His fingers bit into the base of my skull like pincers. A wild animal roar filled the darkness. I instinctively tried to swallow as the pumping started. His come clogged my throat, backflushed into my mouth. It was bitter and strong. 

He held me down on his pulsing meat for a long time. No need to pull out. I didn't need to come up for air. 

I looked up at his heaving chest, sheened with sweat, and his face, beautiful and composed except for sudden moments when his eyebrows drew together and he whimpered like a puppy having a bad dream. At those moments his cock would give a little jerk. 

He pulled me off at last. Mt mouth and throat were so full of spittle and bitter semen that it ran like slag over my chin. Thick ropes of mucous were strung from my lips to his big soft cock. 

He put my head on his shoulder and held it there while he recovered. The sweeping fluids ran from the corner of my mouth onto his chest and down to his crotch. 

Straining my eyes to one side, I saw a reflection of my body in one of the mirrors, still frozen in the cocoon of light. Where my head had been, only darkness. I felt a dizzy fear, but it was muted by the dim light; the unaccountable sensation of freedom, and the memory of his cock. Vaguely, I knew that fear would serve no purpose. My only hope was to trust him. 

At last he opened his eyes. He saw that I was looking at my abandoned body. 

"It's true," he said softly. "You're not crazy. It's no illusion. You're here, you're body is there. It's one of the things I do." He took a deep breath. My head rose and fell on his chest like a cork on a wave. 

"You can handle it, Bill. I knew when I first saw you. Despite the armband on the left. Despite the heavy come-on. You know how to give a man what he wants. How to give in, even if he's handing you pain, degrading your ego. Well this is what I want, Bill. This is what turns me on. I'm going to do what I want with you. You've got no choice." 

The room whirled around - weightless again - then settled. Michael was standing over me, big cock slick and half-hard above my face. He had placed my head on the chair. I could smell steamy sweat, where his ass and thighs had rested on the wood. 

"It will help," he said, "if you think of it as another man's body." He walked to the center of the room and circled the headless body immobilized there. I glanced around; the chair was set so that I couldn't catch a reflection of my face. But I saw my body in all four mirrors, in the round. There was no bloody stump where my head should be - only the smooth, natural depression inside my collarbone. 

It was a beautiful body, I had to admit. I suppose anyone who has seen his body harden and fill out from hard work becomes a narcissist. It was crazy, something was wrong in my head that I could look at it and feel detachment. At the time, I did not realize that. I was where Michael had put me. Some strange psychic zone. 

That body turned me on. The hairlessness showed off my muscles, as Michael said it would. Everything looked larger, fuller. Especially my pecs, big mounds of sleek muscle. The nipples, normally buried in swirls of hair, stood out from the edges like cones, begging to be touched. And my cock and balls - hairless and chained - they looked unbelievably huge, but not commanding; exposed and vunerable. Do it, I begged silently. I want to see it crawl. I want it. 

Micheal stooped and took hold of the glowing hoop on the floor. He did not pull it up and over my shoulders, but sideways, through my legs, as if the hoop was nothing but light. 

"Yeah, another man's body," he crooned. "Hairless and nude." He flicked one of the erect nipples. The body flinched. He circled around. "Fantastic ass. I like the way the tan line frames those buns." He slid a fingertip over the crack. I saw my cheeks tighten - and felt it - in a way - far off. A ghost sensation, the way an amputee might feel a lost limb. Like being in two places at once. 

He stood beside the handcuffed body and looked in my eyes. He lifted on arm at the elbow, eyes locked with mine, and grabbed one of the hairless nipples between finger and thumb, pulled down until the captive body was forced to bend sharply at the waist. 

"A slave's body, Bill. A big hunky stud in handcuffs. How shall we use him? We can do anything we want. Things you haven't dreamed of." 

Michael took two tit clamps from the box on the floor. I groaned inside when I saw them. He had chosen the broad metal ones with powerful springs and teeth like electrical clamps. The ones I used only on my most advanced and jaded partners, and then only as severe punishment. Michael approached my body. It stood relaxed, unsuspecting. He squeezed my pecs and kneaded my nipples, until I saw my stomach draw tight and my chest rise in silent offering. 

Michael smiled. He placed one open clamp over my right nipple. Let it snap shut. 

Far away, I could feel the sharp teeth penetrate my flesh. I saw my body jerk wildly, tugging at the handcuffs, trying to retreat. But Michael slipped a finger into the chain dangling from my balls and held my body in check. He watched my chest spasm and writhe, touched his fingers to the knotted muscles in my arms and belly. Then he attached the second clamp. 

My body twisted so violently the cock chain snapped from Michael's knuckle. I watched the body stumble to it's knees, scramble up and stagger blindly into one of the mirrors, crazy with pain. 

Michael picked up the riding crop and walked with long slow strides to my crouching, trembling body. He raised the leather high above his head and slashed it across my shoulders. 

My body jerked, spun, rolled away - staggered to it's feet, tripped over my pants on the floor, rose desperately, ran into a wall - turned and took a defensive stance, hiding it's stinging shoulders against the wall. Tits clamped and cock hard. I could not understand that - not yet. 

Michael followed slowly and stood a few feet from the cowering victim. He looked at the crop. Looked at my chest, muscles in high relief, tense with pain. He touched the crop to my shaft. My body flinched. Michael squeezed his rising cock. Then he raised the crop and laid it backhanded across my stomach. 

I saw my body double over and run, reeling with pain and confusion, trying to escape. Michael followed it patiently around the room, taking his time, stroking his thick white cock and wielding the crop. Like a hunter, exhausting his trapped game. Playing with me. 

At last the pain-wracked body collapsed kneeling in the center of the room. Shoulders against the floor, heaving - ass thrust in the air. 

Michael stood over my broken slave body. He slowly masterbated as he beat my ass with that damned crop, blow after blow, until the pale buns were red and blistered. 

Michael discarded the crop, grabbed my body by the clamps and forced it to stand. In the reflections I could see every mark, the long red stripes across my shoulders, the back of my legs, my stomach. My cock - a slave's cock, rock hard after the beating. Veins pounding, slit dripping fluid. I suddenly knew why - the body craved it - but so did my head, watching, crazy with excitement at the spectacle. Two places at once. Masochistic victim, and sadistic observer of my own humiliation, wanting more. 

Michael played with the clamps - twisted, pulled hard flat muscles into sharp peaks, and watched my body twitch and heave. He pulled the clamps off, one at a time, and tossed them away. He caressed my body, watching the skin writhe when the fingertips brushed over the tender stripes. 

He cocked his head and flashed me a cryptic smile. "Good slave body. Takes it well. Ready for whatever's next. Shall I fuck it?" 

He rubbed his hard cock against mine. "Sure. Give him what he wants. But do it my way." 

He hooked his finger through the dangling cock choker and pulled it taut. Tighter and tighter. The chain sank in to the gathered flesh, my cock bulged until I thought the skin would burst. I knew what was about to happen, and my mind plummeted deeper into the numb stupor that was it's only protection. 

Michael licked his free hand. His saliva seemed to glow with blue light. He worked his wet finger mysteriously around my cock and balls. I saw his lips move, as if he were whispering inaudibly. The thin chain flashed with blue flame 

Then the chain slipped through. He dropped it quickly and raised his hand to lift my genitals free. He held the nine inch shaft by the ballsack in his right hand. In it's place was a smooth hairless swelling of flesh between my legs. 

Again, I tried to scream, though I knew it was hopeless. "I said, don't twist your face up like that," he growled. He swung the disembodied cock and slapped me across the face with it. It stung sharply. My eyes welled with tears, making the candlelit room swim and sparkle. 

My mind was sinking. I longed for unconsciousness. But his voice pulled me back. 

"It'll stay hard," he said. He was rubbing thick lubricant over my cock. A dim sensation of pleasure somewhere below me. "All the energy of the spell holding you is focused in your cock, like a powerful conductor. But I have a warning for you. When you come - when your cock ejaculates - you'll break the spell. You will stay in what ever condition you're in at that instant. So unless you want to stay in three pieces, you'd better hold off." He smiled, and slid my cock through his fist. "Of course, you won't have much control." 

He returned to my body and gave it a whack with the cock, wielded like a dildo, across the thigh. It jumped like a startled animal. 

He dug the nails of his left hand into my right nipple, pulled the body, headless, sexless, up on tiptoes. He stepped forward and rubbed his cockhead against the denuded stump where my cock had been. My body responded instantly - thighs parted, hips rocking back and forth. The body rubbed it's groin against the blunt tip of Michael's cock. 

He bent at the knees, lowering his cock and breaking the contact. And my body followed blindly. Dropped off tiptoes. The hairless groin sank down and searched for Michael's cock, found it, rubbed itself on the silky knob. Humping, like a bitch in heat. 

Michael folded smoothly to his knees, settled his ass on his ankles. His hard cock pointing up like a missile. The handcuffed body spread it's knees and squatted deeply, craving more contact. 

Michael licked his middle finger and rubbed the tip over the sleek spot between my legs. My body, squatting, swayed back and forth, barely kept it's balance. Once again, I sensed what was to happen. The unbelievable. The unthinkable. 

There was no sign of an opening in the place where my genitals had been. Just a bald swelling, like the ball of a shoulder. But as I watched, Michael slowly, gradually, buried his finger in the flesh. He began to slide it in and out. My body begged for more. 

He turned his head, shot me a quick glance. His face was slack, lips parted. Eyes flashing with triumph. As if to say: See what I can make you do? See how badly you want it? 

As he finger-fucked me, he reached around with his right hand and began to push the cock - my cock - into my squatting ass. The nine inches all the way to the balls in one shove. He pressed his palm over the crack to hold it in. 

My hips squirmed on his finger, pushed back onto my cock. Michael removed the finger, and my groin tried to follow, ready to abandon the cock up it's ass for more of his hand. Again, I could see no opening there. 

But when he grabbed my tit to pull my body forward and down, his cockhead slipped inside. And my body squatted deeper, desperate for it, until Michael's thick shaft was completely swallowed. 

Michael grasped and rolled his big shoulders with pleasure. Closed his eyes and hissed inaudible obscenities. Or incantations. 

And my body - the body he had handcuffed, beaten, clamped, decapitated, emasculated - subjected to something unspeakable and inhuman - it rode his fat cock, rode the shaft he held up it's ass. Mindless but hungry. More a whore than a slave. More animal than human. A creature of dark magic. His creation. 

I was thankful that body had no head. It gave me a way to fool myself. To say that it was not me. 

There was a sudden ghost sensation, more vivid than the others - a flash - as if I felt my cockhead rubbing against his, deep inside my bowels. It jolted me, like two charged wires touching. I felt feverish. The lights dimmed. 

For a long time my consciousness came and went. My eyes would flicker open, glimpse grappling bodies, hear Michael's sex-charged groans. Scenes in the mirrors: Michael's beautiful ass, fucking wildly, my legs wrapped tight around his hips - Michael on his back on the bed, my body on it's knees above him, fucking itself on his cock while he pulled my tits - My body, shoulders on the bed, Michael standing between my drawn legs fucking with long strokes while he used my hard cock like a blackjack, across my stomach and chest. 

After a long blackness, I felt Michael's hand slapping me awake. I opened my eyes a saw a cock before my face. But not Michael's cock. A bigger, coarser instrument knotted with thick veins and streaked with rectal mucous. My throat filled with fresh saliva. I opened my mouth - 

- then realized it was MY cock he held before me. I closed my mouth, recoiling from the insanity of it. 

"Go ahead." I heard Michael's voice above me. "It's not as pretty as mine, but it'll give you what you need. Go ahead. What's wrong? Don't wanna taste shit? Come on, you've made plenty of guys suck it after you've screwed 'em. Besides, it's your shit, man." 

I looked hard at the cock. I had seen it in the mirror, of course, even in photographs. But now I saw it as my slaves had. Huge and pulsing, inches from my lips. And I knew why men had grovelled for it. Knew the power that made them crave it. I opened my mouth and moaned silently. 

Michael laughed and shoved it down my throat. Rammed it in and out, the way I would have. I remember that riding crop trick in New York - the hot afternoon with the sixpack when I tied his face to my crotch and kept my cock down his throat for four hours - coming, pissing, coming, pissing. Now I knew why four hours had not been enough for that cocksucker. 

I felt pleasure in my cock as I sucked. Almost like 69'ing, sucking and being sucked. Two places at once. 

I squeezed my throat around the huge dick, milking it, savoring the pleasure I was giving and receiving. Then Michael spoke. 

"Remember, Bill. When it shoots, the spell breaks. And if that happens while you're still in pieces - there's nothing I can do to put you together again." He kept sliding it in and out of my throat. 

My blood froze. I stopped the undulations in my throat, stiffened. 

"Come on, Bill." His voice was low and evil. "Your cock's close. Been close for hours. The balls are way up in the sack. Come on," he teased, ramming it hard and fast, "make it come. Work your throat like a good cocksucker. Don't you wanna know how it feels when you shoot in some guy's mouth? Must be good - I bet they always come back for more. Don't you wanna taste your own come?" 

I looked up at him and pleaded with my eyes. He kept sliding the big dong in and out - I felt it expand, the way I always do when I'm on the verge - 

I clamped my teeth down on it, hard, to stop the stroking. 

Michael laughed. "Okay, I believe you." He whipped the spit-streaked plunger from my throat and tossed it on the floor. I heard it land with a heavy thud, and felt ghost pain in my balls. 

He picked up my head and carried it to the center of the room. My body was lying on it's side on the floor, exhausted. Michael squatted, placed my head on my shoulders. Wet his fingers with glowing blue saliva and stroked the connection. I felt warmth flow from my neck to my chest, my hips, my legs. Thank god, whole again - almost. 

I spent a few minutes coughing and swallowing convulsively, clearing the juices that clogged my throat. Michael undid the handcuffs and pulled me to my feet. My legs were shaky, there was pain everywhere. But it was wonderful to feel anything beneath my neck. 

Michael stretched and yawned. "Shit, I'm beat," he said. "Been fucking you for hours, baby." He pinched one of my nipples, making me throw my head back in pain. "Came in you twice while you were out. Once in your ass, and once - well, you saw. Think I'll take a shower and get to bed." 

"But - " I looked at my cock on the floor and quickly looked away. 

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "That. Go ahead and take it, It's yours." 

My chest knotted with horror. "Please," I whispered. 

"What did you say? I couldn't hear you." 

I lowered my eyes - caught a glimpse of bare flesh between my eyes - shut my eyes tight. 

"Oh please Michael. Let me have it back. Oh please, for God's sake." 

I felt a heavy slap across my face. Knew it wasn't his hand. His deep voice above me. "That's no way to beg." 

I kept my eyes shut. 

"Get on your knees and beg with your mouth." 

I knelt and took his soft meat between my lips. My face was wet with tears. 

"Make me come again, Bill. It won't be easy. Three times is usually my limit. Show me how good you are. Show me how good you suck cock. Make me come, and I'll let you have it back. That is - if you don't shoot first." 

I sucked, and tried to think of nothing but his cock. He had taken me back to my days as a novice, before I had made my muscles like steel and gained the confidence to give orders - made me regress to the days when it had been my role to give pleasure to other men. When a night of sex meant I would suck and crawl and say thank you when I was punished. I had never thought that any man could reduce me to that again. 

Slowly, slowly it hardened, until the beer bottle thickness gorged my throat. It was not so easy this time. I choked, gagged, felt my lungs collapse, dry heaved - but I never let go. Forced my throat onto him over and over, strangling myself. 

"Better than your cock, isn't it, Bill?" 

Yes, he was right. His cock, so thick, so flawless, it was better. 

He began to moan and twist. He was close. I was going to make it. 

Then he pulled out. Held my face off, fought off his orgasm. "Not yet," he whispered, "not yet." 

He tortured me that way. I brought him close over and over, sucking desperately, using every trick I could remember. Then pull out. Make me start over. All the while working my cock. 

"Think about it," he crooned. "What happens if I make you shoot first. You'll be what are now, forever. Might not be so bad." He reached down and stroked a finger over my sexless groin. An incredible flash of pleasure, unearthly. I jerked back and whimpered around his shaft. 

"You'd be my slave, Bill. Really my slave. You've been playing that game for years, but this is real. I'd own you - or own your cock, which is the same thing. You'd be mine. You could never show yourself to another man like that. Have to come crawling to me for sex. Maybe I'd be in the mood. Maybe not. And you've seen the kind of games I like to play." 

With that nightmare in my head, I sucked cock like I had never sucked before. Gave him my last ounce of energy. Worshipped him like the primal force he was. Sucked and sucked and sucked. 

And finally I heard him roar above me. Felt his meat stiffen and pump. Tasted bitter semen - and at the same instant, my hips began to jerk. I was coming in response to him. Too late - 

Then I felt his hands on my crotch - blue fire - 

And when it was over, I was whole again. Michael pulled out his shaft with a pop and collapsed onto his throne, chest heaving. He looked worn out and happy. I was too drained even to hate him. He made me stay on my knees. Just as well. I was too exhausted to stand. He forced me to lick my come from the floor. Made me kiss his feet. 

I looked up at him. After long minutes I caught my breath. The numbness seeped out of my head. Wrecked as I was, I had to ask something. 

"Michael, what you did - what you do - I don't know what it's called, don't know if it has a name, but what - what -" 

"Something you're born with," he said. "There are others. I've met three in my lifetime, heard of others. We keep our distance from one another. Don't get ideas about learning it. I've studied, learned the ancient laws, found new ways to focus my power. But either you have it - and know it - or you don't. I knew that you didn't when I first saw you. The tan is a giveaway. You like sunlight far too much. I can't teach it. I can only share it." 

He pushed his big toe into my mouth. "So if you ever want it again, you know where to come. You'd be crazy to ask for it, though. I like danger. The possibilities, the games, are limitless. Sooner or later..." 

He pulled his toe from my mouth and pushed my face to the floor with his foot. "Now get out. I'm tired of you." 

I staggered naked to my room. It was dark outside. I must have spent eight hours in his room. I closed the door and crawled into bed. I saw the leather strap on my right arm. I wanted to put it back on my left, but I was afraid he would know somehow. 

I heard Michael in the hallway, then in the shower. He was singing happily, basso profundo, as I dropped off to sleep. 

Sunday morning I woke up stiff and sore. My ass ached and there was a lingering fire in my groin. I hoped he had not damaged me inside. The marks he had put all over my body stung beneath the sheet. My tits were raw. My arms ached. My jaw ached. 

I stared at the ceiling and thought about the night. Perversely, my cock began to harden. 

There was a knock at the door. I stiffened with fear. "Who is it?" 

"Sharon." 

"Oh, come in." I pulled the sheet up to hide my chest. She entered with a tray of food. "Michael said you were under the weather today. I thought I'd bring you something to eat." 

"Thanks. Just set it on the dresser. I'll eat it later." 

"Ok. You do look pale," she said maternally. Then she looked puzzeled and frowned. I saw that she was looking at my armband, on the right now. Or was it my hairless arms? 

"Well," she said, "I'll check on you later. Call if you need..." Her voice trailed off. 

I ate the poached eggs and soup she brought. I noticed that my pants and wooden locker were by the bed. Michael must have returned them. I cringed to think he had been in the room while I slept.

I tiptoed to the bathroom to put ointment on my welts and take a long, painful crap. It felt like I was shitting my guts out. There was blood, but not enough to worry me. Then I returned to my room and slept like a dead man till dusk. 

Later in the evening I went to the bathroom again. As I was leaving I heard someone in the hallway. I could not bear to see Michael again. I cracked the door and looked out from the darkness of the bathroom. 

It was Michael's blond friend Carl. The regular visitor who used to live in my room. Who had no interest in me. Whose pants seemed to have no bulge at the crotch. He was wearing a tank top. His tanned arms and chest looked smooth and hairless. 

I went back to my room and tried to stay there. But I had to know. 

I crept up the stairs to the trapdoor. Heart pounding, I opened it a few inches, turned my head sideways and peered in. 

Michael was seated in his throne. He was wearing only his white tank top, stretched tight across his pecs and loose over his flat stomach. His half-hard cock rested like a club on the chair between his thighs. 

The blond was kneeling naked before Michael, back to me. 

"Not tonight, Carl. I'm bushed." 

"Please Michael, I need it. Now. So bad. It's been so long." He was rubbing his hands between his legs shamelessly. 

"I said not tonight." Michael's voice was hard. 

The man leaned forward and licked Michael's cock with long strokes. He was sobbing. 

"Hell, alright," Michael grumbled. He rose and walked to a dresser, fat cock swaying. He opened a drawer and took out something wrapped in blue silk. "Just a simple round tonight," he said. 

He turned to the kneeling blond and unwrapped the object. It looked like a big, slick dildo. I knew it was not. 

"Stand up and face me, stupid." 

Carl stood and turned. I could see his front now. I saw the smooth, sexless flesh between his legs. 

I closed the trapdoor, ever so slowly. The blood pounding in my head sounded like thunder. 

That night, under cover of darkness, I moved my things out of the house on Beauchamp Street and went to a Motel. Occasionally I felt an urge to see Michael again, a glimpse of his broad shoulders, from a safe distance, would do. But I have never returned. 

(The End) 

Copyright (c) 1982, Aaron Travis, Alternate Publishing