This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. If possible, go back in time and don't click on the link that led to this file; that's probably illegal too. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.
A Number of Nights Chapter 05
The Tale Of The Persistent Slave
You have to keep in mind that this all happened back in the early eighties. The way things are now, there are people all over the internet, all over the world, communicating about what it means to be kinky, how to be masters, how to be slaves, what it all means, how to do it right. Back in the time I was a young man, though, there wasn't any of that. If you were gay, if you were kinky, if you were kinky and gay, you had to find yourself a scene and get to be a part of it. There was lore, back in those days, there was the Old Guard, old even at the time, and there were leather bars, and books that were spoken of with respect.
It was hidden, though, buried behind stereotypes of gay men in chaps and the Village people; it was hidden behind a fog of growing AIDS hysteria, a social distaste for anything gay in general, and a sense that all of that had died when the seventies were over. So, if you were, say, coming into manhood as a sheltered young nerd, more at home at libraries than at bars, more excited over your Timex Sinclair computer than about motorcycles, there wasn't much of a way to find out about that world.
Even if you had all of those desires buried deep within you.
I'd been fantasizing about bondage and domination, Master/slave relations, kink of all sorts, since I'd hit puberty; I just had no idea what they were called, or what it all meant. I'd been playing with ways to tie myself up, finding ways to play bondage games with my friends which never got anywhere beyond an excruciating level of sexual tension, and generally wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Imagine being thirteen and having fantasies about tying up your male friends and torturing them back then; no context, no way to make sense of any of it.
I thought I was a monster. I thought that I was destined to be some sort of serial killer. It didn't make much sense; outside of my fantasies, I was a pretty good kid, no tendencies towards hurting people or animals or anything. But, as so many adolescents do, I had found myself a doom and latched on to it hard. I struggled against what I felt was the evil inside me, knowing all the while that I would someday turn feral, and have to be hunted down and killed for what I couldn't even imagine doing.
Kids don't make sense; no news there. But I was pretty bent by then, and the public perception of gay people in general as an evil presence in society, trying to corrupt the youth of America, didn't help much. By the time I hit seventeen, I was a barely-contained wreck. A wreck with good grades, a reputation for being smart and helpful, an interest in folklore and legend, but a wreck nonetheless.
And I met Brian. He wasn't much like me; he was a year younger, a basketball player, a good-looking jock boy with an affinity for wood shop, half-Irish, half-Hispanic, dark hair and dark eyes, and he seemed, for some reason, to like me. I'd kept my orientation a secret; back then coming out was synonymous was a death wish, so a lot of guys did. I also had no gaydar whatsoever; that's one thing I've kept consistent even up to now. I had no idea he was hitting on me up until, one night at a party he'd invited me to for no apparent reason, because I hated parties and I was just uncomfortable and didn't really talk to anyone, he kissed me.
It was a teenage romance there for a while, complete with the movies, the junk food, the makeout sessions in the back of my car, the stolen fleeting moments in one or the other of our bedrooms when the parents were out. Oh, and the terrible sex, of course, not that we either knew or cared; it was clumsy, and awkward, and awesome. It began with an agreement that we were just fooling around, as we both asserted that we were really into girls, and we were just doing this because girls were so uptight... and we kept up that pretense for nearly a week.
Falling in love is an apt way to put it, but you have to consider that there are many different types of falling. There's the drop from the Space Shuttle, incinerating gloriously in the atmosphere; there's the plunge from the clifftop into the hard and bracing ocean. There's the out of control slide down a mountainside, caroming off of trees and rocks and scrub as you go down, there's the unexpected tumble off the back porch and the night in the ER. For me, for us as I later found out, it was like stepping off a curb we hadn't expected to be there. Going along, nothing the matter, then that sudden weightless panic inside for a moment, and then it's "Oh. Well. Here we are."
We came to trust each other; he told me about his alcoholic mother, and his father's long-standing suffering; he told me about the delicious torment he went through in the locker rooms until it became a joke between us. He had dreams of being a pilot, of being a veterinarian, of somehow merging the two. I told him about my mother's death, what I could remember of it; I told him what it was like growing up in a house with just the me and my father, and the density of the quiet that had developed between us as I'd discovered who I was, and that I couldn't tell my father anything anymore without giving myself away. I didn't tell him of my dreams, though; I didn't have any that didn't involve eventually becoming a monster.
And then one night we had a night to ourselves at my house; my father was away somewhere, and we had gotten a six-pack of beers, and rented a VCR from the new video store downtown. We hadn't watched anything, though; we'd spent hours wandering between having sex, talking, playing with each others' bodies, talking, laughing, and having sex again. We stayed in my room, your room now, and just explored each other. Somewhere in there, I realized that I wanted Brian to know everything about me; he deserved to know what kind of monster I really was. I loved him enough to warn him to get away from me, enough to lose him forever for his own good.
So, eyes closed, trying not to cry, I told him what I fantasized about; about tying up guys and tormenting them. I told him about being turned on by interrogation scenes in movies, about wanting to have guys at my mercy and begging. I told him about the experiments I'd done with tying myself up, and about how it made me feel, and through all of it he was silent. I came, not to any conclusion, but to a stop, and he let me get ahold of myself a moment. And then he started getting up, and I felt what it would be like to lose him, for just a fraction of a second. But he hadn't left the bed; I opened my eyes, and there he was, kneeling beside me, his wrists together, held out towards me.
"Tie me up," he said.
It didn't happen that night; right then, all I could manage to say was, "What?" Gradually, he convinced me that he'd had similar fantasies; maybe not as strongly as I had, and maybe they hadn't done quite as much damage, but he was determined, if you will, to be bound. The rest of that night was spent talking, comparing fantasies, wondering about where this tendency had come from in both of us. He theorized that it was time he'd spent in a cast when he was little, after falling off a roof. On my part, I might have watched a few too many war movies with my dad that featured hot interrogation scenes.
Whatever the case, within a couple of days, we got some time alone again, and I was ready. I had a few lengths of rope, a bandanna, and some Vaseline. Brian spent the afternoon tied down to the bed, with me alternating between making him suck on my cock, and me playing with his until he was begging to cum. When he finally blasted, he was yelling incomprehensibly, and it took him a long time to wind down after that; I untied him and held him as he shook in my arms, his face buried in my neck, and I thought for sure that I'd hurt him, that it was over between us, that the monster inside me had just cost me my love. I had a whole dramatic exit scene planned out for when he stopped needing me to hold him, and if I'm not mistaken I had an elaborate suicide attempt in mind for later that night.
And then he started talking again. "That was amazing," he said. "How in the hell did you do that?"
It took me a while to comprehend, and a little while longer to believe him, but that night he taught me that the monster that I'd thought would bring me nothing but misery and doom could, used correctly, bring ecstasy to someone I loved. It had become, and I apologize for the cliche, a gift.
He spent a lot of time tied up after that. His basement, whenever his family was out, became our favorite place; we experimented with suspension bondage, with chains, with whips... I'm sure you get the picture. Two horny, gay teenage boys, both into the kinkier end of things, set loose on their own with a world of improvised props available to them.
There were a couple of times I screwed up and hurt him; he had one scar on his arm from where I drew a rope out from under it way too fast; he was gagged, and I couldn't tell that he was in real pain. I cut off the circulation to his hands while hanging him from the ceiling the first time; it took a while for the feeling to come back, and we were halfway to the ER by then, trying to come up with a story that would explain it to our parents. We did some role-playing games; the advanced versions of cops and robbers, cowboys and indians, war. It was during the war one that I got a little too carried away one day with an interrogation, and scared him pretty badly with a heat gun my dad had been using to peel wallpaper; he freaked out pretty hard.
In short, we were exploring the world of B&D as if we were the first people there. We had no guidance but our fantasies, and nothing but our trust of each other keeping us safe. It's a wonder that we survived. But we did, and we learned, and we got better at things. And we stayed together, through high school graduation, for both of us. I don't know if we would have been together for life, but... I think we would have. I like to think so.
Brian's last year in high school, I was enrolled in a local college, living at home to save money. Dad was an architect, which at the time was a respectable profession, and he made decent money, but we weren't rich by any means. He built this house himself, or did the plans and supervised, back when he was with my mother. It was October, I'd barely had a chance to get used to what college was like, and Dad had the first heart attack of what turned out to be a series that would leave him in the hospital off and on for two months, and then kill him.
I quit school when it first happened, and did what I could to take care of him. He hated it, too. He was one of those classic guys they made back in the 40s, the tough-as-nails self-made man, and he hated what I had to do for him to get him through the day. But I was there for him, and Brian was there for me. He helped me as much as he could with Dad, and kept me together and functional too. I think by the end, Dad knew that Brian and I weren't just friends, but he never said anything. Those kind of men never did.
My Dad died just before Christmas. I was a mess; Brian kept me together through the funeral and the will, he got me through the nights after that; the winter in my memory is a blur, with one fixed and solid figure standing strong in a maelstrom.
Dad left me the house and his retirement savings; not a huge amount, but enough to get me through to where I could start working again, and put a little away. Toward spring, I got myself a job in a print shop which would take care of the bills, and asked the family accountant to take care of the rest.
Oh, and Brian had moved in. I'm not sure if we ever talked about it; he was just there more and more, until he was there all the time. I couldn't imagine it otherwise. We were 'roommates,' in that amusing 1980s way. Partners, they call it now.
Brian went to school; somewhere in there he discovered that my dad had a few old woodworking tools set up in the garage, and started building toys. The St. Andrew's cross was first, followed by the rack; he considered that his masterpiece. The master bedroom had always seemed much too large, so eventually we cut it in half, and made the dungeon; the slave bedroom, as Brian called it. He loved building new toys, loved spending time on them; I loved tormenting him on them.
He died on the rack. It was a brain embolism; once the panic and the chaos and the threats and accusations were done, the doctor told me there was nothing I could have done. Eventually, I believed him.
Imagine, if you will, the paramedics showing up to me, 23 years old, in tears; leading them into the bedroom, then a dungeon, to find a lifeless body on a rack. Whip marks. Manacle marks on his wrists. I was arrested, of course. Spent the night in jail, and bailed myself out the next day. I forced myself to go home, to sleep; word hadn't gotten out somehow, maybe because that's just not the sort of thing people talked about back then. I'm not going to describe how I felt for those two days; if you know me at all, if you've listened to this story, you know.
When the autopsy came back, and I began to understand that it wasn't all my fault, I visited his parents. They'd gone a few rounds with Brian when they figured out that we were lovers, but they'd really stopped talking about it much. I really expected them to blame me, but his mother's mother had died of the same thing; hereditary, as it turns out. They'd always known it was possible. And back then, you know, nothing could be done.
I hadn't gone back into the dungeon since it happened. I didn't know if I ever could; anything to do with sex seemed totally alien to me just then. All I wanted was to sleep until I stopped hurting; to stop missing him.
It had been less than a week when I heard him. He made this noise when I was playing with him hard; not a scream, not a growl, something akin to both of those. I awoke from a dream of him, and that's what I heard, coming from the bookcase that conceals the entrance to the room.
I should have been too terrified to move; maybe I was still half-asleep. But I missed him so much. I crossed the room, opened the door, walked into the darkness, and turned on the light. There he was, on the rack, like I had last seen him, but now, he was alive; he was thrashing, like he did when I left him alone in his bonds for too long. He was blindfolded.
I approached him, and he seemed to calm down. I touched his face; it was him, the same smooth, warm skin I had explored for years now, but... it was as if he was only half-there. Like a solid mirage. At my touch, he relaxed, and smiled. I lifted his blindfold.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"I thought you were... I thought you were gone." My heart was racing.
"I'm here for as long as you need me," he said. "For as long as you have no-one else."
I suppose, technically, it's an advanced form of necrophilia. He feels real, if a little bit insubstantial. And who can say that they've never been with someone like that?
He's there, in the dungeon, waiting for me to be with him. We play the same games we did when he was alive. He's as astonishing as he ever was. I still love him. He's still dead.
The Tale of Honest John Part 2
Honest John looked down at his beer bottle, frowned at it for being empty, and went to get another pair from the fridge. Adam tossed his empty in the trash, looking befuddled.
"I've been kind of bemused by all the curiosity as to what I did with my sexual energies, but no one seems to wonder how I can afford to live here with no apparent source of income," Honest John said, handing Adam a beer.
"Yeah, that's exactly the question I had after hearing that story."
Honest John laughed. "My accountant advised me to stop sitting on my money back in 1986; he wanted me to put it into stocks. When Microsoft's IPO happened, I bought a bunch. It's worked out."
"Nice. Advice from beyond the veil?" Adam asked.
"Nope. I just liked DOS," Honest John said.
"He's still twenty, isn't he?" Adam asked.
"Yeah, that's what he looks like," Honest John said.
"Does he... change? Grow? He's been chained in a room for years..." Adam shook his head. "Isn't he supposed to be moving on somewhere?"
"I still need him." Honest John stared down at his beer.
"I'm not an expert on relationships or anything, but, I've got to tell you, this seems... well, it seems wrong." Adam was speaking slowly, choosing his words.
"You mean the necrophilia thing?" John asked, half-joking.
"I mean... he doesn't have a choice, does he?" Adam's voice was gentle.
Honest John paused, drank, and sighed. "I've asked him if he wants wants to go. 'I'm here as long as you need me.'"
"You've been working hard to keep needing him," Adam said. "He's trapped, as long as you don't move on."
"Isn't that the same with any relationship? Both people play by the rules, and they stay together." John hadn't looked at Adam in a while.
"Yeah, but... look, you're trapped too. You're with a guy who can never change, never grow, never learn anything new, never teach you anything new..." Adam trailed off, and Honest John picked up where he had left off.
"Never have a day that's better or worse than the day before. Never achieve anything. Never have new problems, or issues..." Honest John shrugged. "Don't think I haven't thought about all this. I guess it seems like he's the perfect lover; never needing anything but companionship, sex, love. But..."
Adam waited, letting him finish his thought.
"I've been with him for so long," Honest John said. "I don't know what I'd do without him. I love him so much, but... I know I'm keeping him here. I just... don't know what I'd do."
"Well, me, to start with," Adam said.
Honest John laughed.
"You'd mourn, you'd hurt, your heart would break and then heal again, like anyone else." Adam put his beer down, and went over to Honest John, and put his hand on the man's shoulder. It was shaking.
"You'll be all right," Adam said.
Honest John looked up at him, clasped his hand. "All right."
"So... can I meet him?"
"I... I think so."
They went back through the bedroom, unlatched the hidden door behind the bookcase, and entered the darkened room. Honest John pulled the chain, and the light came on. There, in the cage by the far wall, a young man quivered; his thin hands wrapped around the bars of the cage, his body naked, his eyes hopeful.
Honest John took a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the cage. The boy emerged, his head bowed, his hands at his side. He was beautiful; a long, lean body, hair shaved close, cock half-hard; he seemed to be glowing from the inside.
"Have you brought someone new to play with, Sir?" The boy asked.
"Brian, this is Adam."
The boy stepped up close to Adam, and looked up; their eyes met. Adam saw a darkness within the boy's eyes that was infinite, flat black, enormous. Brian's hand touched his face, and it was insubstantial, and yet he could feel it; his face where the hand had touched it felt electric, strangely alive.
Adam felt Honest John come up behind him, and pull his shirt up over his head; as it was covering his face, he could feel Brian's hands on his chest, the tingling of his skin so electric it was almost painful. His head and arms freed, he leaned forward and kissed Brian, or Brian's ghost. It left him breathless, gasping, and he fell back into Honest John's arms. He looked up at the man, then turned and kissed him; the residue of the energy he'd felt from Brian made the kiss almost as strange. For a time, all three of them kissed, trading off in pairs, trying to kiss all at once, feeling each others' bodies, what there was of them.
Honest John and Adam shucked off their clothes hastily somewhere in the midst of that, rejoining the other two quickly. Adam felt Honest John's hands lifting one of his arms up in the air, and fastening it into one of the manacles hanging from the ceiling. He lifted the other himself; soon after, he felt his ankles being chained down to the stone floor of the dungeon as well, his legs spread wide. He felt Honest John come up behind him, felt his cock snake under his ass, felt the head of it tickle the back of his nuts. Brian was sucking at his nipples; his chest felt like cold fire.
Honest John backed off, and Adam saw him from the corner of his eye; he was approaching the rack of whips on the wall. Adam moaned as Brian started working his way lower and lower on Adam's body, pausing to trace his ribs with his tongue, to run his tongue down his abs to his navel. Brian was licking at the valley between Adam's hip and his groin when the first stroke of the whip landed on Adam's back. He grunted, and felt Brian start licking his balls as the next stroke of the lash landed.
Brian's mouth was giving him incredible, electric sensations of pleasure on the verge of being pain; Honest John's whip was causing him pain, just on the edge of being pleasure. It took three lashes for Adam to start thrashing in his chains; by that time, Brian had his cock in his mouth. By ten lashes, he was yelling, he had no idea what, and tears were pouring from his eyes, he was humping Brain's face, thrusting down his throat as the blows landed. By twenty lashes, he wasn't sure if he was still conscious, or even still alive, and he pulled at the restraints that held him up as Brian steadied his hips with his hands, screaming with the insane sensations coursing through him.
The twenty-third blow took him over the edge, and he screamed hoarsely as he came, hard, bucking his hips, every muscle in his wiry body standing out, eyes clenched tightly shut. He shuddered all over as he came down, and hung limp in his chains as he felt Brian's mouth slide from his cock.
It took him a while to come to enough to open his eyes. Brian was chained in a sling, hung from the ceiling, and Honest John was standing over him. As Adam watched, Honest John slid his cock into the boy's ass, and the boy threw his head back and laughed. They started fucking, a rhythm that was obviously completely familiar to the both of them, Honest John's ass cheeks clenching as he drove himself into the boy, the boy's fists wrapped tight around the chains that held the sling up. They fucked in a frenzy for a while, and then slowed down; the light in the room seemed to dim, and Adam thought he saw the two of them grow brighter. Brian sat up as they moved back and forth, and pulled himself up to kiss Honest John.
They kissed, then, for a while, still thrusting together, strong and slow; they held each other close and tried as hard as possible to merge, to become one. With an enormous sorrow in his eyes, Honest John pulled back, and looked at his lover.
"I love you, always, Brian." He tried to smile. "Goodbye."
"I love you, John," Brian said. "I'll be waiting for you."
They kissed again, and then John rammed his cock home and started fucking the boy hard, and then there was a roar. It might have been Honest John roaring to begin with, a roar of anger and anguish and lust and loss, but then Brian picked it up, and another sound joined in as well. The whole room resonated with it, Adam could feel the vibrations in the chains that bound him still. The glow that was in Brian seemed to brighten, become solid; it enveloped Honest John, and soon became too bright for Adam to look at; he closed his eyes tight, and tried to look away as the roar reached a crescendo that he was somehow screaming along with.
And then it all started to fade; the light, the sound, all dimmed until it was just the one lightbulb again, and Honest John, kneeling alone in the middle of the room, crying like a little boy.