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.
Author's note: This is a very long chapter, with no sex. There's some bondage, and some pain; the whole thing is basically an interrogation scene. But there's very little sexual content. Skip to the next chapter if this doesn't interest you; I won't be offended.
A Number of Nights Chapter 06
"And they lived happily ever after."
The boy smiled, but shook his head. "Master, they lasted about five months together. An immediate rebound after twenty years in a relationship? It's a wonder they didn't combust. Adam went on to drum for a couple of local bands, got some attention, and now he's working gigs in L.A. Honest John's kind of become the head of a polyamorous household; the last I heard he and another guy about his age and a couple of guys in their twenties were all living there, at the same place he's been in since forever."
"One of the younger guys, a slave in the household, was actually a real slave for a good portion of his life." The boy settled in, got his face comfortable against the Master's knee. "It's pretty interesting to talk to him, actually; he told me all about how he'd come to be there one time. I call this story..."
"Shut up, boy," said Master Ryan.
A sudden look of panic flashed across the boy's face, but he resumed his calm expression quickly.
"You're done here, boy. You think I'm dense?" The Master rose, unbalancing the boy so that he fell on his ass.
"No, Master." The slave boy shook his head, looked down.
"I'm not your Master. I'm not anyone's Master. I vowed, a long time ago, never to own anyone again, and you, with your stories and your incredibly eager ass... I know what you're doing." The Master stood over the boy, who was splayed on the floor before him. "I know what you want. And I know how it will turn out. It always ends the same way. There's a good reason I don't own anyone. You think your stories are going to make me forget?"
The boy remained silent, breathing heavily.
"Get your clothes on and get out, boy."
The boy crawled out of the room, into the living room. Master Ryan walked in a few moments later to find him pulling on his socks, sniffing back tears. He put his shoes on, and crawled to the door. Master Ryan went over to open it, and the boy collapsed to his feet, sobbing.
"Please, Sir, please... don't send me back out there. This slave doesn't want to be stray again; please, Sir, this slave wants to belong to Master; this slave... I want... this slave will live to please Master Ryan, this slave already lives to belong to Sir; please, Sir, please... I'll do anything."
Master Ryan had his hand on the doorknob when the boy uttered those words, and he stopped, doorknob half-turned. The boy sobbed on his feet as he stood for a moment, looking down at the boy kneeling before him in supplication.
He reached down and lifted the boy by his shoulders, and held him before him. The boy kept his eyes averted; there were tears on his face. "Please, Master..." the boy said.
"Quiet, boy." Master Ryan took ahold of the boy's hair, lifted his head back so he could see into the boy's eyes. He stared intently at them for a moment, and whatever he saw there must have satisfied him; when he spoke again, it was softly.
"In two days' time, at nine o'clock, you can be at my door." Master Ryan saw the boy's face light up, but the boy stayed silent, motionless. "If you choose to do so, you're going to have the worst night of your life. I will put you through hell, boy. And not in a way you are going to like."
"A test, Sir?" The boy asked.
"A test. If you pass, it will be the first of many before I'll consider offering you my collar." The Master smiled at the boy's eager grin. "You fail, and you'll be gone. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir!" The slave boy's response was immediate, and full of joy. "This slave will do everything in its power to make Master happy and satisfied with its performance."
"I'm serious when I tell you that if you show up next time, you'll go through hell; not fun hell, boy. Hell. You better think hard before knocking on my door."
The boy actually gulped, then nodded.
"Okay, get out of here," Master Ryan nodded towards the door.
"Sir?" The boy looked at the ankle cuff he'd left on the coffee table. "Could this slave wear that until..."
"No." Master Ryan's voice was stern. "You're free. You belong to nobody. I want you to really think about what you are, what you want to give up, what you're in for, what you'll do. Take the next couple of days and be a normal guy. No one's slave; no one's boy. Do whatever you need to to find out how you're feeling. If you show up in two days, I want to know it's really you, that your decision wasn't made because you felt like you were mine already."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." The slave turned to go, still smiling.
Master Ryan shook his head, and closed the door.
It was at nine o'clock precisely, two days from then, that the slave knocked on the door again. Master Ryan let him wait a while, then let him in. The slave went to his knees as soon as the door closed, and tried to get to Master Ryan's feet to kiss them, but Master Ryan pulled away.
"Stand up," he said.
The boy stood, uncertainly, his eyes downcast.
"You're not going to like what's about to happen here, kid," the Master said. "I know you think you will, but you really won't. It won't leave any scars, it won't cause any permanent injuries; it's not going to kill you. But you're going to hate it, and maybe me. I'd advise you to just walk out. Leave. Find another man to be your Master."
The slave stood still.
"All right," said Master Ryan, half to himself. "All right. Follow me."
He led the boy into the bedroom. There were chains on the bed; looped all the way around the bed, at the head and foot, and pulled tight. The only light in the room was by the bedside, and it was turned toward the wall; the room was dim.
"Shirt off," the Master said.
The slave took his shirt off quickly, folded it, and put it on the dresser.
"Hands behind your back," said the Master, and when the boy complied, he put the leather cuffs around his wrists and buckled them on. He pushed the slave towards the bed, and the slave took his position, his head towards the foot of the bed, arms spread out.
The Master locked first one wrist down, then the other, and stood above the boy's head, looking down at him. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket, and blindfolded the boy's eyes. Then he went around the bed, sat by the boy's waist, and unbuttoned the boy's jeans, and pulled his fly down. He ran his hands gently over the boy's chest, spent time caressing his nipples, played with the hair under his arms a moment. Then he moved to the slave's feet, and pulled off his sneakers one by one, then his socks. He grabbed the waist of the boy's jeans, and pulled them down, the boy hunching his ass off the bed to help; his underwear came off with them.
The Master took the two remaining cuffs from the dresser, encircled the slave's ankles with them, buckled them tight, and then locked the slave's feet down to the chain so that the slave was spread-eagled before him.
"Say the safeword, and you go home, boy. You remember the safe word?" Master Ryan asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"I'm going to ask you some questions now, boy. You are to answer immediately and completely. You are to tell the truth. If you hesitate, if I believe you've left anything out, if I believe you're lying, I will hurt you. If I think it will help your concentration, I'll hurt you. If I just feel like it, I'll hurt you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You've been telling me a lot of stories, boy. The one thing you haven't told me yet is anything about yourself. Well, tonight, I'm going to learn all about you. Everything." Master Ryan emptied a bag of clothespins next to the boy's chest, and the boy began trembling.
His voice was much smaller when he replied. "Yes, Sir."
The Master sat on the bed next to the boy, his fingers playing over the boy's chest. "Where were you born, boy?"
"Brooklyn, New York, Sir," the slave answered.
"How long did you live there?"
"Three years, or so I'm told, Sir."
"When did you come here?"
"...um... well, I..."
Master Ryan applied a clothespin to the skin under the boy's underarm. He could see the boy wince, despite the blindfold.
"Four, five years ago, Sir, for college." the slave answered.
"How do you make your living?"
"Sir, this slave is a busboy and dishwasher at a diner."
"You live with your family?"
A pause, and the Master added another clothespin, this time on the skin beside the boy's balls.
"Sir, this slave lives with friends who aren't related to it."
"Are you involved with any of them?"
"No, Sir.... not anymore, Sir." Another clothespin was clipped to the skin of his inner thigh.
"You involved with anyone?"
"Sir, this slave would presume to say that it was involved, in some capacity, with Sir."
Clothespins got added to the slave boy's nipples while the Master remained silent.
"You really want to belong to me, boy?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Okay, boy." The Master was silent as he meditatively put a short line of clothespins up the inside of each of the boy's thighs.
"Why?" Asked Master Ryan.
"Sir?"
The Master put another clothespin on each of the boy's nipples.
"Why do you want to be my slave?"
The slave boy actually let out a little laugh. "If Sir will forgive me saying so, that's a long story."
The Master smiled. "Well... you're not going anywhere."
There was a pause while Master Ryan added clothespins, slowly, to the boy's balls. "Very well, then, Sir. This slave calls its own story
Cambion
This slave does not know much about the circumstances surrounding its conception or its birth. Which is unfortunate, as they form a key part of the story, a part that this slave has tried to understand and explain forever. Its first memories are of a home in Pennsylvania, a mid-sized city there, a tiny house, and a mother who had little time for it.
This is not going to be a whiny confessional, Sir. This slave understands that everyone is born with burdens, and that everyone either does their best or collapses underneath them, and that in neither case does complaining help at all. This slave understands that Sir wishes to better understand it, so this slave is going to relate its circumstances as best it can, and if the tale is bleak, this slave endeavors to make certain that it is as a result of its contents, and not the... owww... telling.
For the first year of this slave's recollection, it was told that someday, any day soon, its father was coming home. Its mother told it, once or twice a day, that its father was going to arrive any time, and when he did... well, several things would happen. We would be taken away from our life, where its mother had to struggle to make the meager rent, and the roof was unreliable, and the heat leaked out the windows, and the neighbors had to be avoided for fear of one's life. All of this slave's behavior issues would be addressed, as well, upon its father's advent. Also, bad things would happen; sometimes, its mother spoke of this absent father with fear, as if she would be subject to correction as well.
And so its father became, at first, a story, and then a legend. Would that he could have remained a myth. This slave built up the image of a father he'd never seen into a combination of an old-Testament God and Santa claus; a judge, a bringer of gifts, a bringer of punishment. He thought about how much life would change when his father finally arrived; he fantasized about the riches, about the freedom, about the punishment.
Ohhh... thank you, Sir. This slave was five, perhaps six when the day finally came; its mother prefaced the event with a frenzy of cleaning and cooking and making the house look more presentable than ever it had before. There was an element of panic in her actions, however, a fear that could not be concealed from the sensitive emotional radar that young children seem to possess, and this slave became, in turn, frantic. Which fed its mother's panic, which got it into trouble... needless to say, the young slave was in a sorry state... owwww... thank you, Sir... a sorry state when the day came.
And then went again. Its father arrived three days after he said he would. This slave realizes now that the man who pulled up in an old-model car, full of days' worth of travel debris, unshaven, unkempt, broke, and desperate, wasn't actually much of a man. But to the boy that this slave was, he was the second coming, the arrival of Santa Claus, and, eventually, the rising of Lucifer too.
For the first day, the man, somewhat intoxicated when he arrived and made more so by the supplies this slave's mother had laid in, was a font of affection; it was as if he was re-creating all the television sitcom notions of what fatherhood should be in a 24-hour period. There was a wobbly game of catch in the front yard, followed by the man unsuccessfully trying to airplane the boy, but landing him in a hedgerow instead. There was an early awakening, a trip to McDonald's, an attempt at a heart-to-heart, but the boy couldn't understand half of what the man was saying; he just basked in the glow of finally having a father.
The first argument happened that afternoon, between the slave's mother and its father; there were awful things said, while the boy tried to busy himself in his room, and there was the sound of a physical fight. The next fight happened two hours later. In between, the boy was tasked at getting beers for his father from the fridge, as the man reclined and watched television, and the boy contemplated the link between the man and himself.
During the second fight that night, this slave's mother screamed; not in anger, but in genuine pain. This slave ran to the kitchen, and found his mother cradling her arm, and swearing at the man using words he'd never heard before. The father put the few things he'd unpacked back together, and left; before he left, he cursed the both of us.
The following day, this slave's mother avoided going to see a doctor, despite the pain in her wrist; it was badly swollen when she finally relented, and we spent the afternoon waiting in urgent care. This slave can see now that its mother's self-medication had a lot to do with what was said to it that day, and that both the physical and emotional pain that she was in contributed to the conversation.
She was never loud; she spoke steadily, and with a contoled intensity as she detailed all of this slave's father's faults to it in a long, angry tirade. Just three days before, this slave would have come to its father's defense; this slave's image of its father was sacrosanct, not to be defiled. But it was here in this crowded lobby, in which a space had gradually cleared around it and its mother as her rant had grown in intensity, and it had the evidence before it that its father was none of the things that it had hoped for, or feared.
And so, when its mother said with complete honesty, with frightening focus, "Your father is a demon, boy. A demon from hell," well, it had needed another image of its father that it could make some sense out of. It knew what a demon was. Its father's behavior fit the image well; he had been deceptive at first, had been violent, had cursed us. And it was easier for a young boy to grasp the idea of a demon than the idea that adults, even ones that mean the most to us, are sometimes deeply flawed and troubled people with burdens we can't comprehend.
As this slave's mother healed, she pulled herself out of the dark place she had gone due to this slave's father's appearance, and then she just seemed to keep pulling. Now that she had lost the illusion of the man who would come to rescue her, now that there was no longer that false source of hope, she started to take her life in hand. She found a program that worked with single mothers to get them back in school, and she worked at it diligently; she worked part-time as well, sometimes, which meant that this slave was left alone for longer and longer periods.
While its mother bettered their lives as best she could, this slave did what it could to help, but that was little enough. The remainder of its time was spent alone, and lonely, without much to do. It got in trouble a couple of times; petty vandalism in attempts to impress the local kids enough to find a place with them, for the most part. It became frustrated, and angry, and bored, and those are pretty lethal combinations for a child of that age.
Its salvation came in the form of a librarian; this slave was killing time in a library annex in a strip mall while its mother shopped a few stores down, and a middle-aged librarian took enough interest in him to find a book that he'd like; it was a juvenile series, laughable in retrospect, but it opened the doors to a world for him. When his mother returned, he pleaded for a library card; when she gave in, he brought the book home.
Imagine, Sir, if you will, this slave as a young boy, the stacks of books that it brought home growing in almost direct proportion to its physical size, the breadth of its understanding increasing as it read. The modern books interested it for a while, but it soon outgrew them, and went in search of the classics; Carroll, and Baum, Lewis and Tolkien, Heinlein and Bradbury... it feasted on the old tales, the Grimm brothers, Yeats, Kipling.
It learned well, and quickly, but none of what it learned contravened what it knew in its heart. It was born of demon-seed, and it was damned.
The conviction that had begun back when it was just tiny had blossomed and grown, and had taken the empty and worthless feelings that so many youth seem to have and had given it a name. This slave knew that its father was a demon; that it was half-demon, at least, and that it was, no matter what, bound for hell. There's a name for the progeny of demon and human that it found in its readings in an encyclopedia of the obscure, late one night in its room, and it took that name for itself.
Cambion.
While this was all developing, its mother had, much unbeknownst to it, started not only her professional life back up, but her emotional one as well. She prepared this slave as best she could, but the advent of the new man in her life set off a torrent of emotions in it.
In retrospect, Sir, the man was simply out of his depth. Raising a child is a difficult task to get thrown into, and it's impossible to prepare for. And this slave could not have been an easy project at that age; it had withdrawn so far from human contact that the man would have had to have written a book to get through to it. It put a distance between the man and itself, not out of fear of the man, as the man suspected, but out of fear that the man would discover what it was, and leave its mother, and it would be to blame.
The man responded first with attempts at affection, by making an effort to bond, by trying to involve the boy in experiences that they could share. Every effort, though, had an echo in it of the boy's demon-father's parody of paternal love, expressed over a day's time, all those years ago.
After being rebuffed, inexplicably, time and time again, the man decided that what this slave needed was structure, responsibility... discipline. And so began the time of rules, of strict timelines and duties; this slave's childhood was regimented, his hours determined, his infractions punished. This slave's mother was glad to hand over the reins to her new man, and the man was astonished that his efforts seemed to be working. With an emphasis on 'seemed to be.'
Early on, this slave realized that it was smarter than the man was; that the rules, as laid down, had built-in points of failure. That there were ways around everything, and ways to make the rules work against the man. At the age of twelve, this slave learned all there is to know about topping from the bottom, in a completely non-sexual way.
The slave's manipulations, and the man's counters, played themselves out over the next year or so, culminating in an episode where it was found that, while doing all of his chores and following all rules to the letter, this slave had become an adept shoplifter; it had only been caught because it was betrayed by a friend.
With that revelation, the entire structure of this slave's defiance became obvious, and this slave moved to being overt in its resistance to the man's attempts to regulate its life. This coincided with, and perhaps partially caused, a rift in the relationship between the man and this slave's mother, the end result of which was the man leaving.
This slave was presented with more evidence that its very nature was corruptive, destructive; it learned, despite what the man and its mother told it, that it was capable of bringing love to an end. It believed that was its fate.
The next two years were relatively unremarkable; this slave experimented with the beginnings of teenage rebellion, drinking, unsuccessful attempts at smoking, a bit of laughably inexpert drug use. The most consistent factor was this slave's consistent attraction to what was referred to universally as the wrong crowd. Despite its bookish nature, this slave found itself wanting very badly to be with the older boys, the ones on the fringes of the school, the no-good loser types which, to the very young, seem to be the definition of cool.
After a time, its advances towards these groups met with a certain amount of acceptance, and it found itself adopted as a sort of mascot to the group. It got to know them, somewhat, got to see what their interaction was like, and as it had appeared from the outside, they were jovial, and rough, and occasional brutal with each other, and this slave found itself at home.
And, of course, this slave found itself in trouble. Now that this slave's mother was once again fending for the family by herself, this slave had an abundance of unsupervised time, and in combination with its new affiliates, that made for endless opportunities to screw up. The group enjoyed seeing it drunk, for instance, a youthful parody version of themselves it supposes, and it was caught intoxicated a few times. Its shoplifting continued when it found that it could impress the group with gifts. And then there was Milo.
Milo was fifteen, but turned sixteen in the midst of all this. Two years older than this slave, but at an age when those two years were everything. He seemed to take a particular interest in this slave, and put an effort into taking it under his wing, as it were. He cautioned against overindulgence, and tried to get this slave sober enough to go home a couple of times; he gave good tips on shoplifting; he was one of the few who would just sit and talk to this slave when the group was out partying or just hanging out. He took this slave seriously, even seemed to respect it a bit.
Now, Milo wasn't terribly smart, but he was affable, a big, kind of dorky tough guy; intimidating as hell to adults, but considered by his peers to be kind of a goof. This slave came to adore him; he had a good heart, and seemed to mean well.
One night, we had both had a few too many beers while hanging out in one of the basements we frequented when possible, and this slave passed out while talking with Milo. It awoke, probably just a few minutes later, to find Milo's hand, cold and hesitant, up its shirt, exploring its chest.
It pretended to still be unconscious, and the hand continued exploring; Milo's beer-heavy breath on the side of its face, as his big hand continued its way down to this slave's pants. It was only when his hand started sliding into this slave's underwear that it stirred as if awakening; it would have been mortified to have Milo find that its cock was stiffening.
This slave was thrown into turmoil, of course, for the next few days, but soon enough, it found itself hanging out with the group again, drinking perhaps a bit too much, a bit too obviously; then it found itself with Milo again, off in a corner, and feigned passing out.
Once again, after a pause, after a hesitant attempt to see if it was awake, this slave felt Milo's hands on it, feeling its ass this time, but this time it was interrupted by a fight among the group nearby which threatened to spill into their area.
Two days later, Milo invited this slave to go out for a drive; he had just gotten his license, and he had his mother's car for a few hours, and there was nothing cooler that this slave could imagine. Milo picked it up from a corner near its house, and for an hour they drove about, talking about their group of friends, and Milo mentioned that he thought this slave was 'a pretty cool kid,' and this slave was almost puppyishly enthusiastic.
Milo asked it if it wanted to see where Milo lived, and it said sure. They drove there; a small gray house in a suburban neighborhood, approximately as shabby as those around it; a bicycle in the yard, his younger sister's, he said. They went in, and after a brief tour of the place, which was totally vacant, Milo presented his room. Sir may have imagined rock posters on the walls, unmade bed, clothes in heaps, neglected schoolwork, and Sir's imaginings would have been accurate. To this slave, though, it was a palace. Milo showed it around a bit, and then told it that he had a surprise; a fifth of Southern Comfort. They took turns swigging out of it a while, listening to music and talking, and this slave relaxed by taking off its shoes and lying next to Milo in his bed. It almost didn't notice when Milo's hand started moving over its chest. And when Milo kissed it, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Milo's father walked in.
This slave will refrain from describing the scene that ensued, or the scene after that where this slave's mother was called, and had what had happened explained to her in front of Milo, who was crying with rage. The next weeks were difficult for this slave, as its mother brought it to counselors, got into parent-teacher conferences, and ultimately talked to the police.
This slave cannot imagine how hard it was for Milo, though. It heard, later on, that Milo had spent time at the police station; that his father had beaten him; that there was suspicion that he had been molesting his little sister; that he'd been caught with another boy last year. This slave is uncertain as to what of that might have been true. Whatever happened, whatever had happened, it was too much for Milo. He hanged himself three weeks after the incident.
The group of friends that Milo and this slave had been a part of fragmented; no-one wanted to be around this slave, whether it was because of what it reminded them of, or because of what they thought it might be, it never knew. And this slave was left alone, wondering what his part had been in the incident; whether, if it had resisted, Milo's life would have been spared. And it had an answer, ready-made, of course, in the darkness that it perceived deep within itself.
It was the death of love. It was a demon; it would drive those that it loved to despair and desperation, it would bring ruin upon any who dared care for it. It was damned, inescapably.
This slave has mentioned that in their teens, people tend to find a doom to call their own and cling to it possessively. This slave then did exactly that. For the next few years, it took the darkness that it believed lay in the essential core of its being, and it fanned it; it took what it perceived as its destiny, and made it manifest.
It retreated again to its books; it became as invisible as possible in the context of its school, a feat which was at first impossible due to the notoriety that followed it from the incident with Milo, but which gradually became more workable as it rejected any attempts at human contact. It was bullied, it supposes, in that time; the taunts of 'faggot' seemed apt to it, though, and it refused to acknowledge them openly, while considering them in private. It cultivated an aspect of hostility, of rage, as if at any moment it might snap and do something unpredictably violent.
Fortunately for it, the climate of the times made this an effective guise; no-one knew who among them were going to turn a school into a killing ground, and those that seemed most likely to were left alone. It finished off its high school career with decent grades, as it had little else to do. It had no friends, had had no relationships, had an intact virginity, and a sheaf of questions where its sexuality should have been.
All in all, it was ready for college.
This slave's experiences in college were educational, though not in the sense that the brochures would have led it to believe when it was applying. It went to enough classes to keep itself from flunking out, and did well in the classes that interested it, while bypassing those courses that it couldn't be bothered with. Academically, this is a viable approach, and will carry promising students through to about the second or third year, though it will universally prevent them from graduating anywhere close to on time, or at all.
There was more education to be found in the dorms, the locker rooms, the bathrooms a the library, than this slave was prepared for at the time. From feast to famine, from rags to riches; this slave went from a world where its desires were clandestine and furtive, near-impossible to attain, to a world where everything that he wanted was available nightly. It discovered that of the godlike men it had once worshiped from afar, a good number wanted to be worshiped up close. It discovered that its looks, which it had long despised, were considered attractive to some. And for a time, for the first year it was there, it overindulged.
The modern miracle of communication, embodied in OKCupid, gay.com, manhunt, and Craigslist brought to it the entire range of sensual pleasure, and it responded with gusto. Starting with a quick encounter in a bathroom stall now and then, moving on to furtive visits to others' dorm rooms and off-campus apartments for blowjobs and the occasional fuck, this slave learned how to negotiate the waters of the no-strings-attached liaison. If it may be permitted to say, it developed a certain amount of skill in some areas.
There was the occasional admirer who tried to turn one night into two, into several, into dating; this slave avoided them all as soon as they showed too much interest. When one is at a banquet, why would one limit themselves to just the bread table? It learned it had a reputation as somewhat of a rake, and it cultivated that with libertine abandon. It valued its skills at avoiding emotional attachment almost as much as its skill as a cocksucker.
This slave smoked more than its fair share of both weed and cocks in those days; it drank, experimented with drugs and different combinations of partners; it paid the price in hangovers, quarrels, treatable diseases, and pain.
And then came Brandon. He was tall, and likable, unpretentious, apparently unaware of his effect on those around him. He was known to be gay; he attended the GLBT meetings, was involved in the events. But he kept to himself, for the most part. He was friendly to everyone, but no-one knew anyone who had ever been with him.
As it happens, as Master knows, unattainability is an attractive quality, near-irresistible to some. This slave made it a point to get close to Brandon, to find out what his story was. And it found out. The story was simple; Brandon was a simple, smart, honest guy who was looking to love, and be loved. He was the real thing.
In the course of its investigation, this slave managed, somehow, to befriend Brandon. By the time it had figured out what Brandon was after, Brandon was calling it on occasion to arrange the occasional night out; there were the usual on-campus activities, movies, poker nights, concerts, lectures. Brandon took to it as a friend, until without either of us really thinking much about it, it turned into dating.
Which was, for this slave, new. The idea that someone would like it not only for its scathing wit and remarkable ability with a cock was something this slave had never thought much about, and was unprepared for. It was being treated decently, respectfully, as if it was a human being.
It fell in love with Brandon. Hopelessly, inexpertly, impossibly in love. It was happy only when Brandon was around; it lived for the moments that Brandon held it in his arms. And when Brandon finally took it into his bed, and made love to it with real feeling, it felt that it had finally arrived, that it had found lifelong happiness.
Brandon made it happy, but it had no experience with such things; it had no idea how to make Brandon happy in return. It was only vaguely conscious of the need to do so. Like so many young people, it had thought that if it was happy, the person that loved them couldn't help but be. It tried to share the things that made it happiest in life, though, in the hopes that Brandon would enjoy them as well.
Unfortunately for Brandon, the things that made this slave happiest were toxic. The life it had been leading was one of frequent, binge-drinking parties, overindulgence in pot and coke and X and meth and pills. Even though it had given up the sexual encounters to be with Brandon, the culture it was embedded in was one where all relationships were considered to be doomed, where monogamy was for suckers, where nothing good could last, and so why not enjoy everything as much as possible, right now?
This slave had learned to deal with being doomed early on, and so was innoculated against the worst of the effects that both the attitude and the substances could have. Brandon had no such defense. Brandon was just trying, at first, to get to know this slave's world a bit. He was trying to know its friends, its habits. He was being a good boyfriend.
At first, he skirted the periphery of the group; this slave's boyfriend, seen occasionally at the parties, mocked gently and not so gently for his moderation. Gradually, he went from reluctantly agreeing to go to the events to actually looking forward to them. He got a little drunker, tried pot. Got a little higher, tried X. And so on down the line.
In the course of a year, Sir, this slave watched Brandon go from being a shy, affable college student with a bright future to being a dropout drug addict, barely getting by. From affable, he went to being lethargic; from good-natured to not caring at all. The drugs and alcohol this slave took for granted took Brandon completely.
In an apartment near to campus,one of the ones that get occupied by ex-students still in their college's orbit, but frequented by students needing a place to party and connections to be able to get ahold of substances, this slave was lying with Brandon on a mattress on the floor early one afternoon, dead asleep, when Brandon's parents arrived. They'd been admitted by a roommate, still half-drunk, and opened the door to the room to find their son, passed out, naked, entwined around this slave.
There was yelling and recriminations; there were revelations and accusations. It was the usual family drama, but with this slave as the bone of contention. Brandon's parents blamed everything on it. The fall from grace, the drug addiction, the homosexuality. This slave had led their son astray.
And in the light of that afternoon, this slave saw the room around it; the beer bottles scattered among the remains of a dinner from days ago, the bong beside the bed, the stash box beside it better-stocked with weed than the kitchen was with food. The lack of furniture throughout the house, the abundance of semi-conscious people, most of whom they only knew peripherally, scattered about. The clothes and sheets, unlaundered for way too long. And it saw what it all looked like from Brandon's parents' perspective.
And it saw Brandon, his face gone from amiable to haggard, exhausted. His body, once delightful and pure, now gaunt and pale. The love that had once been there for it long gone.
It realized that it was everything Brandon's parents said it was. It got on its clothes, and it left.
It spent a couple of days drunk, of course, staying on the floors of other houses much like theirs, and eventually it heard that Brandon's parents had taken him home, several states away, it returned to the house and picked up what stuff it could, threw everyone out, called the landlord, left the keys, and was out before the landlord could arrive.
It was fortunate enough to have a job right then, and it was able to continue at it while living on a couple of friends' couches, and then was able to take another friend up on an offer of a room. It kept to itself, and it read.
Brandon tried to get in touch a couple of times, but sometimes you just have to get out of the way and let people get on with their lives. This slave had realized that it was true; that it corrupted anyone who loved it.
This was borne out, to it, by the upcoming marriage of its mother to the man who she had tried to bring into their family almost a decade before. With this slave in the household, it had been impossible for the man to stay; now that it was gone, its mother was able to find happiness with him. This slave attended, done up in a rental tux, and gladly gave its mother away, as much to save her from itself as to give her to another man.
Its childhood home was sold, and it was cordially unwelcome in the new house the two of them had together.
And so it determined to be unapproachable, unavailable, solitary, and to make itself happy as best it could. It buried itself in books, it worked at its job or jobs, it learned to take care of itself.
It had an idea that it was going to spend the rest of its life like that, and urban hermit, keeping the world entirely at bay, never having any more than cordial contact with anyone, and work until it dropped dead in a few decades. It was sure that that was the best thing that it could do for the world.
It had, though, discovered the lifeline that gets extended to hermits like that all over the world these days. It had discovered the internet.
Not that it hadn't known about the internet before, of course, Sir. The internet had been, up until this point, a source of diversions, a method of contacting sexual partners, a purely recreational device. Now that it wasn't seeking out such things, it turned again to the internet, and found in it the one thing it sought the most, without ever even knowing it. It found a sense of community.
It joined first a message board, a general and disjointed place; that led it to others, message boards and community hubs where people were talking, often intelligently, about things that this slave cared about. From the safety of its room, without having anyone get too close to it, and without it getting too close to anyone, it found a community of first strangers, and then friends, and for the first time in its life, it felt like it belonged.
One of its communities led it to another; a place where sexuality, especially kinky sexuality, was discussed frankly and openly and most of all, intelligently. It discovered that out there on the networks, the kinky people had made their home, and that it was a surprisingly welcoming place. It read discussions, participated in a few, and gradually started to put a name to the feelings it had had forever. It discovered that what it wanted was to serve.
It became involved, over the net only, with a master from North Carolina. He was calm, and patient, and strict, and he showed this slave a little of what it was like to be a slave. Despite the limits of the medium, this slave tried to devote itself to the man, and was, for a time, considering relocation. The master dissuaded it from that course; he was uncertain as to this slave's dedication, of its level of understanding of what would be required of it once it was owned. He wanted it to go out and gain experience for itself.
This slave ascertained that there was indeed an active kink community in its area, and it began to become familiar with its members. Almost as soon as it began sniffing around the periphery of things, it was approached by a master. This master was alluring, and convincing, and this slave wanted nothing more than to serve him. This slave ignored, for the most part, the warnings that were muttered to it in confidence; the stories of other slaves brutalized and used. This slave believed that it could take it, that the other slaves were simply not good enough.
If it had not listened at all, it wouldn't have left its location with a concerned acquaintance, in case something happened. If it had ignored the warnings completely, it might have had more than a visit to the emergency room, and a few weeks in a cast.
During that period, it was befriended by another slave, who introduced it to its master, and still another slave. This slave got to talk to men who were actually in service, who were collared and owned, and discovered that its treatment at the hands of the first master was unacceptable, and had been dealt with while this slave waited for treatment in the hospital. It learned more about the service that was required of slaves, and the way masters treat them. It learned that, if it found the right master, it would be honored to serve.
The whole time it was recovering, it heard rumors; even after it had healed, it heard stories. The stories told of a master, a strong and handsome man, a man both cruel and gentle, who required His slaves to serve hard, and used them well and thoroughly. Who was truly masterful in His demeanor; a Master who was truly worthy of a slave's complete devotion.
But the Master only took His slaves for one night, and one night only.
This slave heard tales from others about their use at this Master's hands; their eyes glazed over, they told of finally feeling as if they had come to belong to a true owner, a masterful Master, a man worthy of any service they could render.
And this slave determined that it had to see for itself. And that, if the Master were truly that wise, that strong, that powerful in demeanor and commanding in manner, it would offer itself to Him completely.
This slave will end this tale as it began; when it knocked, that one night, at Sir's door.
"That," said Master Ryan, "Was a terrible story."
"Sir?" Even under the blindfold, the slave looked shocked.
The Master applied a couple of clothespins to the side of the slave's abdomen. "It was missing two crucial elements. Can you tell me," he said, putting another couple of clothespins on the other side of the slave's torso, "What they were?"
"Sir, this slave endeavored to tell Sir the facts, all of the... aaaaahhh... all of the facts, as they occurred." Master Ryan was applying wooden clothespins in a line down its chest now, quickly. The slave flinched with each one. The Master remained silent, and started a new thread. The slave gasped now as the clothespins were applied.
"Sir, this slave doesn't know what Master is referring to. The events of its life... aaaaahhh... the events are as this slave related them. Please, Sir..."
The Master began a line of clothespins up the outer side of the slave's thigh, pinching the skin first, then applying each one carefully and quickly. He remained silent.
"This slave... didn't mention its very first sexual encounter... it was eighteen, at college, the guy was... was as awkward as it was... it wasn't remarkable..." The slave was doing what it could to pull away from the pain the Master was inflicting, pulling at its leather restraints.
The Master finished the second line of clothespins up its opposite thigh, and then put one on the edge of its navel, clamping it fast.
"SIR... Sir... could Sir please, please enlighten... this slave... as to what else... Sir requires?" The slave was a hedgehog of clothespins at this point.
"What does it take to make a good story, boy?" The Master asked. "What's the difference between a story and a news report?"
The Master could see the slave trying to think despite the pain that it was in.
"Character, plot, character arcs... aaaah...." The Master had started a new line of clothespins under the slave's left arm. "Story structure. Oh... oh... a conclusion. A resolution of some sort, something learned..."
"Does your story have one of those, boy?" The Master asked.
"Sir, this slave learned... that it destroys the ones who love it... this slave learned that it should simply live to serve, to ask nothing in return, as it deserves... this slave learned that it is useless alone, it is driven to serve, but it cannot allow itself to feel... anything for those around it..." The slave trailed off, breathing heavily.
"Which leads me to the second element you forgot, boy." The Master removed one of the clothespins from the inside of the boy's thigh. The boy gasped. "You related the facts in a very businesslike manner. Now I know all of the events you considered to be formative." Master Ryan continued removing clothespins up the boy's leg, and now the boy was flinching, pulling his leg away. "The one thing you didn't tell me anything about was how you felt. During any of it."
"Sir, this slave....aaaaaaaaahhh.... this slave felt miserable... afraid..." The boy was shaking his head back and forth, as if negating the pain it was in.
"You told me about your friend Milo. How did you feel when you got caught in bed with him?" The Master continued relentlessly taking off the clothespins; as circulation returned to the boy's skin, the pain was intense.
"Sir... this slave was frightened when Milo's father burst in; it was terrified of what would happen to it, it thought the father was mad enough to... aaaaaaah... do it phyisical harm."
"And afterward, when Milo was avoiding you, when the rumors were spreading?" The slave felt the Master's fingers toy with a clothespin on its balls, in preparation for removing it.
"Sir, this slave felt... it felt like it had hurt Milo. It wanted to talk to him, to make it right, to tell him that it wanted it, that it wanted to try again, that it was sorry, that it was its fault, that it wanted to.... aaaaahhh... that it wanted to make it better."
"And when he died?"
"Sir... this slave was anguished... it knew it was its own fault... that it had led Milo on... that if it hadn't been there, Milo could have lived..."
"And when you left Brandon?" The Master was removing the clothespins on the boy's sides now, on one side, then the other.
"This slave... felt... that it had destroyed a beautiful human being... that mere contact with it had caused Brandon to break, in so many ways... this slave felt that it was its duty to leave him, to try to let him heal the damage it had caused. This slave... felt like corruption."
"And when your father left you?"
"Sir, this slave was so young... this slave cannot recall..."
The Master's fingers moved to the clothespins on the slave's balls, and started toying with them.
"This slave supposes... it felt... angry... it felt sad, like it was going to break inside... it wanted him to stay so badly, but knew that he was wrong to do what he did... it knew that whatever its father was, that was what it would grow up to be... it saw how mean he was, how he hurt... and it knew... that it was going to be..."
"You still believe you're part demon."
"No, Sir, that was a fantasy... that this slave came up with... to make some sense out of its life. It knows... that there aren't demons..."
"Yet, still, you believe it."
"Sir... this slave knows there's something... inside it... that corrupts..."
"Cambion."
The boy started sobbing.
"That's the name you gave yourself, isn't it, boy?" The Master asked. There were only a few clothespins left; up the slave's cock, on its nipples.
"Yes, Sir."
"You still call yourself by that."
"...aaaah.... yes, Sir."
"You still believe that you're doomed, and you drag the people around you down with you."
There were tears leaking out from under the blindfold now. "Yes, Sir."
"You believe you're going to do that to me." the Master stated.
"Sir, this slave didn't... this slave wouldn't..."
"What happened when you saw your father again?" The Master asked.
The boy's body bucked, and started struggling against his bonds. "Goddamn it! You son of a bitch! Let me go! Let me go! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"
"When did you see him?" The Master's voice was louder, but still calm.
"Fuck you! Get off me! Fuck!" The boy was yelling, crying, struggling. "You can't do this! You can't... Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!"
With that word, the Master unbuckled the cuff on the boy's wrist that was closest to him; the boy reached immediately to take off his blindfold, then undid his other wrist while the Master freed his feet. There were four clothespins left, one on his navel, one on his cock, and two on his nipples; the boy removed them himself, crying, and cried out in pain with each one.
The Master brought him his clothes.
The boy dressed himself, quieting his sobbing to sniffles; he didn't look at Master Ryan as he did so. He winced as he pulled on his pants, and moved carefully after that. He put his shirt and shoes on, and went to the door. He looked back at the Master once, and his expression was one of anger, and hurt, and longing, and desperation.
He left.
"I'm sorry," Master Ryan said.