Blank Pages

Blank Pages 2: Anniversary

(April, 2018. I like to leave stories dangling. There's an old vaudeville saying, "Always leave 'em wanting more." But a note from a reader--see how powerful feedback can be?--set me to thinking, to remembering my own "coming out" process, which seems never-ending. So perhaps, in this case at least, I should continue. (If you want to read that first part, "Blank Pages," it's in Authoritarian, April 2.)

This is a work of fiction, and includes scenes of BDSM activity. Similarities to persons and places are--well, let's face it: who'd want to read about things with no similarities to their real lives? Yeah, they're unintentional coincidences, but they're also inevitable. If this sort of material is illegal in your area, or if you're too young, leave now. In any case, play hard--but play safe!

And kick a few bucks over to Nifty so we can keep meeting like this! (Click the "Donate" button!)

Anniversary

"My god, kid, if you want to get tied up, let me do it--don't do it to yourself!" I told him, and I've no idea if that was sincere when I said it, or a rhetorical flourish. But since that encounter, it has become sincere. It is entirely unrealistic to expect a college freshman to take three buses from his Christian college to my house for the purpose of being beaten and molested a second time. Craig is by now no doubt deep in guilt and some sort of Christian "counseling," and deep in his studies as a Business major, as well.

I curse myself for not having gotten his telephone number, or even his last name, and I would curse him for not getting mine, but he is cursed enough already: cursed by parents who filled him with their own fears of failure, cursed by immersion in a sour conservative Christianity at Gortner College; worst of all, cursed to watch his nascent artistic talent smothered by "Business." I'm thirty-six, now, and becoming aware that every choice closes many doors while it only opens one. Those are not good odds.

His beauty grows in my memory: the boyish face shadowed by a hint of beard, the powerful body, the muscles of his back as he licked my boots, his astonishment at discovering the sensitivity of his tits. All this, and an accomplished cocksucker, as well. I imagine he told himself he was "going through a phase;" I imagine he is still deluding himself with that.

All these thoughts toss around as I make my usual pilgrimage to N---, the store where I met Craig, where my own fascination with leather led me to the motorcycle accessories section where I first saw him. N--- also sells groceries, casual clothing, and the tools and hardware I need to keep my aging house intact. And more: in a flurry of hope after our encounter, I turned part of my basement into an actual playroom, where I've since entertained several guests. But Craig came to haunt each encounter: each bottom I brought home eventually seemed overlaid by his echo.

It has been a year now, and I am once again starting my annual vacation, and I am once again standing near the spot where--

"Walt?"

Impossibly, it's Craig. Heedless of discretion, I embrace him and he returns my hug. "Miss me?" he laughs.

I think, 'God, yes!' but say, "Sort of. What've you been up to?"

"I have so much to tell you!" He seems almost to be dancing with excitement. "I wanted to--I didn't know how to get hold of you! So I decided to--well, here I am. It's our anniversary!"

"Yeah!" I'm surprised, and suddenly fighting tears.

"How about you buy me a soda, or something?" he says, pointing to the snack counter just past the checkout stands, and in moments, we're sitting and waiting for the waitress. Arnold Palmer for me, root beer for Craig.

"What I'd really like is a root beer float, but...maybe later," he grins. "God, I've got so much to tell you I don't know where to start!"

"Still at Gortner?"

"Yeah. I took an Art class, like you said--a studio course. The department chairman took a look at some of my sketches, and she practically forced me to--and to enroll for the rest of the year! She's a great teacher, too--I am learning so fucking much!" He pauses for a moment, makes himself calm down a bit, and stares into my eyes. "And it's all your fault, Sir. God put you into my life!"

I cough unexpectedly at his last words. "Lust, perhaps. I'm not sure about God."

"Lust is a gift from God, too."

"Sounds like heresy to me!"

"You're not the only one who thinks so. Walt, there's gay guys on campus! And dyke--lesbians, too. All very hush-hush, of course. The Administration building would probably burst into flames, if they knew! We get together at this little Italian place off-campus: Caravaggio's."

"Cara--"

"I know! Is that wild, or what? One of the guys--this cute little twelve-year-old--well, he's a freshman, like I was, but he looks like a twelve-year-old--anyhow, we're both taking Art History this semester, because--" His breath has run out, forcing him to stop and gather his thoughts. "Okay, one thing at a time. He asked me after class why everybody talks about Caravaggio and completely ignores his thing for street boys. 'My God, Craig,' he said, 'it's so fucking obvious!'. And I agreed. 'Hell, artists have dicks, too!' I told him, and that night he took me to Caravaggio's. It's like a magnet for us, it turns out. No booze, but that's okay, because--" He shrugs. "We're still mostly underage. So root beer!"

"And these other gay kids..."

He nods. "It's incredible, how we just seemed to find each other--like magnets in a bucket of marbles, or something! I, uh...messed around a little. I was careful! We all were--well, except for a couple of guys who were clueless, but there's a free STD clinic in town and they do tests and stuff so we don't have to deal with the college heath service--" Another stop for air. "But it's all pretty vanilla: fuck and suck and kiss and cuddle. Nothing, you know...fun!"

"Did you actually change your major?"

"Not officially. Gortner doesn't make you declare a major until after your sophomore year--this month, for me. But, Walt--I never felt this way about a Business major! Hell, I didn't think you could feel this way about anything! I know you said you couldn't make a living as an artist, and maybe you can't, but--what do you need to live? A roof and a little food and a barrel of art supplies! Maybe I'll have to work part-time, somewhere, but..."

I really don't want to ask, but..."What about your folks?"

"I bluffed my way through this year, but time's up! I'm going to have to declare a major at the end of the month! God! And then, they'll know, and then...I'm fucked, unless I can...what do I do, Walt?"

I am amazed: that incredible energy just vanished, and I am looking at the frightened man-boy I'd met a year ago. My gut takes over, and I hear myself say, "You come home with me, and we'll talk! There've been some...improvements in the basement."

Relief floods his face. "Why do you think I took three buses, blah blah blah," he grinned. "It was crazy, but hell! How the fuck else was I supposed to track you down? See? God!"

"God?"

"It's one of things we talk about at Caravaggio's--how maybe God isn't a stick-in-the-mud, you know? Maybe he wants us to be...happy!" He frowns. "You don't believe me. Okay, I mean this is what we talked about! It's like we didn't choose to be gay, we just are! So God must have wanted us to be like that, we figure. And kinky, sometimes." A wicked grin spreads across his face. "Can you imagine what the campus Chaplain would say to that? " His hand slides across the counter onto mine. "I mean, if you want to. It's up to you, Sir. I just wanted at least to thank you for helping me get my head straight--or gay, I guess!"

The look on his face is irresistible--not that I was about to say no, of course. "Finish your root beer. I have Things to Show You!" On the drive to my house, he entertains me with tales of the clumsy, cautious meetings, the probing hints, the big reveals, and the frantic tumbles into a bed--provided the roommate's not going to interrupt. He's horny, but his gift for visual description still shows. I can picture Fred--blond, square-jawed, body like the ideally proportioned Doryphoros of Polykleitos; Lenny--a crew-cut wrestler still struggling with acne, but with arms like pale, polished marble; Marcus--a dreamy-eyed poet, long-bodied with definition softened by the lightest coating of flesh; Luis--dark, mustached and bear-pelted, hypnotic eyes deep-set in a broad face with an inevitable dazzling smile.

We get to the house and Craig bolts from the car to the door, practically panting. I deliberately slow myself down as I walk to the door, open it and usher him in. "Want a real beer?"

He nods. "For old times' sake!" I get us one apiece, and he raises his glass to mine. "Happy Anniversary, Sir!" Is it retaliation for my slowness that makes him take forever to finish his drink?

Eventually, I send him to the bathroom to piss and shit, while I hurry to the bedroom to change into chaps and boots. I've a pair of armbands, as well. A year's worth of exercise shows, I hope: I pull out a photo of myself, taken shortly after Craig's visit last year, facing the mirror wearing only a jock strap. Yes, it shows.

I emerge from the bedroom to find my boy naked, kneeling in front of me, hands behind his head. He looks at me, smiles, and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Sir," he says. "I'm your prisoner."

For an instant, I imagine myself raping him right there on the living room floor, but... Instead, I buckle a collar around his neck and secure it with a small lock. "Follow me, prisoner!" I lead him to the basement stair, order him to crawl down, backwards, and to wait at the bottom of the steps. I follow, move past him to gather a few things, then return and order him to stand. From behind, I cuff his hands and put his harness on--the one that had become exclusively his. He's been working out a bit, as well, it seems: I need to adjust the straps again. I order him to turn to face me, and work his balls and cock through the ring at the bottom of the harness. His eyes are fixed on my cock, hungry, urgent.

"Lick my boots, prisoner!"

He drops to his knees, bends to press his face against my boots, and begins licking them. His back is exactly as I remember it, tapering to his delicious ass. Nineteen may be the height of perfection, or maybe I'm still seeing him through my memory, knowing what is to come.

He cleans the boots with long, even strokes, traces the edges of the straps with the tip of his tongue, then works it between the uppers and the sole. Boot-licking has always been a preliminary gesture for me. Now, Craig turns it into a powerfully erotic ceremony. At last, I turn and command him to follow, on his knees. There is now a wall now, between the play area and the basement's more mundane contents, covered with handy shelves on the public side, and black-painted pegboard on the private side, to display my growing collection of toys.

"Heel, boy!" I move rapidly ahead of him while he struggles to follow on his knees. I pass through an unobtrusive opening in the wall. I turn on lights which I've carefully arranged to highlight some things while leaving other areas in sinister shadow. The sawhorse-and-ladder improvisation has been replaced by a narrow bondage table, eight feet long. I'd built a Saint Andrew's cross, as well. "I don't know who this Craig guy is," one of my guests had commented, "but he sure lit a fire under you, Master!" The cage is in a far corner. An elaborate throne-like chair sits facing a sling. And there's a bed.

Craig enters the room, and gasps. "Sir! It's...shit! This is so hot!"

I should silence him, I think, but his reaction pleases me. I lead him to the bench. "Stand!" I wrap a parachute cuff between his cock and balls. "Lie down--butt up!" Craig positions himself so his junk hangs through a small opening in the table's center and reaches his arms past his head. He waits while I cuff his wrists and ankles. The bench is equipped with a winch. The mechanism isn't nearly powerful enough to do any real damage, but it does stretch its prisoner snug. I circle the table a couple of times, while Craig strains his neck to follow me--and focuses on my boots. The taste of them lingers in his mouth, I'm sure.

"Please don't punish me, Sir. I've been as good as I could be, Sir."

Perfect! "But not good enough, were you, prisoner?"

"No, Sir. It was...there was this guy...I'm sorry, Sir."

"You call that a confession!? Do I have to torture it out of you, prisoner?"

"Please don't punish me, Sir. I won't do it again!"

"Damn right, you won't!" I growl. I press my hands against his buttocks, and feel the muscles tighten. I slap once, twice, three times on each cheek, while he cries, "I'm sorry, Sir!"

"Talk!"

"In my History class, first semester. We kept looking at each other, so...I said we should get coffee in the student union, and one thing led to another, and..."

I fetch a slapper from the pegboard--basically, the last foot or so of a belt, attached to a handle grip. "Count! And thank me!" I command.

"One, thank you, Sir!" Another strike. "Two, thank you, Sir!" and on up to "Twelve, thank you, Sir," and I can tell the pain is getting to him. His butt cheeks are a pebbled strawberry pink. I squat below the table, and his cock is rigid. "One thing led to another, and?" I growl, and rise.

"We...my roommate has this Astronomy class and they meet after dark, for an hour. At least! So I...we went to my room and..."

"And, prisoner?" I drag the slapper across his ass.

"I sucked him for a while and then we...sucked each other off. He got dressed and split maybe ten minutes before my roommate came back."

"Did you do a good job? Sucking?"

"Yes, Sir. Better than him, I think."

I check: his cock's softened some. I run a rope from the bench legs to the ring that hangs from the parachute cuff and pull his balls snug, then rise, release his hands and cuff them behind his back. I settle onto the bench and put his head on my crotch. "Suck, prisoner! Show me how good you are! Or else!" I lean back on my elbows to watch him work. Sometimes, you'll see a photo of a man who looks incredible, so you look for more, but in the next shot, he's not nearly as sexy. Not so with Craig--at least in my eyes. "Take it deep, boy!" Gorgeous. I make note of where his nipples press against the table. I'll need a couple more holes.

I keep my prisoner at my cock until I feel dangerously close to exploding, then stop him.

"Thank you, Sir," he gasps. I release his ankle cuffs and the parachute cuff, guide him off of the table and let him rest for a moment. Then, "Heel, prisoner!" and I lead him to the St. Andrew's cross. I push his back against it and hold his right arm up against the wood. "Reach!" He obeys, and I clip the cuff to a chain, then repeat with his left arm. I kneel and spread his legs, secure his ankles, and he is helpless before me. I start with the right tit, sucking and nibbling, then move to the left.

"Oh, Sir, that hurts so good, Sir."

"Good, prisoner! I've got something for them." I walk slowly to the pegboard, return with the clover clamps. "They're based on a design for holding tarps," I explain. "If you pull, they grip harder." I put a clamp on his right tit to demonstrate, and he winces. I clamp his other tit while my lesson continues. "The jaws have these little cushions that sort of attach themselves to the flesh, so when you take them off, like this--" another demonstration, another wince--"they hurt more." I put the clamp back, turned so it's biting at a different angle and do the same to the other nipple. "Why don't I just leave them alone for a bit?"

"Whatever you want, Sir."

"Good, prisoner!" I fondle his balls. "How are you doing, down there?"

"Real hot, Sir."

"Got something for these, too." I hold an old-fashioned fishing weight in front of him. "Only twelve ounces, or so." I hang it from the parachute cuff and give it a tap, so it swings, pulling his nuts. "How's that feel, prisoner?"

He moans. "Hot, Sir."

"Good." I hold my hand in front of his mouth. "Get it wet, prisoner!" I give him a few seconds to lick it, then drop the hand to his cock and rub the tip of his shaft. He groans. "Feels good, doesn't it, prisoner?"

"God yes, Sir."

Now, I hold both hands in front of his face, cupped. "Spit, boy!" He obeys, and now both hands are massaging his shaft. "Don't cum without permission, boy, or you'll be punished, severely."

"Yes, Sir. I won't, Sir!"

"Good!" And I redouble my efforts to bring him off. The fishing weight sways. I flip the clamp on his left tit and he groans. Right tit. Another groan. His eyes are closed. "If you cum without permission, I'm going to leave you on this cross for hours. Maybe longer."

"Please, Sir! I won't, Sir!"

I add my spit to the mix. "I've got all sorts of ways to punish you, prisoner. Nothing you can do to stop me. Think about all the things I could do to you. Maybe that will help keep you from shooting."

"I'm getting close, Sir!"

"But you're not going to cum, are you, prisoner?"

"No, Sir," he says through clenched jaws.

"Maybe I'd better give you a little sample, prisoner." I release his boner, stroll over to the pegboard, return with a riding crop, tapping it against my leg. "This is a riding crop, prisoner. It'll get your attention, I bet." And with that, I strike him across his abdomen.

"Shit! Sir!"

"Thought so. Remember what can happen if you cum without permission."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Time to tend to these, too." I turn the tit clamps. His nostrils tighten and he clenches his jaw. I trace the echo of the riding crop's strike.

"Th-thank you, Sir!" he gasps.

"Good prisoner." And I tap the fishing weight and get back to work on his cock.

"Please, Sir! I'm getting awfully close, Sir!"

"Feels good, doesn't it, prisoner!"

"Y-y-yes, Sir-r-r!"

I take my hands away quickly and watch him struggle to contain himself. I work the crop back and forth against his thighs; up the sides of his torso. "Hold this," I say at last, pressing the crop between his teeth.

"Yes, Sir."

I remove the tit clamps and roll the swollen nubs in my fingers. "These getting nice and sensitive, prisoner?"

"Oh, God Yessir!" he moans. "Oh, God!"

I press my mouth against his, push my tongue past the riding crop, and he sucks it eagerly, almost painfully. I push his head back and lick and nibble my way to his collar, then between his pecs and down to his navel. I work my way across his belly and up the right side of his torso towards his armpit. He is gasping and giggling. He squirms, and the fishing weight sways.

"Oh, please Sir! I'm so close, Sir!"

I return to his belly and work my way up his left side. It occurs to me that I have a certain fascination with symmetry. I take the crop from his lips. "If you cum, I'm going to take your ass, prisoner!" I warn him, then drop to my knees and plunge his cock deep into my mouth. Almost before I can get a rhythm going, he thrusts into my throat.

"OhGodOhShitOhFuckOhGodOhGodohgodohgodohgod!"

A gallon, at least, it seems. I release his shaft in time to watch a few last drops fall to the floor, then stand. "Your ass is mine!" I walk to the sling, which is hanging by two straps, and set it up. He watches me, panting. I return, crouch, remove the parachute cuff. He moans and I return the cuff and the weight to the pegboard. I return with a leash, which I clip to his collar, and release his ankles. He stands, trembling. I press against his chest as I release his wrists and ease his arms down. "Hands and knees, boy," I say quietly, and help him to the floor. I pick up the crop. "Heel!" and I lead him around the room, making a few sudden stops as I do, so he bumps into me. I punish him each time, with a stroke or two of the crop across his butt.

At last, we reach the sling, and I put him into it. I secure his legs, then clip his wrists to the straps near his arms. "This is my sling, prisoner. You ever been in a sling?"

"No, Sir."

"It makes it much easier for me to take your ass."

"Yes, Sir. Um, Sir?"

"What, prisoner?"

"I never...I haven't ever been..."

"Is this a virgin ass, prisoner? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes, Sir."

I walk to the side of the sling and lean close to his face. "Good, boy. I like opening virgin assholes."

"Yes, Sir," he answers, with a touch of hesitation.

I slide my fingertips along his body as I move to his legs. I kneel down and spread his cheeks. I remember the first time a man licked my asshole. The guy wasn't very attractive, but by the time he was done back there with his tongue, he was a knock-out. Twenty years later, I am still trying to match his performance. I want Craig's first time to evoke some, at least, of that same magic. I kiss each cheek, then begin a slow spiral with my tongue, coming closer and closer to his hole, lingering a bit at the sensitive spot between his nuts and his butt crack.

"Oh, Sir!" he whispers.

I flutter my tongue as best I can against his hole. At last, I press it against the puckered ring. I probe, gently, deeper, spreading his cheeks further apart. Deeper, deeper...

"Sir? Sir! SIR!! Oh my god, Sir, that's--oh, god that's good! Oh god, oh god, oh god!" I doubt that a more expressive prayer of gratitude ever rose from a Gortner student. And Craig's cock is hard as a rock.

I ease my way out, stand, smile at his staring eyes, walk to the pegboard. I return with a few items that I lay on his chest. I pick up a small dildo--basically, an extra-long finger. "This is a dildo, prisoner. We'll start small."

"Yes, Sir."

"Get it good and wet, prisoner!" I press the dildo against his mouth and smile at his frantic efforts. "Listen to me, prisoner. When you were a baby, the shit just slid out because you hadn't learned to close your sphincter. Now you know how to keep it closed, and you have to relearn how to open it. Just pretend you're letting shit out. Understand?" His answer seems to be "Yes," but it's hard to tell because he's working so hard on the dildo. I return to his ass and put a glob of lubricant on my fingertip, then press it onto his hole. "Just relax, prisoner. Nothing you can do about it, anyway. Open up. You've shat bigger turds than this. Just let it relax. Remember my tongue." I feel his hole starting to open, and I replace my finger with the dildo. "Good prisoner! Here we go, nice and slow." I ease the dildo a good inch in before his sphincter grabs it. "Don't fight it, boy. Just relax and let it in."

It takes a few minutes, but soon the small dildo is in, and massaging his hole. A drop of pre-cum is trembling on the end of his cock. "I think you like this, prisoner. Do you like this?"

"It's...I think so, Sir."

I adjust the angle of the dildo slightly, until it hits his prostate.

"Oh! Oh, Sir!" And another little prayer goes up.

I take the second dildo from his chest and ease it in as I pull the first one back. I'm not entirely sure he notices. I ease the shaft in and back until he's taking it easily. The third dildo is just slightly smaller than my aching dick. He gasps as it replaces its little brother. "Just take it, prisoner. You're doing fine. It feels so good, inside you, doesn't it, prisoner?"

"Yes, Sir."

A few strokes, and it's time. My cock slips in as the dildo retreats.

"Oh, Sir!"

"Here we go, prisoner. Give your ass to me." In, back, in, back, in a bit deeper, back, and soon my body is pressed against his butt. "Take my cock, prisoner. Make me feel good." Another drop of pre-cum trembles at his piss slit, and I rub it onto the head of his shaft. "Thatta boy, just take it. Don't cum yet, prisoner. It'll feel better if you just wait a little longer. Just a little longer."

He's bucking against me now, trying to get my cock in further, fucking himself on it. "Oh, yeah! Fuck me, Sir! Oh, God! Fuck me! Do me!! Take my hole, Sir! Take it. Go deep! Give it all to me, Sir! Oh yeah! Oh my God! Fuck me! FUCK ME-E-E-E-E!!!

I explode into him and he explodes into the air. Cream flies up, and a second later I feel it falling onto my back and see it pooling on his chest, and I feel the pulses fading against my gut, and I pull his head as close as I can to mine. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph you're hot!" I gasp. He flops back onto the sling and I grab the chains near me for support. There is nothing but our breathing as our shafts slowly soften. His flops onto his belly as mine retreats from his cave until, at last, I move my hips a final few inches and my dick drops between my legs.

"Now tell me about your studio class," I say at last, smiling.

Craig's eyes are closed, and he murmurs, "She started me off with a pencil, because that's what I'd been using, had me drawing hands within a week!" His voice is stronger, now. "Then, she introduced me to charcoal. There's different hardnesses, and you can do fan--an--an--tastic shadows an..." His voice dissolves into laughter, and I join him. I release his hands and guide his feet to the floor, and we manage to walk to the bed and lie down.

This is dangerous: I've an evening planned, the better part of a night. But I know what he's feeling, and I allow myself to feel it, as well, and lie beside him. "Hi, asshole," I whisper.

"Hi, Master," he answers, and we melt into each other.

This side of the basement is windowless, so there's no way to know how long we slept. "We should get you back to Gortner," I whisper, and tickle his ear with my tongue.

"Too late, probably. I think I missed curfew," he answers. "What time is it?"

I get up, suddenly awkward in chaps and boots. "Wait here!" I walk to the door, then, my entire body finally awake, scramble up the stairs to the kitchen. I need to put a clock in the basement, somewhere: this has completely wrecked my mood. I turn back down the stair and cross the floor to the playroom. "It's almost midnight."

"Missed curfew! Maybe they'll expel me," Craig replies. He doesn't sound upset. "Sir?"

I watch him slip from the bed to the floor, on his knees. "Yes?"

"Can we...I don't think I've been punished enough, Sir."

Something about Craig brings out my evil genius, I guess.

"Heel!" I lead him to my throne and sit. "Remove my boots, prisoner!" He does, and looks up at me, expectantly.

"Remove my socks, boy--with your mouth!" I watch him, thinking I should have cuffed his hands behind him, but nobody's perfect. He keeps his hands well away from my feet, at least, and at last, the socks are off and draped on my boots. "Lick my feet, boy!"

He hesitates for a moment, then goes to work, licking the tops of my feet.

"Get your tongue between my toes, boy!" It's clear he doesn't want to do this. He starts to say something, but I catch his eye and he knows he must. He's awkward, at first, but soon accepts the task. "I believe that hands and feet are among the hardest things to capture in a drawing. Pay attention to the details, prisoner. Suck my toes!"

"Yes, Sir," he says, taking his mouth from my left foot for the briefest moment. I would love to have him lick the bottoms of my feet, but I know from experience: they're just too sensitive, and a Master shouldn't be shrieking helplessly with laughter. So when he's done with my toes, I order him to work his way up my body to my armpits. "Thank you, Sir!" he gasps, sounding surprisingly happy.

"Prisoner!"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Look at me! Do you like armpits?"

Craig blushes. His face turns the color of a good ros‚ wine, and because he is naked, except for the collar and harness, I can see his chest is flushed, as well. "Answer me, prisoner!"

"It's embarrass--"

"Obviously! Answer!"

"It...armpits...armpitsturnmeonSir!"

"Since when?"

"Since...always, Sir. It's...in gym class, in seventh grade, when we started having to change clothes and use the locker room and stuff...I love the way it smells, Sir. And it was so...boys raising their arms to take off their shirts, and the smell, trying to find a way to get close without being weird?" He sinks back to his haunches. "God, that's sick!"

I rise, and lift him to me. "No, it's not, prisoner! We are made to love our bodies! We get fooled into thinking our natural smells are...'bad,' whatever that means. But they're...natural! Japanese people, older Japanese people who didn't eat dairy, claimed they could smell westerners from far away. Our body's odors come from what we eat! Don't be ashamed to like them!"

"But feet--"

"Because we trap the sweat in shoes and socks! And some people love that smell. It's okay! Do you know what pheromones are?"

"I think so, Sir."

"They're scents our bodies produce, specifically to turn other people on. Don't be afraid of your body, Craig! Prisoner!" I correct myself, and we smile at each other, and he goes back to my armpits, and eventually works his way to my neck, and we kiss.

And at that instant, just after our lips touch but just before they open to our tongues, something happens. I am seized by the deeper reality of our situation. We are not two men, 'Sir' and 'prisoner,' playing at sex. We are, in fact, lovers. We have exposed ourselves, and I have taken responsibility for this man who seems to have devoted himself to me, or at least as much so as an artist can. Craig is an artist, after all; his gift has burnt through all those curses and I suddenly know that it is my mission to serve him.

I whisper. "What are you going to do, prisoner?"

"I can't do any--"

"About your major, prisoner?" My mouth is close enough for him to feel my breath.

"I'll...I won't be able to finish college, Sir! I can't afford--"

I roll his balls in my hand. "Student loan?"

"My dad makes too much money. And--" He stops abruptly.

"And?"

"Gortner--I'm gay, Sir! And I can't hide it any more," he pleads. And then, the fire, surprising us both. "I don't want to hide it any more! I'm a fucking queer and I don't care who knows!" For a moment, everything stops--the universe stops, for all I know. "What am I going to do, Sir?" he asks softly, like tide water slipping back to the ocean, and a tear falls onto my face.

Gently: "You are going to declare yourself an Art major. And gay." I kiss his balls. "You are going to come out, for better or worse, to your parents, and then Gortner." Another kiss. "And you may very well get thrown out on your ass. And you know what? You'll survive." I kiss the tip of his desperate cock. "You'll look back on it as the biggest turning point in your life, Craig. You are going to liberate yourself: that's the only way it happens."

"Are you out, Sir? Do your folks--does your job know?"

"My mother knows. My father...died. And you know what I told them at work? When I went in for my hiring interview? I told them I was gay, and I wouldn't sue them if they decided not to hire me, but I was damned if I was going to spend forty hours a week pretending to be someone else. I'm not that good at it."

Now, his tears were flowing. "I don't think I've got the balls to do that."

"Yes, you do, Craig," I giggle, and take them in my hand. "They're right here." I begin working his cock again, my fingers touching it very lightly. "You're an artist, Craig--capital A artist. That comes from your gut. It's as much who you are as your sex--and I guess it's as much you as your faith, come to think of it. We--all of us mortals--need Art, Craig: we need it as much as sex, and food, and--Holy shit! I need you, Craig. I admit it: I'm selfish. I need you helpless on that bench, and licking my boots, and sleeping in my bed, and being an artist--being You! I'll make it--us work, I swear it! I look up at his face. "'Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove'."

"Is that an order, Sir?" he whispers.

"No, Craig. It's a plea." And I take his cock in my mouth and take his cum and he hollers "Yes!"