This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of voluntary bondage, torture and sex between adults. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--I don't want to lose any fans!
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Liberation
1
The metal felt cold, heavy, as the collar closed around his neck. He kept his eyes shut. He heard a quick rattle, then felt fingers gripping the collar, then heard a click.
"There. Take a look."
Jonas opened his eyes and stared at the mirror. He was on his knees, naked except for the iron gray collar, which didn't look as heavy as it felt. There were rings welded to it, and a sort of bulge just where the collar disappeared behind his neck. "The lock must be back there," he thought. Behind him, he saw the man's legs. Heavy black boots, powerful legs in tight jeans, a prominent crotch visible just above his head at the top of the mirror.
His mouth felt dry.
"Well?"
"Thank you, Sir," Jonas answered. "Can I touch it?"
"No. Keep your hands behind your back." The man moved away, then quickly returned with a length of heavy chain and an old-fashioned padlock.
Jonas watched, almost hypnotized, as the chain was secured to the collar. It hung down in front of his chest, curved over his right leg, trailed along the floor beyond the edge of the mirror.
"You're chained to the wall, now. Lie down on your back and hold your legs up."
Jonas obeyed. The chain pressed against his chest, cold. It slid sideways like some sort of exotic snake as he raised his legs. The man straddled him and began securing leg irons around his ankles. Jonas's eyes followed the man's legs upward until the blue-gray of the jeans yielded to black shadow. Glimpses of a leather jacket revealed themselves as he worked. "Legs down." Jonas obeyed, feeling the metal cuffs move along his ankles, heard the connecting chain hit the floor. "Stand up." Again, Jonas obeyed. The man was behind him, now, large and dark. In the mirror, Jonas could see most of his own naked body, but not the image of the man who was imprisoning him. Jonas's cock looked huge, stiff and hard, pointing a little to the right and just a bit upward. "Hands behind your back!"
"Sorry, Sir. I had to move-"
"Shut up."
Now, manacles gripped his wrists. They felt warm on his arms, but cold against the small of his back.
"Is this what you imagined?"
"Yes, Sir." Jonas nodded and cleared his throat.
"Good. Face the wall." Footsteps. A sort of scraping noise Jonas suspected was the mirror being lifted. Then the man was leaving, walking away, closing the heavy door behind him. The sound of bolts sliding into place. The slightest rattle as the lock was tested. The light went out. For a long time, Jonas simply stood, feeling the weight of the chain pulling slightly at the collar. At last, he turned and took a few awkward steps toward the door. The leg irons limited him to little more than a shuffle. The chain that anchored him to the wall tugged, swaying as he pulled at it. The door was out of reach. He backed up carefully, and after a few seconds felt the stone wall behind him. He leaned against it, groped until he found the ring at the end of the chain. It was about as big as his hand, heavy and rough. He tugged at it to assure himself it was attached securely to the wall.
It was still pitch dark. He'd expected a bit of stray light, but there was none. He dropped to his knees, then sat against the wall. He spread his legs just enough to feel the irons holding them. Of course, he wanted to play with his cock, but with his hands shackled behind him, that was impossible. He tried wiggling his hips enough to make the shaft swing against his thighs. For a few seconds, this seemed promising, but it quickly became obvious that it wasn't working.
He was helpless. That's what the ad promised: "Heavy metal bondage. Secure underground cell. You will be helpless. You will be my prisoner." But now what? When would the man be back? How long would he be left in the darkness?
"Come in and lock the door behind you," the note on the front door had read. "Take off all your clothes and leave them in the box. Use the bathroom through the door to your left. When you are done, come out and stand facing the front door. Do not turn around. Do not try to see me."
Jonas stripped. Another note at the bottom of the box attached to a key said, "Lock this box." He secured his clothes and went to use the bathroom. Naked, he returned to the front room and waited, staring at the door. What now? Everything he owned was locked away. "It's a game," he repeated to himself. He was tempted to look around the room, but something told him he shouldn't. The man might be watching. A few minutes later, a door finally opened behind him, and booted feet approached. "Stand still," a strong voice commanded. "You are my prisoner." A leather bag slid over Jonas's head so all he could see was the floor directly ahead of him. The man led him to a stairway, guided him down to the basement, and then down another set of stairs, through a doorway, and eventually, told him to kneel.
"Do not try to see me," his captor had commanded, as the bag was pulled off Jonas's head. "Just watch the mirror."
Jonas pulled his shackled ankles closer to his crotch, shifted his butt so his back was not pressing on his hands. Everything felt exactly as he'd hoped. He remembered getting off the city bus at eleven fifteen, remembered being surprised at so much sky, so many stars. He remembered turning down the cross- street, seeing the single yard light, standing at the bottom of a set of concrete steps. He remembered wondering, just for a moment, if he was about to do something incredibly foolish. But the guy at the bar knew. He would have said something. They probably wouldn't even have left the sign on the bulletin board. There was nothing to worry about. It was a game, when you got right down to it. He climbed to the house. A cool September breeze stroked his face as he read the note.
Eleven fifteen. Then ten, twenty minutes at the most had passed before the cell door closed. But now, there was no sense of time. There were almost no clues as to where he was. The bus driver called the stop, and the name of the street now seemed like some sort of magic word that he couldn't remember. The slip of paper from the bartender was locked away in his trousers. There hadn't even been a house number. He might be anywhere. Anywhen. He had quite intentionally left everything behind. It was the only way to be done, to be free.
2
Jonas finished the beer, turned to survey the room. It was still early, and the place was nearly empty. He stood up and made a slow circuit of the bar. Nobody seemed much interested in him, except for an older couple who offered a chorus of squeals. "Hey, little boy," one of them said, and his friend added, "want some candy?" Jonas ignored them. He wasn't a hustler. Not yet.
It had occurred to him, of course, as a last resort, if things got really hairy. But trading sex for money felt wrong, somehow. It was a crime, of course, but it wasn't that. It was more like blasphemy. His mother used that word a lot. Blasphemy. He smiled at how he imagined his mother would have reacted to that. Blasphemy against sex.
He was on his second walk around the room when he noticed the sign, typed on a card in one corner of a bulletin board that was otherwise covered with announcements of gay rights rallies, drag contests, and long-past concerts. That was surprising. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen something actually typed.
This was the big city. This was the Wonderland he'd fled to when his mother threw him out of the house with only a backpack and eighty-two dollars. This at last was where, for the longest time, he had dreamed of fulfilling his fantasies. But it hadn't happened yet. He found a motel room for twenty dollars, a chili dog and soda for three-fifty, and a newspaper for fifty cents. But no jobs. The day labor clerk looked over his Employment History form and pointed with her pencil to a row of blue plastic chairs. "Wait over there," she said. He sat through the day, reading torn magazines, until the clerk started turning off the lights. "Better luck tomorrow, kid. Don't give up hope." She sounded as if she already had.
It was Friday. Stupid! It was probably hopeless until Monday. He got another chili dog, found a gay bar where he could nurse a cheap beer, and waited without knowing what for. It was the stupid porn magazine. Why the hell had he left the stupid magazine where his little brother could find it? And why had his stupid little brother taken it to Mom instead of...Maybe I wanted it to happen, Jonas suddenly thought, watching the bubbles rise in his beer. Maybe I wanted her to know! Stupid--He stopped himself. It was all too late now. Wonderland on eighty-two bucks? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"'Nother one?"
"Not yet. I need change for the phone."
The bartender took his dollar, swapped it for coins. Jonas took another look at the card, then dialed. By the fifth ring, he was thinking about hanging up. If a stupid answering machine took the call, he was out another fifty cents.
"Hello?"
"Oh! I...ah...I was calling about your ad."
"What ad?" The voice on the other end of the call was flat, expressionless.
"The typewritten one. At the Buccaneer?"
"How old are you? You twenty-one?"
"Yeah."
"Who's behind the bar? The bald guy, or the one with the beard?"
"The bald guy."
"Okay. I'm going to call him. He'll tell you what's going on."
Jonas waited for a few seconds, but the line was dead. He hung up the phone and turned back toward the bar to nurse the last mouthful of beer. He watched the minute hand on the clock above the cash register. Stupid, probably. Music rolled through the nearly empty room. The bartender made a few drinks, laughed twice at jokes Jonas couldn't hear, went back to methodically polishing glassware. And then the phone behind the bar rang.
"Buccaneer." A pause. "Yeah." The bartender turned to look at him. "Gimme your ID, fellah."
Jonas pulled out his wallet and passed his driver's license across the counter.
"Yeah. I mean, it's out of state, but..." "Maybe. Hang on." "Hey, um..." The bartender glanced at the driver's license. "How long you been in town, John?"
"Jonas. It's Jonas. Got here Thursday. Yesterday."
"Says he got here yesterday." The bartender listened for a few seconds, then gave a quick laugh. "Hey, Jonas--got a job?"
"Not yet, but I'm-"
"Got a car? Where you staying?" The bartender repeated Jonas's answers into the phone, then listened for a moment.
Next, there were only answers to unheard questions. "No." "Looks like it." "I would." "Okay. It's your trip. Bye." The bartender hung up, pulled a scrap of paper off of the register, scribbled a note. "Here you go. Get your shit and check out of your motel, ask how to get to the number 35 bus, tell the driver you want to catch the 19 headed north, get off the 19 at this stop, look for the house on the left with a yard light near the street. Have fun." He sounded skeptical.
Jonas pushed the rest of his change toward him anyway. "Any idea what--" The bartender shrugged and went back to his glasses. "Thanks."
"It's after eleven a.m.," the motel clerk said. "You owe us another twenty bucks, Sir."
"Shit, man, this is all the-"
"Twenty bucks or I call the cops, Sir."
Jonas pulled out his wallet and emptied his pockets. "How about seventeen-twenty-five?"
Anger flashed across the clerk's face for a moment, then he sighed. "Beat it, kid." he said, sweeping the money off the counter without counting it. "Ain't my money," he thought.
Jonas gave his last dollar to the driver of the number 35 bus.
3
How did it start? When? Was there any time when he didn't fantasize about bondage, about slaves and chains, prisoners and dungeons and torture chambers? Why? And guys. There were people, he knew now, guys who were into this stuff with girls. "Mistresses," they called them, sometimes at least. But with him it was guys. Hot guys. And there were other guys into guys. He knew some of them in high school. But nobody... None of them... Mister Kellar, maybe. He sort of talked rough, like, "Shut up and suck me, boy!" But they only did it twice, and then Mister Kellar wasn't interested any more, or something. But Smallview was small. It wasn't really called Smallview, of course, but everybody in school called it that, because it was small. And narrow. The only place grown-up guys could meet guys was at Mindy's, which wasn't even in Smallview, and was only really a gay bar Thursdays and even then...
But nobody in Smallview felt like him, gave the least hint that they wanted to do what he wanted. So there was that magazine. Where were those guys? Where were you supposed to find them? Or what if they were only pretending, like in movies?
But this was real, sitting naked in the dark, chained to a wall, locked in a cell. What if the two of us are the only real...whatever we are? What if he was the only guy who ever answered that typewritten note? Or what if he wasn't? Were there other guys chained up somewhere? And what about that magazine? Why would anyone make a whole magazine if there was nobody to buy it? And somehow, all this swirled around until Jonas fell asleep.
"Close your eyes." The words made no sense, pulling him out of a dream he almost immediately forgot. His body felt strange. Where--and the light came on. "Keep your eyes closed, boy. Kneel. How do you feel?" Everything suddenly seemed to be happening a little too fast.
"I...Okay, I guess."
"Who am I?" The question was sharp, and Jonas knew the wrong answer would be dangerous. "Sir?"
"Now again: how do you feel?"
"Okay, Sir."
"Are you comfortable?"
"I'm...Yes, Sir."
"Hungry?"
Jonas was startled, as if the word itself had made him hungry. "Yes, Sir." He heard movement, and two metallic clinks.
"Look at the floor and open your eyes. Eat. Eat it all."
Jonas blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted. There were two metal bowls in front of him: one with water, and the other with something he didn't recognize.
"I told you to eat!"
"Yes, Sir." Jonas crawled a bit closer to the bowls and awkwardly lowered his head. The collar shifted, and the chain slid along his arm to the floor. He started to lower his face to the bowl, and the chain struck its edge. He lifted the chain over his shoulder, so it ran along his spine, but it rolled off his ass and snaked its way toward the bowl once again. It took a few tries to get everything right, before he could actually get the food into his mouth. It was warm, with a texture like ground beef. But the taste was sour and unpleasant. The bowl tended to slide along the floor, too. Jonas followed it awkwardly, until it suddenly stopped against the Man's boot. Jonas froze.
"Eat it all. Don't make me tell you again."
"Yes, Sir." Jonas carefully maneuvered the bowl against the Man's foot until he had managed to get all the food down. Then, he worked his way to the water bowl and sucked one mouthful after another, trying to kill the taste of the food. Finally, he was done. "Thank you, Sir," he said as he got back to his kneeling position.
The Man swiftly picked up the bowls. Jonas got a quick glimpse of silvery hair. "Now clean my boots! Lick them clean!"
"Yes, Sir." Jonas got into position and went to work. At first, he licked gingerly, not sure what he should do. Then he started licking more vigorously, sucking the toe.
"Good. Work harder."
Jonas soon lost track of the seconds, focused entirely on the sight and smell of the black leather. The boots were not new. He felt scratches and rough spots, but that made them even sexier. He worked at them eagerly until the Man said, "Enough. Stand up!" It wasn't easy, Jonas discovered, with his hands still chained behind him and his legs stiff from sleep. Just as he managed to get to his feet, he felt himself losing his balance, and then a strong grip on his left arm. "I said stand up. Don't you dare fall!"
"Yes, Sir." Jonas caught a glimpse of a masked face.
"And don't look at me! Eyes on the floor."
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."
The Man worked quickly. First, he fastened the manacles to the heavy chain. Then, he freed Jonas's left hand and quickly shackled it to his collar. He did the same with the right. "We're going for a walk. Kneel! Hands on the floor!" Jonas hurriedly obeyed, as the Man released the heavy chain from the wall. "Heel!" he commanded, and led Jonas from the cell. They turned a corner and entered a larger room.
Jonas couldn't see much: thick wood legs, a thicker solitary post, firmly planted in cement. And, glimpsed between the Man's legs as he walked, a cage.
"Turn around," the Man ordered, as he opened the cage. "Back in." Jonas obeyed awkwardly.
The Man fed the heavy chain between the bars and locked the cage. "Keep your eyes down," he commanded, walking away. "I have to set things up." Jonas could see his boots as he walked around, heard rattling, a metal cabinet opening, a breathless whistle now and again. Finally, the boots approached the cage, and the Man opened it. "Out!" he snapped, and Jonas crawled forward. The Man led him to the thick post, ordered him to stand with his back to the wood. The heavy chain was attached to the post so there were only a few inches of slack. Again, his hands were released, one at a time, and secured to a ring on the back of the post, above his head. Then the man spread Jonas's ankles enough to secure one on either side of the post.
The position was awkward. Jonas felt as if he was about to fall forward, and steadied himself with his hands. The Man pulled a hood over Jonas's head and adjusted it so only his nose and mouth were exposed. There must have been laces on the side. The Man tugged at them to pull the hood tight. "Open your mouth," he said, and Jonas obeyed. A leather-covered plug was pressed into his mouth and secured. He heard the Man step away, heard the scraping of what might have been a chair. He imagined the Man sitting in front of him, watching. Jonas struggled to stand. His cock, he realized, was erect.
"You are my prisoner. I understand you have no job. You are alone. I assume I can keep you as long as I wish."
A chill ran through Jonas's body. He tried to answer, but the gag reduced his words to grunts.
"Don't bother replying. This isn't a conversation." The Man was silent for a moment. "I don't believe I've ever had an opportunity like this before." He went on slowly, almost as if he wanted to hypnotize his prisoner. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You are completely at my mercy. I can keep you in that cell, torture you, turn you into a groveling slave, satisfy my every desire, fulfill my every fantasy. You are young and strong enough to take a great deal of torment. I am going to enjoy using your body." He was silent for a moment, then spoke more loudly. "I am going to rape you. Repeatedly. You are going to beg for mercy, and I will enjoy hearing that. But there will be no mercy."
Jonas heard the Man rise and walk slowly toward him. He held his breath.
The Man moved closer. Jonas could feel the Man's breath on his face. "Understand: I know how to keep you alive. You will not die. You may want to, but you will not die."
Jonas's knees started to buckle, and he quickly braced himself, pulling his body upwards as well as he could. Now, the Man was pressing against him, now he was pressing his armpit against Jonas's face.
"Breathe. Smell me. Breathe deep." The Man's other hand slid slowly down Jonas's torso; his fingers combed Jonas's pubic hair, closed behind his cock and balls, squeezed and began slowly pulling at them. "That's a boy. Get it hard. I like it hard." He dropped his other arm and began exploring Jonas's nipples. "Going to have a lot of fun with these. Going to have a lot of fun with your whole, helpless body. You've got a pretty decent body, kid. It's going to be a lot of fun. Just think, boy, you've got nothing to worry about except making me happy. You make me happy and you'll have food and shelter. No clothes though--you don't need clothes, do you, boy? Welcome to your new life." The Man stroked Jonas's cock. "You enjoy this, boy, because you're not going to get much of it. I might even put a chastity cage on this prick. Work you up until you shoot, then cage your tool as soon as it's limp. If you're smart, you won't cum, boy. You'll just enjoy being hard. You stay hard, boy, understand?"
Jonas nodded his head. The Man's voice was hypnotic. Despite his words, the Man was making him feel safe, somehow. It didn't make sense, none of it.
4
Jonas lay on his left side in the cell. He was chained by the neck again, and the restraints on his wrists and ankles were locked together in front of him. He could actually touch his cock. He had to keep it hard for the Man, but he wasn't supposed to cum. The Man would know if he did. The Man seemed to know everything.
He had no idea how long he had been bound to the post. The Man had worked him to the edge, all the time whispering about the punishments he would endure if he came, punishments he'd never heard of, never dreamed of, hellish torments. And then the man had removed the gag. "Does anyone know where you are, boy?" he whispered. "Anyone but Cliff, back at the Buccaneer?"
"No, Sir."
"Have you met anyone in town? Had sex with anyone?"
"No, Sir."
"Where did you come from, boy?"
"Small-" Jonas paused and gave the town its proper name.
"Anyone knew where you went? Anyone know you came to the wicked city, here?"
"Maybe, Sir."
"What does that mean, boy?" the Man growled, squeezing Jonas's balls.
"I told people I wanted to come here, so they might have guessed, I suppose."
"Anyone who gives a damn? Friends? Boyfriend, maybe? You have a boyfriend back home, boy?"
"No, Sir. No one."
"You a virgin?" The Man couldn't keep a hint of surprise out of his voice.
"No, Sir. I..."
"Spill it, boy! Talk!" The Man squeezed Jonas's balls again, harder.
"I had sex with some guys in school. And Mister Kellar."
"Who's Kellar?"
"This guy at the gas station. They had a sign, they were looking for help, and I...you know, I asked if I could work there."
"Go on."
"Mister Kellar said he'd hire me if I gave him a blow job, so I did. Twice even. But he didn't. He lied."
"You like giving blow jobs?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You ever had a blow job, boy? Or do you just suck?"
"I just give...I just suck, Sir."
"Anybody ever have your ass?"
"No, Sir. Except..."
The Man slapped Jonas's hooded face. "I told you to talk, boy! Don't hang there with your sweet little mouth open!"
"I did it with my finger, once--a few times, while I jerked off."
"Clever. You're going to have to show me that, someday. I've got some toys you can use, too." He began massaging Jonas's cock. "Would you like that, boy? Would you like to fuck yourself with some of my toys?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so, Sir! I'm getting kind of close, Sir."
"I don't care. Don't you dare shoot without permission. You ever been whipped?"
"No, Sir. Please, Sir, I-"
"I've got whips, boy. Almost a dozen, different kinds. Some of them can cut real deep. Some of them sting like the biggest wasp you've ever seen. Some of them are like slapping or spanking. Anybody ever spank you, boy?"
"My mom, when I was--please stop, Sir!"
The Man suddenly released Jonas's cock. "Your mom? Does she know where you went?"
"No, Sir. She...she threw me out."
"Why?" Once again, there was a suggestion of surprise in his voice.
"My brother--"
"You have a brother?"
"My younger brother. He found this magazine I found and he showed her."
"What was in it?"
"Guys. Tied up and stuff. Mostly tied up, but there were some handcuffs and things, too."
"And?"
"She freaked out. She asked me if I was a homosexual."
"And?"
"I was going to make up a story, but I knew that wouldn't work, so I took a breath and said I was. I knew she was going to start yelling, so I said it again. I said I was gay and I liked the stuff in the magazine and I didn't give a fuck what she thought about that because it was none of her fucking business I don't poke into her sex life so she doesn't have any business in mine--" Jonas was yelling now, furious, struggling against the bondage. "And I told her to fuck off and she kicked me out," he finished, hanging by his wrists, exhausted.
"Bet she's worried, now."
Jonas shook his head. "No. She got real quiet and went away in the car with my brother, and came back an hour later, maybe, with some cash and gave it to me, and told me to get out. Just real calm, like she told my dad when she found out he was screwing around. 'I never want to see you again,' she said. To both of us."
The Man was quiet for a time. Then he began playing with Jonas's cock again. "You went soft, boy. I want you hard. Understand?" But his voice was softer now. "You're my prisoner, boy. "You're mine, and you're helpless, understand?"
"Yes. Yes, Sir."
Jonas lay on his left side, remembering, trying to keep his cock hard, somehow terrified and happy at the same time.
5
Jonas was on his knees, blindfolded. The heavy chain was secured to the floor of the torture chamber, so he could not stand. His hands were shackled behind him once again, pulled high on his back and locked to the collar. A leather cock ring was wrapped tightly around his junk. His ankles were wide apart, secured by a spreader bar.
The Man was standing in front of him. "I like my cock sucked slowly. I like to feel a tongue sliding along the bottom, or washing the tip. I like feeling cheeks pressing against the sides. And I like feeling a face pressed into my crotch, struggling to breathe. Do you understand, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I don't expect perfection immediately. You'll get plenty of practice. Just keep getting better, understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Because if you don't get better..."
"I'll be punished, Sir."
"Good answer, boy." The Man took a few steps closer. "Find my cock, boy. Show me what you can do."
Jonas leaned forward. It was hard to keep his balance, but he found the Man's cock, just in time, and began working it.
"Slower, boy. That's better. Deeper. Good. Right there. Let me feel your tongue. That's good. Feel that ridge along the bottom? Work that with your--very good, boy!"
Jonas focused all his attention on his task. The boys he'd done this with in school just wanted the feel of his warm, wet mouth. They came almost immediately, sometimes pulling his head toward them, sometimes just thrusting harder, gasping or crying in amazement at the rush of feeling, then pushing him away in disgust, horror or guilt as their ejaculations ended. But the Man was in no hurry, savoring Jonas's efforts, allowing the boy to explore his own pleasure at the invading shaft.
"Now slide back until just the head is in there, swirl your tongue around it. Feel that little piss-hole, like a nipple where the cream will come out. That's it, just tickle it with the tip of your tongue. Now take my cock, not too far. Remember that ridge. Pull your cheeks in, turn your mouth into my pussy, boy! Now back, in and out, nice and slow."
Jonas rocked back and forth. The cock in his mouth was the most important, beautiful thing in the world. That's what the Man told him. "Sucking me is like worshipping me, boy. Worship my cock!" Jonas was doing his best, hoping at the same time both that the Man would fill him with cum, and that this might go on forever. He felt the Man's hands come to rest on his head, felt the Man gradually take control of the rhythm of his sucking, heard the Man's breath quicken, suddenly found his head pressed tight to the Man's crotch, his pubic hair like wool, tickling, then crushing into a cushion. In and out, in and out, each stroke a bit faster, a bit deeper, and then, as if the Man's cock had burst through a door, it went deep, deeper than Jonas had thought possible, and he felt wave after wave pulsing through the shaft, found himself unable to breathe, yet desperate to keep the rod in place. The Man moaned, hissed "Yes," pulled Jonas's head even tighter against him. And then, just as Jonas was fearing he might pass out from lack of air, the Man pulled back, all the way to the tip, and Jonas instinctively probed the piss slit for the last drops of cum.
"Very good, boy," the Man said softly. "Very, very good."
"Thank you, Sir. I liked that, Sir."
"Good!" Then, the Man's voice turned sharp again. "I don't give a damn what you like, boy. It's what I like that's important."
"Yes, Sir."
"You've earned some time on the rack, boy."
"Yes, Sir," Jonas answered, confused. The Man released the heavy chain, lifted Jonas to his feet and took him to the rack. Jonas was surprised at the ease with which the Man lifted him onto the long, narrow table. The Man pulled the spreader bar toward one end, released his feet briefly, and wrapped straps around them. He moved back to Jonas's midsection, lifted him to a seated position, and released his hands.
"Lie down, hands above your head."
Jonas obeyed. The heavy chain slid off the right edge of the table, jerked at his neck, coiled onto the floor. The Man secured his wrists with straps, beyond his head. The Man ran his hands along Jonas's body, watching the boy twitch and jerk as he found ticklish spots. "You're not tight enough, boy," the Man intoned. He stepped away, and Jonas heard clicks from beyond his hands. He felt his body slide upward a bit, then begin to stretch. "That's better," the Man said, stroking Jonas's body once again. The strokes became a massage, more and more intense, fingers digging into Jonas's muscles. The boy tried to relax into the massage, but the Man kept finding spots that almost hurt. Only his crotch was untouched. Then the Man stopped. "Relax, boy," he commanded, and as Jonas obeyed, the winch tightened again.
The whole machine lurched slightly, then Jonas felt the Man's leather-covered legs on either side of his chest. "Close your eyes," the Man commanded, and Jonas felt the blindfold come off. The Man rose. "Open your eyes, boy."
Jonas obeyed. The Man was towering above him. His cock was visible, large but soft, and above that his powerful chest. From this angle, his head was invisible. He was gripping two chains that hung from the ceiling. And then, Jonas felt one foot rise, saw it hover for a moment over his face, then come to rest directly on it. "Lick the boot, boy." The command floated down. Jonas did his best to obey, working his tongue into the valleys of the tread. The boot got heavier as the Man pressed harder. "That's where you belong, boy. This is your reward for being such a good cocksucker." The boot came up for an instant then down again, the heel against Jonas's lips. "You like your reward? You like being under my boot?"
"Yes, Sir," Jonas replied as best he could, licking the boot heel.
"I've had other men down here, but none of them were like you, so obedient, so much a slave. And they had lives of their own, of course. You, on the other hand, have nothing outside this dungeon. Nobody is worrying about you. Nobody cares. Nobody's angry at you for missing work or school. Nobody's wondering where you've gone to. You've already been forgotten at the Buccaneer, just another drifter. You have no place but here, have you, boy?"
"No, Sir." A wave of grief washed over Jonas, sudden and surprising.
"No one but me."
"No, Sir."
"Are you helpless, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Are you mine?"
"Yes, Master." The word surprised them both.
6
"'Nother?" Cliff asked.
"Nope. Not yet."
"You haven't been in for a while. Home having fun with what's-his-name?"
"Don't know if 'fun' is the word I'd use."
"Hey, who always said 'if it ain't fun, why do it'?"
"Never met the guy." He watched Cliff shrug and turn to another customer. He returned his gaze to the ice melting in the bottom of the glass. "It's just weird, is all," he said to himself. "Never thought someone like this would show up, not in my wildest--okay, in some of my wildest dreams. But those were dream boys, not real. Not like this. Not into it like this." The kid was safe in the cell right now, the heavy chain wrapped directly around his neck. "In medieval times," he'd told his prisoner, "the irritation from a collar like this would get infected and eventually kill the prisoner who wore it." The kid's neck was indeed red, but the skin hadn't been broken. His wrists and ankles were all right, too. His prisoner hadn't been too happy about the hospital restraints, but a few hours on the post changed his mind. Still, he knew about the irons, about the weight, the smell, the inviolability of their embrace. The ultimate imprisonment. Completely unbound, there was still no way to escape from the cell. But there was no thrill, either, simply being naked in a dark room.
In his dreams, his prisoner was unbreakable, would withstand any torture, any abuse. That was the great thing about fantasies. But real people bled, broke bones, tore muscles. Died. He couldn't do that in the waking world, even to someone who wanted it. But the boy didn't want death: he was too eager for sex, in love with cock, even if his own was aching for release after five days of torment. By now, the boy would have no idea of how much time had passed; the world outside was slipping away.
It was slipping away for both of them. The settlement from the lawsuit was still well able to support his lifestyle. He was glad he'd purchased the exercise equipment, glad he'd forced himself to stick to his routine. But gradually, the Buccaneer had become his chief contact with the real world. "The kid needs an exercise routine," he announced, nodding at the customers who had turned at the sound of his voice. Make them think he'd meant to be heard.
The food was better, now. As long as he behaved like a model prisoner, the Man told him, "you'll get decent meals. Cereal with skim milk in the morning and cock for lunch." Coarse bread, watery soup, an apple now and then. He had to eat those with his hands behind his back, chasing the fruit across the floor while the Man laughed. The food came, he knew, at unpredictable intervals. The Man said he did that so he would lose all sense of Time, and it worked.
The exercise routine was hellish: pushups until he could do no more and a whip stroke for each one shy of the impossible goals the Man set. Pull-ups with the same punishment, then what seemed like hours on the treadmill, or dragging heavy weights around the dungeon, harnessed like a horse. Sit-ups. Time on the rack holding his legs steady between two horizontal wires, so he wouldn't get a painful shock to his balls if the cuffs on his ankles touched them.
He shaved daily, denuding his body, removing any hint of a beard, of pit hair, of crotch hair. His Master inspected him carefully each day, his eyes seeming to float in the black mask. He got flogged if he missed anything. He almost always did, of course, usually around his asshole.
The first time the Man had put him into the metal stockade, he'd almost shot without touching his cock. The stockade held him in a kneeling position with cuffs around his neck, wrists and ankles, and heavy leather straps around his midsection and just above his calves. There were handles on the strap around his waist, to give the Man extra leverage, but most of the time he used the bridle, a complex harness around his head, complete with a metal bit. After a few sessions, the waist strap came off, so Jonas could move his butt some, to add to the Man's pleasure. There was a riding crop, as well, used simply to give him pain.
The Man gave him much pain. He begged for mercy from the bastinado. Even after the Man was done, walking was hell, and for once, the Man did not order him to crawl. His nipples were pierced with needles, bitten with clips, weighted. The man attached chains to the bridle and clamps, so every time Jonas moved his head, he pulled at his sore tits. The man put him on the rack with a wooden device that held his cock and balls away from his body, then tied his cock down and pulled his balls sideways on the device. The Man slowly dripped wax on Jonas's chest, stomach, and finally his helpless cock and balls.
"Mercy, Master!" Jonas cried.
The Master laughed. "We're only beginning, boy."
The Master hung him by his ankles, stroked him with a whip, hung weights from his nostrils. The man hung him by his wrists over a dildo, slowly lowered him onto it, ran an electric current through the dildo to a silver sound pushed into his cock.
And every session ended with Jonas begging the Man to fuck him and sometimes falling sleep at his feet, or under his boots.
7
He stood. One by one, the Master removed the restraints until Jonas was standing naked except for the heavy chain still locked around his neck.
"Listen carefully, boy. I'm going to let you go--"
"No, Master! What did I do wrong?" Jonas dropped to his knees, pressed his face against Master's beloved boots. "Please, Master! I'm sorry! Punish--"
"Shut up and stand up, boy!"
Baffled, Jonas obeyed.
"I told you to listen to me. Don't interrupt. I'm letting you go. I'll walk you upstairs. There are clean clothes in the box, and I've put two hundred dollars in your wallet. That should hold you until you find a job. But hurry--the cab will be here soon. I've paid the driver to take you to the Buccaneer. You might want to talk to Cliff, for starters. I think he needs some part time help."
"Master," Jonas cried. "Please--"
"I'm your Master, and you will obey my final orders, boy!" At last, he unlocked the chain, and it slid to the floor. "Come along, now." And Master led him up the stairs.
Jonas fought his tears as Master opened the door. "Go on, boy!"
Jonas stepped into the perfectly ordinary living room, and the door closed behind him. "No!" he said. He turned and grabbed the door handle, yanking it open. "Master, I want one thing before I go. I want to see you. Without the mask."
"I'm your Master--"
"Not now. Down there, yes, but you've taken that from me. The least you can do is give me a face to remember."
The Master gave a strange-sounding laugh. "You have no idea what you're asking for, boy!"
"Then show me," Jonas challenged, crossing his arms. "Show me, or you're going to have to throw my ass out naked in front of that cabbie!"
For a moment, the Master was silent. "Very well," he said at last, and pulled off the mask. His mouth looked normal enough, but seemed to have carved its way through deeply pockmarked flesh. Above it, his nose was little more than two holes. His eyes peered out from a twisted face. One eyebrow was missing from a strangely mottled forehead. What was left of his hair was iron gray.
Jonas gasped, staring. He hurriedly shut his mouth.
"Go ahead, stare," Master said, softly. "Get your fill. It was a chemical accident. A long, boring story, not really worth telling again. It's time for another surgery. I'll be in the hospital for a couple of weeks, then there will be recovery time. There won't be much I can do for a while." He turned toward the door to the basement. "I'm sorry, Jonas. You'll have to be on your way. Can't leave you down here."
"Wait!" Jonas's voice was sharp and loud. "You'll need someone around the house, Master. To look after things, take care of...Please, Master? I'll do whatever--"
The Master's voice echoed in the stairwell. "It would change everything, Jonas: no more mystery, no more escaping from the real world, no more--"
"You're wrong, Master. Please! I don't know any more about why...why I want this than I did when I was twelve, so there's still mystery. And this world is the real world, if we want it to be. We are in control, Master. We are in control of this world, and you are in control of me. I couldn't be...happier, I guess. And I'll do whatever you need to make you happy. That's all I want, now."
The Master turned to Jonas, stared at him, and felt tears rising in his eyes. "Are you asking me to--"
"Please send the cab away, Master. Or give me a couple of bucks and I'll talk to him. But let me stay." Jonas dropped to his knees. "It won't change everything. We'll still be Master and slave, Dark lord and prisoner--"
"Angel and lover." The Master sighed, defeated. "My name is Keith."