I couldn't stop feeling guilty, even though my ass was sore from Craig's hand. I felt like I had disappointed him. He had planned on locking me into cages at Evander's to see how I handled it, but he changed his mind because of that nightmare I had.
I kept swearing to him that it would be fine, that I was even looking forward to finding out what it would be like, but Craig wouldn't budge; my dream, he said, was a warning from my subconscious.
Sometimes I really love it that he's so protective of me, but this time I thought he was going too far. After all, if he locked up that way and I freaked out, that would be the end of it. He'd set me free, help me calm down, and we'd go back home. I wanted to be punished for being such a wimp but Craig didn't see things that way. Craig had spanked me that time because he decided it would do me some good. Sometimes he called that a "maintenance spanking."
"You have nothing to be guilty about. You didn't ask me to change my mind; your dream did, and you have no control over your dreams. I decide what is best for you. Period. I've made my decision and that is the end of it. One more word out of you about it and I'll throw you in a cold shower."
I HATE cold showers. He knows that. When I was in the dorm shower the first week of school, Craig playfully reached over and turned my water to ice cold while I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair and didn't see what he was doing. I screamed like a girl and ran to another nozzle. He and two other guys all laughed at me. I didn't find it the least bit funny. I wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the day. But that was when we were new roommates just getting to know one another. That night he apologized and made it up to me by bringing me a large vanilla milkshake from the diner he went to eat with a couple of his engineering classmates. So I sold my soul for a vanilla milkshake and stopped sulking. Little did I know at the time how frequently I'd be drinking vanilla milkshakes and for how many reasons.
Speaking of him making me drink things . . . . well, you already know, and how he would always run his fingers though my hair and caress my scalp while I was gulping him down. Craig had this uncanny ability to use affection as a way of helping me surrender to his Mastery over me. His "cooing" to me the way he did always prompted me to say, "Yes, Master," and be at peace.
He brought me to Larry the very first day we returned to campus for the spring semester. Larry asked Craig to lock the door. Then he told me to strip and kneel on the floor. A thick leather dog collar was on Larry's desk. He showed it to Craig. "This is the one I found for the boy to wear permanently." Craig handled it and nodded. "Why don't you put it on him, help establish a clear chain of command," he suggested.
Larry put it on me and thrills went through me when I heard the lock in the back snap shut. The timing is good because there's this weird fad going around right now with guys wearing dog collars as some kind of fashion statement. A bit of competition has developed and the collars are far more impressive than the ordinary faux leather things found in supermarket aisles for pet products. Because of this, they can have me collared all the time now, only we know that it is not a dog collar; it marks me as an owned bdsm slave for anyone aware of the current sexual politics.
I know it's a slave collar. It seems to exude some strange power although it's probably only my perverted imagination. Yes, I catch myself thinking, I am truly a slave. Craig owns me and Larry is my . . um . . . mentor? I'm intensely aware that I'm an owned slave, an owned, collared and caged slave. Automatically, I lean forward until I'm groveling alongside Larry's desk while he and Craig are talking about what happened over the vacation, about how Craig was now my sole owner and the other Masters relinquished their hold on me. Larry congratulated him on acquiring "this property." He said that as a way of pressing my spirit down to the ground as well. Larry leans down a bit and quietly says, "Whenever you are groveling naked before a free man, you are nothing but property. Never forget that."
He straightens up and sits behind his desk. Craig sits in a comfortable chair facing the desk and they continue their conversation. Larry encourages Craig to put me at the Masters' disposal from time to time because they can still do me a lot of good. "A true slave can always learn valuable lessons from every true Master," he reminds Craig.
I've gotten used to the way superiors talk about me as if I weren't present, how it always makes me feel like an object rather than a boy. It humbles me, and that's always good. It's what I need for some reason. It keeps me aware of my unequivocal inferiority to every person on campus including each one of my classmates, even if they aren't aware of it themselves. As time goes by this semester, however, every single member of the freshman class and most of the upperclassmen will know what I am. Some will have used me. Some will decide it's either total make-believe nonsense or something sick. A good many others, however, are finding it intriguing and even a bit arousing. We will inevitably cross paths.
Larry and Craig have important items to discuss about how to handle "the boy." Every student at Dunstun is assigned an Academic Advisor at the beginning of second semester, freshman year. Larry has become mine, and that's no surprise at all. While I'm down there on Larry's Oriental carpet, he and Craig discuss making significant changes my program. Like many freshmen, I've not yet chosen a major. Now Larry choses it for me: I'll be majoring in Sexuality Studies and minoring in Creative Writing. Larry's the administrator of that major (how convenient!) and has the authority to waive requirements and to enroll me in courses not usually open to freshmen.
He's looked over my class schedule for second semester and suggested a few changes. Craig is impressed and agrees to everything on my behalf. It hits hard: Craig has the power to do this. I've surrendered it to him. And so Larry He changes my American History course to a course on ancient Greeks and Romans because slavery was an intrinsic part of their societies and because the sexual dynamics between dominant men and boys is appropriate to my state even though Craig is the same age as me. "I will inform Professor Schilling about Q being a gay slave. I'm sure he'll take a special interest how it's settling into its life as a slave," he said.
I had been automatically enrolled in the compulsory second-semester English course but Larry's waiving that requirement as well. Instead, he enrolls me in a special section of Creative Writing. This semester it's focusing on erotica. "That will prove useful for obvious reasons," he tells Craig, "and the slave can safely share its unique way of life with the other members of the class, each of whom will have a unique story to tell." This section is listed in the catalogue as simply "Creative Writing: special topics," by the way; enrollment is by permission only. Those in the section this semester are hand-picked juniors and seniors. I'm the only freshman, but, says Larry, "compared to the others, Q has an entire lifetime of erotic experience."
Larry tells Craig he's also putting my name on the list of students who serve as nude models for the applied arts department. "Make sure Q is only available when there's no evidence of corporal punishment on its body."
"In that case, the boy won't often be able to pose for them," Craig pointed out. "Of course," said Larry, "I'm attaching a note that you should be informed two days ahead of time if someone wishes to schedule Q to model for a class. That way you can find other ways of punishing the slave if you need to deal with it before the modelling assignment."
My schedule allowed for an elective. I had chosen an introductory course in abnormal psychology. That's now changed to a course on meditation. "Extremely useful skill for slaves to have. You'll see the benefits before the semester is over," he assures Craig.
The last item is my weekly private session with Larry. They settle on Thursdays at 3 pm. "Will the faggot be naked when it meets with you?" asks Craig. "That will depend on the circumstances of each meeting. I'd prefer the slave to be naked, of course, but sometime that can be counterproductive. Sometimes it might not be advisable." He doesn't explain why and Craig doesn't ask. He trusts Larry completely.
Once they're finished, Larry leaves us alone so Craig can put me back together. I have trouble standing because I'm trembling after all I heard. Craig knows how to get me quickly up on my feet. He reaches for a nipple and pulls it up. The pain distracts me from all the things going through my mind.
But then I'm filled with anger. Goddammit!!! Larry and Craig just redesigned my academic career without even discussing it with me! Am I really going to put up with something like this---or, to use more appropriate language for a slave, to surrender to all of this shit?!!!"
Fuck! I really want to step back a bit and take in what had just happened. Double Fuck!! I yank my nipple from Craig's fingers and end up leaning against the wall and holding my hands out to prevent him drawing near. "Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, red!!!!" I blurt out, spittle coming from my mouth. He stands there and looks at me. He's closed a good part of himself off from me. I can't read his face.
"I'll leave you to collect yourself," he says quietly. "Sort yourself out so you know how to explain yourself later." He leaves the office and makes sure the door is still locked when he quietly closes it behind him.
I don't want to fucking explain anything!!!! Goddammit! It's like they're tearing me apart. They're trying to erase Gary from Q as if he never existed. Shit, I mean, as if I ever existed before they took hold of me. And I've fucking gone along with it, every damn step of the way, all the way until I'm bent down curled up naked like some frightened puppy and they're deciding what my life will be like from then on. This time they went too far, though, poking at the most important part of me:
Modelling? Sure, that will be hot. Being displayed naked in front of a group of male and female students trained to closely study every single inch of my body? I can just pose there and get lost inside my head. Like some Dom suggested one time, I become captured slaveboy, arms bound behind me, on display naked on a pedestal at a slave market, not knowing who will acquire me as some kind or property and who will put me to whatever us they want me, make me service them sexually. They'll use whips and canes to make sure I behave exactly the way they decide they want me to behave!!!! Fucking hot. Sign me up!
But the rest? What would my father say if he found out he was paying for me to go to school here to study what? Sexuality? To write smut? He'd pull me out of here and out there working as some sort of God-only-knows-what for minimum wage and living in a sleazy studio apartment in the ghetto. But, oh, wait! I don't have a father any more. He quit me because I'm a faggot.
Damn, my head is spinning round and round and nothing makes sense right now and it's really hard to get my jacket back on. My hands can't find the fucking sleeves!
I head out and walk off campus despite the warnings they give us not to do that. I don't care where I'm going. I never really learned my way around town last semester. The only times I was off campus were . . . shit, when some Dom or Alpha or um, Master brought me somewhere. The only thing I know how to find is the diner we eat at a lot, but there's nothing lit up much where I am now. It's kind of dark and deserted around here.
A young kid comes up to me. He's wearing a flimsy sweatshirt and filthy jeans. He's shivering, poor kid. "Mister, I'll blow you for ten bucks," he offers, "and I'll swallow for ten more." Fuck! That could be how I'll end up. "Please?" he begs and it's the saddest word anyone ever said to me.
"Hold on, young fellow," I say. "I'm sorry I don't have any money, but I've got something better to give you and you won't have do anything for it. Here, take this and wear it." I take off my jacket—it's the only nice one I have. Craig's mother—mama--got it for me when she realized I didn't have any warm clothes. After all, I'd packed for college in August and haven't been home since and can't go home now anyway. I help put the jacket on the kid, close it up snug in front and pat him on the back. "Go to the Stateside Diner. Ask for Annie. Tell her Gary..um.. Q . . . sent you. She'll make sure you get something to eat. Do you think you can find it?" He nods to me, then hurries off. Probably afraid I'd change my mind.
Now I'm cold. But I don't give a fuck. All I have on is the long-sleeved t-shirt that Craig made me put on this morning. Shit, it's colder than I realized. Hey, maybe I can find some old man to suck off while he's driving us around in his warm car. If this is life on the streets, I think I'll pass. At least I was warm when Craig was making me drink his piss right from the faucet. Craig. Fuck! I probably really screwed that up for good.
Maybe I should call him. Call him . . . . FUCK !!!!! My phone was in my jacket pocket. The jacket I gave that kid. The jacket he was wearing when he walked away from me. Goddamn!
I guess I better head back. Which way is it?
All of a sudden a dark car drives alongside me. The driver is looking at me. His passenger side window is lowered and the driver calls out with a kind voice, "Need somewhere to get warm, boy? Come on in. You Dunstun boys have simply got to stay put at night. It's treacherous out here."
SO MUCH FOR THIS CHAPTER
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