Repost from BBS: "Devils

Approved: moderated.stories@bigfoot.com Keywords: xmm xmmm xoral xanal xbdsm xbond xdisc xsm

I found this incomplete file uncredited and in tatters on a local BBS. The work is very well written and there seems to be a fair interest in SM in this group (or at least a Sub/Dom thing -- something I've never been into, nor pretend to understand -- gimme some of that old homeboy loving and romance me from time to time. Damnit, I'm getting broody again -- I shall have to be out a-hunting a boyfriend a-fore the break of dawn, Sire) Damnit, where was I? Oh, yes, as there's a fair interest in SM then it might go down well with the rest of the readership. As I say, sadly uncredited, but I'd be very interested if anyone can tell me more about the piece as it's too good to be lost.

PART ONE

It took me six months to get to join the club.

Since I picked up a guy on a bike and heard from him about the wild scenes to be enjoyed through the "Black Cross" leather club, I'd been asking and talking to guys I met at the bars for weeks. I'd almost forgotten about it and decided he was making it up when I got a telephone call that the "Black Cross" club were opening a new chapter in town and would I be interested. Of course I was, any club that was that choosy recruiting guys into leather and S&M had to be worth being on the inside of.

It was almost another eight weeks before I got to meet anyone involved in the idea. I was told to drop into an address in the warehouse district downtown for a drink to discuss details. I turned up around eleven-thirty, rang the bell on the metal side-door and waited, hearing footsteps descending to street level.

The guy who lets me in is blond, staggeringly build and speaks few words with what could be a German accent. I follow him up the stone stairs - eyes fixed on his perfect lean arse. We get to a big loft room with very little furniture and acres of polished floor. There are three or four guys sitting around drinking, and one shortish guy about 30 with close cropped hair who seems to be playing host. The host comes over, shakes my hand and offers me a beer. He speaks softly and quickly, his unusual eyes and soft tone make it clear at once that this is his party.

The blond guy who let me in is sent to get me a drink and asked to introduce me around, while the host disappears through a door to make a telephone call.

I usually fit in pretty well in new surroundings, but the way all conversation stops in the room and the fact that I've never even seen any of these guys before makes me grab my beer like a liferaft and retreat into a corner to take stock.

I'm not left on my own long, after a couple of minutes casting appreciative glances over the humpy numbers present I am called into another room with the German Blond, who I've already decided is the hottest thing there, although I wouldn't turn down any of them, believe me..

The host, whose name is Mort, explains that the club is meeting to initiate new members the next Saturday. He sees me glance at the blond who sits unconcerned on the edge of the table. "I see you like the look of Carl here, you must think me a very bad host, he's my private property just now - but he'll be there to help things along on Saturday."

I'm speechless and red faced, I hadn't realised that my look revealed so much of what I was thinking.

"Now I've embarrassed you, we must make it up to you. Would you like Carl to suck your cock?"

I look quickly at Carl, he doesn't look up, just hangs his head in token submission. I've run into this kind of slave/master relationship before, and it's not uncommon for the master to "lend" the sexual services of his slave. It's just never been offered to me ten minutes after meeting someone in such a "matter of fact" way. I'm still embarrassed from being caught looking hornily at Carl, but I figure I've got to say something.

"Yeah," I mutter, "I'd like him to suck my cock, providing I can fuck his arse afterwards."

Mort stands up, grins and turns to leave. "Carl, give our friend a good time."

Alone with the German boy I suffer another moment of indecision. I guess I just can't believe my luck, he's so great looking. I pull myself together as he drops to his knees and shuffles over to me. His lips rubbing over the crotch of my leather pants. His eyes turn up to me with such a look of pleading submission in them that I'm instantly 100 per cent sexual animal. I grab his head and force his face into the smooth tight leather over my balls and cock. He gives a little grunt as I crush his face into my swelling hard-on.

I get him stripped. God, his body's even better than I expected.

His hips are almost impossibly narrow, there isn't an ounce of spare flesh on his flanks or belly, his stomach is concave except for the strings of abdominal muscle that tighten as he breathes.

I walk around him, as he kneels, head bowed and awaiting some sign of my demands. Standing in front of him, I order him to free my cock with his teeth, unbuckling the belt and unfastening the top button of my pants to make it easier. It takes him a couple of minutes to work down the zip with his teeth, and release my painfully stiff cock.

Without a second of hesitation he eagerly goes down on my heavy 8.5 inches. I tell him to "suck me dry", and lean back, hand on hips while he dedicates his every movement to stimulating my throbbing tool. I swear I'll come any second if I don't push him away and get to work on that tight smug ass.

He stands on my order. Moving like a slave accustomed to obey every whim without any sign of halting or surprise. I have him touch his toes and stay down. Walking around, I brush fingertips over the downy rounds of his clenched buttocks. He supports his weight with his hands above his knees, while I hold him up by the hair with one hand, and fondle his dark tight hole with the fingers of the other hand. I spit into my palm, then pass my hand around to his face for him to contribute his share to the lubrication, then twisting my palm around my stiff cock I probe firmly to find my way into his hot inside.

When it's all over and I've satisfied myself, I light a cigarette and dress myself before allowing Carl to replace his own discarded garments. I sit and draw deeply on the Dunhill as I watch him slowly and deliberately put his clothes on; he manages to give every movement the urgency of a command, while doing nothing extra of his own.

Carl follows me back into the other room. He hasn't said a word during our sex act and follows me back to the party like a beautiful dog.

The host is totally cool, he enquires on Carl's performance and I say "great". I catch a look of real relief on the German's face and suddenly realise their relationship would require severe punishment if he had failed to please me.

I leave slightly puzzled, with instructions to return on Saturday morning, pondering the nature of a relationship where the slave seems genuinely afraid of the master's punishment--discipline is supposed to be a game enjoyed by both parties so either that German stud is so far into it that he acted fear to please the other guy, or they have something really strange going. One thing is certain, I'll be there bright and early on the Saturday to find out some more.

Friday night is hot and cruisy. One of those nights when the bars pulse with life, and everyone gets laid. I intend to get home early as the next day has assumed great importance in my sexual imaginings during the week. I keep getting flash pictures in my mind of the German stud Carl on his knees looking up at me - I've never jerked off so many times in one week.

Anyway I'm standing in a leather bar, mostly because I always visit the bars on the weekend, and also because I'm so damned horny for some more of that Carl that almost anything the same shape will do. I figure I'd better get laid, or I'll be busting to cum within two minutes of seeing him again.

There's a small knot of leather in one corner, although the bar is crowded these half-dozen guys stand apart. I've seen two of them before, and usually I wouldn't look twice, because they have both shown no interest in the past.

Now I remember, I think I've seen the others here before also, only on weekends and they aren't regulars - no friendly words with the barman, and no interest in anyone who may cruise them. In my normal state of mind I'd have assumed that they were a bunch of self-contained queens who were all locked up in dull affairs, a kind of husband and wife outing.

But tonight, in my excited state, (it is practically a full moon outside on the waterfront, and that invariably makes me extra horny), I watch their behaviour with more interest. Especially as they have a guy with them who is blond, staggeringly build and resembling an older version of the German Carl. I want that blond man, and tonight, I feel like I could land him - however uncruisy his set might be.

My chance comes when he is deputised to fetch more drinks.

He's dressed in a leather vest and leather pants. I get a closer look as he approaches the bar, he's much bigger and more muscular than Carl, but that doesn't matter, his blond hair is cropped shorter, but that doesn't matter either, and he is probably five or six years older than Carl. He wears no keys or kerchief (none of that gang do), so I can't tell if he'd want to play Carl's slave role, I doubt it by the way he walks to the bar. Oh hell, if he wants to kick shit out of my, why not. He's still enough of a look-alike to make the trip a buzz.

He reaches the bar and orders beer, in a heavy German accent. I'm so turned on by this coincidence that I practically fall over in my attempt to end up standing beside him. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to pick you up, which actually I am. But you look exactly like someone I had last week." I begin painfully. He doesn't reply, just flicks his eyes in my direction and picks up the beer cans from the bar. As he turns to rejoin his friends I try one more time. "You don't have a brother called Carl?" I begin.

What happened next is so fast I don't remember the exact sequence. He turns to me and speaks earnestly in what I assume to be German. Grabs me by the arm and pushes me over to where his friends are standing by the door. He says something in German to another guy out of which I decipher the name "Carl", and before I realise it they have grabbed a beer each and left the bar carrying me with them.

On the street outside they coral a long cluster of bikes from the rack, I am hoisted on the back of the big German's machine and we tear off along the waterfront in a procession. I'm slightly freaked out by this sudden turn of events, but I'm so happy fondling the bulky German's tits from behind that I don't worry too much. I'm a big boy, I figure, what could possibly happen that I wouldn't get off on?

We don't go far. I'm disappointed to see that the destination is another leather bar. We all pile into the back room where there are fuck movies flickering on the wall, and no other light except two red bulbs at almost floor level. Cause that's where the action is anyway.

My Blond German hasn't said much, he grunted assent a couple of times when I passed the time. I'm just beginning to wonder if he understands English, when he turns to me, passes me a spare beer brought from the other bar, and asks, "When did you drink Brother?"

I don't understand and say so, wondering if he means where do I usually do my drinking. Clearly this is not what he means. He pulls himself up to his full six foot-three and looks puzzled. The group are leaving, obviously they just came here to pick up two more friends. The German puts a large heavy hand on my shoulder and shakes his head sadly.

"You stay here, or it won't be safe for you," he growls in his thick accent. He turns on his heel and follows his friends outside.

By the time I reach the door they are gunning their bikes and disappearing, single-file down the rough street. I take a couple of drinks in that bar, not one of my favourites. Collect a much needed blow job from a shaven-headed masochist in the back room and go off in search of a cab to take me home.

Is there a connection between the "Black Cross" club, my membership ceremony tomorrow and these humpy weirdoes? I begin to suspect that I've just encountered a mobile chapter of the same club and spend the night alone wondering just what I've let myself in for, and why in Hell I didn't get into it years earlier. I'm as anxious as a kid at Christmas and spend most of the night awake prowling the local streets to kill time until Saturday morning.

PART TWO

11 am, in clean Levis and leather jacket I wait for the footsteps to descend to the door of the same building in the warehouse district. The door is opened by a huge bear of a man, a mountain of well-defined muscle covered in heavy dark hair, in tight cod-piece, black leather pants and athletic vest he looks like a "Tom of Finland" prototype gone to seed.

I follow his unshaven form up the stairs into the main warehouse room, which is almost dark, heavy blinds being pulled over the windows. There are three or four naked male bodies sleeping on piles of cushions, one of them is awake and trying to get on top of the guy next to him his sleep-hardened cock in hand. I see no sign of Carl, but have no time to identify the naked tangle as I am led past and into the smaller end room.

Mort sits in the half-dark drinking orange juice by the light of five big candles. He doesn't look as if he has just woken, he is fully dressed and clean-shaven. He sees me look at the draped windows and nods to the Bear to draw the blinds.

"I loathe the first few hours after dawn, revolting light. I don't need to sleep as much as I used to," he adds as if by explanation.

The Bear's name turns out to be Peter. It seems he is to become a member of the club today along with me. Mort explains that there will be three of us. "It's an experience best shared," he adds obliquely.

I keep looking around for a sign of Carl, realising that he's the main reason I'm so keen to go into all this.

"Carl will be joining us this evening for the ceremonies, he's out working for the club for the night." Mort answers my unspoken question; this is a disturbing habit of his, I decide.

Mort keeps me hanging around while he does this and that. I'm not invited out into the main room where the sex is. Peter (the Bear) and I sit and talk, speculate on the kind of ceremony a gay S/M club will put us through, and agree that it will certainly be enjoyable and then lapse into broody silence.

Around lunch time we are both getting pretty restive, as no one has come into the room for the last twenty minutes I'm starting to wonder if we should get a little action of our own going. Peter is obviously interested. He's let me know in our talking that despite his bulk and strength he is thoroughly masochistic.

I experience a peculiar feeling of power in knowing that I can have sex with him here and now if I reach out a hand. I hold hard for a few more minutes before deciding that in an "anything goes" club, it'll really be OK to screw right here.

He isn't expecting my first move. I've had ten minutes to plan the way it'll go. He's stretched out in a reclining chair with his face turned away from me.

I move quietly up beside the chair and with one motion grab his mop of untidy hair and the strong steel buckle of his leather belt. I swing him over the edge of the chair. Going down on one knee, I hoist his protesting form sideways so the small of his back is resting on my knee. For a moment he struggles, unable to move anything but his arms, which reach up to try and dislodge my hands from his hair. Then, suddenly he relaxes and allows me to push his head down under my straining crotch to be held between my legs.

His back must feel like it's breaking, supporting his huge weight on my knee, but he gets right into it, and starts working around the seams of my Levis with his tongue. I grab the thin vest at his stomach and tear it up around his neck. I stroke his flat muscle-ridged stomach, feeling the springy fur that grows up from his pants to make a thin hedge up to the dark forest that sprouts around his massive tits. Pectorals like half-melons, with nipples standing erect and firm in two small clearings in the springy hair.

The cod-piece panel rips off from his cock and balls. I find that his huge thick cock is pierced with a small silver ring, which fastens with a silver chain to a steel cock ring around cock and balls.

Letting a hand wander up to his chest, I discover that his nipples are marked from piercing. This, I decide, is a stud who's been into everything. His movements and the enthusiasm of his response to my rough touch on his taut body make me know that the man sets no limits for himself or others. Well, let it roll, I decide, grabbing a handful of tender meat in my fist and yanking the big over-full balls painfully up over his rippling stomach. His head strains up to where I'm releasing my own hard cock.

Wrapping his arms around my thighs to support his heaving body he forces his mouth down on top of my glistening erection. As he is supporting his own weight and moving his whole straining body up and down to take my cock deep into his gurgling throat I'm free to explore the muscles that protrude and dance up the sides of his straining great body.

I discover that by putting my hands around his tense thick neck I can feel a satisfying twitching and straining every time my hard tool forces down his throat. His reaction to the pressure of my hands is electric, he reacts instantly, in obvious excitement, bobbing his head faster, a new urgency in his movements. As I tighten my hands around his warm throat, his obvious excitement increases. I grip more tightly, enjoying the convulsive rhythm of his half-choking sucks. The ripped athletes vest hangs around one arm and his neck. Forcing his incredibly muscled arm through the strap, I tug the remains of the garment around his neck like a collar.

Grabbing his ripe testicles in a merciless fist, I increase the pressure, forcing him to slow down his sucking movements to a deliberate, painful rhythm. I only need one hand now to keep a steady dizzying pressure on his windpipe.

Cruelly, I slam the underside of my fist down in his vulnerable stomach, timing it just as I allow his head up for breath. He gives a half-scream convulsed, gasping and kicking his legs wildly twice, then shoots cum volcanically, spurt after hot spurt, up my hand and arm.

The three guys who rush in don't as much as grin as they catch me with the Bear bent double and groaning in ecstasy between my legs. Peter wipes a trickle of cum from his mouth and falls back, naked into his chair. Here am I feeling as if I've been caught stealing the poor-box, with these three naked studs just standing there, saying nothing.

Mort comes in, looking preoccupied, smells sex in the air and grins. "Oh dear, I'm afraid it's the atmosphere - I sometimes think this building has a built-in aphrodisiac. I hope you two recover in time for the ceremony."

Carl arrives late in the afternoon, there are about a dozen of us sitting about, drinking revolting herbal tea, fully dressed. We aren't allowed sex or alcohol before the important ceremony tonight.

I'm just thinking that this is a bit wasteful - these guys certainly take their pleasures seriously, when I see Carl in a one-piece black leather suit, and right behind him, in an identical garment is an older more developed body that's almost a mirror image of his. It's got to be the guy from the bar last night. I don't get a chance to find out, because Mort returns from the other end of the building carrying a tray with glasses and a decanter of amber-coloured wine.

"It's getting dark, so we can revive our strength and start preparations," he announces, looking straight at Bear and me as he mentions reviving.

I accept a glass of the spicy alcohol, find it revoltingly sweet and down it in one swig. I'm thinking about Carl and the other guy, wondering if they are really brothers, and if they have each other gutless.

I've gotten such a hard-on thinking about it and trying to see it in my mind that I have to stand up and fetch another drink to relieve the pressure. Funny stuff, this wine, it leaves a warm feeling that rises up from the pit of the stomach, and spreads down with a tingle to the balls.

Three glasses later, Gary, a dark nervous kid with a fabulous gymnast's body, the Bear and I are put into a small room next to Mort's lounge to wait for our initiation.

Mort comes in and explains that he's not about to explain what's going to happen, we will each be sent for individually, but the main part of the membership ceremony will be for all three together.

I settle down to admire the gymnast kid, wondering if he's as hot as Carl - knowing that he couldn't possibly match my fantasy Carl. The room we're in is lit by three candles. It's completely draped in dark blue velvet, even the door is covered. On the walls are two paintings showing wild orgy scenes with obvious black magic overtones. The room is almost silent, just a vague buzz of traffic noise and the occasional ship's siren penetrate the gloom.

We talk quietly for a while, but I'm so full of excited expectation and nerves that all I want to do is enjoy my own brain feedback. I feel thoroughly stoned on the wine, and am just about to speculate on what was in it, when the door opens and Carl appears.

He walks in with his head slightly bowed, and in his. thick accent explains that we are to place all our clothes in the basket and wait to be called. He doesn't look directly at me. I'm driven crazy with the desire to grab him and have him on the cushioned floor. Finally he catches my look, half-grins and moves over to me. He submissively unbuttons my Levis, peels my T-shirt gently off, and kneels to release my boots, kissing each one lightly in turn as he removes them.

Then without a word he leaves the fucking room.

I've gotten a big hard-on, which I now have to live down with the other two. I keep my mind off Carl's hot young ass by speculating on the reasons these other guys are here.

I know with me it's pure horny lust, but I wonder, especially about the nervous little gymnast, Gary. I wouldn't think he'd have the courage for such a way-out scene. He sits on his own on a big low sofa. Now he's deposited his clothes in the big laundry basket, I can appreciate, at least, why they wanted him. His body's perfectly proportioned, every slender muscle tuned to perfection. He has big soft eyes which dart towards the Bear and me whenever he thinks we aren't observing him. I see a slight tremble in the powerful muscle of his thigh. I also see him sneak a look at my softening cock, which still looks impressive and was probably the reason they wanted me here.

The Bear is easy to understand. He just thinks with his nuts.

Looking at him sitting head in hands, I can smell the animal sexuality of him. It isn't fear that I smell, it's pure excitement. He's been into everything, I can see faint lines across his back and shoulders, which show through his tan as well-healed whip scars. This is a masochist in search of a deeper form of thrill, he doesn't know what's going to happen, and he doesn't care-as long as it's new fuel for fantasy.

It occurs to me as my cock droops sadly onto my thigh, that I'm the odd man out in this set-up. Good submissive types are bloody rare out there on the waterfront, yet here I'm in a minority of one in liking the dominant role.

I'm certain Gary shares the Bear's taste for submission, so does Carl, I remember, with a rush of blood that produces instant re-erection. Whatever the ceremony is that's ahead it will almost certainly involve submission on my part. It's so many years since I anticipated such an event that I find it oddly exciting. I am bloody determined to do whatever asked without hesitation. I've got to get my noose around young Carl's willing neck whatever it takes. But is that all of the reason?

Like an actor on cue Carl appears through the door.

He's stark bollock naked, and his body looks like it's been oiled it shines in the candle-light, every perfectly developed muscle catching the glow, his long shapely cock hangs invitingly below the big silver cup he holds in both hands.

The Bear is the first to go into the other room. Carl tells him to drink all the contents of the cup and follow him into the "Temple". Bear obeys silently, pausing only to cup Carl's big low-slung balls playfully in his huge hand as they turn to leave.

Alone with Gary, my nerves start to tingle in pleasurable anticipation. I catch myself wishing I could watch what they re doing to that big dumb muscle-man. My cock's as hard as it's ever been, straining to suck my balls up into its thick shaft. I see that Gary's turned-on too.

I lunge at him through the dizzy effects of the wine, and find the feel of his smooth skin under my rough hands. Nothing ever felt that good, I start to think that the wine must have an effect of heightening the senses, but drop the thought in the onrush of sensation as Gary's firm body melts into my controlling hands. His long thin cock is stretching up towards his navel as he unfolds back into my arms. I find myself kissing him, tenderly savouring the unfamiliar taste of his saliva and the urgent appeals of his darting tongue.

I brush my hand up his smooth yielding body, and realise that this is a moment less to do with sex than with tenderness. Suddenly Gary has brought out in me a tender streak that should have been lost along with the key to my first pair of handcuffs.

When Carl comes in to get me, we're sitting like that in each other's arms, immobile, wrapped in the warm glow of the doped wine.

I stand and move over to Carl in silence as he offers the chalice, and I drink the small amount of red liquid inside it. He turns and I follow through the velvet draped door and into a blackness punctuated with a circle of big guttering candles.

PART THREE

Led through a circle of oiled male bodies, the taste of the drink from the silver cup still bitter in my mouth, I stagger into the circle of candles. Carl, his body glistening in the candle-light stands beside me in silence.

Mort stands in front of a rough wooden platform or table. He's the only one wearing robes, and has a black draped garment that hides all but his chest and impassive face in the darkness.

High as I am tonight on whatever drugs and booze they have given me, I find his confident quiet manner very attractive. He's not obviously sexy like the guys he surrounds himself with, but there's power there - and a great body. If I ever wanted to play the submissive role sexually, there are very few guys I'd seek out. Mort's at the top of the list right now.

I see the Bear sitting on the floor in one corner, there's a guy each side of him, like guards, but he doesn't move, he's so turned-on and spaced-out that he simply stares ahead. At least he's in one piece, I am relieved to register, as I square my shoulders and look Mort in the eye.

Suddenly I find myself holding his gaze, as if trying to see who will look away first. He breaks the contest by saying, "Good, courage is needed."

On his words the guys all around start to chant something. It's like my ears just started to work for the first time. The noise is hypnotic and incredibly male, filling my concentration. I glance over at Carl, fascinated as his muscular chest heaves to the rhythm of his chanting.

Mort moves over behind me, whispering instructions at me, he takes a black cord and ties my hands behind my back. I sink to my knees, feeling vulnerable as hell.

All I can see is Carl, part of the circle of bodies outside the candle ring.

He is still chanting, sweat mingled with the oil on his bronzed body, he looks impassive and remote. His cock is real hard, jutting out from his body. I am kneeling in a white triangle on the floor. As the chanting increases Mort signals me to stand up.

Suddenly the chanting stops dead.

I am seized by two of the guys behind me and walked over to where Mort holds a bottle of yellowish liquid. The oil is smoothed over my chest, thighs, neck and the base of my spine. Where it touches, my skin is suddenly on fire, an odd warmth spreading down to my feet and up to my throbbing brain.

During the ceremony that followed words were said. I was told to repeat words by rote, leather thongs rained down on my back and rough hands hauled me onto the wooden platform. My memory is confused. I don't know if every guy in the room fucked me or just one. I don't know if I drank their collective cum from the chalice or if I hallucinated it. The exact word-forms the ritual took aren't important this early in the story.

I was made helpless and served all those present.

That was the important aim of the night.

When they finish with me, I'm hauled roughly over to where the Bear huddles. We watch as the same process is repeated with young Gary, and all three of us stand before Mort at the altar, while he makes a small cut in each of our hands, squeezes out a drop of blood into a small clay pot and makes each of us repeat an oath and drink again from the chalice.

The oil smeared on our bodies has an almost painfully arousing effect. My cock is uncomfortably hard, tingling in an unfamiliar way. I can see that the others are all affected the same way, covered as they are in the same drugged oil. We are now members of the club. And the fun is only just about to begin.

Mort doesn't join in the slowly building sex orgy, he stands withdrawn by his altar, mumbling and making odd signs. Every now and then he throws powder onto a burner which gives off smoke I guess is mostly hash.

I manage to walk over to Carl.

His eyes are wild, I don't even think he recognises me. I drag him down onto the wood floor. Crazy with lust, I rip at his body, tearing at him like an animal. He responds in a mindless frenzy of pleasure.

I handle him really roughly. Nothing I do to hurt him does anything but increase his obvious pleasure. I know his hard smooth body will be bruised and marked the next day, but we don 't care, so animal-like is our need. I've never had sex in that state before. I can't tell what is real and what is horny-fantasy. I taste blood as I force my mouth over Carl's and realise that the cut on my hand is leaving red smears on our bodies, and that Carl has been sucking the blood greedily from my fingers.

Four of us end up in the bathroom, washing cuts and grazes and avoiding each other's eyes. There's an embarrassing aftermath to such wild selfish enjoyment. It's six in the morning, we've been at it in the initiation room until just a few minutes ago, a marathon session during which Carl has picked up a dozen angry whip-welts on his flanks, I have a loose tooth and teeth grazes on my cock. The Bear has rope burns around his wrists and throat, and Gary's ass is bruised and battered.

Sitting around drinking Mort's good coffee after the others have left, I find myself wanting to take Carl home with me. The three of us sit in a patch of sunlight in the main room. Carl is stretched out, naked except for silk running shorts, white to show off his tan and the odd reddened bruise. Mort intercepts my gaze and smiles.

"You're quite hooked on young Carl, aren't you?" he remarks.

I nod, "Guess you could say that," as non-committal as I can muster.

Carl doesn't look up at this exchange, he simply closes his eyes and wriggles his butt down among the cushions, like a cat by the fire. Mort is still talking, explaining that now I am a member of the "Black Cross Club" there are meetings and parties three or four nights a week.

"Is that all there is to it?" I hear myself ask.

Can't think why the hell I said that, either. All that mystical bullshit never appealed to me one small piece. Mort looks me hard in the face.

"I'd rather not go too far into that this morning, some things have to be talked of at night." He looks out of the window, then adds, "The club works on different levels. I hope there will be more to it for you than for some others. Carl doesn't go to the regular meetings, so if you want to see some more of him, you'll have to earn the right."

That idea sticks in my mind, and I forget what else was said.

As he sees me downstairs, I get Carl alone for a minute. "I'd like to see you some night, if you're in town," I venture, patting his ass firmly.

He looks at me quickly, with an almost panic reaction I can't read. "I live here with my brother Max, Mort's our master. I have no will, although I hope he puts us together often." This knock-out speech is delivered in an accented monotone. He stares hard at his feet, leaving me wondering if I turn and leave or reply.

I decide: "OK, kid, maybe I'll take you away from Mort - your brother too." It's a speech of bravado I don't feel. I just don't want this weekend to end up on a note of defeat. Or do I mean it? I may well try.

Monday. I can't work. I turn the business over to my assistant and announce a two-week holiday for myself. I'm off sex, smoking a lot of grass and have a self-diagnosed case of sexual obsession.

I want Carl. He represents a challenge as well as a perfect full-time slave, which I've always promised myself. If he comes complete with humpy brother, that's fine with me. Unfortunately I have no clear plan of how to bring this liberation about.

Wednesday. I end up calling Mort and inviting myself to the weekly meeting.

"Come early, and we'll talk," he promises.

He's in his usual candle-lit chair, smoking his usual Camel and working on some kind of astrological chart, surrounded with heavy reference-books. He waves me to a chair, sits back, folds his arms and grins at me in his most magnetic style.

"Glad you came back for more," he begins, "I'm going to arrange to demonstrate to you that you can achieve your goals through the club."

I confess that there's one thing I want to bring off that I'm going to need a little help with.

"Fine," he responds. "Don't tell me what it is, we'll get to work on bringing it off."

Thank God he can't read my mind, I think to myself. Knowing that my aim is to take Carl and Max away from him wouldn't leave him grinning so amiably, I guess.

Mort goes to the door and yells for someone to bring us some beers. Max, Carl's massive brother, wanders in with a couple of cans, and one glass - for Mort.

I find myself looking hard at him for signs of similarity to Carl. They are almost as attractive, in fact I can imagine that with a few years and a lot of working-out, Carl could resemble his older brother exactly some day. I'm strongly attracted to Max, and knowing he's Carl's brother, and that they work as a pair, makes me hotter still.

Mort sees me looking. "Did you know that Max here and Carl are brothers? They have an interesting story. I acquired them in Mexico City. They've been with me for almost two years now."

Max waits with his head bowed while he is the subject of discussion.

His body isn't as bulky as the Bear, but his big musculature is exceptionally well defined. Where the Bear is hard and smooth, Max is rigid and sinewy.

"Strip your gear off, Max, and give our friend a proper look at you," snaps Mort, in playful mood.

Max strips, slowly and matter of-factly. He never looks up, just neatly folds each garment and places them in a pile on the floor beside him.

Naked he is stunning. Big heavy thighs, flat narrow stomach tapering to a heavy smooth-skinned chest and up to knots of muscle on arms and shoulders. As he slips off his shorts his big pendulous balls hang low beneath the long thick length of his cock.

I notice that the skin of his belly and buttocks to shoulders is a slightly different texture. It looks matt, and looking closer I see that it is a mass of small lines, remnants of scars from years of whips and canes. This evidence of extensive abuse to his magnificent body is supremely exciting. There's an unspoken invitation in each inch of toughened flesh.

Wishing Mort would leave us alone like he did the last time with Carl, I rearrange me Levis to accommodate a full hard-on.

Mort must have seen me, because he walks over to Max, and pats the flat stomach, leaving his hand to explore the rigid muscles that tense as the big man breathes. "He looks even better in action," he remarks, immediately having Max begin a hard physical work-out, beginning with press-ups.

I sit and watch the big strong body flexing and straining. His buttocks clench in muscular spasm each time he lifts his big shoulders off the mat.

Mort puts his booted foot on the back of the taut neck, crushing the trail of short blond cropped hairs that come to a point at the nape of the huge German's neck. Max's up to around fifty press-ups, Mort has him stand on his head by the wall, doing press-ups US marine style. This one's a killer, sweat runs down the panting form before he's completed five of these tough exercises. The long fat cock hangs completely flaccid down over Max's belly. His big loose balls flop from one side to the other invitingly.

On command Max lies flat on the floor with his hands up over his shoulders and arches his big supple body into a gymnast's bridge. I can smell his effort - the gym smell of sweat and male sex. He stretches himself up like this three times. I can hear muscles snap and click as his body warms up to the effort. His breath is staccato and jerky. I think this is probably the most exciting sound in the world.

The door opens and Carl walks in with more beer. He must see his brother naked and heaving on the floor, but gives no sign of surprise or recognition. He leaves two more cans and another glass on the table and stands waiting to be dismissed.

Mort gives me another wide grin, I can see he's really getting into this little game. "Strip Carl, and join your brother," he orders. I watch a second pile of clothes grow on the floor and lie back in my chair to appreciate the intoxicating differences and thrilling similarities between these two captive animals.

As they wrestle - compete physically and submit to each other under the orders that Mort gives out - I learn something about the nature of power. It may corrupt, but once tasted, even second-hand, it's a drug you cannot be free of.

Mort leaves the room briefly, during an arm wrestling contest between the two German male-machines.

I want to seize the opportunity to issue orders, of my own - hell, I don't want to give orders, I want to strip off and wade into the fray. But their complete absorption in their task, and Mort's dominance lingers to prevent me from doing anything but watch in an orgy of frustration.

Mort returns and sets them to punching each other's stomach in turn, increasingly hard with each blow. The winner will be the one whose victim folds over, out of breath. Max defeats Carl in this, not surprisingly, as he's a far bigger tougher man. I almost leap out of my chair as Carl's beautiful body crumples into a knot of agony from his brother's vicious blow.

"That's enough, you two," snaps Mort, "Go shower and get ready to work tonight."

The two pick up their clothes, Max bows in my direction with a Nazi click of his bare heels and they leave without a word. Mort settles himself down eyes me thoughtfully, and begins to talk.

"I'm going to tell you the history of those two guys. Perhaps it will help you to decide what you want out of life. . ."

PART FOUR

Young Wolf Schwarzmann won the Decathlon in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin under the watchful eye of his patron, a military adviser later to become a high-ranking officer in the Nazi S.A.

The relationship of athlete and patron caused a little comment, they were known to live together. Both were remote and uncommunicative to outsiders. Wolf lived for his superhuman training schedule, and the Nazi seemed always to be present, in the background.

That a homosexual, sado-masochistic relationship existed between them was generally assumed, by those who knew enough to speculate - and there were few enough of them.

Wolf married in 1941, an older woman, housekeeper to his patron. The wedding details were supervised by their patron, who never married and looked to this union he had arranged for children to be brought up according to his ideas of the Nazi ethic.

Three wealthy emigres arrived in Rio de Janeiro in March 1945. Wolf and Hilda Truman, and Herr Truman Snr. settled in a wealthy Rio suburb and lived in total obscurity until the birth of the first child in 1949.

When Max was six, a second child, Carl, was born. Hilda Truman died in childbirth.

Max and his younger brother Carl were brought up in solitude by their father's Nazi patron after Wolf's battered remains were found stark naked on the main Rio highway in June 1957. The circumstances of his death baffled local police officials, who claimed that he had been ritually tortured and dumped on the highway to dispose of the body. Investigations seem to have halted at this point, the files show a verdict of unexplained death by natural causes.

It is impossible to imagine two boys raised in a sadomasochistic regimen.

Carl remembers their daily routine beginning at 6am with three hours of hard physical work on the estate followed before lunch by a training program in the gymnasium. In the afternoons they were educated privately by a string of tutors, mostly female and all English.

Their patron took a personal interest in their physical training, and from the time Max was 15, he was made to sleep on a mat on the floor at the foot of the old Nazi's bed. They were brought up to obey every whim of their Patron instantly, their budding sexuality was channeled into a masochistic mould and a strange sexual bond was forged between them - born of mutual submission, physical competition and the strangely formal atmosphere in which they were brought up.

The two boys were forced to look to each other for companionship, warmth and finally sexual release.

When their master died in 1969, Max assumed command of the household and they continued their ingrained routine for a few months. Finally discussing with Carl, and discovering themselves independently wealthy, they decided to travel together to New York for a few months, to visit a friend of their dead mother.

Both fantastically good-looking, they suddenly encountered a new environment where the ground rules were considerably different. Max experimented with a girl for a few days, before dropping the idea and returning to sleeping in the same bed as Carl. They explored a few of the leather bars, searching for some way to reach other people.

Finding it impossible to pick up sadistic partners who would take on both of them, or who could satisfy their need, Max experimented with sex without Carl. This experiment failed. Whatever happened they were bound together, sexually and emotionally. Some photographs of Max in a porno magazine first caught the interest of a photographer friend of mine. He arranged to photograph both brothers together, and borrowed my house in Florida as his location.

First meeting Carl and Max, when I drove into the airport to collect them was an unnerving experience. They spoke very little to each other, tended to answer a question with a short concise reply. Both called me "Sir" at once, an affectation I took to be in the American Collegiate tradition although their English was very good, the twang of German remained.

As the elderly gay photographer posed them and touched the pair of them up out by my pool, I watched with interest from the house.

Their total passivity and instant obedience to his tentative commands intrigued me. At one point the photographer asked Max to return inside the house, so he could do some solo erotica using only young Carl, who at that time was the perfect combination of tender youth and hard muscle.

"No Sir," retorted Max quietly, "we prefer to be together, if that suits you, Sir." I saw the photographer pause at this, and unable to change the situation, proceed with the session under Max's respectfully firm eye.

The photographs taken that day never saw the light of publication.

Things moved so rapidly, that I found it convenient to purchase the negatives and originals from my friend the photographer. Carl cooked dinner that first evening. It wasn't discussed, it just happened. He vanished during the late afternoon, and was next seen carefully cutting meat and preparing sauces in the kitchen.

Max cleaned the pool, swept the leaves and made up all the beds with military precision. It started to become clear that a household routine was being established. I just sat back and let it happen, slipping the pool-boy twenty dollars when he called that evening, and telling him to come back next week.

I really began to get the message when an immaculate place setting for two appeared in the dining-room. Obviously our German guests intended to take up their stations in the kitchen.

I ate with the photographer, waited on expertly by Max. After dinner I asserted myself as far as announcing that we should all four take coffee and brandy out by the pool. Carl and Max appeared in tight white jeans and black T-shirts Carl's blond hair combed back, Max's short brush looking almost silver, bleached white by the sun.

Conversation ranged from the photographer and his photographs to his camera and back. Max tossed in one remark about Leica cameras' superiority, and otherwise neither of the two youths uttered a word.

After dinner the photographer had to catch a flight. I was about to offer to run all three of them to the air port, when Max offered to take my car and drop the photographer off. I had assumed that they were all three leaving that evening, but certainly had no objection to being moved in on by two such attractive and fascinating men.

Max left, taking the photographer and his meaningful glances with him. Carl washed dishes and settled down to watch T.V. in the kitchen. I retired to my study to read.

I heard Max return and let himself in by the kitchen door. I picked up my book again, deciding to let the next move be theirs. It was about an hour later that a knock sounded on the study door and they both filed in. In the lamplight their bronzed skin glinted, their white jeans hugged every contour of their finely-tuned bodies. One leanly muscular and incredibly well defined, the other taller, huskily bulky with definition almost equal to his brother.

They stood in front of my desk, like a pair of schoolboys. Max, the older, was their spokesman.

"We were wondering, Sir, if you wanted us to leave tonight," he began.

I replied that I hadn't thought about it, but they were welcome to stay if they wished. I asked what their plans were. Max looked quickly at his brother, both faces totally impassive.

"We wondered if you might have some use for us, Sir. We only ask that you keep both of us together."

My voice shook slightly as I responded.

"What sort of use did you have in mind, Max?"

There was a pause and it was Carl who replied,

"We are accustomed to a role of service, we will both provide whatever you require of us. Our one condition is that if you decide to use either of us sexually the other must be present. We work best as a team," he smiled a little, suddenly looking far younger than his years, then recovered himself and assumed an impassive expression to match his brother's.

"I shall want to know what I'm getting. . . " I suggested.

It was Max who replied that they would be delighted to submit to examination, obedience tests or performance trials immediately, so that the matter could be settled.

"We are looking for a situation of this kind, Sir," he added. Pointing out briefly that they were financially self supporting and would be pleased to purchase supplies and pay any rent I might decide was suitable.

I got up from the desk and walked around to where they were standing. Both bowed their heads and stood legs astride, hands loosely clasped together behind their backs. They waited for me to take charge of them.

"Max, remove your brother's clothes," I ordered.

Max moved fluidly towards his brother, who stood stock still while his jeans and vest were carefully removed, folded and deposited on a chair.

When Carl was naked, only his rapid breathing betraying his response to events, Max resumed his old position beside him.

"Carl, strip your brother," I snapped, putting cold authority into my tone.

This elicited a sharp "Jawohl" from Carl. I corrected him. "I prefer English." "Yes Sir," he amended, proceeding to strip Max's big chiseled bulk.

The cock that started to rise from Max's knotted stomach was long and thick, lightly ribbed with veins. The massive tool was growing rapidly, responding to the sexual charge that was building. It jerked at every casual touch from his brother, who was helping the T-shirt off over his shoulder.

Seeing that they get off on each other so much, I sit back down in my armchair and just let them stand there. Carl continues to pull the shirt off over Max's heavy arm, his fingers sensually brush the big stretched bicep. A small shifting of weight by way of response to this touch from the close-cropped Max, makes Carl pause.

He looks over to where I'm sitting, for approval. I make him wait a full minute, during which they move apart and assume positions again, legs astride, hands loose behind the back. Both look straight at me for the first time. They seem to sense what I am about to say.

"Carl, bite your brother's left nipple."

I have steered the scene from S/M to sex between the two of them. Max throws back his head and tenses his arms as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him. The touch of his brother's mouth on his firmed nipple acts like the electric chair. Orgasm explodes from his cock hitting my wooded desk, and a moan escapes through his clenched teeth. Carl pulls away, cum running down his left thigh.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Max pants, "I shall suffer your discipline for this wilfulness." He is telling me, and he's steering the encounter back towards S&M.

Since that first evening we have played a tantalising swing game between S/M and Incest. They have a remarkable ability to make love to each other while totally involving the essential third party. They can only have each other under the domination of some third person. Even with me they subtly fight off the gratification they want most. Both boys are totally eaten up with desire for each other. This is the root of their masochism, the reason for their lives and the result of the perverted upbringing they received.

In the coming months I would make them tie each other, whip each other's body, and suck each other's cocks. They were so into masochism itself that they would like to have pretended that sex played no part in the activity -

"Of course you had orgasms as your younger brother used his belt to redden and sting your ass. That had nothing to do with being gay"

• And yet neither could disguise the erotic thrill he enjoyed being in a sexual situation with his brother. They had only to touch accidentally in the shower to spring apart like frightened rabbits.

My greatest pleasure was to use the dominance they gave me to press them together. I could just sit and order Max to heave his massive tool into Carl's virgin ass-hole. Carl had never been fucked before, but so total was his submission to my orders that he never made a sound, as his brother's eager cock smashed a new way into the hot young passage.

"Of course, Mort added, "they had to steer their way into a sexual relationship with a gay man. Only in a set-up like ours can the incest be gratified without guilt."

He sits back in his chair, glances happily around the workroom and suddenly reaches the point.

"I suggested to you that the brotherhood could gratify your principal desire. At that time your ambition was to have Carl and Max live here with you." He switched on his magnetic grin. "If you still want that after what you have heard, I am authorised to offer it to you."

I am astonished and annoyed by his discovery of my secret idea. I can't claim it was a plan, as I have previously seen no way to bring it about.

I make an excuse to fetch more coffee, and return to the table determined to see just what I have to do to get given the two humpiest bodies in New York as my total slaves.

He gets in by asking, "If I'm prepared to send those two over here permanently, will you participate in some experiments with me?"

I'm so hot from his description of his pleasures with Carl and Max that I'm suddenly wondering if I can seduce Mort into bed. I have wanted to see how the superego would act in bed, since the first evening in his loft apartment. I pull myself up short, I don't even know if he wants to have sex with me! I wonder how it is that Mort seems to bring out whatever is lowest and most basic in me. I know I ought to refuse this offer of his two sex-slaves. I should try and get-it-on with them some other way. But I know I am going to accept. Mort has a secret-no one gets to manipulate so many people so intimately unless there's an unusual influence somewhere. I am attracted to his magnetism, and desperately want to possess the blond brothers myself.

I never had to voice agreement to the compact.

We chatted about various members of the club, and the forthcoming initiation of four new members, one of whom was a black bodybuilder, winner of a recent physique contest. Mort left, casually mentioning that Carl and Max would arrive early the next morning.

"I told them they were to be joining you shortly after we first met. They are completely willing," he smiled.

Shattered that he had planned this development so early, I settled down to do my business correspondence backlog. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the humpy slaves the next day, and surprised to find myself excited at the prospect of finding out more about Mort's experiments. I feel sure that sex will play some large part in these occult rites, and since touching Carl's body I have consciously committed my life to a sea of endless sex.

If the devil is at work on me, he's showing a much polished technique. Seems to have learned a few tricks since his clumsy conjuring tricks in the Middle Ages.

PART FIVE

As I got to know every inch of Carl and Max's bodies, having them move about my apartment, exploring each facet of their attraction for me, it's clear that I shall never crack their mutual shell enough to actually know them as people. The staggering physique of Max with its granite-hard slabs of muscle, its low sexual flash-point and enjoyment of hard physical punishment. The youthful golden flesh of Carl, smooth and yielding to my touch. I have got to know and to be aroused by every part of them, and even their smell.

The first night was wild, even by my standards.

They arrived in the morning, casually lugging cases and grips into the spare-room closet. They made no comment on having been sent to me. It was assumed that they wanted to be here, and that I knew that it was what they wanted.

Max discovered my small gymnasium right away, and asked permission for them both to utilise it during the afternoon while I was working. I dropped in on them twice. Their workout was tough and demanding. A stench of warm sweat permeated the small room, Carl was performing bench presses rivulets of sweat running down his chest.

Max, also slick with a fine covering of glossy sweat, performed mat exercises in a demanding machine-like style, every movement a straight line of uniform speed. Neither man paused in his labour at my approach. I ran one hand across the wet nape of Carl's neck, and returned to my typewriter. In their work-out they were totally self-contained, although I could interrupt at any time, they took the procedure so seriously that I decided to leave them to their shared ordeal.

Showered and scrubbed they appeared to prepare an evening meal. My kitchen was scrubbed and polished, a bath was run for me, and Carl presented himself at the bathroom door to wash me. I'm not used to this kind of attention, but can certainly get off on the novelty of it. Mort must be missing all this I reflected, wondering for the hundredth time why he had made me a present of the pair, and what he would exact as his price.

Clean and relaxed, under the subservient eye of young Carl, I was asked to lay on my bed to be massaged. I adore being massaged and Carl - stripped naked for the task sporting a full hard-on - massaged my back with a touch that sent waves of relaxation down to my toes.

I turned onto my back, and gazed up as he massaged each muscle of my chest and stomach. His face was lost in concentration, I grunted for him to repeat a particular movement, and he complied instantly, managing to improve the motion of his hands until I felt submerged beneath his touch. I had not allowed him to use oil, so he sprinkled a small amount of talc on his hands at each pause. He never touched my swelling cock. The impersonal dedication to his work was the headiest stimulus he could have provided. I was as horny as hell, and planned the hours that would follow in minute detail, drunk with the erotic possibilities that existed before me.

My compact gymnasium served a dual purpose. In the ceiling I had provided sturdy steel rings, the twins of which had been imbedded into the floor by a puzzled builder's workman some years before. Shifting the equipment into a recess in one wall I could clear the floor area for whatever sport I devised.

The lighting could also be dimmed so that only one amber puddle of light illuminated the area. As Max and Carl knelt naked at my feet, motionless except for their even breathing, I decided to strip naked also for the encounter. I wanted to start on their level, asserting my control in subtle ways, rather than standing over them in my leathers.

Carl rose instantly on my command and gently removed my clothes. Never once letting his eyes venture as high as my face. He folded each garment, then returned unbidden to his kneeling position beside his hunky brother. I was about to order Max's experienced mouth to work on my hardening cock, when I found that both of them were looking up at me.

"May we be forgiven for asking one question, Sir," began Max earnestly. I nodded, slightly annoyed that my chain of lust should be interrupted.

"We have been accustomed to serve in whatever way our master may require. Our energies have long been directed to our master's ends, that is our function. We like to imagine ourselves as a generator of energy. May we drain our energies into your purpose, Master?"

I've no idea what they mean, but I see Carl nod slightly in agreement, and realise that this must be important to them, for one of them to speak unbidden.

Plunging in the dark, I inquire: "Are you afraid that I might waste your energy, then?"

Carl replies quickly, "No, Sir, we would never suggest such a thing, to serve you is all we ask. We only wonder if you would like us to show you a little of what we have been trained to do."

These two have a habit of running the show in their own way. I suspect now, not for the first time, that their submission is probably the most effective method of controlling others that they could employ.

This is a watershed in the subtle interface between them and myself. I know that if I blow this one, I shall no longer be in the driver's seat, also if I act wrongly I may lose the right to command them.

I am silent for a few minutes, during which they resume their passive waiting stance.

"I want to think more about what you offer. I cannot accept unless the time is right and we are on the same wavelength," I finally reply. I hope this sounds as if I have some idea what they are speaking of. I try to sound knowledgeable, and know that I must play for time to consult Mort further. I daren't unleash whatever can of beans they want to open if I am to be caught unawares by it.

"We understand, Sir, and appreciate your wisdom. We have found a truly superior master," Max concedes gruffly. "Would you like us to leave you to your meditations, Sir?" he adds.

I see Carl look up, and he chips in: "Perhaps tonight we may be allowed to cater for your bodily needs alone, Sir?" he asks.

Now I'm back on solid ground. That kid's got a big meaty hard-on to deal with. He's asking for sex in the only way he knows how, and has no intention of letting his brother's mystical ideas cheat him of his release.

"Yes that's what we shall do," I get in hastily. Breathing a sigh of relief and stroking my aching erection. "You can start by sucking my cock, you worthless bastard." I have a handful of Carl's fine blond hair and force his willing face into my crotch. "Max, I want to feel your tongue up my asshole - Move!"

Alert to my commands it will not be easy to maintain it unless I can find out more. The sex that follows is great, perhaps my mind is slightly distant, I get my rocks off in style, watching Max lick the cum from my stomach and chest while his brother bobs and weaves to extract every drop from his bulky brother's own massive tool.

I look down at the two golden ridged bodies on the floor and wonder again. If this is second-best for them, what is it they wanted? Could it be better than what we just had? I suddenly believe that it probably could be, must be. I shall call Mort first thing the next morning.

They sleep like cats, stretched naked across the foot of my big bed. Both fall almost instantly into still, dreamless sleep, and I watch both wake at almost the same instant, cocks hard and eyes excited and bright.

It's a new day in my much altered household.

Mort seems to be expecting my call. "Good, yes I have kept this afternoon free, if things go well we shall also work tonight," he invites. "Come for lunch."

Carl makes breakfast while Max shaves me with obvious pleasure. Bathed again, this time by Max, massaged and assisted to dress, I swing my car out onto the sunny city street in high spirits. I'm actually excited about the odd sexual mysteries my two slaves are anxious to lead me into. And I'm actually horny again at the prospect of again entering Mort's sexual hothouse. I may be neglecting my business somewhat, but life seems too good to worry much.

Lunch is a happy crowded meal.

The Black Cross Club are setting off for a bike trip into upstate New York. Ten or so leather-clad humps are eating noisily when I arrive. Seeing their energetic enjoyment, knowing that they will soon fuck, whip, bite and orgy themselves to exhaustion at every opportunity on the long freeway, I half wish I could join their simple greedy company.

Mort has gathered into his curious club some of the most powerful sex drives I've ever encountered. Whether the club brings this quality out in them, or they bring it to the club, I can't decide. Their company is pleasant, the meal delicious and I am sorry to see them depart on their raucous expedition.

After lunch Mort sits down with me in his study. He's relaxed and charming as usual. No sign of missing his two willing slaves. It's almost as if he were glad to be free of them. A feeling I can't quite understand, but have some glimmer of.

"How are your two house guests settling in?" he inquires amiably. I tell him they're fine. Then bring up the subject that's on my mind.

"About our proposed experiments?" I begin. "Would they have something to do with drawing energy?" Mort takes time to reply, sinking back into his seat and lighting a Camel.

"I see the boys have been talking," he replies flatly. "I suppose talk was all that happened?"

I nod, and he visibly relaxes.

"Good. I was hoping that they wouldn't precipitate my ideas before I was sure you were ready." I can't reply, as I have no idea what he's talking about.

After a pause he continues, "I shall explain by telling you slightly more about the Black Cross Club. You must realise that I didn't set it up for fun, the fun is for the members. My purpose is one of exploration. I'm a student of people, and naturally gather specimens for observation. That which is hidden in man, waiting to be released, is my special concern. I'm an explorer of the unconscious, and to explore scientifically I need the willing help of unusual men. Men like yourself, who have a strong masculine drive and the intelligence to channel it."

With a smile he adds, "Channel it, with my help, that is."

I say that I have realised much of that, and start to wonder what this crap could possibly have to do with two hot masochist studs waiting for me to satisfy them in some as yet unknown way.

"I see that the theoretical side doesn't interest you much," Mort acknowledges. "I think that may change when you realise its potential, but I am happy to stick to basics." Then he simply asks: "What do you want to know?"

I expect to be told what I want to know, but manage to piece the question together.

"I want to know how Carl and Max expect me to use them," I blurted out. "I also want to get started on our experiment, whatever that is to be."

Mort laughs. "You just want everything, and you want it now. Okay, firstly, Carl and Max. They expect their master to use them for food. They are used to feeding psychic energy to their mentor. That old Nazi was a fully fledged vampire in his own way. I continued the tradition for experimental purposes. Now you've got the problem."

I can't deny that my new pair of muscle-bound pets do pose a problem.

Mort continues, "You see, they need to be drained and put to good use. Their perversion can only be supported on low energy levels. They require perpetual domination, and no one man can possibly provide it without help."

Mort suddenly stands and crosses the room to where I sprawl in a low armchair. Walking up to me, he slowly reaches out his hand and places his flattened palm on my neck. I can smell his subtle individual smell, physical nearness to him is thrilling, sexy but unfamiliar. His hand feels incredibly hot planted on my neck. I can feel his fingers drumming almost imperceptibly and the warmth on my neck increases steadily.

Mort's voice is a low growl. "I want you to imagine that I am drawing the life energy slowly out from your body into mine, he instructs. The picture is vivid in my mind. I can feel myself getting weaker, but a strange peace descends at the same time. And I still feel horny. Mort breaks the contact suddenly, rubbing his palm gently and looking thoughtful.

"It's not difficult to believe that I have taken power from you by that touch. Of course it's a tiny amount, and you can easily convince yourself that I tricked you into feeling what you did."

"I believe I felt a warmth and an ebbing sensation," I mutter hoarsely.

"Good," he replies, "we have a basis to talk on."

He explains that there are many interactions between people. Some exchange of energy of a level we can't detect with instruments, he says, is a very satisfactory theory for the odd ways humans behave around each other. He asks if I have ever met a person I couldn't bear to be near, who has made me feel oddly listless and depressed. I reply that an elderly aunt of mine had that effect. He nods, knowingly.

"You see, she probably doesn't even know she's feeding on your manhood, she just can't live without the power she draws out of other people."

I ask what this has to do with sex, and Mort explains that there is "low energy magic", sometimes called "white magic", using the small amounts of overspill energy that are floating about free. "Power Magic" on the other hand, draws upon the immense power of the human unconscious. It involves drawing from particularly vital human beings, using them as a generating station. For this reason it is called "Black Magic", and accused of being an evil practice. What most people don't realise is that even the Christian church employs such methods in its rituals, drawing power from its followers. Indeed many people utilise this power from others all their lives without knowing how to do it properly, or realising what they are doing.

I begin to see why sex is so involved in all this. I suggest that the sex act is the most usual place for this exchange of power. I can remember feeling amazingly energetic after sex scenes with particular guys. Guys I searched out again, mostly because of their energising effect. The idea is new to me, and it has certainly never occurred to me that I would meet a pair of willing victims for this kind of sexual vampirism.

Mort explains that there are a few males with a remarkable capacity to generate this odd power. He suggests that these frequently unbalanced individuals desperately need to be unburdened of this surplus energy they carry, as they are not equipped to use it themselves. "Those who make it can almost never use it; those of us who know how to use it don't have the raw materials to generate it," he explains.

"And you think I could use this power in some way?" I ask, absorbed in his story, and lulled into belief by his animal nearness. The smell of him still excites me, the prospect of these currents of sexual energy flowing from a submissive body to a feasting strong one, turns me on. It fits in with all my sadistic kinks, and is an image I know will remain in my mind permanently.

"What do I do with this power if I accept it from Carl and Max?" I ask.

Mort chuckles. "That's for you to decide. You may either drink it like wine and take the consequences of your drunkenness; or you can employ it and press it into service for yourself. Whatever you eventually do with it, I shall ask you to put some of it into my hands. I have a project on hand, which was the experiment I spoke to you of."

I wonder why he needs me. Why he can't draw this unlikely power direct from the young slaves I don't know. But I'm anxious to find out more practical details, and don't mind playing his experiment game. Mort has never failed to provide a further stimulating experience at each turn. A talent like that has to be gone along with, I decide.

PART SIX

"I think we've talked enough," Mort ends his speculations on sex and power. "I imagine you will be thinking back over your past experiences and identifying those who drew you particularly strongly as unstable power sources."

I haven't thought of it, but as he prompts I start to list the half-dozen main sexual obsessions of my life, each one fits his description of a generator. They may not have resembled Carl and Max, but they al1 hurled themselves into the role of victim as they stumbled through life. Each was incomplete in personality, yet oddly magnetic and each had moved on before I could locate the secret key to possessing him.

"Someone like yourself with natural predatory instincts will naturally be drawn to likely power victims as fuel. Unless you know what the process is that draws you, you will not be able to use them. Remember they are blindly searching for someone to tap the energy. If you fail they will loose interest and seek the next person they sense as a latent predator. Such people are attracted to strength, and if you know how to put them to use, they will flock to your feet begging you to feed on them."

Mort's words are stirring up a big insistent erection in my leather pants. I realise that the guy's seriously describing a megalomaniac's dream. It could be that he's full of crap. But it fits, and when I'm turned-on I don't ask questions anyway.

The small room Mort leads me into is one I haven't suspected existed before. He calls it his "work room", but it looks more like a private chapel. I'm spooked a little by the atmosphere, but still turned-on as he leads me over to the purple-draped altar-table like an overheated bull with a ring through the nose. He leaves me alone for a minute, sharply ordering me to "Strip". I remove my clothes, aware of the curious smell of stale incense and weed in the warm dark room. I find a chair in the corner and dump my gear in it. I then stand by the altar and wait, concentrating on trying to slow my excited breathing.

The door opens almost silently. Mort enters - also naked. He really doesn't have a bad body. Great thighs and nice wide shoulders, I notice in the low light. He walks over to me with a single piece of red cord. On the altar are a small clay pot, a burner with a pile of powder incense, a wooden rod, a long ceremonial sword and a sharp-looking black handled knife. There are also odd objects like a metal disc and a vase of red poppies.

The door closes silently on a spring, and the naked form of Mort walks deliberately and smoothly towards me. He picks up the bottle of ceremonial oil from the altar and smoothes it tingling over my belly, arms, neck and back. He lights the burner and sprinkles the dark powder over the small gas flame. It's the smell of the oil that hits me first, while Mort struts about the room, making signs and chanting, I stand, eyes closed, feeling the drug and the excitement take over control of my body. I hear a movement to my right, look quickly and see young Gary is also in the room. The young gymnast with his slim firm body and perfectly modelled gentle face seems vulnerable and out of place amid the roaring approach of the drug and the crude power that seems to emanate from the calm figure of Mort.

Mort leads Gary into the circle on the floor in which we both stand. The younger guy allows himself to be drawn toward the altar table, where Mort's strong hands are ready, holding out the red cord, as if to bless it.

As he ties the red binding around the vulnerable throat, Mort lets his finger travel down over Gary's smooth round muscled shoulders and down his back to dip between the orbs of his perfect compact ass. I watch his deliberate pleasurable stroking with a catch in my throat. The oil has driven the sexual desire in me into top gear. I can feel the tip of my rigid cock crawling out towards the smooth yielding body of the frightened, submissive Gary.

The trim, strong body allows Mort's firm hands to bend it back onto the altar. He lies on his back, feet still planted on the floor, his head supported on the table. His hands drop to his sides, as he anticipates what may be done to him next, a gesture of yielding to whatever Mort may require of him.

Mort's hand brushes the flat stomach, tracing the straight line that points downward to his long semi-erect cock. A small line of golden hairs catches the lamp-light, crushed under the unscrupulous hand. I pull myself up for a second. How can a patch of fluff on a boy's belly get us so worked up? It's hopeless, if I don't get into some kind of action in a few seconds I'll shoot cum all over that warm firm belly myself. My cock feels like a steam boiler without a safety valve. God, that oil's gotten to me, I want to laugh out loud, but excitement bordering on fear prevents it.

I feel a touch on my tortured genitals. Mort has another red cord, and is down on one knee tying it tightly around the base of my cock and balls. He threads the two ends up over my balls, and winds it skilfully about the ball sac, forcing my nuts to squeeze up under my dripping cock. When he has finished he leans forward. I can feel his breath cold on my stretched balls. He playfully flips his tongue up my thigh, inside to the scrotum. My body rebels and explodes into pain and pleasure. I throw back my head and bellow like a wounded animal. When I look down again, Mort is standing beside the prostrate form of the helpless Gary on the altar. The desire to bring my hand up to touch my throbbing cock is too strong to resist any longer. I suddenly find that I can't move my arms at all. I am locked in my position, and realise that I cannot relieve the pressure of my screaming nuts. I can't move or stop the increasingly near orgasm, but I know I shall not be able to cum until Mort allows it.

Breathing hard through clenched teeth, I see Mort rubbing his palms over Gary's light skin. He strokes his proud chest, rubbing the small firm nipples gently, next letting his palms slide down to feel the damp frightened sweat beneath the strong young arms. Now he is brushing his fingers over the boy's lips. Gary moans and moves his legs aimlessly. I notice that his half-closed eyes are focused on my oiled body and he is watching my rigid caged cock as it jerks slightly in impossible attempts to unload it's creamy release.

As I watch through staring eyes, Mort lowers his hand over the erect young cock. The big muscular hand glides the length of Gary's slender tool. The lean stretched body squirms as the hand possesses his throbbing cock, his head moves in circles, his eyes remaining locked to my lower body. The red cord circling his throat looks like a dark line in the dim light. The smoke from the burner is adding a swimming of the senses to my drugged stupor. I've been on the point of orgasm now for about ten minutes, cramps are starting to lock my stomach muscles, my cock is like ice, slowly melting over a painful flame.

Gary's lithe lean body is beaded with sweat. The drugs in the air are getting to him too. His eyes roll wildly; his mouth is open, the tongue circling the lips. Mort seems unaffected, there's a slow deliberation in the movements of his muscular body. His fingers trace the line of red cord, and move up to enter Gary's mouth. The big fingers press into the moist cavity. Gary's lips brush their roughness, his tongue darting lovingly over them and the boy's excitement increases as they thrust down his defenceless throat. A surge of blood seems to bust in my legs, I'm in the throes of an orgasm that sears my entire body, not touching my cock, which still aches for an orgasm of its own.

Mort looks over towards me. Thank God, he's beckoning me over, and my legs are moving, as if by themselves, hundreds of miles from my brain, which is filled with sex, overflowing, into my hard cock. As I reach the altar, and look down on Gary's lovely trim musculature, a sudden movement from Mort catches my eye. He has picked up the altar knife, and with a single motion brings it down to give a hard prick to Gary's shoulder. Mort grasps the hair on the back of my head, and forces my spinning head down the few inches to Gary's wounded flesh. My numb mouth connects with warm young skin, and I taste the salty tang of his blood. Mort's hand is working around my buttocks. His touch brings the orgasm that throbs in me to boiling point. I kiss the young flesh at my mouth, sucking the moist salty blood into my hungry sensitive mouth.

As Mort's voice begins to chant, I suck harder, my passion directed into the odd love-bite I am making on the yielding warm skin. I rock my head from side to side, grinding my hard teeth into the bruise I am making on the boy's shoulder. I hear him moan, his body thrashes in protest and subsides into pleasure. I find that I can move my arms, it's as if his blood has returned my strength. I remember what Mort has shown me about drawing power. I stroke the panting young body, letting my fingers draw power from his immense physical vitality, just as my greedy passionate mouth draws the life from his shoulder. With Mort's skilful hands caressing my trembling body, I seem to rise like an elevator as I drink in the sexuality of the gymnast's beautiful body. I don't need orgasm now. I am lifted to a point where I imagine I can feed directly on the lust trapped inside myself.

When Mort's hand reaches my cock, I jerk and nearly fall. Only clutching Gary's warm body painfully keeps me upright. He responds to this brutal grip with obvious pleasure. He moans and parts his sturdy young legs. I brush one hand over the downy hairs inside his taut thigh, he moans again. The cords tight around my cock and balls seem to have grown to be part of me. Mort's hand slides over my slick cock-head, causing a buzz of pleasure. I tear my mouth away from Gary's bruised shoulder, seeing the curious whiteness and lack of blood around the cut Mort made. He helps me lift his strong young legs, and Mort moves behind his head and receives each leg as I lift it above the table.

Gary's beautiful young ass is now level with my caged cock. Mort slips his hands behind Gary's knees, folding the boy's legs into his heaving body. I reach up for his athlete's hard pectorals, ripping his nipples between clumsy fingers. He moves and groans in ecstasy as I move towards him and touch his pink hole with my trembling cock. As I rape the warm young body my mouth is drawn again to the reddening mark on Gary's shoulder. Bending my body heavily forward onto his doubled-up legs, I bring my mouth down again onto the yielding skin. Mort's hand on my head presses me on and goads me into again drinking the vital power of this willing. victim.

Gary's skin begins to feel colder and clammy under my touch. His ass-hole clamps at my shaft spasmodically. It's not the small amount of blood that I have drawn from his healthy body, I realise that I have drawn most of the life-power from him, feasting on his masculinity and physical strength. I can't stop pounding into him, I thrust again and again into the puckering entrance, deep into his heated bowels. Climax approaches and I hear my own voice growling and crying out. Suddenly Mort is beside me. Strong hands pulls me back, and I am spun around so fast it makes me dizzy. My hands claw at Gary's still body, desperately trying to re-enter the safe thrilling asshole, but Mort is too quick, his hand milks my big cock and the red cords conspire to help him steal the cum I so desperately want to spring inside young Gary's innocent depths. But I can't care any more, the pleasure is too strong, and as Mort twists one of my nipples brutally in his teeth, I explode into orgasm, rocking back and forth in blindness, as gallon after gallon of hot cum spurts from my melting cock.

Mort catches my release carefully in a clay bowl, allowing himself the last few jerks of explosion as his head drops and his hungry mouth sucks up the last drops of my load greedily. Gary is sitting up, recovered slightly from the total draining he has received. I am aware that much of the elated force has left my body. Mort has trapped the fruits of our experiment in his bowl, drinking only enough for himself to recharge his larger-than-life persona. I'm still bounding with energy after an orgasm. I have learned the technique of the sexual vampire, and have received my real initiation into the brotherhood that hides behind the Black Cross Motorcycle Club.

PART SEVEN

The weeks passed, Max and Carl worked hard to keep me submerged in a sea of domestic efficiency and sex. I was playing with the two slaves every night, practising the various roles they humbly pressed upon me. The gymnasium of my apartment became the most important place in my world, they practically lived there, and both took to sleeping curled up beside the wooden altar Max had built. I found that my business affairs prospered, I fired one assistant and hired another from the Club. The everyday matters took care of themselves and my income took a steep rise upward. The new dynamism I brought to living amazed and exhausted my friends. I even suffered a severe warning from my doctor, when I ran into him drinking on Christopher Street; he diagnosed amphetamines, and was surprised to hear that I hadn't drunk any alcohol or used any drugs of the regular kind for three weeks or more.

A familiarity with the two German bodybuilders grew into an interdependence. Both parties needed the other, this need grew as the time passed. Max, being the stronger began to draw more of my attention. Carl, perfect object of sexual desire became a treat for use during moments of leisure and relaxation. The two young slaves moving through the days like hard-muscled sandboys. Contentment radiated from them. The nightly session in my gymnasium/playroom was the focus for all their waking hours. They worked out until their fabulous muscles screamed for mercy. Pints of eager sweat dampened the equipment and floor. The room became impregnated with their odour and heavy with the building power we kindled each night.

They become more openly slavish, and would sit patiently in the corner of my room, sometimes for hours on end, eyes cast downward trembling in readiness to obey any command that I might issue.

More often they were naked in the apartment; I would find Max in particular, naked and quivering with arousal, standing to rigid attention near the door when I came out of my study. Carl would lie naked face down on my bed, sometimes for hours, his legs spread invitingly, the invitation unspoken, but irresistible whenever I came in to change or to use the bathroom. They were never without each other completely. The other would always materialise whenever one of them encountered, triggered desire in me, and the desire would usually be triggered six or seven times a day.

Our evening meal was prepared by Carl around seven each night. I got used to eating earlier, because by ten we invariably entered the gym, dimmed the lights, reached for the stimulating oil and closed ourselves away until the small hours. This too became ritualised. I would find them naked and standing to attention in front of the altar when I came in. The oil would be ready, all the ritual tools they collected from Mort the day after my real baptism would be cleaned and laid out for me.

Max, whose big hard body required stronger treatment than his golden-skinned brother, would climb up on the alter unbidden, stretching his muscle-knotted limbs out and throwing back his head so that it hung down over the altar's edge. While his brother stood at one side and gazed upon us, I would begin by fondling and caressing his massive thighs and corded stomach. Max's eyes would glaze, as the oil was smoothed around his throat and wrists by his brother. Carl took pride in preparing his big strong brother for my attention. Once I strapped up Max's big low-slung balls, and first touched his thick heavy cock, he would spring to instant erection. The blood forced its way up into his upright tool, pushing the drops of lubrication juice out from its round head.

I had a big array of shackles, whips, clips and canes. I would first fix Max's thick wrists into leather circlets which bound them to the table at his sides. Then I would stretch a leather strap around his throat so his head and shoulders were pinned still. Straps also held his thighs and ankles. The table could be tilted up at a 45 degree angle, to allow me to hang him suspended on an easily accessible slope. Getting him into this position, his brother standing by his head, I would get to work heavily on his exposed belly, thighs and pectorals. The punishment which that big heaving body could take, as I watched him convulse to each stroke of my belt across his muscle-strung stomach, amazed me. His big heavily muscled thighs also received a steady growing stream of blows and the cords around his balls supported weights, which Carl kept increasing in increments as his punishment progressed.

The warm animal stench of him, as he writhed and his body arched to meet each new blow, always threw me into an aroused fury. With Car tucked warm between my legs, sucking my engorged cock, I tortured Max's erect tits. His big hard nipples, high on the slab of pectoral muscle each side of his chest, were incredibly sensitive. The least touch of a finger in the area around each nipple would cause him to groan and jerk against his sturdy bonds. Tilting the board so that his head was pointing downwards, I could sit over his mouth, with strong jawed nipple clips on chains like reins. By exerting pressure on these agonisingly pleasurable controls, I could force his skilful, but reluctant tongue up into my sensitive ass-hole, while Carl, his blond hair wet with exertion, would impale his tender throat on my hard shaft. I corrected Carl's technique occasionally with my belt, which hung over one of his shoulders in unspoken threat, until he displeased his master and it curled down onto his broad hard back.

At some point, before any of us had shot our cum, I would apply the oil to myself, and the two slaves would lay supine on the altar as my magnetised and greedy mouth devoured the maleness of them. My fingers sung as they felt the warmth of two strong muscular necks. My first kiss was to each mouth in turn, I would then gently caress Carl's nipple with my lips. He would begin to purr like a cat and a muscle in his thigh would twitch involuntarily, as his passion mounted.

Max's nipples received a similar treatment with my teeth; I could draw blood from those fat hard tits with only increasing moans of pleasure from the bulky stud who lay slick with sweat under my touch. I didn't need to drink their cum, or drink their blood. As each neared climax he would scream the words of some magic formula taught by Mort. At this signal I could absorb the gift of masculine charge through my trembling hands on the heaving convulsed body. Or I could drink it from the mouth in a brutal crushing kiss.

After both had given me their precious life-force, I would force my own release from their compliant bodies, pressing every device in my playroom into strong service. With revitalised new blood coursing through my veins, I would string up one hot body after the other. Using the tender reddened ass and belly to vent my lust with belt or whip. Each movement my punishment produced was like strong wine, and when finally I plunged my cock into Carl's tender asshole and my fist up into Max's taught trembling depths and released my fiery cum we would all three be exhausted and glowing.

I would shower and collapse on my bed after these nights, barely able to sleep for the strength and vitality sparking inside me. The mellowed slaves would either stretch their vulnerable bruised bodies over the end of my giant bed in a tangle of contended warmth and muscle, or spend the vigil of the night beside our altar, recapturing in their dreams the pleasure they had tasted.

I was mildly concerned at the reaction of my friends to my new domestic and sexual exclusivity. Guys I used to see for a drink, dinner or an S/M scene would drop by, admire my new room-mates and then usually leave early, not to return, and too embarrassed to complain that my obsession excluded them. While my work thrived, I had almost no social life outside Carl and Max and our occasional visits to Mort.

Mort would call me once a week or so, and request a repayment from the energy-bank he had built in me.

I would submit to his use with a will, the outlet his experiments provided for my masochistic streak was essential to the maintenance of the top-gear domination I dispensed at home. Mort must have known this, and over the next few weeks, he took me under his cold dominance, far beyond the limits I had set for myself in masochistic sessions before.

I was used as brutally as any willing slave ever was. Each session would end, however, with Mort collecting my cum in the bowl, which he would carefully cover with a dark silk cloth and secrete behind his altar. I know he believed that it contained greit deposits of male power, and for his occult purposes that power could be released and directed. I didn't ask his purpose, for me it was still a sexual outlet - more complete than any outlet before, and increasingly important in my life, but sex was sex, and magic and voodoo weren't for me; not to be taken seriously outside the bedroom.

My habitual vacation for the week of the Fourth of July approached. Where was I going? asked friends. A few ventured to offer hospitality, but they couldn't really accommodate three of us, they feared. Carl produced three air tickets to Berlin on the Friday morning. My slaves respectfully asked that I allow them to travel with their master to visit the German Chapter of the Black Cross Club. Mort was heavily in favour, in fact, I suspected it was his idea. I agreed readily, and we arrived at the airport in plenty of time for the evening direct flight.

Travelling with two slaves who insist on calling you "Sir", takes a bit of adjusting to. I shrink with embarrassment when Max storms the first class hostess and demands: My master be seated right in the front with empty seats behind. The woman is so taken aback that she looks hard at me to see if she recognises the V.I.P., and complies instantly with his instructions.

Carl later informs me that he has heard her balling out the Captain for not passing on the V.I.P. warning. Word seems to have travelled ahead, because there are two airline officials to meet us at West Berlin airport, and we're slipped so fast through customs and immigration that we're five minutes early for the limousine meeting us from the Club.

The boss of the German Chapter is a guy of about fifty, a taut wiry man, with a steely crop of grey hair, and bright hard aquamarine eyes. His house is in fact practically a castle. Or as near to it as a discreet architect could come in a major city. The discretion appears to have deserted him when he created the interior, however, as its baroque grandeur and touches of Moorish decadence contrast wildly and compete to saturate the eye.

Eric, the leader, presides over dinner like a benevolent despot. His charm and indulgence towards us is bottomless. His stern formality with members of his household and the few members present is like granite. Not the kind of guy to risk offending, I think, although his polite welcome for Max and Carl and the great fuss he has made of me is impressive.

The two slaves have never visited the German Chapter of the Club before, although they've run across Eric on one of his frequent trips to New York. I discern that they must have been loaned to him during his visit, as the atmosphere between them is certainly charged with something extra. The odd meal finished, two of the local lieutenants are deputised to take us on a guided tour of the city. I get loaned a bike, and tell Carl to get on behind me. Max rides behind the younger of the two leather boys.

We thunder through the dark city streets, stopping to walk slowly through two gay bars, staying only a few minutes in each, and not drinking anything. Obviously our two tall silent guides on their powerful machines are hunting for particular people in these establishments, rather than showing us the sights.

I get used to the big bike between my legs, although the vibration at the speeds I'm being led is turning me on almost as much as the hard clinging embrace of Carl, whose thinly-clad body is pressed against my back obviously turned on by the speed of the bike and the apparent danger as we corner in tight formation.

We approach countryside before we finally stop again. The three bikes are passing fewer buildings, and when we find the next port of all it is one of a series of large low buildings, which look like warehouses or barns. At the last dark building we slow and halt. The two leather-clad bikers bound up the concrete steps, followed by an eager Max. I pause only long enough to make sure the bike is O.K., and to grab Carl's tits hard in my gloved hands, and thrust a rough tongue down his ready throat.

The club barn shows no light outside, every window being masked over so that it looks empty. The only telltale clue that it is filled with some of Berlin's wilder young men is the long line of silent bikes parked up and down the local streets.

As we file in the outer door, we hear the pounding of music somewhere inside the building. The inside is huge, very high, and divided with a criss-cross of solid dividing walls into five or six huge rooms. Each room we enter is more filled with people.

Finally, we reach where the music is playing, to find a big room packed with guys drinking; fucking and a few dancing. A big black cross symbol hangs on heavy chains from the rafters in the roof, but although the air is heavy with amyl nitrate, I know this isn't the place where the heavier rites are played, just by the atmosphere. I can sense, much to my own surprise that no-one in the room except one big black guy by the bar, is involved in the higher orders of the Club. These buys are just here for the thrill and the sex. Their function is to generate the right lust-charged atmosphere and to attract suitable recruits.

Quite a few heads turn as we enter the inner room. Carl and Max attract a good deal of attention, and I realise that with a heavily exclusive club like this there can't be much turn-over in members. A new member is an event, most of these guys know each other well. Of course, they were hand-picked to be the hottest bunch in Berlin, but anyone new to appear is an instant star. Also as we aren't new members they know we are important. To be important around here usually means something specially heavy sexually.

The big black guy comes over to us and speaks to one of our escorts. He then walks up to me and after looking hard at me for a second, drops his eyes to the floor. When he speaks, it is with a slight American accent to his English. His voice is low and lazy.

"Hi Sir, welcome to Berlin. I'm Nelson, boss slave around here. Eric has had me in harness for three years now. He wants me to help you guys get settled in."

He gestures towards Carl and Max, who have also assumed a submissive stance to match his - they always pick up the first hint of a sexual situation and get right into role. I find myself feeling proud of them, it's good to show these guys that we do things properly back home.

Nelson obviously earns his title "boss slave", by running this club for Eric on a rod of iron. It's odd how a masochistic guy can have that kind of drive and authority, but it often happens. Those who like to be the boss in life frequently reverse and need to be dominated sexually. I also notice that although this black dude is certainly a great physical specimen, he isn't bulky like Max; but his arms shoulders and chest are probably as heavily muscled. His torso tapers down to a very narrow waist and hips, which then bulge out into massive thighs. He looks slightly top heavy in tight T-shirt and leather jeans, but I can tell that his body will be superb naked - which is how I want it - as soon as possible.

I can also tell that he is very turned on by me. Sometimes a slave responds to you as a master, not caring what you look like. Sometimes you get that same reaction enhanced by physical attraction (that's not good, as it's usually a one night stand - the average M who's into an S's looks enough to let it show isn't heavily enough into S/M to be any use, or to stick at it with one guy).

Very occasionally you get a guy like this heavy black, who clearly wants an S who's smaller than himself. Nelson has been with small slim Eric for three years, and I guess he wants to be dominated by me, because he is about half my size again. Being just below average height works that way sometimes, but it can also work the other way. Fortunately I'm not small enough to have too many problems, just enough to attract a Nelson if he's exceptionally big.

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