Steven

This is the fourth part of chapter two. I know this chapter is threatening to spiral completely out of control, but I really wanted to confine Steven's abduction (and the circumstances that led to same) to one chapter; yet, different pieces of the tale keep revealing themselves, demanding to be reckoned with, and splitting the chapter into parts is the only practical way to accommodate that.

Profound thanks go to everyone who is taking the time to allow these tortured souls into your lives for a bit, and to everyone who is writing me to tell me how they feel about this story. I read every letter, and respond to many of them, and the feedback means a great deal to me. Special thanks to Steve (most seriously, the only paramedic who has written me a positive response, and your point about the ambulance is well-taken, sir), to PK (an elegantly verbose man whose letters haven't yet failed to enlighten and entertain me), to John (a reader who, to my stunned and grateful amazement, is paying sincere and severe attention to every last syllable of this story), and to Mark (the answer to your question: "now now now!") for your thoughtful perspectives, opinions, and questions. And I offer especially heartfelt gratitude to The Captain, whose series of recent emails were literally overflowing with incredibly compelling and helpful information and ideas. I'm blown away by all of you, but especially You, Sir.

And for those of you out there ---- you know who you are ---- who are getting uptight about the contents and context of this story, read my lips: IT'S. JUST. A. STORY. We read and write about things that we'll never experience ourselves; that's why it's called "fiction." And not for nothing, but the disclaimer on page one of this website clearly states that you explicitly choose any access you receive to these words. If you've gotten this far into the site, you obviously want to be here, so now that you're here, loosen the hell up and enjoy it.

A quasi-related note: just because characters in stories -- all stories, not just mine -- don't necessarily practice safe sex does not mean that we mere mortals shouldn't. A condom is just a stupid piece of rubber, and if you honestly believe that it impedes true sexual satisfaction, then you're being incredibly foolish, naive, and dangerous. Sex is a 100% mental game, which is proven by the fact that you're reading and enjoying these stories. Safe only means boring if you have no imagination.

OK, by the end of 2c, we had met Steven Baylor, a confident, sensitive, college-bound Texas boy, and Jon McDermott, an insecure, empty, unfulfilled Louisiana man. Steven has been living a perfect life to here. Jon, on the other hand, has been running in place for a while now, his existence mere moments away from receiving the kick-start of a lifetime....

TWO (part four)

She woke with a start, and she just knew, somehow, that something was off. A mother always knows. Wasn't she forever trying to convince her children that a mother always knows?

At 3:37 am, on a cool March morning, Susan Baylor knew.

She laid in bed for a few seconds collecting her bearings, but she had an instant sense that Steven wasn't in the house.

His room was right across from his parents' and, when he was there, notions of him hung in the air: if he'd been out with Haley, faint hints of Old Spice; if he'd been up at the pool swimming laps, the unmistakable scent of chlorine; if he'd been working out hard and heavy, a manly, hormonal two-fer of testosterone-incited sweat and sex.

And at 3:37 am, on a cool March morning, in the hallway separating the bedrooms of Baylors senior and junior: nothing. The air was still, sterile. Steven hadn't been here for hours.

She tapped gently on his door, and then slid it ajar. Her fingers roamed the wall, found the switch, flipped it up. The ceiling fan hummed tentatively to life, and the four 75-watt bulbs hanging beneath exploded into action, confirmed what she already knew. Steven's bed was untouched, crisply made, exactly as he had left it the previous morning, when he raced out the front door, already too late for work to grab breakfast.

She tried to fight it, but worry immediately overtook her. She could count on one hand all the times in his life that Steven had missed his curfew. In fact, he had proven himself so trustworthy that she and William hardly ever bothered waiting up for him anymore. And, as a reward for his stellar achievements on the football field and in the classroom, they agreed to extend his curfew to 2 am on Friday and Saturday nights, on his promise that it wouldn't affect his job or his studies in any way.

And now it was Sunday morning, 3:39, and her son wasn't here. She made a quick, quiet search of the home ---- living room, den, bathrooms, kitchen, Robert's room, garage, even the basement. Nothing. No note. No phone message. No sign of Steven at all. She tied her robe around the waist and walked outside. Steven's prized Chevelle --- which he had bought the previous summer for $850, and whose badly rusted exterior and filthy, trashed interior he had worked nights on end restoring with his own hands --- was sitting under the carport as always (to be driven, no touched, no as much as breathed on, only on special occasions), but his pickup truck was gone.

Susan Baylor scanned her mind for possible explanations. She knew that Haley wasn't in town, that she and her parents had gone to New Mexico for the weekend to visit relatives. (How she knew this: Steven had come in surprisingly early Friday night, just after eleven, explaining that Haley needed to get some sleep because was going to do some of the driving and they were leaving before sunup Saturday morning.)

This worried her further. Steven had a ton of friends, almost every one of which had spent oodles of time inside her home, at her dinner table, in her living room, in sleeping bags in her backyard. But whenever he was out super-late ---- and how many times had he re-entered this house five minutes, two minutes, thirty seconds before curfew? ---- he was usually out with Haley. Not hardly the party animal that most of his friends and classmates were, he generally preferred quiet nights out on the lake, just he and his girlfriend.

Which suited her just fine. She recognized long ago how nuts her son was about little Haley Stenson ---- just watching the way he looked at the girl, and what a true gallant soul he was with her, made her heart soar, made her thrilled to be that boy's mother. And after all the wild, worry-filled nights she endured throughout Sally's torturous adolescence, she nightly thanked her lucky stars for the gifts of Robert (who needed only a fast, loaded computer to be happy) and Steven (universally regarded as the sweetest kid in town).

3:43. Sunday morning. He still wasn't home.

She stepped back into the house, down the hall, inside her room. William was still dead to the world. She slid her feet into the sandals that she had already laid out for church and decided she would drive around the neighborhood and see if she could spot his truck. He probably got talked into going to some party or another and forgot to call home, she tried to make herself believe. He probably just lost track of time.

Even before she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. Sally, all the time. Robert, occasionally, especially when he and his friends got together to discuss computers, video games, whatever. But not Steven. Not ultra-responsible Steven.

Her heart was close to pounding. Something was very, very wrong. She was sure of it.

She drove past the Stensons' house first, praying that Steven's truck would be out front. It wasn't. Then down to Brad Noonan's house. Steven's favorite receiver on the field, best friend off. Nothing.

She didn't know where this Saturday's big party was taking place, chiding herself for never keeping track of such things. It could've been anywhere. She considered driving out toward the lake, but again had no clue where to start looking once she made it that far.

You're overreacting, Susan, she kept trying to tell herself. There's a simple explanation.

She drove past house after house, friend after friend, to no avail. 4:06. Sunday morning. Winters, Texas was completely asleep.

It dawned on her, just after she had decided to return home, that there was one place she hadn't checked. She made a quick right turn onto Main and sped up the hill, past the school, past the Baptist church, past the Family Dollar, First National, Allsups, Dairy Queen.

She made it to the Market Basket in just over a minute. The two lights in the middle of the small parking lot shone down, bathing the asphalt-covered square with a dim yellowish glow.

She saw it immediately.

Steven's truck was parked in the back corner, just like always.

Goosebumps swept across her arms as she pulled the car up next to his pickup. She took a slow, deep breath, then stepped out. The truck was locked up tight. She stuck her face up to the window and peered inside. Nothing unusual. She touched her hand to the hood. Cold. Hadn't been run for hours.

She looked toward the store itself. All the interior lights were off. Something is very, very wrong, she told herself once more, and walked toward the building's front door. The door was locked. All she could see inside were the white lights of the freezer cases along the back wall.

She knew that Steven closed the store by himself on Fridays and Saturdays: Matt usually had the meat market shut down by six and was out the door shortly thereafter, and Lynn, the head cashier, didn't have a babysitter on those two nights and had to be home before 6:30. Brian, the store's longtime manager, was highly impressed with Steven and implicitly trusted him, so he was more than happy to let the boy take the reins.

As she strained her eyes peeking through the glass into the store, desperately searching for anything extraordinary, she remembered Brian telling her a few weeks back that Steven was the best employee that he'd ever had, and that the whole town was going to be devastated when he left for Austin in the fall. She remembered smiling, remembered thanking him, remembered wondering what she ever did in the world to deserve such a sterling human being calling her "Mom."

And now he was gone.

She stepped away from the door, looking all around her. The air was eerily quiet, calm. "Steven?" she called out into the silence. "Steven, are you here?"

No answer.

She walked around the building's perimeter toward the dumpsters, trying to retrace Steven's likely routine in her mind. She knew that he generally used the back door when he was hauling the garbage out. Filled Hefty bags, broken down cardboard boxes, shredded plastic garb: he had previously told her that dispensing with the store's trash was usually the last thing he did before locking the doors.

She could barely see inside the smelly trash container, but there were numerous flattened strips of cardboard and at least two garbage bags, tied at the top. She then walked to the back door. Locked. It wasn't computing. She considered calling Brian, asking him to come down and unlock the store so she could see for herself whether or not Steven was inside, but she hated to call someone at 4:15 on a Sunday morning, and she already knew in her gut that her son wasn't inside this store ---- if he was, how would the front door have gotten locked?

"OK, Susan, just calm down now," she said aloud, to nobody, to anybody. "Just calm down. There's an explanation." She walked back toward the front. "People don't just vanish now, that's just crazy. There's an explanation." Looked toward Steven's pickup again. "OK, he made it to the dumpster, obviously. Went back inside the store. Locked the back door. Turned out the lights. Left the store. Locked the front door." She scanned the ground for keys, change, wallet, watch, anything that would offer her a clue. There was nothing but stray gravel. "Somebody just came here and picked him up, then. Took him to a party. They just lost track of time," she said. Begged herself to believe it.

She wanted to promise herself that she wouldn't get too angry with her son when he did reappear ---- the boy is entitled to a screw-up every now and then, she decided, even one that worries her half to death. She steeled herself with the idea that he'd show up just in time for church, complete with a perfectly reasonable story, and that they'd go out afterward and have a nice lunch and a hearty laugh about it all.

She stole one final glance at Steven's truck, and then got back in the car and returned home, hoping she'd be able to get an extra hour or two of sleep.

The sex ---- the first night, seven minutes; the second, close to forty ---- was like nothing he had ever imagined. Not a single second of his carnal history had prepared him for the mind-blowing sensations; he had fucked some strong, tight pussies, true enough, but they were nothing like this. The boy's tiny butt swallowed his nervous dick with a near-punishing grip so severe that it almost felt as though his penis would be yanked from his body.

If there was one thing in the world that he had never imagined himself doing, or having the least bit of interest in, it would have been sliding his cock into a teenage boy's asshole. But after it happened once, Jon McDermott could scarcely imagine sliding his cock into anything else.

Fucking Jake felt right. Completely natural, and real. It was over in mere minutes ---- he hadn't gotten laid in weeks and his body was so ready for it ---- but the impression it left was gigantic. He was intoxicated, yes, but the sensations, the complex emotions, still managed to break through. It was traumatic and ecstatic. It was gruesome and gratifying. It was nothing at all and everything at once.

When it was over, and he lay there on top of Jake, listening to the boy's breathing slowly return to normal, he felt like he'd been slapped, square in the face. Felt like there was a whole new world now available to him, waiting for him, whispering in his ear.

He hadn't begun the evening in his right mind (which, in hindsight, made him putty in Jason's patient hands). A couple of tense, terse, typical telephone conversations with his son Steve and his ex-wife Connie earlier that afternoon had killed his mood, and he was simply looking to go out, get drunk, and find someone to help him forget himself for a while. He had been jerking off daily in the interim, but he still needed the fierce physical release of a great fuck: his balls felt insatiably heavy, his dick full and discolored. Someone was going to spread her legs for him tonight, he decided, come hell or high water.

He ended up at Sully's, a downtown bar and grill that was a favorite of the off-duty medics and generally a magnet for beautiful women. He spent the first hour nibbling on a burger and fries, getting progressively less sober ---- Heineken first, bourbon thereafter ---- and making eye contact with several potential candidates. He was slowly driving himself into a frenzy, imagining the darkness of his bedroom later, imagining the kissing, the touching, the moans, the friction....

He spent the second hour getting shot down: four times, four different women. One had a boyfriend (which she revealed twenty full minutes into their conversation); one had an ex-boyfriend watching her every move from another table; one was interested until he mentioned that he was a paramedic (evidently she had been in the market for a man who fixed the injured rather than merely transported them); one wasn't interested at all.

As he had resigned himself to yet another night alone, in walked Jason with a man easily ten years his junior: suit and tie, shiny black shoes, impeccably put-together, and hanging on every word of the conversation. Jason caught sight of Jon sitting alone in the dark corner and looked back at his companion. Jon watched Jason point toward the bar, and then saw Jason's friend scamper off.

"Hey, old pal," Jason said to Jon as he approached the table. "Jake and I have missed you the past few weeks."

"Yeah?" Jon asked.

"Yeah." Jon nodded, gave Jason a slight, flippant smile. "The poor kid.... He loves it when I have people over. He usually only gets to see me."

It had been almost seven months since Jake's shoulder injury, and three weeks since Jon had given Jason the all clear. He knew Jason had been fucking the boy again for a while ---- "My dick is gonna shrivel the fuck up, and his asshole is gonna close up if I don't get back in there stat, doc," Jason begged him one night over a few beers following a rigorous physical therapy session with the boy ---- and Jon gave in, after insisting that Jason take it extremely easy with the kid: no rough play, no chains, no torture games.

And then days prior, after months of twice-weekly rehabilitation sessions in which he guided the boy through a series of grueling stretching and weight- bearing exercises aimed at returning the wounded joint to full capability, Jon pronounced to both master and slave that the shoulder was fully healed, and that their lives and sexual routines could return to normal.

Jon then, having grown frightened of the quasi-paternal bond he had felt himself irrevocably developing with Jake, made himself scarce. He avoided Jason's phone calls, messages, pages. Growing closer to Jake made him miss his own son, Steve, all the more, and the pain was slowly becoming unbearable.

"How is he?" Jon asked, almost tentatively, almost not wanting to know.

"Goddamn fantastic, man. Better than ever. The sex is better than goddamned ever, Jonny. You're a fucking miracle worker, man."

"I'm really not."

"I'm telling you, this experience has made him a much better, much stronger slave. You should have seen him last night. I took him into the punishment room, reminded him that he had several months' worth of demerits built up and that payment had come due."

"You know, my ex-wife calls me a cold bastard every time I talk to her," Jon said. "Did you know that?"

"Jon----"

"But I tell you what, I got nothing on you most days, man. You take the cake."

"Oh please, is this another one of those poor Jake' lectures coming on? Because you can save it if it is. There is no poor Jake.' He's a slave. When slaves don't obey, they get punished. How many fucking times do I have to explain that to you?"

"I don't know, Jason, I guess until it fucking sinks in."

"Well aren't you unusually pathetic tonight?" Jason said. "How much of that shit have you drank?"

"Not enough, obviously."

"Man, you need to get laid, pronto."

"Why the fuck do you think I'm here?" Jon cut his eyes toward the bar. Jason's friend was pretending not to watch them. "Who's the guy?"

"That's Sam. Works in the office."

"Really? They let teenagers work in the D.A.'s office nowadays?"

"Fuck you, he's 23. And he's eager to please. And I have made it my mission tonight to find out just how eager."

"I see."

"He's been flirting with me for weeks. Trying to get in good with the boss, I guess. Something like that."

"You're OK with that?"

"Absolutely fine." Jason sighed. "I like `em young anyway. You know that better than most, right?"

"What about Jake?"

"What about him? He's a slave, Jon. He's not my boyfriend."

"Christ."

"Look, I love fucking him, OK? Dearly love it. He knows how to make my body do some incredibly magical things, and he's fucking good at it. But sometimes I really need to fuck a man. Need a man's body writhing underneath mine while I fuck him senseless. Jake's good, but he's still just a boy."

"I see. And Sam's a man?"

"Tonight he is. Look at that body. Those shoulders. I'm not sure how often that hot ass of his gets fucked here in backwoods Shreveport, but I'll have the scoop by sunrise. I'm in the mood to fuck him until he's numb." Both men eyed Sam standing at the bar, sipping a Corona, looking more than a bit nervous.

"You excel at luring people in over their heads, Jason. I really gotta hand it to you--"

"Are you mad at me?"

"---and against their better judgment, at that. I mean, I knew better, for crying out loud. I knew better!"

"Jon...." Jason said.

"Don't. Just don't."

"Come home with us tonight, man."

"Fuck you."

"We can introduce Sam to Jake. We can play for a while. We can have so much fucking fun tonight, Jon. I can show you a whole new world."

"Fuck you, Jason."

"You know, Jake already thinks of you as Master Jon. And he hasn't really gotten the opportunity to properly thank you for all you have done to heal him."

"Goddamn you, Jason."

"He was telling me last night how much he wants you, man. I had him up on the rack, stretched to the max, putting that good-as-new shoulder to the test. He was ramming his ass onto his favorite dildo, telling me he wished it was you inside him instead of some rubber mass."

"Oh God----"

"He wants you----"

"What in the fuck have you done to my mind, you bastard?"

"He wants you to become his master for real, Jon. He wants to be your boy in every sense of the word, man."

Silence.

"Come on, Jon. You're striking out here, that's pretty obvious. Once you get used to it, it's just like fucking a woman. No, wait a minute, that's a lie. It's better than fucking a woman. Ten times better. Twenty."

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can, Jon. Just say yes. Just surrender to the idea. It's fucking amazing, I promise you. Jake and I will show you some things that are fucking incredible. Just say yes."

"No...."

"I'll go get Sam, we can go to my house, drink a little, see where the night takes us. It'll be completely natural, the most natural thing in the world."

"No, Jason."

"Take a chance, man. For once in your pathetic, wretched life, take a fucking chance on something interesting." Jason turned toward the bar, motioned Sam to join them. The young man walked over, stretched out his hand immediately toward Jon. "Sam, this is my oldest friend, Jon McDermott. We grew up together."

"Nice to meet you," Sam said, with a genuine smile that was indeed eager. Jon accepted his hand with obvious hesitation, and Sam turned to Jason with a perplexed expression.

"Sam," Jason said. "How adventurous are you, man?"

"I... I don't really know...." Sam didn't know how to respond, didn't know what exactly was in store. His evening ---- which had been revolving around a seemingly simple seduction ---- was taking a radical left turn.

"Well, Jon and I, we have someone that we'd very much like you to meet. You think you're up for that, buddy?" Jason asked, offering the young man a slight leer.

"I sup... I suppose so, Mr. Phelps." He was very nervous now.

"Hey. What did I tell you earlier, Sam?" He smiled at Jon, who was trying hard to control his stomach, which was turning somersaults over the emotional trap he knew he was being lured straight into. "Later on tonight, you're gonna be riding my cock like a fucking Triple Crown jockey, and when I'm thisclose to shooting my load straight up your tight perfect ass, are you going to be screaming out, `Mr. Phelps! Mr. Phelps! Fuck me, Mr. Phelps! Fuck me harder, Mr. Phelps!'?" Sam shook his head, his cheeks turning an unmistakable shade of crimson. "Well that's a relief. I'm damn glad to hear that." He tossed back a swig of the beer that Sam had brought with him. "So call me Jason."

Susan Baylor's extra hour or two of sleep never came. She returned to the house that cool March morning, returned to bed, and listened to her husband's peaceful snoring. Tried not to let the building panic conquer her. Steven always carried his wallet, she knew, so if there had been an accident or something, they would have been contacted by now, surely. She considered calling Abilene hospitals, but couldn't let her mind go to that place. Not yet.

William awoke a few minutes before seven, and Susan was still laying there, wide awake, staring holes into the ceiling. "Good morning, beautiful," he said to his wife in a soft, sleepy voice.

"Will," she said calmly. He recognized her tone of voice, instantly.

"Oh God. What's wrong?"

"Steven. He didn't come home last night."

"What?!"

"I woke up, before four."

"Oh Jesus."

"I looked in his room, I looked outside, I went driving around. His truck is still up at the store."

"Did you go to Haley's?"

"Haley's not here. The Stensons went to New Mexico for the weekend, left yesterday morning."

"OK," William said. "OK. It's probably nothing."

"Will-----"

"Susie, listen to me, OK? It's probably just something stupid, all right? Some party or something. Maybe he drank a little too much and decided to stay put."

"Will, I am scared out of my mind and I'm trying really hard not to be."

"Listen, our son is a smart kid, OK? You know that. One of the sharpest people you know, how many times have you said that?"

"I know. I know that. It's just that after all of Sally's shenanigans.... I thought I wasn't going to survive her back then."

"I remember, too well. But listen, God love my daughter as much as I do, but Steven isn't Sally. Remember the last time he missed curfew? Just a blown tire, baby, that's it."

"That's not it this time. His truck's at the Market Basket."

"He'll be here any minute, I know it. And he'll have a perfectly reasonable story. Let's just get up, go make some coffee, read the paper, and wait for him. Deal?"

She exhaled slowly. "Fine. But if my son believes for one second that he's going to skip church just because he was out all night doing Lord knows what, he's got another thing coming."

"You tell him, momma."

"When he walks through that front door," Susan Baylor declared, "first, I'm gonna give him a big hug." She slid into her house shoes, re-tied her robe, and walked out into the hallway. She took one more peek into Steven's room, then told her husband, "And then, I'm gonna kill him for keeping me up half the night worried sick."

They were naked, all four of them.

The humidly stale air inside Jason's basement dungeon had sprung to life, was sizzling with sexual desire.

Jon sat timidly beside the door, trying hard to ignore the plain fact that he was irrefutably turned on by the overtly foreign sexual activities he was watching unfold.

Jason stood a few paces away, stroking himself proudly, admiring his handiwork, admiring himself tremendously for having the balls to imagine and then create and then control a scenario like this.

Sam was on his knees on an exercise mat in the center of the room. His arms and abdomen were hugging a leather-covered, coffin-like rectangle. His head lolled from side to side. His barely-visible dick was rock hard. The older men could see he was clearly lost in the rapture of what was happening just inside his asshole.

Jake was on his knees as well, sitting just behind Sam. His wrists were cuffed tightly behind his back, and his nose and mouth were buried in Sam's anus.

Jason's young protege was getting his first-ever rim job.

Sam had a fairly healthy buzz going: he knew he shouldn't have listened, but Jason could be awfully persuasive and insisted that he drink that fourth Corona before they headed out into the untamed night. Said he obviously needed to relax a bit more. Said, "I like my assholes tight, not uptight. And yes, there's a difference."

Once at Jason' home, Jason and Jon led the young man down the stairs toward the basement. Sam gripped Jason's hand. He was pretty drunk and the angle was steeper than he expected. Jason spoke to Sam the whole way down.

"Sam, you need to listen to me, very carefully." Sam tried hard to focus on his boss. His mind was cloudy. "Stay with me, Sam. I'm going to show you... you're going to see some things down here, in this room. Some things that you thought you'd never see in your life. Do you understand that?" Sam waited a few seconds and then nodded. "Now, I want you to have a good time tonight, OK? I want you to enjoy yourself thoroughly, I really do. But I'm telling you right now, son, and you better listen to me. Sam? Are you listening?"

"Yes, Mr. Phelps," he said after a couple of beats.

"Sam, if you breathe one single word about any of this to anybody outside of this room, ever, for the rest of your sad life, I swear to Jesus I will ruin you. Am I clear, son?"

Sam nodded.

"What you see here, what you do here, stays here. Got it?"

Another nod.

"OK, boys, let's go make a memory." Jason slid the key into the locks and slid open the dungeon door.

Jon watched Sam's face carefully. He felt for the kid. He had no idea what Jason had planned for Sam, but it couldn't have been anywhere close to what Sam must have initially anticipated, none of which Jon would have bet involved having a teenage boy give his asshole a tongue bath while two naked forty-year old men looked on, riveted.

Sam was stunned as he processed what he was looking at. A jail cell. Whips. Chains. Leather. A skinny naked kid, asleep behind the iron bars.

"Jake!" Jason called out. The boy jumped at the sound of his master's voice. "Get up, buddy. There are a couple of people here that want to see you." He walked to unlock the cell door.

Sam was overwhelmed. It was beyond reason. There weren't words for this.

"What is this place?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, begging his body to sober up.

"Tonight, it's paradise," Jason responded, flashing Sam a crooked smile as he hooked Jake's leash onto his collar and pulled him toward the men. "Jake, you remember Master Jon, of course. And this is Sam. He works in my office. Sam, this is Jake. He's my slave."

"Oh my God," Sam said.

"Sam, Sam...."

"Oh my God." Sam turned back toward the basement door, sure of nothing but his absolute need to get out of the room.

"Sam!" Jason called, and vaulted toward the door, dropping Jake's leash. Jason threw his body in front of the entryway to block the young man's path. "Sam, where are you going?"

"Home, I just need to go home and get some sleep, Mr. Phelps."

"Didn't I tell you to call me Jason?"

"Sir ---- "

"I thought we were going to have some fun, Sam. I thought you were adventurous. Isn't that what you told me?"

"Sir, I need to---- "

"Sam, come in here, sit down, get comfortable, and give yourself to me for a little while," Jason said, his voice oozing warmth and lust. "I promise you, you won't regret it. It'll be the best night of your life, all right?"

"Jas----"

"Listen, listen, thirty minutes. Give me thirty minutes, and if you don't like what's happening, by all means, you can go. I'll even drive you. OK? Deal?"

Sam looked over at Jake, who stood yawning with a slight slouch. He was wearing a black collar with metal studs protruding, a blue collar swinging in front of his chest. The kid had no pubic hair, Sam could see. No arm hair. A buzz cut on his head. His exposed dick was limp but appeared ready to leap to life at any second. His balls looked inflated, engorged, like he hadn't ejaculated in months.

"Come on, Sam. If you leave now, I am certain you'll regret it for the rest of your life. So let's just relax. Let's lose some of these clothes and just relax, OK? Loosen that tie a little bit," Jason said, and watched Sam move his arm, almost mechanically, toward his sweating neck. He then turned to Jake. "You better get that hot tongue of yours revved up, boy. I can already tell the man's asshole is gonna need a hell of a lot of attention before it will accommodate my cock. Am I clear?"

The microwave clock in the Baylor kitchen read 10:33 am. There was still no sign of Steven. Susan Baylor was just inches away from being full-blown frantic. She knew in her bones already ---- had known the minute, seven hours earlier, when she awoke with the realization that her son wasn't home ---- that something was hideously wrong. She was now certain that there would be no reasonable explanations, no convincing stories ---- the window of opportunity for that was far beyond them now, and she understood that it was time to prepare herself for something crippling.

Susan Baylor loved all of her children, to be sure, but she loved Steven differently, profoundly. She adored him.

She drank cup after cup of stiff black coffee that Sunday morning; by 10:33 am, she was nursing her seventh. (Typical mornings, by comparison, had her struggling to finish one, and this morning's consumption was betraying her: she was jittery, wired.) The warmth of the liquid generally comforted her, calmed her even. Today it didn't. Nothing could.

Thoughts of Steven flooded her entire body, held her heart in thrall. Flashbacks, memories, events.

The time he broke his leg in three places ---- eleven years old, Little League, one hell of a player, so good the coach took to calling him "Little Hank." The precocious little fucker was in the process of stealing third base: slid toward the plate, landed wrong, never had a chance. She'll swear to this day that she could hear the bones snap, as clear as water, even though she was fifty yards away up in the bleachers. And even though she was fifty yards away, she beat everyone onto the field as soon as it became clear that he wouldn't be getting up on his own.

The time she came upon Steven and Robert having a good old-fashioned brotherly fight ---- Steven was ten, Robert was almost eight, and there was a pair of blue jeans that Steven prized and Robert coveted. Her philosophy on bickering children was simple: never intervene until you see blood; just let `em fight it out and be done with it. Steven won that one, but it was a knock-down, drag-out that climaxed with Steven wrestling his brother down to the ground in a headlock and screaming into his ear that he was never to as much as cast a wayward glance in the direction of his closet ever again. (The part she'll never forget, though: the two boys, not forty-five minutes later, sharing a can of Coca-Cola and laughing, carrying on as if nothing had ever happened.)

The time, just last year, when she stood on a neutral football field and held her son in a consoling embrace so tight she thought she might crack his ribs. The Blizzards, after a positively magical, legendary, mythical season ---- the kind coaches and players alike dream about, the kind no one ever dares to believe they'll actually see ---- had stumbled in the fourth quarter of the big game, losing the ball in what Steven was heard describing, yelling, on the field as "a stupid motherfucking fumble!" and setting up Celina's fourth down field goal. Steven and his offense were left with twenty-seven seconds of playing time, and Steven, his focus wrecked and his heart pounding, just couldn't get the momentum back against Celina's tough, game defense, which held out and pulled down that shattering 15-14 victory. From the stands, she could see her son's blatant devastation, and she was down there just after the buzzer sounded. She was down there before Haley, before his father, before anybody. She was down there and she was in his face as he tore the helmet off his head ---- already awash in tears, sweat crawling from every pore, the boy was emotionally and physically demolished. She yanked his body into hers fiercely, protectively even, told him that she was never more proud of anybody in her entire life, that he had played his heart out, that it wouldn't matter that they lost, that the folks in Winters, Texas would be discussing the mighty Steven Baylor and his ferocious, competitive spirit for years, hell decades, to come. "I'm so proud of you," she repeated, over and over again, and hugged him like it would kill her to let him go.

The time, also last year, when she accidentally walked in on him as he was toweling off from a shower. She had gone into the bathroom to deposit fresh linens and had no idea that her son was inside, naked. They were both completely embarrassed, but her feelings proved in time to be more complex. She got a glimpse of her oldest son's nude form: it didn't even register inside her mind as a full-on view, but more as a series of mental snapshots of individual parts ---- that thick, wet, dark hair; a slightly bulging shoulder; a healthy pectoral erupting behind a large, stray-haired nipple; a heavy, full penis; a gorgeously firm thigh ---- that formed a collage of a body.

It was just a second, maybe two, but it staggered her. Just a second, maybe two, but it was enough to incite inside her pride. Awe. And ---- and this is the one that floored her ---- a touch of jealousy. Genuine envy.

She knew ---- of course she knew! ---- how outrageous and unthinkable it was to have such thoughts about her own son. But such thoughts were there nonetheless, and they were inescapable. And there was a tiny piece of her that wanted to be Haley Stenson: just for a night, to be the insanely lucky young lady who would be held by those gentle, practiced arms.

She knew ---- just from maternal instinct, not from anything she had seen or heard ---- that Steven had found and explored his sexual side. It was clear in the new way he carried himself, in the way he maintained himself, even in the way he played football this past year. Everything in his life in the past year had seemed to simmer in a palpable vigor that couldn't quite be named. Except by Susan. Susan could name it. A mother can always name it.

In that one fleeting glimpse of Steven's young, manly body (just a second, maybe two), she immediately recognized his father's frame, except Steven's was better, stronger, more taut. Whereas William's musculature was always rugged, natural, an afterthought, she saw that Steven's ---- though he was hardly a gym rat ---- was refined, deliberate, the point. The thought thrilled her beyond all logic, touched her in places nothing, not even her husband's familiar and reassuring motions, ever had.

And even though her guilt and shame afterward were immense, almost too great to bear (and she talked herself down from it by reasoning that every mother of a strapping, gorgeous son must experience the same emotions), for months following the bathroom incident, every single time she and William made love, she silently imagined that he was Steven, and that she was Haley. And every single time she and William made love, William silently wondered what in the world he was doing differently that was inspiring inside his wife the most mind-numbing orgasms she had ever known.

Sam had been naked with a man only a handful of times in his whole life. Had been fucked only twice (either experience memorable for only wrong reasons). Had never gotten his dick sucked. His entire adult life had become an impenetrable knot of unrealized desires.

So when it dawned on him that Jason Phelps had indeed been discreetly but plainly flirting with him during their shared coffee breaks ---- actually, no, when it dawned on him that he himself was flirting right back with the older, stunning-looking man ---- it was as if a roaring blaze had been ignited inside his skull, inside his chest, inside his loins. When he jerked off in the nightly darkness, he now had a clear image upon which to fix, a clear goal toward which to navigate.

Jason reeled him in slowly, with agonizing precision and dexterity, so that when the fateful day arrived, and he cornered Sam in his office and boldly proclaimed that his hard cock would be inside Sam's asshole by nightfall, he was supremely confident that Sam would follow wherever he led.

Sam followed. He already had enough regrets to fill two lifetimes, was tired of allowing his innate shyness to affect every choice he made. He had a sense (or perhaps just a hope) that Jason would be a patient, generous teacher, and that a night in Jason's bed would be a torrid start to a brand new chapter of his theretofore sheltered life.

William managed to convince his wife that they should go ahead and attend church, that surely there would be someone, anyone, who could give them some information on Steven's whereabouts, or at least be able to explain why he didn't come home last night.

Only when Robert offered to stay home and man the phones did she agree to go. She threw on the dress that she had selected and ironed the night before, slapped on some makeup, and rejoined her husband in the front room, where Robert was assuring his father that he'd run to the church and inform them the second Steven made contact.

Susan had been fighting the obvious fact all morning: the only reason Steven hadn't called home ---- to tell them he was safe, to tell them he was drunk, to tell them anything ---- was because he couldn't. It didn't matter to her why he couldn't, and all the options were horrifying. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe he was just laying unconscious somewhere ---- a friend's backyard, a ditch, a hospital bed. Maybe he had even been kidnapped. Each image turned her stomach, and she could only pray that whatever had happened to her son, that he wasn't in any pain. The thought that somebody would knowingly inflict pain on her beloved little boy was appalling. And blinding. And wouldn't budge from her rattled mind.

"The kid's a genius, isn't he, Sam?" Jason asked. Sam couldn't form words. He was so relaxed and in such ecstasy that he could only moan, could only grunt. "I tell you what, there's a lot that he hasn't mastered just yet, but my slave is a goddamned brilliant asslicker. Aren't you, boy?" Jake lifted his head to meet Jason's eyes and offered him a barely audible "yes, Master" before returning his attention to the stranger's ass he had been instructed to prepare.

He was upset that Jason was apparently going to fuck this new man but couldn't dare to voice an objection. He was just a possession now, and he had accepted that, and he knew that possessions can't have feelings (not even jealousy, natch), yet: in his mind, the fact that he belonged to Jason meant also that Jason belonged to him, and he was never happy to discover that he was sharing his master's cock with other assholes.

Still, he obeyed. He allowed Jason to manhandle him in front of this audience, watched them watch Jason drag him with that horrible leash, slap the cuffs around his wrists, shove him to his knees and tell him to get to work.

"Have you ever had your hole worked like that, buddy?" Jason asked. Sam shook his head slightly, lost in a daze, in a foggy combo of liquor and lust. "Well don't get too spoiled down there, you hear me? Not everyone is as talented at it as Jake is, and I don't loan him out that often."

Jason cocked his head toward Jon, still seated by the door. The paramedic's penis was slowly taking shape, and Jon was gently rubbing the top of the shaft with the tips of his fore- and middle fingers of one hand; rubbing his stomach with the other. Jason gave an approving nod and a ruttish grin and returned his gaze to the main attraction.

Jake's jaw was starting to ache on either side. He had his lips pursed all around Sam's waiting hole, sucking, licking, gnawing at the tender flesh before him. Every now and then he would pause to exhale a bit of his hot moist breath onto Sam's perfectly firm asscheeks (though that was more to rest his jaw for a few beats than to turn the nervous prick on any further).

Sam was a lot less tense now, Jake could tell. The hole was considerably looser, allowing his small tongue to slide entirely inside. If Master Jason had fucked this man without the rim job --- especially if it had been a merciless, all-out fuck, which he knew from experience to be his Master's favorite method --- it would've destroyed Sam's rectum, would've torn him in two. His memories of Savannah were fuzzy and fading fast, but he could still recall a few johns from his early hustling days who would fuck him hard and dry, who would turn a cruel deaf ear to his pleas. ("I ain't payin' for romance, kid," he said as he ravaged Jake's irresistibly tiny butt in the cramped backseat of that trashed-out Pontiac. "I'm payin' for a goddamn fuck, and I'm gettin' my money's worth.") He couldn't wish that on anybody, not even a rival for his Master's attention.

Jason's cockhead was glistening. The stiff eroticism of the spectacle was blissfully overwhelming him. He stared down at Sam's steadily shuddering body, grinned again. "You see, Sam? I told you you'd enjoy yourself." He knelt to his knees at the edge of the floormat and inched forward until his dick was level with Sam's downturned head. Jason worked his large fingers into Sam's wavy blondish-brown hair and, when he had gathered a fair handful, squeezed tightly and lifted the man's head with a swift jerk. On reflex, Sam cried out and tried to lurch backward, thrusting his ass further into Jake's face and ensnaring the kid's nose inside the crack. Jason held his hair in a tight grip and stared straight into Sam's eyes. "Do I have your attention, Sam?" Jason asked with a calm voice.

"Yes, sir," Sam whispered.

"Have you ever had a man's cock inside your mouth?"

"Yes, sir," he said again, thrown by the twin sensations of the warm tongue bathing his asshole and the mean fist clutching his scalp.

"How many times, Sam?"

"Th-three."

"Three times." Jason looked across the room at Jon, smiled. "And was that three different cocks, or the same cock three times?"

"Different, sir."

Jason released his grip on Sam's hair. "Look at my cock, Sam," he said. Sam turned his eyes toward Jason's intimidating penis. "Were those three different cocks bigger or smaller than mine, son?"

"Jason----"

"Answer my question."

"Smaller, sir."

"So mine will be the biggest cock that you have ever sucked, is that accurate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Jason said. "Very good. Now tell me this. Do you consider yourself a good cocksucker?"

"I-I'm... I don't know, sir."

Jason returned his hand to Sam's head, pulling the tousled hair even tighter this time. "It's a simple question, Sam."

"I know, sir. I just don't know how to answer it."

"OK. Fine. Tell me this. Do you think you're a better cocksucker than the boy whose tongue is currently fucking your asshole?"

"Sir...."

"Just make an educated guess, Sam. If you were going to put down money on both of your cocksucking abilities, who would you bet on? Yourself, or little Jake back there?" He tugged on Sam's scalp until their eyes could lock.

"I-I'd probably... probably bet on Jake, sir." Jason smiled anew, and nodded his head in apparent approval.

"Well, Sam, that's a very smart answer. I'd probably bet on Jake myself." Jason kept Sam's hair trapped inside his clenched fist. "You're a smart kid, Sam," he said. "I've watched you in the office, wondered about you, wondered if I'd ever get this opportunity." He slowly pushed his penis toward Sam's eyes. He gripped the bottom of the shaft and began to rub the head against Sam's forehead, the bridge of Sam's nose, Sam's upper lip, Sam's chin, Sam's eyebrows, painting Sam's face, anointing Sam with the beginnings of his steaming semen.

The spongy head of Jason's aroused cock then slithered once more across Sam's tightly shut, newly moistened lips and then paused in the center. "I want you to accept my cock into your mouth now. And before I fuck you tonight, I want my cock to be as wet and as turned on as your asshole is. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered again. He had known this moment was coming, had been growing increasingly anxious throughout his and Jason's blunt dialogue. Sam didn't have a surplus of confidence in his oral sex skills, and in Jason's slightly arrogant presence, he was steadily losing confidence in his sexuality altogether.

He hadn't harbored any pretensions of controlling this situation ---- a night of illicit passion with his intensely masculine boss ---- but, as he stared at Jason's firm cock, as he continued to enjoy the exasperating rim job some poor kid was giving him, he was struck by how out of control he truly was. He couldn't pin down how this surrender made him feel ---- fear wasn't the precise word; he wasn't quite afraid of Jason, but he was markedly awed, and even intimidated, by the imposing man. If there was something to fear about this night, it was how easily he could picture himself getting lost in this illusion. He had read about the Master/slave dynamic, about such scenarios, and had found the stories thrilling. But he hadn't anticipated actually participating in one, and all of a sudden he had gotten drunk and stumbled into a genuine fantasy world. He had already permitted Jason to dominate him entirely; he was certain it wouldn't take much to become the man's servant. Just like Jake. Just like a slave.

Jason pressed the tip of his dick against Sam's still- closed lips and said simply, curtly, "Open." Sam instantly allowed his lips (and a half-second later, his teeth) to part, allowed the engorged head of Jason's penis to slide into his mouth and rest on his waiting tongue. Jason stood perfectly still. "Take your time, Sam. You're doing just fine. Stay calm and go with it. We've got all night. You've got all night to satisfy me, Sam. Just don't forget to breathe, and don't get too excited, and you'll do just fine."

Jason released his iron grip on Sam's hair, letting the man's skull relax inside his palm. He patted the young man's head as he would a cute puppy. Sam exhaled sharply and then stole a strong gulp of the room's dense air, pulling it into his nostrils and forcing his lips to circle tightly around Jason's cockhead.

"Are you ready, Sam?" Jason asked. Sam moaned softly. "Do you see those whips over there, buddy?" Another moan. "If I feel your teeth on my cock while I'm fucking your mouth, I may just have to use one of them on you. Am I clear?" A final moan. "You can ask Jake back there how much I hate teeth scraping across my cock while it's being sucked. Isn't that right, slave?"

Jake raised his head and answered, even-toned, "Yes, Master."

"Why don't you take a break, slave. You've done a fine job back there, but I want Sam to give me one hundred percent of his attention for the next few minutes while he gives me the most important blow job of his entire life." He patted Sam's head again. "I dare say Sam's entire future hinges on these next few minutes."

"Yes, sir," Jake said softly, struggling to rise to his knees.

"Why don't you go over to Master Jon now, show him some of the ways a man can please another man," Jason said. Jake looked over at Jon, still seated beside the door, completely relaxed. He had had the most to drink of any of the men, and the alcohol was showing: eyes were bloodshot, lips beginning to droop. His erection largely gone, his slackened penis laid against his thigh excreting a few drops of fluid.

"Sir?" Jake asked.

"Slave, I'm going to take Sam here up to my room in a little while and pound his ass `til daybreak. And while we're upstairs, you're going to stay here and get fully acquainted with Master Jon---."

"Jason---"

"Shut up, Jon," Jason said, never removing his eyes from his slave. "Master Jon has decided he is ready to fuck that hot ass that he's been staring at for months." Jake nodded, heart sinking, trying not to show it. "And you're going to throw every fiber of your being and ability into satisfying him." He stared over at Jon. "The poor deprived bastard has only ever had hairy pussy around his dick, so he's depending on you to show him what real sex feels like. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Jake said.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good boy, Jake," Jason said. "Now get over there and go to it." Jake stared at his Master for a second, telepathically begging him to remove the handcuffs that were cutting into his wrists, knowing he'd be whipped in front of everyone if he asked straight out. He understood after a few beats that Jason had no intention of dispatching the cuffs and put his head down, fought back a set of tears, and slumped onto his stomach. Arms bound uselessly behind him, and small, fully engaged dick pointing painfully downward, thin purplish head at rest against the cold floor, Jake commenced dragging his tired body over to his new Master.

Jason proudly watched his slave move toward Jon, then returned his eyes to his new conquest, who had taken the initiative and begun tracing wet circles with his tongue around the first third of Jason's dick. Jason could hear Sam's lips making tiny sucking sounds and was perfectly pleased. Everything he ever wanted in the world was in this room, and he was finally sharing it fully with his best friend.

With gentle, smooth motions, Jason rocked his pelvis to and fro, pushing and pulling his cock through Sam's seizing lips. He turned back to watch Jon, who spread his legs wider as Jake slowly approached, forming a cove for the slave to crawl into. Jake was wincing as he snaked in between Jon's calves, and when he thrust his upper body across, his shoulder blades coming to rest on Jon's thigh, Jon could see that Jake's chest, his nipples, and the head of his cock were red, rubbed raw from sliding across the basement floor. "It's OK, Jake," Jon whispered, stroking his cheek. He felt hot tears creeping down the boy's face. "It's OK, I promise."

"I'm sorry, Master," Jake choked out silently, staring hard at Jon's penis. He knew he'd break down completely if he looked Jon in the eye, knew he'd be punished if he broke down. His Master had made it clear some time ago that he would no longer tolerate Jake crying over his slave duties. So instead, he concentrated on the foreign body in front of him, on the task ahead of him: a brand new Master to please, a brand new dick to learn.

"I'm sorry too, Jake," Jon said, moving his hand to the boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, too."

During the sermon, William spotted the Winters chief of police, Tony Sweeney, sitting a couple of pews over. Sweeney's son, Josh, was the place kicker ---- and indeed, savior of more than his share of close games ---- on the high school football team. The Sweeneys had hosted several barbecue cookouts for the team over the years, and the Baylors sometimes sat with them in the stands during games, so they had all gotten to know each other fairly well.

When the church service was concluded, William stepped over to Sweeney as he rose from the pew. "Tony," William called, stretching out his hand.

"Will," Tony said. "Good to see you this morning, man."

"Listen... you guys haven't seen Steven anywhere around this morning, have you?" he asked.

Tony's jubilant smile faded quickly. "No, no I haven't. Is something wrong?"

"He didn't come home last night."

"OK," Tony said. "OK."

"Susan woke up around four this morning and realized he wasn't in. She drove around town, and ended up finding his truck up at the store. I went up there around eight thirty this morning and it was still there. He hasn't called, he hasn't left any messages. This isn't like him at all, Tony. He's never done this, ever."

"Did you check inside the store?"

"Brian met me up there this morning, unlocked the door for me. There was nothing out of place."

"OK, Will, OK. Let's stay calm here, I'm sure it's nothing." He looked nervously around him.

"Is Josh here?" William asked as Susan joined them.

"Good morning, Sue," Tony said to her as he shook his head. "No, no, Josh and the wife went up to Lubbock for the weekend, they're looking at Tech, that's where the kid has his heart set on going. They left yesterday morning. Have you checked with the Stensons? Whenever I see Steven around town, the Stenson girl is usually right there by his side."

"They've gone to New Mexico," Susan said. "Tony, something is very wrong here. I know it. I just know it."

"Sue, let's not panic, we don't know anything right now," Tony said.

"I know my son, all right? I know my son."

"OK, OK." Tony looked toward the door and spotted the Noonans standing in line to exit the church. "Bradley Noonan," he bellowed, filling the room. Steven's best friend turned toward the voice, identified the speaker.

"Yeah, chief?" Brad called back.

"Come here for a second, son," Tony said, beckoning him with a swipe of his hand. Brad stepped away from his parents.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Baylor, Chief" Brad said, and Susan reached across to hug him. Wished it could be Steven standing before her.

"Brad, have you seen Steven this morning?" William asked, a desperate pleading evident in his voice.

"No, sir, I haven't," Brad responded.

"Bradley, where was the party last night?" Chief Sweeney asked.

"Out at Aaron Lampler's place, sir. His parents went to Oklahoma City, they said we could use the ranch as long as we kept it clean."

"Was Steven there?"

"No. I went to the store last night to see if he wanted to go."

"What time was that?" Susan asked.

"Little past six, ma'am. He told me that Haley was in Clayton and that he was probably gonna go home, catch up on some homework," Brad said. "I told him---- well, never mind."

"What, Brad?" she asked.

"Well, I told him.... told him he was just like an old man who didn't know what to do with his wife out of town." He looked at the floor. "It was just a joke, ma'am," he said to Susan. "He just laughed and told me to either buy a loaf of bread or get the he---- heck. Get the heck out of the store."

"And that was six o'clock, Bradley?" Tony asked.

"Naw, probably six fifteen, six twenty."

"And you're sure he wasn't at the party?"

"I'm positive, chief. I was there the whole time, left at quarter to one. My curfew is one. I'm sure he wasn't there."

Susan sighed. "Still at square one, then," she said.

"Thanks for your help, Bradley," Tony said.

"Sorry I couldn't help more, Mr. and Mrs. Baylor."

William said, "If you hear from Steven at all, will you let us know?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Baylor."

"And spread the word, will ya, Bradley?" Tony said. "Find out if anybody knows anything."

"Will do, chief." Susan watched intently as the boy rejoined his mother and father at the door. She watched Brad speak to his parents, no doubt repeating the conversation. She knew the news was going to spread like a brush fire now.

"OK, you two, let's go down to the station, see if anything has come in, see what we can come up with."

"Tony---" Susan's entire face was quivering.

"Sue, listen to me, now. This is probably nothing, all right? Probably just some stupid teenage prank, OK?"

"No---"

"Now, listen to me, I've seen that boy of yours in action, you hear me? I've seen all those boys wrestling each other, horsing around. So have you."

"Yes," she said uneasily, tears freely rolling.

"Now, my Josh is a pretty stout kid, and I'm here to tell you that your boy had him pinned down without even breaking a sweat. In fact, had `em all pinned down without breakin' a sweat, more times than I got fingers to count." He looked Susan dead in the eye. "This is probably nothing, and you need to believe that. Until we have some concrete information, you need to stay calm and believe that this is probably nothing." He reached across and clutched her hand. "Steven knows how to defend himself. I'd put good money down on that kid any day of the week, folks. He's strong and he's smart, and if something foul has happened here, you have to cling to the knowledge that he can take care of himself. OK?"

Susan nodded, fell into William's tight embrace. She was fighting nausea again. She had agreed to come to church, optimistic that the mystery would be solved. But instead, it had only deepened. Brad's words had chilled her to the core, and as they came to a boil inside her mind, their implications threatened to send her over the edge. Steven had been planning to come home after he closed the store last night. He was going to catch up on his school work.

He should have been home by 7:15 last night, tops.

He had obviously closed the store in a normal fashion, she knew that. She had been up there at four this morning, and everything was as it should have been: dumpster full, lights out, doors locked. Nothing extraordinary, nothing unusual. She knew what it had to mean.

William started to lead his wife toward the door, and she said simply, "Someone's got him, Will."

"Baby, you heard what the----"

"You heard what Brad Noonan said. Steven was going to come home last night. He was coming home!"

"That doesn't mean----"

"William, someone has our son," Susan said in a cleanly detached voice, as if she were declaring her desire for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "He hasn't called us because he can't call us----"

"Susie, let's just----"

"----and he can't call us because someone's got him. That's why he never made it to his truck last night. That's why he never made it home. Someone's got him."

Above all else, I'm a father. I hardly ever talk to my son anymore, and I haven't seen him in years. But I'm still a father. Still his father. Forever.

Our lack of a connection, that was his choice. His request, actually. Told me the last time I saw him, couple years ago, that his life is too complicated with me in it. God, it killed me to stand there and listen to my kid say something like that to my own face. He told me he loves me, of course. Told me he understood most of the reasons why we lost whatever bond we might have had under different circumstances. Then he told me that he's got the family he needs, told me he's got a good thing.

And hell, what could I say to that? He was absolutely right, and I knew it. Connie remarried years ago, and Jack is a stand-up guy. Never failed to look me in the eye. Swore to me that he'd do anything to make Connie and Steve happy.

So my son ended up with a good mother and a good father, and that's more than a lot of kids ever get. I've seen that firsthand. It's also the kind of equation a man would be a fucking fool to mess with, no matter how close you are to the parties involved. When you see a situation that airtight, you're best off to just leave it alone and count your blessings.

So I left it alone. Did what Steve told me he wanted. He told me that someday in the future, when things were less complicated, we'd get together again. We'd reconnect. I nodded my head, smiled convincingly. I was trying really hard not to fall apart in front of him. Of course, I didn't tell him that things were never going to get simpler. He just turned nineteen a few months ago. Wasn't even seventeen then. Life is as uncomplicated for that boy right now as it is ever going to be.

I watched him in the rearview mirror as I pulled away. He was waving toward me. I prepared myself to believe that it was the last time I was ever going to be face to face with my son, with my boy, and so far it has been.

I was there the night he was born, did you know that? In fact, I drove the ambulance that carried Connie to the hospital. Held her hand from the moment they wheeled her into the building. Dr. Burke told us it was one of the easiest deliveries he had ever seen. I was never prouder of anyone than I was of Connie that night. She gave me an irreplaceable gift, something that would be mine forever. I'm not a great man, you know that. I made my peace with that a while ago. I've done bad things, made bad decisions all throughout my life. I'm not one of those guys who inspires awe in others. I'm just a man, you know. But for a second that night, I felt like more. I felt massive. Invincible. Important. I knew, even then, that he was going to be the greatest thing that was ever going to happen to me.

And I can't complain, I really can't. Steve had a good life. He got the childhood that Connie took him out of Louisiana to give him. She kept her word, she did right by him. She found a good guy, she made them all a good home.

I talk to him on the phone sometimes. A few times a year. He called last month, told me he was going to school to be a ski instructor and a physical trainer. Told me he had his pick of women, said they were lined up in front of him.

That's my boy.

When I saw him that last time, I couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe what a striking, handsome, virile young man I had helped to create. Seventeen years old almost, and all bold features. Blazing green eyes. Lithe, young, athletic body. A postcard-ready Colorado kid. I had been spending a lot of time with Jake at that time. I had almost forgotten what a young man is supposed to look like when all the pieces fall into place. When he's well-fed. When he's happy.

That's probably why I agreed to back off when he asked me to. I got a good opportunity to see with my own face that my kid was happy. It killed me to drive off that day, you've got to know that. But while I drove off with great sadness, there was also a sense of tranquility underneath it. A vast calm. A peace, just sitting there waiting, waiting for the sorrow to wear away.

Our conversation bounced around in my skull the whole way back to Louisiana, and by the time I made it home again, I knew what I had to do. I knew I was finally ready. I knew it was time.

As soon as they stepped inside the station, Susan and William stood by the door as Chief Sweeney informed Sarah, his loyal desk clerk for an eternity, that Steven Baylor hadn't come home the previous night. "Oh my Lord," Sarah said immediately, throwing her hand to her chest and looking toward Susan. "Tell me what I can do."

"Call Aaron Lampler, tell him to get his ass in my office double time. Bradley Noonan told us that Steven wasn't at their party last night, but you know how wrapped up that damn kid gets in those girls when they show up. Who the hell knows what he really saw last night," Tony said, and then turned to the Baylors. "Are the Stensons gonna be back today?"

"That's what Steven told me Friday night," Susan said. "Some time this afternoon."

"OK, Sarah, call the Stensons every fifteen minutes until you get someone. Leave messages. We need to get Haley in here the minute they get home. She might have talked to Steven last night, she might know something we don't. We need to fill in as many of these blanks as we can. Bradley told us he saw Steven up at the store last night, as late as 6:20. So we need to find out who was in that store after that, who saw Steven between 6:20 and 7, how he seemed, if he was acting strangely. Call Brian and see if we can't get a copy of the store security camera tape. Find out who was shopping last night and get `em in here. Somebody in this town knows something about why Steven Baylor didn't come home last night, I'd bet my life on it. People don't just fall off this planet without a trace.

"Get on the phone to Abilene, too. Call all the hospitals, see what you can find out. See if there were any John Does brought in early this morning, or any kids matching Steven's description. Try San Angelo, too. Big Spring. Lubbock, even," Sweeney said.

Sarah retrieved the thick directory from the shelf behind her desk and was dialing numbers before Tony had even finished speaking. Because of Chief Sweeney's son, she knew almost all of the football boys ---- they had all visited the station with Josh at one time or another, for one reason or another. Steven Baylor was by far her favorite. She was a grandmother now, twice over, but Steven's hundred kilowatt smile always made her feel fifteen again. Every time she did her grocery shopping, she would always playfully pretend that she couldn't find an item on her list ---- a particular frozen dinner one week, a bottle of Bayer PM the next, whatever she could think up the next ---- just so she could have him at her disposal for a few seconds. He always led her right to the item, whatever it may be, and always did so smiling. The idea that something may have happened to him was unacceptable.

Sweeney turned back to face Susan. "Sarah's a bulldog on that telephone, OK? Don't you worry. She'll call people the rest of the day and night until she finds that boy, I guarantee it." He gave her a reassuring smile and quick nod, and Susan just stared at him, expressionless. William slid his arm around Susan's shoulders and pulled her close.

Sweeney grabbed the two-way radio off the desk. "Ross, Morton, Page, come in," he said. All three officers reported in. "Listen up, men. Steven Baylor didn't come home last night. As of right now, the last time anyone saw him for sure was 6:20 yesterday evening, up at the store. You guys split up and take some of the back roads, see if you spot anything you don't like. One of you head out toward the lake, see what's out there." In rapid succession, "Sure thing, Chief," came through the speaker three times.

"Chief," Sarah said, pointing the phone receiver toward him. "Brian will meet you at the Market Basket in five minutes."

"Then let's go up to the store," Sweeney told William and Susan. "Take a look around, get that videotape. Let's get some answers here."

He's sleeping now. We had a big night tonight, he and I. Tonight was our first anniversary: one whole year since he came here, to be with me. March 25th. I've been watching the calendar for weeks, anxious for this day to arrive.

We had a little celebration earlier this evening. Nothing extravagant, just something to mark the occasion. I thought it would be a nice gesture, to show him how pleased I have been with his performance lately. It's really quite remarkable, the progress he shown me since he first came here.

When he first came here, he was still mister BMOC, mister football superstud. It took me a while to strip him of that mindset. That iron will, that fierce fighting spirit... it served him well on a football field, I'm sure, but as a slave.... Well, it took a lot of time, a lot of needless torture, a lot of anger and discipline. He's coming around, though. He's getting there.

Don't get me wrong, I have little doubt that he'd make a break for it, even now, if I slipped and gave him an opportunity. But he doesn't have the same mind he had a year ago. Certainly, he doesn't have the same body, the same endurance. He's still Steven Baylor, but Steven Baylor is just a name now, just like any other. Might as well be Jacob Allen Talbot. Might as well be Steven Austin McDermott. Might as well be John Doe. The aura, the legendary myth, of Steven Baylor is long gone.

I wonder sometimes what he thinks when he looks at himself now. What he sees. What he remembers. I hung that tall mirror in his washroom so that whenever he goes to prepare himself for me, he can examine himself. Do the changes even register inside his mind anymore? Does he even remember what he used to look like?

When I look at him, I see pure untarnished beauty. I walk into his cell some nights, and he still takes my breath away. Those green eyes have lost some of their shine since he has been here, but they're more captivating now than they were the first time I saw him. Back then, they were just a part of his face, they blended in with that gelled hair and that toothy smile and that tan complexion.

Well, the hair is gone; has been since the second day he was here. He doesn't even make a sound anymore whenever I pull out the clippers. The first time I shaved his head... you should have seen him sobbing, you should have seen him flinch and jerk, stupidly trying to get away from me.

He doesn't smile much anymore, either. And that perfect Texas tan faded months ago. So those eyes are all that remain now. They just dominate. I look at that gorgeous, pale face, that jawline even more prominent with the weight he's lost, and his eyes literally lunge at me, especially during our more intense sessions, when he's sucking on his ball gag and he's moaning and I can tell that he's pleading with me, that he's begging for mercy... Christ, some nights, those hard green eyes will just burn right through me.

Mine will too. Women have told me that before. The kid's got my eyes! He could pass for my son, easily. He could be my son.

I love him like a son, I really do. I knew the instant I laid eyes on him that he was the boy I'd been praying for, that he was everything I ever wanted in a son. He had the look. The smile. The demeanor. The body. He'll never love me like a father. I understand that now. He'll never reciprocate my fervor, and any pretensions I had to the contrary went away long ago. Still, you know, having him here with me gives me a calm, a feeling of genuine contentment that I've never known in my life. He's been good for me. We've been good for each other, I believe that. We got off to a rough start, he and I. He needed time to get all that built-in aggression out of his system, you know. Time to understand that there's more to life than throwing a football and fucking some sweet tart in the bed of his pickup truck every Friday night. Time to understand that he could mean something real to a stranger. That his mere presence could save somebody's sanity. Could save somebody's life.

I do try to believe that he doesn't hate me anymore for bringing him here, for attempting to show him what else he is capable of. I try to believe he has finally accepted that we were destined to be together in this way, that he was put on this planet to be my possession. I even try to believe he has learned how to enjoy it a little, how to find comfort in the things that he and I do together. (Or, at the very least, learned how to appreciate the immense satisfaction that he gives me.) He doesn't lash out at me anymore --- not since that three day stretch he spent balled up in his slave cage without food --- so that's something at least. I'm sure he still gets angry. But he has learned to squelch it, the way a good slave should.

I hope he takes pride in the fact that, day on day, he is becoming a fantastic slave. I hope he has given up the silly notion that he'll get to go back home someday. I mean, surely to God the kid realizes that, even if he could return to his old life, nothing would be the same. Surely he understands that his football days are long behind him --- his body is so radically different now; he barely has the stamina to accept a good, strong fuck from his Master. Surely he understands that his little slut has probably moved on to some other dick, in some other pickup truck. Surely he understands that, with that stubbly bald head and that skeletal body, not one of those fools in that stupid little town would even recognize the boy they once adored.

Here's what I've come to understand: in this life, a select few of us get handed the reins. A select, fortunate few of us get asked by a higher power to guide the destiny of a living thing. It's a responsibility. It's a privilege. It's truly the greatest gift. It doesn't matter what you're given, either. Sometimes it's a rosebush. Sometimes it's a dog, a house cat, a parakeet. Sometimes it's a child.

I was given a slave.

The job is the same. So is the burden. And if you're smart, the first and most important thing you teach them is: good behavior merits a reward, and bad behavior merits a punishment. Steven had a tough time with that idea at first, but he seems now to have a firm grasp of the simplicity of our process. He understands now that my happiness affects every single facet of his existence, and on his best days, he rises to that challenge splendidly. He loves his rewards. He appreciates how they are earned. He understands how they can take on various forms --- sometimes, it can be something as simple as not turning on his butt plug for a night, or maybe taking him up to the master bedroom to fuck him, or tying him to the tall oak tree in the backyard so he can get some fresh air ---- by necessity. And he accepts them with a humble gratitude that is a thousand miles removed from that impenetrable, cocksure attitude he had in those first few weeks.

He's come such a long way, you know. That's why we had our little party tonight. To celebrate his remarkable progress. To commemorate and also archive his first year here. To give ourselves permission to move forward, with a clear view of the road behind us and a clear sense of the road ahead.

He was stunned when I came down here this morning and told him what today was. He couldn't believe he had actually spent a whole year here. I took his watch that first night while he was still unconscious; he doesn't have a clock down here, or a window. He no longer has a way of marking time, and that's the way it'll be for the rest of his life. I suppose he sometimes feels like he's spent a hundred years imprisoned in my basement instead of just the one.

I bought us a pizza for dinner tonight. That's what he told me he wanted, so that's what he got. Carried a folding card table and a couple of chairs down to the basement, told him I would allow him to eat like a real person tonight if he promised to be good. I usually chain him to the bars and watch him eat his meals on this cold hard floor, so he was absolutely thrilled when I offered an alternative, and he swore he'd be a good boy. I even decided to remove his butt plug and his handcuffs. Hey, it's our anniversary. I'm not going soft or anything, really. But the kid deserved to eat his dinner in peace on our big day, didn't he? He was even smiling when he sat down in his chair! Smiling! God, what a sight.

I set his usual glass of tepid tap water in front of him. Dropped his nightly multivitamin onto his plate and watched him swallow it. Then I opened the pizza box and gave him a small slice. Told him to enjoy it, told him to savor it, told him it might be another year before he had another. His diet has been bland, bare-bones, for months now, and I wasn't sure whether his stomach would accept something like pizza, something it no longer recognized. I let him have a scoop of ice cream one night a couple of months back, and he vomited four times while I was fucking him. A real mood-killer, to say the least. But he wanted pizza tonight, and I figured one slice wouldn't hurt him.

He ate the damn thing so slowly. The kid had to have been ravenous, but he took small, measured bites. Chewed each morsel with the utmost precision, until there was nothing left. Even ate the crust. I've never in my life seen anyone take ten whole minutes to negotiate a slice of fucking pizza. But he knew. He knew I meant what I said. He knew he had better enjoy this moment. It was marvelous to behold his utter mastery of the circumstance.

God, God, God help me. Sitting there, watching him, the need to be inside of him --- the need to fuck him, the need to violate him --- swallowed me whole all over again. Sitting there, watching him eat, knowing the level of control and dominance that I held in the palm of my hand.... I was overwhelmed. I was overcome, with desire, with need. Need to show him, again. Need to invade him, again. Need to conquer him, again.

I told him to stand, and then I pointed over to the sawhorse in the corner. He didn't say a word. He hates the horse, and he knows I know it. But this was our special night. I felt in my heart that we both needed to be reminded, on our special night, what it was like the very first time his asshole accepted my cock. A couple of weeks after he came here --- after he had been whipped repeatedly, after he had learned how to give his new Master a blow job ---- I bent my slave over that handsome apparatus, and cuffed his wrists and ankles to it, and taught him what ultimate submission to a Master truly entails. I had to drag him over there on a goddamn leash, that's how hard he was fighting it. Fighting me. I had him gagged, I had him hooded, I had him hogtied, and I literally had to drag him to his destiny.

Tonight was different. Tonight, he walked over there willingly. I told him I wouldn't gag him as long as he cooperated with me. Told him I didn't want to hurt him tonight, tonight of all nights. Told him I wouldn't hurt him unless he forced me to. Told him all I wanted was a steady, vigorous fuck. Told him that if he gave me what I wanted without hesitation, I'd let him come, once, while I was inside of him.

That was his final reward tonight. I hardly ever allow him to touch himself, even though when he's plugged, his cock generally stays hard and ready. It keeps him on edge, it keeps him focused. You should see his dick some nights, the way it throbs, the way it seeps and turns deep red. He knows I'll beat him if he comes without my permission, though. He learned that one the hard way. It had been a couple of months since his last orgasm, so I knew that dick of his was spring-loaded, knew it wouldn't take three seconds to bring him off.

Goddamn, I rode his asshole hard tonight. I don't put him on the horse that often. It always unleashes a torrent of memories whenever I do: I always remember those first weeks of our relationship, and the hideous things I had to do to him in the name of destroying his spirit.

Sometimes I can still hear the sounds he made the first night I fucked him --- the night I finally got him secured onto the horse and he realized that, after all of his valiant, futile struggling, there was absolutely nothing he could do to keep my dick out of his asshole. You'd have thought he was dying... all those ragged, muffled screams, those pained yelps, those awful groans. Some nights I can still hear it all so clearly, some nights it's so loud I can't even stand to finish what I start. Some nights I have to just take off. Head back upstairs. Leave us both unsatisfied.

Tonight was good, though. One of our best. I think we were both glad when it was over, but it was worth it. Our sessions are always compelling and satisfying, but you can only maintain that level of intensity for so long. Some nights he's just soaked with sweat when we're done. Some nights he's so exhausted that he's asleep the second he hits the bed. Tonight was no different. I hammered his ass until we were both satisfied, until we were both completely spent. Just before my dick was ready to blow, I reached underneath him and tickled his cockhead. Massaged his balls. Fingered that vein under his shaft. Dared him to go for it. "Come for me, Steven," over and over again. "Come for me, my slave...."

When I had my recovered my breath, I unlocked his cuffs and made him stand there sucking his semen off of my fingers until he had his balance again. Then I grabbed a towel from the toy closet and made him wipe the rest of his come that landed on the floor beneath the horse. Whenever I allow him to ejaculate, I generally command him to use his tongue instead of a towel --- Christ, you've never seen anything quite as magnificent as a young buck licking a month's worth of his own come off a cement floor --- but what can I say? I was feeling extraordinarily generous this evening, and he had been perfectly obedient, perfectly cooperative....

I enjoy watching him sleep. There are nights when I'm so wired and can't pull myself down from it, and so I'll slip in here and just watch him. It's fascinating. As miserable as he sometimes seems during his waking hours, he always seems so peaceful when he's asleep, even when his plug is turned on. I guess he doesn't even notice it much anymore. I guess it gets pretty quiet down here sometimes. Even the hum of a butt plug must be better than complete silence, especially when it's all you have.

I went to the hospice thrift shop last week. Bought him an old weight bench. Fifteen bucks. Came with a barbell and everything. It was rusty and well-used, and some of the bolts were loose, but it'll do. I've got it in the garage right now. I'm going to fix it up a little bit, sand it down, slap a new coat of paint on it. That'll be his next big reward, I think, whenever I decide that he has earned another one.

He used to have the most phenomenal body, you know that? Tight toned arms. Delicately carved torso. Strong legs. He was natural, walking art. When he first came here, I naively believed that I could train him and still leave him physically intact, but I soon realized that wasn't possible. He wouldn't let me. The cocky little bastard fought me viciously at every turn. He backed me into a corner, finally. Gave me no other choice. And after I took stock, after I saw that I had already taken everything from him that was even remotely important --- his family, his slut, his football, his cock, his sexuality, his freedom --- I realized that there was still one thing. One final thing that I could steal.

He was so proud of his body. Goddamn. And I guess, technically, he stole it away from himself. All I really did was observe. Stay out of the way. Survey the fallout.

You see, after years of strenuous physical activity, my boy suddenly found himself completely immobile --- cuffed to his bed, or chained to the wall or shackled to his cell bars like some motherfucking animal --- for hours, even days on end. And on top of that, his food consumption in those first months was restricted, to say the very least; I even withheld food altogether sometimes, if I needed a quick, forceful punishment to administer.

I have a degree in human physiology. You can't even fathom how many different physical manifestations of the human condition that I see as a paramedic. I knew exactly what these deprivations would cost my boy, what toll they would take. I hated that they were necessary. Hated it desperately. But he gave me no choice, just like I said.

And they got the job done.

Once his metabolism had slowed to a crawl, the changes started taking place fairly quickly. His muscles started to feed on themselves, and I did nothing to staunch the tide. Didn't try to stop it. His body was falling away from him, and it was essentially all his fault. That had to fuck with his mind, don't you think? To go from hunky star quarterback to skinny skeleton in just a few months? Can you imagine the psychological effects of watching your body waste completely away, of feeling your body waste...?

I didn't want him to die, of course, not after all I went through to bring us together. I just wanted him to wonder. I wanted him to recognize with all of his senses that I was in total control of him, that there isn't a single piece of a slave's being to which his Master can be denied access. Most slaves can't simply be told that and then be expected to believe it; most slaves must be shown the full scope of a Master's domination.

Well.

Now comes the next phase, I guess. I told myself a while ago that when I could look at Steven and believe that he genuinely appreciated the body he once had, that I would help him rebuild it. Every man wants his son to look the best he can, right? Well, I watched him tonight, on the one year anniversary of our relationship. I watched him eat. I watched him walk over to the sawhorse to receive his commemorative fuck. I watched him lick my fingers clean when it was over. I watched him return to his cell. And I believe he's ready now. Mentally, I mean. Tonight, we brought chapter one of our journey to a triumphant close, and I think he's ready to move forward. I think we both are.

So that's what we'll do. We'll move forward. Together. I'll bring that weight bench down here when I've got it all fixed up, and we'll start with some light weights, and we'll reconstruct the mighty Steven Baylor. It won't be the same, of course. He won't look the same. But then, he shouldn't look the same. I mean, he's not the football god anymore. He's not some slutty cheerleader's all- American hero anymore. He's just a slave. You always construct the vessel to fit the occupant, right?

I still think about those people sometimes, the people of Winters, Texas. The people with whom I briefly interacted while I was watching my boy. I watched him for a month before I became his Master, did you know that? I watched him sack groceries. Watched him during track practice. Watched him fuck his precious whore out by that sad little lake. Watched the people in that town just fawn all over him. It was almost sickening, the ridiculous adulation they all felt for him. It was nuts. I'll bet he could've raped the preacher's wife and no one would have batted an eyelash. They all treated him like he was some motherfucking celebrity, when he was just a kid! Just a handsome punk whose only claim to fame was his talent for throwing a football in those silly amateur games that they all paid their four dollars to dutifully attend every Friday night.

But still. I can't help wondering about them. It's been a whole year now. Do they still speak of the mysterious disappearance of Steven Baylor? Do they still print his name in the church bulletin every Sunday? Do they still light candles in the windowsills, still tie ribbons `round the trees?

Will his parents ever know that they created and nurtured the second greatest gift I've ever gotten?

You know, for a while there, I really thought I hated Jason: for talking me and that young guy from his office into following him home that night; for taking that guy upstairs and leaving me alone with Jake in that dungeon; for convincing me to surrender my nervousness and fuck the poor kid. God, I thought I'd never forgive him for manipulating me, for fucking with my mind like that, for slowly folding me into his revolting depravity. For hurting Jake and then instructing --- indeed, expecting --- me to do the same.

But now I understand. Now I appreciate that he was simply trying to reveal to me my true self. I have just spent a thrilling, incredible year accomplishing that very thing with a confident, masculine young jock who lives in a 20'x12' cell beneath my home and will until he dies.

Jake was a pro that night. I gave him a short, strong fuck, just a few minutes, and he laid there and took it like a champ. Hours after we were done, I was still on the floor with him, beside him, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I had just raped a boy young enough to be my son. Jason walked down there to check up on us, to see how it went. I told him all about it, about how nervous I was, about how much my dick literally ached when it was over, about how tight the kid was. You know what he said? He said, "Yeah, and just think: that's what a well-used asshole feels like, Jonny. Just imagine fucking a virgin ass."

And the scary truth was, I had imagined it. For months. Ever since the night Jason called me to come over and attend to Jake's shoulder injury. I immediately absorbed the riveting power of their rapport, the amazing way that Jason held Jake's entire rapt attention, and I immediately knew, somewhere deep inside myself, that I wanted a piece of it. I wanted to know what that felt like. I tried to deny it, of course, for months. You can't deny a revelation like that forever, though. It'll bubble to the surface sooner or later.

And it did. At the worst possible time. At the same time my connection to my own son was coming apart. My mind was a fucking muddle, a jumble of anger and joy and desperation and regret, and I needed a release, an outlet, something concrete to plug it all into. So when Jason offered Jake to me, after months of teasing and baiting me, I knew it might've been my last shot at redemption. I knew I couldn't afford not to seize the chance.

Jason carried Jake into his cell and laid him on the bed while I was gathering my clothes and wondering how I was going to leave this room and return to my --- what did Jason call it that night? "My pathetic, wretched life"? I turned to watch my best friend. He had grabbed a worn, threadbare blanket and wrapped it around his slave's body. It was an incredible sight, this one simple act. If you disregarded the jail cell and the decor of the room, and if you'd never seen anything but Jason tenderly carry this boy to bed, you'd never have guessed how rough he could be with the kid. I told Jason as much while he was locking the cell door.

He stared at me, then. Uttered one simple sentence, one set of words that --- I kid you not --- turned my entire life around.

He stared at me and said, "Jonny," he said, "When you boil it all down, I'm the only father that kid has ever known." That's when it all clicked into place for me. That's when it became clear, what I had been searching for. What I had been lurching toward, in fits and starts. What I needed. What I wanted.

I wanted control.

I wanted a slave.

I wanted a son.

Author's note: I know it has taken so long to get this finished and posted, and I appreciate your patience more than you all know. This last monologue gave me fits, and I hope it wasn't a mistake to include it. Took about seven drafts to get to this point, and so we'll see where it all goes from here. All of you out there who are clamoring to see Steven's actual abduction, your patience will be rewarded: chapter 2e will deal with the conception, planning, and actual occurrence of the kidnapping, so stay tuned.

Feedback, criticism, comments, and/or questions always welcome: DarkMaster04@webtv.net