THE TIES THAT BIND
Waddie Greywolf

Chapter 1~ A Fisher of Men
                     
Part I ~ Bringing In the Sheaves

“We shall come rejoicing...”  Knowles Shaw 1874

When I was in Nam I was older than the average recruit.  I went to college and completed two years of graduate work to avoid the draft.  I got home from the graduation ceremony, threw my MA sheep skin on the bed and opened my mail.  The second envelope I opened was a nice letter from my ‘uncle.’ "Greetings!"  It said crisply,  "You are here by ordered..."  The next thing I knew my ass was being shipped to Vietnam.  After I'd been there for about a week I couldn't help notice how empty the heads were in the mornings.  There was no rush of men pushing and shoving to get to a sink.  It was empty except for a couple lifer sergeants.

A buddy of mine solved my conundrum at breakfast one morning.  "The grunts are all so damned young, they only have to shave once a week," he explained.  His reasoning was as sound as it was truthful.  Each one was younger than the next, some not completely out of puberty, learning to become men, bragging about conquests they never experienced, still almost children behind their fear filled eyes.  They were the pride of a generation sent to a God-forsaken, shit hole of a country, finding themselves looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, fighting a war for reasons they could have cared less about.  Most didn’t have a clue why they were there.  They quickly learned to hate the country, the people, the climate and themselves for having been duped into believing they were drawing a line in the sand to stop the communist hordes.  They were sold a worthless bill of goods when all too often the inflated price was their lives.  Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and twenty-nine men gave their lives for nothing.

I was assigned to the hundred eighty-sixth as a field medic, a corpsman.  I lived through horrors no man should witness.  It ate me up emotionally, day after day, patching the wounded as fast as I could so I could get to the next one.  Shoveling a man's steaming guts back into his stomach cavity with my bare hands, lighting him a smoke, knowing he wasn't going to make it and assuring him all the while he was.  The worst thing was, I came out as a gay man my last year in college and became an emotional wreck trying to cope with the carnage around me daily.  I can still remember the faces of the beautiful men I watched die.  Some of the most handsome, good looking men you could ever imagine died in my arms.  There was no time for tears or prayers.  Let the dead bury the dead then on to the next one.  I did take time for prayers and said many with a frightened dying man in my arms. 

They nicknamed me ‘Br'er Rabbit’ because I kept my head low, got in to patch up a man, popped my head up to see where the next one was and scurried like a rabbit to fix him up.  They started out calling me “Beau Rabbit,” but after they showed “Song of the South” for a movie one evening, I was “Br'er Rabbit” after that.  I don't think anyone but my buddy and the paymaster knew my real name.  I don’t think my commanding officer knew my real name.  He always called me ‘Br'er Rabbit.’  It was a service thing.  You’re either known by your last name or a nickname.

I bought the package.  I believed I was making a difference, serving, helping, caring for the dying and wounded.  I was serving my country and my fellow men.  Ultimately, I became an uncaring, disillusioned, foul-mouthed, depressed, drug popping, pot smoking, don't give a shit, ‘slave’ for my country.  Slave?  Yep, you bet'ch’um, Red Ryder.  I couldn’t stop going back to help those innocent men.  Many who died in my arms, died virgins to either sex.  It wasn't until they shot out one of my kidneys and I almost lost my arm, I decided it was time to reconsider.  I was wounded six times.  After the fourth ‘heart,’ I threw the rest away.  I was too lucky too long.  It was reality time.  It was time to go home.

You know what?  I got a news flash for straight America and all you red necked bubbas.  My cocksucker’s blood fell on the ground as red as any of you straight, mouth breathing, knuckle dragging, Jesus loving bastards.  My blood ran as freely and for the same purpose.  Shouldn’t the blood I shed, the medals I won, and the comrades I lost buy me equal rights in my own country and some protection against the flames of hatred fueled and fanned by the rabid, right wing, crypto-Nazi, religious groups?  Unfortunately, it didn’t buy anything for the blacks who fought, shed their blood and lost their loved ones in WWII.  Not even equal rights.

Some black heroes of WWII came home only to be lynched shortly after returning.  The perpetrators were never brought to justice.  To add insult to injury, they were caught, charged and tried, then found ‘not guilty’ by a jury of their all white peers.  Lynchings were not uncommon in the South until the nineteen sixties.  Home of the brave?  Land of the free?  Yeah, if you aren’t black or have a hankering to suck dick.  The answer to the question for separation of church and state: if they want to be political and continue to insist on imposing their hate filled, narrow minded values on others, revoke their tax free status.

* * * * * * *

After recovering from my wounds and going through the military muster-out grinder, I returned and decided to settle in Los Angeles.  It was big enough to lose myself and explore my gayness without anyone from my small West Texas town finding out.  Even though I garnered quite a bit of muster-out pay due to a snafu on the Navy's part, I didn't want to spend it all right away.  I wanted to get to work as soon as possible.  You'd think a man with an MA degree wouldn't have any problem finding a decent job.  Not so.  I was over educated with no practical work experience.  I couldn't get a job anywhere.  Finally, in desperation, I decided to take any damn job I could get.  As luck would have it, I got a great job I loved with a recommendation from a General I befriended and the admiral of the seventh fleet.

The manager of the place I applied took pity on the fact I was a returning Nam vet (he was in Korea) and he identified with me because we were both from Texas.  I went to work in a specialized mechanic’s shop repairing heavy duty equipment and trucks.  I walked in green, off the street, without any mechanical training.  Fortunately, I'd helped my old man repair our old six cylinder Ford truck he kept running with love, threats, and baling wire.  Ford stands for: Fix Or Repair Daily. (Others say, Found On Road Dead)  So, I was familiar with hand tools.  Within a year I was promoted to junior mechanic and given my own work bay.  For the first time in my life I earned more money than I had time to spend.

I could buy anything I wanted, but I didn’t.  I suffered a dreaded feeling most of the time, my success was to be short lived, and anything I acquired for myself I would ultimately lose.  I later found out it was not an uncommon response for a returning Nam vet.  I didn't buy a car.  I walked to and from work every day until I saved enough money to buy myself a brand new bike.  I had a small apartment, sparsely furnished, with few personal possessions.  I wouldn't buy a television or read a newspaper.  I wouldn't talk to anyone about what I’d seen or been through.  I was so disillusioned and demoralized I didn’t want to know what was going on over there.  I walked away from conversations about the war.  I neither wanted to hear about it nor discuss it.  I didn’t buy a television until we withdrew from South East Asia in 1975.

I was in denial, and I was carrying around so much emotional baggage it was hard for me to communicate with other gay men.  They just couldn't know what I went through.  They weren't interested anyway, but that didn't keep some morons from having strong over-reactionary political opinions about returning vets.  What I went through made most of them seem emotionally shallow and uncaring.  They considered me darkly brooding and unapproachable.  I wouldn't share what was bugging me, so they easily wrote me off by labeling me a ‘schitzy-cunt.’  I deeply resented the label, but rationalized it to be an easy enough toss off for an air-head queen whose tongue was split at birth.  What the hell, it was probably the only way they could teach the cunt to talk.

I was a failure in relationships.  (For the first three years, I never had a relationship so I had to be a failure.)  Why should I be surprised to be a failure in Los Angeles?  I was a failure in Nam.  I couldn't save all those men.  I was like King Chanute, trying to sweep the ocean back with a broom.  I no longer fit in anywhere, and I certainly didn’t fit in with the gay crowd.  I didn’t consider myself better, but I sure as hell knew I was different.  Life meant more to me than playing musical beds and having one trick after another run through my life.  I lived with the dead and dying for almost six years.  I forgot there could be any joy in life.  I wanted more, but I couldn’t define it.  I neither knew what nor whom I was looking for.

I wanted desperately to find out what the gnawing hunger and emptiness in the bottom of my gut was all about.  I didn't have a clue.  I was like one more zombie in Los Angeles trying to find his way among the living dead.  I didn't like the bar scene and wanted desperately to find someone to care about who would care about me and settle down into something which resembled a relationship.  I wanted someone to take care of and love me for my efforts and affection.  Unfortunately, it was 1972, the time of the ‘me’ generation, lots of meaningless sex and open relationships.  I was sinking fast.  The peace, serenity, and silence of eternity called to me daily.

Then one night, in one of the leather bars, I met an older gentleman who claimed to be a broker for introductions between young and older men.  He introduced himself as Jebediah Henshaw.  I talked with him for sometime trying to read him.  He made no apologies about the fact his services were unusual.  He specialized in arranging Master/slave relationships.  Basically, as he explained it, he made extra money to supplement his fixed income by arranging sex between attractive young men he knew, or those referred to him as trustworthy, and older men who didn't or wouldn't go to gay bars because of sensitive occupations.  Some of his clients couldn’t be bothered with gay sexual intrigue, and spent the money for his services to get the most bang for their buck.

He gave me his card and asked me to call him to set up an appointment for an interview; no obligations, just talk to him, tell him a little about myself and what I wanted.  Maybe he could refer me to some men I would not otherwise have the opportunity to meet.  He only asked me be honest and open about my sexual needs and fantasies.  I didn’t get the impression it was a sexual come on from him.  He seemed serious about his offer.  He was a strange man with piercing dark blue eyes and a soft, Southern, baritone voice.  He was ruggedly handsome and attractive like he lived a life of hard physical work.  He stood about six-four, approximately two hundred forty pounds, and for a man his age, still had a rock hard body.  A full, neatly trimmed white beard and ‘stash rounded his effect.  I think the white hair and beard made him appear older than his actual age.  If he propositioned me, I probably would have gone with him, but he didn’t.

Since I never had a strong father figure when I was a child, I found myself preferring older men.  I couldn't find what I was looking for in the average vanilla gay bar in Los Angeles, so I bought a motorcycle and hung out at all the leather bars.  I went on all the major bike runs as a GDI (God Damned Independent) because the gay bike ‘clubs’ were mostly for, let’s play dress-up in our uniforms, cocktails, gossip, and Sunday brunch get togethers.  Even at the bike runs something seemed to be missing.  They simply moved the gay bar to an outdoor setting.  You still had the same dull, uninteresting people talking about the same bullshit you listened to every Saturday night.  All the guys I was interested in were either attached or had their heads up their butts.

Then there were the types I called the terminal ‘Hollywood syndrome’ queens.  While they might go home with you, the minute after you had sex, they couldn't wait to get to the bus stop for their next trick to come along.  It seemed no matter how good the sex was between you, they weren't interested in getting to know you or seeing you again under any circumstances.  If you ran into them later, they wouldn’t even acknowledge they ever met you.  It was a,‘been there, done that,’ mentality.  They simply didn’t care who you were and didn’t mind sparing your feelings by letting you know they didn’t care.

Elton, was so wrong, there was no yellow brick road.  Leastwise, I never found it.  The land of Oz was populated with far too many wicked witches to suit my taste, and there just wasn’t enough flying houses or buckets of water to stem the tide.  They came in various shapes and sizes, but they all had the same irritating, high-pitched laugh.  They must be related, they called each other “sister” and “girlfriend” a lot.  I developed a maxim I still use to this day and have yet to be proved wrong: never waste your time or emotions trying to figure out a Hollywood queen.  It can’t be done.

Things were getting bad.  Weekends, one after the other, I would stand in a gay bar until my leg muscles started to atrophy and never speak to a soul.  I would go home, throw off my clothes, stand nude in front of a full length mirror, and shout at myself, “What the hell’s wrong with you?  You’re certainly not unattractive.  Why, the fuck, can’t you pick up anyone?  Maybe, it’s your mouthwash?  Could it be your deoderant failed?  I know what it is.  I'll just stop wearing that god-awful Brut cologne.”  Hell, I was so desperate, I would’ve settled for fucking a halfway, masculine munchkin.  Maybe one of those from the Lollipop Guild if I could find him.  I wouldn’t care if his damn boots curled up on the ends and he liked to skip around a lot, just as long as he kept my belly warm at night and swore he loved me.  I could even afford to keep him.  Hell, they couldn't eat that much.

The idea of a broker cum S&M-Dolly Levi sounded a bit strange, but then again, nothing else was working for me.  While it may not have been the land of Oz, Los Angeles still had its moments of high-strangeness.  So I thought, ‘Why,  the fuck,  not?’  I phoned the next week to arrange an appointment.  He seemed pleasantly surprised I called, and we agreed to meet the following Friday.  When I went for the interview he asked me to complete a twenty page application and sexual preference survey.  He was business like and professional like he did this hundreds of times before, and I was simply "e pluribus unum." (No, Son, that doesn’t mean my last name is ‘Unum,’ it means ‘one among many.’)  As an interviewer and all around handsome, masculine man, he seemed pleasant and easygoing with a good sense of humor.  He seemed impressed I refered to him as 'Mr. Henshaw' or 'sir.'  He told me I could also refer to him as Master Jeb if I wished.  I had no problem with it.

"I see on your application your full name is Andrew Beaureguard James Jr.  What name do you use?"  he asked.

"Well, sir, my family called me Andy because they called my dad, Beau, but in Nam I got the nickname, ‘Br'er Rabbit.’  I guess ‘cause I was quick, like a bunny.”  I chuckled, he didn’t.  “A few of my friends in Nam called me Andy, but since Nam everyone’s called me Beau.  You may call me Beau, if you like."  I replied.

"What can I call you if I don't like, Beau?" he asked and grinned.

"Anything but late for dinner."  I replied laughing.  He laughed, too, not expecting such a smart-ass reply.

He answered my questions honestly and sincerely with no judgement to my preferences; however, he did question me concerning my interest in pursuing my passive side.  "Have you never been a 'sub' or a bottom to a man?” he asked.

"A man, in Hollywood?” I asked raising an eyebrow to his laughter, “I've let a couple guys screw me.  I sucked off a few, but when I go with someone, within the first fifteen minutes, if he ain't made a move, I damn sure will."  I replied.

He laughed. "Well, Son, I'll be honest with you.  I don't think you're going to find what your looking for in the L.A. bars.  Oh sure, there are some so called tops who cruise the bars, but the ratio between tops and bottoms is approximately ten to one.  Consider this equation: if there are a hundred men in a bar and you're one of them, then only ten of those hundred are going to be tops.  Out of the ten tops how many are you going to find interesting enough to submit to?  Say you see four who strum your banjo.  Of those four what are the possibilities one of them would feel the same about you?

“Let's say there’s a full moon out, you spy someone you wouldn’t mind submitting to.  You go home with him and while he tops you, screws you, or has you suck him off, he doesn't give you the control you may be looking for.  You seem pretty strong willed and seem to know what you don't want.  I imagine you see through phonies easily.  Yet, you don't know how to get what you want.  So, you go away feeling cheated, empty, maybe even used.  That may seem like a conundrum, because you went with him to be used, right?  Then why the empty feeling?" he asked.

"I know what you're talking about, sir, “I replied,  “You're right, and while it does seem a little hopeless, I don't know what to do about it.  I’ve seriously considered cashing in my chips, going back to Texas, getting married, and raising a family.  Them Southern Baptist bible belt little girl’s mommas tell them to only let their husbands fuck ‘em if they wanna’ have kids.  The rest of the time you’re off limits to him.  I could live with that and love my kids."
            
“Oh, fuck, you’d be miserable in two years.  You’ve seen across the river, Son.  You know there has to be a promised land, but you just don’t know how to get there.  It's not hopeless.  Look at you, you're reaching out by coming to this interview.  Even though you’re not taking it very seriously, you’ve at least made the effort.  You may find some of your answers here, you may not.  What you get out of anything depends on what effort you put into it.  Maybe an exchange of ideas will cause some minor revelation that ultimately might lead to some situation which could fill your needs.  Never lose faith or give up hope.

“You’re a good looking young man with a fairly buff body, and my guess is you probably intimidate the hell out of most tops.  Butch bottoms have a hard time out there.  Most tops and some masters are concerned they might turn the scene upside down.  That's a small but manageable problem.  I specialize in butch bottoms.  I have a ninety-five percent success rate in training and placing butch bottom slaves with masters.  In fact, some masters prefer them as a challenge to break them.  Kinda turns me on, too.  I've always found they’re the most difficult to break and train, but if a master is patient, firm but compassionate, takes his time, his payoff will be one of the most valuable pieces of property any man may own... a devoted, selfless, companion,” he said.

“Excuse me, sir, but I don't think I want to become anyone's slave," I said with some disgust.

“Maybe I missed something here?  We were talking about exploring your passive side, weren’t we?  From the way you talk about it, your passive side is important to you.  I'm just trying to give you some idea what's out there and how it works.  If you want me to refer you to some tops or masters so you can explore your passive side, they’re going to expect you to walk the walk and talk the talk.  I can't refer you if you don't understand what you're getting yourself into.  That wouldn't be fair to you, and it could mean a loss of business for me.  You can't talk about your passive side in the context of S&M without discussing masters and slaves.

"No matter what anyone tells you about the concept, it is the tie that binds.  It could be decades or longer before our country becomes socially advanced and liberal enough to allow same sex marriage.  Not that marriage is such a successful institution.  By all standards of stastics it's been a miserable failure for centuries; however, men who have a strong need to bond with one another have become wise enough to create alternative bondings for themselves.  It may someday become recognized as a universal constant: no matter your definition, love will find a way and it has a right to exist," he said.

"Okay, I understand, sir, I guess I've heard the way some guys talk about passives, bottoms, and slaves in the leather crowd.  They’re looked down upon and considered second class citizens in the gay bike crowd.  I don't want to think of myself that way no matter what I choose to do sexually.  Men in the leather crowd around Los Angeles have some really fucked-up attitudes about top and bottom, passive/aggressive, even those who claim to be master and slaves.
I rarely allow myself to become associated with that ilk.  Not because I feel superior to them, I just can’t abide the way they look upon male/male sex.

"I’ll be honest, sir, my passive side is much stronger than my aggressive side, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be any nelly faggot's old lady simply because he has enough money to buy a leather jacket and ride a Harley to the gay leather bars.  I thought, perhaps, I could explore my passive side by being a bottom to a top or master to whom you might refer me who wouldn’t have such accepted attitudes.  I can certainly understand your point.  You feel obligated to educate me about your service, and what might be expected of me.

"As for me not taking this interview seriously, I didn't know what to expect when I came here to talk with you.  There are so many creeps, kooks, phonies, and losers in L.A. I suppose I wasn't prepared for this to be legit or you being quite so serious.  Please, forgive me, I meant no harm or disrespect.  I’ll take you interview more seriously, sir.  If nothing else an exchange of ideas won’t do me any harm, and for your time and effort I owe you my sincere attention," I said.

"You certainly know the right words to say and have a sincere delivery about you.  That’s good.  There’s nothing to forgive.  You have every reason to be suspicious.  As for what you overheard in bars or the bike crowd, they put down what they can't or don't want to understand.  Putting a bottom down is their way of overcompensating for their passive side.  Every man, gay, straight, or bisexual have both.  It's just a matter of luck or divine providence we become imprinted one way or the other.  Wanting to explore your passive side was a red flag to me.  I assure you, the majority of masters and enlightened tops don’t feel that way.

"A well trained slave is a joy to a real master and a treasure of which to be proud.  There’s little thought of feminizing their slave because of anal play or any other sexual appetite for that matter.  Quite the contrary, we are men having unusual sex with other men.  The ass is just another opening for a master to pleasure himself, and the slave simply becomes a vessel to receive his seed.  I could never survive some of the trips a few masters take their slaves on in their dungeons.  Being a slave and being proud of yourself because your master is pleased with you is a shield against such garbage.  If you're a well-trained slave you aren't even aware of such talk.  Such talk becomes meaningless," he said.

"I never thought of it that way, sir, but the idea of putting my life in another man’s hands and giving up my freedom is, at best, a bit disconcerting," I replied.

"Freedom?  What freedom?  What do you mean by freedom?  Most gay men build their own prisons, live their lives trapped in small cells of their own making, grow old alone, and die.  Hiding away from the world, only venturing out at night to gather small bits of love for themselves to sustain them until their next forage.  Like rabbits in a warren they will never invest enough of themselves to find their bliss.  I suspect you're well on your way to doing just that," he challenged.

"You're probably right, sir," I replied quietly.

"We'll talk more about these things later.  Right now let's establish some guidelines or parameters for working with you.  The way my service works is you don't pay anything to be referred.  The men who want referrals pay in advance for every referral I send them.  I have to know, if I refer you to someone you’ll show up and make an effort.  I don't expect you to have sex with someone you don’t find attractive.  You’re not a whore, and I'm not a pimp.  What you get out of it is up to you.  You probably wouldn't want to jump over the broom with some of our referrals, but a fuck is a fuck.

"If I take the trouble to refer you, I expect you to try, if you can, to have some meaningful interaction or sex with them.  If it's just a bust, I'll understand.  Just be honest with me, tell me the truth about what happened, how you felt and why you couldn’t go thorough with it.  If you or any of my young men don’t please my customer, I must refer someone else.  It can be a unique opportunity to meet some fine men you wouldn’t ordinarily have access to.  You never know when or where you may find your place in the sun.  Like a bolt out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through.  God bless Ukulele Ike,” he said and laughed.

"Since you’re having some fear of what we call hard core S&M, Master/slave relationships let me ask you what you’ve done to find out what you want or expect in any relationship?  Have you done any active soul searching?" he asked and paused a moment for my answer, but didn't get one. "I didn't think so," he added then continued,  "Have you ever set down and really asked yourself who or what type man you want to spend a lifetime with if given the chance?  I mean, really set down with a pad and pencil and listed the things you like about people and the things you don't.  Then on a separate sheet list the things you like about yourself and the things you don't.  You might take it one step further and make a list about where you are in life, your accomplishments, your pratfalls and where you see yourself in ten or twenty years from today.  Do you really have any direction in your life?  Do you admire men who do and have the guts to go out and get it?  In short, do you know who you are or what you want?"  he asked.

"I don't mean to seem disrespectful, sir, but what gay man in Los Angeles does?  Do you think if that sort thing was common knowledge, or any gay male in my position thought he could find these truths easily, there would be so many gay bars catering to x-amount of different lifestyles?  I'm not trying to defend the L.A. gay lifestyle, but most of us came from small middle class American towns which always had a town queer, and God forbid you were ever caught even talking to the man.  With that image in mind, we moved to the larger cities for anonymity and a community where we were comfortable.  Then we began to restructure our ideas about everything from God to dirty sex.

“Speaking for myself, I never really had an adolescence until I finished college, fought for my country in Vietnam, got out, and settled in L.A.  I lived a repressed life due to the well meaning but lethal community I came from.  I’m still in the final stages of my previously non-existent adolescence.  I'm still asking huge questions about how I can best get through today let alone twenty years from now.  I like the idea of what you said, the questions you’ve asked, and God knows, I've tried everything else.  I'm not unreceptive to new ideas, but they have to have a ring of truth for me.  A lot of what you’re saying makes sense, but it’s becoming unnerving to me," I said   

"No disrespect taken, Son.  You make a strong point.  Basically, where do you run to, who do you ask?  There were no manuals to help your parents raise you, and they certainly didn’t know how to raise a gay son.  They didn’t start out to raise you ‘gay.’  They probably never knew.  That's another point I want to make.  When you can't find what you want or need, does anyone have a schematic to repair your disillusion?  There ain't no manuals out there to help you find what will fill those empty feelings you’ve described to me.  Larry Townsend's 'Leatherman’s Handbook' was a start.  While there are huge gaps in his philosophy about leather sex, S&M, master/slave relationships, at least it was a start.  Townsend’s problem was, he approached the subject as a lifestyle, but it isn’t, it’s a philosophy.

"He sees this lifestyle as only a junction from the regular gay cocktail party milieu, where you trade your Mercedes for another status symbol, your personal slave to be at your beck and call.  Boring stuff at best.  At worst, some of his ideas are not well thought out and dangerous.  He leaves little room for growth or introspection, but he tried.  He made an effort. Townsend dared to write about his concepts and ideas while everyone else stood by and either giggled or challenged him by putting themselves up as instant authorities.  Most accomplished little more than to criticize and find fault.  A few of his brighter critics took exception to his strong bias toward the master and left the slave with a role worth slightly less than the household pet.  It may account for a lot of the low opinions of slaves within the gay leather crowd today.

“While he fancied himself a master, but had a penchant for wearing Beetle-boots, he wrote from his point of view.  He is certainly allowed his opinions.  Even though his concept was ground breaking and he is to be admired for his work, it was, nonetheless, a flawed effort.  It’s filled with incorrect ideas, but it was an attempt to say something about a large area of homoerotic sex that was never before written about nor so clearly defined in such a manner.  My point is, Son, few people out there try; few make the effort.  They don't know what they want from trick to trick, and spend their lives trying to catch the brass ring on the gay-bar merry-go-round.  If, by some slim chance, they do find someone with whom to settle down, are happy and content, then those who are still unhappy will try to steal their brass ring," Master Jeb said.  

"I guess you hit a nerve, sir.  I haven't revealed this to many people because in today's world of free sex it ain't politically correct.  I have a gut need to find someone to share my life, and by that, I don't mean no open fuck’n relationship.  I've tried that, and it's like living with a lover who has a swinging door for a brain.  I’m probably brainwashed by Hollywood happy endings and breeder mentality there's someone out there for everyone; however, I sometime get the feeling I made it to the station on time, but the train left five minutes early,” I lamented.

"I understand," he agreed, shaking his head and laughing, "However, one of the most simple facts of nature might help you understand your situation," he said.

"What's that, sir?" I asked.

He laughed.  "Woah, not so fast, Son.  One of the things you may already know is, nothing in life is free.  While some things may be a trade off you essentially pay a price.  I'm just kidding.  I'll tell you.  It's no big secret." he said and continued,  "By the way, you'll know when to pay me back and how much,"  he said and laughed again.  I was really beginning to like this man.


* * * * * * *

Part II~ Mother Nature’s  a  Mother

"One of the basic facts of nature confirmed by much scientific study is that the male of our species is easily conditioned to sexual response which may account for fetishism in many men.  Conditioning and sexual response are major components of S&M recreational sex.  I call it ‘recreational’ sex because while we're capable of pro-creation we don't choose to go with women.  There is certainly nothing wrong with the idea of re-creating oneself through sex.

“Every male mammal on our planet has a bone in the penis except man. The sperm whale has an eight foot bone in his penis.  They don't require stimulation to procreate.  Since man doesn't have a bone in his penis he must have stimulation to achieve an erection for penetration.  That stimulation is highly susceptible to a number of organic or informational inputs.  One of the strongest for males is conditioning.  Remember Pavlov's dog?  The concept is very similar.  The female of our species is seasonal.  They have periods of ovulation in which they’re more likely to conceive.  That's when they are more likely to be stimulated for sex.  Now, that's not to say sexual conditioning or fetishism is unheard of among woman, but by and large, it's far more common among men.

“Why did man develop without a bone in his penis?  It's hard to say.  No pun intended.  Scientist think it may be because most mammals were forced to copulate quickly least they be preyed upon by larger species during the act.  Then, too, immediately after sex, many animals suffer ‘un petite mort’ as the French call it.  It means, ‘a small death.’  Many animals pass out after ejaculation.  Ever watch rabbits fuck?  The male will hump the female, thump his hind leg real hard, ejaculate, and falls over into a dead faint.  He’ll lie there for three to five minutes until he comes around.  Some men experience the same thing.

“Women have an anomaly as well that sets them apart from other mammals.  They don’t have a free floating sack in their uterus.  Curiously, we have developed separate and distinct physical anomalies from the other mammals on our planet.  Some radical thoughts are, man may be a hybrid species.  They point out that the stable sack would be ideal for space travel even if a woman were pregnant.  The fetus wouldn’t be banging around inside her.  Now, what does this all have to do with you and your happiness?

“Considering what I told you it's not hard to imagine that homosexuality itself may have some causality in early conditioning.  I like to think of it as imprinting on the brain.  If you’re an lonely child seeking love and attention in an unstable family situation, who just happens to have a stud uncle who wears big boots and shows you attention, treats you with respect like you’re his little brother or buddy, doesn't talk down to you, maybe pets you, holds you close to him, and is never rejecting, bamm, you’re imprinted.  You may spend the rest of your life looking for his love or a facsimile.

“Then, as we gain experiences in life we transfer bits and pieces to our present consciousness.  We look for sexual response that most closely resemble our earlier imprinting.  If we find someone who sends up our flag, we dabble, sample, reject, and ultimately feel empty and disillusioned because we can't find the damn key to put it all together.  One night you meet this hunk of a man in a bar who’s wearing the hottest damned pair of boots, your mouth starts to water involuntarily.  He's a mature, well met, sure of himself, unquestionably alpha-male, whose male pheromones are sending signals to your butt-hole that cause it to automatically self-lubricate, and God help you, he's showing interest in you.

“He buys you a beer, puts his big masculine arm around you in camaraderie, and hangs on your every word.  He's showing that little boy inside of you his attention.  Attention equals interest.  Interest equals affection. You go home with him, and he's a take charge kinda guy.  He strums your banjo big time.  You’re so taken with him you allow him to tie you to the ceiling and set your hair on fire.  It may seem a little kinky, but what the hell, you want nothing more than to please him.  You can rationalize.  You don't care, your hair will grow back.  He’s showing you the attention you crave.

“He’s getting what he wants, but he’s strong, demanding, but considerate, and compassionate.  Let’s say you really get off on swinging from the ceiling and his control.  You would do anything for this man to gain his approval.  Bamm!  You’re imprinted again.  Do you see any similarities between this man and your stud uncle?  Bits and pieces transferred to a new concept of sex.  After a brief but intense affair with the guy you separate, go about your life, and one day it hits you: ‘My God, I can't have really satisfying sex unless I'm swinging from the ceiling with my hair on fire,’” he said.  We shared a laugh.  I made up my mind, I liked this man.

Master Jeb continued, "Did you ever see the play, ‘Equus’?  It’s a prime example of how male sexuality may become conditioned for unusual sexual response.  Look at ex-marines, who, for all their macho bullshit, still retain sublimated homosexual responses.  Remember the Corps.  Semper Fi.  The words, ‘training’, ‘conditioning’, ‘imprinting’, ‘brainwashing’, all have similar effects that may be arrived at through clever manipulation of the male sexual response," he said.

He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, then grabbed my arm tightly.  "This is conditioning.  Do I have your attention?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied quietly.

"If you really want someone to remember something important, grab them forcibly, and tell them what you want them to remember.  It's a subtle form of conditioning.  Now I have your attention, here comes the important message: sado/masochism, Master/slave, control/submission, top/bottom,  alpha-males/subordinates, drill sergeant/grunts, are all forms of conditioning to sexual response.  They may be taught or learned responses, but one way or the other, imprinting occurs.  From that point on, a person’s sexual response depends on his conditioning.  It's just that simple.  Got that, Son?"  he asked as he shook my arm he still held tightly.

"Yes, sir,"  I responded soundly and thought, ‘Could it really be that simple?  Surely not.  If only...’

"Okay, now, you tell me how this applies to you?" he asked as he released my arm.

"As a child, I desperately wanted and needed the love and acceptance of a strong alpha-male.  I never got it.  Having never had a strong male influence in my life, all this time, I’ve been looking for it.  Seeking it has become my conditioning, growing stronger throughout my life, until...”  I wasn't sure were I was going with this.

"Keep going, you’re doing fine, you're almost there," he urged like a schoolmaster.

"... until it’s become an obsession with me.  One I can’t seem to find within my current paradigm.  Unless I’m willing to give up preconceived ideas and fears of allowing the natural processes of conditioning to occur, follow my heart instead of my brain, I’ll continue to be frustrated; however, knowing this, I may have some choices as to how I become imprinted, now, and in the future.”

"Exactly.  I wasn't sure, for a minute, you understood.  Good for you, Son.  Now, with this information, what’s the logical conclusion?" he asked.

"The imprinting most likely to provide what I'm seeking is... " I paused.

"Once you hear yourself say it, Son, you're over halfway there."

"Slave training,"  I almost said to myself but loud enough for him to hear.

“I didn't hear that, Son, would you mind repeating it?" he asked yanking my chain.

“Slave training, sir,"  I said directly to him.        

"Then what is there to fear, Son?  Should the potential for happiness and contentment be something to fear?" Master Jeb asked.

I couldn't answer.  I was deep in thought.  Stunned.  The old man won his point big time, but was wise enough to leave me to my thoughts.  It wasn’t easy coming to grips with something you were in denial about for so long.  Ask any recovering addict.

He grabbed me in his big arms, pulled me to his chest, and held me tight without a word.  He knew and understood.  Knowing he knew and was empathetic enough to offer comfort to a man he only met an hour ago made me lose it.  He was whispering a lot of  "There, there’s, the hardest part's over,"  and something about ‘epiphanies?’  "Somehow, you’ve become conditioned to seek what you described for me, but you're never going to find anything near it unless you also consider the price you’re willing to pay.  Remember the song from the ‘Fantastics’, ‘It Depends On What You Pay’?  The Gypsy sings,  'You've got to pay to get the kind of rape you want.'  Well, nothing could be more true, especially among young gay men.

“You have a  wonderful opportunity today to find those things you're seeking, but how do you find what your looking for if you don't know yourself?  You want a man to love you like you want to be loved.  How do you want to be loved?  Do you know?  Must not if you want to explore your passive side.  You haven't been too happy with the temporary top routine, and another thing, do you even know what love is?  How would you define it?  Everybody throws that word around like it means the same to everyone.  It doesn't.  Love hardly ever enters the vocabulary of Masters/slaves I know.  It's there, it just isn't thought about in the same way.  That doesn't mean it's a less valid concept or definition.  In some ways it's a hell of a lot stronger bond than most people will ever know.  I know you have reservations about the idea of Master/slave relationships, but to be honest, it's the only kind of long lasting relationships between men that works."

“The reason is genetic.  Men are in competition with each other.  Two gay men trying to live on a give and take equal basis rarely works in the long run.  They're constantly at each other jockeying for position or control, until frustration gets the best of one or the other, they throw up their hands and terminate the relationship.  I call it the 'I've-had-it-call-me-a-cab' syndrome.  How do you get around that conundrum?  It’s many people’s consensus there must be a leader or dominant alpha-male in a relationship, and another who is naturally inclined or conditioned to follow.  It’s an accepted fact of nature, the concept of the dominant ‘alpha-male' is standard from species to species.
 
“Because of our reasoning brains, we'd like to think we’re above and removed from the animals on our planet, but the truth is, we’re not.  We’re animals, too.  Being animals we’re subject to the same laws of nature they are with one exception.  Because we can reason we’re capable of breaking those laws from time to time, but don’t ever buy into the phrase ‘crimes against nature.’  If it wasn’t in our nature to reason there would be no such thing as laws to break.  There are no crimes against nature but the wanton destruction of the natural world around us.

"Actually, the term S&M becomes a misnomer in most master/slave relationships of which I’m aware.  I know of no master who would consciously be sadistic or hurt his slave.  There may be good, rough, male sex, and the slave may need to be punished for correction from time to time, or for erotic purposes, but never for the sake of being cruel.  One of the first rules a good master learns is never to punish a slave when he’s angry.  It’s unfortunate that title accompanies Master/slave titles and is spoken of in the same category.  Ninety-eight percent of masters I know aren’t sadist and an equal percentage of slaves aren’t masochist,"  Master Jeb explained.

He continued, “Because a marine is conditioned by harsh verbal and minor physical abuse to follow orders would you label him a masochist?  It might not be wise to suggest that to one.  The term S&M is some misguided queen’s idea of what dominant/submissive sex should be about.  It’s sort of like pop music.  Thank God it isn’t popular long.  Within the type male bonding I’m describing the ties can be so binding they last for years.  I know masters and slaves who have been together thirty or forty years and the master is still tying the slave to the ceiling and setting his hair on fire,"  he said and we shared a good laugh.

"You’re not going to find that in vanilla situations or most of your average Hollywood top and bottom relationship.  So, it seems to me like you have a decision to make about how bad you want what you’ve expressed to me, and how much you're willing to change your life to get it.  Remember, all of life is a trade off.  You might consider letting me refer you to some masters who might be willing to take you on as a new trainee slave to get your feet wet, so to speak.  I'm willing to work with you.  I know several men who would love to expand your horizons," He laughed at his own joke.

"They’re masters who are employed in delicate professional jobs and are concerned with the possibility of exposure.  They would bring you along slowly and not go further than agreed.  They’re safe and sane men who don't want to scare anyone away from a lifestyle they wholeheartedly embrace.  However, you can't continue to play them without a commitment either.  After they’ve invested several sessions playing with you in their dungeon giving you sexual attention and control, if they like you they’re going to start asking about commitments.  To train someone to be their slave, companion, life partner or whatever you want to call it is a big investment.  Any man who has learned the ways of being a master and undertakes to train you needs to be assured he's going to get the maximum return on his investment.  That's understandable, isn't it?” Master Jeb asked.

"Yes, sir," I nodded in reply.

"Or, with further discussions I might consider training you myself if you think you’re interested, but it would require a radical change in your lifestyle.  It would require you to develop a different philosophy in your approach to life.  That becomes part of imprinting, but I think you're a bit more receptive now than you were an hour ago,"  he paused for a response.

"Agreed," was all I could muster.

“If I agreed to take you on, these issues must be discussed and resolved.  I would become your training master.  Since I don't wish to take on a permanent slave at this time in my life, you must understand, when I feel you're ready you will be sold to a good master.  I would get seventy-five percent of the sale price and you would have the rest to put into an account in your name.  Am I reading you completely wrong?  Maybe you just want to dabble at being a bottom and might be more interested in becoming a good master?  I know men who would be happy to teach you the ropes, so to speak," he said.

"No, sir, you were right the first time."  I felt I could tell this man anything about my deepest fears and secrets without embarrassment or ridicule.  "Sir," I said hesitantly, "I'd give everything I own to find a good man who would share life with me, and if I love and respected him would do anything to please him.  Now, if that makes me a candidate for consensual slavery, so be it."  I don't know where those words came from, but it seemed to be the most honest and truthful thing I ever said.

* * * * * * *

Part III ~ Oh, Master, teach me thy ways. ~ Thomas to Christ ~ From the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas

"Let's see if you might be slave material.  If you agree, beginning now," he paused for emphasis, “until I choose to  release you, later this evening," he paused again, “you agree to be my slave.  It'll give you a chance to see how it feels to call a man ‘master’ and hear yourself be called ‘slave.’  You already show me respect when you call me ‘sir.’  To be honest, the respect you've shown me is the only reason you're still here.  That's the first basic step and respect for a master is much the same.  I would guess you're probably from the South, you been in the military, and anyone older than you is automatically addressed as ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir,’ right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied and grinned.  "Old habits run deep expecially when you had manners beat into you as a kid," I added without nuance.

He looked at me for a moment and shook his head.  "Okay, you continue that respect by substituting ‘master’ for ‘sir.’  Until I dismiss you, you're to do exactly as I order without hesitation and no questions.  In effect, you'll have to be trusting enough to place yourself under my control.  Do you understand?  Are you willing?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I understand and I'm willing," I replied.

"Good!  Now, you may refer to me as ‘Master Jeb,’ ‘sir,’ or just ‘master.’  I'll  refer to you as ‘slave,’ ‘boy,’ or both.  Try to think of calling me your master as respect or manners, if you will, like when you address me as ‘sir.’  Slave manners is what it's all about, Son.  Now, consider, before you react to anything I order you to do, if you hesitate or say ‘no,’ we’ll stop and our agreement will be cancelled.  If you're not comfortable and choose to stop, I'll understand, but it won’t mean you've flunked the interview.  I'll still work with you and set you up with some good men.  I just won't waste your or my time and many of my clients by considering you as possible slave material, understand?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed.

"All right then, my new slave boy, we'll complete the physical part of your application... strip," he commanded quietly.

With no hesitation I stripped off my clothes including my socks and stood at parade rest to wait for further instructions.  He turned, looked me up and down, smiled, and made a couple of notations on his chart.  He walked over to me, grabbed my cock and balls in his hands, took his other hand and gently inspected each.  "Not bad," he said, " not too large but not too small either.  Size in a slave doesn't matter much.  Most masters aren't interested in a slave's penis anyway, but some like to suck their slave's cocks from time to time.  I even know a couple of masters who order their slaves to fuck them regularly.  They are, after all, for his pleasure no matter how he wants it, and there’s hell to pay if they don't give him a righteous fucking.  Okay, Son, kneel on this step and lean over this examination table,"  Master Jeb ordered.

I followed his instructions and waited.  I heard the pop of a pair of rubber examination gloves, and knew he was going to inspect my ass.  I felt the cold lubricant he rather forcibly applied to my sphincter.  He must have had medical training, he knew exactly where to find my prostate and checked it out thoroughly.  He didn't stop there.  “You’re clean inside.  You cleaned yourself before you came here this afternoon?" he asked.

“Yes, sir, force of habit.  If I should get lucky I wanna’ be clean.  It’s healthier for my partner and safer for me,” I replied.

“Wise young man and one, in whom, hope continues,” He complimented me and I could hear an approving smile in his voice.

"Now, try’n relax.  I'm gonna' see how much you'll stretch.  Later you could probably be trained to open twice what you can now," he said.

He began to work two, three, then four fingers into my hole.  He stood facing the back of the inspection table.  He placed one arm around my waist, holding me tight as his other hand cork screwed about half his huge hand up my butt.  He was patient and didn't rush his inspection.  He knew what he was doing and it felt pretty damn good to me.  I was responding to his probing and felt myself begin to open wide for him.  At one point, I thought he was going to put his whole hand up my butt.  I’ve never had a hand up my ass, but the masterful way he was working my hole, I was almost sad he didn’t.  I didn't drop my ass, but kept it high enough so he could easily get to it for his penetration.  I tried pushing back a couple of times, but he ordered me to cease.

"Tight," he said, "That's good,"  he further allowed, as he pulled his hand out of my ass.  "Your bone structure will allow you to be fisted without much problem.  Are you a virgin to fisting?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I've never been fisted.  I thought, for a minute there, I was going to be, but I wasn’t frightened by the prospect.  I trust you know what you're doing."

“You’ve hit on the name of the game, Son: trust.  If I inserted my hand, would it have upset you?” he asked.

“”Naw, sir.  You kept working me up, it was feeling so good, I's kinda hoping you might.  It's some'um I ain't never experienced before.” I admitted to him.  He laughed understandably.  I was really getting aroused, and he noticed.  His free hand reached to my crotch and gave my cock a couple of strokes.

"That thing really grows.  Impressive, boy.  Something wrong down there, slave?" Master Jeb asked.

“Naw, sir.  Feels like it should under the circumstances.  Don't feel wrong to me, sir.  Fact is, it feels pretty damn good." I said.

"You have good natural ass juice secretion for lubrication if a master should wish to dry fuck you and many do from time to time.  It's good for a slave to have a sore hole for a day or two to remind him of the good fuck his owner gave him," he said and slapped me on my bare butt with his big hand.

"Has this examination excited you, slave?" he asked rhetorically, able to see my boner, 'old swinger' or 'straight eight' I called it.

"Uh, yes sir, I believe it has, sir," I replied and grinned.

"I ain't fucked a tight little butt like yours in a long time.  I can tell you ain't been fucked too many times, ‘cause your ass is still tight.  It's almost virginal.  I don't find an ass as tight as yours very often and examining it’s got my old cock dripping.  Your cocky attitude and butch bottom persona has turned me on since you walked through the door.  A couple of times I wanted to back hand the snot out of you, 'cause you were being dense, purposely obtuse, and arbitrary.  I thought about just grabbing you up by the nape of the neck, throwing you across my knee, and giving your butt the bare-handed spanking it's needed for a long time."  he said grinning at me.  I got the impression his words were looking for a response, because he didn't take he eyes off my penis.  His talk about spanking me made it salute even stronger.  He didn't miss it either.

“You seem to be responding— slowly coming around— showing some progress, and here I am, about to grant your wish to be topped just a little earlier than you planned.  I sometimes top a man I’m considering referring to my clients to get an idea who or what I'm sending them.  I'm, sure as hell, going to this time.  What you need is a good attitude adjustment, and I'm just the man what can give it to you.  Your ass is so tight, I'll bet you never had your cherry popped.  I ain't popped one in a long time, but I'm damn sure gonna' carve another notch on my belt today, because I'm just about to bust yours.  Then we'll go to work on that tight little ass.  I think we can open it right up," he growled.  Old swinger only got harder.  I prayed to the ancient of days he wasn't just a bullshit artist and would back his words with solid actions.

I could hear him remove the gloves, and then remove his pants.  He walked around the side of the exam table with his cock lying across his open hand for me to see.  Damn, it was huge.  It was about ten inches and looked like a damn beer can.  He began to speak to me as he stroked it a couple of times.
"I never stick my dick in a man who won't make love to it first," he said.  I immediately moved to the edge of the table and kissed the big head and tongued his piss hole.  "Now take just the head in your mouth and suck on it.  You can watch me get hard," he said.  I began to suck on the head of his fine mature penis and was surprised at how it began to grow.  It became engorged with blood and grew to enormous proportions.  By the time he instructed me to stop I could barely get my mouth around it.  He moved behind me, and I began to get nervous because he was so large.  He instructed me to raise my ass, and I felt his finger explore my hole again.

He chuckled to himself.  "Your ass is ripe, slave boy.  Your butt juices are dripping."  I felt him dip his finger into my ass, then pause for a few minutes, he reached into my ass again with two fingers, and then didn't touch me for a few minutes.

“I'm dipping into that dripping little butt of yours to get some of your slick juice to lube my cock.  It'll make it much smoother when I pop you open.  Man, is it ever ready to have its cherry busted.  I know you been fucked before, but I'll bet no man's ever claimed your cherry.  I'm about to do that for you right now.”

I felt his boots on either side of my feet on the step as he leaned over me.  "Now, Son, I ain't trying to be mean, but I'm gonna’ take your ass pretty hard to bust your cherry,” he said softly to me.  I was glad I cleaned myself before I came to the appointment.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I wanted to be prepared.  “It's gonna' hurt like hell for a few minutes, but bite your teeth together and push back on me.  I promise the pain will soon go away, and you’ll give and get the best fucking you ever had.  Ready, Son?”

I liked the way he called me ‘Son.’  It was almost like I was going to get fucked by my real dad.  I was scared shitless at what he said he was going to do; however, I fantasized about being taken hard, and this was my chance to try it.

"Yes, sir," I replied.  Before I could think or breathe, he slammed his huge shaft into my ass almost to the hilt.  My asshole went crazy.  Nothing ever hurt me that much, and I tried to buck him off.  He knew the reaction I’d have, locked his arms around me and held me tight.  For an older dude he was built like a fucking Mack truck, and there was no way this side of hell I was going to get off his cock.  I started crying it hurt so much, but his big penis was doing wonders to adjust my cocky butch bottom attitude.  I finally stopped squirming, and he was whispering there, there's in my ear.  Then I remembered his instructions, and pushed my ass back and up onto his huge cock.  Damned if it didn't help a little.

"That's a good boy," he cooed, "You listened to your master.  Your master will make the pain go away."  With that he took a couple of small strokes, and I began to open up.  Then, almost as quickly as the pain began, it went away, and I began to feel full, warm, with the most comfortable feeling of belonging I ever experienced.  I felt like I passed some initiation or rite of passage into manhood.  “Does it hurt that much, Son?"  He asked.  “The first time always hurts the worst.  You'll get use to it— even look forward to it.  It serves a purpose.  It gets a slaves attention and serves notice his owner demands a good fuck.”

"No, sir, it feels so damn good.  I just cried because I'm stupid.  Your cock is filling me up, but it feels great inside me.  It feels like it belongs in my ass."

"I does belong in your ass, boy.  It's customary to thank a man who has just popped your cherry or taken you hard like that."

"Thank you, Master."  It was the first time I ever used the word.  Considering the attitude adjustment I was so righteously given, it seemed natural to show him respect.  Having said it and meant it, I realized I mentally shifted gears and accepted my position as his slave for the evening.

"You’re  welcome, slave.  Now let's do a couple of simple exercises.  Let me feel you bite down real hard with your ass.  There, that's good.  Once again.  Yeah, un-huh, that's good.  I can feel that.  Yeah.  Uh-huh, yeah.  Again.  Oh, yeah.  Now, let me feel you use your ass to suck on it.  Take a couple of small strokes with your butt.  Oh, yeah, that's good.  Couple more.  Uh, huh, not bad, boy. That's right.  Yes, just a little more on the, ahh, yes.  That's it, you got it.  Now raise that little butt and push back hard on my dick.  I think you can take it all.  I want you to chow down with that tight ass, open real wide and eat the last three inches yourself.  Your little ass is hungry.  I can feel it.  Give it up to your master like he took it from you."

I raised my butt and pushed back.  I made my ass suck it for a while, then with a big lunge backward with my ass, I took some more.  He gently urged me back like a football coach.  I found myself feeling the most important thing in the world was to please this big, gray bear of a man.  Soon, I felt his crotch hit my butt.  I kept eating his cock with my ass until I was pressing into his belly to get as much of him inside me as he would let me have.  With his arms still around my waist he pulled me to a standing position to get the last little bit inside me.  I welcomed it and wiggled my ass around on the base.  We stood with him deep within me for several minutes while he ran his big hands the length of my body playing with my cock and balls, pulling,and twisting them to just the point of pain.  He played with my tits, milking them, squeezing, cupping them, all the while lodged deep within my gut.

"I've only found a couple of men in my life who could take all of me, boy, and one I never let go.  He died four years ago, but don't be frightened, I don't mean to claim you for my own.  I have someone in mind for you who’s looking for unspoiled talent.  He's a very strict, hard charging, no nonsense master who would train you to become a useful slave, but he's also a fair and loving man.  I know this Master/slave talk kinda frightens you," he said as he took a couple of long slow strokes into my ass, “that's understandable, but I'll make you a bet, anything you wish, after you meet this man and spend one evening with him, you will beg to become his slave.  Now, that's enough chatter, let's get you fucked," he said.

I totally relaxed and got into it.  I admitted to myself  Master Jeb was exactly the kind of man who cranked my motor.  For once I was being controled like I wanted without any feelings of being degraded or made to feel less than a man.  I knew it was just a pretend game but I found myself not wanting it to be.  I wanted to be this man's slave.  The way he was treating me as an object to be desired and used, was really turning me on.  I was never fucked like my new master fucked me.  I did my best to work with him and meet each thrust so I might give him the most pleasure for his cock.  He fucked me slow, deep, long, and hard.  Damn, he was right, popping my cherry was causing me give him the best fuck I ever experienced.  I was so open he was slamming the entire length into me with no problem.  I was pushing my ass back as hard as I could hoping to get more of him inside me.  He fucked me steadily for a good thirty minutes.  Every now and then he would comment on how much he loved to fuck tight butch-bottom boy butt.  He rested for a while still inside me and then continued to fuck me like a wild man.  Soon after, he seemed to tire.
 
"Master, I'll get you off if you’ll relax on the bed and let me ride you."  I don't know why I told him that.  I never did that sort of thing before, but I had no problem with the idea.  I knew I could do it.

"Okay, slave boy, let's see what you got," he said.  He pulled out and my ass made a small popping sound.

"Sounds like that cherry grew back, Son,” he said and laughed, “You know what you have do.  Now, don't tell me you’re gonna’ do something and not deliver.  In other words, don't let your mouth write a check your ass can't cash," he grinned at me.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

I positioned my ass onto the mushroom head of his big cock, and with no hesitation sunk it all the way to the base.  More pain, but this time I knew it would soon pass and would help me give him a good ride.
 
"Was that okay, sir?" I asked with a smile.

"I'm proud of you, slave," Master Jeb said.

Those were magic words, all I needed to flip the on switch to my cock riding, ass fucking machine.  I don't know where my butt learned to ride a dick like that, but I became a cock riding demon.  I was a pretty athletic young man, and got a good rhythm going on his big cock.  I watched his face and could tell when I was doing a stroke that would begin to build him up toward shooting his load.  I hunkered down and  began to pound my ass down hard and fast on his big shaft.  I was giving his prick a good riding and could tell his huge cock began to feel even larger in my butt.  I knew I was getting him near climax.  I was taking longer, faster strokes, and I rode him into the air as his back arched to give me all of it he could.  I knew he was close, and I didn't waist an inch of his huge cock as he shot a big man load up my hole.

He collapsed in heavy breathing, but had a big smile on his face.  He was spent.  I managed to drain his big balls into my ass in one violent moment.  I clamped down hard with my ass, and begin to milk him to get the last few drops.  He reached down and grabbed my nuts in his big gnarled hand, pulled them tight, and started squeezing them hard.  “Now, slave," he said, "you don't get off my cock until you shoot.  So, you'd better take my horse for another ride."  I knew he wasn't kidding, and the idea of me being forcibly retained, impaled on his huge cock was enough to make me come without touching myself.  Out of habit, I reached down to take my cock in my hand.  "Take you're hand away, slave.  You're going to get another benefit from having your cherry popped.  You open up your ass and ride my big cock like you’re proud of it being inside of you.  Ram that come deeper up your ass.  See how far up there you can push it, understand?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, Master Jeb," I replied.  I started riding him again, slamming my butt down hard on his still erect shaft.  Damn, I fucked my ass harder than he probably would have.  I could think of nothing else but his come going further up inside me, pushing it further and further.  About the fifth big hard slam to the base I exploded all over his white haired chest.  It drained me completely.  I never shot that much in my life.  Where did it come from?  I was drained.  I was empty.

"Thank you, Master," I whispered.

"I didn't hear you, boy," he lied.

"Thank you, Master,"  I said in a natural voice.

"I didn’t HEAR you, boy," he spoke sternly.

"THANK YOU, MASTER!"  I yelled at the top of my voice.

"That's better,"  he replied, "I must tell you, a slave is rarely allowed to come.  At first, that may sound harsh, but considering a slave's only purpose in life should be service to his master, it becomes a form of control, a form of conditioning like we discussed.  Beside, when his master does allow him to come, it’s fifty times better.  I've seen slaves who haven't been allowed to come for a couple of months pass out when they came.  Since you did such a good job of riding my old hoss for your first time, I felt you deserved a reward.  Besides, I wanted to see if you could shoot just riding my cock and you did.  That's a plus, Son.  It's also a big indicator that you just may be slave material," he said.

He reached up, pulled me to him, and kissed me gently while holding his still erect cock deep in my ass.  A dam broke inside me, and I let it all out.  I cried on his big white haired chest.  It hit me squarely between the eyes, this man was giving me the control I was searching for.  I felt he understood I needed to serve him, and he knew I belonged on his cock enjoying the afterglow of my accomplishment.  I worked hard to pleasure him and part of that was watching me shoot my load.  He was in total control and I was loving it.  I wasn't ashamed to show my emotions to him.  I'm usually not emotional, but everything was happening too fast for me to process.  The things he said made a lot of sense to me.  It was like he opened the book of my life and was reading the most secret pages.  It was as if I was looking through a glass door dimly, and then someone opened it for me to see.  I knew he understood.  Like a good master should, I thought.

He petted me and stroked me until I got it all out.  I apologized, and he smiled knowingly.  All the while, he was taking some long slow strokes into my butt.  He knew it was soothing and comforting as I slowly began to push back to make the feeling the best for both of us.  Damn, he sure knew what he was doing.  I was never fucked that sweetly before.  "Don't feel ashamed, Son.  Your master understands you just had an epiphany which can shake you to your roots.  Sometime we can see further through our tears than we can a telescope," he paused for a moment and then added, "You’re going to make some master a fine slave, boy.  Now, sit back on my cock and clean your boy come off my chest.  Then, when I give you permission, you may pull off my cock.  You'll clean that, too."

I looked puzzled, but he explained.  "Use your mouth, slave.  Never insult a master by handing him a trick towel.  Use your mouth to clean him after he's finished using you.  It’ll be good training for you.  A master who buys you or one I refer you to will want to know you’ve been trained in Master/slave manners and this is an essential one.  Now, get to it, slave,"  He commanded.  There was something about the way this man ordered me to do things that made me do them without question.  Like someone mesmerized to do one distasteful task while he thought he was doing another more appealing one.  The funny thing was, the reality blended into one and both tasks became acceptable with no feelings of reluctance.  I knew I was going to do it.  He seemed to know and understand these things.  His control over me was strong and powerful, and God help me, I wanted more.  I lapped up every drop of come I could find.
 
"Now, pull off of me, boy," he instructed.  I did and looked at his still half hard cock.  He stood up and ordered me to kneel in front of him.  I obeyed.  I thought for a minute, I might hesitate, but I didn't.  I'm proud to say I cleaned him good.  I knew he was pleased and proud of me as well.  His strong, commanding voice gently urged me to follow his orders as you might teach a child to walk, one step at a time.  "I think your need to serve an alpha-male far exceeds your average basic passive gay man, Son.  I think you're a natural, boy," he said, "clean it good, that's it, go ahead, clean your master’s cock, slave."  I took his penis in my mouth, as much as I could, and he told me he was happy with my cleaning job.  I sat back on my heels, and thanked him for allowing me to clean him.  "You need something to wash the taste out of your mouth." It wasn’t a question.  It was a statement of fact. "Open your mouth and hold the head of my cock," he ordered, "Now, grab my butt with your hands.  Okay, I'm gonna’ give you a little slave-beer and you swallow," he said.

He let go a small but manageable stream of his urine.  Damn, it was my first taste of master piss, but I wanted it.  It was wonderful.  I swallowed with no problem and began to suck for more.  "I'm gonna’ let it flow a little faster.  If you have a problem, gently squeeze my ass with your hand, and I'll slow the flow, understand?"  I squeezed his ass I understood, and he started his flow again.  I drank and drank, gulped a few times until I could feel my belly expanding with his hot man piss.  Then I sucked for more.  He didn't keep me waiting.  He started his flow, full out.  I gulped, gulped, and gulped again.

"I can't believe it, slave.  You like piss,"  he said, laughed, and rubbed my head, then started the flow again.  Damn, it was hot.  What had I been missing?  Gulping Master Jeb's piss was the hottest thing I’d done in Los Angeles.  "I got a little more for you— then— that's all you get."  He laughed looking at my extended stomach; about a quart of piss in my belly, I surmised.  I didn’t care, I wanted more.  I squeezed his butt with both hands to let him know I wanted it.  This time I rammed his cock so far down the back of my throat I didn't have to swallow.  He started the flow, but when he felt he didn't have to control it, he opened up, full flow, and gave my belly the rest.  "Good boy.  Now, that's the way a slave should take his master’s piss.  Stand up and turn around," he ordered.  Master Jeb looked at me like an admiring father dotes on a son.  He made me feel proud of myself.  He pulled me up tightly to his hard body, and reached his big arms around me.

He began to rub my piss extended belly telling me how hot it looked to know his piss was in there stretching me out like that.  He positioned his hands lower to each side and shook it so he could hear his piss slosh around inside.  He let out a pleased laugh and shook it again.  He went to the door and called for a friend in another part of the house.  "Hey, Jim.  Get chore’ big ass in here for a minute.  I got something you need to see."  In a softer voice he spoke to me, "Don't be embarrassed, Son.  I'm proud of you, and I wanna’ show you off."

"Yes, sir, Master Jeb," I humbly replied.

I was about to meet the man who floated on the back roads of all my fantasies.  A man of my imagination who caused me to soil my sheets so many nights, the man to whom I would compare all others, who would ultimately become one of two men I would, one day, call my masters.


End of Chapter 1 ~ The Ties That Bind
Copyright © 2000 ~ 2011 ~ Waddie Greywolf
Mail to: <waddiebear@yahoo.com>
Proofed: 04/27/2011
WC 14044