THE TIES THAT BIND
By Waddie Greywolf

Epilogue 

       
Part I ~ Fortune In Men’s Eyes

Words will not leap to the page
like mundane platitudes to form
themselves to bring any comfort
like a cheap band-aid stretched
across your heart or mine.

Life’s lemons speak a sour note
as our minds replay some shared
pain or our tongues taste another
devastating disappointment and
add tears to the darkening roux.

It is then, I would ply you with
sweet words made of strong
imaginings of gentle bonding's;
whispered phrases laid against your
soul and gently lift you up with one
giant smiling hand toward the final
warmth of day to tell your spirit
truths, in strength, I mean no harm.

But all my words are lost to life,
a fast and furious roller-coaster
sagging under the stress too many
heavy G’s as it goes into another
buck and turn amid shared laughter,
great pain, sorrow, and breathless
fascination only to repeat again.

"Let's buy another ticket!" you cry
and how can I resist the child who
tugs at my heart like a pocket watch?
I will not be the brakeman who tells
you hard statistics of price increases
to ride proportions or when the ride has
finished and watch the pain spread to
those child-like eyes and have you hate
me because your pennies are all spent

From: "The Reluctant Giant" ~Slave Songs ~ D. W. Dux ~ Posthumous


My Master and I became two of the cornerstones of our family along with the Dungeon Master who had his own special role.  He and Chief took on about thirty-five or forty slave trainees over the years we were on Mt. Washington and sold them for good profits.  They became the only trainers to buy a slave from.  If a master bought a slave from them, they knew they were going to own a quality product.  Many new masters and slaves were introduced into the family, and the total number of members grew.
 
The early seventies to the late eighties were the golden era of our family.  Of all the gatherings of the clan, I can only remember a couple of times there was any anger or fights occurred.  Mostly, because someone had a little too much to drink and flew off the handle.  The next morning, the two involved would cry in each other’s arms, apologize and swear everlasting love.  Everyone would roll their eyes toward heaven behind their backs and go away amused about the ways of brothers.

I went back to work, and the shop prospered with Sam, Dad Jake, Chief, and me being the driving forces behind the work.  With my master’s permission, I bought more shares of stock until I had a little over fifty thousand dollars invested in the company.   I enjoyed the men I worked with and got along well with them.  No matter what rumors they heard or assumptions they might make about my life outside of work they treated me with respect, and I treated them the same.  Of course, Sam, Jake, and Chief were family.  I became damn good at my job.  I enjoyed it, and it was no longer like work.  It may sound crazy to some, but the physical activity of working with my tools meant more to me than six years of college ever did.  I worked hard for it.  I gutted it out, day in and day out, but at the end of the day I could go home to my master with a proud feeling I did a good days work.  I rarely missed a day of work in all those years.

My master was the first to point out how much joy I seemed to get from the idea of going to work everyday.  He sometimes joked he was a bit envious.  I got to go and play with Sam, Jake, and Chief all day while he had to ride that damn bike and be called a son of a bitch, a bastard, or worse everyday.  Those were the days I cherished most when he came home feeling defeated by the world.  I would come to him with his whip in my mouth and kneel before him as an invitation to take his frustration out on me.  He always felt better afterward.  My ass would hurt for days, but there would be a warm glow in my heart no one could take away.  He never took me to the dungeon for that purpose unless I offered, but I did quite often.  I could tell the minute I walked in the house and made homage to him whether it was one of those days.  I loved being able to do that for him, and he loved me even more for offering, but the real payoff was the love and appreciation my master poured into me afterwards.  He was like no other I ever experienced.

I took over being shop foreman for several years, then the other man in the office administration retired and left an opening.  Sam and Jake wanted me to move up, but I didn’t want to.  It was more money, but it meant giving up working with my tools.  I wasn’t ready to do that.  Through Sam, Jake, and Chief’s tutelage I gained a skill and considerable knowledge of mechanics of which I was very proud.  I talked it over with my family, and both masters supported any decision I wanted to make.  I got the feeling my master, whom I fell ten times more in love with, wanted me to do what was in my heart.  I humbly and respectfully reminded him one of the reasons I became a slave was to have my master make decisions for our lives.

Without pause, he laughed and reminded me he made a decision, and it was for me to decide.  He explained, a good master will know his slave well enough, if he relegates a decision to him, his slave will make the right choice.  He knew it wasn’t in my heart to give up working with my tools, and it was his way of telling me he supported my decision to turn it down.  I explained my decision not to take the job to Sam and Jake.  While they were disappointed, I think they understood.  They once worked with their tools and could remember the feeling of joy from the satisfaction of a job well done.

I suggested they offer the job to my brother, Chief.  He didn’t want it either.  He didn’t want to give up his tools nor the camaraderie of us working together.  Through the years he and I grew so close we could almost read each other’s minds.  Neither of us wanted to give that up.  It was too meaningful for us.  Then they came up with another idea.  If Dad Jake took the job, which would be sort of a lateral transfer for him, and I took his job, so I could still work with my tools, would I reconsider?  It meant Chief would move up to shop foreman.  Chief liked the idea, and while it was a compromise for me, it was a better plan.  I took over Dad Jake’s job, and Chief became shop foreman.  When I worked in the shop with my tools I allowed Chief to be foreman.  If a man came to me for a decision, I would defer him to our shop foreman for an answer.
 
I would go to him for decisions when it involved how the shop was handled or how he wanted the work done.  He seemed to appreciate my willingness to acknowledge him as alpha-male of the shop, and it only brought us closer together.  I worked with my tools a lot more than Jake did, but I was more efficient doing his job and handled both with little problem.  Jake became proficient in his new position.  The changes in jobs seemed to make for greater productivity all around, and we prospered even more.

Master Earl and I evolved into a steady life style with my second master being involved a lot with us.  Sometimes, I think the reason Master Earl and I worked so well together was his ability to share.  We never became stale with each other.  Big Jim was wise enough never to demand but satisfied when he and I could get together by ourselves.  Master Earl attended police functions and training which would require him to be gone for several days.  I would always stay on the mountain with my family and have wonderful times with my second master.  There were many times, mostly at family functions the three of us would stay together in one bed for the weekend; all in the name of saving space, doubling up, as it were.  Do you think our family bought that?  Not for a minute.  Everyone loved the idea we were a threesome, but our bunking together was fair game.  We got razzed a lot.  The three of us would join hands, me in the middle, and bow like a circus act.

The Dungeon Master and my master’s affection went much further than brothers.  Many times I would catch them sitting off to themselves talking seriously and laughing the laugh that only intimates share with one another.  They admired each other and found themselves falling deeply in love.  I welcomed it.  It only made their love for me more focused.  Neither would probably admit it, but I think they were very attracted to each other and it mutually excited them to see each other fucking their slave.  Sometimes, during the height of passion I would glance up to find the two of them clutched together in a more than brotherly kiss as they unloaded into their slave for the third or fourth time.
 
Then occasionally, just occasionally, I would come into the room where we were staying and find them on the bed nude, locked in an embrace.  Didn’t bother them a bit.  They didn’t scurry to hide anything.  They loved me enough they just expected me to understand, and I did.  They would hold out their arms for me to join them.  What man in his right mind wouldn’t crawl up between two men like them.  My own personal beauty and the beast.

My master trained me to care for and serve him well.  I worked hard to be what he needed.  He assured me over and over I became just that.  I was never punished by him like Master Jeb warned me.  Maybe he mellowed or maybe I pleased him enough I didn’t need punishment.  Don’t get me wrong, my ass was worked over regularly but for slave training, rite of passage, or to relieve his pent up frustrations when I offered.  His use of the whip was primarily for mutual stimulation purposes only.  Master Earl never used his whip to punishment me.
 
Like Master Jeb, he sensed my own self-loathing for having disappointed him did more than his whip ever could.  My master loved to use his whips and was damn good at it.  There was hardly a day when I set down on my creeper to crawl under one of those big trucks a smile didn’t cross my face.  It hurt so damn good I’d sport a boner most of the day, which didn’t go unnoticed by our shop foreman and Dad Jake.  It caused me to get a lot of razzing.

I’d think to myself, 'Have to compliment my old man when I get home this evening.  He was damn fine last night.  Did right by his slave-boy.'  Then I’d giggle to myself remembering a time when the thought of going through what I do with my master would have sent me running in the opposite direction.  It may sound strange to someone who’s never been there, but I got to where I needed those sessions with my master.  My overall attitude and mood would depend on whether he worked my ass over good one or two nights that week.
 
If for some reason we got busy or we just didn’t have time for him to bust my butt, I got nervous, irritable, short with people and would sometimes, for no particular reason, while under one of those big trucks, find a tear in my eye.  I would go home, get his whip, put it in my mouth, crawl to him and sit quietly until he noticed me.  He’d laugh, wouldn’t say a word, take me to the dungeon and give me what I needed.

Funnier yet, he would get a call from the shop,  “Earl, we’re worried about your boy,” Sam would say.  “When was the last time you worked him over?” Sam asked.  My Master would stop to think.  “If you have to think, Earl, he’s due.  Take our word for it.  Please take care of your slave, Master Earl, we’re begging you, for the sake of those who work with him.  We’ll all be grateful.”

The two men would break up on the phone, then my master would lovingly kick my ass down the dungeon stairs, chain me up and take care of his slave.  At work the next day, they could always tell from the silly smile on my face, my beloved master took care of his slave.  They’d laugh their asses off, breathe a sigh of relief, and I’d go though the day with a sore butt, a stiff dick, and a song in my heart.  Let them laugh, my owner loved me enough to take care of me, who could wish for more?  My master gave the term ‘tough love’ new dimensions.  Hell, he invented the term.
 
He asked my opinion and input into our lives more and more and braced himself for my replies.  If he asked, he knew he was going get my honest answer, and it wasn’t always what he wanted to hear.  He never stopped me to argue a point but would hear me through.  Then he would make a decision.  I never pouted or got mad if he decided not to consider my opinion, nor did I ever throw it in his face if his decision turned out bad.  He was hard enough on himself, and I would usually end up consoling him.

“When am I going to learn to trust my slave?” he would chastise himself.

“Master Earl, please don’t say that.  You trust me.  Where is it written masters can’t make mistakes?  How many have I made you’ve overlooked or forgiven?” I asked.

“Damn few, slave— damn few, and those weren’t big enough to require more than a good talking to.  You never did it again.  You’ve been a good slave, and I’m proud of you,” my master replied.

No one knew.  I don’t think he even knew how much I fell in love with him since I became his slave.  Everyday I fell more in love with him, mistakes or not, he was my master, he became my only reason for living.  I loved the Dungeon Master and never turned away from him, but our love was different.  My master was not only a good man but a wise one as well.  He once described Master Jim’s and my relationship as one of rock-solid, deeply loving, never needing to be defined, ‘partners in crime.’  He and I were always up to some mischief and giggled like school boys planning our schemes.   No one ever doubted I fully accepted Big Jim as one of my masters; however, beneath the bonding and strict adherence to well defined roles, we allowed our two little boys to revel in each other’s love.

My second master was closest to us and could see what was happening between my master and me.  I could keep nothing from the big, lovable giant and he knew little ways to get things out of me I was trying to keep secret.  He observed how my love for Master Earl D. Shaw grew by logarithmic proportions.  While he was never jealous, he sometimes felt he needed to talk with me about it.  He wanted me to know, of all the men in my life, he most of all, understood the depth of my love for my master.

“Beau, you know I love you and I know you love me, but the love you have for Earl is all-consuming.  You’ve become his slave in the deepest sense of the word.  You’re mine as well, you serve me with the greatest love, honor, and respect any master could ask for, but I never realized just how much you truly love Earl.  I’ve watched it deepen and grow over the years until it’s more than master and slave.  It’s not only rare, it’s unique.  Jeb predicted it, but I didn’t believe him when he told me the two of you would become the envied relationship of everyone in our family.  Well, you have.  Some are still trying to figure out where I fit in, but those who know us understand, the rest might not.  Fuck ‘em!  Together, you and Earl have something special most people would give anything to feel for another individual,” he declared.
 
I read the tarot cards that afternoon in Silverlake before my family.  When I read for Master Beryl and Blaine I saw in the cards that one of Big Beryl’s adopted children would need him desperately in nine years and eleven months.  That night, as he left, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and whispered in my ear, “You’re my child who will need me in nine years and eleven months, aren’t you, Son?” he asked. I just held him.  He didn’t need an answer.  He knew.

One afternoon in October it was hot and muggy.  It rained off and on all day, but it was still hot.  There was so much humidity in the air your clothes would stick to your body.  It was about two o’clock and Sam walked out of the office with a horrible look on his face.  “Yoshie called from the hospital.  They just brought Earl into emergency.  He was involved in a accident on the freeway and his bike was totaled.  I don’t know how bad it is.  Get Chief to take you over.  We’ll  close down the shop; Jake and I’ll be right behind you.  I’ll make a couple of phone calls to family members,” he said.  

Chief and I didn’t bother to put our tools away.  We jumped in his truck and was there in ten minutes.  Yoshie met us and told us the worst.   He was in a terrible accident on the freeway.  Some old woman in her eighties aiming her big Caddy down the freeway changed lanes and forced Master Earl under an eighteen wheeler.  It ran over him, his bike, and he was hit again by the car following the big-rig.  There was a terrible pile up on the freeway and they couldn’t get paramedics through fast enough to help him or get him to the hospital in time to do much for him.  He was dying.  They moved him to a private room to be as comfortable as possible.  He was so damaged internally there was no way they could put him back together.

I was joined by my family in less than two hours.  There were over two hundred and fifty ornery looking bikers and a number of LAPD motor officers and other personal in the hospital and more arriving every minute.  At least the hospital staff thought the bikers looked mean and ornery.  Doctor Crane assured them these people were not what they seemed.  They were not there to rape, pillage, and burn.  They were there because one of their own lay dying.
 
Beryl and Blaine were by my side within two hours.  Josh and Will got there, but my master was beyond their help.  There were just too many internal injuries.  I went to him and saw the love of my life lying in a bed with tubes coming out of him bruised and mangled.  My master was awake and tried to smile for me.  I knew the minute I walked into the room he was dying.  I tried to be strong for him, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate.  They had ideas of their own and kept a steady flow down my face.  What do you say to someone you love you suddenly see dying in front of you?  He knew he was dying.  Yoshie didn’t lie to him.  I was paralyzed.  All the things in my heart I wanted to say to him I couldn’t because I didn’t want him to think I thought he was dying.

He pulled me to him.  “Beau, my beautiful slave, I don’t think I’m gonna’ make it, darlin,’” he whispered.

“Master, don’t say that.  Whether it’s true or not, I can’t hear it.  I won’t hear it.  You can’t die and leave me.  A slave needs his master, and I don’t want to live without mine,” I replied and broke into sobs on his chest.

“Shuuu...” he tried to calmed me.  He whispered to me he wanted me to take off my clothes and climb into the bed to hold him.  Yoshie nodded his consent and told my family to block the door.  No one comes in but Doctor Dan or Doctor Crane.  They were there eventually, but didn’t say a word.  Doctor Crane stood with tears streaming down his face, frustrated, helpless to return the favors these men had done for him many times.  Now one of their beloved family members, one he knew and personally admired, lay dying and he couldn’t do a damn thing.  Doctor Dan consoled him.

I quickly threw off my clothes and gently crawled into bed next to him.  I held him in my arms and kissed him gently.  He got the sweetest smile on his face and told me to hold him, Wes had come with several other men; Booger Red, Bud Cummings, Big Ben Stafford, and three other handsome cowboys, Buck, Rowley and Ken were standing at the foot of his bed smiling at him.  They were there for him.  The had come for him. They would take my master and show him the way so he wouldn’t have to cross alone.  He carried on a conversation with Wes and whispered some of the things Wes was saying.  Wes told him to tell me he understood why I lost faith in him.  He didn’t plan things well enough, and I got frightened.  Wes said not to worry about our master, he would serve him and take care of him until I got there.
 
He knew he could never take my place by our master’s side, but he was looking forward to having his company and counsel again.  He found a wonderful master for himself, Ben Stafford, but would serve them both until I got there.  He’d show Master Earl around the place and introduce him to some good people.  My master said the angels Michael and Uriel were there with Wes and other family members.  Master Earl told me he had but a little time left, and he needed to tell me something important.  He looked into my eyes for the last time and spoke softly but strongly with unfailing conviction.  “I love you, Beau.  I’ve loved you from the first day I stopped you on the lake, and I will always love you.  Because of that, I can’t, and won’t release you from our bond.  You’ll just have to accept the fact that eventually, you will serve me for eternity.  You are my beloved slave, and you will never be happy being anything else even after death.

"I can’t give you up, Beau, I love you too much.  My soul would never rest or be complete without my slave by my side.  You became my property, and you committed yourself to me without so much as a question.  You brought meaning back to my life after Wes died and showed me, by example, how to live and love again.  You brought me joy and happiness.  As much as I’ve needed you in this life, I’ll need you even more in the next.  Until that time, remember you have another bonded master to serve.  One who loves you as much as me.  I made arrangements in my contracts with our family if something happened to me you would automatically become his slave.  Let Jim help you, Beau.  I know you’ll have a difficult time for a while, but eventually you’ll come around to obeying your master and become his devoted slave.  It’s what I want for you, slave.  He is my bonded brother, Beau, and I love him almost as much as I love you.  Remember, you will always be my slave even after death,” my master said.

I told him I would gladly serve him forever without a doubt in my heart.  He kissed me, told me Wes was right, we belonged together, and he never loved anyone more than me.  “Be strong, my love, my beautiful slave and never stop loving,” were the last words he uttered.

Then he was gone.  I felt the exact moment his soul left his torn body.  I looked up to watch him join the others.  I could see them welcoming him and being concerned.  My master left with one hand in Wes’ and the other hand in Michael’s, the beautiful angel.  I watched him go.  He turned, looked me in the eyes, smiled the sweetest smile, waved, and turned back to walk away.  Then they were gone.  I was devastated.  A major part of my soul died with my wonderful, beautiful, violet-eyed master in that hospital bed.  I kept shaking him to bring him back and screaming, ‘No!  No!  Oh, God!  Noooo!  I’ve never asked you for much, God, but now I’m begging you, sir.  Don’t take my master.  Please give him back to me.  Why the hell did you give him to me only to take him away?  I’ll do anything, God, just give him back.  Please, God!”
 
The most beautiful man I ever knew, the only man to ever demand a commitment from me, a man I would gladly lay down my life for and take his place, lay dead in my arms.  I couldn’t let go.  I wouldn’t let go.  For me, at that moment, it seemed the entire universe imploded.  The American Indians have a name for it: koyaanisqatsi, world out of balance.  Then suddenly, I found myself out of my body standing before a great expanse of silence.  I knew it was the wasteland of loneliness and a feeling of foreboding came over me that the pain to come would consume me like a tsunami.  There was no center anymore.  There was no balance.  There was no more intelligence.  There was no sense for any purpose under any heaven that any god might dwell in.  There was only the most empty of feelings as I stood at the edge and looked out across the expanse of timeless nothingness.
 
Cold, tingling shivers ran up my spine, over my head and caused my scalp to crawl away in different directions.  The realization that the part of him that became me and the part of me that was him was lost to me.  I could no longer feel either part.  They were gone.  Lost forever.  I was alone.  The most horrible realization any person has who loses a great love is the awareness they are once again, alone.  God didn’t create people to be alone.  Love is hard enough to give up, but those who’ve lost their bonded companion have lost a part of their soul.  A part of themselves that co-joined with another to become an extension of both.  They are separate but equal in balance; however, together, they merge as one.

As Will observed, “You can see their auras move together, and they begin to change colors as one.”  I could no longer see or feel my beloved master’s aura flowing freely into mine.  It was gone.  It was like a light was switched off.  I shouted into the dark unending space before me and received not even an echo in reply.  It swallowed even the echo in its ruthless, determined greed.  A cry of loss, a cry of pain, a tear filled plea, a burning angry question, shouted into the silence of loneliness by a heart which was surely broken.
 
The great void has no feelings, no conscience, no being, it’s just there.  It’s a wasteland of nothingness every man must stand before at least once in his life, or he’s never truly loved.  It remains silent, timeless, immutable, and the untold number of man’s most passionate, heart rending questions shouted in painful agony into that dark-night go unanswered, the cries unheard, they remain as cold and vague as a mystic’s heart, more stoic than the patterned walk of a silent druid, or as enigmatic as the smile on the face of a dead child.

It all dwells there in that dark timeless sea that never ends, whose waters never wash upon another shore.  Why does so much of life have to be rhetorical?  Why all the fucking mystery?  Only two more questions to seal within a bottle and toss into that interminable sea that will never be retrieved from those dark waters, never to be acknowledged, never returned, or ever to be seen again.  They were gone.  He was gone.  I lay holding him for almost an hour trying to warm his body with mine.  I could feel the embers of life’s warmth slowly fading away.  Crying inconsolably, my head on his chest, I kept thinking, ‘At least take me with you, master, don’t leave me behind.’  Big Beryl had to physically pull me away from him.

I curled into a fetal position on the floor in the hospital and began to go into shock.  I couldn’t accept my master was dead.  I wanted to withdraw into a deep sleep never to awaken to the reality of a world in which he no longer lived.  If I awoke, I knew dealing with his death would still be there, and I couldn’t face it.  Sam and Doc Yoshie took me home with them.  I stayed with them until the funeral.  Yoshie kept me shot up most of the time to relieve the anxiety and the pain.  It had to be the worst fucking pain I ever suffered in my life.  I could endure anything the most sadistic of masters, who might consider themselves a hell-on-wheels, mean-ass motherfucker, could ever dish out.

At least with S&M you know there eventually has to be an end to a master’s administering pain.  If nothing else, he’ll get tired, bored, or both.  Not so with grief.  I cried “uncle” to God many times after my master’s death.  I wanted to die.  Not so much to join my master but to put an end to the horrible, gut wrenching pain.  I felt the silence of eternity once again calling my name.  No one, nothing could get through to me.  I wouldn’t even let Will or Josh near me, or anyone else but Yoshie and Sam.

The funeral was a blur.  I was my master’s only next of kin.  He legally adopted me for such a reason.  I was legally his son.  My name was changed to Andrew Beaureguard Shaw.  He figured if I was his property, I should bear his name.  He wanted to be cremated and there was a huge funeral at Forest Lawn in Glendale.  The entire police force turned out and over six hundred renegade, outlaw, gay, bi-, straight, master/slave, bikers were in attendance.  Everyone was well mannered and behaved.  The police were bug-eyed my master knew and was loved by such a large diverse community of people.  They gained an instant new respect for Officer Earl D. Shaw they never had before.  The Los Angeles Times had two, full page spreads on the diversity of people who attended this one motor officer’s funeral.
 
Dad Beryl and Blaine looking sad but scruffy.  Bull and Charlie, looking meaner than two badgers in heat.  Bull held the prettiest blond-haired, blue-eyed boy on his shoulders with tears running down his little face.  Little Bill loved his Uncle Earl.  We baby-sat for Bull and Charlie so many times our house was like his second home.  Half of his toys and children’s books were in the closet of our spare bedroom.  The biggest surprise was about two thirds of the Dodger baseball team were there.

There were biker mommas, children of all ages, and hundreds of Harleys and other bikes.  Several patrol officers knew he had another bike and rode with a biker group but never asked many questions.  You can’t live in and around a group of bikers and not be exposed to all elements.  To be loved and respected by most of them was another matter.  My master was.  He was a good man to everyone.  If he thought he could help, he’d try.

I had my one suit cleaned and Will shined my shoes for me.  I hadn’t looked at that suit in six years.  It didn’t fit very well because I grew much bigger physically under my second master's unrelenting driving.  I didn’t care.  I’d just as soon stood naked by his casket and told them all,  “I wasn’t his son, I was his fucking slave; I was his personal property.  He bought me, he owned me body and soul; he was my life, my universe, my all.  My greatest reason in life, my only purpose, was to become his property, to be owned by him.  I was born into this world to serve this man.  I was not only his slave, I was his pride, his love, his joy and I loved him in return to the depths of my being.  Now, he’s gone.  I no longer have my beautiful, violet-eyed master to serve.  Other than my family, not one of you tight-assed son's of bitches will ever understand such a love, nor can your hollow platitudes mend my broken heart or bring him back to me.”

God gave me ten wonderful years with my Master, Officer Earl D. Shaw.  My fellow men presented me with a flag.  Just what I needed to take his place— a fucking flag.  Flags and fucking worthless medals were the story of my life.  Flags and medals won’t warm your heart at night.  Hell, they won’t even keep your feet warm.  I accepted it graciously for his sake.  Amid the confusion of the day, one thought kept running through my mind: In ten years we neither had a cross word for each other nor went to bed angry.  I was his total slave and never considered being angry with my master for any reason.  Since he made all the decisions and planned our lives, I was free to devote my time to his pleasure, comfort, and loving him.
 
What was I to do now?  I knew the Dungeon Master was my other bonded master, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop thinking about my master who lay in that ridiculous box.  I couldn’t even bring myself to look at Big Jim at the funeral.  I was almost catatonic.  I didn’t see anyone, I just went though the motions, shook hand after hand and said, “Thank you”  to hundreds of people I didn’t know.  I cried with my family ‘til I didn’t have any tears left.

I hugged Big Jim, but I couldn’t look at him.  I could hug him, but I couldn’t embrace him.  (Those who’ve been there know the truth of that statement)  He was crushed.  He loved his bonded brother as much as I did and rightfully should have been by the side of his brother’s slave; his slave as well.  His grief was every bit as great as mine, but he never pushed or intruded.  He was and is the biggest man I’ve ever known in my life.  Big Jim, someone, anyone, should have kicked my ass up between my shoulder blades for my selfishness.  I thought I was the only one in pain; no one could understand what I was going through.  That simply wasn’t true.  I imagined they couldn’t understand; however, many were in just as much pain, but they knew a secret I didn’t, a secret I had to learn the hard way.  They knew when to let go.  They knew how to say ‘goodbye.’

After the funeral, I remained in a catatonic state of severe depression for two weeks.  It felt like I was slowly losing my mind.  I couldn’t eat.  If I tried, I threw up immediately.  I couldn’t go to work.  I couldn’t get out of bed.  My legs would barely carry me to the bathroom.  A couple of times I couldn’t and soiled my bed.  I was on a nose dive from thirty thousand feet and couldn’t pull up.  I was falling so fast I felt like if I hit the ground they’d never recover a piece of me, let alone the black box.  I once read a psychological paper describing clinical depression as “a loss of heart or a wasting of the soul.”  That pretty much sums it up.  That’s exactly the way I felt.  I lost my heart and didn’t even know where to start looking for it again.  I gave my heart totally to my master as Master Jeb told me I must do and it perished in the flame with him that consumed his beautiful body.  My heart was now in a tin of ashes the funeral home presented to me several days later.  Without my heart my soul was wasting away.

Poor Jim didn’t know what to do.  I think he was the only person who really knew how much I truly loved my master.  He talked to me many times about the investment I was making in my master, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.  Once the roller coaster hit the cogs there was no turning back from the inevitable plunge into my master’s love.  Big Jim was wise enough to realize I must come to some truths alone.  I didn’t want to see anyone including him.  He understood, but he didn’t want to because he loved me.  The caring adult knew what I was going through but the little boy inside him kept asking the adult, 'Why isn’t Beau turning to me for comfort and support?'  Instead, I seemed to be rejecting him.  I finally figured out one night by a camp fire near Barstow he represented the other half of my love with my master and my master’s greater love for him as well.  He represented the better, giving, sharing part of my master’s noble spirit, but I couldn’t bring myself to think of being his slave at the time.

Big Jim probably should have forced me to the barn near Big Beryl’s and used his black snake whip on me until I got it out of my system; beat the message into me that life goes on.  'Get a grip, Kid!  You were my bonded brother’s slave, but you’re also my slave, recognized by our family.  Now, I have become your only master and you damn well will serve me.'  He had every right to do it, but he didn’t.  His love for me clouded his judgment as well as mine.  He simply loved me too much to force the situation.  I wish now, for his sake, and ultimately for mine, he had.  I couldn’t bring myself to be with him for almost two years after Master Earl died.  I felt I would be running to master number two to get past the hurt, grief, and anger of losing number one.  I thought it would look like I must not have loved my master very much to immediately find happiness becoming Big Jim’s slave.

Anger?  Yes, you go through anger at the person you loved for leaving you.  How could he?  How could he do this to me if he truly loved me?  He knew how much I loved and needed him.  I never made a secret of it.  How could he leave me, and why the hell am I still here?  Just leave me alone and let me die.  Then I’ll be with him again.  Many have grieved themselves to death.  Life doesn’t work that way, it’s not that simple.  Sometimes we have to be burned by the fire to harden our souls.  Not to become bitter or disillusioned but like the Phoenix bird to rise from the ashes to become a new person; someone stronger and wiser.
 
We learn that any love is a gift for only a brief period of time.  It may sit it the palm of your hand forever, but the minute you try to grab it, to hold on, it will vanish.  We learn to give love, to bank love in another individual is a wonderful, desirable, and noble thing, but that account may be wiped out over night.  Unless we’ve gone though the fire, we can’t know how to jump start a bankrupt heart.  Sweet Baby James sang it best, “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, but I always thought I’d see you one more time again.”

Live everyday with the ones you love like it could be the last you have to tell them how much you care.  Don’t ever go to bed mad at the one you love.  You may wake in the morning and they may not.  It almost killed Big Jim.  He thought I blamed him for my master’s death.  I didn’t.  It was a matter of letting go, and I didn’t know how.  I was a slave without a master.  The most useless thing in the world; unless, it’s a master who loses his slave, and can’t find the heart to take another.  Jim and my situation was a conundrum in itself.  I did have a perfectly good and loving master waiting in the wings to run in and take over should the lead be unable to perform, but Big Jim just couldn’t find it in his broken heart to step up to the plate and knock one out of the park.  He was as demoralized as I was.

Later I came to find out Master Earl was responsible for the major change in Big Jim when Master Jeb became incapacitated and he had to step in and take over being dungeon master.  He didn’t want to do it, but because of Earl’s insistence he would be perfect for the job and his faith in Jim, did he gain the strength of character he needed to step into the role and excel at it.  When Earl died, Big Jim’s ego and self-confidence deflated like the Hindenburg.  He simply couldn’t find in his heart to be the demanding and controling master we both needed him to be.  He didn’t fail me.  I failed my giant blue ox.  It was only one more ugly reality I had to bear.  

Master Earl left me everything.  Among his papers was a living trust which named me beneficiary.  There was a quit claim deed to the house in Silverlake, and I was signed on as beneficiary to all his insurance.  The monies paid were considerable, considering he had been killed while on duty.  He had almost three hundred thousand in his own personal savings.  He took every paycheck I handed over to him weekly and banked every nickle of it into an account in my name.  We lived completely on his money from work and investments.  I didn’t even know about it.

I just assumed he was using our money as he saw fit and never questioned him.  There was close to three hundred seventy-five thousand in that account.  Unbeknown to me, when we first got together and after master Earl adopted me, Sam took out a huge double indemnity policy for each of us through the company.  It paid over half a million to me.  The insurance and all holdings of Master Earl’s came to well over a million and a half.  I didn’t have to work another day if I didn’t want to.  I let Sam, Master Jeb, and Beryl handle most of the finances for me.  I couldn’t have been bothered.

About the same time the shop owners were suffering financial setbacks and Chief, Sam, and my stock options suddenly began to rise in value.  Between the three of us we owned fifty three percent of the corporation.  With a little more investment it could be ours.  I put up the cash and we formed our own corporation.  Sam as president, Jake, and Chief as vice presidents.  I was, for a while, to be a silent partner.  I had to get away or I knew I was going to join my master in the grave.  None of my family members would come around.   They felt I needed my space and time alone to recover.  They would have been there in a minute if I only reached out.  I cut them off, and they didn’t understand.  The tried. They just didn’t want to intrude on my sorrow.


Part II ~ Running From The Rain

Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you. ~ James Taylor

Three other men came to understand the depths of my despair.  Master Jeb, Big Beryl, and of course, Blaine.  Master Jeb understood because he knew my commitment to my master was honest and real.  He insisted it was the only way he’d allow me to become Master Earl's slave.  I gave him my word and never regretted my commitment.  Big Beryl lost Jimmy all those years ago and went though the tortures of the damned in his grief.  The big man had been there and back.  He wasn’t about to sit idly by and watch his ‘sweet baby’ perish from terminal sorrow.  Master Beryl and Blaine came to Silverlake, yanked me up by the short hairs and took me to the desert.  He threatened me with my life if I tried to venture back to Silverlake.
 
I knew when to listen to the old man.  Dad Beryl, father of my clan, knew exactly what I needed.  He became my savior number three.  He saved my life.  The big man rode me out to that barn ever other day for almost a month.  I needed every trip.  Every time he saw that cloud come over me and I began to fold up like a telescope, he would snap his fingers, point to his Harley and we would be on the road to the barn.  If I said no, he would physically pick me up, dump my ass on the seat and dare me to get off.  You bet, I went to the fucking barn.  After we got there, he’d work my ass over for an hour or more.  I would be on the verge of passing out from the pain, but would beg him through my tears for just ten more.

“Please, Master,”  I would beg him.  He would let me down from the ropes.  I would scream and cry for him not to take me down.

“Master Beryl.  Sweet Master.  Please.  Please don’t take me down.  I need more.  Much more, Master.  Pleeeease, Master Beryl.” I would cry and kiss his boots.  I would bury my face in the dirt at his feet and beg with all my heart.  He would sit on the ground, hold me, wipe the dirt from my face and cry with me.  He’d kiss away my tears, tell me he loved me, and together we would find the way.  In someways it helped him get over Earl’s death by reaching out to help me.
 
Think I’m sick?  Oh, yeah.  Admitted.  Love and the loss of love is the worst fucking illness any man will ever suffer, but Dr. Beryl’s attention getting, reality wake up sessions was some of the best damned therapy I ever had.  That fucking old man, that wonderfully loving, giving, caring old man, knew my soul and what it needed.  He was damn sure going to see I got it.  We ventured there the first weekend I spent under his roof.  He knew I released a lot of emotions from Nam that weekend, and he could do the same with this grief.
 
I went through similar agonies letting go of the memories of Nam.  Grief is grief, no matter what the cause.  You still have to grieve properly or you’ll never fully heal.  Big Beryl knew he could get it out of me.  He knew by beating my ass with his whip until it was so raw I had to eat standing would force me to start grieving in a healthy manner.  He knew it would get me over the guilt of letting go and being left behind.  It stuck in my mind  to let go would be betraying the deep love I had for my master.  Dad Beryl knew I felt supremely guilty about not dying with him.  Sound weird?  Talk to an AIDS survivor who has watched their love waste away in front of them and held them in their arms as they choked to death on their own fluids.  Ask them if they felt guilty about being left behind?
 
When Master Beryl had me strung up, the harder he whipped me the louder I would taunt him.  “Is that all you got old man?  You call your sad ass a master?  You better take another butch course, dad.  My little sister could use a whip with more force than you.  See if you can put some muscle into it, you lazy old bastard,” I would holler at him.

KEERWHACK!!  His whip would land on my bare ass and lift my fucking boots off the ground it would hit so hard, but it would barely register through the personal pain.  Most times, I didn’t feel a thing.  “There!  That one was just a little better but not much, you old fish wife.  With six months practice you might be able to whip a slave halfway decent.  Blow that hot air out your ass, old man, and whip me.  Show me what you got.  You got a ready slave, here, who’s calling your bluff, you old phony.  Don’t let him get away yelling, god-awful, disrespectful things to you, Master.  Get his attention.  Make him show you the proper respect you deserve, Master.  Make an example out of this slave,” I would holler at him goading him for more.  

I’d cry in his arms later and tell him I didn’t mean a word of it then I’d laugh and tell him,  “No, no, I really did mean every word of it.” We’d both laugh.  

He would hug me and tell me he understood, he was in control and was only going to give me what I needed.  I would cry some more, thank him and tell him how much I loved him for caring enough to do it for me.  Not to stop.  We were making progress.  I was going to grieve properly or I was going to die by the whip.  Most times I didn’t care which.  Damn, that old man could use that black snake whip.  The lessons he took from the Whip Master paid off handsomely.  I could swear I could feel Master Zack on the other end a few times.  Beryl put both the fear and love of God back into my sweet ass.  Sans panache, just your down home woodshed ass shredding.  Simple but effective.

He laughed for years when he later told the story of taking me to the barn.  "As mild mannered as Beau always is, you wouldn’t believe some of the shit that came out of that sweet man’s mouth.  He tried to goad me into getting mad and really letting go on him.  I tried one time, still in control, to see how he would react, what he might say if I truly let go.  That day I tried to push his limits.  He still insisted I whipped him like a fucking school girl.  He yelled some of the most god-awful, fucking, off-the-wall shit at me.  He once yelled to me why I didn’t buy a habit and join a nunnery until I could learn to use a whip like a man.

"I had to stop right then and there, ‘cause I was laughing so hard.  I couldn’t get it together after that, we were done for the day.  I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to take a decent swing with my whip.  Only my sweet baby could come up with a fucking line like that,” he’d throw back his big handsome head and roar with laughter and feel relieved he managed to save his child, his sweet baby-slave.

He did, too, and to him goes the credit.  The tarot cards were right.  We’re lucky to have one savior in our lives.  I had three.  Chief, Master Jeb, and now my wonderful Dad Beryl.  I knew the evening I met him, he was special, but I never realized just how special he really was.  Big Beryl was a man’s man, a man of infinite charm, humor, goodwill, and common sense.  A man of mythic proportions.  A simple man who was complex but never complicated.

The house in Silverlake was sold.  The money was dumped into my account.  I rewarded Master Jeb and Beryl handsomely for their efforts to see to my best interest.  I basically owed them my life.  No amount of money would’ve repaid them.  I gave Walker half a million cash for a venture he said would double my money.  It didn’t— it tripled it.  It made me a million over my initial investment.  I let another five-hundred thousand ride with him.  He ran that into another million and a half.  I hired Xander to keep records and books, to pay taxes and reinvest the interest.  I made money, Walker made money and in less than two years after my masters death I was one of the wealthiest young slaves on the West Coast.  Poor little rich slave-boy.  All that fucking money, and it didn’t mean shit to me.

I stored my Superglide at Sam and Doc Yoshie’s and took my master’s full dress hog to get away.  I was getting stronger and after the last time Big Beryl cut me down from the rafters of the old barn we both knew it was time for me to find myself.  He held me in his big arms and told me it was time for me to hit the road.  I knew he did everything he could to jump start my heart and the old man succeeded.  He did an excellent job of getting through to me.  Radical therapy?  Bet your ass it was.  Did it work?  Hell, yes, it worked.  I was learning to let go, one day at a time, and not feel so Goddamn guilty.  An eighteen foot black snake bull whip can relieve one hell of a lot of guilt.  Snap your ass right back, it will.  Make you sit up and pay attention to the message of life. “Get your sorry ass back in the pool and tread water with the rest of the poor son’s of bitches.  You’re no better or no worse than the they are.  You don’t love, hate, or hurt any more or any less than anybody else.”
 
I agreed, it was time for me to go.  Where?  Didn’t matter, just go.  Besides, Beryl had a philosophy about life he shared with Snoopy,  “There’s no problem so big it can’t be run away from.”

He told me, he and Blaine would come get me when it was time for me to come home.  I couldn’t even go to the mountain to say goodbye.  Master Jeb, Sam, Dad Jake understood.  Chief understood.  Big Jim wanted to understand, but he was too much in love with me and couldn’t accept why I was rejecting him.  If I hadn’t been so fucking selfish I would have realized the big man desperately needed me.  If it hadn’t been for Master Wolf, Jeb, Chief, Sam, Big Beryl, and Blaine he would have gone off the deep end.  I left an open account with Big Beryl with fifty thousand for Big Jim’s support and comfort.  He was to give it to him as needed and not to tell him where it came from.  Did Beryl ever tell him?  Yes, of course he did, he was a wise man.  He knew his brother needed to hear what his slave did for him, and that his slave still loved him very much, and added, it was only a matter of time.

I asked my loves, Big Beryl and Blaine, if they would have the Dungeon Master out to explain why I had to go away and tell him if he still had need of a good slave when I got back, I would be proud and honored to call him my master; something I wanted to do from the first night I met him all those years ago.  If he couldn’t wait, then I would understand he needed to move on.  I wouldn’t love him any less.  I left from Beryl and Blaine’s place on a Saturday morning in February of that year, with nothing but some travelers checks, a bed roll, and a small bag with some extra leathers.  I set out to mend my broken heart and seek my peace with the universe.

* * * * * * *

A year and a half later found me bigger, more muscular from hard work, with a full beard and ‘stache, long hair tied in a pony tail and a couple of new tattoos.  I lived in my leathers.  Worked, slept, bathed and rode in ‘em.  I had many a young man suck me off and fall in love with the smell of man and the leather which became one with my person.  I’d stop anywhere I could lend a hand to someone in need.  I was still the universal slave.  I didn’t need pay, I needed to serve and not necessarily be rewarded.  Many times I would come into a small town and help someone out of a jam and leave before they got a chance to thank me.

I helped a man get his crops in on a small farm in Idaho.  All his help deserted him.  Me and his two young boys manned the combines day and night for a week.  Never drank so much coffee in my life.  The last night (he was going to pay me the next day)  I pushed the Harley out to the road and down the hill to start it.  I took off and left him a note that just said, “Thanks for letting me help, my love to you, Beau.”  I later read stories of a mysterious ghost biker who traveled throughout the West doing good things for people without asking thanks or pay and would disappear without a trace.  I wondered who he was?
 
I kept myself clean and my leathers that way, too.  I could always find some little gay man who wanted to play at being my slave for a weekend to clean my leathers and make love to my boots.  The image of the big bad ass outlaw biker using his butt to park in for a weekend left many a little gay man across thirty states jackoff fantasies for years.  Having been the slave of two very demaning and controling masters for a decade I knew every nuanced string to pull and button to push to give them what they craved and what I needed from them.  Unfortunately, I left many an empty heart across the South and Western states, but I told all of them there were men, better masters than me out there ready and willing to settle down with a good slave like themselves.
 
I occasionally called Beryl and Blaine to let them know I was still alive and traveling.  I’d advise them of approximately where I was, if I knew.  I’d jokingly ask Dad Beryl if it was time for them to come after me.  "Wait— lemme' check.  No.  No.  Not time yet.  You gotta' stay in the oven a while longer.  I’ll know when you’re done,” Beryl would laugh as he answered.

I asked him one time how he’d know when I was done?  “From your voice, Son.  It’s like a dip stick on a crank case.  When I hear you’re full and ya' ain't a quart low, we’ll come get chu,” he replied.  Then he roared with laughter and told me he loved me.  I loved him, too, he was a treasure.

Once, I called back to the mountain and got Big Jim on the line.  My heart stopped.  I hoped Chief or Master Jeb would answer the phone.  I would have them tell my master ‘Hi!’ for me and I loved him.  I was silent, not knowing what to do or say.  I tried to find words but the lump in my heart was tightly lodged in my throat and choking me so bad I couldn’t get them out.  I just couldn’t talk with him.  I heard my beloved master ask quietly, “Beau?”  he instinctively knew it was me.  In a barely audible, tender voice he said, “It’s all right, Son, I still love you.  I'll be here for you when you need to come home,” he said, then he waited in silence.  It rattled me so bad I hung up.  Later, I wondered if I really called just to hear his voice.  Why lie to myself?  The truth stabbed me in the gut like a sharp two-edged knife.  I knew at that moment, my life in the future would be meaningless without my giant.  He asked later if I called once and  hung up.  I admitted it was me.  I called only to hear his voice and heard him say he still loved me.  He broke into tears and told me he knew it was me and that simple act meant more to him than I would ever know.  He knew I would be coming home to him.  I would be his.  As always, he was right.


Part III ~ Return to the Mountain
 
I called Sam and talked to Chief at work one day to wish him a happy birthday.  He wanted to come ride with me.  I told him to come on.  I was going to be in Billings at a little gay man’s home for Thanksgiving that year and to come on up.  I gave him the kid’s address and phone number never thinking he’d ride all the way to Montana.  Low and behold.  I was in bed fucking the b’jesus out of the little man when I heard the unmistakable sound of several Harley’s in his driveway.  I recognized the engine sounds of three, but I didn’t know the fourth.  Think I’m full of shit?  You ride with someone long enough you get to know the pitch and sounds their bikes make.  You can tell whose coming a mile away.  Especially Harleys.  Each one has a unique sound of its own.  I hadn’t even bothered to tell the little man, Wendell, I invited my brother for Thanksgiving, because I didn’t think they would come.  I told him about Chief and my family, but never thought Chief would show up.  I jumped out of bed, pulled on my leather pants, went to the door and there was Chief, Big Beryl, Blaine and a huge Italian man who was a new family member named Tony.

To think— they rode all that way to be with me, their lost brother, for Thanksgiving.  They were hugging and kissing me loudly and joyfully.  Poor Wendell was in culture shock.  I’m sure he must have thought he was being invaded by the Hell’s Angels.  He was good natured though and took it in stride.  They didn’t just shake his hand, they each had to hug him, kiss him, and thank him for taking care of their brother.  He also couldn’t believe how good looking the four of them were, especially Tony.  Wendell couldn’t take his eyes off of Big Tony.  Tony thought Wendell was a little bit of all right, too.  I took Tony aside and told him to take him if Wendell agreed.  I was going to be catching up with Big Beryl, Chief, and Blaine.  Tony carried him off to bed and treated him to some hot Italian salami while we drank, talked, laughed, cried, and caught up with each other.

We talked ‘til the wee hours of the morning until Beryl and Blaine sacked out in Wendell’s spare bedroom.  Chief and I unrolled our sleeping bags, and he treated me to some wonderful red man dick.  He felt so good, so caring, so loving, I cried in his arms as he fucked me.  It was one of the sweetest fucks I ever had in my life.  My brother could still do it to me, and I loved him for it.  Once in a while, I remind him of that night on Wendell’s living room floor.  He always gets a pleased smile on his handsome face.  I guess it was at that moment I realized I needed my family in my world again including my master.  In a way, Wendell brought that about.  He felt bad the next morning he went with Tony instead of staying with me.  I grabbed him, kissed him, and told him Tony was my brother and brothers share.  Did he enjoy sleeping with Tony?  Oh, yes, he did.  Then forget it.  I still loved him.

The three of us, Wendell, Blaine, and I whipped up a Thanksgiving dinner to end all Thanksgiving Dinners.  Wendell invited several of his gay biker buddies over for dinner to meet me.  Since there were more than he counted on Blaine and I took his truck and went to the store and bought a couple hundred dollars worth of food, booze, and snacks so Wendell could impress his friends.  Wendell had no idea I had money.  His eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw the shit we brought him.  We bought another complete ready-made Thanksgiving dinner with turkey so he would be sure and have enough for everyone.

He was speechless and couldn’t thank me and Blaine enough.  Now he had five new friends to introduce to his buddies and he was loving every minute of it.  His buddies were genuinely impressed.  They knew hard core bikers when they met them.  A couple would have done anything to have any one or all of us.  We were Wendell’s guest, and he let them know it.  Tony poured on the affection in front of Wendell’s buddies and Wendell ate it up.  It was a lovely, wonderful day.  Wendell had so much love shown to him by the five of us he was aglow by the end of the day.

He eventually came to Los Angeles, went through slave training with Big Jim and Chief and was sold to a wonderful master in our family.  Guess who?  Big Tony.  A man similar to Master Zack in ideas, attitude, and raw Earthy sex appeal.  Tony was a huge, fine looking, Italian man with a cock to match.  He fell madly in love with Wendell that week in Billings, Montana and made a claim for him before Wendell entered training.  Wendell found his slave heaven on earth as well.  He never heard of being a slave before he met us.  When he found out Blaine and I were slaves he got very interested.  Especially when Big Tony told him he was looking for a good slave to serve and pleasure him.
 
We stayed with Wendell all weekend and that following week as well.  He was a school teacher and had the holidays off.  I paid for everything while we were there.  Food, booze, anything Wendell needed for the house.  I left him an envelope under his pillow with a funny thank you card and a hundred bucks for anything we may have forgotten to pay for.  We all signed the card.

Poor Wendell never had a chance.  He never saw it coming.  He was Tony’s slave before we left Billings.  He and Big Tony bonded as master and slave.  (You can always tell when they start gathering twigs, bits of twine from the yard, start building little nests in the corner of a room and making that funny chortling sound)  They were terminal.  You’d a’ thought they were going to sing the last act of La Boheme they cried so much in each other’s arms when we left.  The pain of lovers parting.  God help us all.  Big Beryl, Blaine, Chief, and I would look at each other with blank looks, shake our heads, then Beryl would roll his eyes toward heaven.  Chief, Blaine, and I would fall off our fucking bikes laughing at the old man.  He was too funny.  I hadn’t laughed that hard or that free for a long time.  It felt great.

I knew they came to take me home.  They didn’t even have to tell me, they just knew I knew it was time.  I made my peace with whatever mysteries there are in the universe.  I finally located my heart and knew where it was.  It was mended, being kept safe and warm, out of harms way, still loved and cherished, waiting for me, in the body of a loving giant beast of a man who dwelt on a mountain in Los Angeles.  Damned if my ass didn’t know it, too.  It twitched all the way back on that Milwaukee vibrator thinking about riding Babe to the barn again.  We left on a beautiful, warm day (warm for Montana in the dead of winter)

About halfway back I got my big butt plug out of my saddlebag and inserted it.  I hadn’t worn it in almost two years.  If I was going back to being a slave I better break my butt back into wearing it.  I came three times the next two hundred miles.  That damn plug knew it was home and was loving it.  Back in Beau’s saddle again.  I’d signal to Beryl or Blaine we had to take the next off ramp.  They’d signal why, I’d point to my crotch and just shake my head.  They damn near wrecked their bikes laughing to get to the next off ramp so I could clean myself.  Finally, Dad Beryl told me to take toilet paper and wad it up in my cod piece to act as a sanitary napkin so we didn’t have to stop so often.  Damned if it didn’t work.

Poor Tony was heart sick all the way back.  He looked like a wall-eyed calf who lost its mother.  We stopped every two hundred miles or so and Tony would disappear into a phone booth to call his little darlin.’  He had it bad.  We were happy for them.  Wendell couldn’t get enough of his big fat Italian sausage and Tony couldn’t get enough of Wendell’s tight little slave ass.  Damn.  They were always going at it.  We were taking odds Wendell would be the first slave in history to become pregnant.

If he didn’t, it wasn’t from lack of trying.  Talk about sexual athletes.  Those two took gold medals in every event.  Wendell served Tony well.  Tony was strict, demanding and loved Wendell with Italian passion, slightly more than his pasta.  Wendell’s last name, by the way, was Fabrizzi.  He could cook pasta al dente’ and a marinara sauce like an Italian whore.  Tony put on thirty pounds the first six months they were together.  Wendell swore it all went to his cock.

I returned to the desert with Beryl, Blaine, Chief, and Big Tony.  I didn’t want anyone to know I was back.  The family was due to spend Christmas at Will and Zack’s so I stayed with Beryl and Blaine until the day before Christmas Eve.  They were devious and had this huge prank cooked up.  I went along with it, but it meant I had to stay wrapped up in a fucking cardboard box for several hours.  Fortunately, Blaine came up with a better plan.  Have the box under the tree.  Beryl was to get the Dungeon Master outside on some trumped-up pretext.  I was to get into the box naked and Blaine would put the top on and seal it up again.
 
Just before everyone was to exchange gifts Christmas Eve, Beryl took the Dungeon Master aside to talk in private about their trip to Montana to visit me.  Most of the family didn’t know I returned and mouths dropped open as I strolled naked across the room to get into the box. Those who recognized me were shut up quickly and told they could see me after the Dungeon Master opened his present from Santa Clause.  They handed out every fucking present under the tree before they got to me.  Will was playing Santa Clause and in keeping with the surprise asked his master who the big box was for?

“Oh, that’s for the Dungeon Master.  I was told to tell him it was from Santa Clause, but it’s really from the family for our appreciation of the good work he’s done this last several years.  Right folks?”  Master Zack asked the crowd.  Everyone applauded.  What could be in such a big box?  Some guessed it was a new T.V.  Big Jim was stunned but came to open his present.  When he removed the lid and looked in he saw a naked bearded, ‘stached, long haired, tattooed man he didn’t recognize until I stood up, and he saw my rings.  He grabbed me and held me tight as our family went nuts.  They were happy for us to see us reunited.  I knelt in front of him and paid homage to his boots.

“Master, the first evening I met you, you told me if I ever needed a good master, whether I was trained or not, to come to you naked, kneel before you, kiss your boots and asked you to, please, be my master; that you might consider it,” I said softly.  I knelt, bent over and kissed his boots again. “Dungeon Master, sir, would you please consider taking this most unworthy of slaves to be your humble servant, your slave.  To become your property and to own me for the rest of my life?” I humbly asked..  He dropped his hand for me.  I kissed it lovingly and held it to my forehead.
 
“Rise most worthy of slaves to your master’s arms and show him your love.”  I was all over the big man.  Our hearts let go and we were crying our guts out in each other’s arms.  Our family was going berserk.  Everyone was in tears, and the celebration began.  I was transferred to his ownership that Christmas eve, and we’ve rarely spent a night apart since.  That’s been twenty-three years ago this Christmas.

Four of us live together today.  Chief took Blaine as his slave after Master Beryl passed away.  Blaine had real problems when Beryl died.  It just seemed like the bonding in our family of masters and slaves was tighter than any other form of human bonding I ever experienced.  While it was wonderful when it was happening, when one died it was the pits.  Everyone deeply mourned Beryl’s death.  Jeb died of a massive stroke in his sleep less than a year later which added to the family’s sense of loss.

Two of the major cornerstones of the family gone within a year of each other.  Two of my saviors gone within months of each other.  God, it was hard; however, I learned a lot about grief and was beginning to handle it better.  It still isn’t easy for me to let go, but I had my master to lean on.  I had to be strong for him and Blaine, too.  My master lost three of the most important men in his life as well.

As time went by, without the towering presence of Big Beryl as the head of Clan McInnis our family grew smaller.  By the mid or late 80's the family clan drifted on to other clans or established separate family bonds.  There is still a hard core band of us who get together regularly but nothing like the earlier days.  The early 90's saw the first large family reunion of the clan McInnis at Zack and Will’s. Two years later, another at the Captain’s and Xander’s.  The captain was in poor health and passed away the following year.  He and his brothers (Earl and Jim) had grown close over the years and Xander and I were buddies.  Walker left Xander, Leon, and me a lot of money and properties.  He also left his brother, Big Jim, a hefty chunk of change.  Xander and Leon never had to work another day in their lives if they didn’t want to.

Where is Leon living?  Guess?  Yep, pilgrim, you’re right.  On that same five acres the captain deeded to him years ago, in the same small cabin, with one of the happiest little slaves in history.  Leon's slave was another intervention by Wes of another lost soul from Vietnam who need a strong, demanding master.  I found the small cowboy working on one of the biggest ranches in Southwest Texas, the Lazy 8.  I was working at the Broken Arrow for Dan Yates at the time.  Wes told me to go to the Lazy 8 and tell the ramrod of the ranch who I was, tell him my story, and exactly why I was there.  I rode up on my Harley and taked with the man, Ramrod Curtis Langtry, for several hours.  I told him about my two masters, whom he knew, my loss, and I was sent to work for him for several months to make friends with a young man named Ed Wixton.  I told him there was a master who lived in the desert of California for whom he was intended and I was there to direct him to his future happiness and bliss.  He never once questioned me.  He told me to park my Harley next to his in the old barn; store my leathers in my locker, and he'd take me into the small town so I could get the cowboy gear I needed.

He wasted no time settling me in with Ed and we became good friends and asshole buddies.  Ed fell in love with me and I let him.  Then I told him his love for me was nothing compared to love he would have for the man I was instructed to take him to.  Was he sure he wanted to become a good cowboy's slave and serve only him for the rest of his days?  He assured me he did and would.  Sight unseen, I called Master Walker and told him of my visit from Wes and my find.  He told me to send the young cowboy by Greyhound and he would meet him.  It all worked out like clockwork and I gave Ed an envelope to give Master Walker with a folded piece of paper with the words:  For my Stable Master.

I gave Ed some extra money, kissed him, patted him on his tight little butt and sent him on his way.  Walker Johnson took it from there.  I continued to work for the Lazy 8 until after spring roundup that year.  Since he knew I would be leaving, to my surprise my ramrod asked if I would bunk it in with him for a weekend in a small town not far from the ranch.  I did and still have fond memories of that weekend.  He was a master in the truest sense, and knew how to use a good slave.  He made me feel, once again, like the salve I was.

Leon's little slave, Ed, always has a smile on his face, and we can’t, for the life of us, figure out why?  Just because he’s a slave to the epitome of the last American cowboy with the dick of death shouldn’t make him that happy— should it?  Leon has the money to live anywhere he wants.  His little slave Ed doesn’t want to live anywhere else.  Can’t say’s I blame him.  Leon belongs in that cabin and probably will die there.  What better place to go?  One of the better, but smaller family gatherings was at Leon and Ed’s.  It was like the old days when everyone had to fend for themselves.  Leon and Ed  weren’t the kind to entertain so when you went to their place you took provisions along.  No one cared.  Everyone shared.  We all had a great time.  In some ways it was more fun.

Master Zack, Will, and Leon continued a friendship over the years.  They lived close to each other and Zack and Will were forever helping Leon with some project.  He was good to help them in return.  Leon worked his ass off one entire fall to help bail them out of a project they took on that was really too big for just the two of them.  However, with Leon’s help they pulled a rabbit out of the hat.  Little Ed’s a worker, too.  He was great at clean up and the guys didn’t have to worry about being in a hurry to do something and leaving a mess.  Ed was right behind them with brooms and shovels.

The four of them are really tight today and visit back and forth regularly.  Leon hasn’t aged a day since I first laid eyes on him all those years ago.  He has white hair now, but he still has the same handsome, mean demeanor, leather face he always had.  Ed has mellowed him a lot.  You would’ve never thought Leon could become a lover.  Wrong.  I knew it all along.  If the right little slave came along and won the big cowboy’s lonely heart, they would have more loving master than they would know what to do with.  I was wrong about that, too.  Ed knew exactly what to do with him and did it well.

They are together today and still very much in love.  Leon made a great master and keeps a short rein on Ed.  Leon sees the path they’re going and Ed is only too happy to take him where he wants to go.  Ed worships the ground Leon walks on.  They look like Mutt and Jeff but there is a glow about the two of them that even Will says is unusual.  When they’re together their auras change colors as one.  In all these years, Leon has never brought himself to say goodbye to me.  It’s always with tears in his eyes he holds me and whispers, “See you on down the trail, cowboy.”

“On down the trail, cowboy,” I reply.

Big Dirk inherited a ranch in Montana and he and Allen moved up to become ranchers.  My master and I visited them.  Will and Zack went up to visit.  Master Wolf and his slave went to visit.  They treated anyone from the family like royalty whenever they came up.  In the late eighties Allen developed nephritis and died of kidney failure.  Dirk went crazy, sold the ranch got on his bike, and the last anyone heard from him he was still running with a straight outlaw gang.  He made several attempts to come back into the family but Allen was his bridge, and he felt too much like an outsider without him.  We all still love him and wish him well.  Maybe he’ll read this someday and come home.

Josh is still with us.  Breed passed away three years ago of cancer.  Josh took care of him until the end.  Will and he fought the cancer and probably prolonged Breed’s life by two or three years.  It finally spread throughout his body and their gifts were just not powerful enough.  Sam and Doc Yoshie were by his side when he passed.  Most of the family including my giant and I were there, too.  Breed became greatly loved by everyone in the family.  He and his master were two of the most highly thought of members of our group.  Breed was buried with his master’s cock in him.  Josh couldn’t deny the love of his life his ultimate gift.
 
Josh took comfort knowing his dick was safe, still cherished, where it belonged, within the body of his beloved slave.  The members of his family buried Breed beside a huge boulder on their property he loved so well in an unmarked grave.  It’s what he wanted.  Josh still owns the property but rents it out.  Say’s he wants to be buried along side his slave.  I laugh to myself when I think about a hereafter when those two are reunited.  Breed’s Master is going to be made whole.  He’ll have his big dick back where it belongs and he’s going to make up for lost time fucking his slave throughout eternity.  They’ll never be able to get the smile off Breed’s face.

Josh lives in one of the small one bedroom apartments with Zack and Will right now.  He doesn’t want to leave the desert, although we’ve been trying to talk him into moving in with us.  He couldn’t live in the house he and Breed lived in all those years.  It was just too hard for him.  Understandable.  We have a huge place and a garage apartment that isn’t being used for anything but storage.  He’s considering coming to stay with us for a while to ‘try it.’  We hope he does.

Billy and Oscar live together in Palm Springs.  Oscar had money of his own when he and Master Bert got together.  When Master Bert passed away he left most of his estate to Oscar.  So both Billy and Oscar are two of the richest men in Palm Springs.  We get drop-in visits for a week or more when they want to come to the San Diego area.  We think they come sometimes because they’re bored.  They’re always welcome.  We always have a good time with them.  I still sneak off, with my master’s blessing, and throw a fuck in my hero, Clancey McGee every now and then.  Hell, we never eat so good as when Major General Oscar and his troops hit the mess kitchen.

Bull and Charlie live in Poway, California, not far from us.  They’re near Bill, his wife and kids.  We get together around the holidays and talk about old times.  Charlie has never regretted becoming Bull’s slave.  Bull has mellowed over the years, but he still has to have Charlie’s ass at least once a day and sometime twice just to make sure he keeps a smile on his slave’s face.

My giant remains my master to this day.  We have gone into the new millennium together and my love for him has grown even as my love for Master Earl did.  I’m going to really be stuck in a life hereafter, I can’t give either of them up.  I have grown to love my giant as much as I loved Master Earl.  Have I forgotten my other master?  What do you think?  Of course not, I think about him every day.  I know someday we’ll all be together again, and I’ll be the willing slave of two of the finest men it has been my honor and privilege to serve on this Earth.  I will serve them both with love, dignity, and more than a bit of pride for an eternity, God willing, or longer if he grants it.


End Epilogue ~ The Ties That Bind
Completed: 08/30/2000
Copyright © 2000 ~ 2011 ~ Waddie Greywolf
All rights reserved ~
Proofed: 04/28/2011
WC 14720