The last day of the school term! The last classes had met and been dismissed; the last grades had been given and received; the last students had left, the last goodbyes had been said. I had stayed after the rest of the faculty had gone in order to do some preparatory work for the following September which I had not done before, so it was twilight when I left the high school and headed for the parking lot. My car was in the farthest corner of the secluded compound; the night watchman’s and the principal’s cars were next to it. They could not be seen from the school or from the street. As I turned the key in my door I was jumped by four of the newly graduated seniors who had been hiding behind the other cars.

I am tall and thin and look as if a mild wind would blow me over, but my appearance is deceiving. I know judo and have studied karate; and before that I learned street fighting when I was in high school, purely as a matter of survival. I can handle myself and most anyone who tries to mess with me.

The four punks had the advantage of surprise, but that did not last long. I will not detail the fight. The first one went down with a foot to the groin, and the second—the leader of the four—connected his jaw with my knee. The other two fled without fighting like the shit cowards they were. I chased them to the lot entrance where they ran past the guard and down a subway. I did not follow. When I got back to the car only the leader of the gang was still there. His last buddy had deserted him, leaving him alone and unconscious, his leather jacket partly unzipped.

I knew all four punks. They had been a constant pain in the ass in class, resenting every minute they spent in school, resenting studying, resenting many of their classmates, resenting all their instructors, especially me. Some of their teachers had passed them simply to prevent disruptions and to get rid of them; I made them work: produce or fail. They produced little enough, but they did work some.

I checked Butch over—no damage, just knocked out. His real name was Steven Margolis. No one else was in sight as I looked around. I picked him up and lugged him into the back floor of the car, face down, none too gently.

I opened the trunk of the car and took out the black leather case I carry my toys around in. I don’t ordinarily keep it in the car, but the night before I had been to a leather scene and had not gone home afterwards, sleeping instead in the bed of a slave who spent the night chained and sleeping on the floor by my feet.

I cuffed Butch’s hands behind his back, gagged and blindfolded him. I put a leather collar around his neck. His booted ankles I restrained with a leather strap, then fastened them to the handcuffs. I tossed a blanket over him so no one could see the results of my labor by a casual glance into the car.

I drove back to the school entrance, nearly a block from where the car had been parked, and went inside, locking the car securely first. Only the principal remained in his office, just finishing up some last minute work. I reported to him that I had been jumped by four new graduates. I named them and explained the results of our altercation, but implied that all four had escaped. My car was undamaged, I added, and this report was just a formality to the principal for his information, not to be reported to the police where an investigation would do nothing since it would be my word against theirs. Mr. Blane made a note of it, agreeing that no report and no publicity would be best. “Those goddam punks.” he said. “I wish I had been there. I’ve wanted to sink my fist into that Margolis’ face ever since the first day I met him, the goddam punk son of a bitch!” He was still muttering when I left. I wondered if Mr. Blane liked to play my kind of game.

I drove out of the lot, waved at the watchman at the gate, and went home with my captive, a shithead I’d wanted to discipline ever since the first day he got into my class.

Butch had no permanent address. I knew he used his sister’s for legal purposes, because the school system demands a home address for every student. But he hated her and was rarely there. He slept around, he bragged, going from one cunt to another. He would not be missed for a while, except maybe by the members of his gang. He was thus mine alone, all mine, to do with as I chose… my prisoner, my slave.

When the punk came to he was naked, lying on the floor on his belly, leather cuffs at wrists and ankles. Each of the restraints was padlocked to a chain; the wrist chains in turn ran up to the ceiling through pulleys to hooks in the wall about waist height; the ankle chains were loosely fastened to hooks in the floor.

The first things he saw when he opened his eyes were my booted feet, as I sat on a leather-covered bench in front of his face. His vision was still blurred, and he shook his head; but as remembrance flooded back he scrambled away on all fours until the chains brought him up short. It was then he realized that he was bound—next, as he scrambled to stand, that he was naked.

“What the fuck…” he began.

“Here you can make all the noise you want. Butch. No one will hear you.”

I got up and leisurely pulled his arm chains through the pulleys; no matter how he struggled against them he was drawn inexorably upright until his arms were widespread in a great vee. I fastened the chains to hold him in place. With the other chains I drew’ his legs widespread so they were in a similar position. His muscles strained against the restraints, and sweat began to make his body glisten in the dim light.

“Look around you.” I said. “As you can see, the walls are lined with cork painted black… three layers of cork with air in between. So is the ceiling. So is the floor under the wood surface. This room is soundproof.” His eyes darted about the room as I spoke before resting on me. “There are no windows. There is only the one door. Don’t worry about air; I installed a good ventilation system, and that too is soundproof. Where are you? You don’t need to know. And no one but me knows you are here, especially not your three punk buddies who were with you when you jumped me and then ran away like bats out of hell and left you behind when the going got rough and I fought back. Yes, indeed, they deserted you. And now you are going to pay. Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking! You interrupt, you get your balls squeezed.”

I had walked over to him and, running my hands at will over his body, I plucked at the hair on his chest, tweaked his firm nipples, pinched his ear lobes and hefted his balls. He was twisting, but it did no good. I squeezed harder on his balls until he writhed, gasping.

“You want to know what I’m going to do to you? I’m gonna keep you until I’m tired of having you about, and then I’m gonna get rid of you. Before I get rid of you. I’m gonna have fun, lots of fun with you, and maybe you’ll have fun too… or maybe you won’t. I don’t much care either way. Don’t interrupt me, punk!” He yelled as I savagely increased the pressure on his nuts. “You gave yourself to me today, punk, left yourself wide open, and none of your so-called friends could save you from getting my knee in your face, and they ran, and not one of them would help you when you were down. Some friends! But then I suppose you’d desert them if the going got rough; they did to you what you’d do to them. The Golden Rule in action!” I laughed shortly and pulled his balls down hard. “Yup, I’m really gonna have fun before I get rid of you.”

I looked him straight in the eye, one hand holding his head so he had to return my gaze. My voice was deep, intense and cutting.

“I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, punk, until my arms are tired. And I’m gonna beat the shit out of you again tomorrow. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you until I get tired of it. And then I may have some of my buddies come over and beat the shit out of you. You’re gonna beg me to face-fuck you and ass-fuck you; you’re gonna beg to rim my ass and eat my shit, because those are the only times when I won’t be beating the shit out of you. You’re gonna be one bruised and battered punk slave by the time I finish with you. Who knows, you might even get to like it.”

He was covered with sweat and his face was pale. He had been moaning during my speech, and now he burst out, threatening me with vengeance once his mates found him, once he got free. I kept a firm pressure on his nuts, twisting and squeezing, making his voice crack with the pain. Still he shouted and raved. I smiled.

“I’m gonna beat the shit out of you because you deserve it, and because I like to beat the shit out of people. How does that grab you?” I hauled on his balls even harder and he screamed, jerking in his bondage.

I moved the large wheeled mirror in front of the punk so he could see himself hanging from the chains, the leather collar around his neck, the sweat covering his body, helpless and at my mercy. He fell silent, except for his moans. When I ran my hands over his flanks he spat in my face.

“Beautiful.” I whispered, “very good. I like a slave with spirit, with gumption. I’m really gonna enjoy this.” My voice got louder. “You see that punching bag over in that corner? I don’t need it now ‘cause I’ve got you to take its place. Lucky me.”

I stripped off my levi’s, flannel shirt and boots I had changed into when I got home. Standing in just a pair of white socks and a piss-stained jockstrap, my body shone against the black walls. I took some elastic bandages and carefully wrapped my hands after putting on sneakers; no sense in bruising my fists.

Just then I remembered the Polaroid, so I got the camera and took a couple of shots of the punk suspended from the chains. Very photogenic he was, though he didn’t seem to think so. I used the camera a lot in the next few days. His face was framed by the black straight hair that hung nearly to his shoulders. The features were Italian-looking. I thought, remarkably like those of Michaelangelo’s David. The punk had a good body, somewhat on the thick side, probably from all the beer he boasted of drinking. The torso and legs were covered with dense black hair, thickest on the pecs where his dark nipples were almost hidden, and at the base of the belly where the hair swirled and concealed the root of the stem that hung between his legs. Uncircumcised, the head hung at the level of his balls in the hairy sac, about four inches below the juncture of his legs. Backside, the melon cheeks were firm and succulent. He could have made a good wrestler if he had wanted to; the basic equiptment was there, but the lazy son of a bitch had instead chosen the “easy” way of swaggering through life terrifying people with the aid of his band of goons. The goons were rather stupid but Butch was not; and a waste of a good mind always made me angry. But was about 6’ and 170 pounds, a good size for a punching bag, I mused aloud.

I was 6’, too. 150 pounds, curly black hair that hugged my head and spread like a mat over my pecs, lower belly and groin—a lighter covering on my arms and legs. Dressed. I looked, as I said earlier, as if a mild wind would blow me over, but undressed, the muscles I had acquired through judo, karate and street fighting stood out. I didn’t look tough, but I didn’t look like Caspar Milquetoast either. I was compact and wiry, with a well-developed body that I deliberately kept concealed at work by wearing loose clothes. What I wore away from work showed me off to better advantage. My pecs were slabs, my belly washboarded, my thighs powerful. At this time I was 27 and had been out of grad school for about three years.

Some scientific studies indicate that the average cock is about four inches flaccid and grows about two inches longer when erect. Butch’s cock was average, mine a little more. At work I always kept it snug in a jockstrap so that all that could be surmised would be a firm bulge at the crotch; but away from school, in tight levi’s without a jock, my cock would be a thick snake inching its way down my left leg, almost twice the statistical average; erect, it would gain enough to form a substantial length of hard thick pulsing muscle. The dark red head was the size of a plum, circled by a loose heavy foreskin pulled back behind the crown. My balls are nearly the size of tennis balls, hanging deep and heavy in their sac.

“Now.” I said, “I’m going to give you some discipline you never received in school. The first thing you got to learn is respect, respect for other people, whether older or not than you. You are going to call me ‘Master’ every time you speak to me. ‘Master’ because that is just what I am, and that title is a sign of respect. Understand?”

“Go to hell!” he blazed. “Ain’t nobody my master”’

“We shall see. When you call me ’Master,’ I might stop this.” and I began to jab and spar on his body, now my punching bag. I was careful to avoid the kidney area on the back, and the solar plexus region and his genitalia and neck and head; but the rest of his body was fair game. I jabbed in and out against his body, dancing from one foot to the other, in and out, front and back, high and low. He clenched his teeth and said nothing beyond “You bastard!” But his body jerked in spasms against the chains holding him in position. My knuckles made quick contact with his flesh, sometimes jabbing the same spot several times before moving on to the next.

I went over his body systematically after a few minutes of random sparring; he tried to avoid the punches but, of course, while he might move his body somewhat, his movements were severely restricted, and he could not escape my ever-present knuckles and fists. Every five minutes I stopped briefly to wipe my face and drink a little water; and each time I gave him a chance to call it all off. He hung there, sullen and defiant, looking decidedly the worse for wear. Places on his body were looking red from irritation, and he was jerking uncontrollably whenever I hit certain areas… his nipples and his armpits, for example. He began moaning after the first twenty minutes and began to plead for me to stop, but I merely said “You know the terms” and continued the discipline, glad that he was so stubborn.

Sometime later his body jerked while I took my rests, spasmodic twitches that made him strain against the chains, that caused his genitals to flop from side to side against one thigh and then the other, as they had when my fists were jabbing lightly against his body. At no time had I severely punched him; he deserved a long-lasting painful experience that would begin with his skin and work its way inside that skin to torment him with a steady painful ache, quite unlike a savage beating at full force.

“Please,” he was mumbling, “please, no more; I can’t take any more. Please, please. Mr. Johnson; no more, please.”

“You know the terms.” I smiled, and jabbed at his back and ass cheeks and legs.

“Please, no more, please.” but he wouldn’t say “Master,” so of course I didn’t stop.

About an hour after I started, when I had finished a rest period. I stepped up and began to work again on his nipples. My hard cock distended the jock strap more than it had during the previous beatings.

He screamed in agony as I hit the sensitive tips again and again, and then I heard “Master! Please, Master, no more. Master. Master. Master! I’m calling you Master! Please! No more!”

Since I am a man of my word. I stopped jabbing.

“What did you say, punk?”

“Master! I called you Master. Please, don’t hit me any more, you promised, please…” His voice was hoarse as he pleaded.

“Who am I, shithead?”

“Mr. Johnson…”

Immediately my fists made contact again with his nipples and he screamed. “Master! Master! Master!”

“Who am I?”

“My Master!”

“And don’t you forget it.”

I stepped back and looked at him swinging helplessly in the chains. I knew his body must be painfully strained from the tight unnatural position, and certainly he must be aching all over where my fists had repeatedly jabbed into him. He was covered with sweat and his head hung forward, his eyes following my movements. He flinched when I came close to him and raised my hands. I chuckled, stroked his torso and smoothed his face. My other hand played with his nipples. His breathing got hoarse and he panted for breath, gasping. “Please. Master, don’t don’t do that,” before his words grew into moans. My hand left his face and stroked down to his penis, hanging limply, pointing toward the floor.

Gently I stroked it, petted it, played with it, fisted it; at the same time I played with his nipples and lightly stroked the sensitive areas of his arm pits, then the ass and the backs of his knees. He was moaning constantly now, the tenderness after the pain a delightful contrast. Slowly his cock thickened and arched out until it was standing straight from his body, the head red and free of foreskin. His hips began jerking as he started to fuck my hand.

I stepped away and went to a cupboard, bringing back a plastic bucket. I fastened this between his widespread legs by tying a leather from the handle to his scrotum, forcing the balls down as far as they would go. His cock began to droop, but when I stroked it again it came back up into erection.

“This bucket is your toilet.” I said. “You will use it, and if you miss, well, you’ll clean up after yourself. Sleep well.”

I left him hanging there, suspended in his chains, a light shining on him so he could look at himself in the mirror, the bucket between his legs, his cock erect, his neck collared.

I slept well.

He didn’t.

I don’t think he slept much at all, judging by the way he looked when I got back to him the next morning. He was slumped in the chains, head forward on his chest, the weight held by his restrained wrists.

He mumbled when I approached. “Please. Master, please, please…”

“You thirsty?”

“Yes, please. Master, please.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes, Master, please.”

“You ever suck cock?”

“No, Master. Master, please…”

“Ever been fucked?”

“No! Master…”

I walked around him while I was questioning him, noting the bruises that covered his body. Occasionally I pressed one, and he winced and shuddered and moaned.

His pail held only piss.

I disengaged it, and he whispered. “Thank you. Master.”

Then I shaved his body, completely from face to toes. He twisted a bit when I started, but soon held still when he saw the long straight razor I was using. The shaving, I explained, would show once and for all that he was nothing but a goddam punk shithead slave, and that his bruises would show much more clearly if they were not hidden under the carpet of hair. I took off the straggly mustache he had affected, and carefully scraped my way around his genitalia, wiping off the remaining shaving cream and the blood where I nicked him when he twisted. His cock filled and hung half arched from his body as he stared at his newly revealed nakedness.

Finished. I lowered his body so he rested on his knees. His arms were still above his head, but his whole weight no longer hung from his wrists.

“You’re thirsty, you said. Open your mouth. I’ve got a drink for you.”

He did not move at first; but then, eyes closed, he opened his mouth wide. I took my cock out of my jeans and pissed into the cavity. He swallowed automatically until he realized what he was drinking, and then he tried to jerk away, his eyes flying open. But I held him in place, one hand preventing his jaw from closing, saying it was all he was going to drink, that he had to drink it if he was going to get anything else. Whimpering, he resisted no longer, but swallowed the hot steaming piss; and his own cock got harder.

Finished. I tucked my dick back in my levi’s. “What do you say, punk, when someone does you a favor?”

“Master?” He paused, then said softly, “Thank you. Master.”

I lowered him the rest of the way so he was lying on his now hairless belly and chest on the floor.

Before removing the locks that held him fast to the chains, I fastened a metal dog leash to his collar. When he was free I pulled him along behind me into the large black-tiled john where, under the shower, I washed him off, the loose hair floating down the drain. Still wet, still on his hands and knees, I led him back into the black room; he followed docilely, panting, every movement of his bruised muscles a torment. I opened the cage and put him inside. This cubicle was about two feet high, three long, two wide. The floor was padded with a stiff coco mat, like the kind used to wipe one’s shoes outside the door to a house. In spite of the discomfort from the rough bristly mat, he crouched down with a sigh. I had put him into the cage head first, so the door padlocked at his feet. At the other end was a wider space between two of the bars, wide enough for him to put his head through. Reaching inside with my hand. I caught hold of his collar and pulled his head through.

“You hungry?”

“Yes. Master; Master. I’m so tired…”

“Well, you son of a bitch, I’m gonna feed you now, and then I’ll let you get some sleep, if you can—”

“Thank you. Master.”

“… after you clean my boots. With your mouth.”

“Master?” He twisted his head to look up at me.

“Clean my boots with your mouth, and then you get fed, and then you sleep.”

“Please, Master…” but at the look in my face he said. “Yes. Master,” and bent his head to my boots.

“Kiss those boots first.”

“Yes, Master.” He kissed both boots and then began to lick them clean. Occasionally I moved so he could reach another spot.

When they were spotless and shining, I got a bowl of cereal, some hamburger, raw egg, and other things which I mixed together. I put it in front of him. He bent his head and ate after thanking me. I stood, stroking my hard cock, watching him lick the bowl clean. Bits of food clung to his face. When it was empty. I filled it with water and put it back, so he could drink from it like a dog, just as he had eaten from it.

“Punk slave.”

I left, turning out the lights.

Some hours later I returned, took him to the john and then strung him up again, widespread as before. I beat him again. He screamed uncontrollably as my hand jabbed lightly but repeatedly into the bruised flesh hanging there like a side of beef up for inspection and market. Occasionally I would stop to heft his balls or stroke his penis and torso. Each time his cock would fill out and lengthen. Every time I would twist his nipples his cock would jerk in my hand. The bastard was beginning to turn on to the pain.

I used the belt on him, making him kiss it before slashing against the black and blue flesh of his ass and back and belly and chest. He screamed more, and still his cock stayed hard, thrusting proudly before him, white fluid showing at the tip.

He was pleading with me to stop, and when I said I’d stop only when he begged to suck my cock, he begged. God how he begged to become a cocksucker. It was obvious that he had never sucked cock before, because he wasn’t very good: but he soon learned how to please me, taking my cock all the way down his throat. My belt on his ass encouraged him to learn quickly. I stood there, watching him on his knees move his face and mouth and throat down and back on my cock, the full length of it, face-fucking himself, until finally I could stand it no more and grabbed his head. Bucking my hips forth and back, driving my prick in and out of that hot cavity, I came with a heavy shot of cum, shooting it deep into his belly. He didn’t lose a drop, sucking eagerly until I was limp.

“Before I get through with you, Butch, you’re gonna beg to eat my shit.”

Chained on his knees, his gullet full of my cum, the new’ cocksucker defied me. “Never. Never! I’ll never do that, you’ll have to kill me first, you can’t make me do… Please, Master, please—”

I laughed, took him to the john and wiped his ass, saying “You’re gonna do this for me with your mouth.” I caged him, fed him, and left him for the night. His cock was hard, his hands chained behind his back so he couldn’t play with himself and get relief.

The day following, his cock was soft when I entered the room but it hardened before my eyes as I released him from his cage; without being told he cleaned my boots, then begged for my morning piss. I gave it to him as he lay on the floor of the john, covering him from head to toe with the hot yellow stream. He lay there, dripping, erect, while I got the food and fed him by hand, he swiftly eating from my fingers and licking them clean. After I strung him up, his cock sticking straight out before him, I added the whip to the repertory of fists, belt and cat. He screamed a lot, though his voice was hoarse, and later begged for me to stop, pleading that he couldn’t take any more. “I’ll stop when you’re ready to get fucked, when you want to get fucked,” I said and laid on the whip harder. He yelled in reply between blows he was ready, he wanted to get fucked.

So I fucked his bruised and welted shaved body, long and hard and deep. He was bound over a wooden horse, wrists and ankles locked in place. The only lubricant on my cock was his spit. He yelled in pain and agony as my great shaft entered his virgin hole, opening his channel once and for all. But his hard dripping cock never faltered, and soon he was thrusting his ass up to meet my thrusts. My cock was red hot and felt as if a thousand fingers of fire were grasping it. When I came I ordered him to cum, and he obeyed.

That night he did not sleep in the cage; he slept with me on my mattress on the floor of my bedroom. His collar was fastened to an eyelet in the floor at the head, his cockring to another at the foot. His hands were bound to straps that circled his thighs, while another strap circled his arms and torso just above his elbows. His legs, except for the ever-present straps on his ankles, were unfettered, the better for him to spread his legs should I wish to fuck him. As I did. He went to sleep with my cock hard up his asshole, his mind echoing my words: “When you want the whipping to stop, you’ll want to eat my shit.”

When I woke the next morning, my cock was no longer in his ass. I was lying on my back, my arms over my head; and he was tight next to me, his tongue licking out my armpit. I had him give me a tongue bath all over before allowing him to piss; he hesitated when he got to my ass; but, taking a deep breath, plunged his face toward the hole and quickly licked it clean.

That day I added tit clamps to his torments, and attached weights to them, so his nipples were dragged down toward the floor; each movement of his body sent waves of agony through him, and he moaned constantly. I fastened a boot to his scrotum and had him keep it in motion.

He was pretty well beat by this time, pleading for me to stop, but his cock was hard all the while, and dripping pre-cum. Every time I let him down to catch his breath he crawled to me, putting his head on my boots, grasping my ankles, getting as close to me physically as he could, murmuring “Thank you” over and over.

I fucked him five times that night, and each time he cleaned off my prick with his mouth. The first time I had to twist his nipples before he’d do it, but the rest of the times there was no problem.

In the morning I strung him up again and just let him hang there while I did necessary things. His bucket was in place, dangling from his scrotum.

Later that afternoon I came back with my buddy Joe.

“Wow! Goddam!”

“Be my guest.”

So I watched while Joe worked him over, Butch’s screams as usual music to my ears.

When Joe finally finished fucking him for the last time, Butch crawled over to me and kissed my boots, saying “Did I please you, Master?” I spat in his face, and he smiled and licked up what he could reach with his tongue and went back to my boots.

“I got a buddy in L.A, who’d really go for this fucker,” said Joe. “He’s been looking for a live-in slave for a while, even willing to pay for one, a slave who’d be houseboy, gardenboy, dog’s body. He’d go for this one.”

“I’ll give him to you when I’m tired of him,” I said. Butch went totally still and quiet. “This hunk of shit is worth nothing beyond a fuck. Any slave I’d have fulltime would have to have a regular job, bring me his paycheck every week, be my slave from the minute he walks in the door till the minute he walks out to his job—and even when he’s on his job, wearing my cockring or nipple clamps or dildo or twine jockstrap. This shit never had a job, is just one cocky smalltime punk. You can have him. Joe, when I’m done with him. Give him to your L.A, buddy—sell him, if you want.”

“Master,” whispered the slave at my feet, “Master, please don’t…”

“Shut up.” I snarled, kicking him. “I’m not tired of you. Yet.”

“That’s a deal.” said Joe. “I’ll tell my buddy.”

Strung up the next morning. Butch saw for the first time a new toy, a thin leather strip with sharp tacks sticking through.

He cried out even before the first stroke tore into his back.

“No, Master, please, no! Master. I’ll eat your shit, I’ll eat your shit, but please don’t whip me anymore. Master. I can’t take any more. Master, please. Master. I’LL EAT YOUR SHIT! You promised not to beat me if I’d eat your shit and I WILL! MASTER! I’LL EAT YOUR SHIT!”

I am a man of my word, so I stopped beating him. There were four new red stripes across his back and blood was oozing from the tack holes.

He was sobbing now, tears streaming down his face. “Master, you win. I can’t take any more beating now. Master, please, you promised. I’ll eat your shit. Master, please no more beating. I can’t take any more…”

I got a plate and spoon before lowering the chains so he was flat on the floor, his head cradled in his arms.

“Watch!” I barked out. His head came up, tear streaked.

I stripped off my levi’s and wearing only the boots, squatted over the plate. A hot brown turd about six inches long slithered quickly from my asshole and fell dead on target on the plate.

He closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks.

I put the plate to one side and moved closer to his head, lying down on my back, my legs drawn up against my chest widespread, my asshole wide open, my cock hard against my belly.

“Eat ass!” I ordered. “Clean me out!”

“Master!” he whimpered.

“Eat ass! Or else…” and I reached for the tacked leather.

He crawled forward and ate ass, cleaning out every last bit of the shit that clung to the hole and crack, trying not to vomit.

Finished, he moved on to the plate with its warm contents, retching and choking. Finished at last, his face marked with the drying brown, he put his head down and sobbed. I grabbed his hair and lifted his face, putting my cock in his mouth and pissed, washing the shit down and rinsing his mouth. Better than Listerine.

I led him into the shower and cleaned him off. Then he washed me and dried me, using the wet towel on himself. I fed him.

At intervals the rest of the day, between household chore trainings. I had him eat my ass. He wasn’t very skillful at first, but he improved, his tongue drilling up into the hole.

True to my word, I didn’t beat the shit out of him any more. But I like to whip ass, and not whipping his ass bored me, so I called Joe.

Two days later I had Butch put on his levi’s and boots, and I took him down to the street where Joe’s van was waiting. Inside the back of the van, at my order. Butch stripped naked. Joe fastened him in place, arms outstretched to the corners of the roof and walls, ankles fastened to the floor.

“I’m giving you away, Butch. Not whipping you bores me.”

“No. Master, don’t do this! Please! Whip me, beat me, do what you want to with me. Please, Master, don’t give me away, I love you, Master. I lo—“

Joe gagged him as I shut the door.

“My L.A. buddy is real pleased. Thanks. Jim.”

“My pleasure. Have a good trip.”

They drove off.

And I missed the son of a bitch! Damn! I had begun to train him between whippings to do things around the house the way I like them, to clean, to cook, to suck. I missed the way he, bound tightly, snuggled close to me in bed, the way he always kept touching me as he lay on the floor before me. The way he sucked and rimmed. The way his asshole tightened around my cock. The way he said “Thank you” to everything.

I realized that I liked him more than I had ever thought possible.

Shit!

Some weeks later, a Friday near the end of July, I was dressing to hit the bars when the bell rang—four sharp rings, the code my friends use to let me know it is one of them ringing the bell. Booted, levi’d. I opened the door. There stood Butch.

Instantly he dropped to his knees and then bent over to kiss my boots. My cock expanded down my leg.

“What the fuck?” I began.

“Master.” he said rapidly, “please let me talk to you. Please!”

I paused, just to torment him. Fuck! I was glad to see the bastard!

“Okay.” I said finally. “Talk what have you got to say?” He knelt, looking up at me worshipfully, and took from his pocket an envelope which he offered to me.

“Master. I ran away from California and hitch-hiked back here. I have a job. Master, and here are the first two paychecks. You said you wanted a slave who would work and give you his paychecks, and Master. I want to be your slave full-time. Master. I want to work for you whenever I’m not at my job, just like you said. You can do whatever you want to me, beat the shit out of me, lend me to your friends, anything: please. Master, take me back. This is the only real home I’ve ever had: please. Master, let me come home.” He scarcely stopped for breath. “Please. Master. I’m begging you, let me be your slave. I love you. Master; I need you.” He bent down to my boots again, sobbing, pleading.

Shit! I was so damn glad to see the shithead!

“I’ll do anything you want. Master. I’ll—I’ll eat your shit. Master, please. I love you: I need you; I love you!”

I bent down and grabbed him by the hair and dragged him up to a kneeling position.

“Listen, punk, if I take you it’s on my terms. And that means you do without question or hesitation anything I tell you to do. You belong wholly to me; the only thing you do without permission is breathe. You belong to me, to beat, whip, scar, brand, burn as I choose when I choose, to lend to anybody I choose. You have no rights whatsoever. I am your Master, your owner, you exist only to serve and please me. Understand?”

“Yes. Master; please. Master, please.”

I put the checks in my pocket.

“Give me your belt.”

He snaked the belt out of his levi’s and offered it to me.

“Kiss it.”

He obeyed and again offered it to me.

“I’ll beat the shit out of you, punk.”

“Yes, Master, please, whatever you want.”

“Strip naked.”

Just inside the hallway he stripped, neatly folding his clothes and putting them beside the door as I ordered. He was wearing the leather collar I had placed around his neck weeks before. I saw his body hair had grown back. His cock was hard and throbbing, the shiny red head glistening, pointing toward the ceiling.

He touched the collar. “The man in L.A, took this off and put on one of his, but when I left I took this one back. Master.”

“On all fours.”

He assumed the position and at my sign crawled toward me.

The belt sang as it cut through the air and cracked across his while ass cheeks, leaving a vivid red streak.

Does that feel good?”

“Yes, Master, thank you. Master. That feels so good. Master.”

“Welcome home, punk,” I said, and I shut the door.