“Yes, Master.”
“No!” he said, and underscored it with a slash of his pointer across my chest. It raised a welt immediately. I winced and glanced up at him but managed to suppress anything more than a small hiss between clenched teeth.
“I am not your Master,” he said in a tight voice, as if I’d touched a sore point underneath the armor of his formality. “I’m not anybody’s Master. I am simply a trainer of slaves. I take eager, clumsy, unformed boys like you and turn them into first-class pieces of property that any Master would be proud to own... Eyes down, boy. Focus on the floor between my feet. Whenever you have no need to look up, keep your eyes on the floor. If you’re standing or kneeling in front of a superior, you may look at His feet but no higher—unless ordered otherwise, of course. Your place is at the bottom, the base of the hierarchy, and that’s where your eyes should always return.”
He came close to me then and reached up to my neck, kneading each side of it with his hand. Despite his self-deprecation, the confident, assured touch thrilled me, and my cock waved in the air.
“Relax these muscles, boy. A stiff neck is a sign of pride and self-regard. You don’t need to do anything; just stop tightening them. Let your head fall forward a little—it won’t break off. Just let it go, let yourself be relaxed and vulnerable. This is all about dropping your guard, learning how to be defenseless and unresistant.”
His hand moved over my shoulder and down my left arm, then the right. “You’re too tense here as well, boy. You won’t be able to hold your arms in that position for long if you lock them up like that. Let the weight of your arms flow down to your wrists and then into your back. It really needs very little energy to keep them there, if you don’t try too hard.” I felt the tension in my arm muscles ease as his fingers traced lightly along them.
“Now it’s time for you to kneel, Jeffrey,” he said from behind me, putting his hands back on my shoulders. “I’ll guide you. Keep your back straight and bend your knees.... Slowly, let yourself sink down. Don’t move your arms or your head; nothing above your waist needs to move.... That’s right, good.... Now extend your right leg back and lower that knee to the floor. Always begin each change of position from your right side, unless there’s some reason to do otherwise.”
Normally, I’d have bent my torso forward and my ass back as I went down, but Mr. Benjamin’s hands prevented that. Feeling awkward as hell, I kept my back straight and concentrated on not toppling. It felt as if my center of gravity was a foot in front of me, but I reached the floor without major mishap.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll get better with practice. It only felt strange because you’re used to doing it differently. Now feel where your shoulders and knees are and line them up.” I edged my knees a little further apart, feeling my balls hanging loose between them.
“Unless you’re given permission to sit back on your heels, or told to take some other position, always kneel up like this, with your back and thighs straight. Remember to bow your head about 30 degrees and keep your eyes down. That’s right. Good boy. Now stand up again, starting on the right.”
I almost fell over in the process of standing up—amazing how dependent I was on my arms for balance!—but Mr. Benjamin kept me centered with light touches on one side or the other. He stayed in contact with me as I moved, either correcting my position or just reinforcing a correct direction. I became accustomed to his constant touch; it was reassuring, even pleasant, to be manipulated by his warm, dry hands.
“Again,” he said, after I achieved the standing position. I bent my knees and began the process of moving down.
“And up... And down... Again... Again... Again...”
My muscles began to burn a little after a dozen repetitions, but with each cycle my movements became smoother, more graceful. My cock was no longer hard; there was nothing erotic about these exercises, yet they were curiously satisfying in another way. I was glad to let go, stop questioning, and allow my responses to be reshaped by Mr. Benjamin.
“Go all the way down this time,” he said when I was next on my knees. “Lower your torso and head, and move your ass back, till your forehead is on the floor. Yes, that’s right, now move your arms and clasp your hands behind your head. That’s right. Feel how your ass is now the highest point of your body.” His hand caressed my ass cheeks, firmly and possessively. My balls dangled, loose and vulnerable, between my legs, and my cock started to fill out again. I didn’t know if he’d beat me or fuck me, but I was ready for either. It felt so right to be exposed like this, and not to have any say in how I’d be used.
“Focus on your ass, not your head or cock. Right now that’s what you are, a male ass with a slave attached. You have a fine ass, boy, and I’m going to enjoy beating it. Be glad that you can give me that pleasure.” Time stretched out as I waited for it to start. I thought I could hear him walk away from me, toward the other side of the room, and return, but with the thick carpet it was hard to be sure.
“I’m going to beat you now, Jeffrey,” he said directly behind me. “Remain as motionless as you can, and don’t say anything. Remember that you are here of your own free will. If you want me to stop, you may put your hands over your ass, then get up and leave. But you won’t be allowed to come back. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Wham! The first blow slammed into my ass. Whap! Whack! There was no gentle, erotic warm-up, just pain. I gritted my teeth and ground my forehead into the carpet. Wham! Whack! It wasn’t the pointer stick I felt—he must have retrieved a wide leather strap from the closet, or wherever he kept his equipment. Whap! He worked me over methodically, from my thighs up to my shoulders, as if he were out to paint my backside an even red. Wham! Whack! How I wished I’d been tied down! The beating would have been so much easier to take with restraints to pull against. But this was a test, of course, and I had to prove I could control myself. Whap! Whack! Wham! God, he was good! Every stroke landed solidly, laying down a broad stripe of pain that flared white-hot and slowly faded into the background, not quite disappearing before the next one arrived. It was like a forest fire leaping from one thicket to the next, flames engendering flames, until the whole forest was alight. Except the conflagration was in me, was me.
Wham! Whap! I’d endured heavier floggings, beatings so severe my throat was raw from screaming, but never one so thorough, so precisely controlled, so relentless. Whack! The force and rhythm of Mr. Benjamin’s blows never varied. Wham! Whap! He wasn’t playing with my sensations, ramping up and then down to pull me along, keep me turned on. It didn’t matter if I was turned on or not. All that mattered was that he was beating me, and I was letting him. Whack! Whap! Wham!
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he softly reminded me in between strokes.
I didn’t scream, just held still and whimpered. My nose filled with the smell of damp wool as my tears soaked the carpet under my face. Finally I was able to relax into the rhythm of the beating and let the pain carry me away. My ego shriveled—I had no consciousness to spare for self-awareness. I stopped separating myself from what I was feeling, stopped judging it as good or bad, stopped trying to anticipate an end to it. Wham! Whack! Eventually even the feeling of the individual blows was lost as the blaze engulfed me...
“That’s enough for now, boy,” Mr. Benjamin said finally, as if from a great distance, and the beating stopped, though it took me some moments to realize it. “Straighten up and sit back. You can rest your arms on your thighs.”
I groaned as my welted ass settled back onto my heels.
“No complaining, boy,” he said from in front of me. “Just take a deep, deep breath, fill your lungs down to the bottom. Now hold it for a count of five... Now release it, all the way, let it carry the pain out of you.... Repeat: deep breath... hold... release... Again.” He made me repeat the breathing exercise four more times, and by the end I was feeling much better. A warm afterglow suffused my body, and Mr. Benjamin, standing there with his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, even looked a lot sexier to me than he had at first. I wiped my face as well as I could with my hands and sniffed to clear my nose. My cock, which had deflated during the beating, was hard again. I snuck a look at his face—he was smiling. I quickly dropped my eyes and stifled an answering smile of my own.
“You took that well, boy,” he said in an amused tone. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, still looking down at those damned shoes of his. “Not while it was happening, Sir, but now I’m glad that you beat me, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“Slaves need to be beaten regularly. Not as punishment—it’s better if there’s no particular reason, except to remind the slave of who and what he is. It’s hard to stay focused on the idea that you’re property, and a good beating brings that home to a slave’s mind in a very direct and unmistakable way. Most slaves come to enjoy their beatings and to miss them if the routine is interrupted. In fact, it’s a form of abuse to deny them that discipline, because nothing else seems to reinforce the special bond between Master and slave, or slave and trainer, as well as a regular, expected beating. While you’re being beaten, you have the full attention of the one beating you, and He has yours. Did it seem that the beating I gave you was mechanical or impersonal?”
“Umm,” I hesitated, not wanting to voice what might seem like a complaint, “yes, Sir, perhaps a little less personal than I’m used to, Sir.”
“Well, you’re wrong. It wasn’t impersonal at all. I was intensely aware of your reactions at every moment, almost as if I was reading your mind through the quivering of your flesh. But I deliberately put that aside. Instead of playing on your responses, adapting the beating to you, I wanted to see how you would adapt to a methodical, un-modulated beating. Taking a beating because it turns you on is one thing. Taking a beating just because someone else wants you to is quite another.... As I said, you did well.”
He seated himself in the chair and picked up a manila folder from the side table. My file? I looked at his shoes while he shuffled papers. Why couldn’t he wear boots at least?
“Look at me, Jeffrey.” I raised my eyes to his. They were brown and large, surrounded by halos of tiny lines in his fifty-something skin.
Was he ever young?
I wondered. Did he have any idea what it was like to be twenty-eight and constantly horny and have your head filled with images of bondage and torture? Of being unable to look at a strong, handsome man without wanting to kneel at his feet? Of being so desperately ready to be taken over? I was afraid I’d turn rotten with cynicism and frustration if it didn’t happen soon.
“Are you with me, boy?” he asked, shaking me out of my reverie.
“Yes, Sir,” I said as firmly as I could. He chuckled.
“This session’s not what you expected, is it?”
“Sir, I’m not sure what I expected. They warned me, Sir, that you wouldn’t behave like any Master I’d ever met.”
“And just how many real Masters do you suppose you’ve met, boy?”
“A few, Sir,” I said cautiously.
“Damned few, I expect,” he said dismissively. “Those leather-clad studs you see at the bars with their keys on the left aren’t ‘Masters,’ you know. Most of them would be hard-pressed to know what to do with a real slave if they had one. They aren’t ready to own another man; they barely own themselves. Some of them may be competent tops for a scene, but as soon as they come their scripts run out. Those aren’t the kind of Masters I work for.” He looked down at the papers in his lap again, and I returned my own gaze to the floor between his feet.
“Your replies to my questionnaire are quite complete and satisfactory, Jeffrey. And accurate, as far as I can see. They give me a reasonably full picture of your experience, your interests, and your qualifications. All the usual domestic skills—very good. Computer savvy, experienced with a wide variety of programs—that’s very important now. Read French and German—excellent. You don’t speak them?”
“Not well, Sir. Only a little. But I could learn, Sir, if needed.”
“I’m sure you could. Fine, then.” He studied the papers some more. “I see you were unsure about one of the items on the sexual part of the questionnaire, ‘Toilet training.’ Are you unsure what it is, or unsure whether you can do it?”
“Both, Sir.”
“Of course!” he laughed. “How can you know if you can do it when you don’t know what it is? Toilet service, which you didn’t question on the form, is when you take your Master’s piss or, sometimes, shit. Few American Masters will require you to eat their shit, though it’s more common in Europe. Piss-drinking is common here, though, and it’s not dangerous as long as you’re both healthy. Toilet training, however, means that you are not allowed to relieve yourself except with permission, and when you do so you may not stand to piss or sit on the toilet seat to shit. You sit on the bowl, or crouch over it, not touching it—or your cock—for both functions. It also means that you cannot close the door when you use a bathroom in your Master’s home. Or any other Master’s home or playspace. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you think you can do that with no trouble?”
“If necessary, Sir,” I said, betraying some distaste for the prospect.
“Believe me, boy, it’s entirely necessary, even more than toilet service, which not all Masters care for. Few things are so effective in teaching a slave that he’s property as taking away his ability to control his own bodily functions. Some training regimens even require you to be catheterized and plugged at all times so that you can’t go on your own even with permission. I don’t take it that far—too much work for me! Like other disciplines, toilet training can be very hard at first, but after awhile you won’t give it a second thought. It’ll just be the way things are.”
I felt his eyes on me before he told me to look up.
“You’re a healthy, intelligent, educated, attractive young man,” he said. “You have a good job and marketable skills, your own apartment, no heavy debts. You’re out of the closet, apparently comfortable with being gay and kinky, no evidence of debilitating mental or emotional problems. So why do you want to be owned?... Oh, I know what you said on the form, and it was very well expressed, too. But I need to hear it from your own mouth, in words you haven’t rehearsed and polished.”