Thursday, August 25, 2005

196. Gustavus

Met with the Client in my office yesterday. I made clear in advance that this was merely a meeting, not a formal session, and thus our interactions were quite different than they have been of late. The discussion was necessary and valuable as a chance for both of us to check in regarding the progress of the program. Wayne seems pleased so far, and is more than willing to proceed. I have arranged for him to join me at the retreat center again this weekend.

I must note here that I am beginning to develop an emotional bond with the Client. This transference is an inevitable step in the process, as I well know, and for both our sakes it is essential that I observe certain boundaries as we press on.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

195. Alfred

Master Bruce is home again, though he says he may be called away again at any moment. He has not talked about what he has been doing, and I of course do not ask, but I can see that it has affected him on some deep level. I only hope the change is for the best.

I continue to manage the financial affairs of Master Richard as well, although I have not spoken to him since his departure from the Manor.

I never dreamed I would say this during my lifetime, but It looks as though the era of Batman--and Robin--is now over. While I initially disapproved of Master Bruce's decision to assume the role and am on some level relieved that both men are now safe, I grieve the loss of their contributions to the city, and I pray that someone or something will change, and soon.

Monday, August 22, 2005

194. Bruce

Back home now. The place feels slightly alien after my time away, and I do not know how long I will be here before Gustavus calls for me once more. Alfred has done his usual excellent job maintaining the residence and most of my business affairs in my absence.

The sessions are going remarkably well. One image is still fresh in my mind: my final night at the compound, just a few short days ago. After many hours in bondage, G. released me sometime Friday afternoon (I could only figure that out in retrospect, as I began to piece together the fragments of my experience and match them to something resembling conventional measurements of time). My limbs were so weak at first I could do little more than prop myself up on the ground. He removed the blindfold and gag and I saw that the room was flooded with harsh red light.

He gave me a pair of hiking boots and told me to put them on. They were the only clothes on my body. He handed me the stinking, crusted sweatpants and shirt I'd been wearing for so long and had me hold them in my hands as we walked out the rear door of the house and down a trail into the woods out back. The sun was just beginning to set as we began our journey.

I had no idea what was in store for me at the end of the trail. Naked and ordered by a fully clothed man, I felt like a prisoner of war being led to his execution. I feared--perhaps hoped, on some level?--that all my trust had been mislaid, and that this was indeed my doom.

He took me to a clearing and ordered me to gather branches for a bonfire. When I was done, he directed me to a large old tree and bound me to its trunk. I remained there, immobile and silent, until the sky was pitch black. He lit the fire and waited for it to grow to its full potential before untying me.

The sweatpants and shirt were at my feet. "Cast them in," he said, and I did. We both watched as they burned into ash, and then saw the ash carried upward into the sky and out of sight.

"We are at a point of transition, Wayne," he told me. "Your old self is gone now. We shall rest a while, and then begin the process of creating your new skin."

We sat and watched the fire until it had burned itself out, a process which took hours. It seemed to me that the Gustavus I had come to know--ferocious, intimidating, larger than life--was softening a bit. I remembered I sometimes wanted to forget: that I had sought this man out. That he was not an enemy but a helper. A teacher. I looked him and realized that I ... wanted him. Wanted him to like me. To love me. He already knew more about me than almost anyone else I'd ever met.

And I realized then and there that, should the proper opportunity arise, I wanted to show him even more.

Friday, August 19, 2005

193. Gustavus

Wayne's chest and upper arms are pocked with cuts, bruises, and every manner of abuse. Some of the scars appear to be several years old. I knew he was interested in extreme states of various kinds, but I honestly had no idea the depth of his commitment. Whether these marks are self-inflicted or imposed by others by request--or against his will--I cannot say. Clearly, something is going on that he has not told me about.

I released him from the closet last night and led him to the formal dungeon, where I bound him to a post. I blindfolded and gagged him, much to his evident delight. He is there now, still naked and presumably wide awake.

Tonight I will lead him into the woods behind the compound for the final stage of the current phase of therapy. He will be instructed to bring the clothes I made him wear during the last several days, and to burn them in a bonfire as a signal that he is ready to move on.

Tomorrow he will be released. We will reconvene in my office back in Gotham. There are a few things I need to investigate before we go any farther.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

192. The omniscient narrator

A skilled locksmith, Batman could have made his way out of the closet in seconds. But that side of Bruce Wayne was long gone now, and he chose to wait in silence and darkness until Gustavus returned for him.

That took more than twelve hours. When Gustavus opened the door at last, he found Wayne slumped against the wall of the tiny room, sleeping. The pants were still on his head. This one really is a true bottom, the standing man thought.

"Get out here," he commanded. "Crawl."

If Wayne had a shred of dignity left, it was buried so deep inside him that neither man could find it.

"Take those goddam pants off your head, fool," Gustavus said. "The shirt, too."

Bruce pulled the sweatshirt over his head and tossed it to the ground.

Gustavus got a good look at his pupil's naked body for the first time. Holy shit, he thought to himself. Holy fucking shit.

191. The omniscient narrator

Of course, Bruce did not have to be told where to aim his spunk; it added a fresh coat to the inside of his sweatpants, and he gave thanks that it was there instead of trapped inside him.

"Take them off," Gustavus ordered, and Bruce stepped out of the sweats he'd been wearing for a week and a half. "Behold your past," the Master said. "Embrace it, so that we can put it behind you."

Bruce looked confused.

"Jesus Christ, do I have to explain everything to you, boy?" Gustavus snapped. He pointed at the spot on the floor where the discarded pants lay. "Get down there. NOW." Bruce lowered himself to the ground once more. "Smell them. Press your head in nice and close."

Once again, Bruce did as he was told, rubbing his face into the warm, wet patch at the crotch. As close as he was, he could distinguish between the fresh moistness of the most recent spurt and the earlier layers of crust.

"Hmmm. Not good enough," Gustavus said. "Put them on. Over your head."

Without even a second's misgivings, Bruce Wayne rose to a squatting position, picked up the filthy sweatpants, and wore them on his head. He felt ridiculous. In the darkness, he heard the door close and lock shut.

190. The omniscient narrator

As Wayne slept on the hard cold kitchen floor, he dreamed of life back in Strange's cage. He dreamed he'd never left, that weeks--months--years had passed, and he was still the captive Object X. The time he'd spent in Strange's possession now far outweighed the relatively brief period he'd spent as Batman, and he understood at last that his entire career as "Caped Crusader" had only served to prepare him for his true purpose: to cater to Strange's every whim. He would grow old--he had grown older, in fact, and weaker and thinner and more pathetic every day--in this living hell. There was no way out.

He knew beyond a doubt that Bruce Wayne had been declared dead long ago. Alfred, following Wayne's own orders, would surely have constructed a tragic tale by now to explain his extended disappearance. He mattered to no one anymore except this one man, who treated him like a clump of dirt at best. He had no life except this meager caged existence. He was a laughingstock to himself and to the only two other men who even knew he was still alive: Hugo Strange and Robin, the former Dick Grayson.

Yes, Robin--or rather, Object Y. He was there, too, only his fate was rather different. Strange had taught him to hate his one-time mentor--and for good reason, too, since Batman was solely and directly responsible for Robin's presence in the mad doctor's clutches. "You destroyed me," the younger man would say as he stood outside Batman's cage, pointing at him. "But He saved me. He remade me. I am his now. All because of you." Bruce turned and saw Strange embrace Robin. The two men kissed and laughed and gazed affectionately into each other's eyes. The two of them mocked the prisoner ruthlessly. He was nothing but a joke to them. A joke which had grown old and would soon pass into nothingness...

"GET UP," a voice said. It belonged not to Robin or Strange but... Gustavus. Bruce wearily returned to consciousness. Opening his eyes one at a time, he saw a pair of black dress shoes and dress pants standing before him. Gustavus had changed into something more formal than his earlier attire. "For god's sake. Have you smelled yourself lately?" Bruce took a whiff of the air around himself as he rose to his feet: he hadn't bathed or removed his clothes since Gustavus' arrival over a week before, and he reeked of sweat, cum, dirt, and food.

"Come with me," his Master demanded, and Bruce followed into another room. This one--a closet of some kind?--was empty and dark. The floor was concrete, and in time Bruce was directed to kneel for a familiar routine. Gustavus snapped his fingers, and Wayne--like a trained animal--began to jerk himself off again. There was no conventional pleasure in this act anymore, only physical pain and a vague awareness of how humiliating it was to be reduced to this state, day after day, at another man's command. Even if he had chosen all of this for himself: what did that say about him, anyway?

Wayne had no trouble selecting an image to reflect on while he did his duty: he replayed the material from the dream he'd just have, one element at a time... The cage. Robin/Y scolding and berating him. Strange's utter and irreversible victory. His own unthinkable failure...

He was on the verge of shooting and then stopped himself, knowing this was surely just the beginning of another punishing ban on erotic release.

"Keep going," Gustavus barked. "I didn't tell you to stop, did I?"

"N-no sir," Wayne replied, resuming his assignment. He pictured himself at the very end of his life, having spent decades in that damned cage, forgotten by the rest of the world, his entire existence a complete waste of...

"Let it out," Gustavus prodded. "NOW."

189. Gustavus

Yesterday's session explained much about the Client's behavior--or did it? The story Wayne tells is so outrageous it can only be a fantasy. If he had indeed been kidnapped and assaulted against his will, why didn't he go to the police? (Embarrassment, maybe?) For that matter, he never revealed to me how he managed to escape, or what became of his friend.

On the other hand, perhaps there really is something to his tale. I've had my suspicions that he was involved in something particularly dark and deep, and this would certainly fit the bill. Whatever happened to him--either this incident or something he hasn't told me--it has taken a toll. I must handle his treatment with great care. This cannot mean pulling back--I need to press forward, but with safeguards in place.

I remind myself that I am being paid to help him. Given how much he has evidently been through, or at least how high his tolerance for the services I offer, I am obliged to push further. To break whatever wall he has built to protect himself from what he wants.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

188. The omniscient narrator

Cum began to shoot from Bruce Wayne's swollen shaft. He wept, embarassed and exhausted, as it flowed out of him.

Gustavus was not pleased. "At least pull your fucking pants up and catch it in there like I fucking told you," he snapped.

Bruce obeyed, relieved to feel the sweats absorb the fluid from his flesh. When the last of it was gone, he sprawled out face down on the floor, absolutely drained.

"Get up," Gustavus said. "You disobeyed me. I don't give a shit about this Tanhoger. He doesn't own you. Not anymore. I do. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Bruce took his time rising. He could not look Gustavus in the eye. "Y--yes, sir."

"Your name isn't 'Object X' anymore, is it?"

Bruce's voice was quiet and low. "No sir."


"N-no sir."

"I think you're lying. I think you want that name more than anything. I think you want to be that miserable, despicable thing, forever. At least that's what you think you want. Isn't it?"

Bruce was silent.

"Speak to me, boy. Tell me what your name is. Tell me what it is you want to be."

Wayne was sobbing again. "I... I don't know. I can't think right now..."

"The outside world knows you as a rich and powerful man. They know you as Bruce Wayne. Some men probably even fear you. But that's not who you are, is it?"

Instinctively, Bruce's hands went up to his face, as if he could disappear behind them. "I don't... I don't kn..."

"Oh, you KNOW all right, don't you? You've known it all your life. You know what drives you. You know what you want to be. You know what you are. Say it. Say it out loud. Say it to me. Now."

For the first time in the sessions, Bruce refused to do as he was told. He said nothing.

"Do you want to spend another week like the last one, boy? How about two weeks? A month?"

"Stop," Bruce pleaded. "Just ... stop. I can't do this."

If Gustavus was upset, he did not show it. Instead he was quiet and firm. "All right. If that's the way you want it, that's the way we'll play it. I've got all the time in the world. You're the one who's paying for all this. Paying for the privilege of being torn apart from the inside. This session is over. We will have no contact again until I say so. You'll sleep in the kitchen tonight. On the floor, of course. And you will leave those sweats on until I say so. Let them be a reminder of your disobedience. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Bruce answered. "Thank you, sir."

187. The omniscient narrator

Eight long days into the cum ban, Gustavus snapped his fingers and Bruce knealt before him. There was no longer any need for words between them to initiate this ritual; Wayne simply began fondling himself through the sweatpants. These had grown crusty with precum, at Gustavus' orders.

At a nod of his new master's head, Bruce was permitted to slide the elastic waist of the sweats down onto his thighs and grab his cock directly. It was sore from days of abuse with no lubrication beyond spit.

As Bruce went at it, Gustavus began to grill him. "Tell me his name," he demanded. This was the first time in eight days that he had brought up the man who had clearly done something to Wayne.

"T-t-Tanhoger," Bruce replied with only the slightest hesitation. It was not the whole truth, but it was not a lie, either.

"Tell me what he did to you," Gustavus said. "Just don't stop jerking yourself off while you do."

Bruce had given up dreading this inevitable moment. It was too hard to hide anymore. Better to offer a vague yet true explanation, leaving out one or two significant details involving a certain now-discarded secret identity.

"H-he took me ... by surprise, and --"

Gustavus looked confused. "He 'took' you? As in, he kidnapped you?"

"Something like that. It's a long story. It built up for a long time. He had a plan and... he carried it out."

"Did you want this?"

"No. And... yes. There was someone else involved. I had no choice."

Gustavus noticed that Wayne had slowed down on his assigned task. "I didn't tell you to stop stroking it, did I?"

"No sir," Bruce answered. He turned his attention to his shaft a minute and then continued his story. "He had taken... a friend of mine, too. Threatened to kill us both if I didn't ... obey. When he had me, he ... drugged me."

Gustavus grew concerned. For a brief flash, he wondered if he hadn't gotten in over his head. Was this some fantasy Wayne had cooked up, or could it really have happened? No matter: it was too late to turn back.

Wayne kept going. With each new revelation, he felt less inclined to mask the truth of the story. Now that the ice was broken, it was getting easier to talk. "He beat me ... every day. For days. Weeks. I don't know how long. He kept me in a ... in a cage, and ... kept both of us in cages... my friend and me... Kept me so high I didn't know where I was or how... long I'd been there."

Wayne realized just how turned on he was by telling the tale. "He took away everything I'd ever had. Eventually I just broke down. I couldn't fight back anymore. To mark his ... mastery over me, he gave me a new name."

Gustavus was entranced by now, and more than a little excited himself. "What was it? What did he call you?"

Bruce was masturbating with such ferocity now that he was on the point of no return. "Ob--Object X." As he spoke, he reared back to let the cum fly.

"HOLD IT IN," Gustavus ordered. "I didn't give you permission to let it out yet."

Bruce felt like he was going to explode any second. For the first time in his encounters with Gustavus, he was begging. "Please... sir... I can't keep it in any longer. Please let me get it over with. I'll do anything you say..."

"You already do," the other man replied.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

186. Bruce

Been a week since G imposed the ban. He's been exploiting it ever since, bringing me ever closer to the point of explosion and then pulling back. Can't think. Can barely move sometimes, the pain is so great. Pressure building up inside me. Want to let it out. Need to let it out.

i know i don't sound like myself. i'm not myself anymore. i'm not who i was.

i can't hold it in much longer.

There were times when i thought i could do anything, fight anyone, be anything i wanted to be. i thought i had power. i thought i had purpose. But i know better. i know better now.

Monday, August 15, 2005

185. Gustavus

Six days have passed since the current phase of treatment began, and all is going according to plan. The Client has proved most compliant--his willingness to perform the role of submissive confirms my suspicion that he has much experience in this area and an openness to go farther.

I have begun to establish a daily routine for Wayne which consists primarily of various exercises he is obliged to do at my command. He spends five to six hours a day in restraints of one kind or another and takes all of his meals on the floor. I leave a bowl of water for him to drink (no hands allowed) between regimens. Each night he and I share the same bedroom: I take the bed, and he sleeps on the floor at my side.

He is in a state of near-constant arousal, but I have still forbidden him to reach an orgasm. Many times while he is tightly bound I tease him by placing my hand near his erect penis, although I make a point of not touching him. I want to be certain that the moment of his release is a turning point for him, that it marks his true obedience to me and his rejection of the man or men who came before me.

Throughout his training I have been impressed by his bravery and his willingness to push himself to extremes. However, his behavior indicates that there are things holding him back. He assumed the role of submissive without a struggle, which suggests to me that such a struggle has already occurred and that it scarred him in some way. From the beginning he has been evasive about his true motivations for doing this work. He has spoken openly about childhood tragedy, but I am convinced there is something more. Something he may not be ready to tell me.

As of today, I have lifted the earlier ban on written communication and am allowing him to maintain a journal. (I will not tell him whether I intend to read it or not, which should heighten its effectiveness as a training tool.)

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

184. The omniscient narrator

Bruce knew beyond a doubt he was about to shoot at any second. He was sweating now, and his face showed signs of strain. Any sec--

"Not now," Gustavus said. "Hold it."

Exasperated, Bruce released his grip on his cock.

"Pull up your pants," his Master said. "The lesson is over."

Bruce looked confused.

"DO AS I SAY," Gustavus ordered. "You're going to hold it in until I say so. Until I think you're ready. Right now your thinking is clouded by this other man, these other men who came before. You still think you serve them. You're WRONG. They're not here, boy. I am. You answer to ME now. Me, and me only. Do you understand?"

"... Yes ... sir."

"Go to the kitchen. A meal is waiting for you there."

Cock still throbbing, Bruce walked the familiar path to the kitchen. He surveyed the counter and found nothing. The table nearby was empty as well. At last he cast his eyes downward and found a plate of food on the floor. The plate itself was china of the highest caliber. There were no serving utensils in sight.

"Eat it," Gustavus said. The Master seated himself at the table and watched as millionaire Bruce Wayne lowered himself to the floor and picked up the food with his bare hands.

"Good boy," he said when Wayne was done. "Good boy."

183. The omniscient narrator

When Bruce stood up, his erection was painfully obvious.

"This excite you, boy?" Gustavus snarled.

Wayne nodded.

"Answer me, boy," Gustavus demanded. "Say it."

"Yes, sir."

Gustavus took a step toward him. "What's got you so turned on, boy? This situation, right now, or the memory of those other men who came before?"

Bruce glanced at a spot just past his new Master's head and spoke softly. "Both."

"LOOK AT ME, BOY," the other man yelled.

Bruce's cock twitched beneath the sweatpants. Wayne stared straight into the other man's eyes and thought he would melt from the intensity he found there.

"All right, Wayne," his mentor said, softening his voice but maintaining its commanding tone. "Since you're so goddam hot right now, let's see you do something about it. Pull down those pants... That's it. Drop them to your ankles... Attaboy. Now. Take your dick in your hand--that's it--and start stroking it. NOW, boy. Let me see you get into it."

Bruce Wayne now found himself jerking off in front of a man he barely knew: a handsome man, one about whom he'd already fantasized many times. He was doing it willingly. This man wasn't a criminal, he was--beneath all the trappings of aggression and hostility--on the same side, and this entire scenario was unfolding at Wayne's request. On his dime, even.

The lengthy consent forms Gustavus had made Wayne sign during their preliminary meetings contained detailed sections on sexual activity. It was impossible, Bruce knew, to do the work he wanted--needed--to do without some sort of physical interaction between the two men. After much consideration, he'd checked off the boxes permitting touch, oral and anal stimulation, ejaculation, everything. I must be open to every possibility, he'd told himself.

Now that it was here, now that it was beginning, he hesitated for a moment, seized by doubt and self-awareness. Where is this going to take me? he asked himself. What will I find when I get there?

He remembered everything that had brought him to this place: the murder of his parents, the years he'd spent attempting with little success to avenge that crime, the tortures he'd suffered at the hands of maniacs, the damage he'd done to Dick Grayson by bringing him into the game... all of it.

As he did, he felt the warmth of his hand pumping his shaft, back and forth, back and forth, while Gustavus watched. It felt good. It felt great. Back and forth. Back and...

182. The omniscient narrator

"Look at me, Wayne," Gustavus ordered. "Look into my eyes when I address you."

Bruce raised his head slightly and stared at the man who towered over him, beautiful and strong.

"You paid me to dominate you," the Master continued. "To work you into submission. But I see from your behavior that you have already been broken. Someone's been here before me. He's already made you his bitch. That's true, isn't it? ISN'T IT?!?!"

Bruce felt a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure he'd be able to answer. "Y-yes... sir."

"What was his name, boy? The man who came before me? Tell me!"

Bruce had spent part of his "retreat" trying to prepare for this moment. He knew he'd need a cover story in case something like this happened. He was only surprised that Gustavus had figured out this facet of his psyche so quickly.

Somehow, in the heat of the moment, the explanation he'd devised didn't seem adequate, so he abandoned it and decided to go evasive: "Just ... a man."

Gustavus would have none of it. "You told me you'd never had a male lover."

This one was easy. "He ... he wasn't a lover," Bruce replied. "None of them were."

"'Them'?" Gustavus snapped. "There were others?"

"I told you when we first spoke that I've wanted this all my life, ... sir. And I... I found ways to ..."

"YOU FUCKING LIED TO ME," Gustavus replied, cutting him off. "And we can't have that shit. I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY BULLSHIT FROM YOU, boy. Stand up. I think it's time for your first lesson."

181. The omniscient narrator

Wayne hung up the phone and headed for the closet. Before he got there, however, he noticed a complete set of clothes laid out for him at the foot of the bed. Someone must have placed them there while he was sleeping, but how--

There was no time to tease out an answer. He examined the ensemble--loose-fitting grey pants and shirt, rather like a sweatsuit crossed with a uniform of some sort, accompanied by a pair of black running shoes--and began to put it on.

He'd been waiting for this moment for weeks, and the anticipation made his pulse quicken. He barely noticed the fact that he was already taking orders from this unseen man, so ready was he to submit. It was almost as if the voice on the phone belonged not to Gustavus but to Hugo Strange, and this entire exercise were merely the latest phase in his treatment at the hands of that monster.

Once dressed, he turned the doorknob and walked out of the bedroom. He took a step into the hallway and found himself face to face with Gustavus, who was dressed in a somewhat more formal, all-black version of the same outfit.

"Are you ready, Wayne?" Gustavus barked.

"Yes... sir," Bruce replied, averting his eyes from the other man's penetrating gaze. A few months ago, Wayne thought to himself, I wouldn't have reacted this way. I would have stood my ground. I would have faced this man, ready to counter his every move, fully prepared to destroy him. I would have been The Bat. But those days are over.

Now I am free. Free to respond another way. Free to admit fear instead of pretending I was impervious to it. Free to ...

"Kneel," Gustavus ordered.

Without a second's hesitation, Wayne did as he was told. As he lowered himself to the ground, he felt ... relieved. Refreshed. Satisfied. Whole.

180. The omniscient narrator

Bruce Wayne lay in bed, half awake and half asleep. The sheets felt like silk against his naked body. Indeed, everything about his temporary quarters displayed a level of opulence and luxury he had denied himself ever since he'd assumed the identity of Batman several years earlier. To be sure, he'd kept up the appearance of upper-crust splendor in his own home, but that was all an act; in reality, in his Bat-days he'd spent many an evening sleeping just an hour or two in the Cave, or not sleeping at all.

In the weeks he'd been staying here, he'd had ample time to reflect on his past--his failings as a vigilante, the hollowness of his quest, the emptiness of his present existence--and just as much time to enjoy the delights of Gustavus' compound. The aesthetic of the place was high minimalism; there was very little furniture, but all of it was of the greatest possible caliber. The pool and gym facilities were first-rate; a fully stocked library beckoned. (Wayne took note of the volumes laid out for him, and reach each one from cover to cover.) The walls of each room were painted in restful colors. It was a resort fit for a king. Each day, three times a day, food appeared for him, already prepared. He never saw anyone else enter or leave the space, but someone was clearly looking out for his every need.

That meant, of course, that someone was looking in on him, too, watching his every move. In this regard, the confinement period felt a bit like his time in the office of Dr. Strange--only this time he was here by choice, and not a victim but a guest. A client, in fact, paying dearly for the pampered treatment.

He saw right through the strategy: spend a while in the palace, then relocate to the dungeon. He knew all of this was designed so that he would miss it when he was deprived of it all. (That thought invariably excited him.)

There were times, though, when he began to doubt that was the motive. It was too obvious, too textbook. There were times when he doubted everything about himself: his detective skills, his years of training, even his own motivation. He felt more and more like a fraud: a rich man dressing up like his childhood fantasies for no reason other than to get his rocks off. He'd been accused of it many times, sometimes by his enemies and sometimes in the pages of the local press. Now, at last, he was beginning to believe it himself. If that's really what I am, he'd thought to himself, then I may as well be it. Pay this man to do to me what I once relied on criminals to do...

He felt his dick harden. Heard the phone ring, too. Which came first? It was impossible to say. The phone calls were coming several times a day now, teasing him, toying with him--and turning him on.

He picked up the receiver, as he always did, sooner or later, expecting to hear a click on the other end.

Instead, for the first time in weeks, he heard the voice of another human being. A man.

Get dressed, Wayne, the voice demanded. I'm coming over.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

179. Gustavus

Just a few short days, and the Client will be ready for his first true session.

In the meantime, he sits in my Retreat Center and waits... marinating in a thick soup of anticipation, fear, and excitement. He does not know what is coming next or when it is coming. He is left to his own thoughts, unable to express or externalize them.

I have left a library of reading materials for him to peruse: The Book of Job. Ecclesiastes. The teachings of various Eastern mystics. The Leatherman's Handbook. Gay Soul. Ties That Bind. An edifying collection of works both sacred and profane--only it is for me to decide which is which. Magazines depicting men engaged in acts he has only dreamed of. Testimonials written by former clients, singing the praises of my techniques. Fictional accounts of Masters and the slaves who serve them.

And I call him. Every day or two, at all hours. The first few times, he let the phone ring and ring, only to answer at last--and hear the click as I hung up, not speaking a word. Now he answers quickly, though he still has heard no voice on the other end.

He is learning already. And, in observing his behavior from a distance, I learn more and more about him. Things he would never imagine that I know.

This is going to be most interesting.