FICTION WINNER

JOCK PUSSY

BY DAN CAVANAGH

ourt slid open the glass doors and stepped into his living room. He was naked, still dripping from the pool with water that matted the black hair on his body. Six feet four inches tall, guys called him "Slim" until they got close enough to realize it was an illusion. He was big. Years of rodeo riding and weight training had pumped his long muscles up thick. Hands that seemed "graceful" from a distance dwarfed the cigarette he lit. His cock hung like a rope between his thighs. Thighs that were so big he bitched about finding jeans that were large enough. His calves were bigger than any other rider he'd seen in the locker rooms.

He hauled his gonads up as he dropped into the low chair and exhaled the smoke. Leaning back he stared at the sight in front of him.

"Good boy," he said.

The 29-year-old blond was still bent over at the waist like he'd been told, hands grabbing his ankles. Cum oozed out of his ass. Christ, he's got great legs, thought Court.

"I used to play basketball," the accountant had laughed. "But you don't go to Princeton to play basketball.'

He was almost too handsome. Six feet one, sandy hair and long, heavy muscles. A smaller version of Court, but with hairless skin like a woman's. He kept his hair long, but just short enough to keep his job. Now it dragged on the carpet, wet with the sweat and cum Court had smeared on him as he'd held the head on his cock, on his asshole, and then as he'd hauled the head back while fucking him.

The man was miserable. His legs were wet with sweat and he could see a trickle of cum sliding down his calf from the two loads Court had pumped into him.

Beyond that, he could see the bottoms of two size thirteen feet about five feet away. Then, up long, hairy legs to a huge cock, resting limp on balls that couched it on either side. Court's belt was draped over the arm of the chair. The distance between them filled with cigarette smoke as Court exhaled. His ass began to get that tingling sensation again.

"Sir?"

There was no answer.

"Sir?"

"What is it?"

"May I stand up?"

"You don't remember too well, do you boy?"

"May I stand up, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"That's right." Court dragged on his cigarette. "Now for that, start all over again."

Steve groaned. Oh, God, no! Please, not again, he thought. But he spread his legs wider, reached back and pulled his hole open once again.

"I am an ass-pussy, Sir," he said, almost crying.

"That's right."

"I need to be fucked by all men, Sir."

"Uh huh."

"Please, Sir. Help me make up for lost time, Sir."

"Tell me again about that three-piece suit, baby."

"It's a disguise, Sir. I should be naked at all times." Steve repeated once again, "I'm really an asshole for all men, Sir. I am a sex tease and need to be punished and fucked for it…'

"Shut up now."

Court finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Back up here, boy, just the way you are," Court said. Steve worked his way backwards toward the dark, curly haired man in the chair. He felt scared. But he didn't stand up. It felt right somehow to be bent over like this gripping his ankles. His cock began to harden as he exhibited his asshole like a headlight and gave it to a man who seemed to know instinctively what it wanted.

Court began to rub his huge, calloused hands gently up the polished thighs.

"Further," he said. As Steve backed up, Court worked his knees between the legs. The asshole was at face level. Court spread his own legs and he forced the thighs wider and wider. Steve squirmed his feet outward trying to keep up. He suddenly lost his balance. As his knees bent slightly, he braced himself on the floor with his hands.

Court grabbed the guy's genitals and yanked them back with one hand while he gave the ass a loud whack with the other.

"Grab those ankles, shithead, and straighten your legs," he said. Steve grabbed his ankles. Sweat was dripping up his nose, down his legs.

Court had known the kind of treatment this guy would be a sucker for when he met him.

You're gonna be real useful, boy."

He held the genitals with one hand while he worked a finger slowly around the asshole with the other.

"I got a lot of guys I owe favors and I think we can help each other out."

The tip of the finger slipped in and teased the lips of the ass. The gentleness of the sensation and the idea of being a sex toy made Steve moan suddenly. His legs weakened. Court's big hand completely covered his cock and balls and steadied him.

"What do you think, baby?" "Yes, Sir."

"Yeah," Court smiled. "I think I know what this ass needs. You're goin' to the rodeo with me all next week and we'll parade you around. Shit." Court laughed at the idea. "We'll start you in Levis and a flannel shirt, but every day, you'll wear a little less.'

His finger slipped all the way into the ass. He began to stretch it, working out some of the cum he'd fucked up there twice before.

"I know five guys who'll be randy as hell. And when I tell them what a great lay you are they'll agree to anything I say. Hell, that's what you need, isn't it, baby?'

He smiled even wider. His long, thick finger found the pros- tate and pressed it hard.

"Dupke will take one look at you and spend the next four days with a rod to his knees. You'll like Dupke. He takes his time. But shit, you gotta make up for lost time, don't you boy?"

He slipped two more fingers into the hole. "Jesus!" shot out of Steve's mouth. "Yes, Sir!"

Court pumped the oozing ass a few times with his hairy fingers. Then he let go of the guy's gonads. Putting both arms through the legs, he brought his hands out and around the ass and gripped the cheeks in a hammerlock.

Steve was scared. He'd never felt someone take over control like this. He couldn't move the lower part of his body at all and his asslips contracted in fear. Court was used to this. There was no contest. Using the strong tips of his fingers, he peeled the lips back and exposed the pink inside flesh of the guy's fuck tube. He brought his face forward and bared his teeth.

Hooking the lower part of his jaw into the top of the hole, he bit gently. Steve snorted and tensed every muscle in his body. His cock sprang to full length. Court nuzzled the ass. He bit

Continued on page 44

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JOCK PUSSY Continued from page 5 again. A low moan came up from the carpet and the hole snapped, trying to get away from the teeth. Court held him open. He loved the taste of his own cum and began to suck it out. He sighed and dug deeper.

He pictured Steve on the basketball court, the straps of his jock pressing through nylon shorts, teasing the fans, displaying the powerful leg muscles but selfish with that ass. He'd let him know whose ass it was now. He bit hard. Hell, this ass was going to be public property. Inserting two more fingers on each hand into the hole, he yanked wider. Court stared at the huge, gaping hole lined in pink, wet flesh. He grunted, leaned forward and started chewing the tube he'd pulled practically inside out. "Sir!"

Court gnawed at the hole.

"Sir!…" He was beginning to tremble. "I'm going to cum, Sir!"

"No, you're not, baby." He pulled the hole wider and thrust his tongue deeper, looking for more cum.

"Please! Sir! I'm…" He felt that ache begin in his prick head. Court sighed as he leaned back. "Now you're makin' me real impatient, boy," he said mildly. He watched the hole spasm, felt the guy fighting it. He sighed again.

"Okay, baby. Shit, you got a long way to go."

Court picked up the belt off the arm of the chair. He doubled it in his hand. "Assume the position,"

Steve immediately stood up and walked behind the chair. As Court got out of it, Steve bent over the back and grabbed the arms. The height of the chair made him go up on his toes, stretching the leg muscles. "Wider.

Steve stretched out.

"You don't cum unless I tell you, you understand that, baby?" "Yes, Sir!"

With that, Court raised his arm and brought the belt down hard. Whack!

"Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry, Sir. Please, Sir. When you eat my ass…" Whack!

"You don't say more than I tell you to." Court said patiently. You got a lot to learn, don't you? Say you're sorry." "I'm sorry, Sir."

Whack!

"Aaaaagh…"

"Pretty ass, baby. Damn pretty."

He aimed for the long, white thighs.

Whack!

Court took his time. Long pauses between each blow. But the belting was savage. Whack!

He liked the shock that rippled up his heavily muscled arm each time he made contact. Steve squirmed. His ass and the pale skin on his thigh muscles were red as a beet. But after ten lashes, he was so turned on that his ass reached out for the next one. Whack!

"Aaaagh…"

Whack! Whack!

"Aaaagh! Sir!!"

Court knew Steve was about to cum.

"Don't do it, cocksucker." Whack! "C'mon, now. Don't make me angry at you, baby." Whack!

Steve's breathing became loud and erratic. He couldn't hold back. His whole body went red and every muscle stood out. It was one of Court's favorite moments. He released the tongue of the belt. It dangled to the floor. Holding the buckle end, he brought his muscular arm back and snapped the leather like a wet towel with all his strength. Right on the asshole.

Steve's head went back and his shriek filled the room. He

came in buckets. Cum slid down the back of the chair. Court snapped him again. Steve shot again, shoving the chair six inches across the room. Whack! Steve bucked forward, Whack!

Suddenly, Court dropped the belt. He stepped around to the front of the chair. He grabbed the head. Steve's mouth was wide open at cock level. He had just a moment to look at the huge dangling balls and the mammoth cock before Court shoved all ten inches of it violently down his throat. Spit squelched out of the impossibly stretched lips. Court rammed the throat, pulled out to the head and rammed again. He fucked. Over and over.

"Oh, Jesus God…Aaaaaagh…!" Court yelled out.

His voice rose to a high-pitched falsetto. His cock opened for the third time that evening and poured his seed down the throat. He yanked out to the head of the dick one last time. His cock was coated with his own slime and Steve's mucous. He rammed in hard and shot like a faucet. Big rodeo man conquering an eager hole. Turning Steve into one more blond fuck boy. Cum backed out of the mouth-hole and spewed into his crotch. It dripped in long strands onto his legs.

When it was over he let the cock soak for a while. He gave the hair on the head an affectionate tug. Then another. Finally he eased the rod out slowly.

"Clean it up, pig," he panted. He directed the mouth all over his crotch where the cum had leaked out, down the hair on his sweaty thighs. Steve sucked like a baby, mewing. Finally Court released him and he slumped forward.

As Court walked toward the bathroom, he gave Steve's ass a hard slap.

"Clean the place up, cock-sucker .

He headed for the shower. Once again Steve was left in a mess of sweat, cum and his own need. He was sated temporarily. But he began to cry: he knew it wouldn't last long. His need was out of control. Cum trickled out of his ass. teve had met Court a week ago. Court had ignored the preppy-looking accountant the first day he'd shown up at the rodeo to check the books. He had a nice face and a great mouth, but Court knew from the way he talked they'd have nothing to say to each other.

But the guy was full of questions about "you rodeo guys.

"I played a lot of basketball at Princeton, but never really worked like you guys." He smiled a huge grin. Court almost laughed out loud at his "golly-gee" manner.

The next day he'd returned in Levis instead of the three-piece suit. Cullough had told Court to show him the receiving operation and gave him a wink. Steve was excited, and before the afternoon was over he was down to his T-shirt helping hitch the trailers.

Court began to watch him closely. The guy had a great body. Tall, blond, with well-muscled arms and shoulders. Tits rode on top of heavily developed chest and pushed out the T-shirt. Long legs. The Levis rode up the crack of his ass. Court watched the way he ran his hand over the horse's muscles. And the way his eyes darted over the rodeo riders.

'I gotta fix something inside the trailer," Court said. "You can give me a hand."

It was not in the trailer, and after a few minutes Court slipped off his shirt. Though his torso was long, he had a big chest with nipples the size of half dollars poking through his chest hair. He was standing on a stool to fix a wire overhead when he looked down suddenly. He smiled.

Steve was staring at his chest. His eyes worked up the thin line of hair from the belt, over the tan stomach, stretched flat by the position Court was in, arms over his head. The hair thickened into a mat, covering the chest that was wider and deeper than he'd expected. He looked at the lats stretched wide like a cobra head. And the armpits. Sweat trickled in slow drops from the biceps and got caught in the armpit hair already wet and matted.

As Court stepped down, he suddenly looked away. Very slowly, Court walked over to him and then swatted him "friendly-like" on the ass. The guy blushed to the roots.

As Court continued walking by him in the narrow trailer, Steve lost his balance and sat down suddenly. Court bent directly over him to retrieve his shirt and Steve found his nose practically buried in hairy armpits. The blast of male sweat, the size and male-animal smell of Court, made his cramped rod shoot down his leg. Court noticed this. He reached into the shirt pocket.

"Have a cigarette while I check out this light."

He slapped Steve hard, on the shoulder this time, and left his hand there.

"Just don't set the place on fire," he grinned.

Steve watched Court's hips roll as he moved toward the trailer door.

'Damn sun is so bright, can't see if the light is on or not.'

And with that he swung the two doors closed and latched them. He switched on the light.

"Hot as hell," he said as he walked back.

Steve watched Court's hand sliding through the sweat on his chest and matting the hair. Court stopped in front of him, picked up his shirt and began to mop his armpits.

"You look pretty hot your- self. Why don't you slip outta that shirt.

There was something in Court's tone. He looked up at the man. Court was standing with one thumb hooked in his belt buckle. He was holding his shirt over his shoulder with the other hand now, making the huge bicep bulge out. Steve caught the man's eyes and looked away, blushing.

Then he glanced at Court's crotch. His jaw dropped. Court's heavy dick was hard and sliding down his pants leg. His nuts hung about seven inches down the inside of the jeans and made a huge bulge. The cock continued growing and he could see it burrowing down the leg. The pants had been worn so thin he could actually make out the contours of the prick head.

Court had made up his mind.

He dropped his shirt. He reached down with one hand and began to pull Steve's T-shirt out of his pants. Steve grabbed Court's arm. Court slowly reached down with the other hand and grabbed Steve by the jaw. He tilted the head back.

"What's the matter, baby," he smiled.

"You son of a…" Steve began. But Court suddenly grabbed him by the hair and slapped him hard with an open palm. Steve froze and stared in panic. Court continued smiling. He slapped him hard again. Then he held his hand in the air, ready for another.

"Take off your shirt, baby, like I said."

That was all it took. Steve's rod was leaking a wet stain in his pants. Scared, he slowly reached down and slipped the T-shirt over his head. Court chuckled and crossed his arms. Steve looked up at the man: the curly head of hair, the dark, craggily handsome face, down the bulk of the torso. The size of the chest pushed Court's hairy, crossed arms out, making him seem

DRUMMER 45

gigantic. The body narrowed to a tight, washboard waist. And then Steve found himself staring at that cock again.

"Take it out, baby."

Steve ran the back of his hand over his mouth. "I said take it out, baby," Court said a little firmer.

Steve reached up trembling and unbuttoned the fly. The line of hair thickened. He could smell the man. Reaching in, he hooked the penis with two fingers. It was huge. It seemed to take forever to slide it out. He'd never touched a guy's dick before. It was twice as thick as his own.

When the head suddenly flipped out, he flinched. The dick continued to harden until it stood out at a 45-degree angle. Prefuck leaked in a slow strand toward the floor.

"The balls too, guy."

He reached in again and put his whole hand around the base of the scrotum. He swung it up and out. From where he sat, it seemed to dangle halfway to Court's knees.

Court smiled even wider.

"Welcome home, baby," he said in a low, sexy rumble. And Steve felt the two rough hands encase the side of his head. He let himself be pulled in to the base of the cock.

Steve felt the hardness against his lips. The cock was rank with the smell of crotch sweat. His tongue poked out and felt the tube that distended the length of the cock. His lips opened wider. His tongue slipped around the dick, curious. He could barely encompass it. He sighed at the size of it and his own cock oozed even more precum. He began swabbing. His face was on fire. He couldn't bring his mind to the surface. His hands came up and rested lightly on Court's thighs. And he licked.

Court felt that thick, dull ache in his prick head. This is the best, he thought. Pink, virgin tongue swabbing the base of his cock. Pink, virgin lips. Damn. And he began to stroke the cornsilk hair on the back of Steve's head as he pulled him in tighter.

Steve's jaw went slack as he felt the width of the cock pry his mouth open wider. He nursed down the scrotum and sucked at the loose skin supporting the huge testicles, as if he and Court had been friends all their lives. Court pushed the head down and tilted it back.

'Open, baby.'

One ball slipped in. His tongue explored it while he stared up at the man. Court's face was partly in shadow, but he could see the half smile. He drank in the massive, hairy chest, the two nipples rising and falling like corks on an ocean, and muscles on the hairy arms so powerful that one light blow could slap the sense out of him. He dropped his jaw like a snake and the other ball slipped in. He made love. Saliva ran out of his mouth and coated his chin. It began to soak Court's jeans.

"Swallow."

Steve tried and gagged.

"Swallow. Open that throat," Court coaxed him. "That's what it's good for. We're gonna train you good, baby. Don't be shy."

Steve's eyes closed as he tried.

"Open that tube, baby."

Court reached down and began to pull the jaw wider.

"Open. Press into that crotch, baby, and inhale."

Trusting the man, Steve did as he was told. He relaxed his throat with a sigh and swallowed slowly. Suddenly the huge mass of balls got past the blockage at the back of his mouth. They slid down his throat, one behind the other, like balls through a cockring. Steve gagged and panicked. He grabbed Court's wrists as his eyes squinted and his face turned beet red. His throat swelled out obscenely. Ignoring the struggles, Court yanked the guy in tighter.

"That's it. Oh, Jesus." He smiled and, pressing the head into his crotch with all his strength, he slowly tilted his head back, eyes closed.

Steve was snorting as his hands scrabbled at Court's wrists. Then something clicked inside him. He went limp and hung there. His pretty face was an open tube for the man's balls. Court felt the change. He looked down quietly.

46 DRUMMER

"Atta boy."

Saliva was running out of both sides of Steve's mouth. Tears were running down his cheeks from the strain. He was beginning to pale from lack of oxygen, but his attempts to pull away were feeble. In a matter of minutes he had changed from an uptight accountant and ex-basketball hero to a hungry boy who would let a man gag him on testicles. A fuck toy. His throat would be sore for days from the stretching. But he'd welcome the soreness. Now that he'd felt the fullness once, his mouth would gape at the sight of any well-filled crotch.

Court hadn't even begun on his ass.

Court eased his balls out of the throat. They actually popped past the back of Steve's mouth. They oozed out of the lips. The mouth stayed wide open as Steve sucked in deep breaths. His eyes opened slightly and stared back at Court in surprise. And his chest heaved like bellows, puffy, pink tits riding up and down on a well-developed but perfectly hairless chest. Nice suckable tits.

Steve felt the hardness against his lips. The cock was rank with the smell of crotch sweat. His tongue poked out and felt the tube that distended the length of the cock.

Steve started reaching slowly for Court's cock, but Court took his wrists. He hauled him up slightly, then onto the floor. He straddled him with his knees, huge cock leaking, and released the wrists. Grabbing Steve's biceps, he pushed them up, baring his armpits. He stared at that pumped-up chest and Steve continued gasping for breath.

God, you're a pretty man," Court smiled. Steve relaxed slightly, confused. Then Court lowered his tanned face covered with a day's stubble, and bared his perfectly white teeth. His tongue shot out and teased a nipple. His lips nipped at it. Then his teeth chewed gently.

Finally he dropped his jaw, sucked the tit in and tried to swallow it. He growled.

Steve bucked his hips. No one had ever touched his tits. The new sensation of pain and pleasure made him whip his head back and forth and he cried out.

"Shut up, asshole," Court said. He reached over, grabbed the shirt he'd mopped his pits with and stuffed it in Steve's mouth. Grabbing both biceps again, he went after the other tit.

Court pictured Steve on the basketball court, teasing the public with those heavy biceps and shoulders, hiding those tits under that flimsy nylon. He chewed deeper and deeper onto that tit, getting the nipple as far back as his rear molars. Court loved to give it to any guy he thought was a cock tease. He ignored Steve's cries.

"Serves him right," thought Court. "This guy's tits were made to be used."

As the tit oozed out of his mouth, he slid his teeth up the length of it and nipped the head once before he released it. He went after the other one again.

When Court finally raised his head, Steve stopped thrashing and stared at him wide-eyed. He was about to cum. His eyes were glazed and frightened. Court grinned and very slowly lowered his face again. He blew a stream of air onto one armpit. Goose flesh rose. He did the same to the other.

'You don't use deodorant any more, you understand that, guy?" he said.

With that, he swabbed the armpit twice with his tongue. Then he slammed his unshaven chin into it and dragged it up the length of the pit. The sensation of the stubble against the soft

armpit flesh was too much for Steve. Yelling into the sweaty shirt, he came. Banging his heels, he whipped his head back and forth. But Court held his arms and torso rock-steady. He moved his head over and methodically ripped at the other pit.

Steve had never cum without touching himself. For the first time he was aware of his asshole grabbing in rhythm with his prick, hungrily moaning and then slamming shut. And Court rode him like a skittish colt as he pulled the hair out of his pits with his teeth. Steve's cum soaked his jeans and began to run up the downlike hairs on his stomach and pool in his navel.

When it was over, Steve went limp. He began moaning.

"Good boy," Court said.

His cock was still out, hard and leaking. Calmly, he knelt up and pulled Steve's boots off. Then, standing, he grabbed the legs of the Levis and hauled them off with such force that Steve slid across the floor. Steve wailed once, like a child. Oh, yeah, thought Court, look at those fuckin' legs. Long, muscular legs from years of basketball. Hard with the muscle, but with hairless , poreless skin. Big, size eleven feet. The jockeys were soaked with Steve's load.

Grabbing him by the ankles, he flipped him over, knelt down and hauled Steve onto his knees, forearms on the floor. He wedged his legs between the knees, forced them wider and then ripped the jockeys at the crotch, leaving the waistband

He ran his hands up the backs of the long thighs and again thought of them bouncing down the court, teasing. He slapped them with both hands, gripped them and hauled his fingers up hard. Steve bucked and moaned. He slapped again, gripped tighter, slid his hands up. This time he ended up at the buttocks. They were like two cheeses. White, perfect and hard.

"You ever get treatment like this from your coach, huh, guy?" Court asked as he ran his thumbs up the ass crack. "Walkin' around the locker room, swingin' that ass, sayin' 'Come, fuck me, guys.""

He drew the tip of his middle finger from Steve's scrotum, up over the hole to the tailbone and back.

"Eager little ass-pussy. You been hidin' it. Starvin' it all these years.

The tip of his finger began to work into the hole. He was playing Steve like an instrument. Telling him just what he needed to hear.

"You're ass is lucky I'm takin' charge. Feel how grateful it is?" With that, he began to slide the finger in. The combination of the sexy talk and the power of the man were too much for Steve. No one had ever played with his ass. Just as Steve thought he was about to pull away, Court twisted his finger suddenly and the ass bucked back toward the finger on its own. His back bowed down and the ass tilted up.

Steve's head went back and he groaned.

"Grind it, baby."

He rotated his ass as Court slowly finger-fucked him. Court reached under Steve and cupped a tit with his free hand. He slowly pulled the finger out of his ass. Lining three fingers up, he suddenly twisted the tit hard and rammed the fingers into the hole. Steve's own ass juices made a wet, squelching sound. His head whipped back and he wailed, but his ass bucked spastically, sucking at the pain.

"You're a natural, baby. You should have been team pussy. But we got a lot of rodeo riders who are gonna help you out.

He milked the tit and sawed at the hole. Court was beginning to discover that by playing with his tits, he could get him to do anything. Steve's ass went wild, sucking like a starving refugee. Court yanked his fingers out of the ass and put his cockhead at the entrance to the hole. He reached around and began to turn Steve's tits like radio dials. The torn jockeys framed the ass cheeks.

"Pretty ass, baby. Like to see it in a jockstrap."

"But no more jockeys. I'll just rip 'em off you."

The hole began opening.

"Shame to hide an ass like this."

"Push back, baby. Don't fight that hungry ass."

Steve pushed back and the huge head popped in. Steve hissed. He paused as the bunghole got used to the size.

"Atta boy."

Court gave the cheeks a slap and then vanked the tits harder. A low growl came out of Steve's mouth. He pushed back again. He needed this. Every muscle on his body stood out with the strain.

"Oh, yeah!" Court said. "Look at it go."

He slapped again. Steve barked and shoved back again. Four inches of the ten-inch dick were up the ass, distending it, straightening it.

"Oughta get a picture of you like this. Bent over, your hands spreading those cheeks. Make every guy in Colorado give up pussy."

Steve barked again and shoved back. Six inches.

"Ready, baby? 'Bout ready?"

Steve hung his head. Court sucked his stomach in and looked down at the ass-cock connection. Huge, dark cock with thick, black hair. Tight, blond asshole, tilted and ready.

Yanking the tits back, Court rammed his prick home. Like ten inches of metal pipe up the tiny hole. Steve bellowed and his legs gave. But the prick held him in place. Court grabbed him by the waist, squeezing the wind out of him. He began fucking.

"Show me that pussy, baby."

Steve wailed and shoved back. The talk was driving him nuts. "Work it like a bitch, guy. How many girls you fucked, huh? That shit dick of yours plowin' loose cunt while this tight little hole was goin' hungry?" He slapped. "How long you ignored this pussy back here, playin' big hero?"

He rammed, rotated his prick and rammed again.

"I seen you checkin' yourself out in the mirror, baby." Slap. "Nobody pretty as you can stand it long without gettin" fucked open."

Steve lowered his head between his arms and shoved back. He was like a cat in heat. Slap!

"Harder, baby?"

Steve gave out a high-pitched whine. Slap! Slap! He ground his hips. "Needs to be heated up." Slap! "Move that hot little oven, baby.'

Court began to pile drive the ass, laying claim to the blond body beneath him. He pulled the head back by the hair and slapped it hard.

'Need to be slapped a little, huh, baby? Need to be shown

He suddenly leaned forward, worked his arms around Steve's and grabbed his head in a hammerlock.

"You fuckin' bitch! Here it comes!!"

He slammed in hard one last time. The force knocked them to the floor.

Court tried to shove his hips inside the hole with the cock. Halfway to Steve's heart the cockhead opened and began pouring like a faucet. He wrenched the body back violently, dragging the top of Steve's head along the floor. Steve reached back frantically, trying to pull Court in deeper. He grabbed Court's balls and yanked forward. Court howled.

Steve's colon squeezed around the prick rhythmically, instin-tively knowing how to make a man's prick feel good. Cum backed up the tube and began leaking out the asslips. Court bucked again and bit the back of Steve's neck with a helpless yowl, claiming his mate.

Steve came a second time, but the size of the telephone pole up his ass defeated his muscles. While the ass lining sucked and caressed the huge dick, grabbing hard like a band of steel, cum dribbled out of his prick in a slow flow.

He had completely lost control of himself. He loved this man who knew what he wanted. He groaned with joy as he gave the prick what it needed in return. When Court finally came back to earth he heard Steve whispering, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Thank you, Sir. Oh, God. Thank you. Oh, God…" Court smiled.

HOT READING FOR A GOLD WINTER'S NIGHT FROM ALTERNATE PUBLISHING

95 MISTER

The novel that electrified leather-men across the country when it was first serialized in Drummer, revised by the author with an epilogue from Mr. Benson himself. Cited by Penthouse as one of the Top Ten SM Novels ever writ- ten, praised by Phil Andros as "an SM masterwork ," and acknowledged "a classic underground novel" by the Village Voice, John Preston's Mr. Benson is must reading for all leathermen, and for anyone who wants to understand the phenomenon of gay SM in the 1980s

THE BRIG

A major novel of military discipline and institutionalized SM. Victor Terry in Dungeon-Master calls it "one of the best erotic novels of dominance and enforced submission I have ever read- … This book is hot!"

Set at the close of the Vietnam War, The Brig chronicles a young consciencious objector's ordeal at the hands of his Marine tormentors , his surprising self-discoveries in the midst of torment, his ultimate triuimph-and the price he pays for it.

HE AIN'T HEAVY, HE'S MY LOVER

Had enough of whips, chains, and heavy-duty SM? You won't escape them here-but you'll rediscover them with a decidedly humorous twist, along with Carlo Carlucci's glowingly humorous look at every other aspect of gay life, from the pangs of coming out to a Thurberesque cartoon series "War Between the Machos and the Sissies" that will have you in stitches!

Gay cartoon books have come and gone, but this one is really special. "A must-have cartoon book," says the Baltimore Gay Paper; "a sharper wit could not be found!" Cruise Magazine says it's "the kind of book you'll read over and over, getting a fresh chuckle or grin each time." And the San Francisco Review of Books declares that Carlo Carlucci "has the talent of Thurber.

The Zeus Collection's SADO ISLAND Illustrated by Matt

Beyond Road Warrior and Chrome lies a new dimension in sophisticated science fiction SM. Welcome to Sado Island, stronghold of the notorious Baron Heinrich von Sado and his menacing muscular / metallic hench-men!

Zeus commissioned New Orleans artist Matt to take this quantum leap into the illustrated future of SM adventure, where its 2139 and hell on earth is a place called Saso Island. Two musclebound hereos fight a police society that forbids their 'deviate" love-then take on the sadistic battlechief of world terrorism, Heinrich Von Sado. Sado Island catapults your fantasies into the future and penetrates the darkest recesses - of your imagination.

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□ Slaves of the Empire 9.95

□ He Ain't Heavy, He's My Lover 4.95

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SLAVES OF THE EMPIRE by Aaron Travis Illustrated by Cavelo

Hot off the press - the long-awaited paperback edition of Aaron Travis' SM Roman epic, with twelve richly detailed illustrations by the master of erotic fantasy art, Cavelo

Set against the barbaric splendor of ancient rome at the height of its empire , Slaves seduces the reader into a steamy world of flesh and steel, where a famed gladiator must ulti-

BEFORESTRESSES SECTION JETUSTRAILED BY CAVELO mately choose between his own brutal nature and his love for a pair of twin-princes, while a sadistic senator plots to enslave them all.

John Preston calls Slaves of the Empire "a wonderful mythic tale," and Phil Andros has called it "taut, tense and absorbing."

"With hardly a pause," says the Bay Area Reporter, "Aaron Travis torments us from sex scene to sex scene, each building higher than the one before, all satisfying, original and leading surely to the hair-raising last chapter… I got bruises just from reading."

Lavish, unusual and compelling, Slaves of the Empire is a novel you'll read more than once-the first time for its suspenseful story and, after that, for lingering fantasies and pleasure.

FICTION WINNER

POWERLESS by MAX EXANDER

ILLUSTRATION BY OLAF

n hot summer nights my thoughts turn to leather. I have a fantasy to be all the black leather in America , to feel myself wrapped around men's muscular thighs, to feel myself framing asses and bulging crotches, to fly through the air and land with a crack across crying men's backs, to lie relaxed and crumpled in a corner, or atop a bed, or beneath a suspended slave, to feel the damp warmth of cum and piss flowing across my shiny, slick surface, to wrap myself around balls, tugging and pulling.

Some men exist to serve their Masters, others to dominate. All are filled with lust. The smell of leather and sweat, grease and cum, piss and smoke and beer—this swells cocks and opens asses. The power of leather lies in need and in lust, in volatile acts of submission like the nights—how many I can no longer count, nor care to—when, after the stroke of midnight, I placed my hands respectfully behind my back, stepped before a Master in black leather, and offered myself for his use.

Those nights go on, changed, but rich nonetheless. One of those nights, not long ago, things were different. I'm not sure I can explain it fully, because the meaning could get lost in the explanation. The best bet is to tell the tale, for in the telling, you'll see what I mean.

I think it had something to do with my state of mind that night—a warm evening in late August, only the slightest breeze brushing my bare arms as I entered the leather bar I always frequented. All day I had been stoked for the evening, looking forward with horny anticipation to the late hours when I might, at long last, offer myself up to some motherfucking hunk who'd show me a thing or two, then set me loose on Sunday morning. All day I'd had that in mind, but all day I'd been irritated, as if there was something struggling in the back of my mind to emerge, some notion about leather, or about slavery.

I'd been reading a lot of S&M stuff lately-books, stories, magazines. The whole scene was mine of course, but there was a message in the stuff I read that tried to work its way into consciousness. It wasn't until I walked into that bar, though, and started the evening's cruise, that the sequence of events was put into motion, leading, eventually, to a new attitude.

When I walked into the bar, Patti LaBelle was singing "New Attitude," so I should have taken that as a clue, but the next song the DJ put up was Madonna's "Like a Virgin," so obviously

I paid it no mind.

The bar was filled with men, with smoke, and that low gloss of dim light reflected off black leather. Eyes met everywhere, saying: Fuck you. It was a question or a remark, depending on disposition, but I immediately laid my eyes on a typical muscle hunk across the room, his bulging basket framed in black leather chaps, a black tank top clinging to his muscled torso.

I got a beer and stood alongside the guy. I had a feeling this was going to be easy. I turned and smiled. He nodded and said,

"Hi, there."

"Hi, I'm Max," I said, extending a hand.

He shook it, and I felt the strength of his grip—and imagined it wielding a whip or belt, maybe a big fat dildo.

"I'm Preston Kane," he introduced himself. For some reason I felt like laughing, but instead I just smiled and contemplated a new approach. I went ahead.

"Let me ask your opinion," I started. "Should a slave present himself to the Master, or should the slave remain docile and let the Master select him?'

The leatherman thought for a moment. "I think the slave should offer himself to the Master, respectfully of course. The Master should not have to make the moves, because, after all, it's up to him anyway, isn't it?"

There was such irony in his tone that I said, "Is it?"

He shrugged his shoulders, as if the point he had made was debatable. "What do you think?" he asked.

I shrugged then. "It's probably a judgement call, but the eagerness of the slave to please should probably motivate the slave to go to the Master.'

He smiled and sipped his beer. "Whatever," he said. "I'm not really into that."

I was mystified. "Into what?"

"All that S&M stuff."

I frowned at his chaps and leather armband.

"Oh, sure, I like leather," he said. "And I like my sex rough, even dominant and submissive. But I'm not into all that discipline stuff, all that role playing, just simple, regular S&M.'

I nodded. I didn't know what he was talking about. What the hell was "regular" S&M? The kind you do at the office?

Finally Lasked: "What do you mean by regular, simple S&M?" He laughed. "I didn't mean regular, actually. I meant I'm into physical S&M, not emotional. I don't give a damn if a slave is well-trained or 'broken,' because I just want a hot guy who likes to get it on that way, the practicalities, I mean.

I shook my head and ordered another beer. "You got me," I said. "You're saying you want to have hot S&M sex, but without the S&M trip?'

No, no, that's not it," he said. "I mean I want S&M sex without the discipline nonsense, all that silly stuff about 'Yes, Sir,' and 'Please, Sir,' and basically turning a human being into a child, or an animal. I don't need to 'break' another man in order to prove my masculinity. I don't need to prove anything. I don't need to make someone surrender to me, or even to seduce them into surrender."

"Oh," I intoned. "Then what do you want?"

"I want to get off, but in a special way," he answered. He was leaning in close now. We had both turned toward the bar and stood leaning against it with our elbows. His face was close to mine. I could study his white teeth, very white, beneath a dark brown moustache and red, very kissable lips. His amber eyes burned out of his face, so intense were they, and his breath smelled of beer, marijuana, and mint.

"What do you mean by special?" I asked. I was gearing up to hear something truly kinky.

"Well, let me explain. The whole physical aspect of S&M- you know, the way it makes your body feel—is keyed off by the fact that when your body is under great physical stress like pain, bondage, and endurance, your brain releases a natural pain killer, kind of like morphine. It's the same principle that causes 'runner's high' that joggers are always talking about. It's another way to ecstasy, like jumping up and down in a gospel church service for hours on end, or exercising really hard. When you couple that natural physical reaction with the sex act, you get catapulted into heaven. That's what I like to do, to help people get there and to get there myself. As for the rest of it, all the discipline and emotional role playing, well, I just don't see the need to bother."

Couldn't that add to the experience, though," I offered, "by setting up an emotional and psychological attitude that helps

"Sure, sure," he said. "But not for me. I'm just a pure physical

S&M type."

I had to get us off this intellectual talk. We were sounding like a college biology lecture, and that is not the way I had envisioned spending my Saturday night, my hot Saturday night. I was regretfully aware that it was nearly the end of August, and that soon the social scene would shift to the frenzy of autumn and then the holidays. There wouldn't be many more late, lazy nights this summer.

'Why don't you show me?'' I suggested.

"I thought it might be a good idea," he said. "Let's finish these first.

So we drank up, turning around to watch the crowd. I observed the rituals of mating, read lips as they whispered take it up the ass, down the throat, get tied up and whipped, please, Sir, let me, please, Sir, use me, fuck me, ram it into me when we get home, I'll do anything you tell me to…

Just then the bartender announced last call, so we finished our beers, listened to Huey Lewis sing "Power of Love," and then left. Outside it was still warm, the kind of night my grandma would have called sultry. Leathermen strolled up and down that wide street, revving their motorcycles if they drove,

Continued on page 84

POWERLESS Continued from page 7 or standing against the brick walls awaiting the night's connection.

I followed the leatherman's lead, walking around the corner to his place. We went in, passing through a living room, then a bedroom, then the kitchen, then out through a back porch and down some stairs and into a dark, close leather sex chamber. My eyes feasted on the equipment—the walls were padded in black leather and there was a special apparatus in the very center of the room, half a table, half a sling, completely covered in leather. The room smelled delicious, and everywhere were leather toys and clamps and paddles.

"Why don't you strip," he said, "and let me show you to heaven."

I couldn't argue, so I shucked my clothes in a heap in the corner and stood waiting, my cock already half-hard.

He stripped, too, peeling off his tight clothes, revealing a fine, bronze body and a hefty cock and big round balls. He looked me over. "Turn around," he said, and as I did, he mumbled his approval. "I like it, a lot. You got a nice body, kid, and I'm gonna love working it over. Now come over here.'

He pointed to the leather table, or whatever it was. I walked over and stood beside it.

"Okay, climb up here on your knees," he said. I got on my knees on the low leather-covered platform. He put his hands between my legs and pushed my legs apart. "Yeah, keep them spread like that."

It was as if I were kneeling-which in fact I was, in a way-though I was atop a wide, low bench about a foot and a half off the ground. This put my ass and genitals even to his, as he stood. He was wrapping leather straps around my ankles, calves, and knees, so that my legs were held firmly in place, wide apart.

"Like that?" he asked. "Like the way it looks?"

I started to shrug, but then I noticed that one of the walls, the one to my left, was mirrored, so I could see myself kneeling atop the leather bench, my legs securely in place. My cock hung half-hard in the air, and my balls dangled vulnerably between my legs.

"Yeah, I do," I said. "I like it a lot. Looks hot."

His hand fondled my balls, gently at first, then rougher. I squirmed a bit, but he wasn't hurting me. I enjoyed the feeling of freedom my body enjoyed, even though my legs were so firmly attached to the bench. I could twist and turn, bend and stretch. His hand moved back between my legs, passing over my asshole, then fondling my butt. He ran his hands lightly over my round butt, feeling its shape, squeezing my ass cheeks gently, then tightly-pinching me. Then, slowly, he began to slap my ass, not really spanking me, just warming me up.

I moaned. "I like that, too. Feels real good."

His hand pulled away. I rebelled a little in my mind; why did he stop when I expressed my pleasure? Moments before he had elicited an answer. I frowned but said nothing. He walked around in front of me and smiled, his handsome face making me feel a little bit in love. I forgave him for stopping. I observed him in front of me and reflected in the mirror. His cock was fully erect, jutting out in front of his body in an obvious display of excitement, and I saw that his big balls were pulled up tight beneath it, like a base for the big tool.

There was something extremely erotic about the total absence of clothing for adornment. Neither of us wore a shred of anything. I was used to serving Masters decked out in leather pants or chaps, boots, vest, armbands, whatever. Our mutual nakedness underlined our sexuality, not our roles, and this gave me a clue as to what he had meant back at the bar, when he had protested that sure, the roles could add to the scene…maybe …but that he was "…just a pure physical S&M type.

It had been at that point in the conversation that I decided to change the subject somewhat, because the fancy talk was bugging me, lowering my sex trip, but now, considering our mutual nakedness—and the rough, masculine animality of it, its pure sexiness—I began to understand how someone (like him) might consider the theatrical role-playing of slave-to-Master, submissive-to-dominant, boy-to-daddy, or whatever to be utterly unnecessary, certainly superfluous, and perhaps a bit silly.

I didn't know what I thought. Certainly I had had my share of experiences as a good slave, a good boy, down on my knees begging for it, pleading for it, doing a good job, withstanding discipline and punishment (for what, though I never could figure out). And it had always been mostly hot. But I know only too well that feeling of being upset at a Master's attitude of superiority, as if his humanity was worth more than mine. I never went for that. But neither had I gone for a scene totally stripped of these roles, as this one was proving to be.

He was staring at me. I realized I was lost in thought, not altogether there. I focused on his face again.

'What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head.

He furrowed his brow. "Now, at this point, for an answer like that, any other Master would slap you. But you're a grown man-I don't have to slap you. You can either choose to be here, and go ahead with this scene, or not."

"I'm sorry," I said.

He raised his eyebrows and turned one hand, palm up. He nearly shrugged one shoulder, but held off; that would have been sarcastic. And this man was not sarcastic. He was respectful , admirably well-mannered.

"Well?" he said, very quietly.

"I was just thinking that I had never been with a Master when both of us were equally naked. That's all. I was realizing what you meant about the physical side of all this, rather than the emotional. It's just that I'm so used to … " I didn't finish.

"To what?" he said. "To begging for it? To doing tricks like a pet to earn it? To being punished if your tricks aren't good enough? Or even if they are, for maybe taking pride in it? No…sorry… that's not me. I want to work you over til I sweat, til we're both brought into a state crossed over…" His voice trailed off.

I nodded my head and half closed my eyes. My butt was cooling off, my body suddenly relaxing again. It seemed time for silence again, time to get on with it.

He stood in front of me for a moment longer, his eyes moving up and down my suspended body. He nodded, as if to himself, a gesture of approval, of appreciation. I closed my eyes.

He went over to a cabinet, which was beside and behind me, opposite the mirror. He opened the cabinet door and flipped a couple switches. Music filled the room, strange, serene, new age space music; it made me feel drowsy and sexy all at once. The light in the room went from low white to dull red, and he moved around the corners of the room and lit candles set in standards in the wall. The room was warm and cozy, strangely sexy, safe, and alluring. My flesh looked golden in the red light and candlelight, my thick cock hanging heavy, my hunky torso twisting as I watched him move towards me.

His complete nakedness turned me on, as did mine. We had nothing between us, though of course my legs were bound in leather straps. His cock swung in front of him when he moved, and when he turned around, I felt my own cock start to rise at the sight of his muscular ass, which squared, rounded, and lengthened as he moved this way and that, gathering up various tools and toys, bending to retrieve leather straps and clamps that were on the floor.

He came up in front of me and ran his hand over my chest. By virtue of my position atop the bench, I towered above him, but this was not to last long. He pinched my nipples and tugged them into firm erection, then placed tit clamps on them. I smiled at the wonderful sensation, and then, from the chain which connected the two clamps, he attached light metal weights.

I nodded my pleasure, and he smiled. "You're gonna love this," he said as he climbed up on the bench with me, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me. We kissed for several minutes, feeling our hard cocks rubbing against one another, feeling them prodding our bellies, feeling our lips as we bit and

nibbled and ran our tongues across them.

Then he stepped down and wrapped two heavy leather wrist cuffs around my forearms. These he connected to leather straps and chains which hung from the ceiling, but I was required to lean far forward, abandoning my center of gravity, so that my body was supported by my wrists and by the tension of my torso pulling on my bound legs. This position let the chain and weight between the tit clamps dangle from my chest, swinging to and fro, sending sensations through my body which made me tremble . My dick was very hard.

He stepped back for a moment to observe me as I dangled between the bench and the ceiling. "That looks real pretty," he said to me. "Real pretty. And that's part of my trip, just seeing how pretty men are when they're strung up and ready for more.'

I nodded and smiled. I was feeling good, but apprehensive— in fact, my dick was so hard and I was so horny that I was rather eager for him to get on with it. So I said, "Let's not talk anymore, let's be silent and see just how intense we can get.'

He nodded, smiling his agreement at me. Then he walked to the wall behind me, gathered some more toys and, for a moment, hummed along with the spacey music. Then I felt his hands on my nuts, kneading them, pulling on them. I moaned and arched my back, thrusting my ass and balls back towards him. He wrapped one hand around my nuts and pulled, as if to milk my testicles down to the very base of my ball sac. With his other hand he wrapped a wide ball stretcher around my distended scrotum, securely pushing my nuts all the way down. The sensation was intense, just short of painful, but very, very pleasurable. My dick began to drip sticky precum-a long strand that stretched to the floor.

The pressure on my balls made me vividly aware of the space between my legs, the way the air caressed them as they were thrust back between my thighs in the open space. I could feel air on my asshole, too, because the position of my widespread legs parted my cheeks, exposing my butthole.

I realized that my back was beginning to ache, so I relaxed my body and let myself fully drop against my bonds. The sensation was exquisite, a complete release of tension, and not only from my back and shoulders. My thighs went loose, my neck dropped forward, my shoulders stretched luxuriously against the upward pull. In my bondage I had found complete release, for my body was supported by the leather bonds; I had only to release all tension.

Then, with a resounding crack!, I felt a leather paddle on my butt. I arched myself in surprise at the slap, but then went limp again, once more surrendering myself to the support of bondage . The paddle travelled in light slaps up and down my thighs, buns, and back. There was no pain, just light, slightly stinging slaps that stimulated my skin, activating my senses and brightening my flesh as the blood rushed to the surface.

I closed my eyes for a moment and listened—all I could hear was the music that made me feel as if I were floating—I was, in a way—and the steady rhythm of the paddle landing on my flesh. It was almost as if the sound was disconnected from the sensa- tions I felt.

7 hen I opened my eyes I turned my head to look in the mirror. I saw myself suspended and hanging forward. I saw his hand moving up and down as he paddled my ass, and I saw the body to which that hand was attached-bronze , muscular, leanly defined, the handsome face, and the fully erect cock that bounced around as he shifted position this way and that to spank me, to reach the corners of my butt that were not yet red enough.

I admired the man, admired his handsomeness, his extreme care in paddling me. I admired the sweat on his brow, the way it made his forehead glisten, the way it wetted the front of his hair, those damp strands flying against his forehead the way the paddle flew against my butt.

The blows increased, both in force and frequency. Then, without warning (and what could he have done, anyway, made an announcement?), the paddle was slapping my asshole itself—lightly but firmly—and then I felt the tip of the paddle moving between my legs, just beneath my asshole, in that sensitive space between my hole and balls. I knew what was coming, and I tensed my body in an involuntary reflex, though there would be no way to avoid having my nuts paddled by that leather strap, if he so chose.

He sensed my reflex and stopped, his hand poised in midair. I looked at him in the mirror, saw his motion interrupted—his firm stance, legs apart, sweat glistening on his body, all his muscles tight with action, his arm raised, the paddle high in the air. It all stopped, and he lowered his arm, as if in slow motion.

And then I raised my hips. I felt suddenly as if I were a terrible disappointment, and I wanted to thrust my ass and my nuts back, open to him, to prove that he could continue, that I wouldn't fail him, that I was a good slave, I could take it

He just dropped his arms to his side and put the paddle down between my legs. His warm hand ran over my ass, but it felt cool to me, my ass was so hot from the paddling. But I could feel the sweat on his hand.

I hen I felt his hands on my nuts, kneading them, pulling on them. I moaned and arched my back, thrusting my ass and balls back towards him. He wrapped one hand around my nuts and pulled, as if to milk my testicles down to the very base of my ball sac.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Go on, please."

He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, I broke the flow. There's a rhythm that must be maintained. Rhythm is more than half the trick. It's the constant repetition, the continuous stress that's important. And, of course, the pain."

I nodded. "I felt the pain."

"Yes, I know," he said. Then he stepped in front of me and kissed me. "I'm going to have a cigarette, take a tiny break. You want down from there?"

I shook my head. "No, I really don't. This is really quite comfortable. And I do enjoy being powerless with someone who invokes such trust, the way you do.'

"Thank you," he said as he lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the floor beneath me. The smoke spiraled up beside me. We were silent for a moment. The music was very serene, the volume low. I realized I had failed to hear it the last few minutes . I stretched my body, twisting this way and that, enjoying the freedom I enjoyed in this curious, half-hanging bondage. It was something like floating on an air mattress in a warm pool on a hot summer afternoon. A feeling of complete relaxation and support it was.

He smiled up at me and leaned back back on one elbow. His dick was only half hard now, hanging bloated over his full balls, which looked rather pumped up somehow. "You look so pretty up there," he said. "And your ass is turning such a bright red, it's really pretty, too."

"It feels nice and warm," I answered. "Though it's starting to cool off,'

"We'll get back to it in just a minute," he said. "I'm gonna take you right over the wall, just like I promised. But let me clue

DRUMMER 85

you in-I'm gonna work on your ass again, then your nuts-a long time on the nuts. Then, with all my energy and force I'm really going to beat you, maybe enough to bruise you, but that's just when you'll forget about everything, believe me."

I shook my head, then half smiled. "I've been beaten before,

I've been whipped. I know how to take it."

"Ah, that's it," he said as he crushed out his cigarette. "I don't want you to take it. I want you to abandon yourself to it. There's a difference."

I frowned. I was puzzled. "Excuse me, but that sounds an awful lot like 'breaking' a slave to me, to beat him so hard he just gives up and let's it happen; you know, gets trained to accept that pain and make it into pleasure."

He shook his head and stood up, facing me. "No way. No fucking way. You're not going to break. I want a real man with a real spirit to take over the edge of pain. But you're not going to submit to it, nor are you going to give in to it, or put up with it, or learn to accept it for my sake. No way. You're going to enjoy it because it's going to make you cum, it's going to provide you with more fucking pleasure than you've ever had before."

I he paddle left my nuts and landed on my ass with full force. He stood sweating now… I could see his hard dick bobbing in the air as his body put full effort into the blows. I could see his own nuts dangling beneath his erection and between his widespread legs.

I said nothing. His face, and those golden eyes, and that soft intense voice, and that loving, caring sincerity…I didn't care what his trip was, or what he was talking about. I just wanted him to use me, to do whatever he wanted to please himself. And if I got pleased as well-or, as he promised, taken to Nirvana and beyond-well, that would be great. hen it began again. The paddle worked me back to the fevered pitch I had been at just before he'd stopped, and when I was moaning and writhing in a state of mind which tried to comprehend all the talk and tried to integrate it with all the paddling I was receiving, the paddle finally, certainly , and steadily reached my stretched nuts. The first wave of pain shot through my groin and into my clamped tits and out the end of my dick. He said the word polarity and I frowned. But he was paddling my nuts harder and harder, and then suddenly I understood what he meant. The intense sensations that were neither pain nor pleasure (but both at the same time as well) travelled through my body like electricity; it was like the Eastern practice of polarity.

And it was working. I felt energy flowing through all my body. My fingers were outstretched wide in released tension. My toes were curling and then extending. My nipples were points of vivid sensation, as were my balls, my asshole, my lips, my knees. The head of my cock was swollen and throbbing, pulsing with every slap and circulation of wild energy.

I tried to nod my head in an affirmation, tried to whisper the word Yes, but I could only abandon myself—and all thought— to the sparkling sensations that travelled from his brain to arm, through the paddle to my balls, up into my body and out. The room was alive with this fusion of him to me, with the spirit we created.

The paddle left my nuts and landed on my ass with full force. 86 DRUMMER

He stood sweating now, his feet planted wide apart. I could see his hard dick bobbing in the air as his body put full effort into the blows. I could see his own nuts dangling beneath his erection and between his widespread legs. I could hear his labored breathing, could see the sweat run in rivulets down his forehead , across his chest.

And I felt the beating as the leather paddle resounded against my ass and against the backs of my thighs. He concentrated on my butt mostly, letting the paddle land again and again on the same spot, until I thought I would be unable to endure another blow. Then, with one final blow that would threaten to exceed my threshhold, he would move the paddling to another area of my butt, repeating the same pattern.

The rhythm increased, but remained steady. Over and over he beat my ass, again and again, so repetitiously and so harshly that within minutes I reached a point where I knew I would have to cry out, beg him to stop.

And then he struck me harder, more than I thought possible, and I felt tears run from my eyes-but not in real pain, not in emotional hurt. The tears were cleansing, as if some deep tension were translating itself into physical form and rushing up to deliver itself to the corners of my eyes, washing free from my spirit and spilling onto my cheeks. I knew I wanted to cry out, to plead with him that this was just too much after all, he would have to stop.

But just as I was beginning to shake my head, just as I was opening my mouth to form the word No, my lungs gasped involuntarily, my body tensed and relaxed in a flash of blinding light, and then I felt a tingling numbness in my fingers, across my face, in my belly and groin.

There was suddenly nothing but pure joy. Any feeling of pain or hurt, any notion of worry, tension, fear, or anguish was completely absent. I felt wholly connected to this man, to this leather paddle, to the exquisite sensations—purely physical sensations—that filled my body with unparalleled pleasure and washed my mind free of anxiety.

I thought—for only a moment—of what he had told me, of the brain's response, of the runner's high, and I knew that he had taken me there, that I had been brought to the threshold of pain-pleasure and crossed into physical heaven. My emotions followed. My spirit soared. And with my spirit, my cock followed , springing about in the air with every blow. My cockhead had become so sensitive that every movement felt spectacular. I was vividly aware of the air around my dick, as if it was being caressed by the open air, and within seconds I felt that orgasm was near.

He continued to paddle me as hard as he could. His body was covered with sweat, glowing under the dark red lights and candles. My body was drenched as well, in utter release, and the thrusts my hips made with every crack of the paddle forced my dick into the air in front of me, until, in one long and sudden moment, my cockhead tingled, probed the air, and spurted forth its powerful load of semen, shooting into the air and landing on the far wall, dripping down the length of my shaft and running in rivulets from my balls to the floor.

I shuddered in profound release, my eyes half open, half closed. I could see him as he put the paddle down. My body felt gloriously warm, glowing. I watched him walk around in front of me, and as I hung there in total relaxation, I watched as his hand stroked his own throbbing erection beneath my face, bringing his orgasm in seconds, the big cock gushing jet upon jet of white cum into the air before my face.

He smiled and kissed me deeply, a slow, lingering kiss that only made me warmer, more supple. He released me from all the ties that bound me, and we collapsed on the warm floor in a heap, our arms and legs entangled.

I whispered into his ear that it had been incredible, and he whispered yes. Then he said, "Let's rest just a bit before starting again." I smiled, nodded in agreement and nestled my head on his big shoulder. I could feel his breath on my face. We drifted off to sleep just as the tape ran out. The room was warm and silent.

"Straight" Guys' Games. Gay Men's Passions.

or months I had been begging my Daddy for a dog. At first, he had refused outright. Then, finally, after months of pleading, he finally softened and said that he would think about it. I waited in a constant state of expectation for weeks afterwards. I knew that my incessant begging had pushed his patience towards the breaking point. He was not someone you could whine at for hours on end without getting some punishment way out of proportion to the actual crime.

More than once he had come close to leaving permanent proof of his dominance on my face as he told me to shut up or spend the rest of the night in the basement. But although I was cowered, I managed to make my request one or two more times without having to face his wrath head on.

Maybe he finally softened in order to restore the peace and quiet that had been the hallmark of our life together for the past five years. Or maybe it was his way of rewarding me for having been such an obedient son for so long. But whatever it was, there was no hiding the joy I felt when he told me that he had made all of the arrangements necessary for my getting the dog I so desperately wanted.

I should have known that something was up when he started coming home later at night than usual. It isn't my place to question his whereabouts. But my curiosity was sparked. And something else too. For the first time in years I felt jealousy. The fact that I could feel that emotion told me in no uncertain terms that now, more than ever, a dog was needed.

From the very start I knew that Dad could never supply the kind of gut love that some dads could give their sons. That never bothered me much. He gave me so much else. Much more than most daddies give. But I knew that if I didn't have something to give my emotional love to real soon, there was a danger that our relationship would grow into something neither one of us wanted it to be.

So when he finally told me that he had found a dog for me, you can guess the kinds of feelings that went through my mind. I knew it was his way of saying that he understood and that things would be different but better from now on. But it wasn't until much later that I realized how different. For one, I was the one put in charge of the dog. Dad told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn't about to spend his few hours at home training some stray mutt. I was in charge of feeding and making sure that my new found pet knew its place. The feeding part was easy. But for someone who had spent the past five years being made into the kind of son that any dad would be proud of, learning how to housebreak a wild animal was a responsibility that was exciting and frightening at the same time. I knew that if things didn't work out right, both me and the dog might be looking for a new home. But when I first saw the dog that Dad had picked out for me, I knew that it would be worth all the extra effort.

The minute I saw my new pet, shivering from head to toe, and whining as the heavy rope around his neck rested in my dad's hands, I knew that here was something I could love. Dad told me he had picked out a golden retriever. But when the shaggy-haired boy stood butt-ass naked in front of me, I realized why it had taken so long to pick out just the right dog from among hundreds of possibilities. For years I had told Dad about my fantasies. But up until then I had never realized that he had stored those weird fantasies away for future referral. And now, as I stood with my mouth open, it dawned on me that he had spent night after night trying to find the one animal that would excite me in exactly the way I needed to be excited.

"This is your dog, Son. I expect you to take good care of him. He'll need plenty of disciplining before I let you keep him in the house. Take him down into the basement for now. And remember , I don't want to hear any noise out of him. It's bad enough I had to put up with your pestering all these months."

With that, he handed me the rope that held my boy-dog in tow.

'He said his name's Roger. But you can call him whatever you like. Anything except Roger. I never could stand that name."

Then he turned and left me staring at my charge. I swallowed hard as I looked directly into his blue-gray eyes. I had never seen anyone as beautiful before. It took me several minutes to get over the shock of all that longish blond hair framing an almost Botticelli-perfect face. It was only when I sensed the fear in his perfectly chiseled face that I lowered my gaze to drink in the rest of him. Like myself, he was lean but well muscled. I could tell anyone just how many hours I had spent getting my physique in line with what my dad expected it to look like. But I could only guess at how Roger came by his well-defined frame. Fortunately, I didn't have to guess about where his uncut dick came from. That could only have been a gift from the gods. I had always dreamed about burying my face in a well-formed cock topped with golden blond pubes. Now all I had to do was plant my equally hot bod onto the ground and that dream would be realized. But I knew that that was no way to treat a dog, and an untrained one at that. He had to be let known who was his Master. And although I had spent the last five years paying obeisance to a sometimes-indifferent topman, I knew that the sooner he knew his place, the sooner I would be able to start realizing some of my overripe fantasies. So, instead of sucking on his succulent dork, I pulled on the length of crudely tied rope and forced him down onto the ground.

"Heel, Roger."

Roger. I knew that name would have to go. I hated it almost as much as Dad did. But what would I use in its place. I thought for a while, then a sardonic look crossed my face. It was the same kind of look Dad had used on me a hundred times or more. Only now I understood just what made a man smile like that.

'Stay, Rover. Now, sit. Sit, boy. Come on, you shitass mutt, sit!"

The palm of my hand reverberated against his forehead. He grimaced, then, like a well-trained cocker spaniel, he sat at my feet.

'Good boy. Good Rover. Good dog."

He looked up at me pleadingly, as if wondering why I had chosen that name. Even if I wanted to I couldn't answer him. Somehow it fit, just as the rope collar fit so perfectly. And now that the decision had been made, we both knew that it would be Rover from now on.

"Okay, boy. Let's do like Daddy said. Let's get you down to the basement."

With the leash still wound tightly around his neck I lead him downstairs. I had spent enough days and nights in the basement to know the special kind of terror that the dank, dark place could bring. But I had gotten an order. And I had to obey. But still, the whining sounds that came from my dog's lips as I pushed him into a corner nearly made me change my mind. On the other hand, I knew that the best way to housebreak my new pet was to make him understand his place. I knew that Dad wouldn't tolerate a smart-ass mutt. So, with the kind of determination that surprised this bottom man, I set my mind to beginning his training right then and there.

In truth, I couldn't wait to get working on his body. As I turned the bare overhead light bulb on, my eyes fixed themselves on that incredible slab of meat between his legs. It wasn't so much the size as the almost perfect shape of the thing that made my mouth slobber. It was a beautifully shaped, six-inch cigar. I thought of how Dad used to bite the tips of his stogies and spit out the end. A thick piece of skin covered the tip of my dog's cock. I longed to clamp my mouth on its tip and smoke its smooth, pale skin right down to the root. Instead, I grabbed at my own thick piece of manmeat and held it out in front of Rover's face.

Almost on cue his tongue came out of his mouth, followed by a stream of guttural panting noises that made my stiffer swell to its full eight inches. I tore at the buttons on my jeans and let him have a look at my expanding sausage. He was slobbering as I moved the enormous tip closer and closer to his face. I wanted to shove my dork right down his throat. Instead, I decided to

Continued on page 27

A BOY AND HIS DOG Continued from page 9 use his desire for cock as a means of training him into complete obedience.

"You want that dick, boy?"

It was a question my dad had asked me a thousand times. It felt strange to be asking it of someone else; strange…but nice. I knew that I could get lots of guys to suck on my meat. Aside from its added thickness, there was the fact that what was attached to it was, and still is, pretty hot. So I understood the almost desperate look in his eyes as I started removing my shirt and letting my smooth, well-developed pecs show. He sucked in his breath, then began panting again, eager to get a taste of the rock-hard mounds of titflesh capping my hot torso.

'If you want it, you've got to beg for it. That's what dogs do, isn't it, Rover?"

He started whimpering, in almost perfect imitation of a well-trained mutt. Then he opened his mouth and started begging in earnest.

"Please, Sir. Let me taste your dick. It's such a beautiful prick. Please feed it to me, Master.'

Master. It was the first time anyone had ever called me that. It took a few minutes to sink in. Then, as I thought about all the power that went with the title, I geared myself up to doing a perfect imitation of my own daddy. He was an expert in the subtle art of dominance. And if his looks and bod couldn't match mine, he could sure-as-hell make a man a slave with overactive imagination. He had enslaved me with his natural right to power. And now that I was well-trained as his whipping boy, it was time for me to toss the same attitude to my willing puppy. I knew that he needed a good mind fuck. So, without wasting any more time, I decided to toss him his first bone. grabbed hold of the rope collar just where it touched his neck. Then I yanked it towards my crotch as I ordered him to lick my stiffer. Without hesitating, he opened his doggy mouth wide and swallowed the head of my cock with one gulp. Then, like the good mutt he was, he started lapping up all the crotch sweat that had poured over my nuts and stiff manmeat. He reached up to grab hold of my low-hanging balls. Automatically , I grabbed hold of a rolled-up piece of newspaper and clouted him on the snout. He looked up at me pitifully, his perfectly shaped nose now red and sore.

"Since when does a dog use his front paws? You stay down on all fours or it won't be your nose that'll be aching next time. You understand that, boy?'

He hesitated. Then, after a long pause that would have netted an appropriate punishment, he opened his mouth to speak. What came out wasn't human sound at all. It was a bark all right. And just the sound of it coming out of his lips was enough to make my dick start dripping its lube juice on the cold basement floor.

"That's right, fucker. Now, let's see what other tricks you've picked up.

With that I stripped off the rest of my clothing. First my grungy jeans, then my equally raunchy sneakers and sweat socks. Automatically he lunged out for my discarded sneaks and planted his nose inside the rank shoe. He sniffed at the stinking pile of clothing with quick, short snorts. Then, afer planting his face back on the sneaker, he started lapping up the raunchy juices that had collected inside. I reached down and tried to pull the worn shoe away, but he held onto it with his teeth. Finally I yanked at it, almost knocking him off of his paws. Another blow to his snout produced a loud yelp. Then, after the shock of the blow had worn off, he rolled onto his back and curled his front paws upwards. I could see his dick standing out at attention as he looked at me with a combination of playfulness and pleading. The fucker wanted his belly rubbed. Instead, I planted my ass onto his face and held my breath as he started to perform the instinctual ritual of sniffing at my sweaty butthole.

"That's it, boy. Learn to sniff your daddy's asshole. Get used to it. I'm going to be feeding you plenty of butt to clean out." Like the dog he was, he lapped at my asshole, all the while he whined and sniffed at the raunchy opening. I knew how desperately he wanted to play with his stiffer. But like the dog he was, he had to content himself with rubbing his dick onto my leg. I could feel the heavy precum dripping out of his pisshole. I moved my leg so that his stiffer was left hanging in midair. I wasn't about to let him get off so quickly. And I wasn't going to put up with any animal humping my leg. Finally, when I could feel his spit dripping down from my butthole onto the cold stone floor, I stood up and gave my pet a good, hard look.

It was hard to resist the urge to plant my mouth on his waiting body. For years I had dreamed about a young blond stud just like the one I stood over. I had begged my daddy to let me service some of his hot buddies. Sometimes he relented. But no matter how much I loved my hot, older Master, I had always longed for someone younger than myself. I knew that Dad wouldn't put up with another topman in the house. That's why I had started begging for one of those doggy bottoms that I knew Dad would love to have me turn into a second slave.

And now, as he lay at my feet with his paws curled up doggy style, I had to fight the urge to hold him close and tell him just what he was in store for. But I knew that could come later. Right now, he had to be made obedient. So, without thinking about his too-trusting face or puppy-like expression, I crouched over him and grabbed a hank of fine, blond hair. His expression immediately changed to one of shock. Seizing the moment, I pushed his head forward and ordered him to lick my dick. Without waiting he lunged for my stiffer and swallowed each hot inch until my whole dick rested at the bottom of his throat. I held his head steady with both of my hands. Then, just as I was about to give into his whimpering, I let loose with a stream of hot piss.

Like the puppy he was, and like the dog he was going to be, he swallowed the hot, salty liquid. At first he gagged and tried to let the slop drip out of his mouth. But another slap of newspaper up against his skull told him that there was no way he was going to get out of drinking every golden drop. He had to. Just like I often did, I knew that Dad would have him drinking from his overgrown stiffer. He would have to do a good job or he would never be allowed to stay. So without thinking about how much it might bother him, I held his face steady as I emptied my bladder into his waiting mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks as it dawned on him that there was more to being a slave-dog than just sniffing at your Master's ass.

And when he was finished taking every drop of piss that was in me, I quickly turned him over and pushed his well-rounded butt upwards into the air. He started whimpering. But that was stopped soon enough as I yanked on his nuts. I knew that training him as a sex toy was only the beginning of what would probably be a long, hard series of sessions. He would have to learn to take his food and water from a bowl. And he would have to learn to sit at his Master's feet and remain quiet for hours on end. I didn't know if he could take that kind of training or if he was enough of a bottom man to completely surrender his body and will. But with his ass waiting for one more important part of what would be his training ordeal, I was too horny to think about what would happen three months from then. I wanted his butt. And I wanted it as a fuck toy. I'd worry about the details later. Right now I wanted to spread his gut with my sperm. So, without bothering to grease the mutt's hole up, I started sticking first one finger, then another, into his doggy bottom.

As each finger slipped in, I realized that the fucker was no stranger to hot ass action. His butthole opened like a flower and swallowed up whatever I could shove into it. His asslips puckered with each thrust into his anal canal. It was just a matter of time before I would be replacing my fingers with my engorged cock. And as I slipped the third finger into his gut, I decided that the time had come. I slipped my fingers out, noticing the popping sound that his puckered hole made as I released the soft flesh. Then I spit into my slimy hand and rubbed the mess onto my dick. I greased my pole up until it squeaked with every pass of my hand on its well-veined surface. I looked down at the

huge slammer that hadn't known the inside of an asshole for almost five years. Then I looked down at the upended butt poised so close. Before I knew what was happening, cock and ass blended into one solid mass of red hot manflesh. I was in to the hilt. And as my dog lay on all fours, panting from the desire to serve his Master, I decided that it was time he knew what a bitch in heat felt like.

With our flesh united into one riggling mass, my cock began making wide circles in his gut, stretching the already massive hole to even greater proportions. Our breaths blended in one steady panting rhythm as my pent-up cum caught under my pulsating cockhead, then came spilling out in a steady stream of hot liquid cock juice.

But as I was about to start working my dong in and out of his fuckhole, I felt another stream of piss churning itself up through my stiff shaft. Instead of removing my stiffer from his butt, I let the stream of hot dick juice go inside his fuckhole. I knew exactly how he felt as his ass filled up with the stuff. And I also knew just how his butt felt as I started pushing my hips up and down in a slow, steady rhythm that never failed to drive a slave boy up the wall.

"Okay, boy. You wanted to know what a dog feels like…now feel my dick inside your bitch hole…You like it, boy? You like the way your Master plugs that twat of yours?"

He started panting again, this time in exact rhythm to the pounding beats reverberating on his ass cheeks. Then, as I was about to increase the pressure on his fuckhole, I noticed a dish of food lying near the pipe leading to the hot water heater. Dad must have set it out. Either that, or it was some sort of sign that this puppy was going to remain a household pet. But wherever it came from, I knew that it was the next logical step to housebreaking the puppy whose ass I held glued to my stiffer. It was easy to position his taut bod over to where the dish was sitting. A series of slaps on his exposed asscheeks, followed by tugs on the rope collar, told him that it was time he learned how to be walked properly. I let up on the leash when his face came to the thick slabs of concrete blocks that formed the basement walls. Then I pushed his head down against the rough stone so that it came to rest a few inches from the bowl.

"You hungry, boy?"

He made the same barking noises that I had heard from his lips earlier.

"Good. Now plant your lips in that bowl and lap up your food. Eat it like a good dog and maybe your daddy'll give you a treat later."

With my dick still plugging his hole, I knew that he had enough of a treat from his Master. But my brain was working on overdrive and I knew that there were going to be plenty of variations on the Master-pet theme before the night was over. Fortunately, Rover came to me already partially trained. I didn't have to tell him that eating from a doggy dish was required or that playing the bitch was part and parcel of his showing proper obedience. But as I watched him lap up the mess that Dad had left out, I thought how great it would be to walk my man-dog around the block or feed him scraps under the table as a group of Daddy's leather-clad buddies sat around eating.

Instead of acting out those fantasies then and there, I concentrated all my energies on my puppy's ass. He knew how to grip a man's cock with his hot asslips. I could feel a thick load of spunk working its way up my heavy nut sac through my hefty shaft. I decided to bring the night's first training session to its logical conclusion. With one hand gripping my doggy's dick, I grabbed for the hard mounds of flesh that begged to be pulled on. His whole body shook as I took a handful of nipple between my thumb and middle finger and rolled the sensative flesh until he started humping his ass onto my rock-hard dick. I held onto his pressure points as I plunged my shaft in and out of his hole as he moved his asscheeks from side to side. With our flesh united into one riggling mass, my cock began making wide circles in his gut, stretching the already massive hole to even greater proportions. Our breaths blended in one steady panting rhythm as my pent-up cum caught under my pulsating cockhead , then came spilling out in a steady stream of hot liquid cock juice.

Spasm after hot spasm erupted from my man meat, drowning his fuckhole in its sticky juices. Then, as I felt his insides fill up with the combination of spunk and trapped piss juice, I started pumping on his prick until it spurted its pent-up load on his bare feet. I watched the juice dribble on the hard cement floor, then I lowered his face onto where his spunk had come to rest. I clicked my fingers as I pointed down to the mess. Then, with $\frac{1}{2}$ slow, lapping strokes, I watched as his pig tongue licked up every drop of his still hot cock juice. When he was finished he placed his legs under himself and crouched with his face at the same level as my still-erect stiffer. He moved his head from side to side as if waiting for further instructions. I knew what he wanted. A trail of jism trickled down from the tip of my dick. I

I started pumping on his prick until it spurted its pent-up load on his bare feet. I watched the juice dribble on the hard cement floor, then lowered his face onto where his spunk had come to rest. I clicked my fingers as I pointed down to the mess. Then, with slow, lapping strokes, I watched as his pig tongue licked up every drop of his still hot cock juice. snapped my fingers again and stood grinning as he lapped up the last drops of cock slime. Then, just like before, I pushed his head onto my stiffer and let it rest there until I felt another stream of piss pouring fourth into his waiting mouth.

The fucker swallowed the stuff greedily. I watched his Adam's apple move up and down as he gulped the hot, rank juice. When he was finished, he let his tongue hang out of his mouth as the smell of stale piss clung to his lips. He had done a good job. I had no doubts about the fact that this puppy would be staying in our kinky house for a while. He seemed to know it

too. A wide grin spread across his painfully handsome face. Without thinking, I patted his head. The feel of his soft, blond hair running through my fingers made my dick jump up to attention once more. I wanted to repeat the fucking I had just given him. But I knew that Dad would be wanting his turn soon. After all, I was the dog-boy's trainer. Dad still owned the both of US.

"Is my Master pleased?" is words broke my reverie. It was the first time he had spoken since his preliminary training. I looked directly into his piercing blue eyes, realizing for the first time that he was enslaving me just as much as I was enslaving him. Somehow it didn't seem to make any difference. I knew that he wouldn't be able to use that same kind of tactic with Dad. And as for me, being a slave to another man was something that I could live with and learn to love.

With that knowledge under my belt, and with a lighter load in my heavy-hanging nuts, I walked my dog up the basement stairs into the small, brightly-lit kitchen. Dad was waiting there, his cigar stinking up the room as usual. Only this time he was wearing his full leather uniform. A combination of fear and lust spread through me as I watched his lean, hot torso encased in its tight-fitting skins. His crotch bulged menacingly and the look on his face told me that I would be wearing that crotch on my face before the night was over.

Almost instinctively, I pushed my puppy down onto the floor. Then, with fear overtaking my desire for the man, I handed him the leash of our new house pet.

"I've decided to call him Rover. He's a good dog, Dad. He's real gentle and he knows a lot of tricks. Please, Dad, can I keep him?

There was one long horrified moment when I watched my dad look down contemptuously at the blond mutt crouching at his feet. Nothing in his face told me that he was going to grant my wish. Then, as I was about to give up all hope of being able to keep him, Dad reached down and returned the rope leash to my hands.

"Sure, son. You can keep him. You've earned him."

I almost cried out with joy. I always knew that I had the best dad in the world. And now that my one desire had been fulfilled , my mind and body filled up with gratitude and love for the man who kept me chained to him with invisible bonds that so few people could understand. Without thinking, I ran over to him and put my arms around his neck. The heavy smell of well-oiled leather filled my nostrils as I clung to his powerful frame.

"You're the best dad in the whole wide world."

He grinned down at me, allowing me to bask in the light of one of his very rare smiles.

"I know, Son. Now, let's see some of those tricks you told me about."

He stood up, allowing me to see just how far his cock had risen up in the air. Then he looked back and snapped his fingers just like I had done only minutes ago.

"Come on, boy…Come on, Rover. Come to Daddy."

In an instant our blond boy-dog was following as he made his way towards the basement steps. Then, without missing a step, Dad looked back at me and signaled for me to follow as well.

"You too, Son. It's time I gave my boy some badly needed attention.'

What was I to do? I turned on my heels and followed him down into the basement, all the while thinking about what was going to take place once we reached the bottom step. Like an older, well-trained mascot, I walked behind my daddy and my dog, fully aware that I would spend the rest of the night serving one and training the other. I smiled at the darkness, wondering how many guys could claim that both sides of their nature could be so well satisfied. With a silent "Thank you, Daddy" on my lips, I wandered into the dank air, content that our little family was now complete and ready to indulge in hour after blissful hour of raw, kinky sex. What more could a hov want?

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FICTION WINNER

A SLAVE'S CATECHISM by J. TARVIS

hat is he? He is: a slave, a pig, a dog, a leather collar wearer. Ingratiatingly willing to please-until recently. Yes, Sir, No, Sir. Passersby spat on him and he thanked them, even when he was alone. A scumbag. A toilet mouth. Stats: five five eleven inches, 190 pounds, shit-colored head fuzz, hazel pig eyes, a meticulously-trimmed moustache, sufficient body fur (just growing back now after being shaved, just a scratchy, itchy stubble), thick nine inches, uncut, accused of having priapism, but not true, two-inch (and getting longer with his Master's help) skin, platinum nipple rings, someone must think he's worth it, a Prince Albert, also platinum, blue jeans, T-shirt, Nikes, 23, everyone but the law considers him chicken meat or, closer to the truth, pig meat. Where is he?

The sun has just gone down. A soft breeze tickles his shit- colored head fuzz.

He is walking to an address on a piece of paper crushed in his sweaty hand. He was told to report to the address by his Master. Why?

Lately, he has become insolent and periodically defiant. And around other men his eyes wander and, for the last two weeks, his hands, too.

Note: He is walking to be re-educated. He has to be taught what he is and what his place is.

What happened?

He stops and smooths out the wrinkles out of the crushed paper between his forefinger and thumb to check the address once again. He doesn't want to think of what will happen if he goes to the wrong address. Oh, shit!

At the black door, he stops and takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly. He has no idea of what is going to happen. His thick cock grows, inching down his pants leg, in nervous anticipation.

He knocks on the black door, then waits. For about five minutes he waits impatiently, nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn't dare leave, no matter how long he has to wait. He was told to report by his Master. Period.

The door opens finally, slowly. A Master stands before him. What about him?

He is: A Master (number two). Stats: six feet one inch, 185 pounds, 81 / 4", cut, hirsute, a gorilla with a shaved face, short brown hair, panther-black eyes, leather vest, blue jeans, cycle boots, large, gloved hands, 31. What does he do?

The slave knows what the man is. Immediately, without thinking, he falls to his knees before the Master. Holy shit, the jig is up. His cock pulsates under his tight jeans.

Without saying a word, the Master takes a dog's choke collar from his back pocket. Quickly, he steps forward and removes the leather collar. For him and for the other Masters this night, the slave has to earn the privilege once again to wear a leather collar. No more. Leather, except the small piece around the neck, is not for slaves. Period.

He puts the choke collar on, slipping it over the slave's bristly stubble. He throws the leather collar behind him into the room and then attaches a rope-leash to the choke collar.

The slave stares at the copious hair circling the Master's neck just above the collar of his T-shirt. Damn, a gorilla—and just as mean?

A hard jerk. "Heel." The Master turns to walk away.

He jumped. The chain bites into his boyish, tender neck. He puts his fingers between the links and his neck to loosen the collar.

A harder jerk, "Heel!"

He catches himself from falling. Damn, the links bite harder. The rope pulls him forward. He gets the idea and moves.

He leads the slave into the building. The door slams behind them. The leash never grows taut. Good. Like an obedient dog, finally, the slave follows eagerly, unaware of what is to happen.

Where are they?

They find themselves in a dimly-lit room with black walls. Heavy shadows hug the corners of the room. His eyes try to get accustomed to the dim light. Unknown to him, five other Masters are in the room. He is the only slave. Uh-oh.

Then?

Earlier in the day, the Masters came there to get things ready, to plan. With everything ready, they waited for the slave to report.

Quietly, the slave walks in with Master number two, staying a respectable distance from him, head bowed, eyes downcast, occasionally chancing a glance around the room, a nervous urge to piss in his pants. Then, an ominous fear strikes him. His cock deflates instantly. If the stubble on the back of his neck could stand up, it would.

He was taken over to a black, wooden slab in the center of the room, a dim light above. Little of the light washes over the sides of the slab into the room. The area around the slab is in soft shadow. The rest of the room is in dark shadow or complete blackness. His eyes strain to see the rest of the room. Nothing.

One Master, numbers three through six, stands at each corner of the slab, knowing grins on their faces. Master number two still holds the leash.

As the two of them stand next to the slab, the slave feels he can no longer hold it in. He lets go. Warm piss gushes down his leg and splatters his Nikes. It pools on the floor. His pants are soaked, his Nikes, too. Uh-oh, he wants to reach down and loosen his wet pants from his legs. He knows better. Good.

What does number two do then?

Quickly, Master number two switches the leash to his left hand, then repeatedly slaps the slave's boyish face with his gloved right hand.

The slave smells warm leather and …ozone?…Oh, shit…no, wax? Damn, why is he thinking of the smell of leather and whatever when the side of his face is on fire?

"You goddamn bag of shit," Master number two screams.

The final blow knocks him to his knees. The Master has nearly knocked his teeth out. He tastes blood in his mouth. It hurt. He starts to sob and grabs the side of his hurting, burning face.

Damn, the other Masters think, things are bad.

“1…1…’

Master number two gives him a hard, swift kick in his side. He loses his balance and falls over.

"Did I tell you to speak? You pissing dog, speak when ordered to.'

The slave cowers on the floor, his pig eyes flash hate.

With two hard jerks on the leash, he pulls the slave back up on his knees, his head bowed. The links dig into his neck.

"And stop that goddamn crying."

Immediately, it stops. He sniffs a few times.

Masters number 3 through 6 smirk.

Master number two reaches down and rips the slave's T-shirt off in shreds. He throws it into a dark corner.

A hard yank on the leash. "Stand up!"

The slave stumbled to his feet.

"Take your pants off."

With rapid, nervous movements, he struggles to take off his wet Nikes, then his wet pants.

Master number two takes the pants from him. He points to the table. "Get up there."

The slave climbs up on the wooden slab. He waits for further orders on his hands and knees, his head bent. Fear races through his blood. Slowly, he realizes that anything might happen.

His original instruction isn't totally lost. Good. "Lay down on your back," number two barks.

The slave obeys. Lying on his back, he looks around, straining to see the two Masters behind him. He can see only five of the

Continued on page 91

IMPROVISATION Continued from page 11

He could use a teacher that could teach him something. I don't want to give you suggestions on the kinds of things he's ready for until I know for sure that you want to fuck him."

"Let's say I could force myself," I confessed. "And if you're afraid I'm some kind of marshmallow, think again. I get pretty damned hot when I fuck, Leo. Most of the time I have to catch myself and try to hold back because I do some damned hard pumping sometimes. I usually have to force myself to calm down for fear I'm hurting the guy.'

"Well, there you are! I mean, what a bitch to have to hold back! How the hell do you expect him to have a good time taking you if you don't go to it? Damn, if you don't let him feel like you're really getting off on him? Shit!'

'I read the book," I groaned. "Okay, so holding back is a bitch, and right now the idea of not even trying to is pretty damned exciting. Oh, well, maybe if it's the guy's very first time, you could try to be a little gentle and easygoing about it, but I see what you mean…number fourteen.

"You're catching on," he grinned. "You want that one down

The handsome runner came close by us again and made a playful gesture to Leo that he intended to run twice more around the track. I could also see, however, a look of deep concern in his eyes. I wondered if, perhaps, he knew what was being discussed, and if Leo had ever done this sort of thing to him before, ordering him to be with a stranger. I felt strange to think that he might have known what was going on, but when he passed us and made the turn around the oval track, my eyes lowered to focus on his firm, attractive ass and the way it glistened and bounced in his tight, satin blue running shorts. I felt a stirring in my pants, and I flashed another thought about the condition of my apartment. I wasn't about to end my conversation with Leo. "I could fuck that like a mountain bear," I confessed. "What more would it want?"

"Things to remember it by," Leo grinned. "Use your imagination."

"Shit, how would I know," I complained. "I only skimmed over that one book. I don't think I could get into the verbal abuse stuff it talked about."

"Why not?"

"I couldn't stand over that guy's ass and say something about how it looked ugly to me," I answered. "I'm not that good a liar. Besides, I don't know the guy. It would take a while to discover things I could put him down for. I couldn't insult him without meaning it.'

"You could keep a slave in his place, though," Leo prompted. "I mean, you'd be with the guy with both of you knowing he's yours to fuck. That means he's yours to command, anything and everything you want from him. You sure as hell don't take any crap; he doesn't get away with trying to tell you what to do or refusing any order you give him."

"I'm so used to trying to consider the guy's feelings," I worried.

"If you really consider them, then you'd care enough to give him a slap across the face if he gets out of line. Joey, what he wants is to serve you, and it's your job to see that he does, and to let him know…I mean, really know, if he fails. You are the Master and he is the slave."

'Yeah…I guess.'

"Hey, he's just as liable to try to talk back or give you some shit. That'd be because he wants you to put him in his place. He needs to have you be the boss, all the way, and if he should goad you a little bit it's because he wants to have you show more power, more authority."

'Yeah, yeah, I understand."

"Good man," he grinned. "I knew you had it in you. I just had to work on bringing it out, that's all."

"If I did slap him around a little bit, he'd know it was just to make the sex better?"

"Awww, don't backslide on me," he moaned. "Now you're getting a little bit too simple. If it feels like you should hit him, 88 DRUMMER then you hit him because it feels right."

"I'm confused about being the all-powerful Master if he has to find ways to ask me to punish him."

"You don't let him ask for anything, you make him beg for it."

"You know what I mean."

"Every fuck there is has got to be a case of give and take, Joey. If he wants you stronger, a bit rougher, then you do it to make him happy. So you give him a black eye if he needs it. Make some sacrifices. Give and take.'

"I can do without you making a joke of it," I said. "I'm a little taken back by what's going on inside me. What I'm used to, all that trying to be sweet and gentle all the time, never let me really feel like a man. You've put something in front of me and told me it's okay to just roar, and I'm beginning to feel like a real animal. I mean, physically, like a physical beast. Animals have at it and they don't feel like they're supposed to apologize afterwards . Damn it, I'm feeling-shit. I'm getting damned excited, that's for sure."

66 1 I'll take my shorts off myself, and I might let him smell at them and lick them if he wants…maybe even put one foot up on the bed so he can get under and wash out my crack. He can wash the whole area between my legs, and do a number on my balls."

"Hey, Joey. I'm about to give you an afternoon you'll remember ," he smiled.

"Are you?"

"All I wanted to see was the man that would rise up out of you," he answered, pointedly looking at my crotch. "I think you could do a damned good job on my property, so I am about to decide to let you have it.'

"Yeah?" I smiled as I watched the runner approach us again.

There would be only one more turn around the track.

"You like the looks of that all right," he laughed. "Aww, shucks, and I thought it was my ass that had you interested."

"Only now you've let me know that you'd want me to be the slave.

"You any good at it?"

"I've never done it."

"The hell you haven't. You've been fucked. Every time you're fucked, you're submissive to whoever's giving it to you. Your only problem was that you were always content with that muck, and you never tried to keep building on it and make it more and more every time. Hey, I looked you over as a possibility, I think maybe I could break you in. Only, after I let the little game in the library go for a few days, I figured you were more of a Master. As long as I was going to tell you something about me, I figured I'd share it, too.

'Yeah? Setting me up with yours? With him?"

"Well, now, don't go crazy about it," he teased. "I think you've got the potential for it, but when it comes to letting you use my property? Okay, you could slap him around and fuck hard…what else?'

'I'm not quite ready for the chains or the cat-o'-nine."

"Maybe that's what he needs just to get warmed up," Leo tormented. "Close your eyes and picture it. Tell him how it's gonna go. You got him in your bedroom, you've ordered him to strip and he's kneeling in front of you waiting for your next command. What is it?'

"Am I still dressed?"

"Yeah, why not? Pants and shoes and socks maybe," he allowed. "Hell, you got sneakers on. That guy really gets hot on

EVERY MAN HAS THE CAPACITY AND THE DUIPMENT TO TURN HIMSELF ON …

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licking boots."

"Let him try to untie the sneakers…with his mouth."

"That'd be impossible."

"Probably," I chuckled. "And while I'm standing over him, and he's not able to get the job done, I can remind him of how incompetent he is, how he just might not be worthy of what he wants from me."

"Ohhh, shit, I love it, man. Go on."

"Finally, maybe, I let him use his hands, and we get the shoes off. He might get his face stepped on in the process. He's got to take my socks off my feet too. And, anywhere along the line that I'm not absolutely satisfied with his service, I might just have to smack' him a good one. Of course, if he really gets me pissed off, I walk out."

"What? You could do that?"

"I could walk away," I boasted. "Maybe I could jack off and have him watch, let him know what he's missing. Oh, he'll beg for it. He'll beg a lot, but that's good for him. He'll probably beg me to let him open my pants.

"Yeah…he would."

"He pulls the belt out first," I suggested, "and he puts it in my hand. It may not be wide and studded, but he knows it can still sting.

"You let him know it. Let him feel it."

"Depends on how good he's being," I grinned. "Maybe a couple to let him know what it is, then I'll just toy with it across his back, dangle it around his ass, torment him that way. I let him open my pants, drop them, I step out of them and he crawls over to the chair to fold them properly. I'll take my shorts off myself, and I might let him smell at them and lick them if he wants."

"You'd have your cock out, he'll be worshipping it."

"He'd better," I chuckled. "Hey, I'll be good to him. I'll let him lick me clean all around it, maybe even put one foot up on the bed so he can get under and wash out my crack. He can wash the whole area between my legs and do a number on my balls.'

"…make him beg."

"I shouldn't have to make him do that, he should know to do that.'

"…Oh, yeah. Man, you've got to be ready to fuck. What then?"

"He gets fucked. When I'm ready, he gets it. I like to come in from behind, so I'll put him on his hands and knees. I could get a little bit more fancy, but for our first one, I'll settle for an old-fashioned doggy-style. If he asks…begs for some lubricant , and he just might have to, because my cock's plenty big around as well as long, I'll let him use a lubricant if he's scared of the size of it, but if not, he settles for a little bit of spit. I like a good, tight fuck, nothing too slippery."

"He is tight," Leo assured, his voice excited with the images. "He'll need grease. Oh, shit, just what I can see in your pants right now, he'll need help taking that.'

"He can have some," I agreed. "We'll see how much he needs once his ass is good and hot.'

'Oh…it will be.'

"If it isn't, I've still got the belt in my hand, remember? A few good stings to relax and warm it up might be good. Okay, then I get my cock up to that hole of his, and he better be puckering out begging for it there too, because once I get it in the door, I go all the way with one good shove!"

"Oh, wow…fantastic…then what?"

"I'll fuck his guts out," I grinned. "If that's not good enough, I'll reach under and pinch a tit, see if I can screw it off his chest. For this afternoon, though, one good, hard, animal fuck ought to keep him happy. Only, if I don't think it's any good, I mean, if I don't get one first-class, hot, tight ass, I might just beat the shit out of him when I'm finished.

"Ohhh, man," he sighed. "You've got it, Joey. I mean, you're on for today. Be my guest!"

"You going to give him the order to come over to my place?" Leo hesitated, mostly because the bleachers started rocking 90 DRUMMER as the man ran up the stairs to join us.

"Hi, there, Leo, how are you?"

"Don't fake it, Roger," Leo said simply. "This is Joey, and he knows all about us.

"Ohhhh, yeah?"

"I gotta hurt you, Roger," Leo said softly. "I'm sorry about it, maybe, but it can't be helped right now.

"You think…you..are going to hurt me?"

"Unless you lied when you said you really loved me," Leo sniffled. "Roger, we've talked about how I need more of a Master than you are. I need real leather, and lately, you act like you're afraid to even use a belt on me. Well, Joey here can use a belt. He knows how to handle me. I'm going over to his place right now, and he's going to take care of me, good and hard, the way I need it!"

"You're…quitting me? Just like that?"

"I like being your slave, Roger, but you won't give me what I need."

"I like having you. I don't want to really hurt you."

"That's the whole problem," Leo wailed. "Only Joey, here. He's willing to…to keep counting after fourteen. Roger? We've been talking it up, and right now he's all set to hurt me a little if I need it, and I've got to go with him. I need what he's ready to give me, and I need it bad…what happens after, if you and I ever even see each other again, I don't know. It'll be up to you to make me come back."

For some strange reason, I wasn't terribly surprised at learning that Leo was the slave of the pair, not Roger. Perhaps a hint of that had come from the way he got excited when I described how I would have an afternoon of a somewhat S&M session. Of course, I had been warned far ahead that he would try to show me an acting skill. For all of the mystery of the moment, the swelling of my cock was no mystery at all. I was ready for it! "C'mon, then, Leo. My place, and right now. You're going to get fucked. C'mon, I said. Obey!'

"Yes, Master," he grinned, falling in behind as I led the way down the stairs and started across the field.

A moment later, Roger came running up behind us. "Leo? Hey? Professor? Hey, c'mon, you can quit now. I mean, that's the end of it, right?

"End of what?"

"Hey. Leo told me about the assignment you gave. I mean, how he was supposed to run into you somewhere on campus and act out a role and a situation with you. Improvisation, he said. I mean, well, that was it, huh? So, what kind of a grade did Leo get?"

"The assignment was that I should reveal something personal about myself," Leo answered. "I thought the most dramatic way would be to let you reveal the truth of it when you finished running. My improv was to let him think it was the other way around with us until you set him straight. It worked though, didn't it? I mean, I've let you know that I dig on good, hot S&M sex, didn't 1?"

"Yeah, you did," I laughed. "You were convincing that you were in the Master role, up to a point. Overall, good. Convincing . I really believed the whole thing. In fact, I believe I could take you to my apartment right now and give you a fuck you'll remember for the rest of your life."

"The assignment was to tell you something about myself."

"You did, Leo," I grinned. "You'll get an A-plus on that. The only problem is that you did it in such a way that I ended up revealing something about myself, too. What kind of a grade do I get?"

"Say it."

"My place, Leo. Right now. Let's go!"

"Yes, Master," he grinned, falling in behind me again.

Roger was left standing in the middle of the field watching us disappear.

We played it carefully and quietly for that semester, then I ordered Leo not to take any more classes from me, but I let him go on with his studies. I take good care of him now, and he serves me beautifully.

SLAVE'S CATECHISM Continued from page 13 six. There was a fuzzy outline? Someone sitting on a chair in the dark corner?

His attention comes back to the slab. Master number two takes over Master number three's corner. Master number three walks over and stands next to the slab. He holds a shoebox-size black box in his hands.

Note: The numbers are just numbers, except number one, and they do not signify any kind of rating or standing.

And he is?

He is: A Master, stats: five feet ten inches, 177 pounds, seven inches, not too hairy, dark blond hair, medium brown moust-ache , brown eyes, T-shirt, leather pants, cycle boots, 34.

What does he do?

Master number three puts the box down on the slab behind the slave's head. The slave turns his head to get a look at the box's contents. Nothing.

With his index finger, he runs a line on the slave's fuzzy skin, down from his right nipple to his navel, then up from the navel to his left nipple. He watches the slave's skin quiver. He looks up around the slab. The other Masters are grinning.

Comment: Whether he knows it or not, the Masters know this slave is a dog in heat.

Then what?

He takes a clothespin out of the box and snapes it twice with his fingers. The slave looks up at him. Pleading eyes? He knows what is going to happen.

The clothespin clamps onto his tender, young slave flesh on the inside of his thick, stubble-covered right thigh.

He winces.

Slowly, methodically, he clamps more clothespins on the insides of both thighs.

He is becoming uncomfortable. Too bad.

Master number three stops and reaches down to the slave's nipple. He rolls the pencil-eraser-hard tit between his thumb and forefinger. It feels good to the slave.

"Nice. I remember when Gary put those rings through your young tits. Damn, and he used platinum. I thought copper, but your his, not mine."

He reaches down and kneads his own crotch. His seven-incher grows quickly. Drops of precum drool out. Several hard rubs and he comes in his pants. He pants heavily. "Damn, why do you do this to men?"

The slave looks at him blankly. No response. None was ordered. Good.

He left the other nipple alone. He wasn't going to give the slave too much pleasure. No.

More clothespins eat up and down the insides of his upper arms. He can feel them chewing their way into his hard triceps. stomach to his outy navel, then back up to his hard nipple. Note: This is the same route taken previously by the Master's

For good measure, he puts two clothespins on the slave's loose, puckered foreskin,

Comment: With each clothespin's painful pinch, the slave remembers how it felt the first time his Master did this to him. That night he was the entertainment for the entire bar. The table he lay on was the stage with three bright lights above it. His Master knew exactly what he was doing. Hot leather bodies pressed around to watch his initiation / humiliation. His Master showed him and the other men in the crowd what he was. No one had done that before. That night he felt his first hard hand against the side of his innocent face and he swallowed his first bladderful of piss. His Master was well-respected by the men in the audience and the slave was used by nearly every one of them that night. His ass ached so much he couldn't sit down for a week and the burning every time he shit, but that didn't matter. He wasn't allowed to sit down for a month. He ate his meals standing up or on his knees. His ass wasn't allowed to touch the toilet seat. Maybe it was just as well. For that month he couldn't drive his car. He walked, whenever he was allowed out.

Master number three steps back to admire his work. The slave could use more clothespins on his young body, but he has more pain / pleasure to experience.

He picks up the black box and lid, then goes over to change places with Master number four.

Master number four walks over to the side of the slab.

Note: Master number four, like the other Masters here, left his slave at home to help his buddy, Gary, Master number one, re-educate his slave. A night he plans to enjoy.

What about him?

He is: A Master. Stats: six feet, 180 pounds, eight inches, uncut, low-hanging balls, short, black hair, short beard and moustache, penetrating steel-blue eyes, short sleeve leather shirt, 501's, barefooted (size 13EEE) to feel the cool floor on his rough-soled, sweaty, smelly feet, 41.

And what does he do?

Master number four takes out a long, thick, white candle from his shirt pocket.

The slave shudders. He knows what is going to happen. It has happened a few times before. His thick, nine-inch piece of meat grows rapidly. He had smelled wax.

He strikes a match on the side of the slab, then lights the candle. It glows brightly in the dimly-lit room. Patiently, he waits for a pool of hot, liquid wax to form.

Note: This is a new candle, bought especially for this slave by his Master.

The candle is poised above his tender, hard nipple.

Oh, no!

Slowly, the candle tilts.

Drop. [×3+] Hot burning pain.

"Your Master does this to you often, doesn't he?"

He nods rapidly, Pain shows in his scrunched-up face and watery eyes. He doesn't dare utter a word of pain, of response, of any kind. He looks up at the gently-smiling face. Damn, his Master's wax was never this hot, was it?

Oh, shit, the pain!

He wants to jump off the table and run out the door. Shit, they'd kill him, he knows that. Nothing but the Masters' presence holds him down on the slab, as no amount of rope could. He doesn't dare move an inch. One wrong move and they'll be after his body, all five of them.

His hands are folded into fists; his fingernails dig into his sweaty palms.

"Hear the hiss of the hot wax as it kisses your hard nipple, slave?"

Silence.

By now, the hard, erect nipples are caked with wax. His nipple rings, the platinum ones, are plastered to his skin under a thick coating of cooling wax.

He looks up. His eyes are pleading. No? He doesn't fall for that gentle smile shit or the soft voice. This man is a Master with his own slave. He knows what he's doing and enjoys it. The more pain he causes, the more he enjoys it.

Master number four takes a step down toward the slave's feet and stops beside his crotch. He holds the candle upright above the slave's cum-filled balls.

Oh, no!

He squirms unconsciously. His thick, hard cock throbs. Sweat rolls off the sides of his forehead and nose.

The Master reaches down and holds down his pulsating cock, Prince Albert, and two clothespins against the slave's tight stomach.

"We have to keep that out of the way—for now." He glances up and smirks at the other Masters.

They return the smirk.

The candle tilts. Slowly, almost in a stream, hot, liquid wax pours over the tight, vein-bursting cumbag. Pain!

The slave bites down on his lower lip, drawing blood. Salty tears run down his cheeks. His fingernails dig deeper into his

DRUMMER 91

palms.

Damn, the fucking pain!

Soon the bag is coated with a thick layer of hot wax.

He turns his head away from the Master. He doesn't want him to see how much pain he is inflicting.

Just when he thinks the burning is subsiding, fiery, viscous wax falls on his throbbing cock.

Now the Master holds down the cock by the ends of the clothespins only.

Drops of wax slide off the side of his near-cumming cock and stick to his itchy pubic stubble. Within minutes, his cock and the bottoms of the clothespins are glued to his skin with hardening wax.

92 DRUMMER

He is going to cum. Oh, no, not now. He looks up, pleading at the Master.

The Master takes a step back. He knows.

A small piece of semisoft wax shoots between the clothespins and lands on his hard chest. Gobs of slave cum follow.

Master number four laughs softly.

Oh, no, my ass is grass!

"Seems it did the trick, huh?"

The other Masters nod, smiling.

He straightens up. "But this can't go unpunished." His tone changes. The soft voice is gone. "You weren't ordered to cum, pig.

A hard slap knocks the side of his face against the slab.

Master number four blows out the candle. The room darkens again. A whiff of smoke trails up to the ceiling. He goes over to Master number five. They change places.

What is he? And what more can he do to this slave?

He is: A Master and he's pissed off. Around him slaves know their places. Stats: five feet eleven inches, 190 pounds, seven and a half inches, cut, light brown hair, clean-shaven, hazel eyes, black shirt, blue jeans, cycle boots, 28.

Master number five stands next to the slab.

The slave turns his head and looks up at him. Hard, cold hazel eyes stare back at him.

Oh, shit.

"Get up," he barks.

The slave struggles to sit up on the edge of the slab, his skin tight under the layers of wax. He sits with his hands on his muscular thighs, his legs spread apart to keep the clothespins from getting entangled or coming off.

'You fucking pig.'

A hard blow knocks him over. His hand shoots out to stop him from falling over.

"Stand up."

Pain.

As he stands up, his cock rips away from his skin. Hard wax cracks over his pubic stubble. His heavy, wax-laden, now-soft cock falls down between his legs. A few pieces of wax fall to the floor.

Master number five grabs him by a ring in the choke collar. The links chew into his raw, reddened neck. He leads him over to a large, wooden X in the back of the slab.

He turns the slave around to face the rack, then ties his hands to the diagonal pieces of wood.

"Your Master wants you punished." He tightens the piece of rope around the slave's ankle. "You goddamn fucking pig. I'll be the one to do it."

He picks up a long, black whip from the floor and fingers it for a few minutes. It feels good, cool in his warm, sweaty hands. He steps back, then takes a few practice swings to get the right placement.

The whip cracks on the floor. The slave jumps. His heart pounds. Sweat drips off his chin.

He takes a long, wide swing.

Thwack.

He jumps and arches his back. His head falls back in pain. The whip burns a lash in his young, sweaty flesh. One.

"Ooo," he moans softly. Then, repeated blows.

He moans louder. White lights dance before his squeezed-closed eyes.

More hard lashes. He has lost count. His attention is on the pain. His is growing weaker; his head hangs down; he doesn't have the strength to hold it up.

Thwack! Thwack!

He feels the painful cuts in his tender flesh and feels the trickle of blood starting to ooze out of the wounds, then meandering and mixing with the sweat down his hurting back.

Salt," someone orders. Oh, my God, noooo!

Master number two hands him the salt shaker.

Master number five gingerly sprinkles a few shakes down the slave's back.

Pain.

His back arches back. He screams out in pain. His body jerks around in pain. His breath pants. His heart pounds.

He finishes shaking nearly all of the salt down the slave's back.

A creeping blackness. He feels a horrific pain just before he passes out. His body falls limp against the X.

Master number five grabs a nearby pail of water and throws it on his back. It washes away the salt and some of the blood. Watery blood drips from the slave's body. It runs down a drain near the slave's feet.

Master number two drops his blue jeans and whacks away on his hard cock. Precum oozes out of his piss slit. His leather-gloved hand pounds harder. He squeezes his left nipple hard. Damn, it feels sooo good to see this slave's body writhing in pain. He deserves it. He is cumming…ohhhh…hot Master cum explodes and flies over and splatters on the slave's bloodstained back. He pumps all of his eight and a quarter inches furiously. Drained, he pulls his pants back up.

All six of them go out for a couple of beers to wait for the slave's recovery. fter an hour, when they come back, master number five goes over to the rack and releases the rousing slave. The slave falls back to the floor in a heap, clotted streaks of blood down his back.

Master number five steps back. Master number six steps forward. Master number six? Hasn't he had enough?

Master number six stands over the limp body.

He is: A Master. Stats: five feet ten inches, 190 pounds, twelve inches, thick, hung, uncut, cheesy skin, nearly eight inches soft, short brown hair, bushy moustache, clear, light blue eyes, cycle cap, a black jockstrap, cycle boots, 37.

He pushes his jockstrap down below his knees. His huge cock flops around as he moves.

On yer knees," he yells.

The slave moves slowly. His whole body is racked with pain. Where is he? Who is that voice screaming at him? Not his Master. No, who? Oohhh, shi-

'I said on your knees, pig," he yells into the slave's right ear. His mind still fuzzy, his mouth dry, his face and head plastered with sweat, slowly, he pushes himself up to his knees and hands.

"Sit on your heels."

With great effort, without thinking, he obeys. He sits back with his hands on his thighs.

"Look at me."

Slowly, his head falls back, limp. He looks up. His eyes can't focus. He blinks several times. His vision clears and he sees two hard, light blue eyes glaring at him.

Oh, shit, give up, you've had it. They've got you; they've broken you. Give up, your just a slave, you've always been a slave, you always will be a slave.

"Your Master says you like piss."

He merely blinks. He doesn't dare open his mouth to answer.

"He says you like to suck cock, too."

"Drooling? Goddamn pig, are you drooling for my cock?" He slaps the slave's sweaty face with his fat, fleshy cock, right side, left side, right side, left side.

Without speaking, he steps back.

A torrent of warm, Master piss inundates his face and head. Quickly, he closes his eyes. Too late. Piss is in his eyes, in his ears, down his chest, dripping off the hard wax, down his thick thighs.

Master number six holds his uncut, fat meat to direct the shower over the slave's body.

Piss runs down his nose. He chokes, coughs repeatedly, then shakes his head rapidly. Tears run down his cheeks.

The piss stops. The Master holds on to his thick cock. "What's the matter, piggy, a little piss go down the wrong way?"

The coughing stops. The piss begins again.

It keeps gushing. Won't it ever stop?

It stops. His body is wet with piss. He kneels in a pool of warm, recycled beer.

The Master flicks off the last few drops into the slave's face. He blinks several times nervously. The last of the drops run down his chin.

His eyes are clouded again. His ears are plugged up with piss. Master number six laughs satanically. "That piss should help your back heal up real good."

His eyes begin to clear.

The Master walks away, taking small steps with the jockstrap around his ankles. With his back to the slave, he says to a dark

DRUMMER 93

corner, "Gary, ever since you got him, I've wanted him."

"He's yours to use as you like," Master number one tells him. He knows what his slave does to other Masters. They can't keep their hands off him.

Gary? That voice? Oh, shit, my Master is here. He's watched. He's enjoyed all this. No second-hand information about what's happened. He knows what they did. He even allowed the salt…He asked for the salt, not Master number five.

Master number six thanks him then goes back to the rack. He reaches down and yanks hard on the choke collar. No words.

The slave quickly gets to his feet. The chain chews into his tender, wet neck. Drops of piss fall off the links and run down his tired, hurting body.

Number six leads him over to the other side of the slab. The slave, too, takes only small steps, because of the pain, not a

The Master's thick, hard cock pulsates against his hard stomach . He makes a few feeble attempts to spit into his ham of a hand, then rubs it on his eager meat.

The slave's fat cock grows, pieces of wax fall off. He has to stop before he erupts over the slab.

He thrusts the slave's head down, forcing him to bend over the slab.

Note: The slave knows that that spit was nothing. It isn't meant to lubricate. It's probably dry already.

Noooo, a dry fuck. Oh, God, noooooo!

Note: The Master knows the slave's asshole is stretched out, but his cock is bigger and thicker than Gary's. The slave will take it all. He has no choice.

Shuffling his feet, the Master steps behind him. The slave reaches over and grabs the side of the slab. His heart races. Blood pounds in his temples. He knows what is coming. Oh, God, he knows.

With one forceful thrust, he has all twelve inches inside the slave's well-fucked asshole. The slave gasps, then pants to get his breath back. Damn, it feels as if he stuck a baseball bat up his ass. The Master grabs the edge of the slab on either side of the slave for support. Slowly, he pulls out. Resistance.

He punches the slave in the side. "Let go."

The slave's spinchter relaxes. This isn't sex. It's rape.

Repeatedly, he pounds the well-used, dry ass. The inside of the slave's dry asshole rubs hard against his horsecock, making it even harder. The slave feels his flesh starting to rip. His own hard cock bangs against the slab with each thrust. The Master's breath pants faster and faster. Oh, God, no! The slave erupts all over the slab underneath him. Blood trickles down his thigh from his asshole. He pants…He's going to cum…"Sheeeet, he screams out as his hot Master cum explodes deep in the slave's hot body and blows further inside. Bolt after bolt of hot Master cum blasts deep into the slave's torn, bleeding insides.

His breath slows. Finally, he pulls out with a loud plop. His shrinking cock is streaked with slave's blood. No shit, just blood.

Note: Gary made sure he had had an enema before he reported. Lucky for the slave, otherwise he'd be licking off the shit from the Master's horsecock.

He rubs the blood off, then wipes it on the slave's ass. He steps back and pulls up his jockstrap. Damn, he's tired. He enjoyed it. Not even his own slave is this good. He looks up and smiles. In front of the slab, in front of the slave, he sees the other Masters, standing in a semicircle jerk. Master number two had cum again and is stuffing his limp cock back in his pants. His cum slides down the top of the slave's stubble-covered head. While pumping hard on his stiff, big cock, Master number five moans softly. "Oh, shiiit." He explodes. Hot cum flies through the air, arches over the slab and lands beside the slave. He is still bent over the slab. No one has told him to get up. Good. His leather pants around his leather boots, Master number three strokes his erect cock a few times, then shoots. Gobs of his cum rocket over the slab and land on the floor on the other side. Master number four has cum in his pants before he's had a chance to get them off. He squeezes his hard, erect nipples, enjoying the sight of the slave's cum-splattered head. Masters number five and three pull their pants up.

From a dark corner, Master number one emerges, then goes over to the slab.

Not another one? He can't take any more. Who is number one?

He is: The Master. Stats: six feet two inches, 220 pounds, eight inches, uncut, black hair, brown eyes, clean-shaven, three-piece suit, white shirt, thin leather tie, 36.

The five Masters go over to the corner. A light is turned on. They sit down on chairs around a table. Master number two pops the cans of beer out of the plastic rings and passes them around.

"Slave?" Master number one asks softly.

He looks around over his shoulder.

Seeing the change for the better in the slave's eyes, he tells

Piss runs down his nose. He chokes, coughs repeatedly, then shakes his head rapidly. Tears run down his cheeks. The piss stops. The Master holds on to his thick cock. "What's the matter, piggy, a little piss go down the wrong way?" him, "Go over to that corner and stay on that blanket until I'm ready to leave."

The slave straightens up. His back aches. His asshole burns. He shuffles over to the corner. There he finds a blanket and a dog bowl of water on the floor. He looks back to his Master. He wants some water, but he doesn't dare ask for it. He lets his eyes do it.

Gary nods. "Take some water, then lay down."

He picks it up and drains it, not realizing how thirsty he is. Sated, he lays down on the blanket. He feels the cold floor through the thin material. That doesn't matter. He is tired and his whole body aches.

Gary goes over to the table. Master number two pulls out a chair for him.

"Damn, Gary," Master number six speaks up. "He's a good fuck, even dry. Anytime you want his plumbing opened, let me know." He takes a swig of beer.

Master number two puts his feet up on the table. "I think Ron should have given him something visual to remember this night. He can't see the scars on his back."

After he takes a gulp of beer, Gary swallows, then waves his hand. "No, he won't have any scars. I have a doctor friend. He'll take care of it."

"He better not have any scars," Master number two retorts. "You've spent a lot of money on that damn pig. Platinum? Damn, Gary, I know you love him, but platinum?'

"I can afford it. So? He is mine."

They nod in agreement.

"Oh, as to giving him something visual so he'll remember this night, he doesn't need it. And I don't want his body marked up. Whatever he needs to remember this night is between his ears.'

They know he's right. They drink their beers and change the subject. The slave sleeps soundly in the corner on his right side, using his right arm as a pillow, his legs scissored apart.

(THE PUBLISHER'S PAGE, YOU MIGHT CALL IT)

BACK TO THE BATHS

Like Sir, the author of "'Health' Spas" in Drummer 89, I, too, loved the baths, but unlike Sir, I have not felt it politically expedient to subject my sexuality to AIDS-induced revisionism.

The new Reaganistic Falwel-lian Puritanism that has infected large numbers of gay men will ultimately prove to be more harmful than the ravages of AIDS itself. While it is most necessary to modify one's sexual behaviors to conform to safe-sex guidelines, it is not necessary to produce an apology for all the presently unsafe activities one may have engaged in before the plague years. What's most frightening about AIDS is that is has brought back our old friend, homosexual guilt. AIDS is thrusting many gay men back into the 1950s, making sexuality "dirty" again, causing homosexuals to fear and despise their own natural desires.

Just as there is no one more self-righteous on the subject of booze than an on-the-wagon alcoholic, there's no one more insufferably smug than a tub slut who has seen the "error" of his ways. It's mordantly ironic reading accounts of "born-again queers " that detail their VD histo-ries , their years of dark nights in bathhouses and sex bars, their drug use, the depths to which their sexual "addiction " had taken them only to have these accounts all reach the "moral" which translates into "Thank God for AIDS! I've been saved from sex!"

AIDS has neatly played into the hands of gays who continued despite all the post-Stonewall gay activist rhetoric, to think that homosexuality was "sinful." Despite the many closely reasoned refutations of the AIDS-as-God's- punishment-of-fags theory, the majority of people (gays included) believe you get AIDS because you are bad-you shoot up drugs or you get fucked in the ass or you shoot up drugs while being fucked in the ass. Making a moral problem out of a medical problem is to be expected; when the Black Plague swept Europe in the Middle Ages, it, too, was credited to devine retribution. Since religion owes its existence to the fear of the unknown, it is called on to provide solutions to problems that science can't. Unfortunately , religion always has the answer: God did it.

The most despised members of a society are always blamed for the ills of the society so it's not surprising that homophobes find that AIDS vindicates their hatred of gays. What is surprising-astounding , really-is the number of gays who are siding with their oppressors, who believe that the cure for AIDS is the heterosexualizing of gays. (That's the argument that goes, "I used to go looking for sex on Saturday night, now I stay home and tend my orchids.") Self-oppressing gays go to the authors of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion one step better. The Protocols' authors never suggested that the Jews, who were so hateful to them, were also hateful to themselves, but here is Sir confessing in the pages of Drummer, "Yes, we are hateful and we know it."

I was gang-fucked in the orgy room of the Everard Baths. I swallowed the cum of strangers in Dave's Baths. I drank piss at the Mineshaft, I rimmed at Hellfire. But I participated in these activities because I enjoyed them, not because I found them disgusting and felt I only deserved the disgusting. I am unable to look back on fifteen years of promiscuity and scream, "The horror! The horror!" Promiscuous sex was my "fuck you" to a society that would have me keep my homosexuality a dirty little secret. I was never more free than when I was indulging my homoerotic passions.

Now, more than ever before, it is mandatory for gay men to express their sexuality, not to retreat into an asexual closet. Sexual negativisim is on the rise; it can only be answered with a reaffirmation of the pleasures of man-to-man sex. We do not need to close down the baths and sex clubs to write mea culpas about our sexual pasts, to show sexual responsibility. We need to stock up on rubbers, brush up our fetishes and go out and party to show that we will survive not as neutered sissies. but as proud, sex-positive gay men.

T. R. Witomski

First let me congratulate you on Drummer's new art director . I have been sorting my collection and rereading the interesting parts for the past few weeks and it is a real pleasure to find an issue without left-hand flies. He seems to have been able to cut down to one the strange system of printing type over a picture, the result of which is that the picture is difficult to see and the type is difficult to read. No matter what you think of civil rights for assorted shades of humans, the Lord God of Printing has ordained from the beginning of time to all eternity black type, white paper. I assume that, even now, your new art director is moving to change the typeface to a serif one. For the few times when you reverse the colors, such as your cover, the sans serif type is more legible.

I have been worrying about the cover of Drummer 89. I feel something like Whistler who, when the glory of the night sky was pointed out to him, said, "I would have done it differently." Of course, he knew what he wanted to do. I have been wondering about it. After a while I realized that it was the helmet that bothered me the most. I assume that the only reason that you did not use a World War I German spiked helmet is that you did not have one on hand. Well, there is plenty of time before next year.

Now to your comments on the publisher's page.

You have noticed that barefoot porcupine-kicking has never become a popular sport. I propose an attack on two fronts, both of which require a lot of work on someone else's part.

Front one. I have the impression that every time a fundamentalist "Christian"

really comes out strong against faggots, he is shortly found thereafter in bed with one or more choirboys. If you were to devote a column a month to biographies of such persons, it would perhaps start a change in the perceptions of them.

The second front is on pornography . While Bible-reading -and-waving "Christians " claim that they are against pornography, what they are really against is competition with their line of porn. We are talking about a book that starts out with an unpunished fratricide and moves to incest. I don't know whether it was his mother or his sisters, but either way it's incest. It drops off after this.

Since I assume that you know everyone worth knowing in San Francisco, I would like for you to pass this idea along.

What I have in mind is a religious tract similar to the hundreds you have already seen. This would be Sister Boom Boom's Guide to the Bible. It would read with a simple statement to the effect that for hundreds of years the Bible had satisfied man's desire for pornography, but in our modern age most people do not have time to look for the interesting passages. There would then follow a list of subjects with Biblical citations. Subjects could be: Incest, fratricide , slaying hords, slaying small numbers, slaying individuals , slavery, selling into slavery, the Begats (You have to bring something of yourself to this, but when you relize what was going on…). I strongly favor including the weird character who built a vessel ten cubits in diameter and 30 cubits in circumference . This gives pi a value of three.

Anyway the balls are in your court. Play away.

To come back to your art director, it has occurred to me that you may not have changed art directors, but that he had some sort of enlightening experience which changed his way of life. In any case, he deserves as much of a raise as you can give him without raising the cover price of Drummer.

George F. Hawk

TOO FEW MASTERS

As another astute participant in the world of Masters and slaves, I would like to respond to R.C.'s letter that appeared in this section in Drummer 89.

Having observed the leather scene from D.C. to Atlanta, I, too, have come to some disheartening revelations, i.e. there are few, if any, real Masters among us. The best that you can find, it seems, are the weekend sadists that are out looking for a hot scene that will fulfill their JO fantasies without any type of involvement or responsibility on their part. A good caring Master certainly does not need to ask anything of his slave. He will carefully search the qualities out and cultivate them to suit his needs. Likewise, a good honest slave will ask nothing of his Master but earnestly endeavor to please him in any way possible.

Unfortunately, the majority of men parading around as leather Masters are nothing but cheap imitations because they don't realize that with the privilege of being a Master comes the responsibility of caring and loving another human being, not trading him off at the next orgy for a new piece of ass or telling him "You are mine" when in reality he has a lover in another city. It's no wonder that most Ms sit around waiting to be taken by a qualified 5; they've given all that they have to give and even offered their lives to what they thought was a real Master and gotten back in reply, "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now."

There are, R.C., quite a few honorable bottoms out there who would love to belong to a qualified Master. There is nothing that we would / could desire more than being released sobbing into the arms of our Master after a whipping session if only we could be sure that the next night those arms wouldn't be around someone else. Personally, it will be a cold day in hell before I let another man spill my blood and taste my tears before proving to me that he is as worthy of my trust as those leathers on his back. D.B.

Raleigh, NC ject mentioned. they want to belong to some- to talk like Brutus. body, which is very true. But self" or other things. one of his ten. ships and semirelationships, on the ass. it's not always the bottom and other things (I could Mr. R.C. hardly call that "sweeping me it without getting criminal. After reading the article After about a year and a half of type was. So much for that. No It's true, there are few real one can read minds (well

But don't get me wrong, I've the next day find out he was It happens to all of us. You wrong, waiting by the phone machine. Good communica-As a "son" in my early twen-tion from a good top man. In

"Give me a top with atti-R .R.

Tucson, AZ

4219 Santa Monica Blvd., L.A. 669-9472

POSTER OF THE MONTH

Although not a new poster, cent artwork by Robert Los Angeles to get a copy, as this one hasn't gotten around Uyvari, of whom no one has will you, for five bucks at what very much and we thought heard much since he left the has become the busiest you might enjoy it. Magnifi- West Coast. We had to go to leather bar in town.

A COUPLE OF BOO-BOOS and read it over again.

First in Drummer 88 werear- binder rearranged the still do that but each month ranged Olaf Odegaard's beau- calendar pages in an order will be a challenge. Artist Bill tiful story "The Gift" so that that even Pope Gregory Ward hasn't told us about it the final two pages were not in wouldn't have understood. It yet but most of Drummer's proper sequence. We hope was, as in years past, supposed mail to England is seized by you caught that one for your- to left out, be carefully cut the censor so perhaps he will selves. If you didn't, go back apart by you, the reader, then never know. We can certainly hung to follow the months in hope so.

Then in Drummer 90 the your own horny way. You can

SAM BROWNE SOCIETY

An organization has been formed in Phoenix, Arizona to service men who express themselves in military and law enforcement uniforms. The society has initiated a reference library and will collect historic and rare uniforms in addition to adjunct weapons and leather items. The organization has developed sources for riding boots, including rare historic military boots.

The society was named for Sir Samuel James Browne, a British Army Officer who died in 1901, whose name is connected with a classic dress belt born by law enforcement and military personnel. Contact: SAM BROWNE SOCIETY, 1714 E. McDowell Rd., Phoenix, AZ 85007. Phone after 6 P.M. MST at (602) 437-0123.

COPPERSTATE LEATHERMEN

In case you didn't know, the copper state is Arizona and there is a new association of self-avowed leathermen in its capitol. They are proclaiming themselves to be highly visible throughout the gay community . Having survived a "Lea-therfest " for three days in mid-December, there is still "Waldorf Weekend," a camping weekend. Most of the organization's functions are without cost to those who wish to participate. Contact: COPPERSTATE LEATHERMEN, c / o Tuff Stuff Leather, 1714 E. McDowell, Phoenix, AZ 85006.

Among the calendars we didn't get in our 1986 calendar assortment was Tom of Finland's which sells for a mere 8.50. In addition we understand he has two new books to release, The Navy and a new KAKE book called Pleasure Park. Look for 'em. Tom's work just keeps getting better and better.

1986 SOUTH OF MARKET

E CHEST MEN

AND THE WINNERS ARE FOR SALE

The San Francisco Eagle has packaged twelve monthly Bare Chest Contest winners photographed by twelve outstanding photographers to sell as an AIDS fund moneymaker. All modeling and photography was donated and your $13 covers the cost of the calendar and mailing costs. Send your thirteen bucks and address to the S.F. Eagle, 398 Twelfth Street, San Francisco, California 94103.

Internally studded cock rings your thing? Well, have you checked out the plastic-toothed rings you have left over with certain kinds of plastic milk container caps? Once you break the seal, a ring comes loose which has lots of nice, pointed, painful, but not piercing sharp barbs on the inside. They'll go on a large man with some scratching inevitable, but are a bitch to get off once he's hard. Of course, the rings can be cut off, but since you used to throw them away anyway, so what? Just drink more milk for healthy bodies

Turned on by the exquisite control the extremely high-priced tit torture clamps give you, but you don't have $50 to buy a pair? Then spring $16 for a pair of needle-nosed vise-grips now on the market. The weight of those suckers alone make their clamping power awesome to behold, but the quick-release handles make their removal still another pain trip to enjoy inflicting.

Then there are the games you can play. Let your victim, er, bottom choose the width of the opening he thinks will keep the vise grips clamped on, with the knowledge that if he chooses too-wide an opening—causing the grips to fall off right away-you have a very unpleasant alternative, including cayenne pepper oil to apply to certain mucous membranes . (Also called Oil of Capsicum it is available at health food stores.) You win both ways. If he chooses an opening too small, they'll certainly stay on, but at the price of such pain…if too large, he 20 DRUMMER suffers at your hands another way. And if just right, he'll be walking aournd with two very heavy vise grips tugging away to enlarge his nipples. And, by the way, once on, you can keep "dialing down the pressure on those vise grips, so that your slave eventually has bloodless tits-perfect for a piercing scene to follow.

Safe enemas? Use hydrogen peroxide, 3%, or dilute 6% peroxide with an equal amount of water, preferably normal saline. The peroxide kills bacteria in the lower bowel and helps oxygenate an area where the sun never gets a chance to send its healing rays.

Want to experiment with rubber at low expense? Buy the new cloth-backed neoprene rubber wrapping sold to hold the heat in with athletic wrappings on painful joints. Your pharmacy can order for you. In the right place you can wrap a slave so tightly he'll have a pencil prick until you yank the wrapping off, sending his cock into a helicopter spin. Lots of fun.

How about an automatic ball-bouncing machine? We're not talking rugby here, folks, although it helps to have leather balls for this experiment! You'll need: (1) heavy duty rubber cord, like that used to tether balloons filled with helium…or nitrous oxide; (2) short length of beaded ball chain; (3) cord or rawhide cut to length after positioning your bottom face up, spread-eagle on a whatever under, but to the outer edge. of a ceiling fan; (4) short ball stretcher-short enough to let his balls flop around when you shake the stretcher, which should have a D-ring attached.

Okay, you've got your slave positioned . Fasten the cord or rawhide to the D-ring of the ball stretcher, tie the bead chain to the other end of the cord, and fasten the bead chain, free end, to either more cord or to the rubber band. More cord from the rubber band to either the bottom revolving portion of some fans (the kinds with light globes are unsuitable ), or to the portion of the fan that fastens a fan blade to the motor. Now slowly start up the fan revolving, and adjust the length of the cord or bead chain until each revolution of the fan blade causes a gentle tug on the ball stretcher D-ring (usually positioned on the top side of his balls). With the right length the rubber cord will serve as a shock interrupter, delaying the tug on his balls until the fan blade has practically come around again. The bead chain keeps the cord from twisting up short enough to pull him off the bed, of course. What results is a constant gentle yanking that will make his balls flop up and down to the rhythm of the variable speed you dial into the ceiling fan. Not at all boring, but an hour of this is absolute agony for your slave, while you take a well-deserved nap alongside. Guys have been known to cream simply from the constant rhythmic yanking their balls get from this.

If your slave's been bad, simply position a bath brush underneath his balls as the cord yanks his balls up and down and

(To be continued)

104 DRUMMER

ARMY BARRACKS: Gary, Sarge, Lefty, Late Night

Gary (one of the two leading characters in the story), Sarge and Lefty are sitting along the length of one of the bunks in this barracks. They pass a bottle of cheap liquor back and forth. Sarge is telling a dirty joke.

GARY (Voice Over)

Dear Hal: I have duty this weekend. But I don't mind so much since Sarge and Lefty'll be staying along with me. Sarge isn't really a Sergeant. He says he was once a Sergeant but got demoted. I don't think that I believe him. But he's a good guy. Lefty is too…I think…

The sound comes up on the scene as the three of them laugh raucously. The camera pulls back to reveal that they're all in their khaki-colored underwear. Sarge is wearing a green cap.

LEFTY (Holds up a condom)

Remember these?

GARY

Shit. I used to use 'em every day.

SARGE

Shit. You don't even know how to put one on.

GARY

In front of you guys?

SARGE

Time me.

Sarge stands up and takes a condom. He pulls his dick out of his shorts and rolls it on easily.

LEFTY

Not bad. Twenty seconds right on the money.

SARGE Whyn't you try?

GARY (embarrassed) Better to be safe.

Gary has trouble with the condom. He's trying to pull it on instead of rolling it on.

GARY (sheepishly)

It's been a long time

Lefty reaches over for Gary's exposed dick.

LEFTY

Need a little help?

(He starts to roll the condom onto Gary's cock.) What're friends for?

Lefty urges Gary's body back as he starts to suck on the cock, smoothing the condom down the length of it. Sarge stands watching them, beating off into the condom he's put on, slowly filling it with pre-cum and grinning down at the scene in front of him.

VOICE-OVER

It's midnight. Your voice of central Arkansas.

Lefty rolls a new condom onto Gary's cock and then spreads himself out on top of Gary's dick, impaling his ass and riding Gary until both of them explode in orgasm. Sarge is still watching , jerking off, and waiting his turn.

ARMY BARRACKS: Gary, Sarge, Lefty, Later that Night.

Gary lies on his bunk, sprawled on his belly, the bottle of cheap liquor nearly empty and close to his hand. Lefty is on his own bunk, sleeping. Sarge watches the two of them from across the room as he slips a condom, already greased, onto his dick. He then proceeds to the trunk at the foot of Lefty's bed and takes a pair of handcuffs out. Then he attaches the cuffs to the footboard of Gary's bunk and to Gary's right wrist. The feel of the cold metal makes Gary wake up.

GARY

Hey, Sarge! What're you doing?

Sarge climbs on top of Gary, rubbing his condom-covered cock all over Gary's smooth ass cheeks.

SARGE

Relax. Do it for a buddy. C'mon.

Sarge pins Gary and proceeds to grease himself up and enter Gary. Gary goes from pain to pleasure as he starts to pump his own dick with his free hand. After Gary shoots his load, his ass sucks Sarge's load into him. Sarge withdraws and peels off the filled condom as he and Gary collapse together on the bed. <math>\Box</math>