TRASH AND LEATHER

CURT HAMMER uesday nights in Houston are pretty tame-most of the time. After a big party weekend, everyone usually stays home to rest up for a couple of nights. The last weekend had been different. Due to work, I had missed out on the weekend and by Tuesday, I was horny as shit. After jacking-off to a video I was still climbing the wall. I layed there rubbing my thick knob, teasing it until I felt my load about to pop, each time stopping my rhythmic stroke as I felt the heavy juices start to boil within me.

I couldn't take it anymore. I stood up, my heavy piece bobbed between my thighs. I knew I needed the real thing tonight.

I pulled on a pair of my trashiest jeans, my most rumpled shirt. and my new boots. My huge prick ached from the restraint of my jeans as I crammed the dangling member into my pant leg next to my muscular inseam. The thick outline fascinated me as I inspected it carefully in the mirror before me.

Somehow the boots looked a little out of place in contrast to the faded and ragged jeans. The smooth, unused surface of the protruding black toes was a dead giveaway to my inexperience.

I had just started getting into leather sex a couple of months earlier and the boots were, for all practical purposes, my first leather investment. I studied them for a few minutes, taking time to notice the fine quality of the unpolished brown stitching along the edges. I hoped no one would notice their newness.

Since I lived only a few blocks away, I decided to walk to the bar that night. I was careful to walk in the dirt along the road, kicking at piles of road gravel along the way in hopes that the dust and friction would add a little wear to the texture of the leather. I could still feel my semihard cock rubbing against my pant leg, pressed between the threadbare cotton and my flesh, with every stride. I could feel a little precum running down the inside of my leg as I grew more and more excited with each frictious movement.

In no time I was there. I paused as I entered to notice a hunky, dark-complected man standing next to the row of motorcycles which lined the front of the building. He was decked in full leather. I paused to look at him momentarily, to study the mastery of his leather, each article worn with knowledgeable expertise. He moved a bit, his well-kept leather creaking, ever so slightly, to conform to the shift of his manly frame.

I felt a shiver of excitement as my eyes stared, first at his bulging crotch which protruded commandingly from his chaps, then to his dark, almost hypnotic eyes. I could tell by the way he pulled at the edge of his wiry black moustache that I was pegged.

He just stood there looking me over. His penetrating glare made me feel like a piece of meat as his eyes dropped to inspect my profiled ass. He paused as he examined my boots, then met my eyes like he was looking right through me. Nothing was said as I walked into the bar. Nothing needed to be said.

I went to the far side of the bar and ordered a beer. I could keep an eye on the door there as I looked around the crowd. It was unusually busy for a Tuesday night but, it didn't matter who else was out. I knew what I wanted.

I kept thinking about his bulging basket as I finished my beer and ordered a new one. Every once in a while someone would brush my ass as they passed. I arched my spine and stuck my butt up slightly, remembering the way he had looked at it earlier.

I guess I must have smiled a bit at the thought because a few strangers started getting real frisky as they walked by. Occasionally , someone would grab my well-rounded and anxious ass. Their big hands brought a warmth to my body as they began to work my muscular flesh. I closed my eyes and pretended it was him as I stood facing the bar with my legs spread slightly. I could feel the heavy fur of the tempter's arm as it slipped into the back of my jeans and slid down my peachy crack.

By this time nearly fifteen minutes had passed. I knew he had not yet entered the bar. I was getting hornier by the minute as I felt the mysterious hands from behind groping between my warm thighs, massaging my bulging piece to life.

I ordered another beer, smiled at my mysterious groper, and excused myself as I walked to the leather shop. I could smell the heavy scent of fresh leather throughout the shop. The intoxicating odor reminded me of my earlier acquaintance outside. I wanted him. I would do anything to serve him.

It was on my fourth or fifth beer that I began to realize that he wasn't coming. He must have been waiting for somone else, I thought. What a dumb ass I had been for even thinking that he would be available to someone as undeserving as me. I was trash and I knew it.

I talked to the leatherman behind the counter for a few minutes and decided to buy a cock ring. He talked me into one with small spikes which pressed into the cock and balls. By this time I was feeling no pain so I was ready to try anything.

"Undo your pants," he ordered.

Not quite sure how to respond, I looked at him with surprise, then reluctantly consented. I realized if I ever wanted to get serious about leather I should do what I was told. I popped my fly open and stood there as my jeans dropped slightly on my half-exposed ass. I knew there was someone behind me, watching , ready to crawl right into my deep, exposed crack. I shifted my weight slightly offering my best show. By now I really didn't care.

The leatherman behind the counter grabbed my cock and balls and pulled them to the edge of the counter. My long, sagging sack shot with momentary pain as he pulled me to my toes, applying just the right tension to my suspended nuts. I winced slightly as he tightened the leather cock piece around my unguarded crotch meat.

I stood there looking at my cock as it swelled. I could see the huge, purple veins jutting out of the side of it as it grew. The fat, bulbous head took on a deep reddish tone as its contents filled the pourous nerve endings to what seemed to be beyond its capacity. My pants slipped, almost to my knees, as I stood there admiring the black band which pressed into my groin.

By this time onlookers had gathered to view my naked ass in the dim light of the leather shop. I felt a hand come from behind, groping my tight buns and fingering my wet, hairy bunghole. I could feel my asshole tighten around his nubby fingers as he poked his way into me. First one finger, as it slid deep into my waiting hole, then another as he pryed my bud open still further.

"Bend over and show us your ass, kid," a gruff voice ordered from behind. The thought of me standing there, bent over in a vulnerable exhibition caused me to remember the commanding look my fantasy leatherman had given my ass earlier as he inspected it with his cold, dark eyes.

I pretended the voice from behind was him as I stuck my ass shamelessly toward the crowd for inspection. I wanted to make sure that everyone saw it as I poked it high into the air. After all, continued on page 83

DRUMMER 5

between my trembling spread legs. I stood there on the balls of my feet, as my face was forced further onto the log which filled my throat. I could feel the muscles in my legs begin to cramp as my meaty calves and thighs began to feel the strain of the rear suspension. I felt sure that my nuts would break but my only sound was a muffled grunt from my throat' which was interpreted as my way of asking for more.

"I'm going to take your nuts and shove them up your ass. You'll never find them again," a voice from behind threatened. One of my nuts was pressed firmly against my burning hole. I felt the oval object bust through my tired opening, then slip back out again as the prodding fingers of my partner pulled still harder on my sagging pouch, determined to stretch it to his needs. I could feel the velvet flesh begin to stretch from the strain as I blacked out for a minute from the pain.

In a moment I came to again. Another huge horse cock was pounding away, splitting my ass with every forceful grind. I found myself frantically sucking a stranger's asshole as it spread before me. With each frictious thrust from behind, my nose was shoved deeper into the sloppy trough before me. My tongue lapped the hairless base below as my nuzzle slid into the puckering slit. I pushed my snout into the well-shaved crack, as deep as my lip would allow, then withdrew my new-found fuckpiece, as I gurgled for air. Repeatedly, I entered the plump ass that spread before me, each time sniffing at the pink flesh which mushroomed around my nose.

My ravished guts began to fill with warm liquid as I realized that my gaping asshole was being douched with the golden juices of the fleshy hose which filled me. I could hear the soupy liquid as it sloshed inside of my thirsty toilet gut, with each recoiling ram delivered to my well-stuffed brown eye. The pressure continued to grow as each squirt of his waste filled me, threatening to bust my gut while his heavy sack slapped my scrotum with each entry into my sagging hole.

I clinched my ass muscles shut around the massive fuckpole in a desperate attempt to hold the burning load. The bite of my ass crated a vacuum which sloshed and slurped noisily in my best effort to contain the stranger's piss, I knew I could only hope for the best as his urine began to moisten the sloppy area around my hole. I could smell his piss-scent on me as a small amount of the golden brown liquid began to trickle down my thighs. I finally realized that I could hold no more as I watched the waste juices run down my leg and fill my boots. I couldn't stop it as I released my tight hold. My ass muscles sagged, pulling slightly from inside of me, as they continued their vacuum hold on the rod, finally surrendering totally, as the contents of my guts exploded, only to be shoved back inside by the thick plunging mass which continued to use me.

It seemed that the evening would go on forever as one cock after another trashed me. My lips were swollen and my asshole burned for more. I knew where I belonged and I knew who I belonged to…anyone who wanted my trashy, worthless, no-good pighole. I was hungry scum. I would be their toilet. I would be whatever anyone wanted me to be, cock after cock, cum after cum, piss after piss. I was there, to be used, to serve.

I eventually collapsed after the last man had finished using my fleshy remains. There I lay, still handcuffed. The bartender came to me, picked me up and as an extra humiliation, kicked my ass as I staggered toward the door.

After I had recovered from my delirium, I looked up to see the face of the leatherman by the bikes as he stood there, still pulling on his brushy moustache. He looked pissed.

"Where the fuck have you been boy?" he demanded. His deep voice had more than a hint of anger in it.

What could I say. I just stood there with my head down, the smell of sweat and piss filled my nostrils as I smelled myself. Still naked, I looked upon my hammered boy meat laying limp between my hairy legs. I tried to hide the cuffs, but it was all too obvious what had happened.

When he noticed my restraints, a bit of a smile came to his heavy lips. I knew my night was not yet over as he walked over to inspect my predicament.

84 DRUMMER

"What you been doing, boy? I asked you a question."

There was a way he said it that made me feel like a pile of worthless shit and proud at the same time. Proud that he cared enough to call me "boy." I fell to my knees to let him know I was willing and ready to be his. It seemed that it was the only appropriate response. My face went to his boot in hopes that he would allow me the privilege of cleaning it.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir. I know that I am trash and that I have not yet earned the right…

Suddenly, he grabbed me by my hair and pulled me to my feet. My head swirled from the sudden rush, as his powerful arms suspended me. In no time he had me straddling the back of his bike. Still handcuffed, I clung to the bar of the metal support in back of me. I could feel my naked slit sucking on the fine leather of the seat below me, puckering to the vibration like a woman's organ during orgasm, as he skillfully revved the envine and sped away.

In what seemed to be only a few minutes, we were traveling down a dirt road which seemed to go nowhere, the cool air flaring my wet nostrils as it blew by. I leaned forward to sniff the scent of his well-oiled leather. Despite the numbness which still filled my crotch, I could feel the head of my own hard cock as it shared the vibration from below. I leaned forward, pressing my full weight against my crotch in order to maximize the vibration of the engine. My hardened piece pressed downward between my sagging balls and touched my ready hole. For a few minutes, both shared the same space as the bulbous helmet of my shaft was buried slightly into the juicy membrane which surrounded it. I positioned myself upon my cock, taking full advantage of the moment as I fucked myself. The juicy precum spilled upon the hot padding below, as I slid myself further into my hungry crater. I could hardly contain my excitement, as I thought of the smell of his leather which pressed against my nose. I felt the lumpy mass within me, teased by the steady numbing of the engine, pass from my angry shaft into my own fuckhole, lubricating it for whatever use he would have it to serve.

As I released my load, we arrived at an old, secluded house. The only building in sight was a rundown shack which sat behind the rickety farmhouse. I knew there was no way out now.

We entered the house and I stood waiting as he went into the kitchen and came back with a beer. He took a swallow and then just stood there. He didn't have to say what he wanted as I fell to my knees again.

"What were you saying earlier…about trash?" he asked. His intimidating tone made me tremble slightly as I bent over and crawled to lick his boots. I remembered our earlier

"I'm trash, Sir. I was saying that I don't deserve the honor of licking the dirt from your boots. I know I am scum-trash, Sir!"1 said as my tongue nearly touched his boot.

He abruptly pulled his foot back. The sudden withdrawal of his boot made me feel even more humiliated as my tongue and face hit the floor in its absence. I couldn't look up. I just stayed there looking at the floor.

I heard him walk back into the kitchen. When he returned I could see through the corner of my downturned eyes that he had a plastic trash can with him.

"You are trash, boy! You know you do not even come close to being my bootlicker. You need to be with your own kind."

The next thing I knew, I felt the entire contents of the container being poured onto my downturned head. For the first time in my life, I knew what trash really was as I smelled the foul odor of empty cans and raw garbage at the edge of my nose. I took a big whiff and closed my eyes to prepare for what was to follow.

"Eat it!" he ordered.

I hesitated for only a second before he pressed my face into the smelly contents. I raised just slightly to lick the sour film of the substance from my lower lip. I didn't know what the residue was, but I decided to trust his judgment.

"I'm going to teach you the difference between trash and

leather tonight, boy. Right now you are trash, but by the time we get through, you might be leather.

There was a knowing firmness in the challenge which caused me to feel safe and secure. Despite the humiliating feeling that came upon me, I knew that he was doing this for my own good. I wanted to do whatever was necessary to please him so I just followed his command. The trash made me gag slightly as I knelt beneath his manly stance and began to eat the rubbish.

"There you are," he said with a bit of laughter in his tone. "You are what you eat, you scum licker!"

A feeling of excitement filled me as I found myself beating my hard meat, which throbbed as he commanded me about. I felt his firm hand grab me by the nape of my neck as I raised my eyes to meet his boot. He shoved my face onto the toe and ordered me to start licking. The sharp contrast of the flavor of his leather filled my tongue as I appreciatively began to cleanse the surface.

"Now, that there is leather, boy," he shouted from above as I frantically licked the film of dirt from the toe. "You have your choice. You can either have trash tonight or you can have leather. What will it be?'

I didn't even look up. My only response came from my wet tongue as I continued to lap at the boot. I was determined to show him that I would do anything for him as I scoured his too-generous offering. My tongue reached deep into the cracks of the boot, then downward to the sole. I was proud to be his bootlicker. I wanted to polish every inch of his fine leather with my anxious mouth before the night was through.

My response seemed to please him. He stood above me with his big arms folded. The wide frame of his shoulders seemed to contrast sharply with his tapered waist. His cock and balls jutted out from his thick manly thighs which rose above me, wrapped tightly in his leather. I could smell his sweaty meat hovering above me, waiting for service. For the time being though, I focused on his boots as ordered.

"I'm going to make you into a leather boy tonight," he promised, as he bent over to inspect my willing, upturned ass. The round, firm flesh arched to an angle of maximum convenience to him, exposing my vulnerable hole as my wet mouth continued to lap at his boots. I felt his strong hands spreading my ass as he inspected the bruised tissue which encircled my fuckhole. I could feel my hole stretching open as he pried at it with his meaty fingers. I pulled on the base of my nuts as they hung beneath me, stretching the flesh beneath my opening, forcing my slot to gape still futher as it sucked for air, or anything, to fill it.

Abruptly, a surge of pain filled my cheeks as I heard a loud smacking noise fill the room. Again and again, the sound of flesh hitting flesh filled my ears as my anxious and eager buttocks got hotter with every swing. I beat my own numb rod, frantically, as it throbbed in ecstasy to each shot of stinging pain which filled my hot, upturned, fleshy bunting. The discipline only made me work harder to please him, to totally serve him, as my nose pressed against the spit-cleansed leather before me, rubbing firmly against the roughened texture to polish the Master's boot.

By the time he ordered me to follow him to the shack outside, I could feel very little beyond the numbness which radiated from my backside. I knew it was best that I follow him.

When I woke up the next morning, I found myself laying cuffed to a leather sling, squinting at the rays of sunlight which slipped through the rustic roof above me. I tried to put the constant blur of the previous night's events together. It had been a night to remember. The details seemed sketchy, but I could tell from the satisfying ache which burned within my asshole that it had been quite a night. I smiled at the thought.

I lay there, alone, still captive, studying my naked body. The only article of clothing which I continued to wear was my boots which sharply contrasted with my naked calves and thighs which reached skyward. I layed there, pondering my captivity, not knowing if or when I would be released. Not caring, There was only one thing I knew for sure. My boots were dirty.

guess this is really a warning rather than a story, but I'm going to tell it as my story for that is actually what it is. I had dreamed of being a slave and had had several temporary slave Masters. But each one was really only a prelude to a stricter one later on. Each fantasy fulfilled, was but the tip off that there were yet more fantasies to be fulfilled.

It was about three years ago…(I have not been able to keep any accurate count of time since then) that I walked up the long walk to a secluded house in Santa Maria and knocked on the door. I had gotten the address from calling a number I read on the john wall in a library. The conversation had been short:

"You want to be my slave?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Come to…tonight before seven."

"Could I make it nine, Sir?" "Forget it!" and he hung up.

All afternoon I could think of nothing else and about 6:30 I arrived at the address he had given me. I had dressed carefully in the sexiest cutoffs I could find. I left my Ford LTD in front of his house and knocked on the door. A fantastic handsome giant of a man opened the door. He was dressed in a smoking jacket and had a pipe in his mouth and the newspaper in his hand. 'Yes?"

"Sir, I talked to you on the phone this morning." He seemed uninterested. "Oh, yes. Come in."

He looked me over, but only a glance. I noticed that he locked the door and then went over to a big easy chair and sat down. He began reading his paper. I felt very awkward. I didn't know what to do. I was just left standing there. After a minute or so, I ventured: "I want to be your slave, Sir."

"Yes, well I will get to you when I have time. You can take your clothes off if you wish.'

He was reading the paper, and I didn't like the way things were going at all. I stood there for a few minutes thinking of leaving, but then I remembered that he had locked the door. There really was nothing to do but take off my clothes. I took them off slowly and folded them up carefully and put them on a chair. He never even glanced up at me—just reading his paper.

I stood there without a stitch on waiting for him. It seemed like hours. I had put my watch in the pocket of my cutoffs so I could not tell exactly how long it was. But it must have been at least twenty minutes before he looked up casually. He put down his pipe and newspaper and began to get up. I thought he might ask about who I was, but he seemed totally uninterested in me. He never asked my name or where I was from or anything . He went to a cupboard and took out a dog collar with a chain about two yards long on it. He put the collar around my neck and then took out a small padlock and locked it. "Down on all fours!"

I quickly obeyed, but he kicked me in the butt anyway.

Suddenly he began to lead me to the next room and then down some stairs. I had a hell of a time going down the stairs on all fours and keeping up with him, but I made it. We arrived in his basement. It was an unfinished basement and he had done very little toward finishing it. The beams all were showing and in one part the floor had not even been laid, and there was just dirt. He led me to that part and said, "This is your home, Fido. Sit!" He dropped the chain and went back upstairs. Soon he returned with two bowls. One had water in it and the other was empty.

When he had put the bowls in the corner, he began slowly taking off his pants, revealing a beautiful cock and large balls which hung down. He had also brought himself a beer and he leaned up against a post and began drinking it. He seemed to be oblivious of my presence.

After a little while, he said, "Want some beer, Fido?"

I said, "Yes, Sir, I'd like that."

He went over to the bowls and pissed in the empty one without saying a word. I realized that this was my beer-recycled . I really did not want to drink it, but I was afraid of what might happen if I didn't. I crawled over to the bowls and sniffed them both. I realized that I was a dog and I was acting like a dog. It came naturally to me. I did not have to think about it.

I began to lick up the "beer." While I was doing this, my Master came over and took the end of my leash and fastened it to a bolt in the wall. Inevitably, he padlocked it. I didn't like the warm beer, but I was afraid to stop lapping it up.

When I finished, he lay down beside me and put his cock in my mouth. I realized that he wanted it sucked. I gave him a great blow job-the best I could. He enjoyed it, but said nothing . When it was over, he got up and walked away. e had gone upstairs. There was nothing for me to do but lie down on the dirt floor. I assumed he would be back in A a few minutes, but this guy was strange. I waited what seemed like about half an hour and then I began to panic. Was he coming back or was that all?

After a few more minutes I began to try to think what I could do. I was thirsty after the beer and I lapped up some water. I was afraid to drink it any other way. What if he should return and see me drinking like a human? Finally I had a plan. I drank up all the water and then began squealing. It was a long time before he appeared at the door. He had on his pajamas. He looked at me with disdain. "You keep me up tonight and you'll be sorry." With that he threw a bone in my direction and then noticing that I was out of water, he took the water bowl and filled it in the next room. When he came back, he muttered: "Have a treat," and pissed in the other bowl. Then he left. Obviously to go to bed.

It couldn't have been more than nine o'clock. He goes to bed continued on page 81

DRUMMER 7

continued from page 7 early. It must be that he will come back. But a long time passed, I had to be at my job the next morning. What was I supposed to do? I had a pretty good job in those days. I was a computer technician and manager of a small computer store. I had about ten employees under me and I earned a good salary. There were regular raises and I was looking forward to a nice life.

I thought of all this and finally decided there was nothing I could do. He would come back… maybe at midnight or something like that. We would have a hot session together. Then he would let me go. Meantime I'd better rest. Tomorrow would be a long day. So I stretched out and went to sleep. But he never came back that night.

It was the next morning that I woke up just as he was coming down the stairs. When he came into the room, he was wearing a three-piece suit and carrying another bowl. He put it with the others and I noticed that there was some Gravy Train in it. Then he took out his cock and pissed in the "beer bowl" and went away without a word.

Surely this was some sort of act. He was coming back. He wasn't going to keep me there. We hadn't agreed on anything like that! In fact, I reflected, we hadn't talked at all about anything. Should I acquiesce in all this, I would just be asking for it. It was getting time for me to assert myself. But I felt foolish. Here I was in a dog collar, chained to the wall. I had been drinking like a dog out of bowls and doing everything I was told. How could I assert myself now. Then I heard the front door close and I really got scared. Maybe this was no act.

Hours went by. He had gone to work and left me there. I got hungry around noon and tried the dog food. It tasted awful. It was all cold and sticky. In a few hours I was even more hungry and I ate the rest of it. There was no water left and I drank the piss. I realized that I would have to make my position clear as soon as he came home. hat afternoon late he came home. I heard him come in the door. But he didn't come downstairs for at least an hour. When he did, he had on his smoking jacket and a pipe in his mouth. He came into the room and quickly surveyed everything. I had simply had to take a piss and I had carefully done it in the "piss" bowl. But when I had to take a shit, there was nothing but to do it in the corner. I felt just like a bad dog, but I did it. He saw all this in a glance and mumbled, "My fault; should have let you out this morning.'

With that he undid the chain from the wall and led me upstairs and out the back door. He dropped the chain and stood there smoking his pipe. I went over to a tree and pissed. This really made me mad. I was acting exactly like a dog and there was nothing I could do about it. This game should come to an end-right now!

I stood up on my legs and said, "Um, I guess I have to go home now. I guess I didn't make it clear that I have a job I have to go to." He didn't say anything. It was as if I had not said a word. He took my leash and led me inside and down the stairs. I was walking like a human and I felt that that at least was a step forward. We got downstairs and instead of taking me to the unfinished part that I had spent the night and day in, as I expected, he turned the other way and I found myself in a well-equipped dungeon.

There was a stockade off to one side and he led me to it and forced my head and arms into the appropriate holes. Then he went away and came back about twenty minutes later dressed completely in black leather. Without a word he began to strap my bare ass. He stopped after a while to explain, "So you have to go to work, eh?" Then with a stroke that was unusually hard. he added, "You won't be able to go to any job, Fido. You won't be able to sit down." And he resumed the job of making my ass too sore for sitting.

When he finished, he took off his pants and put his cock in my mouth. This time I sucked but it was difficult in the stockade. When I finished, he apparently didn't like the job I had done and he slapped me hard across the face. Then he put his pants

For more than five years, the men of GMSMA have:

SHARED our experience, skills, and interests with each other in open program meetings and members-only affinity groups

LEARNED in demonstrations and hands-on workshops ranging from basic rope bondage to electrical stimulation

HELPED novices toward safe and satisfying s / m experiences

HAD FUN and made friends at social events, including Leather County Fairs, Masters Auctions, and a Better Homes & Dungeons Tour

RAISED thousands of dollars and donated it to other service organizations such as GMHC and Heritage of Pride

MARCHED every year in the Gay Pride Parade

SPOKEN OUT in college classrooms and to other groups to combat stereotypes and misconceptions about s / m

PROTESTED defamatory representations of s / m in advertisements and the media

READ ALL ABOUT IT in our members newsletter and other special publications

COME AND COME AGAIN to our meetings (now regularly drawing 150-200 men twice a month)

You're invited to join us. for more information and a membership application, write:

GAY-MALE-S / M ACTIVISTS 132 West 24th Street, Dept. D New York, New York 10011

back on and escorted me back to the kennel and padlocked the chain to the wall. He gathered up the bowls and left.

It was an hour or more before he returned. One bowl had some more Gravy Train in it and another had some water in it. The third was empty, but I could see what was going to happen for he had a can of beer under his arm. He was dressed in his smoking jacket again. Slowly he drank the beer. Once he said, "Eat your food, Fido," and I began to eat it. It was better warmed up and I found that I almost liked it. It was about half done when he came over and pissed all over my food. I almost began to cry, but he was on his way up the stairs. tried a few more times. The next night I was ready for him. As soon as he came downstairs to let me out, I said, "This is coming to an end right now. Please until me, I want to go home." He acted as if he hadn't heard me. He just led me up the stairs and out the back door and stood and watched while I pissed. But I turned to him and said, "No kidding, I've got to leave before I lose my job.'

He came over and took my leash and began leading me into the house. He said, almost under his breath, "I may have a talking dog, but I certainly am not going to argue with him!"

He led me down the stairs and back to the kennel. I had been walking on two legs all the way and I decided to assert myself once more: "Come on now, enough is enough. I have enjoyed this; it has been a different experience, but now I must go." Without a word he left me in the kennel.

About an hour and a half later he came back, dressed in leather. I was all prepared to start the argument up again, but I refrained. He took the strap down and began whipping my bare ass. It had really not healed from the time before and I was not sure I could take much more. I tried to accept it and he seemed to realize this and stopped fairly soon.

The he undid the leash from the wall and began leading me upstairs. As we went out into the back yard he said, "No supper for you tonight and you have to spend the night outside." He padlocked the leash around a tree and went back inside.

I noticed that he seemed to read in the living room for a few hours and then went to bed. He was a creature of habit. And he was a man of few words.

It was chilly without any clothes on, but I survived. I also could just see into the garage through the window and I noticed my car parked there.

In the morning he appeared in his three-piece suit and led me down to the kennel again. My bowls were neatly arranged—one with dog food, one with water, and he kindly provided piss in the third and then left.

I don't know exactly when I accepted the fact that I was a dog. I know that I gradually began not to even think about arguing the fact. I realized that I was behaving more and more like a dog. I was thinking like one. I began slowly to admire my Master and look forward to his return home. I certainly looked forward to his cock which he let me suck each night. There was never any conversation, but once in a while he would pet me under the chin.

He rarely changed his routine. The only time it changed was when he had friends over. This would be about every two or three weeks. The first time it happened, it was a young man dressed in a dinner jacket. I think they are quite formally in the dining room. I could hear them talking and laughing. I heard him complement my Master on the wine. After dinner I heard them talking at the top of the stairs and I could hear him say, "Well, he's down in the kennel if you want to go and see him. He gives a good blow job.'

Soon the young man came down and looked at me. He stood there not seeming to know what to do. I crawled over to him and began to unfasten his pants. Then he went and got a chair and sat down with his pants around his ankles and let me suck him off. It was nice to have a little variety and I wanted everyone to know that I appreciated this. I did a really superb job. In fact I heard him say as he went upstairs, "Thanks, Hank. That was really good.'

There were guests from time to time and it usually went pretty much like that. I never wore any clothes. In fact I have not had on any clothes since I took them off that first night. I have gotten used to being naked and don't even feel any shame about it. Well, almost.

One night he had a little dinner party and it seemed to me that I heard a woman's voice. I was really curious what would happen. After dinner I heard them talking at the top of the stairs and Hank was saying that I was a good dog. "You really want to see him? Okay, wait till I go and get him.

With that, he came downstairs and undid my leash from the wall and led me upstairs without a word. I was on my best behavior. The man said to me, "Come on over here and let me see you." I crawled over to him and he petted me on the back. From the way he and his wife acted, you would never guess that they were looking at anything but a cocker spaniel.

Suddenly Hank said, "He gives good blow jobs too. Want one?" The man said, "No thanks, not tonight." But his wife said, "Oh, go ahead, John, see if he does it as good as me." So John took down his pants and I proceeded to give him my best. Needless to say, he acknowledged that it was a better job than he got from his wife.

Then his wife said, "Well, let's see if he does better than you," and she pulled up her skirt and pulled down her pants and spread her legs, saying, "Here, Fido. Here's another job for you.'

I had never had any experience with anything like this and frankly I didn't enjoy it. I began licking around her pussy but I felt awkward about it. Pretty soon her husband said to me, "Come on, Fido, you got to get your tongue up in there or she'll never come." I tried to please and I finally brought her to a climax, but she admitted that her husband did a much better job.

Then Hank took off his pants and lay down in the middle of the living room floor and said, "Okay, you get the prize, Fido." And I sucked him off. I gave him my very best and all three of them seemed to enjoy the show—especially when he came. bout a year ago a guy began coming to dinner with some egularity. He was a real S and one night Hank offered to let him work me over if he wanted. He took me to the dungeon and gave me a workout like I had seldom had. He seemed to come over every five to seven weeks and it got so that he was more interested in my workout in the dungeon than anything else. I enjoyed them too.

He and I developed a different sort of relationship. I realize that I would not want anything to disturb the relationship I have with Hank, but I like this one also. I have hinted that I would like him to mail something for me and he has hinted that he would do it for me.

Now Hank usually lets me free in the house when he goes to work and I have discovered a personal computer in his bedroom . It is on that that I have written this. I will give it to my leather Master when he comes next time and if you receive it, please print it under a nom de plume beginning with Andrew, for that was my name. Or you can print it under the name Fido. I don't want to be paid for it. I don't know what I would do with money anyway. And I don't want to be freed from here. I love my life. But I am warning other people, be sure you check what you are getting into before you get in too deep.

I am a dog. I realize that now. I love my Master and I try to be a good dog for him. There is nothing I would not do for him. But I sometimes think, What if I were not suited for this life? Would I have to endure it anyway?

Dear Drummer:

I'm sending this on as I was asked to do. I won't vouch for the truth of any of it, except the end. That is true. I don't want any money either, mainly because I don't want to get mixed up with illegal things (if that is what they are) and I don't want to fuck up a nice deal I've got going. No name for me at all. П

I was soaping my balls when he stepped into the shower room and looked around as if he weren't sure he belonged. He did. Guys like him go with shower rooms like marines with boot camp; guys like me only tour the shower rooms like sightseers along Sunset Boulevard.

I had seen him before, walking from the weight room to the pool and back again. His body was a knockout. The muscles in his arms alone stood out like boulders perched on the edge of a cliff. This guy was a 200-pound barbell, out of my class. Look, but don't touch.

So I nearly dropped my soap when he began talking to ne after he had run the shower two stalls from mine. "Are you a professor here?" he asked. Not too origi- nal, but I recognized openers when I heard them. Neverthless, I anyway. A hunky kid like this one in a place like this was

too dangerous to play games with.

"No," I shouted back. The running water of the showers was drowning out the words. "An alumnus."

"Me, too," he tossed his words back to me. "When did you graduate?”

"A long time ago." My age is my business. Not that I'm ashamed of it. Just a little self-conscious when a guy twenty years younger than me innocently jams his age down my throat just by mentioning it.

"I just graduated a year ago." Sure enough he jammed it down my throat as carelessly as a baby pulling the tail of his pet dog.

I decided to keep up my side of the chit-chat. "Where do you work?" He seemed a little embarrassed as he said, "The Defense Department in Washington. I'm an engineer." He was embarrassed alright, like most graduates today of a liberal-oriented college would be to admit they worked for the Defense Department. I held back my sarcasm because he was too vulnerable.

But I was surprised. Didn't this kid realize the danger of telling a stranger whom he may be cruising that he worked for the Defense Department? The military was highly allergic to queers in their employ. How did he know he could trust me? I chalked it up to his naivete.

We chit-chatted for a couple of minutes while we both continued to leisurely soap certain parts of our bodies. I watched his hands massage his huge balls that looked like the kid brothers of the boulders in his arms. Then they gradually moved to his cock which, even soft, seemed to almost reach the floor, and began slowly and thorougly soaping it. I tried hard not to stare. I hoped I wasn't too obvious as I watched his cock slowly work its way to a horizontal position. It was big enough to serve as a bridge over a gorge.

His eyes rapidly shifted between my face and my hands, which were washing my balls and cock. My balls always seemed to take the cue from my cock and harden as my cock stiffened. Sure enough, it was happening like clockwork. Meanwhile, we continued our chit-chat like two regular guys.

It was lucky we did. How long could we have had the showers to ourselves? Two jocks walked in, laught at some joke between themselves. My hunky kid jerked his body around to hide his hard-on from them and nervously washed the soap off his body. Since my back was already facing the entrance, they didn't see mine. He turned his shower off and walked past them to the lockers without saying a words to me.

I was relieved. A university shower room was too dangerous to play these games in. That hunky kid was also too dangerous. His body was a lethal weapon which shouldn't be handled just anywhere. It could do big harm. Obviously, he hadn't learned that yet. And I had almost let him wound me. I should have known better.

I leisurely cleaned the rest of my body while the two jocks were showering and talking at the other end. That kid had been too skittish. These jocks had hardly noticed us. Since our shower game wasn't part of their own repertoire of sports, naturally it wasn't part of ours, either. Not unless we had been screaming queens or mincing fairies. We weren't. We were a respectable middle-aged man, trim for his age, and a young, spectacular he-man. I left the shower room to dress and go home. It was late; I was tired and wanted to get to sleep.

As I exited the gym into the night, its breezy blackness smacked my face like a peevish lover who had been kept waiting too long. So did his muscular voice. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?" It hit me like a ton of bricks and left me whimpering. I managed to whisper, "How about my place?'

On the short walk to my apartment, I sweated to keep my cock down as his voice continued to pound me with its nervous chit-chat. But my cock knew what I wanted better than I did. He had to have seen my rising bulge; his chit-chat was sounding more and more nervous.

When I opened the door of my apartment and switched on the lights, I felt ashamed. The crumpled shirts heaped like manure on the chairs and the odd shoes scattered like carcasses on the floor embarrassed me for the first time since Mack had died. The place smelled of loneliness.

He walked in just as he had walked into the shower room, uncertainly looking around to make sure this was the right place. It was and I was in charge now. It was alright for him to discharge his gun here. But, since he was like a suspicious young buck ready to leap for safety at the first wrong move, I proceeded cautiously.

"How about that cup of coffee," I said as I picked up the shirts and dumped them into the first open drawer I could find and then threw the odd shoes into the closet. I looked around. It would have to do.

'Sure," he said. I took one of his boulder arms and led him to the sofa. He sat down obediently, "What do you take in it?" I asked. "Nothing, just black, thank you." I had to give him credit; he was well-mannered. Too well-mannered. This wasn't teatime during a social call to his auntie.

"Nice place you have here," he lied. He had left the sofa and come into the kitchen. I was tense. I wanted to rip open his pants and suck his bridgelike dick. But, instead, I waited for the water to boil. He prowled the kitchen waiting for me.

Finally I could hand him his cup of instant coffee. We returned to the sofa and sat down. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking. It wasn't just the hulking chest looking like two soccer balls straining the threads of his tee-shirt or the weighty thights almost touching mine. It was the memories of the frenzy that a chest and thighs like these used to arouse in me. A frenzy all mixed up with lust and love. It seemed like another time.

My hand shook too hard and some of the hot coffee spilled on his pants leg. He yelped more in surprise than pain.

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry." I didn't know what to do. He had stood up and was holding the pants away from his leg. I gave him a wet cloth with which he wiped the large spot. Since they were only jeans, the spill wouldn't leave a mark.

"Take them off and let them dry," I commanded. He obeyed. He folded the pants and then faced me. Hlis growing cock threatened to rip open his BVDs. "Let's go to the bedroom," I said and took his hand, which was too large for my fingers to fit around. I grabbed a thick finger, instead.

In the bedroom he ripped off his BVDs and shirt. When I started to take off my clothes, he stopped me and began gently undressing me. Off came my shirt; and onto my right nipple and then my left one flicked his tongue. It ambled across my chest from one nipple to the other. The moans erupted from my throat. Then his tongue flicked down my stomach and stopped above my belt. On his knees with his thick cock now touching the floor, he fumbled with my belt and pushed my hand away when I tried to help him. My pants finally lay around my ankles and he massaged my cock through my BVDs. I couldn't believe it. All the actions were the same. Had Mack returned to me? An ecstasy like that of a kid returning home at last swept all through me.

He lifted each of my legs and removed my pants from my ankles. Then is boulder arms swung me up and cradled me while he lay me down on the bed and began removing my shoes and socks from each foot. His tongue moved up, down, and around each toe and gently massaged the bottom of each foot like a soft sponge.

I had to stop him before I came. I had to put his giant into my mouth. I pushed him onto the bed and ate his cock. I chewed; I bit; I sucked; I swept my tongue back and forth, up and down, around and around the smooth mushroom crowning his stem. I ran the insides of my cheeks down, up, down, up against the smooth marbled surface of this giant stem. I frantically jammed it further into my throat. I choked. I didn't care. His cock started twitching involuntarily. He was coming. Harder, faster I pounded my head, like a piston propelling the wheels of a train. I couldn't stop.

But he stopped me. "No, please, don't. Not yet," he pleaded. continued on page 80

DRUMMER 9

continued from page 9

We laid our heads side by side on the pillows while we cradled cigarettes, which we leisurely took drags from, in our fingers and scanned the blank ceiling. His arm wrapped around my shoulder. I felt at peace.

"Your apartment is real nice," he repeated himself. I took another puff of my cigarette.

"I live at home with my parents right now." He named a suburb outside town. I hate suburbs. I like the city.

"But I want to buy a house soon in the country with lots of acres and a horse and raise my own vegetables. I love the space and the clean air. Don't you?" No, I didn't. You could get lost in all that empty space. Besides, trees gave me hives. No, I loved the crowded city. But I didn't disillusion him of his young dreams. I just took another puff of my cigarette. We finished our cigarettes and put them out. Then he snuggled against my chest like an infant nestles against his mother's breasts. I held him in my arms and felt the passion slowly gathering again in our cocks which were climbing between each other's legs. I kissed him. His tongue shoved into my mouth, pushing against mine. Mine pushed back. We began whimpering; then the whimpering built to moans; the moans to grunts; the grunts to a crescendo of dirty words. "You fuck-ing cocksucker," I whispered in loving hardness into his ear, "I'm going to fuck you."

"I've never done that before," he whimpered.

"It'll be okay," I said as I gently massaged his hole and then inch-by-inch inserted my finger further and further into his ass. He moaned, but didn't shove my hand away.

"It'll be okay, baby," I kept whispering in his ear. His round, firm buttocks began moving in concert with the twisting movement of my finger. A second finger slid in. He gasped in surprise and pushed his ass harder against them.

"It feels so good," he moaned. I grabbed the vaseline and smeared my cock. I kissed his taut lips while I gently hoisted his legs, which were like pillars, onto my shoulders. I hovered over him as I murmured, "I want to make love to you," and inserted my cock into the hole where my fingers had been a moment before. Back and forth, at first slowly, then gathering steam until the pubic hairs of my crotch were pounding against the hair of his hard ass, my piston pounded relentlessly, desperately reaching further and further inside the nest of his hole. His groans matched my thrusts. They grew from whines to yelps to demanding "fuck me, fuck me, please," to final surprised yells as the cum shot from his cock at the same moment mine was shooting into his ass.

It was over, finished. It had finally happened. What had finally happened? Sex. Satisfying ecstasy that left me content. Yes, Virginia, there is sex after death. I was grateful to this kid.

He was grateful, too. "Thank you, that was wonderful." I knew from the tone in his voice that he had been scared before everything turned out so right. This hunky kid that could have broken me in two with a single chop of one hand had been scared. Had been scared of being fucked, sure, but of more than just that. Had been scared back in the showers of making the first move to a stranger. His nervousness had made him indiscreet about his job. Had been scared of the two jocks catching him "in the act." Had been scared of waiting in the night for me to leave the gym. Had been scared of going to my unknown apartment.

What had he experienced before this? I didn't know. But probably only his childhood sweatheart, another jock, and maybe some quickies in the bushes where he let himself get blowed. I had initiated him into the world of the gay man. But he had initiated me back into life. It had been successful. For the both of us.

Then I got cold feet. My fatal disease, romanticism, was going to lead me down the rosy path again. Hadn't I had enough experience already? It was okay for this kid to believe in a little cottage with a white picket fence. He still had twenty years to go through the agony of giving up this fairytale and catch up with me. If I hadn't learned my lesson by now, then I deserved 80 DRUMMER anything I got.

So I just lay there, with my hands folded on my stomach, waiting for him to get up and leave. But he didn't. Instead, he snuggled against my side, laid one strong arm across my chest, and lifted his massive leg across both of mine. He was inviting me to hold him. I struggled against his offer, but then capitulated . What the hell, I thought and reluctantly wrapped my arm around his solid shoulders. But I wouldn't go any further.

'Who's that man in the photograph on your bureau?" he asked conversationally. He was referring to Mack.

"My ex-lover." I gave as little information as possible. I didn't want to talk about Mack.

"Did you break up?"

"In a way." I paused, then added, "He died."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He seemed genuinely sorry and this made me angry.

"It doesn't matter," I said abruptly. He didn't seem to notice my tone. Was he dense? Didn't he understand it was none of his business? Couldn't he see I didn't want to talk about it?

"What did he die of?"

"Massive heart attack. One night during the middle of dinner. He died before I could even get him to the hospital." Why was I giving him this information? Was I trying to make him feel sorry for me? If I was, then I was succeeding. I thought I detected a catch in his voice as if he were going to cry. That made me even angrier.

"God, that's horrible," he said. "You must have gone through hell." He was touching something in me, something I didn't want touched, and I was filling up and finding it hard to speak rationally, calmly, even at all. In one moment, I would only be able to cry at the memories of that evening, the funeral, and the days and weeks and months that had followed. I had to stop his innocent stroll through the minefield of my exposed feelings.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," I said and pulled my arm away from his shoulders and turned my back to him. He still didn't understand because he moved closer to me and, this time, wrapped both his arms around me to comfort me. His comfort was tormenting me.

'Leave me alone," I screamed and jumped out of bed. I was ashamed, embarrassed, furious and exploding.

'What do you know about death? When have you lost someone who made everything worthwhile?" I couldn't stop the erupting tears. "Your sympathy is worthless, worse than worthless ; it's humiliating, debasing." I was shrieking like a banshee. "I want you to leave." My pin had been pulled. I was bawling like a baby.

It was now his turn to be embarrassed. I saw his open face that still showed traces of adolescence; now it also looked confused . "You shouldn't go where you don't belong," I sobbed at him. I looked at his green, inexperienced eyes that were still flecked with the kind of adolescent pain that would someday mature into a deeper kind of pain. My kind. I had seen his shallow kind of pain in the showers when he had thought the jocks had almost caught him in the act. He had never seen my kind of pain until now.

"Get dressed," I commanded. My crying left him no choice. He obeyed me and started to dress while I walked into the bathroom and finished my long overdue sobbing. When I reen-tered the bedroom, I was calm. He was dressed and waiting for me. We said nothing; but I couldn't look him in the face. He followed me to the door. Because I didn't know what else to do, I held out my hand, feeling foolish. He didn't take it. Instead, he asked gently, "Can I see you again?" I dropped my hand. He still wanted to see me after my humiliating outburst? I looked into his green eyes. Their gentle invitation touched all those newly fresh memories.

I opened the door to let him out. "I'll see you on Saturday. We'll have dinner here." I can only describe his look as a great big grin. He walked out and paraded down the hall, seeming to fill it with his broad shoulders.

I turned from the door. The room no longer smelled of loneliness.

WITNESS by PHILIP GAUDREAU

It must have been around 4 A.M.; I was slowly driving home from a late party at a friend's house, when I saw him: a young man, staggering along the sidewalk, completely naked! I couldn't believe my eyes. Was he drunk? Or really wiped out on drugs? Or had he been mugged? I pulled over to the curb and stopped the car, watching him for a moment through the rear-view mirror. He was stumbling from storefront to storefront, clinging to the walls of the buildings for support as he went, stopping for a moment to sag against a doorway to catch his breath, then slowly, clumsily, almost painfully, moving on. The street was deserted except for the two of us. I wondered if he were ill, if I should get out and try to help him. Maybe he was really crazy from drugs and dangerous! I toyed with the idea of trying to contact the police on my CB radio. But just then he ran into a large public trash receptacle and collapsed over it, clinging to the rim desperately. I decided to try to help. Locking the car, I walked back toward him.

As I got closer I could see lash marks on his back and buttocks , bruises on his wrists and ankles and a small line of dried blood stuck to the skin of his right cheek. He wore a studded black leather dog collar around his neck, but otherwise he was totally naked; and he had been shaved from head to toe! I stopped about five feet from him and watched for a moment. He was crying softly.

"Can I help you?" I said.

A moment passed. He stopped sobbing and slowly raised his head to look at me.

"Do you need help?" I repeated, surveying the bruises on his body: whip marks on his back, rope burns on the ankles and wrists, several cuts on his head and arms and legs where a razor had dug too deep into the skin with small patches of dried blood clinging to them.

He shook his head "No," sagged against the trash bin, then began to sob again.

"Were you mugged? Who did this to you?" .ealizing as I said it that this was obviously not the result of a street crime. This guy was somebody's slave, turned out into the street, naked, to find his way home in the dark. Suddenly the thought sent a shudder through my body and I felt my cock swell. Yes, I thought, that's exactly what had happened. He'd been kicked out into the street, naked, by his Master! I looked at him somewhat differently now. He was about 23 or 24, slim, not overly muscular, about 5'10" tall. His eyebrows were the only hair that remained, they were dark. He looked up and saw me staring at him and suddenly he must have felt embarrassed and he attempted to cover his shaved crotch with his hands.

"I'm nothing," he cried, "I'm nothing, don't look at me, go

'way.'

The full impact of the scene struck me like a shot. My heart leaped out to this boy, this slave, who was feeling so abused, so humiliated, so abandoned.

"Did your Master send you out like this?" I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, searching my face, realizing that I knew what had happened, what he was.

"He threw me out!" he gasped. "He beat me and whipped me and shaved me and made me do all those other things and…" He stopped, tears running down his face, his features contorted with anguish. "I love him! I told him I love him, and then he beat me so hard I couldn't stand it and still I wanted him to beat me harder and harder—just so I could show him how much I love him and how much I would endure for him! Oh God, I love him so much, I'd do anything for him! I told him so. I said, 'Please, Master, I love you. Please hurt me, please use my body. I want to show you how much I love you. Please, please!' … But then he grabbed me and threw me out the door, like this, naked! and told me to go on home.

'He called me an asshole. Oh God, I love him so much, and he called me a turd and kicked me out! What'll I do? I need him! I love him! God, help me!'

Then at last, I understood more completely what had happened . This guy's Master had realized how deep a love was here! And how devoted a slave could be created from this boy. He had decided to give him a real opportunity to demonstrate his love and devotion. But how? The beating and shaving and verbal abuse he gave him at his apartment were not enough. This slave needed the opportunity to prove himself by being publicly humiliated. Yes, that would do it! Send him out, naked, into the street, completely stripped of everything except the marks of his beatings and the dog collar which showed to the world that the boy belonged to a real Master! I looked again at this boy, this slave, standing before me in abject humiliation, crying. And I smiled at him,

"Hey," I said, "don't you understand? Your Master has done a wonderful thing for you. He saw that you needed an extreme way of demonstrating your love and devotion for him. Now he is allowing you to show the world that he controls your mind as well as your body by forcing you to be humiliated like this. This is a beautiful thing, guy! Don't you see? Stand up and show me your nakedness, show me your bruises, show me where your Master beat you and shaved you and whipped you. Show yourself proudly! And show me how gratefully you endure all this because you love your Master and will do whatever he asks of you to demonstrate that love!"

The fellow looked at me. His tear-stained face slowly softened.

'Oh my God! You're right! Oh yes! Yes! I'll show you! I will do that for him. Yes, I want to show you how much I love him. Look! Here! Here is where he punched me, here is where he kicked me, here is where he whipped me-Oh God! that hurt so much! But I took it! I cried from the pain, but then I told him I loved him and I begged him to hurt me some more. And that's when he cut my cheek with his knife and made me lick the blood off. Oh God, how I was burning inside for him! I wanted him to take me and crush me and destroy me and make me part of him, part of his body! He's wonderful, you know, so strong and bright and handsome. And I belong to him! Yes! That's the most wonderful part. I am his entirely! Here I am, standing in front of you, naked, telling you that. Telling you that I love my Master, and I am doing all this for him. I am naked in the street for him, and I am suddenly so happy!"

Suddenly his face fell. "Oh my God. How can I thank him?

'I'm sure he'll know just by looking into your eyes the next time he sees you. Maybe though, when he summons you, you might ask him if you could appear at his door naked. Ask him if that would please him. Then, when he opens the door, you could kneel before him, put your head on the floor and place his foot on your head to demonstrate your total submission to his will. That would be the way to thank him."

I looked searchingly into his eyes. He was smiling! He stood up, wiped the tears from his face with the backs of his hands and

'Yeah, good. Oh wow! I'm okay now. Thanks.'

He looked around, then slowly walked on down the street. I watched him, followed the movement of his bruised buttocks as he walked. The he turned the corner and was gone. I stood there a few moments, staring after him, thinking of what had happened. What a beautiful scene it was! I smiled to myself, continued on page 79

(ANONYMOUS SUBMISSION)

I stood naked before the bathroom mirror, about to start getting ready for my trip to spend the weekend with Daddy. The disposable diaper and the bottle of baby lotion lay on the edge of the sink. I looked at myself in the mirror. A naked man stared back at me. I watched myself start sucking my thumb. Better, but not nearly enough. I took the baby lotion and started spreading it on my face. It was cool and slick on my skin. I put the stuff on my chest, paying special attention to my tits, kneading and squeezing them. I smeared myself with the lotion head to foot, putting it extra thick on my cock, balls and ass. I slipped the adult-sized diaper on and fastened it. I looked in the mirror again. This time a baby looked back at me-Daddy's baby.

I finished getting dressed. The shirt and jeans felt a little funny on my skin, and the jeans only made me even more aware of my diaper. It was starting. My mind was getting in gear for when I got to Daddy's house. When I was with Daddy I wasn't a man; I was his baby, slave, toilet, dog; whatever he wanted me to be, whenever he wanted me to be it.

I took a cab to the bus station. Daddy lived too far away for me to see him more often than a weekend every other month or so. When I'd drive it'd take four hours to get there. Daddy decided

I should start taking the bus instead.

I'd packed a suitcase with a box of disposable diapers, the baby lotion and a package of Polaroid film. That was all I'd need for the weekend. When I got on the bus and took a seat I pushed it back, and leaned back and closed my eyes. I started letting myself relax, getting myself ready for when I got to Daddy and he took control of me. He used hypnosis to have even more control over me, and now I was using a little self-hypnosis to get ready for it. He would make me into a baby, and I would forget everything I knew as an adult—how to walk or talk or go to the bathroom-I would wet my diaper without even thinking about it. It was the same if I was his slave, dog or toilet at the moment. He made me feel completely naked, helpless and totally controlled. I'd have no memory of any other life-in fact, I would remember his control of me being the only life I'd ever had. I'd suck him off and he'd piss down my throat or on me as he chose. He'd have all the choice, not me. Sometimes he'd have me crying and bawling, unable to stop until he told me I could.

I had a hard-on as I rode along. Daddy like me to stay hard inside my diaper. Sometimes when he was changing my diaper he'd either let me jack of or do it for me. He'd have me come on my wet diaper and then lick up my cum.

After a while I began needing to piss. I relaxed and let it flow, and the warm wetness gathered around my crotch. The diaper trapped and held most of the fluid. A little seeped through and made a dark patch on my jeans, but not really anything to worry about. I was wearing new jeans that were still dark, and hardly anybody was going to get an accidental peek at my crotch where I was sitting. Beyond that I didn't care. I didn't really care about walking through the bus station, at least I didn't quite give a damn about what any strangers might think. Daddy lived in a small redneck town. I hated the place for the fundamentalist pinheads who made up most of the population. I didn't care what such people thought, because as a rule they don't think, anyway.

In due course the bus ride ended, and I took my suitcase and went looking for Daddy. He was waiting for me on a bench in the station. Our eyes met, and he rose and walked out to his car. I followed him and put my suitcase in the back set and got in the front. When I pulled the door shut behind me, my fate was sealed, for the weekend, anyway. I was now under Daddy's control, and would be until he brought me back to the bus station Sunday afternoon for the trip hom. Even though we hadn't seen each other for a couple of months, there'd be no small talk.

There was an ice chest on the seat beside me. I knew what it was there for and what was inside it, but I only sat waiting for him to get in the car. I would do what I was told, and nothing I wasn't.

Daddy got in and started the car. He didn't say anything until we'd left the parking lot.

"Hello, baby," he said softly.

"Hello, Daddy," I answered, the little-boy tones coming out automatically.

He reached over to feel my still-damp crotch.

"Oh, baby's gone and wet his diaper," he smiled. "Have to get him home and get him cleaned up to play with."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Is baby thirsty?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Was baby a good little boy all the way down here?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Then baby can have something to drink so he can relax." I opened the ice chest. Several cans of beers lay packed in ice. I opened one and went to work on it.

"That's right, baby, drink it all down," he said, and I did. When I finished it he took the empty can from me and told me to take off my shoes and socks. I handed them to him, and he tossed them in back and told me to start on another beer.

Two more beers later we pulled into the driveway of his house. He told me to strip, and I was down to my diaper by the time he stopped in the garage and had the door down. I sat waiting for him to walk around to the door on my side. I crawled out of the car and stood on all fours at his feet, head bowed—I never looked Daddy or anyone else in the eye when I visited his house; it was one of the rules.

'Is baby going to be good for Daddy?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"And suck Daddy's cock and be Daddy's toilet all the time?"

"That's right," he stroked my head, "Daddy's got himself a good little cocksucking baby slave dog toilet. And baby can start sucking Daddy's cock right now.'

"Yes, Daddy," I said, and opened his fly.

I took his cock in my hands, cradling it and his balls, and then started sucking on the cockhead, rolling and kneading it with my tongue. Then I swallowed it all the way to the root and started moving back and forth along its length.

"Yeah, baby, that's the way," he sighed, "baby knows how to make Daddy happy, all right."

He was close to coming now, and I could taste his precum. Presently he took hold of my head and pulled it all the way down on his cock, and came. I swallowed all his cum and sucked his cock clean.

"Good baby," he said as he pulled out of my mouth. "Come on, baby. Daddy's gonna get baby all nice and clean, and in a nice, dry diaper.

"Yes, Daddy," I said, and crawled along behind him into the house. He lead me to the bathroom. He pointed at the bathtub, and I crawled into it and stood waiting on all fours. He turned me around and sat me down in the tub. He filled the tub a few inches, then washed me with baby shampoo and a sponge. He was washing his property, getting it ready for his use. He played with my cock and tits, sponging the warm, soapy water over me, fondling and stroking me. Then he rinsed me off and drained the tub. He got me out and toweled me dry.

Now it was time for my enema. I felt the plastic tube slide up into my asshole, and heard the water begin flowing through the hose. Then I began feeling the pressure building up inside me, stretching me. It was getting close to the limit of what I could take, but Daddy had already trained me not to make a sound while he gave me a bath or enema. He opened my mouth and put his cock in it, and started sucking on it. He started pissing. My throat relaxed, and his piss streamed on down into my stomach. By the time he was finished, the enema bag had emptied into me as well. Daddy put my ass over the toilet bowl and pulled the tube out of me. "Shit, baby," he said.

I let go, and it splashed out of me into the toilet. He wiped me clean and flushed the toilet, then led me into a small bedroom that he'd turned into a nursery. He laid me on my back, and poured some baby lotion in his hand. He rubbed the lotion into my skin everywhere, especially on my tits, crotch and ass. He slid his finger in and out of my asshole a few times, and I let out a few little baby sounds or pleasure, and raised my legs back toward my head.

'Oh, baby likes having his little asshole played with, doesn't he?" Daddy chuckled. "Well, he's gonna get it played with a lot, yes, indeed.'

He sprinkled baby powder all over me and put a fresh diaper on me. Then he led me to the living room, and sat in an armchair while I sat at his feet. He picked up a pacifier on a ribbon loop from a table by his chair, slipped the loop around my neck, and put the pacifier in my mouth. I started sucking on it.

"Oh, yes, baby looks so cute," he said. "Daddy's really missed his baby, and he has some really nice surprise for baby." 14 DRUMMER

He leaned forward and took the pacifier from my mouth. Then he laid me down on my back. He stood up and switched off the lights.

"Close your eyes, baby," he said. "Relax."

I did as he told me. He set me to counting backwards. As I did, I began concentrating on the sound of my voices, and it got harder and harder to remember the next number. By the time I was down to thirty my voice was low and slurred. I don't think I made it past twenty. Then I heard Daddy's voice, low and monotonous, making me relax even more, putting me in a deep sleep but still able to hear everything he said, and nothing else. He took complete control of me, and took away my memory and will, making me completely dependent on him. From now on, until he told me to wake up and be myself, I would trust him completely, do anything and everything he told me, be anything and everything he told me to be. The only thing that mattered was that I was his property, and I had been all my life. I had no purpose or desire but to serve and obey and please him and anyone he told me to. I was his slave, baby, toilet, dog and toy. He gave me the rules I was to live by as each one of the things he turned me into. I would know them and obey them without being told, and I would change from one thing to the next as he ordered. When he would tell me to open my eyes I would still be under his control; and when he told me to sleep I would, and when he woke me I would still be under his control.

He told me to open my eyes, and turned on the lights. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, not a single thought in my head. He sat back in his armchair, wearing only his jeans now.

"Slave," he said, "get over here." "Yes, Sir," I said, and knelt at attention at his feet, eyes down.

He took hold of my hair and pulled my face against his crotch.

"What are you?" he asked. "Your slave, Sir," I said, the words coming out of me on their own, matter-of-factly.

"What kind of slave?"

"Your cocksucking, pissdrinking slave, Sir."

He placed a bare foot on my diapered crotch, squeezing it with his toes.

"What's that thing in your diaper, boy?"

"It's my—your slave's cock, Sir."

"Does it need servicing?"

"Only if you say it does, Sir."

"Your cock, Sir."

"It needs attention. Get to work on it, asshole."

"Yes, Sir," I said, and slipped my mouth over it. The task at hand-or rather mouth-quickly became the only thing of which I was aware. Sucking the cock right was important; it mattered. Soon I wasn't aware of anything but the cock and my mouth. I was only vaguely aware of pressure, hands on the back of my head, moving me. Finally the cock rewarded my labors with a load of sweet-salty cum. Somehow I had the feeling of being fed and cared for. Not that I could have had such a thought just then, but it was the most satisfaction I'd ever had from a load of cum shot in my mouth. I was still at it when some cars pulled up on the driveway and the doorbell rang. I didn't stop because I hadn't been told to, and those were just sounds to me.

"Come in," Daddy called out.

I still didn't break stride when the door opened and footsteps and male voices came into the room, nor did I look up.

"Well, will you look at that," someone said. "What the shit have we got here?"

"We got a cocksucking, pissdrinking little asshole slave," Daddy said. "I'm still working on breaking the little mother-fucker in. He's kinda on the stupid side. You boy's wouldn't mind lending a hand, would you?"

'Hell, why not?" another man said.

"Slave," my Master said, pulling me off his cock, "go greet my guests.' continued on page 75

continued from page 14

"Yes, Sir," I said, and turned around to the men. I never dared raise my eyes above their crotches, so I never saw their faces. All I saw were jeans and boots. I kissed and licked their boots each in turn. Then they brought out their cocks for me to suck.

"Damn," one of them said as I blew him, "little shithead's a natural born cocksucker, all right."

"Good toilet, too," Daddy said as he removed my diaper. "Raise your ass, boy, so's everybody can get a good look at it."

I obediently raised it for inspection from the rough hands fondling and slapping it, and the even rougher fingers poking into my asshole.

Someone switched on some redneck music. I heard glass clinking softly across the room, and something hollow and metallic being set on the floor. The man I was sucking took hold of my hair and handed me to one of his friends, who squeezed my tits, ass and genitals, and sampled my cocksucking ability a while before handing me to the next one for inspection. The last one grabbed me by the shoulders when he was finished checking me out, and turned me around. There was a large washtub on the floor.

"In the tub, asshole," he said, and sent me on my way with a healthy slap on my ass.

I climbed into the tub and sat kneeling in it, and got another cock shoved in my mouth to suck. After the man came he let go with a stream of piss. I knew pleasing my Master and his friends was important, and I didn't lose a drop. I heard bottles opening and the men drinking. I was sucking another cock when a stream of warm liquid hit my back. After he came the man in my mouth also pissed down my throat.

The beer kept flowing, and so did the cum and piss, both in me and on me, for I don't know how long. Finally the beer ran out, and Daddy's friend's cocks wouldn't get hard no matter what. They each used my mouth for a quick piss, and then Daddy showed them out. I was soaked in piss head to foot, and sitting in a shallow pool of it in the bottom of the tub.

He came back in the room with a large towel, got me out of the tub and dried me off, then put his cock in my mouth, and I started sucking it.

"That's right, baby, suck Daddy's cock," he said. "Get Daddy's cock all nice and hard, and Daddy'll do something real nice

I sucked and nibbled on it for a while, and it rose to the occasion once again. Then he pulled it out and turned me facing away from him. I heard a click like a jar opening.

"Slave."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Relax your ass, slave."

"Yes, Sir," I said, and my ass muscles started relaxing as ordered. Then I felt a greased finger poke into me and begin sliding in and out all the way. Then two fingers, then three, probing and stretching me. Then they withdrew, and I felt his cock take his place.

He started fucking me, gripping my sides and sliding home in long single strokes. He ordered me to beg for it, to tell him how good his cock made my ass feel. I babbled on as ordered until he came. I felt a true slave's gratitude at being allowed to serve his Master, and privileged to receive his cock.

He came, and then set me to sucking his cock clean, and used my throat for another piss. Then he made me a baby again, bathed and diapered me, put me in rubber pants, and took me back to the nursery.

He put me in the crib, covered me up, and latched it shut. He gave me a bottle of warm milk to drink, and I went to work on it as if I was starving. He started talking to me again, and every-

I dreamed Daddy gave me some kind of drug that turned me into a little boy, about six or seven years old. All my body hair disappeared, and I got smaller, including my cock and balls. Daddy picked me up and cradled me in his arms while he tickled and fondled me. He led me by the hand down the street wearing just my diaper. People stopped us to pet and fondle me, and tell Daddy what a cute little boy he had. A woman with a baby buggy handed Daddy a bottle to feed me while everyone stood watching and laughing. The milk was warm and sweet. I wet my diaper as I drank it.

The next thing I knew Daddy was waking me up. It was morning. I was lying in a pool of my own piss. I had wet the bed in my sleep, but it wasn't really such a bad feeling. Daddy got me out of the crib and took off rubber pants and diaper. He took me to the bathroom, bathed me, gave me an enema, and used me as his toilet again. Besides the diaper and rubber pants he dressed me in baby clothes, including a bonnet and booties. He took me to the kitchen and put me in a highchair to feed me a bottle of formula and a bowl of baby cereal. Then he took me to the living room and put me in a playpen, and gave me another bottle of formula to drink. I lay there, sucking on the bottle, curled up in the playpen, my mind pleasantly blank. I kept dozing off in short little naps.

After awhile Daddy came into the room, got me out of the playpen, and took me to the car. He put me on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He drove several blocks and then came to a stop. He opened the door on my side and told me to get out. I climbed out on all fours onto a driveway in front of a large house, and crawled behind him to the front door. He rang the bell.

The door opened and a woman's voice said to come in. I crawled along behind Daddy through a hallway toward a room with a man's voice and a baby laughing. The man was bent over a playpen like the one I'd been in just a little while ago. In it was a teenage boy dressed as I was. The man was tickling and fondling him, and the baby was giggling and cooing. Daddy put me in the playpen with the other baby. Daddy and the other daddy stood talking about me and the other baby, how cute we were, and so forth. The woman came in the room and stood by the playpen talking with the two daddies. The other baby and I started playing with each other.

"You sure got a cute baby," the other daddy said. "Almost as cute as ours. I was just about to give him a bath. You know, I bet he'd really enjoy getting a bath with another cute little baby.'

"I bet he would," Daddy said. "I'll give you a hand bathing them.

They took us to the bathroom and undressed us. His baby was smooth and hairless from the eyes down. The daddy ran his hand over my skin.

'Say, your baby sure needs a shave, doesn't he?" he asked Daddy. "Nothing I like better than making little babies all nice and smooth.'

"Sure, why not?" Daddy said while he played with the other baby.

Then Daddy ran water into the bathtub. Then he put me in. The water was really warm, but not enough to hurt. He took a bottle of baby shampoo, spread it on my face, chest and under my arms, and worked it into a lather. Then he took a razor and started shaving me there. Then my stomach, crotch, ass, arms and legs, until I was as smooth and hairless as the other baby. He did a very thorough job and didn't cut or nick me once.

He rinsed me off and drained the water, then ran another tub of water for mine and the other baby's bath. Daddy put him in the tub with me and we played with each other while our daddies bathed us, touching and feeling each other all over. Then they got us out and toweled us dry, and it was time for our enemas. Daddy laid me on my back and stood the other baby over me on all fours, and put our cocks in each other's mouths. I heard the water running through the hose into the other baby as we sucked each other. They pulled him off me and set him on the toilet seat. When he was finished they laid him on the floor where I'd been and put me over him for my enema. When I was finished and cleaned up they started dressing us again. Daddy rubbed baby lotion all over me.

"Baby's so sweet, and so nice and smooth," he said, and then he powdered me.

DRUMMER 75

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me suck his cock while Daddy used the other baby. The took us back to the room with the playpen. The woman was sitting on a large pillow on the floor.

'Well, are our babies all nice and clean?" she asked.

"They sure are," the other daddy said. "I bet they're hungry now.

"Well, Momma can take care of that," she said. "Come over to Momma, babies."

The other baby made a beeline across the floor to her, with me right behind him. We cuddled up to her and she put her arms around us.

"Oh, my, Momma's got two sweet little hungry babies to feed," she said. She opened her blouse to reveal her breasts. They were big and heavy with milk. She put one of them in my mouth and the other in the other baby's. I sucked on it, and started getting milk. The more I sucked the more I got, and the more I got the more I wanted.

There was a click and a flash of light, then another. Both daddies were taking our pictures.

Finally I'd gotten all there was. I was getting sleepy. They put us back in the playpen, and we curled up together for a nap in each other's arms.

After a while Daddy woke me up. It was time to go. I kissed the other baby goodbye and followed him to the door, and out to the car. I rode back to Daddy's house with my head in his lap, sucking on his cock. I found out later that the other baby was the man and woman's son, and that they'd been keeping him as a baby since he started wetting his bed when he was twelve; and that she took a drug that made her breasts produce milk.

When we got back to the house he took me into the living room. He started talking to me. I don't remember anything he said, just the sound of his voice, calm and soothing and taking control of me again. My eyes closed.

I went into another dream. I was in a cage on all fours, staring out through the bars. The air was full of barking, yipping noises and strange animal smells. I was naked except for my collar. I was a dog in a kennel. There were others like me in the other cages, collared, hairless bodies. I was thirsty. There was a bowl of water in a corner of the cage. I started lapping it up. Then I

I blinked and the dream was gone. I was outside, in a back yard with a high wooden fence and several trees. My owner was holding a leash attached to my collar. The man was my owner. I was his dog. That was all I knew, and pleasing him was all that mattered to me. My life had no other purpose. He held out his hand to me and I licked it.

"Good dog," he said, and led me around the room a few times. He stopped a couple of times to pat my head and scratch me behind my ear.

He took me off the leash and held up a tennis ball. "Fetch, dog," he said, and tossed it across the yard.

I scampered after it and brought it back in my mouth, and dropped it at his feet. He gave me a dog treat. I chewed it up and swallowed it. It tasted great, but knowing I'd pleased my owner was even better. He unzipped his jeans and took out his cock. He stroked it right in front of me until it got hard. I stared at it, openmouthed and drooling. I wanted it. I sat up and begged and whimpered for it.

"Suck, dog," he ordered, and I opened my mouth to take it. He took hold of my head and moved it back and forth on his cock. He fucked my mouth until he came, and then gave me a long drink of his piss.

He left me alone to play in the yard awhile. It was warm and sunny. The sun, air and grass felt so good on my bare, hairless skin. I romped and rolled in the grass, and pissed on a tree with a back leg raised.

The man came out with a doggie dish and set it on the patio. "Here, dog," he called. "Come and get it, boy."

I scampered over to the bowl and fell to scarfing up the dog food in the bowl. He stood over me, watching me eat. I didn't stop until I'd licked the bowl clean. As I was eating he ran his hands over my back and ass, squeezing my tits, cock and balls, 78 DRUMMER and playing with my asshole. He started sliding his fingers in and out of my asshole then he started fucking me. I kept my face down in the bowl licking up every bit of the food. I was more an animal than ever before now. Not a single human thought had occurred to me since I'd woke up in the yard, but now I felt nothing but an animal obsession with eating and sex. It was the most satisfying meal I'd ever had. The taste of the dog food, the bowl and my lips became all one with the feel of his cock in my ass.

Then the cock made one final deep thrust into me and came. It pulled out of me, and I lay crouched with my face still down inside the bowl, savoring that cool wetness.

I heard his voice again. Again I don't remember the words, just their sound and what they did to me. Again I dreamed.

I was back in the kennel. I was taken out of my cage and led on all fours on a leash past the other cages. He took me to a room and put me on a low table that brought my head up to the man's chest. He took the leash off my collar and replaced it with a chain attached to the table.

He took electric clippers and went to work on my head, shearing it bare, including my eyebrows. Then a razor and a bowl of lather for a head-to-foot shave. He gave me an enema and hosed me down with cold water, then fucked me and pissed down my throat.

He put me back on the leash and led me back outside. He chained me to a pole in front of the cages. The other dogs were yapping and barking excitedly. They knew what was coming next.

The man opened one of the cage doors, and the dog inside scampered over to me. He sniffed and licked my ass a little, then mounted me from behind and started fucking me. He humped me in quick hungry strokes, and in a little while he came. He pulled out of me and crawled back to his cage for the man to lock him back up and let the next dog out to fuck me. One dog after another mounted me. Some of them bit and chewed my ear while they fucked me, but the rest just used my ass and then went back to their cages to eat.

It was morning when I woke up. At first I wasn't aware of anything but a definite ache in my butt. Then someting wet around my middle, and a wetness I seemed to be lying in under a blanket. I wasn't aware of anything else. I didn't know anything else. Wrong-I was hungry. I didn't like it but I didn't really know what to do about it, except let out a complaining little noise.

Daddy came in the room. He got me out of the crib, gave me a bath and enema, and dressed me in a fresh diaper, pants and baby clothes. He took me to the kitchen and put me in the highchair. I got fed a bottle of formula and a bowl of baby cereal. I was extra hungry, so it all tasted wonderful.

He started talking to me in that special way again, and I went into another dream. It was different from the others. It was everything that had happened, happening over and over again, like a video playing itself on an endless loop, except that it was repeating faster and faster, until it was all becoming one. Then it was all one, like a whole movie compressed into a single frame, yet every bit of it clear and distinct.

The next thing I knew I was sitting in the front seat of Daddy's car, dressed in the clothes I'd worn on the bus trip, but without a diaper this time. It was afternoon, and time to catch the next bus back home. We said our goodbyes, and agreed on the date for my next trip down, in a month or two. The other baby's parents might bring him over to play with me, or I might even be able to spend a whole day with them.

I took my suitcase anl got on the bus. I didn't take much self-hypnosis to call up that last dream again. I ran it again and again. Not savoring it. Wallowing in it.

Now I was headed back to my other life, the one in the "real" world, the one with my career and all the other things and people I was too "practical" to give up. But the weeks would pass soon enough, and I'd put it all on the shelf for a weekend …and Daddy would have his little boy to play with again.□

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SLAVERY IN TEXAS

"'Live from the bunkhouse, it's Shock Time!' said the voice on the tape recording in a macabre attempt to imitate a radio deejay. The sound of a buzzing cattle prod and screams followed. 'Scream louder-louder, you s.o.b.,' a voice commanded. 'If you don't scream louder, you'll wish you did.' I like to see the sparks fly,' said someone else. 'And now a word from our sponsors,' the first voice calmly announced. 'Having trouble with your neighbors? Try Hot Shot. For hours and hours of enjoyment, tie them up anywhere and shock the hell out of them…

The above is quoted in Newsweek of June 2, 1986, from a tape played to a Ker-rville , Texas jury at the opening of the trial of Walter Ellebracht and several members of his family who are charged with kidnapping and murder. Between 1981 and 1984 they allegedly lured as many as 75 drifters to their central Texas ranch with promises of food and jobs. Once there they were kept in delapidated barns and forced to work. If they tried to leave they were chained and / or tortured . charged with kidnapping and murder. Between 1981 and 1984 they allegedly lured as many as 75 drifters to their central Texas ranch with promises of food and jobs. Once there they were kept in delapidated barns and forced to work. If they tried to leave they were chained and / or tortured .

Anthony Bates, whose screams are heard on the tape, cut his leg and refused to work. He was tortured, killed and cremated according to two ranch hands who have admitted their participation. When Travis Boyd tried to leave the ranch, Ellebracht, his son and several ranch hands forced him to write a suicide note, then tied him to a tree and tortured him with a cattle prod-saying "Welcome to your nightmare!" He later escaped and alerted authorities who raided the ranch and found seven men and one woman living in degrading conditions. Further investigation unearthed the story of Bates' murder-and his cremated remains.

This is only one of the 49 alleged slavery cases currently under investigation by the U.S. Justice Dept. We thoroughly support the practice of slavery-and torture. But only when all parties involved are fully consenting adults.

MR. LEATHER NEW YORK

The 1986 production of the Mr. Leather New York Contest is under way, set to be held at New York's Paradise Garage, November 1, 1986, beginning at 8 P.M. sharp. In addition to many raffle prizes, the winner of the title will receive $1,000 cash. Second prize will be $500 and third prize will be $250. These cash prizes have all been donated and will not be taken from the proceeds, all of which, after expenses, will go to the AIDS Resource Center (ARC).

Contestants may be sponsored by individuals, clubs and bars as well as organizations. Local contests and competitions are encouraged in order to provide contestants.

The program itself will be centered around the leather experience, with entertainment throughout the evening. Featured will be Gotham and Herb and Potato. Other entertainers will be presented and a great evening is guaranteed. Plans are also under way for an exhibit area with merchants presenting a great variety of goods.

Those desiring contestant applications, event tickets ($25 in advance, $30 at the door) or raffle tickets should write: The Mr. Leather New York Contest , Box 410, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

NOT ALL NEWS IS BAD! WIN ONE:

In June, Maine's voters overwhelmingly rejected a referendum proposing the criminalizing of pornography and sent a very strong message to the country.

The question: "Do you want to make it a crime to make sell, give for value or otherwise promote obscene material in Maine?" The reply: 72% no, 28% yes.

WIN TWO:

In the first case brought under North Carolina's obscenity statute, two clerks have been aquitted of felony charges for "disseminating obscenity." Three magazines (Bisexual Desires Vol. 1; Lashes; and Beg for Cock) and a videotape (She-Male Encounters ) had been purchased by an undercover officer at Player's Bookstore on October 2, 1985, one day after the new law went into effect. On July 3, 1986 the two clerks who had been arrested were found not guilty-because the jury ruled that the material was not obscene.

WIN-WELL, AT LEAST DIDN'T LOSE—THREE:

British Customs authorities have dropped charges against Gay's the Word bookstore and has returned most of the inventory of imported gay books that had been seized many months ago. The not-for -profit gay bookstore has lost thousands of dollars worth of business because of the seizure , but the owners and staff are relieved that the case has been dropped.

A few titles, principally Boyd McDonald's Meat, Flesh, and other such collections from Straight to Hell, were declared obscene and not returned to Gay's the Word. However, instead of holding a book burning-which has been the custom office's previous practice , the "obscene" titles were returned to Giovanni's Room in Philadelphia, Gay's the Word's main supplier.

30110110H;3

DEVOTED TO THE DRUMMER PHILOSOPHY, WHATEVER THAT MAY BE…

As with any other great happening , I can remember the first time I was exposed to poppers. It was in someone's cramped little apartment in the Hollywood environs and I was having so-so sex with someone that I was beginning to wonder why I ever went home with. And from his performance , he was probably wondering the very same thing. All of a sudden he broke a capsule under my nose and said, "Sniff this." I could see myself hooked to some sordid dope habit for life, shamelessly craving more and more and, after a whiff of something that smelled like overripe socks, my one-night host turned into a Rock Hudson lookalike and I floated away on a cloud of short-term ecstasy. I wouldn't know the guy now if he was sitting in my lap but I will never forget his part in my introduction to the seamy world of erotic drugs. In a very short time I was going to the little cut-rate drug store on Holly- wood Boulevard and paying $3.75 for a box of yellow capsules , nylon-net wrapped. It was amyl nitrate and I experienced many a happy climax under its influence.

Later on, the federal government noticed amyl's surge of popularity and made druggists dispense the stuff only with prescription. Some of us with the right kind of connections had little trouble continuing to get the wonderful little capsules and the rest of us had to settle for a commercial version in the liquid form, still called "poppers" but was now a version of butyl nitrite. which required no prescription since its manufacturers had convinced themselves and the Feds the little bottles were being sold as "Room Odorizers"-in spite of the fact that it smelled like a mixture of Clorox and dirty socks.

These mixtures were given brand names like BOLT and RUSH after the two pioneers in the field finished fighting

DEATH RUSH over the name LOCKER ROOM. Then HARDWARE and QUICKSILVER came out of the midwest. Most of the gay publications were delighted to have a share of all this advertising which soon be-came four color in five figures. In many of the heavier leather bars and shops one could get unlabeled brown bottles of "real" amyl or at least a bathtub version as well. The markup was horrendous both on these products and the paraphernalia that proliferated for its use. Little inhalers of spun aluminum on leather thongs were a proper part of an evening's wardrobe. The inhalers looked like bullets and one brand became popular with just that name.

Some of these companies, along with their offshoots, continued to stay in business. Others, perhaps too full of their own product, dropped by the wayside or were taken over by less frivolous business-men , both gay and otherwise.

Everybody knew that these products were not good for them. Analyzed, some brands showed traces of chlorine and God-knows-what-else mixed in with the alcohol base. The manufacturers claimed their version was "purer" than competitors'. "You don't get a headache with our products, was a favorite phrase. In truth most of the manufacturing ended up being done by a handful of "labs" who bottled the same stuff under any brand name one wished. Wholesale cost was usually around a dollar, give or take, depending on how well advertised the brand was.

Which just about brings us up to date. We all realize that poppers are not good for us. But then neither is smoking or drinking. And, of course, comparing a bottle of HARD-WARE or RUSH with some of the other recreational drugs that are proliferating the scene makes the butyl nitrite look almost like a bottle of vitamins . After all, how bad can it be for you?

Which brings us up to a little book just sent us for review by Pagan Press in New York City. Its authors, John Lauritsen and Hank Wilson make quite a case against butyl nitrite. They have certainly convinced me, and Drummer thought it was important enough to commission me to get something more than a book review out to its readers. The book's title is Death Rush, Poppers & AIDS and if its authors are only right in half their accusations against the popper industry and its product, it would be enough to make us avoid the stuff at any cost.

Without anybody's permission , I am going to quote you a few lines from the book beyond its opening and closing lines which are the same- 'Don't use poppers.'

"Poppers have become an accepted, even obligatory part of the gay male lifestyle. With regular use, they become a sexual crutch and many gay men are incapable of having sex, even masturbation, without the aid of poppers. Since poppers have become necessary for them to function sexually , giving them up…would seem like giving up sex itself.

"Five different studies found that exposure to amyl or isobutyl nitrite, either through injection or inhalation , caused immunological deficiency in mice. One of those studies further found that the mice exposed to nitrite vapors suffered gross pathological lung damage, weight loss, and most significantly , reversed T-cell rations. In a sixth study, mice exposed to low dosages of isobutyl nitrite vapors developed methemoglobinemia and thymic atrophy. Poppers are known to cause methemoglobinemia in humans and methemoglo-

binemia is typically a form of anemia where the blood turns brown and where the oxygen supply to critical organs is reduced . Autopsies of AIDS victims show the thymus gland to be destroyed in 100% of the cases. No thymus gland, no immune system.

"A seventh mice study could not be carried through to completion. All of the mice died.'

However the point that I find most important in the book is this:

"The government's insistence that the 'HTLV-III' virus is the cause for AIDS, sole and sufficient, has stifled independent research and thinking, and has misled people as to the risk factors for AIDS. Intravenous drug users have not been told to quit using drugs, only that they must stop 'sharing needles.' (Actually, there is no evidence that all, or even most, of the IV drug users with AIDS did 'share needles.'.) Gay men have been told that they must restrict their sexual activities, but not that they ought to stop using cocaine, heroin, quaaludes, amphetamines , ethyl chloride, PCP, marijuana, LSD, barbiturates, poppers and the other 'recreational drugs' (a sick euphemism ) that are prominent in the lifestyle of many.

"The government's unreasoning dogmatism is well expressed in Robert Gallo's statement: 'If you get run over by a truck, you don't need cofactors .' The 'AIDS virus' is hardly a truck, and it may be the 'co-factors' that cause AIDS." (Emphasis ours.)

The authors go on to indict those who manufacture, sell and advertise these dubious products.

According to the book, Dr. James Curran, assistant director of the Center for Infectious Diseases in Atlanta was infuriated that Joseph F. Miller, of Great Lakes Products, Inc., "the nation's largest manufacturer of nitrite-based odorants ," said in a press release, that his company is "greatly relieved to know that recent government studies clearly show that such misuse poses no health hazard."

Dr. Curran sent an angry letter to Miller with a copy to the Advocate (which never printed it). In part:

"Other health hazards from misuse of these drugs have been documented. Your press release and advertisements in the Advocate are misleading and misrepresent the CDC findings and their implications .'

"THE CHRONOLOGY IS SUGGESTIVE: POPPERS BECAME A FAD AMONG GAY MEN BEGINNING IN 1972, JUST SEVEN YEARS BEFORE THE FIRST CASES OF AIDS BEGAN TO BE DIAGNOSED."

Dr. Sue E. Watson sent a letter to Robert McQueen, Editor of the Advocate, in which she stated:

"Our studies show that amyl-nitrite strongly suppresses the segment of the immune system (cellular immunity) which normally protects individuals against Kaposi's sarcoma, pneumocystis pneumonia, herpes virus, Candida, amebi-asis and a variety of other opportunistic infections. The upshot of this research is that persons using nitrite inhalants may be at risk for development of AIDS…Publication of this letter in the Advocate will serve to alert the community to the health risks of using amyl nitrite. I hope you will see fit to include this information in the news section of the Advocate."

After receiving no response, Dr. Watson telephoned editor McQueen. She was told, "We're not interested."

In 1978, the leading poppers manufacturer, W. Jay Freezer financed a $200,000 study which concluded that butyl nitrite products were safe "when used for odorizing purposes." On the basis of this impudently irrelevant study, the California Department of Health permitted poppers to be sold, free of any regulation, testing or control, provided only that the products be advertised as 'room odorizers or incense."

Which could be tantamount to would-be distributors of cocaine labeling their packaged product as dance floor wax.

W. Jay Freezer died of com- plications due to AIDS on March 27, 1985. He was preceded by New York's "Poppers Bill," the first poppers manufacturer to die of AIDS.

Here's more:

"A recent study compared two groups of gay men who were antibody positive to the HTLV-III virus, people who were clinically sick with AIDS and people who were not sick. Usage of the nitrite inhalants proved to be one of the most important risk factors for developing AIDS and especially Kaposi's sarcoma. The heavier the popper usage, the greater the risk.

"Finally, there is the crucial point that for five years AIDS, unlike a truly communicable disease, has remained compartmentalized . Gay men accounted for three-quarters of the nation's AIDS cases five years ago and account for the same proportion now in 1986.

Poppers are used by gay men. They are used by very, very few straight men and by virtually no women at all.

I finished the book and went around the house, seeking out anything with a RUSH, RAM, THUNDERBOLT, LOCKER ROOM, HARD-WARE , DOUBLE EAGLE, CLIMAX, QUICKSILVER, HEAD or CRYPT TONIGHT label and tossed them into the garbage. Room odorizers indeed ! Lauritsen and Wilson's book has me so worked up I even look askance at cans of RENUZIT and GLADE.

I'll end this article the same way they ended their book: DO NOT USE POPPERS.

Period.

Death Rush, Poppers & AIDS, John Lauritsen and Hank Wilson, Pagan Press, 26 St. Mark's Place, New York, NY 10003.

-Robert Payne

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MMER MOVIES WIMP OUT

After Sylvester Stallone's killing spree (in defense of truth, justice, the American way and ridding the streets of weird people on motorcycles) in Cobra and Arnold Schwar-zenegger's muscularity with a sense of humor in Raw Deal, it proved to be a pretty wimpy summer at the movies.

"Que es mas macho?" Laurie Anderson asks in her concert film, Home of the Brave. Which is more macho-"a light bulb or a school bus?" She doesn't explain her answer-a light bulb, of course-but the reason is obvious : Who ever heard of anyone taking a school bus up the ass?

A feast for her fans that may have increased their number, Home of the Brave presented the androgynous performance artist as one of the few people with balls on summer screens.

Que es mas macha? Farrah Fawcett is more crazed than tough as the intended victim who gets the upper hand on rapist James Russo in Extremi-ties , an issue-oriented, movie-of -the-week kind of movie that might appeal to your bondage proclivities but is too intense in its violence, too vague on where it stands for most viewers.

At best Farrah had to duke it out with Bette Midler of Ruthless People for a distant second place in the machisma stakes. The clearcut winner was Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, the best movie of the summer-no contest.

Aliens begins slowly as Rip-ley (Weaver) is found floating in space in hyperspleep, which explains why she hasn't aged in the 57 years since Alien. (It seems like only seven-time flies when you're having fun.)

When it appears that the creature that wiped out her crew has multiplied and taken over a human colony on the death planet, a reluctant Rip-ley returns, acting as bodyguard to a platoon of marines ("There's nothing they can't handle"), male and female. "Have you ever been mistaken for a man?" one of the guys taunts Jenette Goldstein. "No. have you?" retorts the woman who serves as the film's ma-chisma symbol until Sigourney gets mad.

That doesn't happen until she's los another crew and appointed herself surrogate mother to young fellow survivor Carrie Henn.

We're talking two hours into the movie here, and most of the aliens have been blasted to kingdom come while the rest are set to be nuked. Then Sigourney discovers Queen Alien nesting protectively on a shitload of eggs. Weaver straps on her artillery to kick alien ass, but Big Mama puts up a fight that's out of this world, finally being left drifting in space to spawn More Aliens, or Aliens Beyond Thunder-dome , or whatever Alien III will be called.

Directed by James (The Terminator ) Cameron, Aliens is a better action-adventure than Alien was a horror flick.

ONE BAD SUCK

Another of the summer's butch broads was Grace Jones, who makes a major impres- sion in a minor role in the next-to-worthless Vamp. She has the envious task of sucking Robert (A Nightmare on Elm Street, Part II: Freddy's Revenge ) Rusler. Actually she does a rather messy job of chomping on his neck after some heavily erotic foreplay.

Rusler and college chum Chris Makepeace (who has lost the babyfaced charm he showed in Meatballs and My Bodyguard but hasn't replaced it with anything) have come to a vampire nightclub looking for a stripper for a fraternity party. Rusler's fall from Grace changes their relationship . He wants to suck his friend off but knows that in his vampire state if he sucks him, he'll off him.

Even Grace is far from her best, but her scenes are the only reason we bother to mention Vamp.

As People magazine noted, the summer's male sex symbols were Rodney Dangerfield and Danny DeVito. Their closest competitors were The Fly and Howard the Duck, for crissake! lef Goldblum does a nice gymnastics routine and gets carried away at arm wrestling in the process of turning into The Fly, after his teleportation device mixes his molecular-genetic structure with that of an insect, in David Cronen-berg's worthy remake of the 1957 classic. Geena Davis (of TV's Sara, which you never saw because it was opposite Dynasty ) is the woman who loves him through his changes, despite the jealousy of her ex, John Getz ("I'm finally onto something big." "What-his cock?").

Howard the Duck is a not-so -special effects opus George Lucas should be ashamed to have his name on. The one good thing about this major lameness is that it promotes safe sex-Howard carries a condom in his wallet (duck-

billfold?). Otherwise it proves the disadvantage of film to videotape-can't be erased.

These insect and waterfowl heroes were leagues ahead on the machismo scale of the human competition from mild-mannered comics Tom

Hanks, Robin Williams, Ted Danson and Gene Wilder in the mediocre to awful movies Nothing in Common, Club Paradise, A Fine Mess and Haunted Honeymoon; and Jack Nicholson, who was emasculated by costar Meryl

Streep and writer Nora Ephron in the delightfully bitchy but ball-breaking Heartburn.

Emilio Estevez isn't wimpy, but too existential to be sexy in Maximum Overdrive, a '50s horror movie with '70s effects and two '80s characters, Este- vez and Laura Harrington. The story of machines, particularly trucks, revolting against humanity , provided some okay cheap summertime thrills.

BABY BUTCH

Another variation that's been in vogue for summer movies since E.T. and The Goonies is machismito, or baby butch, represented this year by Flight of the Navigator

Joe Cramer, pilots a pleasant but suspenseless Disney adventure that combines elements of Back to the Future and Explorers.

The four heroes of Stand by Me are 12 and 13, but the target audience is about three times their age. Their boyish adventures in an overnight hiking and camping trip to see a dead body are based on an uncharacteristic Stephen King story. In a style more like Ray Bradbury's it makes telling points about looking back at growing up-for instance, after their brief absence the boys have matured enough that their hometown seems smaller.

The film's sex symbol for other than devout chicken hawks is Kiefer (son of Donald ) Sutherland as the leader of the town bullies, to whom young Wil Wheaton finally stands up with "Suck my fat one, you cheap dime store hood!" It's a total turnabout from Sutherland's sensitive performance in The Bay Boy, and come to think of it, I wouldn't mind turning him about myself. Nor would I mind sucking Wheaton's, if it's really fat.

The second summer movie, after the forgettable Out of Bounds, to show physical affection between brothers, Stand by Me also lets the boys get physical with each other-in a nonsexual way, but did you ever wrestle with your friends at that age without getting a hard-on?

Stand by Me is the best (only?) adult movies about preteen boys since Lord of the Flies, and San Francisco leath-ermen roared at the line, "I knew The $64,000 Question was fixed. Nobody could know that much about opera.'

-5. Warren

X REVIEWS

If you're like me, you buy and rent your porno by the boxload, led on by the intemperance of hype and the extravagance of pictorial engorgements on the outside. But what disappointment follows when you find that the package was more provocative than the video inside.

With the relative ease of video production adding innumerable amateur video-makers to the lists as the packaging of their dross becomes ever more slick and beguiling , it seems a new profession is called for-Box Reviewers. Oh, to save the time and effort, to avoid the tic douloureaux of finding ever new and clever ways to describe what is, after all, the unchangeable in-and-out which constitutes porno, if reviews could run thus:

'Did you like the video?" "No, but I came on the box.'

If I sound disgruntled, it is certainly not because video has allowed the expansion of the porn field, but because that expansion has taken place without an attendant expansion of quality. Any fool can aim a video camera at two guys humping, but few people within the industry either can or care to arrange that humping interestingly, tape it with a theatrical sense and edit it with skill. And that's not even mentioning their taking any responsibility for depicting safe sexual practices.

Some producers and direc-still can't get it right; that's simply disdain for the consumer . Others grow immeasura- particular is among the first in discerning and providing contemporary mood, technique and content; i.e., sexual heat. But more on Falcon later.

No, my current disatisfac-tion stems from the dozen vi-alone , most of which seem more concerned with getting anything on video that will bly each time out-Colt earn the producer a buck than a disappointing grab bag enlivened , thankfully, by a few successes. (Seems that fewer releases might allow an increase in quality, as well as longer-lived consumer credibility .) And finally, thank Goddess , there is the scorching Spring Break from Falcon.

All too frequently, it is the names and pictures of our current favorite studs on the video boxes which entice us to their purchase. Yet even our favorites can show up too often and in the wrong hands. With the industry based almost entirely in L.A. and the models competing to earn a living, they swarm between companies like locusts between stalks of wheat. And although the pervasive use of the "nom de porn" hinders knowledge of exactly who is responsible for which outbreak of "artistry," we can only wonder why one company renders a model godlike and another makes him pathetic . Witness the ubiquitous and thrilling pumper David Ashfield, and the sturdy Chaz Halderman. Their names are on every box nowadays, and their presence usually guarantees tropical heat. Yet Marathon records them both with only moderate warmth. And the charismatic youth, beauty and frenzy of Cory Monroe in Falcon's Spring Break is nearly unrecognizable and sluggish in the HIS production Bait.

Once again, the boxes are no clue to the contents. I did rejoice to see new names on production and direction credits, only to be played false. David McCabe has written, photographed, edited and directed the Le Salon release, Manheat. But though Mc-Cabe's name may be new, his faults are old. His lead-ins are the most tired of ploys, and his musical accompaniments come and go whenever he remembers to move the needle back to the beginning of the record. Perhaps in a misguided attempt at being hip, McCabe has attached his camera to a Cuisinart, and it revolves dizzyingly around the bodies. Are the actors standing on the wall, or should I hang by my heels to see this correctly? There's some good rimming (upside down), and a clear fuck or two, but by and large, this antigravitational camera work will have you calling for Dramamine. It even disfigures the otherwise impassioned fuck of Ashfield and a foulmouthed blond.

Another new name, Michael Leon, has brought us some exciting men in a tedious film, The Best Men, a Marathon film released by Le

Salon. This disheartening video has a disjointed plot with an unbelievable "surprise " ending. It has no fore-play , no atmosphere, no insertion shots, mechanical sex with little style or finesse, and the same repetitive music for ninety minutes.

The one Le Salon video we can offer thanks for is Stud Struck, on which newcomer producer, director and star Peter DeMetri shows how it ought to be done. DeMetri is masculinely handsome, lean and intense; his rapacious as-shole receives expert workouts from the husky and tattooed Blake McDonald; a bigger and fiercer-than-ever Tico Patterson; the featured return to film of Ed Wiley; and a top-to-bottom change-partner frenzy featuring the bold, hairy and cock-ringed Dwan. DeMetri's steady camera sees all; the rimming in particular will ravage your tongue. Stud Struck skips the dull lead-ins, adds a little fore-play and gives us nonstop and gritty fucking. Welcome, Mr. DeMetri.

HIS releases two and three videos a month, and although this is America, we must momentarily discount the teaching that More Is Better. Their Naked Lunch features uncomfortable and unexciting sex performed under tables and on top of stoves in a restaurant , all inbetween incredibly stupid and badly acted dialogue . Their The Spirit is Willing is insultingly ageist. Gay men do have more control over their destinies than portrayed by the purposefully pot-bellied, loathsome seniors picked to play "mature" gay men in this movie-the point being that only the young and pretty can be sexy or have fun. That's a load of crap, largely disproven by the mechanical, dull sex these kids have, which has been badly edited to boot. The music is a ripoff of Bijou, and the special effects laughable. The whole video should have been left on the cutting room floor.

A newer HIS video is an import called The British Are Coming, but they might as well have stayed home. Yes, they are uncut, street-type punks instead of the Southern California smoothies so popu- lar here, but the blandness of their sex made me want to do something more exciting-like read A History of the Colonization of Northern Wales.

We're saved then, by the continuing anthologies of hot stuff put out by HIS, and at bargain prices, too. Here we also reach material catering more closely to Drummer tastes than the preceeding elementary suck and fucks.

Hot Shots consist of strong scenes from otherwise weak movies. Piled up together in these well-planned antholo-gies they can prove quite effective . Volume 5 was devoted to leather scenes, with some good sling work, a moment's dildo action, but a basic centering on leather as the turn-on .

Volume 6 got better; it's subtitled "Kink," and includes Christopher Rage and J.D. Slater in a shaving and visibly painful clothespin fest; a slave in a sling protesting an extensive hot wax treatment; a lengthy enema ordeal; Daniel Holt soloing with a fat dildo; and Chris Burns getting stuffed by two large leather-men . Volume 7 is "Daddies," and Volume 8 is "Orgies." Go for 'em.

HIS has two other dependables : Stiff Sentence and Oasis. More about them next time.

And then, finally, there is Falcon Studios, one of the few industry dependables, known for the chemistry of their couplings , their attention to atmosphere and music, the quality of their cinematography and the clarity of their editing . You'll see some of those familiar star names here, but never looking better, bigger, or more into the action.

Falcon's recent video was The Other Side of Aspen, Part 2, and although it seems clear from the footage that we're not in Aspen, Colorado, but Lake Tahoe, California, it doesn't really matter. We soon leave the ski slopes for the bedrooms of a lodge where there's less snow than cum and the favored locale is not a mountain but the North Slope of Anus. Six scenes compete for attention; rigid Jeff Turk is my favorite, caught in a three-way , and Giorgio Canali and Tony Bravo win awards for deep rimming and deeper fucking. Goddess knows why "The Mystery Skier" keeps a mask on, but it can't undercut the fun of the video's final septet, an answer to the orgy which ended the First "Aspen" epic. With Scott O'Hara urging everyone on, the action is extensive.

Even better, though, is Falcon's latest, Spring Break (Vi-deopac 48). School is out, glands are swollen, and the boys visit each other in various groupings. David Ashfield pumps to his fullest glory, Jeff Converse reveals a movie star beauty of a face as well as an asset no Hollywood star would open up, an asshole acquiescent to heavy ass-pumping.

But the highlights are yet to come. Poker-faced and butch Chad Douglas, the thickest-dicked porn star in some time, treats his "nephew" Cory Monroe to a startling fuck before sealing him with a butt plug and dragging him off to a dungeon sling for some excessive dildo play, which for once is dwelled upon by the camera instead of momentarily passed over. This, in turn, is a prelude to the safe-sex fistfuck of guest star Chris Burns. Those of you to whom sense of mind precedes sensitivity of membrane might ask, "Can there be safe-sex FF when FF itself is rarely considered safe?".

Although conservative on the subject of FF myself, I must answer, well, yes-if you do it the new, improved safe-sex way, which includes the use of surgical gloves. Why gloves? They keep nicks or cuts on the hands or the delicate tissues of the ass from exchanging body fluids-and that's what it's all about today. You don't have to give up any sex games-just find new ways of doing them (there are even "surgical dams," thin membranes, which allow one to rim in safety )!

By the way, this last dildo-and -FF sequence of Spring Break is not included in store-bought copies of the video, so order yours direct by mail from Falcon Studios. And by the way, Falcon lives up to the heat and cum-on of their boxes and brochures…so get on their mailing list for pictures galore!

-John F. Karr DRUMMER 25

[] O

BY LARRY TOWNSEND

Dear Larry "SIR":

I am a 23-year-old slave, living in Los Angeles—as yet unowned by any Master. I am writing to you because I don't know where else to turn…I am not new to the leather / SM scene. I have experienced a good deal of what this culture has to offer and have evolved into a very dedicated bottom / slave. The problem is that in this area it has been nearly impossible to find a Master interested in more than a night or weekend fantasy. I am very serious about my need to serve and be trained in the strictest sense by a capable, experienced Master. I am looking for a dead-serious commitment. How does someone like me move into the circles of dead serious SM relationships in the L.A. or California areas? I don't believe I can find this Master in the personals or in the bars on Saturday nights. I am 23, 5'9", blond hair-high and tight, an ex-Marine , body builder, blue eyes, 71 / 2" thick, 18" neck, 19" biceps, 52" chest, 30" waist, college graduate. I am very physical and athletic and great-looking. Please write soon and help me learn how I can move into the world of servitude.

Slave R, Los Angeles

Dear Slave R.

I am going to devote a good portion of this column to answering you, because I feel that your problem is an absolutely classic example of the problems a great many people have in fulfilling their SM desires. Unlike so many others, you have the physical attributes to make you a desirable quantity. So, the reason you are failing is not because you're too old or too homely to attract the sort of man you wish to meet. Neither, by the tone of your letter, are you a shrinking violet who is afraid to approach another guy.

Because you were local and sounded so great I made personal contact with you. We had an hour or so of conversation before I took you down to my dungeon and did a little further "research." I subsequently referred you to a friend of mine who is a very active, experienced top, because I wanted to see how you might do with him. Both sessions left a good deal to be desired, and I would like to share my thoughts on this with you-since you wrote to me through Drummer-with our readers.

First, let me note that you did not make any deceptive claims as to your physical attributes. You were exactly what you said you were in this respect. In speaking with you, I felt that you made all the correct responses, except that even before we went into a scene I picked up on the first problem—one which is very common to bright, educated young men. This is the tendency to intellectualize your past and projected sex experiences . I am very cognizant of this tendency, because I went through it myself at your age and had one hell of a time forcing myself to overcome it. You simply cannot respond on a basic, physical (animal?) level when your mental process is set on this other wavelength. It holds you back from a full participation in the scene. Your body is there, but your mind is elsewhere. And despite any claims to the contrary, a top is not looking for a gentleman or an intellectual encounter session; he wants a physically attractive, responsive subject.

Secondly, you claimed a quasi-slave status, or at least orientation. You are not a slave; you are a bottom. But as a bottom , you again manifest another classic syndrome of the bright, basically aggressive young man. You want to submit in the respect of being bound and subjected to a degree of humiliation. But you are unwilling to relinquish control of the interaction. There are certain things you want done to you, but beyond this relatively narrow range, you resist the top's direction. This happened first in our session; and because I thought it might just have been me, I referred you to my friend and he reported the same responses.

This, again, is not an insurmountable problem, but it is one you will have to address before you achieve the type of relationship you seem really to desire.

Then there is the "road block" of your appearance. It's all to your advantage in attracting the top, but once the contact is made you've got to forget how beautiful you are. The weapon that wins the cruising battle becomes overkill when you permit its attendant vanity (however jus-tified it might be) to impinge upon your relationship with this man to whom you have supposedly submitted. When you tell your top that you are going to do something you wish to do because you are "younger, bigger and stronger than he is" you are completely shattering the Master / slave facade. Coming in the first session, as happened with my friend, it can turn him off so completely he really won't care if you come back or not. In fact, his comment was: "Sure, he's beautiful , but I've got two other guys coming to me who are just as gorgeous. Who needs to put up with this bullshit?"

So there you have it in a nutshell. You have what it takes to get the top interested , but if you want more than one-night stands (and marginally satisfactory ones, at that) you must look to yourself and reevaluate these facets of your own personality and the responses which they manifest. A good top is not easy to find, and for that reason he can generally be just as selective as you in picking the partner with whom he is going to establish a relationship. It's really a matter of suppressing your own ego; i.e., subordinating it to that of the top.

Dear Larry

I'm middle-aged and pretty well off financially-in business, etc. I feel that my basic interests are better served by the goals of the Republican Party than the liberal big-spenders on the other side. Recently, though, the actions by Ed Meese and others in the administration have begun to scare the shit out of me. As a gay man, I don't want to end up in a concentration camp, or have my property confiscated because I am what I am. I remember your comment on this type of situation in the Leatherman's Handbook II. What do you foresee? Are we really in as much trouble as I think we are?

Name withheld

Dear Withheld,

I hear you loud and clear-more so because I've been up front for so long, and have a couple of million words in print on the very subjects "they" consider so negatively. So far, the powers that be have only been able to rack up real victories against the purveyors of kiddie porn. I think that Georgia sodomy case was probably a set-up, poorly conceived and done at the wrong time. Although the Supreme Court made a rather narrowly defined decision, it was still a terrible blow psychologically. It is all very frightening, with most of the cards seeming to fall into the wrong hands. There were a lot of Jews in pre-WWII Germany who thought "it can't happen here." I think we have to realize that it can happen, if we don't support the people and organizations who are trying to prevent it. If that means voting for a neosocialist in order to elect a man (or woman) who possesses a modicum of humanity, so be it. If we all sit back bemoaning our fate and doing nothing, we will have no one to blame but ourselves.

1990 CALENDAR

SEPTEMBER OCTOBER NOVEMBER DECEMBER 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 CALENDAN [×17+] ROBERT PAYNE andia [×5+] and BOUND FOR GLORY MASON POWELL

Illustration / OLAF by ROBERT PAYNE THE U.S. GOVERNMENT FINALLY DECIDES ON SOMETHING TO DO ABOUT THE AIDS CRISIS AND IT'S ONLY AN ELECTION AWAY. HALLELU.JAH! In Robert Payne's 1990, the conservative new American administration has begun sending people with AIDS, people testing positive to the AIDS test and now even "high-risk groups" (read gays) to internment camps for "treatment." The personal property of these individuals is being seized by and through a plethora of governmental agencies, primarily under the direction of the administration's Attorney General. The government thus far has established "Liberty" camps in the appropriate states of Georgia, Arizona and Utah. The latter is where much experimentation with ultraselect military chemicals on these prisoners is reportedly happening. There are other experimentations going on at the other "medical centers " as well as government health authorities trying to discover the cause and effect of the AIDS phenomena along with homosexuality itself. The new administration has just taken over and sets about completing what the prior one has put into motion. The new conservative President, as much in the mold of the prior as humanly possible, is going along with the hierarchy that actually runs the government. The victims are, naturally, the American people in general, but the real scapegoats, more than ever in modern history, are the tenth of the population who a few short years before had made such strides toward becoming first-class citizens, the gays. Gay lib is a shambles, its leaders and its hierarchy are back in the closet with the door either slammed shut or locked from the inside or out. Liberalism is on the defensive and the political direction of the country is toward fundamentalism. The era of the dark ages has begun. 1990 is to be published by Alternate Publishing by the end of 1986, not quite four years ahead of time and only one election away. We'll see if Mr. Payne is any more or any less accurate than George Orwell's 1984 or Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here. ogan was a yuppie and Logan was a jock. Logan gave the appearance of having all the right connections including hairstylist, tanning salon, haberdasher and Nautilus-equipped gym. In truth, he was born with his good looks and his even tan was the product of being out in the sun. He jogged of late in the park near his moderately expensive apartment and his clothes were well chosen, not so much for their labels, but for the way they clung to his athletic young body. His career was going well and he was definitely considered by his peers as a young man on his way up. But all this was not enough to keep him from getting shipped to Utah when he tested positive in the mandatory test the company insisted upon, supposedly to test for drugs. After all, everybody was being tested for drugs these days, ever since Reagan's drug crusade. And why should Logan object? He sure as hell didn't take anything stronger than a No-Doz occasionally when working late at night on office business to impress his supervisor with his output. Logan had a new and different supervisor now, here at the camp, one who had taken a liking to this blond, all-American stud and had him assigned to keeping the camp commander's quarters immaculate. After hours, Logan didn't have to go back to the barracks like the other workers. He reported to his supervisor, and the day's real work began. Along with Logan's good looks and bright demeanor, he had been blessed with one hell of a set of family jewels. In college he was the envy of the guys in the gym and the girls on campus. His tight white designer jeans showed more than the bulges of his muscular thighs or oversized calves. Now, when he began his evening chores, which extended to daytimes on weekends, he wore no jeans or Ralph Lauren polo shirt or even Gucci loafers. Only a bull harness made from a nearby farm that fit around his big balls and ponderous cock. His superior at the camp had also fitted him with a leather collar, originally intended for one of the guard dogs, and Logan, after weeks of some strongly inforced discipline, had learned there were ways of impressing a superior other than taking office work home or handling difficult customers on the phone with a disarming charm. The head of security, who had inherited Logan's services , taught Logan things that he never considered himself capable of learning. There was much floor scrubbing, boot polishing and other chores that demanded that Mr. Most Likely To Succeed be on his knees for long, agonizing periods of time. Right now he was on all fours scrubbing a kitchen floor that had been scrubbed the night before. He watched his own big organ bobbing up and down as he backed over the vinyl floor. pushing the scrub brush back and forth over the gleaming surface. He was momentarily thankful for the fact that they required him to masterbate into a vial every few days, or his damned thing would be standing out like a pole, dressed or undressed. His superior never let him touch it, even to urinate. "How long is it going to take to clean that floor, asshole? As often as you do it, it shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes. Ten at the most." "Yes, Sir." "Come over here and clean up these fucking boots. Shit, I had to walk around in the fucking mud leaving the barns. Those cocksuckers never will get the fucking roads finished." "Yes, Sir." Logan crawled over to his superior's boot and rolled up the pants leg as he lowered his head and began licking the toes of the boots. It still tasted of the polish he had arduously applied the night before. It tasted of the day's grit as well, but Logan was used to that. He crawled over to a cabinet which he opened to retrieve a tin of polish. He opened it and began applying it with his bare hands to one boot, being exceedingly careful not to get polish on the cuffs of the khaki pants. The man who was standing gave Logan a kick with his boot, pushing him onto his back on the wet floor behind him. He placed the boot on the harnessed groin and applied his body-weight . Logan made no effort to get away or resist. Who knew what would happen to those much admired cock and balls if he protested in the least. "First, you clean the fuckers, then you polish 'em, asshole." Logan immediately began licking again, painstakingly going over every inch including the soles. He knew better than to leave out the soles. He wondered why he never was made to lick anywhere else. The man insisted on his being naked all the time. He enjoyed making Logan's cock so hard it was painful. But he only seemed to enjoy forcing Logan to humiliate himself, never to use him in direct sexual ways. After the boots were polished to his superior's satisfaction, Logan was directed to finish the floor. "I got some guys comin" over for poker." When the guys arrived, six in all, Logan was kept busy bringing in the beer, emptying ashtrays waiter style and then was directed by his superior to do more boot polishing. Not all the guests had boots on and after they were all licked and polished dutifully, one of the men wanted to know what the hosts's cocksucker was going to do for him. Logan crawled over to the man's feet and began taking off his tennis shoes. The man automatically pulled his foot back but then returned it to Logan's thigh as though it was a footstool. Logan finished unlacing the shoe and removed it. He began massaging the man's stockinged foot with his hands and the man relaxed. "Hey, I gotta get some of the cocksuckers on my work detail to do this for me," he laughed. Logan pulled off the man's grimy sock, but this time the man didn't resist. Logan bent down and began licking the man's bare foot just as he had been trained to lick his superior's. "Look at that, will ya? What else does this piece of shit do?" One of the men said sotto voce, "He sucks cock, dummy." "With a whang on him the size of that, he runs around "How do you think he got here?" The top man snapped his fingers and Logan stood up. "Show these men your cunt, asshole.' Logan turned around and bent over. He reached around past the almost-healed marks on his buttocks and spread them. There was no hair on his ass or balls. 'The man wants to know why you are here, asshole." "Because I am a cocksucker, Sir. And a pussy, Sir." The man with the bare foot was rubbing his crotch. "If he's got AIDS, can't I catch it if he blows me?" "He hasn't got AIDS, asshole. And you ain't at risk, he is." "Is that what you use him for, Jack?" "No. But if he is any good at it, I might." That satisfied the barefoot man and he put his big toe in the puckered hole of Logan's proferred ass. Logan turned around, got back on his knees and lowered his head to the man's crotch. The man unbuttoned his fly and whipped out enough meat that he should have had no reason to be embarrassed. Logan went to work, still with his hands behind him stretching his buttocks and his asshole. His superior would tell him when he could assume another position. Eventually the man ejaculated noisily and when Logan finished his duty, looked up at his superior to await further orders. he Reverend Jimmie Bob Faltland was frankly worried, but he seldom showed it, not even to his most trusted advisors. And that was who he had sitting around him now at the President's Prayer Conference. Jesus, how much could one man manage, he thought. His fucking Bible College had become a university, however unaccredited, and registration was growing by leaps and bounds. It cost money to train those young people, not as much as did two and three broadcasts a week on over a hundred television stations to raise the money for the University and the missionaries and carrying on God's political work. His appearances on television were important for only one reason and that was to keep the cash flow up to strength. The people he talked to on TV were already convinced of his message, and whatever converts he made simply usually came from other churches or other faiths. The ungodly were still out there, spending their millions on pornography and voting Democrat. But the goddamn faggots were on the run, he and God had seen to that. If they didn't die of the plague from their own sexual excesses, they were safely out of the mainstream in those camps and could be pointed to as examples of what happens when man doesn't pay attention to God's word. Men loving men indeed. Jesus and the disciples should have come out a hell of a lot stronger than they did in the New Testament on that subject. Of course, Paul did have some things to say about it, although Paul wasn't exactly perfect either. He had founded the fucking Catholic Church, hadn't he? The Reverend's mind wandered as he led his own disciples in prayer. Words came naturally to him and the prayer went on almost by automatic pilot, you might say. Maybe it was God speaking through him, he thought. He was grateful for this gift and for many others. He was grateful for his following which had grown by leaps and bounds, for the big church which the townspeople could still remember as a former supermarket. He was grateful for his Learjet sitting in readiness at the municipal DRUMMER 29 airport, waiting to take him to the centers of power and properly conservative settings for his appearances. He avoided most major cities, especially New York and San Francisco. He was big in Southern cities and they loved him in Dallas and Houston and Phoenix. The size of his personal appearance audiences didn't make that much difference anyway. Hell, more people saw him on the tube each week than there were in those big liberal cities. He rather wished that the homosexuals had put up more of a fight. He had been right, however. There were a lot of closet bigots out there and when the gays, (he refused to use the vernaculars that his associates so relished, "faggots," "fairies," "pansies," "niggers," "kykes," "hymies" and "junglebun-nies .") Thank God he had broken himself of that habit. You have to love people in order to hate them. That was something he could never get some of his older ministers to realize. "Hate the sin, but love the sinner." It paid off. They were loving the cocksuckers to death! But after the gays were gone, who would be the next scapegoats. History had proven over and over that great movements need someone or something to direct great hatred toward. Godless Communism couldn't last forever as the bogeyman. And the fairies—rather the gays—had folded up so easily, abandoned their political power and gone back into their closets where they belonged. And he and the Justice Department had seen that those closets had bars on the windows and locks on the doors. Pornography was a big multibillion dollar sin that needed to be cut down to size. The new America had to be taught to think pure thoughts. Hollywood had made fortunes beyond counting on tits and ass, but they had been kept pretty harmless until one day somebody proved you really didn't need anybody's approval to make and show a film depicting hard sex. Well, he was putting an end to that. Just as the crusaders of his daddy's generation (actually his father was a hard drinker) put an end to demon rum and its hold over America's youth, now he was going to do some prohibiting of his own, and woe be unto anybody who stood in the way of God's righteous power. know a way out of this camp," whispered Stan, whom Bif referred to as "our Pollock in residence." Stan was a wide-shouldered fellow of medium height with blue eyes, intense nature, and had what Geoff called, "an IQ of about room temperature." Stan was barely a generation removed from the old country and Bif felt at times that everyone might be underestimating him. "I know a way, too. Out the front gate." "How'd you know?" asked Stan in all sincerity. There had to be more to it than that, thought Geoff, so he asked, "What do you mean, Stanley?" He knew Stan hated that version of his name. It might prod him into coming to the point. "Uniforms," declared Stan simply and directly, and with a pleased look on his simple, direct face. "Do tell us more, Stan." "We get dressed up in uniforms and we go out the front gate. "Brilliant! Where do we get these uniforms?" "I'm into uniforms," added Don whatever his name was. "Could you fix me up with a Los Angeles police outfit. Something suitable for a motorcycle." "Yeah," said Stan. They were catching on. His eyes flashed. "Motorcycles!" "Well, its a butch way out. Where do we get the motorcycles, Stanley dear?" "Motorcycles, hell. Where do we get the uniforms?" "Same place the guards get uniforms. Their lockers. That's where I work." Geoff's mind was racing far ahead. Let's say they got a half-dozen suitable uniforms and boots to dress in. There was the problem of these goddamn camp haircuts to contend with. No, wait. They'd need helmets. The couriers on bikes wore black helmets with big white numbers on them. But motorcycles. 30 DRUMMER Who knew shit about motorcycles? He hadn't even ridden a bicycle for years. Then after they got out, what? Don was saying something about wanting a "fifteen and a half, thirty-three sleeve and at least a thirty-four waist. I thought with AIDS you lost weight!" "With AIDS you do, sweetie. You also lose your appetite. You haven't got no AIDS." That was from LeRoy who referred to himself as one of the last pure-blooded American Indian princesses . Don referred to him as a "Chicago nigra with social aspirations." Actually, his ancestors probably hailed from the Caribbean somewhere. 'So we get out. Then what?" "We could start a revolution. Overthrow the Republican Party." "Fairies ain't gonna fight. Those queens are so back into their closets they'd probably turn you in just to get in good with the Health Department.' "We need another Stonewall." "We need an organization." Don felt the old juices flowing again. Not for nothing had he spent all that time with NGTF and Save The Whales. "You can be President, man. They always shoot the President and the Vice President first." "I'd rather be Madame Chairman. They always go into exile." "Right now I'd like to be exiled anywhere but this goddamn "You're entitled, baby. If you ask me, we all are." he President sat at the head of the conference room table. The Oval Office was being remodeled to "put his stamp on it." Actually it was being redone by a decorator that his wife imported all the way from Texas. "Probably a fairy," thought his Attorney General, who saw them everywhere. But the man had his clearance papers, along with a legal wife and an adopted child. The Attorney General was not about to take on the first lady on the subject at any cost. The President was obviously not overwhelmingly interested in the meeting. He yawned and stretched every few minutes and his eyes had begun to glaze over. But the agenda was important to his attorney general. It was becoming apparent he would agree to anything to get the hell out of there. The other wheel of note at the table was a big backer of the party and an organizer who was largely responsible for the party's carrying several key states. Or so he claimed. Under his affable exterior he was a man who knew what he wanted. And what he wanted at the moment he was going to get at this meeting the Attorney General had set up. The man looked at the handsome new President intently as he stated his own case. Well, they had certainly gotten their money's worth, he thought as he spoke. It cost more to get this sonofabitch in office than it had Reagan. The Democrats had put up a good fight for a change and had been passed from one conservative to another. The last administration had sure as hell left the country hopelessly in debt, but we owed money to ourselves anyway. Or at least mostly to the corporations and banks this man represented. "It is imperative, Mr. President, that these camps be built. We finally have a solution to the homosexual problem, but it is infecting the general population. These people, these high-risk carriers must be isolated just as fast as we have room for them. They are the first step in our having some control over the least desirable elements of today's society. These people are carrying and susceptible to a lethal disease and they are spreading it as easily as if it were influenza or … " and he paused, cleared his throat, and added more delicately, "gonorrhea." After all, he was a man of principal, and you didn't sit in the chief executive's presence talking about the clap. It was bad enough having to say "homosexual." The Reverend Faltland interjected, "Mr. President, if we are to do God's work here on earth, in these United States, we must have the tools to do the job. Why, just the mention of the ☐ THE KID'S FIRST TIME WITH DAD—PART 1 The kid's been bad (chicks and drugs) but Dad knows just how to handle him. Dad shows his son who's boss and gives him the punishment he deserves. ☐ THE KID'S FIRST TIME WITH DAD-PART Dad's been waiting for the right opportunity to corrupt his oversexed boy and tonight's the night. He knows he shouldn't do it, but those hot ass cheeks and adolescent cock are too tempting. □ KID VS DAD—WINNER TAKES ALL Everwres-tle with your old man? Ever wonder what would happen if those sessions got Dad hot - too hot — and he overpowered you? Even wonder about all the different things he could force you to do to that sweaty body of his ☐ MY DADDY WAS BAD The kid comes home to find his dad asleep after a hard day's work. He could stand there forever at the foot of the bed, rubbing his crotch and watching his dad's hairy chest, meaty thighs and swollen dick. But when Dad wakes up, ☐ RITES AND RAUNCH There was definitely something evil about the guy, maybe that's why I went home with him. But nothing prepared me for what was to come. ☐ HOT HUNG TRUCKER Teamster Bob picks up a not-so-innocent hitchhiker at a truckstop in the California desert. Bob has a kink in his neck…Jake the hitchhiker suggests a massage . Bob's leather jacket is the first thing to come off — then his dirty, greasy jeans. ☐ MUSCLE BUILDER ORGY Five hot body- builders, after a sweaty workout…stripping down to sweat-drenched jockstraps… eyeing each other…their hands reaching out to feel their buddys' biceps, brushing against these solid, hard pecs…and down, down still further 'til they get so hot they don't give a shit who walks in. □ DELIVERY BOY COMES AGAIN Richie is the new driver on the route. He's a hot, straight Italian guy who seems a little "curious" when he finds himself delivering beer and soda to a gay bar. The bartender jumps at the opportunity ; soon he convinces Richie to pull out his dick and show it off. ☐ BIKE EXHIBITIONIST Imagine: it's a steamy afternoon at the local truck stop and you see a biker who looks too good to be true — mean, dirty, muscular — leaning against his big, black Harley. ☐ AL PARKER AS THE REPAIRMAN Porn star Al Parker in his only audio tape. Al's an air conditioner repairman who drops in on a guy who's wife isn't home. Who could resist Al's cock? ☐ GREASE MONKEYS, STARRING MASTER MARI- 0 Two sweaty garage mechanics rape a guy they find hanging around the men's room. He puts up a fight, at first, anyway. Lots of axle grease, cocksucking, filthy talk. THE D.I., STARRING MASTER MARIO AUthentic military discipline as a tough Drill Instructor takes advantage of a couple of guys in the brig. Packed with heavy verbal abuse and forced body worship as the D.I. proves who's in command. ☐ MARINES OVERHEARD Two hot and very horny young Marines meet in the barracks latrine. Richie has to take a piss…and Mike takes things from there. If you're a real pig… ☐ THE COP, STARRING MASTER MARIO A mean police officer forces a suspect to service his body in a show of brute, perverted force. COP WORSHIP We've never offered a strictly one-man narrative tape before, but this one is so good we decided to make an exception. It's one guy's cop fantasies, his true-life obsessions, his dreams of what might happen if that super-hot cop he's had his eye on for months should bust him, force him to. □ DADDY BREAKS IN A NEW BOY Patience and understanding go out the window and Daddy starts training his boy with the tried-and -true adage, "spare the rod and spoil the boy." It is heavy-duty training in an actual session. Both the boy and you will be betterfor having been there. ☐ THE COMMANDER SPEAKS "I am your big brother, your daddy, your commanding officer . I am every big man you ever saw in your whole fuckin' life and started beating off about…your tongue is going to be my shower…your mouth is going to be my toilet. DRUMMERMAN / BE MY CLOWN A pair of back-to-back hits for the leather crowd, from Mario Simon, whose performances at Mr. Drummer competitions from coast to coast brought audiences cheering to their feet! ☐ TAPE 1—THE INTERROGATION This tape is featured on the cover of Drummer magazine. Model Brutus is a mean Master who knows how to deliver some heavy abuse, both physical and mental. ☐ TAPE 2—THE TRAINING BEGINS Brutus lavs it on as his recruit responds willingly and unwillingly to the abuse and humiliation of his training. Not even allowed to beg, he submits to the DI's heavy hand and busy belt. Breath-taking ! ☐ TAPE 3-PUNISHMENT & REWARD When Brutus speaks, men listen, as will you when he tells you how it is and how it is going to be. Whether the punishment is its own reward, or the reward is merely more punishment, only the lowly recruit can say. One hour of intense verbal abuse. ☐ FATHER / SON A father becomes his son's lover. MARINE BRIG A Marine DI punishes an AWOL Marine in the Brig. PORN CALLS Two half-hour jack-off phone calls. ☐ SAILING TO HELL Frank O'Rourke relates an original story of rape and abuse. ☐ THE CONFESSIONAL A young priest hears the confession of his first gay man and what happens in the booth would do much toward conversions. ☐ THE HIGHWAY PATROLMAN He stops a speeder on the road and there are more ways for paying for speeding. THE HITCHHIKER An air corpsman is picked up by a trucker who is looking for more than a passenger to share his ride. THE HUSTLER He sets the price for a blow job but discovers that the price includes a good deal more. THE WARDEN The young convict learns that time was not all he is giving up when he enters the joint. TV REPAIRMAN A straight, married repairman quickly discovers that he gets more than he expected when he goes to a surfer's house. ☐ WHIP FIRE A live, heavy SM scene between Frank O'Rourke and a slave. ☐ INFORMATION BRANDING, PIERCING AND TATTOO-ING The hows and whys. □ INTERVIEW WITH A TEENAGED MALE PROSTI-TUTE A young, male whore tells it like it is. ☐ MASTER / SLAVE INTERACTION Follow up by Frank O'Rourke of earlier tapes, The Master and The Slave. SM AND LOVE? Frank O'Rourke tells whether love can develop from an SM relationship ☐ THE ART OF FISTING Fisting is no longer a strictly SM act. Frank O'Rourke discusses many aspects and possible dangers in fisting ☐ THE INFERNO: THE SM ANNUAL EXPERIEN-CE Its values and what it is about. ☐ THE MASTER Frank O'Rourke discusses the role of the Master. ☐ THE SLAVE Frank O'Rourke gives an insight to the slave and / or masochist. ☐ TOYS: SOME OF THEIR USAGES AND POSSIBLE DANGERS PO Box 42009 San Francisco, CA 94142-2009 YOUR WORLD-WIDE SOURCE OF TIT-TOYS FROM BASIC TO BIZARRE SAFE SEX S / M does it better! Manufacturers of quality Tit Clamps, nipple clip restraints, and novelties. The originators of the famous <u>adjustable</u> alligator tit clamps. Catalog and samples on request. Wholesalers and distributors contact: T-T CATALOG 132 W. 24th Street, New York NY 10011 Godless people on one of my televised sermons and the prayer response offerings increased by 57%. We Christians are truly alarmed about this situation.' The President thought, "With an upturn in the collection plate like that, what the hell do you want to get rid of them for?" and he smiled to himself but not openly enough that the good Reverend could detect it. The President was a trained actor if ever there was one. The committee had gone after the best replacement for the just-retired President they could find. Polls had shown it was what the voters wanted, more of the same. The Fund Raiser grabbed the conversation back. Dammit, why did they have to have all these fucking church people around? They were an embarrassment, obviously greedy, power-hungry, always using their warped religion to prove their point. Wait until they took out after the Jews, he thought. Thank God he wasn't a fag or a Jew. But they delivered the vote in the redneck states. And they had plenty of tax-free church money to pour into the party's coffers when push came to shove. "These perverts are a menace, Mr. President, and it was our understanding that your administration was going to courageously go ahead with the last administration's policies on this health crisis. These camps are expensive, but considering that we are able to charge the individual for his keep and, upon termination, his estate…And there is the expense that the government has been committed to by the congress of research on the disease. The last poll showed approval of 89%. This disease must be controlled." The man from the Health Department mentally noted that the Fund Raiser didn't use the word "eradicated" or "cured." Hell would freeze over before any government serum, other than experimental, was used on anybody being shipped to the quarantine camps. But the man was used to meetings like this. You might call him a professional meeting attender. He never forgot a name, followed through—or at least his staff did—in hours on anything required of him. That was how he got where he was. Now he was at cabinet level, the result of both his perseverance and the fact that the country hadn't seen anything like this plague since the outbreak of the influenza epidemic at the early part of the century. There was another name for what was being accomplished here. When other governments did it and were discovered, it would be called genocide. But that was the wonderful thing about AIDS; you could wipe out any segment of the population under the pretense of helping them. The Reverend Faltland was sitting back, buddahlike, smiling and nodding at the facts and figures being presented by the underlings from the Health Department. Like most everyone else in the room he wasn't listening to a word of it. He had to leave this meeting when it was over and fly in his private jet to New York City, which he usually avoided, to meet with the archbishop and another bunch of goddamn Popists, to put on a united front against a liberal outbreak in the government in that accursed city. The New York governor didn't like what these camps were all about, nor did the mayor, although the governor and the mayor were always at loggerheads. And they were both under pressure from the Jew-liberals that controlled politics in the Big Apple. Catholics made him nervous, all that pomp and tradition, that real estate and political clout. He always felt like a poor Georgia boy in the archbishop's presence. Big Apple indeed. Give him a Georgia peach anytime. But praise God for giving him this challenge, these homosexuals . They were like shooting fish in a rainbarrel. They were easier targets than Jews would have been. Well, that battle had been fought sixty years before. Great progress had been made, but they bounced back, established a homeland and became even more of a menace to the world. At least with gays, when you got rid of them, you were rid of them. They didn't procreate . And if they were dead, or locked up, they couldn't recruit from the strong, fine, young men like those at his Bible College. He wondered what the female version of gays were like. Well, if they were truly female, they couldn't be too bad. The Reverend was sincerely into females, praise the Lord! The young legal attache for the Secretary of Defense shuffled the papers back into his briefcase and sat down. He had stated his case, the facts as they had been given him. While he was a civilian, he had had a military background, had come from several generations of military men. His father was disappointed that he had left the service after serving only one tour of duty. What his father didn't know was that he had come close to being nailed in San Diego by an investigation. He had thought it expedient to not reenlist, take his unblemished record and pursue his law degree. When the Senator from California hired him for his staff in Washington, it didn't take him long to get established with the Defense Department. Hell, they would do anything to ingratiate themselves to someone with the power of a Senator for a wealthy state like California, who also happened to sit on the Military Appropriation Committee . The attache was still young enough to pass without being married. He roomed with an ex-Navy buddy, but was seen in all the right places, usually with the right people. His whole life was a lie, but whose wasn't? His strong, athletic good looks hadn't hurt his advancement. He could drink and go to Army-Navy games with the best of them. He knew plenty of fag jokes and very few fags. His roommate told him he was a shit, but then Mike was in the private sector. You had to be a shit to be in the Defense Department. The figures he had quoted were mostly projections and everybody knew they were subject to error. A few in the room probably realized they were also subject to complete falsehood . But nobody could do it better than the military and when they quoted figures, the figures were always in the millions or better. Everybody in the military or under the control of it right now was being tested for everything imaginable. Drugs, AIDS, loyalties, anything that could make a difference in their performance of their duties. With the actions in South America, this country was in for a long, thankless fight and the toll would be high. He wondered if this new President with the untroubled face and the easy smile realized what he was in for. The Reverend was smiling at him right now, probably due to the fact that the report was concluded. Shit, that old fart gave him the willies. He reminded the attache of the devil himself; well-fed , dressed in his five hundred dollar suit with a private jet waiting for him to get his fat ass aboard so he could go somewhere and make a pitch for the starving heathen in Africa or somewhere. The young man was sure that the starving were probably colored, and he was also sure that wasn't the Reverend's favorite color. He had a plane waiting himself, as well. It wasn't private, but it was somewhat personal. He had to take a military flight down to the Reverend's stomping grounds of Georgia to check out an old Army hospital that they were turning over to the Department of Health. He couldn't take Mike because of, well for a lot of reasons. Maybe Mike could or would take a commercial flight and meet him there to spend a few days. He could get away with taking the extra time. He had it coming after this command performance. The Attorney General was now thanking them all for being there and telling them that the President and his appropriate cabinet members would take the situation under advisement. The President rose and so then did everyone else. "Hail to the Chief," thought Charles E. Hightower, II, wondering how impressed Mike would be that he had been at a meeting with the President himself, since neither one of them had voted for him. hey entered the nation's capitol without incident, if you don't count hot-wiring a government van and breaking into a wig boutique an incident. Such behavior was new to Biff and Geoff, if not to Nick and Leroy, although it was Biff who had finally succeeded in getting the Ford Econoline started. "Fords are a snap," he said modestly as Geoffery looked at him with relief when the engine finally fired up. The van was a particular blessing since it was virtually windowless and the sight of a half-dozen young men with bare scalps wouldn't be quite as apparent. Hence Leroy's sudden inspiration as they passed the wig place. "Honey, being a hair bender, when I ain't hustlin', comes in handy sometimes.' "So does being a hustler," said Geoff sotto voce. Nick did the driving, since he claimed to know his way through the turnpikes and toll bridges. Nick suggested holding up a store along the way for some money but his businesslike suggestion was vetoed by Biff. "We may need the money but we don't need the attention." "Hell, we're as illegal as you can get right now anyways." The whole experience was exhilarating. Who would have thought that any of them, save possibly Nick and maybe the female impersonator who claimed his name was Tanya, would be wanted criminals in a stolen car on their way to who knows where to do who knows what. Maybe Leroy might have operated outside the law on accasion too, but surely never to this degree. And if they were caught, what? They'd end up back at square one, in the camp. Wouldn't be too much worse off than when they started, considering what had already happened to them. Nick drove like the professional he was. With his unform and the government green van, he was able to con his way through the toll plazas. Sometimes someone might yell something at him but he would just wave to them and pass through. Who was going to pursue them this time of night? He never waited for a reaction, even if there was to be one. Only once did they see a police car and it paid no attention to them whatever. Its occupants had other fish to fry somewhere else. With the interior lights on, they tried on the dozen or so wigs that Leroy had grabbed from the salon. Everyone thought black Leroy in a fire-orange curly monstrosity was a laugh getter, like little Orphan Annie gone blackface. "But he'll never pass." They eventually tried one as similar as possible to their own hair color. Leroy assured them that the minute he got his hands on some "good cuttin' scissors" he'd comb and style them out to a passible appearance. "The rest o' yo' body, you gonna have to raise hair of yo' own," and he laughed at his own humor. As they drove through the city, Geoff, who still had a couple of credit cards, suggested they pick a first-rate hotel. "More respectable, they don't ask a lot of questions.' Nobody had a better idea so they pulled up to the Washington Hilton. "Ditch the van, stupid. That is what they definitely will be looking for." They put the van in a parking garage, told the man it would be a couple of days and the van was immediately buried, very out of sight. Their rooms at the hotel were spacious and full of accommodations . "I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be comfortable ," said Biff sadly. "On edge, maybe, but with a few creature comforts." "On edge gets the juices flowing," returned Geoff. "We've got some heavy thinking ahead." They all got together around the table by the window in Biff and Geoff's room. The stolen uniforms were hung in the closet after a session in the bathroom for the steam to remove the wrinkles and make them as fresh-looking as possible. "Thank God for Dacron," said Tanya, who knew about such things. Leroy was cutting hair, Nick's to be exact. At least it was on Nick's head. Leroy seemed to know his business. So did Tanya who then combed it out and made the dead material come to life. When they were finished Nick looked downright presentable . The hair had to be long enough to cover his lack of sideburns , but his face was young enough to get away with that much hair. The Ultimate in Sophisticated Telephone Conference Services

K ALTA by MASON POWELL ime was running out. It had taken Chom too long to gather troops from the mountain villages. Even Chom's glib tongue, even the presence of Gonar manifesting the god Wa-at, had not been enough to rouse the anger that brings war in such a short time. The villagers had not been subject to the terror of Rhengfel's ambition. They had no interest in the rescue of strangers from slavery. In the end it had been necessary to describe the riches that Rhengfel had won in its conquests and conveniently forget to mention that the volcano would soon erupt, destroying all before it. What could not be accomplished with an appeal to human decency was done at last through appeal to human greed. The very passion that had built Rheng-fel would now hasten its destruction.

Or so Gonar hoped as they rode through the ancient tunnels the volcano had boiled out, inexorably toward Rhengfel, astride splendidly carapasoned stallions: an army that rode like ghosts beneath the ground, an army with only two days left to conquer a mighty city. For in two day's time the god had promised the volcano would erupt and the tunnels through which they now rode would be filled with flaming gasses and seething lava, and Rhengfel, and all that lay within its valley, would be buried and dead.

The priests had removed everything possible from the temples inside the crater, carrying what they could to the safety of limestone caves higher up in the mountains; including the idol which had taken life and instilled in Gonar the living presence of the god. All the village close enough to be in immediate danger had been evacuated, for the mountain people would pay attention when the priests of the volcano god spoke of destruction. Only evil Rhengfel was unarmed with the knowledge of its imminent and timely doom.

Some had argued in favor of leaving the slaves, and those of Rhengfel's citizenry who had resisted the tyranny of the king and queen, to the destruction. But Chom had persuaded them that it was not in human nature to abandon what is good to what is evil. Whatever pleasure a person may take in cruelty, however fierce a warrior may be, there dwells somewhere within a desire to cherish what is elevated in one's eyes, to preserve what is best in one's kind. To Gonar that best was Honor. To Chom-but who could know Chom's heart? Certainly not Gonar, his willing and loving slave.

… And certainly not now, when each time Chom approached him as Master the god Wa-at appeared in Gonar's body and seized the mastery!

Gonar glanced at Chom by the light of the flickering torches and wondered if ever he would be free of the god who so thoroughly despoiled their relationship. He did not want to be Chom's master, he wanted to be Chom's slave. And he was not Chom's master! Yes he was unable to resign himself to his master's use because of the god.

Chom's profile was beautiful in the torchlight as he rode. His face caught the light, his close-cropped black beard glinted with it, his black eyes sparkled. His olive complexion glowed like bronze against the cave's darkness. Gonar felt his cock start to stiffen, knew that it was futile, turned his face away.

The tunnel branched and Norem-at, the young priest with streaks of white in his black hair, led the army down a way different from the one by which Gonar and Chom had escaped. Gonar wondered about this for a moment, then realized that the new route was higher, to accommodate their horses.

Only a phase of the moon before Gonar would have trusted no priest of any cult. Now all the priests of the volcano god had met their deity housed in Gonar's body, seen the fiery glow of the manifestation. There was no longer any reason for distrust, for there was no longer any benefit in betrayal.

They came at length to a place where the cavern was sealed with a huge wooden door. Norem-at dismounted and went to a small door set into the large one. He signaled for them to douse the torches, and when they had done so he went through. Gonar sat quietly astride his horse, feeling it between his legs, smelling the hot scents of all the horses mixed with the sweat of men in leather and bronze armor. Only the smells, only the creaking and jingling of trappings and armor gave evidence of the army in the dark. Gonar clenched fingers around the hilt of his bronze sword and squirmed as he realized that, despite the futility, the blood still flowed into his big prick, still made it hard. He heard the smaller door open, close, then Norem-at spoke in the darkness.

"Lord Chom, it is both good and bad news that I bring. Our attack will be much easier than we could hope, for the populace is again gathered for the games. But there will be far fewer people for us to rescue. The queen is mad and the bloodletting since you left has been greater than all that was done in the last year.

Gonar heard Chom's angry intake of breath in the darkness, then Chom's tight, controlled question: "Does the king still live as well?"

"He does, my lord. And he rages and he fears, for he does not know how you escaped him or where you went. He was slightly wounded by the lizards, but otherwise unharmed. He still fears the queen, but now rightly so. She is said to be horribly mutilated because of the fire. She does things so terrible that even the trainers live in terror."

"What things?" asked Chom.

"They say that her apartments are now ornamented with men and women and children, alive but with their skins peeled off. She has them hanging about the room so that she may hear their anguish like the music of wind chimes. And there are worse things…

"Enough!" Chom snapped. "The retelling will not cure the sickness. We must go forth as soon as we can and put an end to

this horror. What are our points of attack?"

"There are three, my lord," said Norem-at. "The first is the arena, where the king, the queen, and the royal guard now revel in these nightmares. Most of the populace will be gathered there, as well as those captives doomed to the arena. The second point of attack will be the barracks where the off-duty soldiers of the guard are housed. The third point will be the great gates in the Rhengfel Wall, for that is the only way out of the valley. That will be the hardest part, for the gates are most easily defended. That alone has made Rhengfel invulnerable-at least until Lord Gonar climbed over the impassible Rhengfel Wall.'

Gonar almost laughed out loud at the sound of his name linked with the honorific "lord." Yet he did not laugh, for many of these men and women were soon to follow him into battle. Whether he felt like a lord or not, he must be one for their sake.

Even more a lord of battles than a vessel for deity!

"Well enough then," came Chom's crisp closing of the dis- cussion. "It must be this way: As much as I owe the King personal vengeance, the most difficult of the three assaults will be the one on the barracks. I, alone, am qualified to make that assault, for I alone know the ways of the palace sufficiently. That means Gonar must lead the attack on the arena; which will be justice enough, for he also has the right to vengeance against the king and queen, perhaps more than mine. As to the gates, we will all make that attack together, for we must all go through them if we are to live. Norem-at, we thank you for your help and your courage.'

"It is enough," said the priest, "that I fight in a just war beside the god I serve. Few in all of time are granted such privilege."

There came the sound of a great wooden bolt sliding back, the sound of Norem-at remounting his horse near to Gonar, then a dim crack of light appeared as the huge wooden doors sealing the cavern were swung open.

Beyond the wooden doors great heavy curtains drew back, then the army looked out into the sanctuary of the temple of Wa-at in Rhengfel. A huge idol stood with its back to them, carven of the same red stone of which most of the city was made. Beyond the statue was the low altar on which worshipers had placed choice parts of animals to be burned at the hour of sacrifice. There were only a few devotees in the sanctuary now, due no doubt to the assembly at the arena, but the faces of those few were almost reward enough for Gonar. Their eyes grew wide and their faces shone with awe as mounted tropps clad in Wa-at's scarlet rode slowly from behind the statue, two columns, one to either side, down the length of the temple, and out into the bright streets of the City of Torturers.

Gonar was as glad that Chebdis, Chala's brother, rode with Chom; for Chom alone could keep the castrated boy in line. He was just as pleased that the noblewoman Lharna was with his troops, for she had proved her courage in a number of ways, and she was the person best fitted for determining which of those they found in the arena were truly allied to their cause. As for Ketis, the red-haired boy whom the falconmasks had trained as a pleasure slave: Gonar feared for the boy in battle but was glad that he was with the army for the strength of his knowledge of healing. That Ketis was with Chom was part worry, part relief. Gonar knew him to be tough, but still felt like protecting him.

As the column rode it picked up speed. Had the forthcoming battle been fought in the open, against an informed enemy, this would have been the time for a battle song. But it was not an honest battle any more than falconmasks were an honest enemy. The element of surprise was important, so the thunder of hooves on paving stones, echoed back from the red stone walls of the city, had to be battle song enough.

Through the corrupt city Gonar rode, picking up speed, putting out of his mind his concern about Chom's attack on the barracks; and then the arena came into view, directly at the rotten heart of Rhengfel. From the hights of the Rhengfel Wall the circular city had looked like a wicked rose; from here it was like a wound. Gonar gave the order to draw swords, and then 38 DRUMMER his troops thundered up to the massive arch that formed the main entrance of the arena.

There was an outcry from the soldiers who lounged there, but it was too late and their reactions too slow. How could they have expected a small army to be within the city proper without warning? It did not matter. Even as they drew weapons Gonar and his troops were upon them, leaping down from their horses, attacking. The ruby-pommeled sword which the priest of Wa-at had entrusted to him bit deep. One, two, three men went down spurting blood from mortal wounds.

A thunderous cry went up from within the arena and for a moment Gonar was sure they were discovered, sure they had come upon a populace prepared. Then he realized that the cry was a cheer for some horror being perpetrated upon the very people he had come to rescue. He cut and hacked toward the entrance with renewed vigor.

As his troops gained the portal fresh falconmasks appeared from within, confused and angry but forewarned that an attack was in progress. The battle began in earnest, a hard and noisy hewing in closed quarters. Gonar swung and blocked, blocked and cut. The air filled with clangs and crashes, was punctuated by the roar of the raging crowd within, an unaware mob crowing with delight at each new horror offered them.

How they lusted for blood in the stands! Gonar thought as he fought. How much more blood will I give them than they want!

The falconmask before him blocked his blow, but Gonar's sword deflected upward, the flat of his blade knocking askew the headpiece the man wore. Beneath it Gonar saw the face of one of the soldiers who had captured him and used him after the betrayal of the villagers of Throm. He had only seen the man once, but he remembered the tube sliding up into his cock, the oily stuff that took away his defenses, the many ways that he had been used. He brought his blade around, threw his weight against his shield and crashed into the man, knocking him backward. The falcon headpiece tumbled, leaving the head exposed.

"Do you know me?" Gonar asked savagely as their eyes met across the top edges of their shields. "Or am I only one of many?"

Recognition dawned in the man's eyes. When Gonar saw it he brought his sword up and under, around the shield, driving the point of it in between the straps that fastened the black curbouilie armour together at the sides.

"Unhh!" the man cried as the sword went in.

But it was not far enough to kill him. He struggled, fought to get his weapon around to where he could thrust at Gonar's face.

Gonar used the muscle of his powerful arm to push harder, thrusting his sword deeper between the man's ribs, twisting it, shoving. Into the lung. Through the lung.

"Arrrgghh!" the man screamed, and suddenly blood spurted from his mouth, splashing against Gonar's face.

The sword bit deeper, then Gonar yanked it out.

His opponent stared at Gonar, eyes wide. The man tried to go on fighting, but his life was already lost. Contemptuously Gonar pushed him back, to fall among his comrades screaming with what power was left in his one unpunctured lung.

Two more falconmasks came at Gonar and he cut them down, fought his way forward.

Now the king's troops fell back. Their black leather was spotted with scarlet, their invincible strength suddenly a myth in which they could no longer believe. The sudden enemy was clothed in the color of blood, Wa-at's color, and even when one of Gonar's compatriots fell there was no stain to betray the wound.

"That way!" came a cry, and Gonar recognized the voice of Lady Lharna. "To the Royal Box!"

Across a broad lobby, then up a wide stairway Gonar fought.

Still more cheers went up from the crowd inside.

The battle tightened as it entered a narrow passage. There was not so much room to fight. The falconmasks threw shields across the hall hoping to hold it, but there were those among

Gonar's troops who had fought in the arena, and those who had worked there. In moments a band separated itself from the main body, made its way to the corridor that ran around the arena behind the boxes of the rich and powerful, then attacked the troops ahead of Gonar from their rear. The shield wall broke, then the way was clear except for the corpses.

They came to the heavy doors that sealed the Royal Box. The four falconmasks who had guarded it were dead, their throats cut by stealth rather than in battle. A cheer greater than any yet tore out of the crowd. Gonar wondered what spectacle the queen had ordered that so inflamed the populace, but he did not want to imagine it. The cheer went up again and he pulled open the doors.

The Royal Box had been cleared of thrones and other items of ease in order to make it into a kind of little stage. A part of Gonar's mind noted beyond it the thousands of faces that watched; noted the bloody carnage that littered the arena below; but mainly his attention was arrested by the show the queen was giving.

She was once again dressed as the White Owl, the costume in which Ketis had set fire to her with a brazier. On her fingers she had fasted brazen claws, claws sharpened like razors. So armed, she might be a formidable enemy in the arena; but here, in her box, she did not need to defend herself.

A large oaken table was at the front of the box, tilted upward so that the populace could see. A young and attractive couple had been nailed to it side by side, their bodies stretched out spread eagle, the nails driven through their hands and feet, their arms and legs, finally through their genitals. From the nature of the additional wounds, Gonar surmised it was the queen herself who had playfully disemboweled them and draped their entrails over the rail as a bait for the animals below.

But this was not the horror.

The queen now stood before her people like some hideous high priestess, the object of their rapt attention. Her arms were upraised and in one of them she held a naked baby by its feet.

She had plunged her claws into the child's belly and with her clawed fingers she was tearing off small pieces of flesh and pushing them into her mouth. Her white feathers were spotted with blood.

Gonar knew not whether the worst of it was the way the baby screamed or the expressions on the faces of its hapless parents, still living, nailed to the table, watching as they died not half fast enough.

The King of Rhengfel, the Golden Falcon, lunged at Gonar with a sword.

Swinging his shield-weighted arm up to batter aside the sharp bronze, Gonar eagerly slashed at the muscular, naked, exposed arm of the King. Belling above his head, sharp bronze crunched into hard wood as his sword stuck in the door post. The King laughed as his point dipped and dived at Gonar's belly, driving up under the shield. Gonar felt the point push through his armor and prick his skin. He brought his shield down hard on the flat of the King's blade and the point was gone, but the sting of the cut remained. He felt wetness as the blood came.

Wrenching his blade free of the wood, Gonar stabbed above the King's shield—but as the golden mask flinched back, Gonar saw the tip of his bronze blade bent where h'd ripped it from the wood of the door. The tip was twisted awry, useless for thrusting! It slipped off the golden mask, past it-but Gonar, lunging forward and jerking back his wrist, spun his shoulders in a sharp, short-armed chop that lashed the edge of the bent sword across the golden mask.

Bronze sank into gold but could not cut through; yet the mask was pulled aside, the eye-holes moved: the King was blinded! Quick as thought Gonar whipped his blade down to slash behind the knee…

His knuckles rammed into the wall! There was no room to fight!

The baby's short, gasping shrieks sank to piteous whimpers. Gonar's flesh crept. The King, leaping back, ripped off the golden mask. Gonar bounded after him, away from the door. At

least there would be more room…

His wheeling blade crashed into the King's shield. From the corner of his eyes he saw the King's sword lashing out at his eyes. Something punched the side of his head like a hammer. His shield shuddered against his arm: he staggered back. He felt blood blushing in his ear, then the sudden sharp pain…

The King's sword point darted at his throat.

With a roar of rage Gonar hurled himself straight at the point, shield pushed out before him. The sheer weight of his attack caught his enemy by surprise and Gonar's shield smashed into the sword's flat, pushing it against the King's body, trapping it between the two shields. Then Gonar's full weight crashed into the King, hurling him backward, pushing both shields down, while Gonar's sword arm heaved up, elbow bent above his bleeding head while his forearm whirled in a circle. The thick section of blade next to the hilt drove into the bridge of the King's nose, smashing the bones so that the eyes fell out and blood and brains splashed on Gonar's hand and chin.

The shattered King tumbled backward under the force of the blow. There was not even time for his legs to bend before he went over the lip of the box and plummeted to the crazed tigers who roamed the carnage below. The thousands who watched went wild screaming their approval.

Gonar put the bent tip of his sword to the red stone floor and straightened it with his heel. He looked at the White Owl. The baby still hung from her clawed fingers but it had ceased to whimper. The eyes behind the owl mask looked at him with desire.

With a single stroke of his sword Gonar cut off the head of the hideous Queen of Rhengfel. The head went spinning out over the sands of the arena and a great fountain of blood gouted up from the severed neck. Then the body jerked, and it, and the remains of the murdered child, also fell to where the tigers waited.

Gonar felt hot, acrid vomit begin to purge from his belly, but there was still one thing to be done in the Royal Box, a mercy he could not deny.

"I am sorry we came too late," he said to the couple nailed to the table, and then he killed them, first the mother, then the father.

He puked over the wall, into the arena, down to where the dead owl woman was being torn apart by her beasts. Never, never had he encountered such horror! Yet as he stood a new monstrousness presented itself.

The citizens of Rhengfel, before whom he had just killed the king and queen, were cheering, crying out their approval; and not that the tyranny was ended.

"More! More! More!" the thunder of the arena demanded. There was a subtle shift and the earth trembled, and Gonar knew that it was not the shouting that was causing it. He looked around and saw Lady Lharna standing in the doorway of the box, her beautiful strong features gone white with what she saw.

"Go and free the slaves!" Gonar commanded, forcing her out of the trance. "If there are any good people left in this place they will know by now to flee. For the rest-turn loose what wild animals remain into the stands!"

Lady Lharna vanished to do as she was bid and Gonar staggered from the box into the hallway behind it, his hand absently going to his belly where the blood still trickled, then moving to his head to examine that wound. His troops were following the noblewoman to help, so for a moment he was alone.

He did not want to be alone. Not because he was afraid, but because his thoughts might force him to fully realize what was going on around him. There was no great battle being fought as yet. As yet he was a hero; but for the wrong reasons! As if to confirm this analysis one of the box doors down the corridor opened and a couple emerged. The male of course was dressed in black leather, with a falconmask, but the woman was attired as a kingfisher in colors more gorgeous than anything humankind might produce. They saw him, and spontaneously the two of them knelt before him, bowed their heads to the floor. They

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were drunken, and they were laughing.

Gonar cut them down as if they were corn before the scythe. The earth trembled again, and now Gonar felt the hot flush, the trembling in his flesh, the invasion that he knew was Wa-at seeking to possess him.

"No!" Gonar cried aloud, directing his words inward to the god. "Let me settle what score I have with these fiends first! You shall have them all, and their city, when I am done. And you shall have them for eternity! Let me have them for the moment of the sword, I beg you! Let me have a little of their blood to slake my anger!"

Again the earth trembled, but the burning inside him cooled. He took this as a sign of the god's consent, and moved toward the entrance of the arena.

Now there was battle, for whatever the populace might desire in the way of diversion, the soldiery of the falconmasks realized what was upon them, what danger they faced. Gonar's followers began to gather around him as he stalked through the halls of the arena, and none too soon, for groups of falconmasks were also gathering, building solid fighting bands, preparing themselves for the worst as they shook off the wine of the festival. If the King still lived, Gonar knew, the sheer size of Rhengfel's army would be enough to crush the insurrection: but the King was dead and the reins of leadership would have to pass, no matter how efficiently the succession might have been arranged.

Gonar turned a corner and ahead the way was blocked by a solid, well-formed mass in black, their weapons at ready, their shields in place, their falconmasks secure.

"Killer of Kings!" the man at the head of the group called in challenge. "Now know the vengeance of Rhengfel! I, Toris the

Inheritor, call you to account!"

Gonar was surprised to hear a voice behind him answer the challenge, the voice of the young priest Norem-at: "One of Many, Toris who presumes! Only him who kills all others shall rule by right in Rhengfel. Now that one shall be not a man, but a god! Know that Rhengfel is doomed, and that Wa-at will speak with the voice of thunder and fire!'

"Soothsayer and fool!" Toris spat out, and he led his men in attack.

Gonar's troops were ready. Their blood sang with the rage of battle. They had witnessed the atrocities they had come to end. They had seen the volcano god. They thirsted flor blood and for riches. They held ground at the first, thought they were outnumbered , then they counterattacked. Their hearts echoed justice, echoed the death of the king and queen of their foul opponents, echoed like the first rumblings out of the crater. As his sword cut through leather and flesh Gonar once again felt Wa-at rise in his veins. Again he fought down the god, even as he fought his opponent.

'Let me kill them!" he roared out, and it was a battle cry both within and without.

And as his voice stormed over the din of the battle another sound came, a sound that was felt through the feet and the walls. The ground began to tremble with the voice Gonar would not free in his throat. The great building shook, old plaster cracked, waterfalls of ancient dust trickled down from above.

"Mighty is Wa-at!" cried Norem-at. "His will is doom!"

"Mighty is Wa-at! His will is Doom!"

The enemy faltered. Eyes in falconmasks darted upward, fear showing as the plaster dust fell.

Gonar's sword found the shoulder of Toris the Presumer and hacked in. Toris fell back with a scream, then the formation he led broke. The spirit of the falconmasks cracked like a porcelain pitcher, and there was a rout. They ran, their courage crumbling before the shaking of the walls.

A new sound reached Gonar's ears from the inner expanse of the arena. There were screams of fear such as one usually heard from the victims of the games; but there were a great many more. He ran to where an arched window looked inward and saw that Lady Lharna had followed his instructions. In one of the boxes a giant lizard held a fat falconmask in its teeth. Lions roamed the stands as people screamed and fought to escape. The terror that Rhengfel had so long loosed on others was now coming home. Again the earth shook, and this time a section of wall opened with a jagged crack. The foundations of the building ground like millstones against themselves.

"Gather to me!" Gonar cried. "The god has seen too much! We must escape this place before he brings it down. Hurry and find all our people. We must make our escape."

The dust filled the air and clogged Gonar's lungs, the shaking of the earth made his footing unsound, but somehow he continued to round up his troops, to find Lady Lharna and her contingent, to lead those she had freed from the dungeons of the arena outward, away from the mayhem. Walls collapsed now with the quaking and the animals set free bounded through the open places so that sometimes Gonar had to worry about falconmasks, sometimes tigers or other wild beasts. His archers became more important than his swordsmen as they made their way out of the arena and into the red-shadowed streets.

The palace was not far from the arena, Gonar knew, for he remembered his long walk through the tunnels that connect them; but he was glad for the presence of many who knew the city better than he, and he let them take the lead, devoting himself to the defense of the troop rather than its actual leading . In a short while they had made the entrance of the palace. ornamented with caratyds whose skin had been carved to show whip marks, and then they were within, following a line of carnage through the halls where Chom had already fought in his way toward the barracks.

They arrived at the barracks none too soon, for a pitched battle surged in the halls and it was going to the advantage of the falconmasks. The enemy had an armory from which to draw weapons, so they had more choice in their manner of fighting; and an almost endless supply of arrows was proving effective. Gonar saw Ketis attending a man with an arrow through his shoulder and hurried to him.

"Where is Chom?" Gonar asked at once.

"At the end of that hallway," the red-haired boy replied. "Fear not, he is unscathed as yet. He has taken some men for a sortie against a passage he knows which cannot be adequately defended. Is this quaking of your doing?"

Gonar smiled.

"In part I think it is," he said. "The god wants to come forth again, and I want to fight this war for myself. He is grumbling about it."

Gonar rumpled Ketis' hair, then headed down the hall toward the sortie Chom planned, followed by Norem-at. Lady Lharna was already attacking the armory directly, using some of her troops to gather the arrows which the profligate falcon-masks had wasted on imprudent shots.

Around the corner, then they were in the thick of it. Chom's

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Across the valley something happened in Rhengfel and buildings exploded into flame. Gonar pictured the tunnels through which he had ridden that morning filled with flaming gasses. He looked back up to where Falwet stared at the same awesome sight, and waited.

"So be it!" Falwet said at last, and he turned from the parapet of the gate. A moment later a small door at the base opened and he came out. Gonar dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to Norem-at.

"Priest and friend," he said, "now is the time to address your god. Pray that he will not seize my body while Falwet tortures me, for if that happens I am compromised and we all die. Speak to him with all your practice, and make him understand!

Gonar walked toward Falwet just as the second wave of hot gasses arrived, blowing his scarlet cloak ahead of him, urging him on to the contest that must surely be the most important of his life. The stakes now were not jewels or gold but the lives of all the people that he and Chom had brought down into the valley, all those they had rescued.

"So, Gonar of Jhent, you are grown to a man," said Falwet as they met. "This body-bet you make declares you so."

Falwet had shaggy black hair and a shaggy black beard with just the beginnings of grey. His was still strong of build and his blue eyes were still like old ice in an old cave. Yet now there was desperation in them, indecision. Gonar wondered what corruptions of the Shegrin's honor might have taken place in the man during his sojourn in Rhengfel. Certainly the pride he had exhibited when first they met was gone.

"It is the only wager I have left," Gonar said, and he began to strip, taking off his cloak, the brazen armor, the scarlet linen loincloth in which the priesthood had invested him as warrior of Wa-at. Behind him he heard Chom giving orders to draw up troops to face the possibly pursuing warriors from the city.

"I will hurt you badly," said Falwet, trying to move into the banter of one Shegrin to another, yet betraying still the nervousness he felt at their situation. "Even were there no glory in defeating you I would hurt you, for I have lived among the torturers of Rhengfel, who are the most cruel in the world. You will not survive my work now with so much ease as you think."

"I have survived the arena in Rhengfel," Gonar said, slipping easily into his role as Shegrin. "And it was I who just killed the king and queen. Do you think I am so soft as I was when last we met?" He picked up his scarlet cloak, so like the one he wore at home in Jhent, and handed it to his opponent, signifying his submission to the game.

"We shall see," said Falwet, throwing a punch into his belly, directly to the open wound the king had given him.

Gonar doubled in pain. The small wound tore further and he felt fresh blood flow. Falwet clasped his fists and struck Gonar hard on the back of his head, then brought his knee up under Gonar's chin, knocking him backward, off balance, flat on his back on the ground. More blood flowed from the sword wound in Gonar's ear, from the side of his head. His brain reeled. Before he could think Falwet was upon him, throwing him over on his belly, yanking his arms behind his back, binding them.

The earth shook again, trembled mightily. Gonar felt the heat inside him, fought it down. Wa-at must not seize control now!

Falwet grabbed his hair and yanked his head backward viciously, then looked directly into his face. There was something in Falwet's eyes that Gonar did not like, but the pain in his body did not give him pause to examine it. Falwet slapped his face, back and forth, hard, repeatedly until he thought his teeth must be knocked loose, until he could not think. The slapping stopped and when his mind cleared Falwet was stretching his legs far apart, spreading them.

Abruptly Falwet was crouching before him, licking his lips, suddenly feverish with the prospects he had.

"These will be your bonds," Falwet whispered, and he displayed a set of four stilletos, long and thin and sharp with roundels for guards. Gonar could not think what he meant, but Falwet was on his feet again, behind him, and then Gonar felt 44 DRUMMER him seize one ankle, hold his foot flat, top to the ground, and place the point of a stilleto to the sole.

Falwet put his weight to the handle and drove the blade through Gonar's foot and into the ground.

'Ahhhnnnnhh!''

There was searing pain in the pierced foot, but suddenly there was a fire like a ball of lava in Gonar's belly as well. Wa-at wanted to be free, to fight the puny mortal who inflicted wounds on the body he owned: and Gonar could not let it happen! He fought in his soul, wrestled with the power of the god, used all the tools his mind possessed to hold the possession back.

Falwet grabbed his other ankle, stretched his legs apart, pulled so hard that Gonar's legs made a straight line. Then he drove a blade through Gonar's other foot.

"Ahhnnnhh!"

The earth shook hard as Gonar fought down the god, held back from the pain. Falwet fell upon Gonar's back, his body covering his victim, his hot leather wet, his mouth close to Gonar's ear.

"You have courage and strength, Gonar of Jhent," Falwet whispered, "but you are a fool!"

A yoke of bronze came down over Gonar's neck and its sharp ends plunged into the ground, fastening him securely. He felt the coldness of a knife as Falwet cut through the ropes that bound his arms behind him. Then Falwet yanked his right arm out and up, pulling his body hard, and, holding him by the wrist so that his palm was flat against the ground, drove a stilleto through his hand.

Even before Gonar could scream in response, Falwet pulled his left arm out and spiked that to the ground as well, so that Gonar was spread eagle, face down in the dirt, his four limbs held securely by knives that cut as he was stretched. Again

Falwet fell upon his back, whispered in his ear.

Courageous and a fool! Do you not realize that I am damned already? Do you not understand that I will die here, as will you all? You are mine now, Gonar, with no rules because there can be no punishment. You will be my last pleasure, and I will take it fully. And it will not matter if the gate is opened or not!"

Before Gonar could cry out, Falwet yanked his head back again and shoved a leather ball into his mouth, effectively stopping it. He tied a piece of black cloth over it and behind Gonar's head, then stood. Gonar felt panic for the first time now. For there was more to the situation than it was possible to understand. It might be that Falwet meant to ignore the bargain and do to him whatever he desired. But it might be a trick; a trick such as the one that had put Gonar into bondage to Chom. This might be a mind torture that Falwet was inflicting. Tales of Shegri traveled fast. Suppose Falwet knew that Gonar had been bested in such a way, and meant to use that technique to win?

Falwet reached under Gonar and grabbed his cock and balls, pulled them roughly downward. It had almost escaped Gonar's attention that his cock was hard; it was such a normal thing for his cock to get hard when he was tortured. He felt Falwet fasten something to the ring that had been put in the head of his cock, then he felt it stretched, pulled until the ring hurt and he was sure it would be torn out through the flesh. He moaned with the pain and it stopped getting worse.

Falwet fastened something around Gonar's balls, drew it tight. He stretched them, pulled them, and once again Gonar felt the fear that they were about to be pulled off. When he moaned the stretching stopped, leaving them at just that ten-

"Now, Gonar," Falwet whispered again in his ear, "We shall make you feel pain such as you have never known, even in the arena of Rhengfel. As you see, I have two very special weapons here. They are knitting needles, such as the sailors of the far north use to make garments out of wool. They are long and sharp. See how you like the way they feel.'

He vanished, then Gonar felt one of the big needles touch his balls where they were stretched. Falwet let the point rest against

the flesh for a long moment, letting Gonar anticipate what was to come, before he drove it through and into the ground.

"Unnnnnn!" Gonar's cry was stiffled by the gag.

He felt the second needle touch the underside of his cock, directly in the middle of the shaft. Then it was driven through. He screamed into the gag, and the pain in his cock was exceeded only by the sudden balling of fire in his belly, in his groin, beginning to stretch out from its center like the roots of a vine into his veins. He wept, he screamed, he fought against pain and fear and diety and despair and possible betrayal. He knew that he had lost the bet, knew that he couhad taken on too great challenge, that nothing he could do now could save any of them.

The earth jolted violently under him, making the knives in his hands and feet cut deeper. The sky, now fully dark and showing stars, was brightened by a flash of light that lit the Rhengfel Wall like daylight. There were more screams and he heard Chom and Lady Lharna giving battle orders. The clash of bronze on bronze, then a thunder like nothing he had ever heard, so loud it knocked people from their feet.

"So the end does come," Falwet said, at Gonar's ear again but this time not a whisper; this time a simple statement of awe.

"My last fucking, Gonar, and yours."

Falwet pulled open his codpiece to reveal his cock, big and stiff. He moved around behind Gonar, then Gonar felt the head and shaft push into his asshole, rough, harsh, but with a peculiar lack of passion. He realized that in this penultimate moment before death Falwet was fucking him in a perfunctory way, doing it too soon in the game, doing it because neither of them might last long enough to do it later. He felt the cock ramming him, felt his hands and feet and cock and balls rip further with the violence of it, but knew he was really no more than a hole for the fucking. He wondered what terrible sight the flash of light had limned that so convinced his enemy, but there was no way to move his head to look.

Falwet fucked him, but not for long. The man delayed his orgasm not at all. As if afraid he would miss it, he hunched and ploughed Gonar's ass, harder and harder, faster and faster, then shot his load deep, holding his cock in like a boy in his first heat. He lay limp atop Gonar for a moment, the sweat trickling down him, then was roused as terror began to fall from the sky.

Not just a few burning rocks now, but flaming boulders as big as horses fell, among Gonar's friends, among the men atop the wall, amidst the warring armies. Chaos broke out, and fires in the fields, and then a rain of burning ash. People choked, coughed, the screaming became a constant. Falwet climbed to his feet and hot cinders landed on Gonar's back and ass, burning him like brans.

'Falwet!" came Norem-at's voice, close by. "Can you not see the truth of what you were told? Look, the troops from Rheng-fel are giving up. The city is destroyed! There is nothing left to fight for, and the lava is moving this way! Open the gates man!"

'Look you," said Falwet in a voice of cool reason. "The gibbous moon just now breaks the horizon beyond the volcano . I have until it is clear to break Gonar, and I will."

"You are as mad as the queen!" shouted Norem-at.

"Mad or not," responded Falwet, "the keys of the kingdom are mine!"

Falwet uncurled a long whip and let its metal-barbed end dangle in front of Gonar.

'You know this kind of whip, don't you?" he queried. It was a naval lash-whip of the sort used to execute mutineers at sea, and it was forbidden in Shegri. "There is some argument as to how long it takes a man to die of its bite. But I think no one has lived long enough under its touch for the moon to clear the horizon.

Falwet whirled the whip and its metal barbs cut into Gonar's back. In the agony he felt the blood flow. The whip curled out again, across his ass, and again there was pain and blood.

Gonar knew now that Falwet could kill him. This whip would do it surely. Nor was there any way he could escape. He could not cry out with the gag in his mouth. His friends were too

honorable to stop the contest, and they stood too far away to hear what Falwet threatened.

He could, of course, unleash the god. But to do so would be to break his oath, to destroy his honor. He had often considered the choice between his death and dishonor, and there had never been any choice for him, for he was a man of honor. Yet now it was not merely his own life that was at stake. It was all of them.

…Yet he had no guarantee that Falwet would open the gates, even if he won the bet. What could he do?

The lash landed again and again until his flesh was cut and bloody. He cried out with each cut, yet Falwet seemed oblivious to his cries. Gonar felt the life ebbing out of him, felt his strength drain away with his blood into the ground. He knew that death was near, but with his last strength he held onto the scrap of honor that was his. He prayed at last to his own god, to Roghgota, that somehow Chom would escape.

And then Chom's voice cut through the pain, cut through the smoke, the ash, the burning, everything.

"I cry halt! You have bound Gonar so that he cannot speak, but I am here to see the terms are met. Look you to the horizon, and see that the moon is clear."

Somehow Gonar opened his eyes and looked up. The horizon from which the moon must rise was behind him, beyond the volcano, but he could see Falwet standing, looking at the moon, his face ruddy with the light of the burning, the whip dangling limply from his hand.

"Why so it is," Falwet said, and without preamble he drew a sharp knife from his clothes and cut his own throat. He made a gurgling sound as he fell, then he was dead.

"Traitor!" Lady Lharna screamed, but Gonar barely heard her. He was feeling the final anguish as Chom came to him and pulled the knitting needles out of his cock and balls, the knives out of his hands and feet, untied the cloth and threw away the leathern ball that had stopped his mouth.

"Gonar, my Gonar!" Chom cried, cradeling him in his arms, his voice choked with weeping. "Gonar, my brave and honora- ble Gonar, how I love you."

It was good to hear that, Gonar thought as he felt his life slipping away. It only he had the strength to say it back to his

…But in the darkness there grew a light, a glowing warm light that might have been the sun, that might have been the fires of the volcano. There was a voice out of the light that spoke with words that echoed and said: "My good and faithful servants are not rewarded thus. Live, Gonar, for your honor is great, and I am not yet finished with you in the world where you dwell." And then the voice was gone, and the light dimmed, and the pain came rushing back.

Gonar opened his eyes. There was not an inch of him that did

"My master?" he asked, looking up at Chom.

"Gonar, my Gonar," Chorn said, but the despair was still in his face. "You have done what you could do. At least we shall die together."

'What is it?" Gonar asked. "Falwet is dead. Will they still not open the gates?"

'They are all dead!" said Lady Lharna, standing nearby and looking down. "They have all cut their throats, even as Falwet, rather than open the gates. It was one last act of wanton cruelty. Even in death were they vengeful."

Chom tried to restrain him, but Gonar struggled to his feet. There was something in his memory about living on, about a god not being finished with him. He looked around.

In the distance was a vision of sublime beauty and power. Rhengfel, the mighty city of torturers, was aflame. As he watched yet more of its towers crumbled. The lava seeped out of its broken walls even as the lava poured down the remnants of the cone of the volcano, which was now almost blown away. Beyond the volcano the gibbous moon rose blood red above the mountains. Everywhere between Rhengfel and the spot on which he stood fires raged.

There was no longer any battle. Those who still wore that black leather of Rhengfel had cast away their falconmasks and now worked beside those of Wa-at's army to beat out the fires that threatened to consume them all.

'Norem-at!" Gonar called out, looking around, still too weak to shout effectively, still bleeding all over, but beginning to know what he was about.

The priest came from the crowd. He was wounded, no doubt from the battle, but he still moved quickly.

"What is it, Lord Gonar?" He looked surprised to see Gonar alive.

"My body is frail," Gonar said, "but it can still be of use. You must call upon Wa-at. I have held him in check too long now and I never knew how to summon him. Ask his help in getting us out of here… And Chom, my Master, and you, Lady Lharna; marshall all the warriors to face the gates; for if we escape this valley we must still fight the army beyond."

The three of them looked astonished for a moment, not so much at what Gonar asked but that he was strong enough to ask it. Gonar himself was astonished at the fact. But he did not delude himself: he knew full well that the god might have returned him to life only for some final act. The bards were full of tales of men who lived just long enough.

When he saw that Chom and Lady Lharna were doing as he asked, he nodded to Norem-at. The priest raised his hands and began an invocation.

The words were barely on the breeze when the fire in Gon-ar's belly appeared, then the sense of fire rushing through his veins. This time he did not fight it. He had done his fighting.

Now it was the god's turn.

Gonar felt the god take him, saw on the ground before him the glow that filled his body and flowed over. He heard Norem-at make his plea, but he paid little attention. Now he was only a vessel, and a broken one at that. If the others lived, that was enough. Should he live, he would be grateful to whatever god had arranged it.

Suddenly the presence was gone. He was once again only a wounded man, a man with pierced hands and feet, a man who had been whipped near to death.

'What did the god say?" he asked, feeling very stupid for not having listened to what was said by a god inhabiting his body.

"He just departed."

But then came Wa-at's answer.

The ground jolted again, and in the distance the last of the volcano's cone was blown skyward in the greatest eruption yet. Fire and ash and lava in glowing chunks were hurled upward. The very foundations of Rhengfel were rent, and what was left of the city was destroyed in a final cataclysm that hurled its stones and mortar into the sky as debris. Huge flaming globs of lava were sent heavenward, and as they watched the greatest of these came hurtling toward the last living people in the Rheng-fel Valley.

There were no screams this time. People watched with mute fascination as the glowing thing, as big as a palace, came hurtling across the dark sky toward them. Gonar felt Chom's arms go around him, felt the thrill go through him even now as the wool and linen and bronze and leather that Chom wore

Close it came, and the air before it was pressed away, made to be a high hot wind that tore at their clothes, that fanned the fires toward them, that shrieked and shrilled. They felt the heat of it, felt it descending, felt its force.

And it came in a low arc, singeing their hair, the force of it flattening them to the ground, shaking their teeth: and it struck the great gate in the Rhengfel Wall and shattered it, burst through it, destroying it utterly, crashing into the land beyond.

The hot wind died, the flames roared, and Gonar realized numbly that they were free: to face whatever army lay beyond!

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The Training Center continues to offer men with serious interests a unique service. We do not send out brochures or photos but work with each individual on a personal basis. A phone number has been added (see instructions ) to make it easier to contact us. TC offers men physical training, cell confinement (padded available), and immobilization in a realistic military or correctional atmosphere for weekend or week-long sessions. Safe, sane, discreet and monitored situations are controlled by professionally-trained personnel. Boot camp, stockade, POW, asylum, sensory deprivation, controlled preathing available. No Ff. drugs. SM, pain. References provided after commitment. Fee required. Writer powerin ten inquiries should include phone number for contact or call (314) 281- 4535 to leave your number for contact To reach an instructor directly, call between 7 P.M. and 10 P.M. only. TRAINING CENTER, BOX 672, BRID-GETON , MO 63044.

BALL CLUB

Men who want 'em. Men who have 'em. Information: SASE to BC, PO Box 1501, Pomona, CA 91769.

LASHMATES

National whipping / spanking club. RS 496-A Hudson St. #H-24, NYC, NY 10014

FOOTMATES

National feet / footwear club. RS, 496-A Hudson St. #H-24, NYC, NY 10014.

HOT SWEATY AND RAUNCHY If you worship ripe socks, jockstraps, shorts, T-shirts, then SATURNALIA is for you. For membership information send SASE to SATURNALIA, 1230 Grant

HAIRY MEN / HAIRFANS ADLIST Infopixpak $2.00: Man-Hair, 59 West 10th, NYC 10011.

LEDERMEISTERS

Invitations to many S / M events, Join LEDERMEISTERS, Inc., 4655 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood, CA 90027.

CLUB FOR MEN INTO BOOTS! Contact club for guys into Boots, Leather, Rubber, Uniforms, Motorcy- cles, Motocross, Vans, Trucks and the Outdoors, Now over 200 members in the U.S. and Canada; small fee, personal service. Contact: Jeff at PO Box 48577, 595 Burrard St., Bentall #3, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V7X 1A3.

CS Men into cigars, SASE, PO Box 15344, San Antonio, TX 78212-8544.

PHONE SEX

NICK'S PHONESEX!

X-Hustler sells it over phone. Thick Italian sausage, meaty balls, lots of cheese and loads of sauce. Rank butt hole. Hungry? On your knees and start dialing. MC / VISA. (212) 645-5043.

NATIONWIDE PHONE-SEX CLUB Join & receive monthly lists & make as many calls as you want! For Mambership into Call: (213) 672-2121 or Write. P.S.C. 2554 Lincoln Blud: R399 Marina Del Rey, CA 30051 American Express, VISA, Ma

EAT MY MEAT!

Hot, hung, muscular stud delivers any scene you want over the phone! Verbal abuse, raunch, watersports, uniforms, spanking, bondage, heavy fucking and morel Only $12.50—no time limit! VISA/ MC / AMEX. Get on your knees now and call Scott, (415) 441-7825. Hard action anytime!

NEED A GOOD TALKING TO? CALL TELEROTIC The hottest new service in the busi- ness, and we've got a specialty: Hung Masters who are dead serious about making you work hard for it. Crave some hot SM action? We're the best at leaving you soaked, and damn proud of it. Call (213) 874-9267 anytime. VISA/ MASTERCARD.

DADDY PHONESEXIII 9½" Uncut Cock—Call Buck! $35 V / MC / AE (213) 669-0220

CALL YOUR UNCUT MASTER! 24-hour phone action with over 30 sweaty hard studs waiting to get off with you. All scenes including: uncut, body builders, truckers, bikers, water-sports , spanking, verbal abuse and more. How much can you handle? Call your Masters now. No recordings. Visa / Mastercard / Amex. (213) 653-

RESORTS

LEATHERMEN'S LODGE

250 acres, secluded and private, 3- story stone and log house, deluxe rooms and baths. Army-style bunkhouse . Gourmet breakfast included. Locked gate, nudity, barn and large pond, Just off I-81, Enclose S1 for bro- chure and details. Cum have a Leather- man's Fantasy in the Smokie Mountain hideaway. Drummer Box 5280

EASY TO LOVE Musical Entertainment (212) 982-8688

CORRESPOND DIRECT WITH MASTER KEN SAVAGE

Will answer all questions. Because of mail volume, time and consideration, enclose $1 plus a SASE to: KEN SAV- AGE, Suite 364, 584 Castro St., San Francisco, CA 94114-2588.

It's Oktoberfest time again. Munich, West Germany, will be inundated by leathermen from all over Europe and, they are hoping, from the United States and Canada. It is two weeks in length and begins Saturday, 20 September. The European leathermen are a bit chary about taking Americans into their beds, especially if they are from New York, Hous-ton , Los Angeles, and San Francisco, because of the AIDS crisis. Europe is having its own problems with AIDS and they are definitely into the safe-sex scene. The Munich Leather Club is one of the most active on the Continent. Levis and an assortment of leather is acceptable at their parties. ZUM LOHENGRIN and THE EAGLE are the premier leather bars. BOLT is Levi / western.

By the time you read this column, IN-FERNO XV of the Chicago Hellfire Club will be history. As you may know by now, DRUMMER magazine, as well as MACH dus, publishers of DUNGEONMASTER. They are moving their headquarters to San Francisco and will be at this same address. This issue of DRUMMER is the last one that Alternate Publishing will be putting out. Well, to get back to IN-FERNO , Desmodus will be publishing the runbook for INFERNO XV. This run-book is something altogether different this year. Instead of just the usual schedules of the run and the advertising, there will be stories and articles by Fledermaus, LaFarge, Frank O'Rourke, John Preston, Spike, and Larry Townsend. Also, there will be photos and drawings by Zeus, Etienne, The Hun, and Rex. If you're interested , send $9.95 to Desmodus, Inc., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101. Your copy will be mailed to you in September . I'm not into writing commercials , but I know the book will be exceptional and, after all, I have a slave auction story in it.

Let me say something about John Embry, the man who started DRUMMER. He started DRUMMER 11 years ago and by publishing it, he gave the leathermen a magazine with which they could personally identify. Sure, he pissed some guys off, but, in general, he gave many guys what they wanted, a sense of identity . The mag didn't always come out on time, but, when they got it, they were generally happy with it. Name another publication, excepting THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, where guys collect every issue and back issues to fill out their collections . Some years ago I remember getting a call from Boston. This dude's house burned down the night before and he was upset because he had lost his DRUMMER collection and wanted to know if he could replace it. This is not unusual. There are always guys who hunt the bookshops for past issues of DRUM-MER that they need. There are no old DRUMMERS. So, we might gripe and carp about old photos reappearing in the magazine, or something of the sort, but we all still open the cover for that bit of magic which validates our lives. For that we have to thank John Embry. John is not retiring, he is planning to go off to the Russian River and do some more writing.

I have known Tony DeBlase and Andy Charles for years. We are Chicago Hell-fire brothers. Everyone who has seen DUNGEONMASTER recognizes it as the JOURNAL OF S / M. Andy and Tony are businessmen, but they are committed to giving their readers the very best in this particular genre. I can think of people, as I am sure that you can, whom I would not want to see own DRUMMER. Their first issue will be DRUMMER 99. This is a transition issue, but they are planning a tremendous issue in DRUMMER 101. They are trying to bring back some of the old writers with new material. I believe that they will probably be contacting their readers to get their input as to what they would like to see in the mag. MACH, DUNGEONMASTER, and FQ will continue coming out on a quarterly basis. For you guys who have never seen DUN-GEONMASTER send in $15 for a year's subscription.

For you guys who think that I'm pushing product, all I can say is, "Screw you in your ear!" If you can't see the value, then you don't see the importance of all these mags to our community.

Later, men.

-Frank O'Rourke

MANWATCHING IN RINGOLD ALLEY

1986

RICHARD LAW

M 3 1385

Tough Customers is our way of sharing the hottest candid home photos sent in by readers like you!

Wanna join in? Send your photo (crisp black and white reproduces best) to: Tough Customers, Drummer, PO Box 42009, San Francisco, California 94142-2009. Tell us you're of legal age, put your signature on the back of the photo, and include your name and address so we can assign you a confidential TC Box number. (Sorry, photos cannot be returned.)

Wanna get in touch with a TC? Put your correspondence in an envelope, seal it, apply postage, and write the TC Box number on the back flap in pencil; put that inside another envelope and mail it to the address above, along with a measly quarter for handling. See ya around!

SERIOUS MEN: This Atlanta couple is looking for others into serious S&M. Frankly, my dear, you'd better give a damn! TC 1158

Cumming events!!!!

Drummer 99, the next issue to reach your eager hands, will spotlight a special photo series featuring Mr. Drummer 1985 Steve Reiswig, and his equally hunky lover, who was Mr. Northwest Drummer 1984, Ray Woods, in a powerful, yet erotic, visual statement on the specter of AIDS and leathermen's reaction to it. Drummer 99 will also give you a look at the sweat and strain being enjoyed by some of the more than 3000 participants in the second Gay Games currently underway here in San Francisco .

Drummer 100 will be the biggest issue, and we think, the best issue ever. To celebrate reaching the century mark of issues published we are trying to assemble something truly golden. Many of the men who have been so important to the success of the first 99 have been asked to plan a special contribution to

Drummer 100. Robert Payne, Jack Fritcher, John Preston, Larry Townsend, Frank O'Rourke, Rex, Cavelo, The Hun, Jim Moss, Robert Pruzan, and the Zeus Collection are just a few of those on the list of contributors so far.

By the time you read this, ownership of Drummer will have passed from John Embry / Robert Payne to myself and my lover, Andy Charles. We look forward to continuing the tradition John started over 11 years ago and pledge to continue to produce a unique magazine of special interest to leathermen and others who hear a different drummer and are proud to march to their own unique cadence. There will be more about our plans for Drummer and its brother publications, Mach, FQ, and Dun-geonMaster , in Drummer 99. We look forward to being with you at least another 100 issues.

THE BEST & WORS SAZINFI

SIXTY MINUTES OF DRUMMER MAGIC! With our favorite moments and bits of DRUMMER's past, along with the outtakes and the stuff we couldn't put in print. In living color on either

VHS or BETA. THE BEST & WORST OF DRUMMER was our first annual ten years ago. It is fitting that that title be bestowed on our first video magazine. It'll turn you on, we guarantee it!

10 YEARS OF 95 DRUMINER

IN 60 UNBELIEVABLE MINUTES!