FF THE TOP by FLEDERMAUS

Shipping and receiving

The three issues of Drummer for which I have so far been responsible (99, 100 and 101) have been shipped to all distributors, retailers and subscribers within four days of receipt from the printer / binder. There is no delay in shipment from our offices. However, I know that it took two weeks for the trucking company to get the copies of Drummer 100 to our major New York distributor and that some subscribers on the East Coast did not receive their copies through the mail until three weeks after we had delivered them to the post office. UPS, which, despite all its problems, is infinitely more efficient than the U.S. Postal Service's handling of bulk mail, delivers to most of the retailers who buy directly from us. This is why you will often see the magazine in a shop before you receive your subscription copy.

For these reasons, and to insure greater privacy for your subscription, we are now offering the option of subscription delivery by first-class mail. This option is available for $20 over the regular U.S. bulk-mail subscription. Thus, to receive Drummer in your mail box every month, you pay $50 (via bulk mail to U.S. addresses ); $70 (via first-class mail to U.S. addresses and to Canada); $100 (via "air, printed matter" to other coun-tries ). If you wish first-class delivery of your Drummer under a Leather Fraternity membership, add $20 to the $85 Leather Fraternity membership .

If you want to convert an existing subscription to first class it is most convenient to do so with a renewal. Send your renewal at the new rate and $1.50 for each issue still due on your current subscription and we will convert if for you. If you want to convert at this time but do not want to renew yet, you can send $5 + $1.50 for each issue still outstanding on your current subscription . Thus, if you have six issues to go on a current subscription , you may send $70 + $9 to receive the next 18 issues by first-class mail, or you may send $14 to receive the next six issues by first-class mail. If you are interested and don't know how many issues you have coming on your current subscription , phone (415) 864- 3456 and ask for Ken; he can tell you.

Our other three magazines are also available via first-class mail at the following rates: DungeonMaster ($21), Mach ($26) and FQ ($20).

Slick is not necessarily better!

The main reason for using the glossy coated stock in a magazine such as this is that it is supposed to give you better photo reproduction. If you will look at issues 99, 100 and 101, you will see that the photos on the slick pages have often not been up to the standards we want. We have been complaining to the printer . We are told that there is often too much black in the photos for them to reproduce well. We have pointed out that it is difficult to shoot black leather in any color other than black! And that by their very nature our photos must be quite dark.

We are looking forward to seeing what the issue you have in your hands looks like. If we are again dissatisfied with the quality of photo reproduction on the glossy stock, your next issue may be all uncoated stock (which incidentally is a considerably better grade than "newsprint," which it is often mistakenly called). I see

Your comments and suggestions on these problems would be appreciated.

March on Washington-again !

The Living in Leather Conference sponsored by the National Leather Association and held last Columbus Day weekend in Seattle has as a major topic of discussion ways of getting leather and / or SM life-styles more generally accepted by our nonleather gay/ lesbian brothers and sisters. The following is a news item that has just come to my attention regarding a major development in this effort:

An organization has been established to coordinate another March on Washington by gay men and lesbians scheduled for Columbus Day weekend of 1987. It is obvious that we need to stand up and make ourselves noted again. Thanks primarily to the work of members of GMSMA in New York, the march coordi-nating committee has included leather / SM as one of the several special-interest groups insured of representation on the governing committee .

To my knowledge this is the first time that a gay / lesbian political activist group has specifically designated leather as a recognized subset whose input is specifically included in planning and activities. In these days when many gay/ lesbian "political leaders" seem to wish that anyone wearing leather or chains would just disappear and cease to be an embarrassment, this recognition by the march coordinating committee is a major step in the right direction.

I offer thanks to GMSMA and others who worked for this and I look forward to receiving further information for distribution to Drummer readers.

or what seemed like hours the twenty-eight contestants posed for photos and nervously checked out the competion, awaiting the number draw for the International Mr. Leather Contest. My number was 24; the significance didn't hit me until later in the weekend. Peter Gallo pulled number 25 and a quiet, rather unassuming little guy got number 26…Scott Tucker.

We spent three days lined up numerically for one reason or another and managed to exchange a few thoughts when not preoccupied memorizing speaches, checking the leather and chrome or mentally insuring that our "image" didn't slip while one of the judges was present.

Competitive egos being what they are, we really didn't begin to talk to one another until the night of the finals. Peter in nervous apprehension, myself out of curiosity of the competition, and Scott with casual compliments and self-assured, intelligent questions.

Scott was taken totally unaware when, after second runner-up, number 24, and first runner-up, number 25, were called, International Mr. Leather 1986 was announced as number 26, Scott Tucker. The guy had been so overawed by some of the other contestants, the crowds, etc., that he didn't even think he had placed…much less won the coveted title.

The group of contestants scattered immediately after the contest, winners to the graces of demanding photographers , the nonwinners to lovers or friends or the hoards of fans at the local bars.

I only saw Scott for a few moments the next day before our respective plane flights and invited him to San Francisco for our gay pride day. During the next few months we traveled together across the country to benefits, fund raisers, contests, parades and photo sessions.

ripun 190 86

MOTHER'S HERE by Hoddy Allen

Preopening blackout; audience is treated to the sounds of whacks, thumps and moans. Something good is happening. Suddenly there is a knock at the door.

MOM: Frankie? Frankie, are you and Bert home?

Lights come up to show Frankie, bound hand and foot, lying on a bed, Bert standing next to bed holding a whip.

FRANKIE: Shit! It's my mother!

MOM: (still pounding) Frankie, Mother's here!

BERT: Oh, for …!

FRANKIE: Bert! Get me untied. Hurry!

BERT: (vainly struggling with knots) I can't untie them. I made them too tight!

MOM: (still pounding) Frankie, is everything all right? It's

Mother.

FRANKIE: (to Bert) Get the scissors. (To Mom) BE RIGHT

THERE, MOM!

BERT: (searching) 1…1 can't find them.

FRANKIE: What do you mean …? Shit! What'll we do?

BERT: Act natural?

FRANKIE: What? I'm trussed up. You look like an ad for Drum-

UTE, MOM! (Back to Bert) and you say act natural?

MOM: (yes, still pounding away) Frankie, the carrot cake I brought you is gettin' heavy. Let me in, dear.

FRANKIE: (gets an idea) I've got it! Cover me with the blanket. We'll pretend I'm sick.

BERT: But Frankie, she'll worry. (covers Frankie)

FRANKIE: Not half as worried as she'll be if she sees me like this. Now get rid of that! (meaning the whip)

Bert hides the whip, tucks Frankie in and then heads for the door.

FRANKIE: Bert!

BERT: What, Frankie?

FRANKIE: My mother can't see you looking like that.

BERT: Come on, Frankie, I shaved.

FRANKIE: I'm talking about the leathers!

BERT: Oh! (removes whatever piece-or pieces-of leather he's wearing and heads for the door; the pounding finally ceases)

BERT: (at door) Mrs. G! Good to see my favorite mother-in -law.

MOM: (entering with Bert and carrying a big pan) It's about time you let the old lady in, boys. I was this close to getting mugged out in that hallway. (sees Frankie in bed and stares)

FRANKIE: Sorry, Mom. We…

MOM: (interrupts in a BIG way) FRANKLIN G, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN BED AT THIS HOUR OF THE DAY?!

BERT: Easy, Mrs. G. You see, (fakes sadness) Frankie's sick. (sobs)

MOM: (taken aback) With what, Bert?

BERT: (goes over to Frankie, sits next to him) We don't know.

Bert gets quite melodramatic, thus indicating his inexperience with little white lies.

FRANKIE: (having had enough of this) Mom, I just have the flu, okay? Bert's making a big deal of it and it's nothing! I'm fine.

BERT: (relieved) Then it's nothing serious? Thank god for that!

FRANKIE: Bert, you want to cool it?

MOM: Now, Frankie, don't blame Bert for caring about you. (remembers cake) Oops! Better take this into the kitchen. (exits)

FRANKIE: Did you have to overdo it?

BERT: Sorry, Frankie. Anything I can get you?

FRANKIE: Yes, Bert, the scissors?

BERT: Oh, yeah! I'll go look for them in the bathroom.

FRANKIE: You do that.

Bert exits one side, Mom enters other side of stage.

MOM: There, I put the cake in the fridge. Now, how's our patient?

FRANKIE: Just fine, Mom. I'm okay. Honest.

MOM: (sits next to Frankie on bed) Yes, dear, I'm quite sure you are, especially with Bert here to take care of you. You know, Frankie, when you told me you were gay I must say I wasn't exactly thrilled about it. There are so many weirdos out there and I certainly didn't want any kid of mine to be a weirdo. You know what I mean?

FRANKIE: Um, yes, Mom.

MOM: All the sick things weirdos do to each other! (shudders) UGH! Makes a body wonder what kind of mothers they had. But you seem to be very happy with Bert, and though he seems to be a few bricks short of a full load at times, he does care about you a lot. So, if you're happy, Frankie, so am I.

FRANKIE: (truly touched) Gee, Mom, thanks. I love you.

MOM: I feel like a hug! (opens arms) Come here and give your old lady a big one.

FRANKIE: Uh, gee, Mom, I'd like to but…

MOM: Well? Let's have one!

FRANKIE: (thinking) Gee, Mom, you might get my flu germs.

MOM: Balls, dear! Now come on. Mothers need hugs, too, you know!

FRANKIE: Not now, Mom.

MOM: Now, Frankie! Stop being silly …

Mom reaches for the covers and pulls them down as Frankie yells. Frankie is extremely embarrassed and we can only imagine what's going on in Mom's mind.

FRANKIE: Yes, Mom, it's true. I am a weirdo!

MOM: What? Because you like to play Cowboys and Indians?

FRANKIE: (completely baffled) Cowboys and Indians?

MOM: You got the idea from your Aunt Madge, didn't you?

FRANKIE: Aunt Madge?

MOM: Yes, dear! Your Aunt Madge and Uncle Frank loved to play that game. He would dress up as a cowboy, you know, boots, the hat and chaps. He looked a lot like Gene Autry-and Madge would dress up like Minnie-Ha-Ha.

FRANKIE: (smiling) They did?

MOM: Yes! You remember that support pillar in their rec room? Well, she used to tie him up to that and do a war dance around him. Oh, they loved to play that game! When Madge told me about it I was mortified ! But, she said it kept their marriage going for years.

FRANKIE: Mom, is this true?

MOM: Would I make it up? Ever since she told me I can't look at a Western on TV without breaking out laughing. Of course, everytime Madge sees a Western , she gets horny.

At this point, Bert enters, having found the scissors at last. However, realizing that Mom has discovered the secret and fearing the worst, Bert turns to leave the room quietly.

MOM: (sharply) HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, YOUNG MAN! COME HERE!

Bert reluctantly comes to the bed. Mom rises.

MOM: (scoldingly) Shame on you, Bert, playing Cowboys and Indians with Frankie when he's got the flu! He should be kept warm and, besides, you've tied him too tight. His circulation is cut off. (To Frankie) I learned about all that from your Aunt Madge.

BERT: (completely confused) Um…

MOM: Well, no matter. With time, you'll practice and get it right. Madge and Frank had twenty-six years of marriage to get it right. (Glances at watch) Ooops! I've got to run. Play nice, boys.

Mom leaves. Bert is trying to sort out what happened and Frankie lies there smiling, very close to laughing.

BERT: Um, what just happened?

FRANKIE: Madge, I love you!

BERT: Frank?

Another aspect of the Living In Leather weekend was a display featuring several Seattle-area SM artisans. I was particularly taken by Dragon's whip creations and have been torn since purchasing one between hanging the effective tool on a hook in the playroom or placing it on exhibit as a beautiful piece of sculpture. -Fledermaus

DRAGON WHIPS

I began making whips during the summer of '82 in Seattle. Until then I'd been doing SM pretty much with my bare hands. I'd had no money to commission a good whip, and I wasn't happy with the quality of most of the mass-produced whips I saw for sale.

A whip is the extension of my right arm, a tool of my trade. I want my whip to feel good in my hand, to have heft and balance, to flash in the dark like lightning.

The first whips I made were all black leather and studs. Period. Good, but not enough. I want my tools to be things of beauty as well as things of power. The two are inseparable.

Now I use natural wood handles, sometimes dyed, mostly apple wood because it's heavy and strong. I keep the leather black, but I may dye the cut edges other colors, deep red for the blood that flows like a river, etc.

I make whips with chains hidden among the leather lashes, and some with nails embedded in the ends. I love the sting of surprises. I use feathers and crystals because they are totems of freedom and centered power for me. I oil and wax the handles after sanding them smooth, so that they are sleek and hard to the touch. I build a whip to take serious use, for it's no good to anyone hanging on a nail in the wall.

When I custom make a whip for someone, I like to know a bit about how they see themselves. I like to think about them as I build their tool. The whips not made for a particular person are more extensions of myself. When such a whip is bought they must make it their own.

Dragon

EW YORK R. EATHE

MR. LEATHER NEW YORK 1986

The Third Annual Mr. Leather New York Contest, a benefit for the AIDS Resource Center, promoted by Artry, Inc., took place in NYC's Paradise Garage, decorated for the event in movie-massacre motif, complete with mutilated manikins, and was the greatest success to date. Artie Haber, Henry Roma-nowski and their seemingly untiring staff produced a nonstop, exciting show, with a variety of entertainment that opened and closed on schedule (which is noteworthy only because of its rarity).

The contestants ranged from humorous to super-hot and kept the crowd cheering for more as they strutted and posed in creative costuming or lack thereof.

Offstage visuals were at least as interesting as those on stage. Daddies, boys, Masters, slaves, and a generous helping of masculine , muscular flesh, most attired in their best or most bizarre leathers, filled the multiroomed building in what can only be described as a feeling of true brotherhood and erotic fantasy.

Congratulations to the new Mr. Leather New York, Martin Burke, for an outstanding presentation, also to First Runner-up Lindsay Grant, representing the Gauntlet 2 of Los Angeles, and Second Runner-up William Donaldson, sponsored by Trident International of NYC, and to each of the Interchain fraternity contestants who competed.

Artry Foundation is a not-for-profit organization designed to help raise and distribute funds for the education of people concerning gay-related diseases of which AIDS is a primary concern. This year's contest was a financial success, due to the continued support, participation and contributions by dedicated members of the leather community. If you wish to get involved, contact the Artry Foundation, Box 410, 132 West 24th Street, New York, NY 10011. —JimEd Thompson

ON STAGE, BACK STAGE AND OFF STAGE: The contestants at Mr. Leather New York 1986 excited the audience on stage and each other back stage and off stage. The list of judges read like the Who's Who of the leather world: Fernando Ascencio, Wheels MC, other back stage and off stage. The list of judges feat nike the wint of the leaf of the leaf of the No. NYC; Jacques Carle, ASMF, Paris; Andy Charles (standing) president, Desmodus, Inc., San Francisco; David Goloka, The

HE TRAINING OF A MASTER by John Preston Illustration by Sean hat Saturday, I was alone in my apartment. The place was oppressing me. It's a small one-bedroom in Chel-sea . Someone else might have made something of it. It was worth doing. It was in one of the best buildings, solidly constructed, expensively maintained, and with enough real-estate value to have justified a lot more investment

But I'd chosen to live a Spartan life. The walls were spotlessly clean. There were no drawings on them, nothing to break up the mass of white paint. I had only a pair of black leather chairs

with a table between them in the living room, along with a sideboard and a television. My bedroom walls were just as barren except for the oversized mirrors that hung on all four. The furniture there was just the bed and dresser. There were plain black rugs on the floors. That was it. That was the life I constructed for myself.

My body was aching. The sharp pain from the beating I'd gotten as a "gift" from Mr. Montclair that week had gone away. But the deep, deep hurt had taken over, the kind you get from a real whipping. I had finally looked at myself in my bedroom mirrors when I'd gotten home.

I'd been amazed at the sight. I'd asked Montclair for the whipping. I gave him no limits. He'd gone at it viciously and— I'd thought—anarchically. I had only been aware of the rain of blows and the way I could never anticipate where they were going to fall on my body. But when I saw them in the mirror, I discovered they were utterly symmetrical. He had painted a beautiful set of marks on my flesh. On my back, again on my ass, still once more on my thighs, there were almost exactly parallel sets of marks that fanned out from the center of my body towards the outside at perfect angles. I looked almost as though I'd been tattooed.

But now, days later, the bruises were fading and the red welts had turned into purple and blue marks, all of them surrounded by a sea of yellows and oranges. These weren't going to leave for a long time, I realized.

I'd met Montclair because of my job. I'm an enforcer for The Network, the secret organization of those people who would sell themselves and those who would buy them. My partner and I'd captured a couple runaways for the famous master and I'd taken a night with him as my bonus. It was something to remember and most other bottoms would have been delighted. They'd have gone out and bragged to their friends that they'd survived it all.

But I'd just been left with a horrible sense of my loneliness. I had always known it was there. You don't live with the kind of longings, I have and not recognize them. But I'd admitted to Montclair just what they were—the search for the man who'd finally, totally master me-and the very act of articulating that desire had given them a new depth and meaning and made me all the more miserable.

I couldn't take it any more that Saturday. I had to get out. I looked at the phone and thought about calling Brad, my partner and as good a friend as I had. But I couldn't bring myself to admit to one more person just how much in need I was.

Instead, I got dressed in a pair of chinos, loafers, a tee-shirt and took off for the bars. I took a cab to the Village. I wandered around Christopher Street and then up along the Hudson. I'd stop in one bar after another, just to see what was happening. I'd occasionally have a beer, sometimes a coke, more often nothing.

I went into the clone bars, even a couple of discos, and tried to find something that could attract me. If I could only get off the idea of this one thing that I had to have to be happy. If I could just forget the idea there was only one image that could make me feel good …

But I couldn't and I was pulled further north, towards the leather bars. I went into the one that was the heaviest of them all. I got a bottle of beer and hung onto its neck as though it were a life preserver. It was late by then-well into the early hours of the morning.

The costumes were right. There was leather all over the place. A few men were interesting. Their keys and their uniforms sent little waves through me. But there was something that wasn't there. I felt cheated. I was standing in a goddamn bar…again! I could feel a familiar anger rising in me-at myself, at the rest of them. I took a slug of beer.

They weren't the one I wanted. They were too easy. I could see the way most of them talked to one another, the joking, the affectionate arms around one another, the bottoms challenging the tops and then, after a while, I couldn't tell which was which. There were muscles and there were outfits, but there wasn't that pair of eyes searching me and finding that thing inside me…

There were more beers that passed through my hands. The time went on. I know—rationally—who the men in the bars are. I have no grudge against them, really. But that night they got to me. I wanted to show them something. I put my most recent beer down and pulled off my shirt. I turned my back on the crowd and dared them to look at my bruises. That was the real thing!

I stayed there. Waiting for someone to comment. No one did. I waited for some approach. There were only a couple drunks who staggered over and tried to reach for my crusted tits. I pushed them away.

Then I caught a glimpse at a guy who was standing over in the corner. I looked more closely. The leather was the most complete outfit in the place, up to and including heavy gloves and visored cap. The jacket was open, revealing a bare chest and stomach. Even the pants underneath his chaps were leather. I moved over towards him, feeling a bit of hypnosis taking control of me.

But when I'd taken a place leaning against the wall near him, I realized that he was very young. I also saw that the leather was very new and he was not very comfortable. He was watching me as intently as I was him. He was trying to signal me by groping himself, but the act of touching his cock and balls through his leather wasn't working, he was doing it too tentatively for me to believe.

I was ready to leave him, but there was something in his eyes that kept me there. It wasn't the commanding glare I wanted to see, and the hint of his insecurity nearly turned me off. Still, there was something authentic about him. He was real. I didn't understand how I knew that, but I did.

I wanted someone, damn it! I didn't want to go home alone. But I was damned if I was going to pick up some neophyte in a bar who didn't know what the hell he was going to do. Even after a few beers, I wasn't going to let some amateur take me to his place and truss me up and experiment on me! I was getting more frustrated again. But, then, a plan began to materialize in my mind. I liked it, I liked it a lot.

Still shirtless, I stood up and walked right up to him. I put a hand on his mouth as soon as I got there. "Don't say a word. If you say one word, I swear to you, I'll walk right out of this place and you'll never see me again.'

He was surprised and puzzled. But his forehead seemed to relax. Whatever I was doing, he was at least interested in listen- ing to it. I took my hand away. "You're new at this aren't you?"

He was confused for a minute; I'd just told him not to talk and now I asked him a question. "Just nod, yes or no." He shook his head slowly up and down. "You want this," I swept my arm around the bar. "And you like this." I turned around and showed him the bruises on my back.

He reached up and ran a gloved hand across my muscles, from one shoulder blade to another. I looked back at him and saw a slight awe on his face. I turned back to him. "You can have this, me, but only my way.'

He looked puzzled again. I tried to explain enough without making it so clinical that the whole thing would be ruined. "You're new at this. I understand it. I can show you. I need someone tonight. If you want to take me to your place, I'll tell you just what it's all about. I'll tell you just what it's like for a slave to kneel at your feet. I'll show you secrets that no other bottom could ever give you."

I reached down and took his hands and put them on my still-sore nipples. He lightly fingered them, sending waves of sensation through my chest. "Yeah," I said slowly. "But that's only a beginning. If you want me, just nod." He did. "Do you have a place near here?" He nodded once more. "Then let's go. But it will only work if you can be my fantasy. I don't want to know anything about you, not even the sound of your voice. It'd ruin everything. But if you leave it alone, if you just will let me show you, I promise you, it'll be the night of your life.'

is place wasn't far from the bar. He led me to it, keeping our silence. I'd watched him as we walked. He had a fine, slim body; the firm, young muscles were obvious from the space between the flaps of his jacket. His flesh, that I could see, was nearly hairless. He had a moustache, but it wasn't very full. I realized on that walk that he couldn't be more than twenty-five. God, that age seemed like a century ago to me.

We came to his building and he unlocked the building door. His own apartment was on the first floor in the rear. I entered it first. He followed and flicked on an overhead light. It was too bright. "No, just a little lamp, something that leaves the mystery in place," I said to him. "Don't you have something like that? Or, even better, candles?"

He moved to a chest and brought out four candlesticks. He showed them to me. "Perfect," I said. He placed them in different parts of the one-room studio and then used a lighter to light them. "You should have them there, waiting, when you have someone in. Then you wouldn't have to use the overhead at all. Make him stand right here, waiting for you. The few minutes of tension will be perfect."

He nodded once, sharply, letting me know he understood what I was saying. Then he turned off the offending electric light. The room was more red now, more ominous.

'Now you make him strip for you." I pulled my tee-shirt back off and stood for a minute. "You should take his tits in your hand now." He did. The gloves were still on and he pulled harder on my chest than he did before. "Use them to make him get on the floor, where he belongs." He tugged downwards and I fell to my knees. Then he released his grip. "He has to take off his shoes and socks while he's there." I did just what I described. "When he starts to take off his pants," I'd unbuttoned and was unzipping mine, "You should take your boot and push him backwards so he's sprawled out.'

I felt the rough leather of his boot's sole on my shoulder and then he shoved back—hard enough for me to have to grunt out loud when I landed. "Leave it there, let him feel his master's boots on him." He did it, making it more difficult for me to pull off my slacks and my jockeys, but making it all the more perfect.

"Now, stand back." He followed my instruction. "You have to have your slave on his knees in front of you." I struggled up and knelt before him. "The slave's legs should be spread apart so he can feel his cock and balls swinging in the air and you can see just how turned on he is because of his hard-on.

My own had already begun to drip a long thread of precum. "He should hang his head in obeisance." I did it, "He has to show you he's ready." I was. "When you're satisfied, you should move forward and point to your boots. Let him know he has to get down and lick them so he understands just what his place is.

He moved forward and took me by my hair. He had a firm grip, but it wasn't very painful, not so long as I followed his direction downwards. My face was pressed against his leather and my tongue shot out, lapping it with long strokes. I could barely talk through the licking, but I managed to speak in between movements. "Make him understand he has to love your boots before you're going to pay any attention to him…

"When you think he's learned what he needs to, make him lick your chaps …

The hand took my hair again and moved me up onto his leather-coated shins. I moved slowly up his thighs. They were slender, but there was real power in them. I took hold of him with both hands, losing myself in the smell and taste of the leather and the oil he'd used on them. He put a hand on the back of my head, softly.

"No!" I protested. "It's too early to be easy. It's too early to let him think he's earned it. Make him lick you more." He took his hand away. I got to his crotch. "Make him stay here a long time. Let him feel your hard cock through the leather and the way your balls are caught there. He knows what's underneath there.

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You have to make him know he has to earn it."

I went to work. The cock was skinny, but surprisingly long inside the pants. I mouthed it and my spit was dripping from the corners of my mouth and from the leather pants by the time he finally grabbed my hair again and-roughly now-pulled me away from it.

He didn't wait for another instruction, but put the edge of his glove in my mouth. I went at it with my jaws, just as adamantly as I had gone at the leather-entrapped cock just before. When he finally removed it, I said, "It's time you did something more to him. You have him in a slave-head now. He's ready, kneeling on the floor with an aching cock. Put clamps on his tits, or tie rawhide around his cock and balls. Give him something to feel that's not you, just so he'll want you even more when you finally give him the real thing."

He went to a table nearby and brought back a pair of tit clamps. He took one, then the other nipple, and attached them. They were padded, but the pain left over from Montclair's vicious abuse of them the other day made even that sensation enough to make me wince and cry out.

"You should move back now, leave your slave here on the floor while he's all hot and ready. Make him so hot he might whimper."

The young man backed away from me and stood with his legs spread apart a few feet across the room. "Make him look at your cock where he knows he can't get it. Leave on your jacket and your cap, but take off the rest and then put your chaps back on. Leave your hard cock and balls hanging out so he has to look at them while the clamps are still on his tits."

He stripped down quickly, but not so fast that he broke the mood. He was learning, he was understanding. When he'd rezipped the chaps and stood there with the long, thin, hard cock pointing into the air, I felt my throat dry up. I wanted that cock down me so badly…But I wanted it to be the way I'd really want it to happen. I started to talk to him again:

"Play with yourself. Rub a gloved hand over your belly and then over your tits and use the other one to heft up your balls and play with your cock. Make him see what he wants.'

He followed the directions perfectly, leaving me on my knees and desperate. "Do you really like your slave's bruises?" I finally asked. He shook his head seriously. "Do you want your own on his body?" He took his hand away from his cock as though the idea combined with the physical sensation would have been too great a combination.

"Then take him over to the bed and spread him out." He came to me and yanked my hair-still harder again. He used it to guide me on my hands and knees to just where he wanted me. The clamps pulled against the covers as he pushed my chest on top of them but leaving my knees on the floor. Neither one of us paid any attention to the yells that came from me.

"Kick his legs apart with your feet," I said and then felt a hard push against each of my thighs. "Get your belt." He moved away from me, leaving me in that position where I felt the air on my hole. He was back; he let me know by kicking my thighs once more, telling me to spread further.

"Do it, soft at first, just enough to let him know it's there." The belt landed with a dull thud on my ass. Again, then again, he tentatively used it on the already marked flesh. The pain wasn't intense, but it was real. I began to moan with each of the blows. But I was supposed to be telling him what he should do-and I was imagining what my real master would do.

"Harder." I willed the words out of my throat and then felt the belt strike with more force. "Harder!" I said again, and then he let loose, the leather landing on first one cheek, then the next with ever-hardening lashings. I screamed and my body began to twist, involuntarily trying to escape the punishment. I

"Oh, God!" I yelled when one blow landed especially well. "You can go on, but please, don't." He stopped. I didn't have to tell him that the attack called for some recognition from him. He knelt down on the floor behind me and moved in, laying the cool leather of his jacket and his chaps against my burning flesh.

"Don't talk!" I begged him when I had my sobbing under control. "Whatever you do, don't end it now." My mind was racing with the visions of this being my real master, the one I'd always dreamed about. I was terrified that a single word would destroy the illusion and everything that went with it.

He reached around and released the clamps on my tits. The surge of blood that rushed into them was an intense pain. The feel of his leather gloves as they rubbed the raw pieces of flesh was the most wonderful torture I could imagine.

I let it go on as long as I could as his gloved hands ran lightly over my body and his hard cock poked at my balls from behind. The skin of his upper thighs-naked where the chaps didn't cover them-was so smooth, so young feeling. He was only about ten years younger than I was, but the difference in our touch was astounding.

Finally, I gave him a choice about what would happen next. "You can give him your cock now—in his mouth or up his ass. It's up to you. But, whichever, make him put the rubber on."

He stood up and the sudden disappearance of his touch on my skin was devastating. I felt alone and even more naked. I rubbed my face in the covers of his bed, waiting for him. He came back and gently took my shoulders. He used them as handles to guide me back up onto my knees and then to turn around to face him.

He'd already opened the rubber. He handed it to me and then stood back, crossing his arms over his chest. I took the condom and unrolled it on his beautiful cock. The head much larger than the shaft. It stood out like a big plum, dark, angry purple against the pale skin of the rest of his cock.

When it was on, I leaned forward and kissed the top of his glans. The translucent white latex made it more beautiful than ever. The purple flesh was covered with it. There was a drop of moisture showing through the plastic right at the slit of his cock, the little evidence of his precum.

"You have to decide," I told him again, "if you want your slave's mouth or his ass."

He lifted me up a little bit and led me onto the bed. He motioned to roll me over on my belly. I spread my legs out as far as I could. I put my arms up over my head as far as they'd reach.

He climbed in between and I could feel the leather over his thighs first, then the jacket as it hung down and struck my back. "Fuck your slave hard," I said. "It's your first time with him. This isn't the time to be gentle. Make him earn that. The first fuck has to be hard proof that you can master him…

He lunged into me. I reared up in revolt at the sharp intrusion of his cock. It was so damn long! It seemed to take forever to slide into me. But he would slow down. I knew instinctively that he wasn't taking my orders any more. He was a male animal claiming his prize now.

The fucking was vicious. He pulled out and then shoved back in with relentlessness. Sweat started to drip down off his chest and splash onto my back and the wet from his pubic hair was running onto my ass.

I yelled and tried to desperately control myself while he went at it. There was such a total removal from anything but his cock being shoved up me, I couldn't think of anything else.

Then he stiffened. He lifted himself up with his arms and his toes. I could feel him make one final lunge…Then he dropped his entire weight down on my bruised body and lay there, inert, spent, satisfied.

I let him stay there, thankful he kept his silence. When he finally pulled out and I had that heartrending sensation of his cock leaving me with a sharp stab of pain, I spoke again. "Don't touch it. Just roll off. Your slave's not done yet. He has to clean you off.'

I staggered off the bed and went to the kitchen and got a bowl and filled it with warm soapy water. I came back and knelt between his legs. His cock was still half hard and dropped down in a beautiful arc in front of me, the shriveled, used condom the only thing marring its perfection. I pulled the rubber off and

then used a cloth to wash his cock and balls and pubic hair. I had brought a second clean towel and used that to dry him off. I leaned forward and kissed the purple glans.

"If you're pleased with your slave, you can allow him to come. But you have no obligation to do that. A slave's orgasm is his master's. I hope I've pleased you…" I looked up at him and saw a deeper darkness in his eyes than I'd noticed before. I wondered if I'd conjured it up or if it had always been there and this was just one of its first opportunities to come to the fore.

He nodded permission. "Your slave shouldn't be able to come without understanding the source," I said. My voice actually sounded shy. "You should put your slave in a place where he understands his role. He could be on his back on the bed, with you over him, your balls in his mouth. And he shouldn't forget his pain that has to be part of his pleasure. You should continue that, never leave him without it, especially not while he's coming…

He moved and pointed to the bed. I climbed up and sprawled out on my back. He squatted over my mouth, facing my front. His balls were tight up against his body, young balls, not descended as far as they eventually would yet. I licked up at them

He guided one of my hands to my crotch. I took my hard cock in my hand and started to jerk it, feeling my coming approaching fast. I expected him to play with my tits, do something like that. He had better ideas. One of his gloved hands began to softly slap my balls. The pain—even from that slight touch—was awful. It shot excruciating messages through me.

I began to race to come. At first, because I was afraid the pain would banish the possibility that I could; I was afraid it would become so much that I would never be able to get off. But it became more than just that. I knew my coming would stop the torture.

Please, master…Please, master…

The familiar refrain sounded in my head. But I was lost in the sensation of my cock loading up for its ejaculation and the closed-in feeling of his thighs and balls framing my head and I wasn't sure if I was begging him to stop or go on forever and ever and ever…

My orgasm was so intense that I screamed, and only the balls that dropped into my open mouth kept the yell from being too loud.

Later, after I'd washed up and dressed, I stood in front of him. He still hadn't said a word. I was satiated, delighted with his body and wanting more. But I still wasn't willing to have this destroyed.

"If you ever talk to me—I swear this—I'll never have anything sexual to do with you again. But, if you want more—if you want me to show you more—I'll come by when I can. There are lots more lessons in this life, in this world. I can give them to you. But I have to have my fantasy to make it work. I can't get into it; you're too young, too inexperienced. But if you kept your silence, I can keep my fantasy."

I looked around the small cramped room. I was careful to avoid looking at anything that would tell me anything about him. "I can show you how a slave should eat out of a bowl. I can demonstrate how you should teach him to suck cock just the way you want it. I can … " My throat went dry for a minute and I had to wait to continue. "I can show you how important a collar is to a slave.

"My name is Ray. I live close by. If we meet on the street, ignore me, I'll ignore you. I'll come here, though, and I'll show you more.

He nodded agreement.

"Just remember: My name is Ray. When I ring the bell, if you want me, let me in. If you don't, I'll go away and come back another time."

Then I went to the door and let myself out. I walked out onto the street, my ass and cock feeling good, my soul feeling even more lost than usual.

BULLETIN BOARD by FRANK O'ROURKE

DRUMMERMAN ILLUSTRATION by BILL WARD

THE HARTFORD COLTS M.C. of Hart-ford , Connecticut sent their newsletter and it reached me after Drummer 101 went to press. As a former New Englander , it's good to hear that the clubs up there are so active. Their home bar is BARRISTER'S at 601 Broad Street, On January 23 they will be having Uniform Night and the Tridents of Rhode Island and New Hampshire will be invited guests. If you're in the area, then Barrister's is the place to be that night. The party will be going on from 9 to 1 in the morning

SIGMA OF BETHESDA, Maryland held an open discussion at the DC EAGLE on December 8./ Although the date has passed, it is significant to me that their discussion dealt with a very important subject, "What is SM?"

I wish other groups around the country would hold this sort of open discussion on the subject. As I have said before in this column, I feel that, with the AIDS crisis and the altering of many of our lifestyles, SM is an important facet of the psychosexual relationship which should receive more serious consideration. In the past there was an understandable aversion for the scene among the "fluffy sweater" crowd because they under- stood it to be only one thing-physical pain. The lack of understanding has been the primary factor for an unwillingness on the part of many men to explore its real meaning. I hope that no one believe for a moment that the readership of Drummer is made up of 5M practitioners . Many, many readers are into the scene, but there are also many men who are psychologically attracted to the mys-tique of SM, but they are quite candidly afraid of it.

I am not advocating that this quiet interest should break out and that person should just jump into a scene with anyone, but I am saying that groups like Sigma and GMSMA in New York are able to give the interested man a broader sense of what SM is all about.

If you live in the Greater Washington area and are interested, contact Sigma at PO Box 30651, Bethesda, MD 20814-0651.

Frankly, I didn't think that anyone read this column, but I got a letter from the BALL CLUB (Drummer 95). Their membership has almost doubled. They are planning their first annual "Unofficial"

Ball Club Convention in July 1987. They believe it may be the held the Fourth of July weekend. It will be for members only. To get information on membership and the convention, write BC, PO Box 1501, Pomona, CA 91769. (Ken, are you going to have a ball-weightlifting contest?)

You may have noticed that this column was not in Drummer 100. Or maybe you didn't give a shit! This is the point. The column may go by the board if you don't want it. So, I guess it's up to you, the readers. If we don't hear from you, then we can assume that the column should be dropped. I enjoyed doing it, but I feel very strongly that a magazine should serve the wishes of its readership. It won't be a total loss since someone else will put together a calendar of events.

Regarding the photograph in my col- umn (Drummer 99). I do not know who the gentleman is. My reason for mentioning it is that some guys have asked if it was me.

Should the Leather Bulletin Board pack it in? Write Tony DeBlase, Publisher, Desmodus, Inc., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101.

HIR(I) $ 944/ 10 B 94/ 104 B 3/

NEW ADDRESS FOR ECMC

Beat Ruedi, former publisher of "der Stiefel," was elected as the new secretary of ECMC at their AGM in Edinburgh, Scotland.

The new mailing address for the CMC. is Scretariat, c / o LOGE 70 (SCHWEIZ), Box 725, CH-8025 Zurich, Switzerland.

Beat has requested that clubs, both European and American, send dates of runs, events and meetings of interest to the leather / SM / MC communities to the above address with as much information as possible so they may be included in their newsletter.

MS PANTHER INFO

The MS Panthers of Koln have produced a great information pamphlet, unfortunately totally in German. How about you guys sending us a copy of the Oktober-November issue, with that hot, and I do mean hot, man on the cover, and possibly a listing of your events in English? For those interested, the club mailing address is: MS Panther Koln e.v. Im Schulz, Bismarckstr. 17, 5000 Koln 1, West Germany.

SLM NEWS

The annual meeting to elect a new board and officers of the SCANDINA-VIAN LEATHER MEN, member of ECMC, will be held January 30 at their clubhouse at Gasgrand 2B, Gamla stan, Stockholm, Sweden. The meeting begins at 8 P.M. and there will be a party directly afterward.

Hans Pettersson from Tomsson magazine wants to remind especially the

American leather community that the Baltic Battle X will take place on June 5-8, 1987, over Whitsun weekend as always. If you are going to Europe this summer, don't miss this event. You can get more information by writing to SLM, Box 9239, 102 73 Stockholm, Sweden.

SLM Copenhagen will celebrate their thirteenth birthday with a party on the weekend of February 6-8, 1987. Congratulations from Drummer!

MR. EUROPEAN DRUMMER CONTEST 1988

The first annual Mr. European Drummer Contest will be held in 1988. Regional contests will take place throughout Europe early in the year to determine contestants for the finals to be held in Amsterdam. The winner will receive, among other prizes, an all-expenses -paid vacation to San Francisco, California, U.S.A. to participate in the Mr. Drummer 1988 finals.

Clubs and bars interested in sponsoring contestants or regional contests may write for more information to: Drummer , PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA, 94101, U.S.A.

Steffan Livarno will be representing Drummer magazine in contacting interested groups in Europe during the month of February 1987. He may be contacted during that time at 020-381717, Amsterdam, Netherlands. After February you may either write to Drummer at the above address or call our offices in the U.S. at (415) 864-3456.

CLUB LL INTERNATIONAL

A motorcycle and sports club, Club LL International, has been organizing international meetings each month since 1970. Friends from all over the world meet in an old Amsterdam warehouse full of atmosphere. They offer films, disco, live performances, a full bar and shop. It's open to the public and located at Lijngaansgracht 165, 1016 VX, Amster-dam , Holland.

CELLAR PARTY

The CUCKOO'S NEST at Nieuwezijds Kolk 6, Amsterdam is continuing to have Leather Night in the cellar of the bar. I'm told it is becoming a monthly event not to be missed. A New Year's party was held December 31 as well.

SPARTACUS LIVES

John Stamford, who ran the Spartacus Club and Guide was forced to flee Britain in 1972 after being convicted of sending obscene literature through the post. Until recently he was operating out of Amsterdam, but in September the Dutch Tax Office raided his home and office. The authorities confiscated all his possessions and subsequently auctioned them off hoping to reclaim a large but undisclosed sum of unpaid tax.

The worldwide speculation about the future of the famous Spartacus International Gay Guide can be silenced. John Stamford (founder and publisher of 15 editions) and the German publisher Bruno Gmunder Verlag have together safeguarded the future of the publication.

Verlag will be the new publisher and the 1987 edition will be coedited by Ver-lag and Stamford. The new address for Spartacus International Gay Guide is: PO Box 301345, D-100 Berlin 30, Lutzowstr. 105, West Germany.

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BRAWLING BIKERS should have known that the day of the bike events would find me sullen and pissed off and ready to kick the shit out of someone. I mean, I'd gone on this run for six years in a row, and this was the first year I wouldn't be able to ride in the bike events. Like a fucking fool, I'd let Chuck, the guy who usually rides as my buddy, borrow the bike just the week before to go visit his folks in D.C. On the way back, he'd been run off the freeway by some asshole trucker, had lost control of the bike on the shoulder, and bounced it along the guardrails for about two hundred feet. Fortunately, Chuck was in pretty good condition, considering he'd gotten away from the bike before it started tumbling and flopping down the road. He'd be in perfect shape before too long. But not the bike. Hell, you don't see too many mint-condition Moto Guzis like mine any more-and now it looked unlikely that mine would ever see the road again.

So there I was, wandering around the campsite, mentally kicking my own ass for letting the bike out for even a second with anyone but me driving it, wanting to stomp the living jesus out of Chuck for making me miss the bike events but at the same time knowing that it wasn't really his fault-I mean, my Moto Guzi was just no match for an oil tanker truck doing about 80 down the freeway. I was leaning on the corner of one of the cabins and I'd just butted out a joint and stuffed the roach down my leather pants when this stocky blond dude walked out the side door and headed my way.

Hey, man," he began as he got nearer, "what are you all

I cringed. "Bad choice of words there, pal," I said as I pictured my bike doing its tumbling act down the highway. Looking the guy over, I recognized him from other runs over the last couple years. I reached into my pocket for the half-smoked joint, relit it, introduced myself—his name was Frank—and told him about

his crotch, mashing his cock and balls into his groin, doubling him over at the waist. When he bent, I let go of the hammer-lock , doubled my fists together, raised my arms high above my head and hammered both fists down into the back of his neck. Frank crashed face-first into the leaves and dirt.

I reached down to grab Frank's head and hoist him to his feet, but as I did, he panted at me, "All right, fucker! That's enough.

I've had it!'

The next thing I heard were the hoots and yells and clapping of the dudes who had surrounded us as we fought-they moved in closer now, circling the two of us, Frank face-down in the dirt, me straddling his back. "Anybody got some rope?" I asked as the other guys drew nearer. One of them, a big burly fucker with a huge military green canvas duffel bag slung over his bare shoulder, dropped the bag on the ground and began rummaging through it, toss- ing out toys and all kinds of shit as he did. "Rope—rubbers—lube—tit clamps—handcuffs—you name it," he said as he looked up from the contents of his duffel bag.

"Just the rope-for now," I said as I scooped up the long length of thin rope he'd pulled out of his bag. I slung the rope over my shoulder and reached down to Frank. With one hand under each armpit, I literally dragged the man to his feet and over to the tree that he'd rammed me into earlier. There I turned him around and leaned him chest-first up against the tree. I tied the rope tight around his left wrist, walked around the tree, grabbed his other hand and pulled it around to meet his left, and tied the two together. All the while, these other dudes crowded around, dicks in hand, eager to watch me fuck Frank's beaten ass.

"Now, what was that you said earlier about pissing all over me, boy?"

I reached around in front of Frank, between his belly and the tree trunk, and ripped open the snaps of his chaps. After I peeled his chaps down his legs to his knees, I unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down too, baring that smooth white ass to the morning sun and to my cock that I pulled out of my leather pants, hard as a railroad spike. I took a couple steps back from Frank's hard round ass, spread my feet, and let go with a stream of piss that had been backed up all morning—splashing the warm yellow stream first at the small of his back and watching it run down the crack of that hairless ass, then spraying it across his cheeks and down his lightly haired thighs and watching it run down those thickly muscled legs and soaking his jeans. As I pissed all over his ass and legs, Frank leaned into the tree, immobilized by the rope around his wrists, the left side of his face pressed against the tree bark that had cut into my back earlier, a look of resigned submission on his face as I soaked his ass

But I wanted to do more with that ass than just wet it down. As soon as the last trickle of piss dropped off my dickhead, I retrieved from my back pocket and opened a prelubed sheepskin rubber. I stretched the rubber tight over the head of my eager, swollen dick and rolled the sheepskin tube down the full length of my hard shaft. I stepped up to Frank, put my hands on his hips, and pushed him forward into the tree, hearing him groan as his own hard cock rubbed into the hard rough bark. Just keep that pretty ass spread wide open for me, boy," I said as the covered head of my dick probed between Frank's cheeks in search of his asshole. Surrounding the tree, ten or twelve men stood stroking ten or twelve hard naked cocks, but the only one that I paid any attention to was the sheepskin-covered dick protruding from my leather pants and about to enter the asshole on this tough little blond stud I'd tied to the tree.

The head of my dick found Frank's hole and probed its way in, the circle of muscle between his cheeks clamping down tight on the bulbed head as it entered, involuntarily trying to keep the rest of the shaft from sliding into his ass. I moved my hands from Frank's hips to the sides of the tree, squeezed hard, pressing my big hairy chest into Frank's back, my cock farther into his ass, grinding his chest and groin into the tree. As he groaned, I figured it was from both the bark grating the flesh on his chest and the pain of my thick cock climbing up his asshole. As I felt nearly all of my dick in his ass, I reached down to its base, made sure the rubber was still in place, and then started rocking my groin into Frank's cheeks, sliding my cock up and down inside his ass, feeling that asshole alternately relax and contract in response to my probing and pushing. Frank groaned louder as each thrust from my hips drove his groin into the tree, but never once did that ass resist the fucking I was giving it.

I slid my hands up Frank's back and clamped them down on his broad shoulder muscles to hold him even firmer in place; as I did, Frank pushed his ass back harder against my groin, opening that ass even more for my cock. I rocked harder, shoving that dick deeper into Frank's ass with each thrust, my hairy groin slamming into his smooth cheeks, my balls churning and flopping back and forth each time I pounded into him. Frank's groans and mine became louder, mingling with the groans of the men surrounding us as they too came closer to shooting off loads of cum.

As I felt my balls ready to explode their load into the bulb of the sheepskin rubber that covered my dick, I tightened my grip on Frank's shoulder with one hand and with the other started pounding on Frank's broad smooth back, clapping my open hand down on his shoulder, slapping the sides of his cheeks as I plowed deeper and faster into that tight ass. Frank's groans turned to loud, low grunts and his ass thrust back harder into my groin, driving his widespread ass harder onto my aching

And then it started—I felt that familiar rumbling in my thighs and the base of my cock, felt the covered head of my dick jerking and twitching inside Frank's ass, felt my balls contracting as they prepared to explode, releasing themselves of the load they'd churned up.

I slammed harder into Frank's ass; five, six more times I pounded my groin into that round hard butt and then one last slam, pulling down on Frank's shoulders as I did, his ass slamming back onto my cock-and I came. Jesus! did I come! I threw my arms around Frank's chest and gut and squeezed him in tight against me as I felt spurt after spurt of cum shooting up through the shaft of my dick and filling the head of the rubber at the end of it. I grabbed Frank's balls and the base of his dick in one hand and felt him coming too, shooting long white streams of cum all over the bark of the tree and down into the jeans and chaps around his knees.

For several moments I stood there holding onto Frank, our sweaty bodies plastered together, before noticing that all around us several of the other guys had shot off too, some aiming their loads onto the tree, others happy to coat some of the leaves that covered the ground around us. I let go of Frank's cock and balls and slid my hand down to my own dick. Holding onto the end of the rubber at the base of my cock, I slowly eased back, carefully sliding my dick out of that hard tight ass.

Someone untie this fucker," I said as I pulled the cum-filled rubber off my still-hard dick. I tossed the rubber into the woods and crammed my cock back inside my leather pants. The guy who'd supplied the rope obliged, and Frank's arms dropped to his sides. I pulled his jeans up from around his knees, then his chaps, and he turned to face me, leaning his back into the tree. I saw the scrapes and small cuts on his chest and belly from the tree bark and almost felt sorry about them until I remembered having been held up against that tree myself earlier in the morning.

'Let's head back to the cabin and get that chest cleaned up," I said to Frank. He nodded; I threw my arm across his shoulder and we started off across the clearing back to the campsite.

"Uh, you still sorry you can't ride today?" Frank asked as we entered the woods.

"Yeah, I am," I sort of sighed, then I looked at Frank and grinned a broad, satisfied grin. "But then, I think I found something else to ride for the rest of the day, buddy.'

I'd think about the bike later.

VA FIGHALIA

SEND YOUR LETTERS TO DRUMMER MALECALL PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314 poppers by questioning our scientific credentials. The research speaks for itself

I suggest that you inform your readers. that while Voeller made reference to the nonrelevant part of a poppers study, he failed to note the more relevant inhalation part of the study.

San Francisco has not banned poppers or their sale. Profiteers who continue to push them are required to post a point-of -sale warning. Use in public has been prohibited.

Hank Wilson Committee to Monitor Poppers 55 Mason St. San Francisco, CA 94102

Ed.: To insist that Dr. Voeller made use of a nonrelevant part of the poppers study while failing to note the more relevant portion is contradictory. Are not all portions of the report relevant? Dr. Voeller pointed out incongruous facts within the report

We applaud the integrity of both sides of this ongoing controversy for keeping our readers informed so they may make their own decisions concerning the use or nanuse of isobutyl nitrites. # /E

CUMMING AGAIN

I have been a reader for as many years as you guys have been in operation, and while I have been impressed in the past, I was knocked out by Mach 10. From your editorial, I am upset to hear that fewer men have purchased that issue due to newsstands refusing to display the cover. I have shot more gushers over the stories "Catseye" and "Pussy Maker" than any other in print (save maybe "Blue Light"). Are the authors of these two stories working on more for your magazines? I sure hope so!

Please give us more fiction by these two guys. In my mind they are what Drummer fiction is all about: hot men, hot scenes taken to the max! Perhaps you might think about reprinting the stories in Drummer for those who missed Mach 10. I could sit here and write more, but I'd rather grease up a ten-inch dildo and get back to reading those two stories again! H.B.

Ed.: Desmodus, Inc. rarely reprints previously published material, even from our own magazines, but Mach 10 can be ordered from our back issues department for $6.

FAVORITE TOYS?

I have always enjoyed Drummer, but in issue 96 you outdid yourself. My favorite magazine included my favorite toys: WOMEN!

I am not suggesting you change your format. It was just nice to be acknowledged as existing as more than the usual dominatrix-vamp fringe.

My girl and I have encountered no end of animosity from lesbians when we dress and act in a comfortable manner in public. Our SM brothers are always the first to welcome us and make us feel at home in their bars, social gatherings, etc.

Thanks again for a great publication!

Starr New Orleans

THIRD TIME AROUND

I'm glad to see you as new owners and hope that this subscription will be better than in the past. I used to subscribe to Drummer and didn't renew because of problems in getting what I paid for. I didn't even get answers to my letters regarding where my magazine was.

I've been screwed over twice, Drummer , and I'll give, you only one more chance.

J.M. Anaheim, CA

Ed.: We acknowledge that there were problems in the past with subscriptions to Drummer and Mach but assure you that with policies set up by Desmodus, Inc. these should be alleviated. Seldom does everything go perfectly, but in case you do have a problem we guarantee -JET prompt attention.

GUARANTEED RESPONSE

One of the advantages of Drummer and the Leather Fraternity is that men into diverse sexual and fantasy trips can contact each other through the unique personal ad section, Dear Sir.

I have had an ad running for several issues and have had great response, but still there is a problem that I realized must be happening to other men with ads. That problem is that some of the hottest responses to my ad have failed to put either a phone number or even a return address in their letters. I am sure that some of these are not jerk-off letters, but have simply forgotten to include a return mailing address.

So, guys, if you answer an ad, get your shit together and insure that the man on the other end knows how to reach you. If he got your dick hard enough to take the time to write, he probably is together enough to write back, even if it's a polite "No, thanks." Think back, did you or did you not put the return address on the letter or the envelope?

C.E. Dallas, TX

REAL MEN DO LIKE OPERA

I had to read it a few times to make sure that I wasn't seeing things, but there it was; in Drummer 100, a letter from C.P. that asked "Why don't you show more real men and fewer San Francisco faggots?

I shouldn't be the one to have to tell C.P. this, but some light has to reach him under his rock. You see, C.P., taggots are real men, and some of them even appreciate films and opera. Excercising your internalized homophobia may have a place at a Pat Robertson rally, but it has no place in Drummer

T.R. Witomski Toms River, NJ

POPPING OFF

Thank you for the attention you have given to poppers and AIDS. I write to take issue with Bruce Voeller's recent article on this topic (Drummer Forum, issue 99).

Voeller cites a study by the M.D. Anderson Hospital group which studied the immunosuppressive effects of poppers. He referred only to the part of the study in which mice were injected with a "popper" solution. He failed to note or deal with the second and most relevant part of the study in which mice were given an inhalation exposure to poppers. The researchers state: "It is important to note not only direct administration of isobutyl nitrite via injection decreased NK-cell cytotoxic potential, but also that inhalation of this agent was NK-cell suppressive . The latter observation, which experimentally resembles the exposure of humans to isobutyl nitrite, indicates that this agent could contribute to the immunodeficiency in AIDS via its NK-cell suppressive effect… The results of these studies indicate that immunosup-pression should be added to the other reasons why isobutyl nitrite should not be used by man." (p. 134 of Cancer Immunology Immunotherapy 1984, 17: by Eva Lotzova, et al of the M.D. Anderson Hospital and Tumor Institute).

Voeller criticizes our efforts to alert the community about the hazards of

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We don't currently have any new material from Skip Benson, but Dan Cavanagh's new fiction will be in Drummer 103, illustrated by Cavelo. And since you enjoyed "Blue Light," Aaron Travis' story "Kudzo" was in Drummer 101.

For those of you who hate missing issues and the super-hot fiction in Drummer and Mach, get a subscription-it's -JET faster and cheaper.

FANTASY FULFILLMENT

I'd like to say thank you for your magazine . Since I answered an ad in the Dear Sir section, I have been fulfulling my life's dream of becoming a slave.

M.L. Address Unknown

THANKS TO DEAR SIR

Just had to write and say thanks for being the kind of magazine that you are. I have been a fan for many years, and have gotten off many times on the stories and photo spreads.

Now I have another reason. I have been running an ad for some time in Dear Sir and have met some great people . Thanks to the ad I have found my dad. This man is teaching me things about myself I didn't know about and I want to learn more. He has taken the time to make me a better person and I am trying hard to make him proud of me.

My tits are sore because Dad likes to work on them (and I love to have them worked on). My ass is sore because I forgot something and needed to be reminded.

Thanks again for all you have done over the years and especially for what your magazine has meant to me.

A.G. Washington, DC

REMEMBERING SAM PASCO

I am still in a state of shock after reader Drummer 97 which mentions the death of Sam Pasco (Big Max). Over the years I collected many photos of him and he became my idol. It seems so cruel (whether or not he was taking steroids) that his life was cut short.

He had an incredible body and when posing for the camera he didn't just look at the camera, but would appear to be staring right through the camera at you.

In the article which mentioned his death, it stated he had just completed a movie in Europe titled Ironmaster. Can you supply any information as to how I can obtain a copy of this film?

D.B. New York, NY

Ed.: Ironmaster was an Italian film released last year in this country and had a short run at the box office. It is now available at or can be ordered through your local video store. —JET

Black and Blue had two versions prepared of the film depending on what cities it played. Some audiences saw Bill Harrison pissing down the throat of a well-whipped bottom at the conclusion of a long three-way, some did not. Some audiences saw that, followed by a fist-fucking scene in a bathroom with the bottom bent over the tub, some did not. Some audiences saw an opening segment where a young man is tied spread-eagle in an archway, fucked with a large leather dildo, then whipped until he faints…some audiences did not.

While this kind of outlaw sex had a following, what was getting the attention of theatrical distributors (who were either heterosexuals or closet gays) was the likes of Peter Berlin's Nights in Black Leather, a pseudo-leather film about a young German boy who comes to America looking for sexual excitement and finds it in the alleyways of Los Angeles. There is a single scene in the SM vein and, unfortunately, Berlin-a statuesque and much-affected gay model-plays the top. "Plays" is the operative word; Berlin looks more like a Toby drawing in leather pants than a sadomasochist.

But by this time a number of theatres had been busted for showing both Black and Blue and Born To Raise Hell. The independent gay market was getting nervous at the same time Pier Paolo Pasolini was making Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom (which would not come to American for a few years and which would prove to be Pasolini's last film)—the most graphic SM film of its time. It was only eclipsed by Tinto Brass' Caligula five years later.

Nothing memorble in SM was made in America after 1974, save for a mystery with delicious SM overtones (and an explicit fisting scene) called Boynapped. Ironically, this film boasted two heterosexual-identified stars from nongay porn, Wade Nichols and Jamie Gillis (who appeared under the name Jamie Rugman). Nichols died two years ago of AIDS, one of the first porn (gay or nongay) fatalities. Gillis made a spate of heterosexual SM films with his girlfriend, Serena, that are every inch as provocative as any gay SM film on the market.

Titles like Night of Submission (from 1977) are lamebrain attempts to exploit the genre without any feel of the material or understanding of the dynamics. This holds true from works like Behind The Greek Door and The Pledgemaster.

Something that happened between 1974 and 1980 was that a new figure turned up in gay porn, the basic, all-around masculine man, typified by the films of Joe and Sam Gage (Kansas City Trucking Co., El Paso Wrecking

Corp., L.A. Tool and Die) and Joe Gage, later, independently (Closed Set, Handsome and Heatstroke) and Jack Deveau (on the East Coast) with a string of films starring Jack Wrangler, Malo, Justin Thyme and Roger; films like Hot House, A Night at the Adonis, Sex Magic, Left Handed and others.

This image did two things: it was acceptable to the theatre owners because it looked "normal" but didn't have a motorcycle or a whip and it was acceptable to a larger share of the gay cinema audience (not all of whom were interested in SM in the first

In 1980 Caligula was released amid place) much controversy and opened the doors for harder-edged SM. But at the very same time, the gay cinema industry was dying an agonizing death. The local gay porn palace that had dominated gay socio-sexual behavior for a decade was being abandoned in lieu of the bathhouse (in some cities), the backroom bar (in some cities), the porn bookstores (in some cities) and the sex club (in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York).

The porn theatres were being abandoned for some very solid reasons, the main of which was that they had failed to change with the times. In the beginning, the local gay porn theatre-more times than not owned by heterosexuals—could show the worst crap on the circuit and charge inflated prices because it occupied the position of being the only game in town. It isn't a crime-it's the American way. Few gays cared about the quality of the film anyway…the porn theatre was a place to get a blow job.

At nearly the same time (give or take a year) the home-video revolution was beginning. Just like the instant photograph and the home darkroom having a pronounced effect on pornography, so has the consumer video industry. Where before anyone could take photos of their slave sitting on a dildo as big as The Ritz-now that same person can use the dildo on their slave in real time by simply setting the video camera on a tripod, turning it on, picking up a dildo and giving Junior's rectum a workout like it's never had before. Instantly, after Junior has busted his balls and begged for mercy, the tape can be popped into a VCR and played back over and over again. No editing, no chemicals, no censorship. It has taken the video revolution a full five years to begin to spread its wings in the area of SM-in 1986 you can find spanking videos, bondage os piss and shit videos, genitorture video, probably best described as: 1) Over the Counter, 2) Mail Order Only, 3) Restricted Mail Order, and 4) Not for Sale (but circulating).

This last category is the most interesting , the most elusive and the most impossible to document with any degree of accuracy-so we'll just say that it exists, it appears to be like the hand-to-hand days of early SM porn and consists mainly of private videos made for or between friends.

As you might have guessed, the best SM video does not come from commercial sources, even with the (so-far) relaxed attitude about the privacy of the videotape.

In fact, the commercial forays into SM (the Over-the-Counter section) have been laughable—as the schizophrenic Chained Reactions and the pretentious Slaves for Sale, both of which are about reaping profits from the consumer video market and not at all about SM. If there is a golden rule about SM and video, it is this: If you can buy it over the counter, it's going to be vanilla.

The next level, Mail Order Only, goes a little deeper into SM as sexual expression, but not as deep as you might think.

There are exceptions to the rule—in light-SM areas like shaving and humiliation . Here excellent situations exist: T.R. Witomski's Shaved Slave and Barber College (two head-to-toe, sheers-and-razor excursions that-for all their low-grade production values-are honest documents of uncompromised sexual fetishes coated with a fine air of physical and emotional domination ). Or David Hurles' two verbal-abuse videos: Entrees from the Cafeteria of the Damned and Tough Talk, wherein allegedly heterosexual street hustlers tell the viewer what a scumbag he is…as well as other forms of visual abuse (one spreads open his asshole and tells the viewer to chow down)

In the same genre, one title excels: Jason Bleu's Enema Slave. Another video by Bleu, Red and Black, only partly concerned with enemas, delves into the whole mystique of the master / slave relationship with tremendous emotional confidence. While it fails to offer the raw beauty of Enema Slave, it is staged, ritualized, almost artificial in its look. It opens up and exposes the very heart of SM, the relationship between the participants. If piss make your dick hard, PM

Productions' Yellow Hanky Left gives you an hour of it, all clips from films of the 1970s. Equally, the same company offers Red Hanky Left, with fisting production, Close Up Productions, produced some interesting light-5M titles that might still be turning up at garage sales (don't laugh, you'd be surprised what turns up at garage sales in large cities)-Captive Men, a superb look at the artistic texture of bondage, and Tightropes, a slightly heavier but flawed bondage adventure with a sterling cast. The "Master of Sleaze," Christopher

Rage, covers 99% of the sexual fetish vocabulary. His videos are light SM but engrossing and dedicated to their particular subjects: bondage, whipping, dildoes, fisting, piss, etc. Amid his score of titles devoted (more or less) to specifics-sterling productions like My Masters come along and offer the viewer an encyclopedia of sexuality with sadomasochism liberally mixed in. Restricted Mail Order occurs in those situations where you belong to an organization and get a flyer saying so-and-so has made a tape (or something similar). What turns up in those instances? Well, there was a video trading club (since folded) where men bers contributed to tapes in certain categories, among them some self-inflicted puhisments, lots of sexual fetish material—and the run-of-the-m A company that came and went wa vanilla JO. offering a video made from 8mm film and titled Man's Best Friend. In the same vein, although it may have emerged from the Not-for-Sale category , was a video made on a ranch i the Midwest. Scat videos, piss videos fisting-typical sexual fetish material and typically what you'd expect to f

An aside: Contrary to the Meese Commission (and other right-wing, serving creeps), snuff videos showir coercive violence do not actually es on the commercial, sub-rosa, or su sub-rosa market. If they exist at all, they are the private products of eq creepy minds and only turn up du splashy murder investigations (like currently in Northern California in ing two men and a bunch of worr and a cabin in the woods). The future of SM on video is fin in the hands of the independents Samizdat video is where everythin interesting will be happening for years to come. The current trend simply fill the colored boxes with "product" shows a remarkable h cal tradition which eschews crea (at the very least) and guarantee the "product" inside will be as I genized and nonprovocative as possible-porn as breakfast cere

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by SCOTT TUCKER

REQUIEM

Today I thought about Tim and considered calling him up for a session of phone sex, and tonight I was told he is dead. We had sex once, how long ago-six years? A summer afternoon in Philadelphia, a house of Dutch dimensions and tidiness, and the luxuriant taking of turns as we fucked each other.

He was no more than a bit over five feet tall, if that, and qualified as a classic "pitzel." That's what a friend of mine calls short studs. Elfin ears and hands, boyish dark Irish good looks, animated gestures, shy sidelong glances, a disciplined physique.

Tim was a composer, and the energy and intelligence with which he had been detailing the theory and history of atonalism while we sat in the kitchen simply spilled over and swept us into the bedroom .

Shortly after that afternoon, Tim and his lover moved to New York and we lost touch for a year or two. Then, at a trendy New York disco, I spotted Tim and his handsome tower of a lover. We traded news, gossip, phone numbers, and once every few months for about the next two years Tim and I would call each other.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Tim, it's Scott. You busy?"

"No. Are you sitting on it already?"

"Yeah."

"How big is it?"

"Eight inches. Talk to me nice and I'll take ten."

"Hold on, I'll get my toys…

With both of us riding our dildoes, we'd take turns being the author and director of the script.

"You're on your back, your knees are against your shoulders, your wrists are tied to your ankles, your ass is wide open."

"Take my hole, Sir." "Yeah, I'm gonna fuck it good. Bite your tits raw and fuck that hole good.'

"Please, Sir, give me your fist."

"Fuckhole wants my fist? Ask like you mean it, fuck-hole ."

"Please, Sir, give me your fist. I wanna be your fuckhole. Fist my load out of me.'

Themes and variations, long-distance urgencies. In everyday life I rarely get fisted—it requires a good deal of preparation, the right mood, a trusted partner, and in my case a diminutive hand. Mostly I get a mental charge when I imagine that esteemed , wordly organ, the hand, bound within that despised , hidden organ, the ass. After coming, we'd shift and drift into buddy talk, and make vague plans to get together sometime in New York or Philadelphia, work and the world permitting. Time passed and we lost touch again.

Last night I went to the Bike Stop, my home bar, for their annual big AIDS fund raiser. Piled on a platform and pool table were heaps of auction items: posters of men with washboard stomachs, a chandelier , a TV, a teddy bear in leather vest, jock and chaps, debris and treasures. I brought in my black, blunt-toed Wellington boots with their memorable mileage, recently polished by the tongue of a beautiful boy, whose mom found his secret stash of Drummer mags when he was seventeen, a boy-toy with sophisticated servility and a Prince Albert ring through his cock, a boy-toy who enjoyed those same boots pressed against his balls. I kissed them good-bye and auctioned them off.

In the crowd I found my ex-lover , a doctor I had met when I was nineteen and with whom I lived for one stormy year. We were glad to see each other. And after a decent interval of preliminaries he broke the news that Tim had been ill

Tim's lover was despondent, but at least in excellent health.

"I thought of calling him today," I said, disoriented. I felt suddenly claustrophobic, standing in a circle of deaths.

First cornered, then lost at sea -my ex-lover was reading my face and mind, and moved to embrace me.

We said good night and I walked back home, climbed the stairs to my study and sat staring at the icons l've tacked and plastered to these walls. Photos and drawings of men with tattoos, men and women body builders, Emily Dickin-son , Walt Whitman, Christopher Isherwood, Sojourner Truth, a Dutch gay punk.

For nearly two hours I sat at my desk, alternately staring at my scattered notes and back again at my icons, seeking some guidance in those bodies and faces. I couldn't write a single sentence which stuck to the "objective" theme I had set myself. The train of thought carried fear, grief and lust, jumped the tracks or crossed a collapsing bridge, the wreckage strewn far and wide.

Tied me in knots? I gave up work for play, stripped and sat on a dildo in front of a full-length mirror, applying alligator clips just behind my tit rings. Another wall of icons to contemplate: a Rex drawing; a physique-mag centerfold of Bob Paris; pictures of Roy Stagg and Link Benedict; a Tarot card and a Mark Chester photograph, both named The Hanged Man. Watched myself slide down on the dildo, my legs splayed on both sides of a weight bench, stroking my cock. Closed my eyes and fucked myself out of my own mind, or so far into it that came out the other side:

A pine platform in the midst of beach grass and sand dunes, in the center a solid, bare wood frame with my own body bound to it in a standing spread-eagle. Air, space and time and place. The cast of characters changes, but the scene is similar. Going as far in fantasy as I might one day go in reality, but in this space of the mind no deadly virus thrives, and I can gather people scattered by death or distance. Friends, fuck buddies, lovers, strangers never forgotten. A strong sun beats a whip of rays down on us all, and each in turn whips and paddles my back and ass. Bellowing, bleeding. Hoisted at last into a sling. Ankles, wrists bound, ass open.

Walking through the dunes I see a giant of a man with his elfin lover wrapped around his chest and hips, the elfin ass ensconced on the giant's cock. The giant steps up onto the platform and lifts his love off his cock. Now the shor stud stands in the open angl of my legs, lubing his hand probing the anal ring with on finger. Two, three, four fir gers, Knuckles, Thumb, Palr Wrist, Fist. My own mind ru ning through its own tunnel grasp that hand at the oth end. The free hand of t short stud stroking my co-Body bound and body bind that diminutive hand which imagine placing key sig tures and notes on a conti ously running staff, that im superimposed on the wh scene, marking time like endar sheets windblown old movies. Coming like time-lapse film of a played past and future, and forth, bud and bli bloom and bud, bud bloom … Unbound, lifted and ca to the booming surf flogged body baptized stinging salt. Open my and stare at the creature mirror. Disengage fro dildo and tit clamps, sl slip into bed with my Sleep soundly, go th another day, call Tim' this evening, write it d

11 S S nd. self-g ually ring one volv-en ng many to istori-tivity s that nomo-

Guide dmuto-San

t was a night of physical and mental misery. My balls had become only a nagging discomfort which I managed to ignore. I had not been fed and I felt faint from the lack of food, but my mind churned, assuming the very worst. Aye, there was always the hope that the Cavalry would come tearing into the room and free us. I couldn't tell the difference between day and night.

The burly, hairy monk occupied a seat behind a broad table, spending his time reading out of what I assumed to be a prayer book since he crossed himself quite often. These acts of piety only accentuated the bizarreness of my situation. During the night he would get up occasionally, carefully laying his prayer book aside, and journey around the perimeter of the room, checking the ball harnesses of each man. If a man groaned too loudly, the monk would seize the man's cock and twist it.

A young man next to me with sandy hair pleaded with the monk. His accent revealed that he was an Englishman. When the monk twisted his cock, the man screamed, tears coursing down his cheeks. The monk had to gag him to quiet him.

I dreaded his parade around the room, not so much for pain that he might cause me, but the humiliation. He would stand in front of me after he had adjusted the harness and grab my penis and begin to gently stroke it as his black eyes bored into mine. With every ounce of mental control, I would will my cock not to respond to his ministrations, but each and every time, it betrayed me. It would begin to widen and lengthen in his gnarled hand. It was bad enough that I could not control my own body, but I sensed that the other men in the room were watching my humiliation. The monk nodded and smiled as it got harder and harder. One time, I thought I heard him mumble , "Fra Ricardo." What did the Abbot have to do with this? I wondered.

The door to the room opened and a group of monks entered. Two by two they came up and they began to release all six of us from our bondage after removing the ball harnesses. The gag was snatched out of the mouth of the Englishman, and as his manacles were loosened, he collapsed to the floor. One of the monks kicked him and in broken English snarled, "On your feet." He was lying near my feet and I reached down to help

"How solicitous," a voice crowed from the doorway. Looking up, I saw Fra Ricardo entering the room. His right hand with its gold abbatial ring gestured and the monks seized our arms, twisted them behind us and cold steel gripped our wrists in an unrelenting hold. We were pushed to our knees as the Abbot assumed the large easy chair which the hairy monk had occupied earlier.

We all kept our eyes on the Abbot. A torch behind his head created an aura of light which accentuated his blond hair while giving his finely chiseled features an evil cast.

Fra Ricardo opened his cloak and I saw that he wore no clothing at all underneath. One of the monks left his prisone and knelt in front of his superior, kissed the ring, grasped the heavy cock between the Abbot's legs and brought it to hi mouth. I could not believe what I was seeing. After the mon had taken every inch into his mouth, he let it slip free of his lips bowed and kissed the bare feet of his superior. Each mon followed the same ritual of the first. We could see that th Abbot's cock was getting larger as each man stood.

"Bligh me, a bunch of bloody pansies."

The man who had spoken was one of the men who had bee chained across from me. The most surprising fact was that mar of the others were beginning to throw hard-ons. My own co was taking on a life of its own. I was repelled and attracted I what was happening. This ambivalent feeling was continuing confuse me.

After the last monk had done his obeisance to the ring, co and bare foot, the Abbot leaned back in his seat, making effort to cover his nakedness. Without the continued oral mi istrations to his oversized cock, it began to lose its potency

"We are all in a time of turmoil and troubles. San Sebastia will survive and it is through men like you that we will be able serve the ends of Holy Mother Church. Our mandate from o sainted founder is that through pain and humiliation we sh find eternal salvation. You will spend the remainder of you lives as my sacrifice to God, the Church and San Sebastiano. may shorten the span of your years in this vale of tears refusing to meet your destiny. That is your one and only cho Give your hearts, mind, body and will to your fate.' The young Englishman next to me had recovered deigned to give expression to the turmoil that was ree through our brains, "What do you mean? What's going happen?"

Fra Ricardo was not upset in the least by this unwarra intrusion into his speech. "Our monastery has seen the like top members of the Nazi hierarchy, like Reichsfuhrer S.S. H rich Himmler. We punished his body to save his eternal The lash kissed his flesh and the orifices of his body invaded by the flesh of man. No matter that he may s temporal death, these acts of mortification of the flesh and guarantee him eternal life in glory. For a few moments silence filled the room until I though

I would not be able to endure it. "Five of you will be le-later today. I cannot tell you your destinations, because I d know it myself." With those final words the tall man wrapped the red robe about his lean person and swept fro room.

We all looked at each other, "Five of you will be lear There were six of us. What did he mean? Who was he to about? I knew the other guys were thinking the same t My thoughts were interrupted by the smell of food. F first time I almost felt faint as the rich smell assailed my to ing nostrils. The monks had kept us on our knees. A

DRIIM

entered the room with a capacious grey apron covering his paunchy front. He brought in a tray of broad bowls and placed them in front of each man. The monks, guarding us, made no effort to remove the steel bonds which locked our hands behind us.

I sat back on my haunches, leaned forward and plunged my face into the mess in the bowl. The contents had cooled since they had been brought to us. It tasted good. The only sound in the room was the slurping of my coprisoners as we ate like a bunch of animals.

I was the first to finish. My monk-guards pulled me to my feet as I tried to lick the food caked around my mouth. They took me to an adjoining room where they sat me on a toilet seat. They didn't give me any paper to wipe my ass. Next was the shower where my hands were unlocked and I was able to wash off the crud of the past few days, along with my breakfast and my ass.

After I had dried off, my hands were refastened behind my back and they set a black cloak around my shoulders. I was taken to the next room and told to sit on a bench. One by one the others arrived in the room. The monks would not let us speak.

After sitting for a while a bell in the hall sounded. The monks directed us to get up and accompany them. We were led upstairs, down a passageway and into the main church.

The interior of the church was small, but it was tastefully and richly decorated in the Baroque style. There were no pews, like you see in the States. There were a number of armchairs with priedieus in front of them. The altar dominated the front with rows of prayer stalls for the monks. Many of the monks were already in their seats and they turned to watch us walk down the aisle. A throne stood by the side of the altar and Fra Ricardo occupied it, wearing scarlet robes with a scarlet, bejeweled miter. As we walked into the nave before the altar, our cloaks were removed. We stood stark naked before the high altar. Next, they unfastened our hands, and we were forced to our knees.

The Abbot arose from his throne and stood before us. "You will prostrate yourselves before the high altar, your arms outspread . We will say a High Mass to celebrate your lives and your gift to the glory of God and San Sebastiano.

We laid, gingerly, on the icy flagstones and spread our arms. We could not see the Mass as it progressed, but we smelled the incense and heard the chants and ringing of bells. In my worst nightmare, I could not have featured myself in this sort of situation.

A quiet had settled on the church and I could only hear the rustle of the monks' robes. "Stand," a voice boomed through the niches and corners of the church. Struggling to our feet, we stood and found Fra Ricardo again enthroned without his miter, in his scarlet robe, which was wide open and revealed that he was again naked and his heavy cock nestled on his blond, hairy balls.

"You have seen my monks do obeisance to my authority and you will now kiss the ring, embrace the phallus with your mouth and kiss my feet."

I could sense the mental protest the others were feeling, but I was astute enough to feel that it would be very dangerous not to obey him. I was sure that I was in some sort of house of bedlam. Sergeant Abe Levine, with his little beer belly, was the first one led to the throne. Levine, who had a reputation of contempt and dislike for homosexuals, was subdued as he approached the throne. Could he sense the real danger here, also? Levine knelt, kissed the proffered hand with its gold ring. His shoulders sagged noticeably as he reached for the heavy cock that rested in its hairy nest, took it into his mouth quickly to its root, released it and bent to kiss the naked feet. As one man followed the other, the cock took a life of its own and as I watched it grow, I feared that it would kill me.

As the next to last man, I knelt quickly, brushed my lips across the ring, hesitated as I saw the ominous pole within inches of my face. Taking a deep breath, I opened my mouth wide and took in the potent organ. I watched as more and more of the bludgeon entered my mouth. For a second it nudged against the back of my throat. I felt the Abbot's hand on the back of my head, encouraging me to proceed. Tears coursed down my cheeks but I was determined to take it all. I drove the cock into my throat, feeling a bit of pain in my throat. Finally I found my nose buried in his pubic hairs. I moved back and found myself sucking on the organ as it popped free from my lips. In a state of almost self-hypnosis I prostrated myself and kissed each foot lovingly, laving them.

The Abbot, who had never reacted to other obeisances, bent down and helped me to my feet. When I stood, I found that my own cock, which matched the Abbot's in length and girth, was embarrassingly hard. The Abbot smiled as he reached out and hefted it in his hand.

When I returned to my place, the last prisoner was not brought to the Abbot. He was held in place. It was the Englishman who had called the monks a bunch of pansies. It was my first time to get a good look at the Brit. He was a black-haired young man with a good physique, but I sensed that there was a sort of crudeness to him, a hostility borne by ignorance. He must have sensed that he was being watched by all of us and there was a sullen air to him. The Englishman was led to a column by the side of the altar where I could see that wrist and ankle manacles were stapled to the column. The man was quickly manacled so that he could not move a muscle.

The Abbot stood from his seat and cast his robe on the throne. He had the litheness of body which matched the reproductions I had seen of Michelangelo's David. From the altar he took a heavy, knotted, braided cat-o'-nine-tails. I could see that the black leather strands were stained with flecks of brown. Blood, I thought.

Approaching the bound and prostrate man, Fra Ricardo twirled the whip over his head, loosening the various strands As he took his position, he addressed the monks, us prisoners and the bound man: "This man is a sinner. By his mouth he ha condemned himself. This whip shall purify his flesh while I shall plumb his depths. He will give up his spirit unto God and Sar Sebastiano."

With these final words the full brunt of the lash was laid acros the man's back. A scream rang through the church. The monk fell to their knees and began a Latin litany to San Sebastian which was punctuated by the whistle of the lash as it traveled u and down his body. The screams and groans seemed to become a natural part of the litany. We stood in our places, awed by th whipping. A few flecks of blood spattered on my naked bod but I barely realized it. The chanting softened in tone as the groans became more muted.

The Abbot's body was covered by sweat; small beads perspiration hung like transluscent, jeweled beads from the blond hairs of his body, while his large cock had expanded ar grown as the lashing progressed. Now, he tossed the whip asie and grabbed his cock. Walking to the front of the altar, t Abbot genuflected and headed for the rear of the groani Englishman. He rubbed his cock in the blood of the torn be tocks. A monk spread the cheeks apart and Fra Ricardo plung his weapon to the hilt. A demonic scream reverberat throughout the church and the chanting increased in volu and tempo as the Abbot drove his tool in and out of the tip The screams only made Fra Ricardo fuck the man faster a hole. harder. The tight buttocks of the Abbot clenched a unclenched as he neared orgasm. With one hard drive plunged himself into the ass and screamed at the top of lungs, drowning out all other sounds, "SAN SEBASTIANO, F YOU!" He fell over the bloody body for a moment and the regained his foothold and pulled free of the man's ass. Returning to his throne, the Abbot sprawled in the seat the monks filed in front of him one by one, licking the bl from his body and cleaning his cock and balls with t

tongues. As we were being taken from the church, I turned to see the first monk walk behind the Englishman and start fucking him. The others lined up behind the first one, loosening the cincture on his robe to release their rampant cocks.

We were all stunned by what we had seen. We never saw the Englishman again. That night, the five of us were given old, tattered, misfitting clothing. A group of men with guns came and piled us into carts and we were taken away. It took one day to reach the seacoast. We were packed aboard a smelly fishing boat and kept below deck. I wanted to talk so badly to my fellow prisoners, but our captors kept a man with us at all times who forbade us to talk.

Time became of no consequence. We lost all sense of time. It seemed like days had passed before we felt the ship lurch against a stone wall. An hour must have passed before we were ordered on the deck. The skies were pitch black and above us loomed a palace of sorts. We were ordered to strip naked by our Sicilian captors and our clothing was tossed back on the ship. A group of men in black pants, sweaters and seaman's watch caps had stood aside while we disrobed, and now they came forward and from a heavy burlap bag extracted handcuffs which were joined by a chain to leg irons.

After they had bound us hand and foot, they attached around each of our necks a steel collar, which was joined by a chain to the neck collar of the next man. As we began to wind our way up the ramp, the buttocks of the man in front brushed against me and I could feel the cock of the man behind against my ass. It seemed to me that the man behind was getting hard as we progressed. I tried to ignore it. I hoped the guards wouldn't see it, because we both could play hell over it. I didn't want the guards to think that I would encourage anything like that.

We got inside of the fortresslike building. Our bonds were removed and we were taken to a kitchen where we were fed soup and bread. We were placed in individual rooms and locked up for the night. I laid in the first warm bed with clean linen since I had left North Africa with the Sicilian invasion force. I slept a dreamless night.

The next few days seemed like some sort of special induction into the military. I received a full physical examination, met with a psychologist and was interviewed about my family and my background. They found out that I did not have a family and that I had attended Columbia University, leaving before I graduated . I had been advised that at the end of the test and interviews that I would be told my fate. I still had no idea what was going on.

A few days passed when I was left in my room by myself. I had not seen any of my companions since after we had eaten on the first day. I was fed in my room. Every sound in the hall made me start. I had not been abused by my keepers and had not tried to cause them any problems. One thing I had learned was that I was being held in Turkey. Outside of our building was the

Golden Horn of the Bosporus.

I had not been given any clothing since my arrival. I was no longer embarrassed by being nude, accepting my status … whatever that status might be.

One morning I was taken to the interview room again. In the room a tall blond stood by the window with his back to me. He did not turn as I was led into the room. My escort left, closing the door behind him. Unlike my other interviews where there had been a table and chairs, this room was dominated only by a high-back chair. I waited for the man to acknowledge my presence.

I began to wonder if he might not have heard me come in when he spoke, still watching something from the window:

'Kneel and keep your hands behind you.'

I went down on my knees and clasped my hands behind me. There was a knot in the pit of my stomach. I realized that this was not just another interview. I was going to learn my fate.

Without a word the man turned around and stared at me. I got my own fill of him. He must have been six feet three inches, wore a black sleeveless shirt which defined muscular arms and a well-muscled chest; his black pants were skin tight with a basket which made me shy from looking at it. I glanced down at polished boots. I kept staring at his boots, trying to avoid looking at the basket again. I saw him walk over toward me. He stood directly in front of me. Grasping my head with both hands, he ground my face into his crotch, forcing me to feel the big weapon hidden behind the cloth. His grip was so hard that I found it hard to breathe, while I felt the warmth of his crotch.

The man let me go and went to take the seat. "My name is Ivan. You will call me Master Ivan."

He paused as he pointedly rearranged his crotch and crossed one leg over the arm of the chair, leaving me with a full view of his crotch. "Your testing period is over. Your future has been determined. I will say that of the five of you, you tested with the highest IQ, and you are the youngest. You will be trained as a slave—as a sex slave.

"We have been in business in the Levant since the times of the Old Man of Mountain. Our group used to provide assassins for him. We train slaves as eunuchs and household slaves. Our group trained mamelukes for the rulers of Egypt. Until the fall of the khedives, we kept the court furnished with personnel. You might say that you are going to be the American mameluke. I am your trainer. You will service this." He groped at his crotch. "In fact you could say this is your second master. It is as demanding as I. Tomorrow, you will be moved into the wing where I live. Obedience to my wishes brings reward, disobedience will cause me to punish you.

"After you are trained, you will be sold at an auction. You will bring big money. The better I train you and the better you become as a slave, the higher the price you will bring."

He got up from his seat and strode out of the room, ignoring me. A few moments later my guard came, and I was returned to my room to await my future.

(To be continued in Drummer 104)

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OUR 5TH YEAR

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CONNECTER.Inc.

RETURN TO JHENT PART XI ed were the panoplies of the armies of Wa-at and dark were the weapons of the Dwork, as the ene-mies drew up one against the other. There could be no compromise now, as deities warred. The time for council taking was past and all that could be counciled was. The High Prophetess of the Dwork had come down out of Jorasalem into Jhentfel and great ceremonies had been set to seal the borders of Jhent against its rightful gods; only the Dwork might dwell in Jhentfel, or so it was the black-robed priesthood thought.

Gonar and Chom were here to prove them wrong, and blood would flow this day such as never had enriched the soil of the city before.

Yet there were doubts. In Gonar's heart because he had not heard the voice of Wa-at speak within him since that day before the broken gates of Rhengfel. In Chom (who had voiced his doubts in council) because it might be that Jhent's time had come to die: the King was mad, the priests of Roghgota in flight or dead from torture, and the prince, Hrendel, whom they had fought so hard to rescue, a frightened boy who twitched with terror in his sleep. Nobody knew the whereabouts of the Queen, or so Chala's spies reported.

Gonar wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then ran his palm over his chin. His beard was almost grown back to respectability. The hair on his head was the same length, evidence of the complete shaving performed upon him by a devotee of the Dwork in Molukenor, and even the hair on his chest and in his crotch was returning. If he died today he would at least look like a man rather than a eunuch.

That thought made him turn to look at Fillian, riding just behind and to his right. Fillian had given one ball in mock service to the Dwork in order to penetrate their defenses and, ultimately, rescue his Master and the prince. The boy was slight of build, young, but tough enough for any war after what he had been through. This day he would ride to Gonar's right and a little behind, supply side, passing arrows, weapons, whatever was required, while the man to Gonar's right defended, even as Gonar defended to Chom's right.

Gonar glanced left and back and saw Ketis, his blue eyes alight in the shadow of his helm, whisps of red hair poking out, occupying the supply side position for Chom. Whatever befell them, the boys they had taken from slavery, the boys who had proved themselves men, would be with them.

A braying of horns split the air and Gonar's attention snapped back to the opposing army drawn up before the gates of Jhent-fel . As he watched, the raggle-taggle troops opened at the center to make way for their commander, and a cry went up from their ranks, the cry of crazed fanatics following a mad deity.

Dwork! Dwork! Dwork!

She took the field herself, did the High Prophetess of Dwork-rimian , and she was (as was the custom in all faiths) like unto the deity she worshiped. Huge, obese, not with pulchritude but with corruption. Her face was as round as a melon that has lain in the field too long. Her mouth was an open pit, craving but never curled in smile. Her weapons were hooks and nets and thoughts, which she hurled out before her to entrap and ensnare the weak of mind, the sick of spirit, the broken of body. Now these thralls she rallied, and even across the distance between the two armies her harsh, powerful voice carried:

People of the Dwork, hear the mighty voice of Dworkrim-ian , the only true god! Before you are the warriors of false worship, the followers of empty idols, the oppressors of the spirit who tell you that the world is a place of joy, which you know to be false! They are here to tempt you back from your salvation, to offer you pleasures of the flesh which satisfy your lusts but which do not bring you closer to Eternity. Yea, many of you have lived in Jhentfel when the pain of the body was but a sport, and not offered piously to Dworkrimian as is right: now see what such sport leads to, and know the awful truth of the false gods for what they are!

Once more the crowd parted, and from within the city came three horsemen, the foremost of whom supported a tall pole while the other two balanced it from the sides. Gonar felt his stomach turn as he saw that from the pole hung a huge meathook and that the hook pierced the body of a young woman through the belly.

"Here is what Shegri leads to!" the Prophetess cried. "A dead woman hanging from a meat hook! This is the end that the sin of your city has brought you! This is the vision that Dworkrimian offers you to lead you into battle! Let this then be your banner! Go! Follow the Dwork!"

… And she raised her hand in signal and sent her followers forth like a living plague, a tide of the crazed, the infirm, the mad, the bloodthirsty failures at life.

Gonar shuddered, and wondered again that any human being could have sunk so far from humanity as to believe in the horror that now swept toward him. Did they not remember the arena, the rules, the willingness of the Shegrin who played the game? This, this abomination, this dead woman used as a banner to kindle the fires of war—this was not Shegri! This was the result of fanaticism, of an evil and lunatic religion. Were they unaware that Shegri was no longer allowed, at their own priesthood's bidding? Could they not see that it was their own religion that killed the woman, and that treated her corpse as no more than an object of battle lust?

… It mattered not. The earth thundered as the hooves of their whipped horses came on. The welkin rang with their obscene chant:

"Dwork! Dwork! Dwork!"

To Gonar's left Lady Lharna's troops drew swords, drew bows. To his right Chala's followers wielded blades, nocked arrows. Gonar heard the slide of bronze against leather as Chom prepared to meet the assault, and he drew his own jeweled wea-

pon, the consecrated one that belonged to Wa-at, the volcano god. Behind him he knew that priests of the god prepared spells and summonings, as did those of the god Roghgota who had escaped the persecutions of the Dworkists; but that was a matter for them, and his sword was a matter for him. If Wa-at was free to aid them, he would. If Roghgota could come to their aid, now would be the time. But gods were not like men and women, he knew. They moved in strange ways. Their aid would be welcome, but it could not be counted upon. Only sharp bronze was of immediate avail.

Closer the enemy came, and closer. Men and women armed in a thousand ways. Priests and priestesses dressed in black, condensed, moved toward its center, slowly but surely forming a wedge behind them, pushing forward, the thrust of the force moving toward the place where the Prophetess fought and urged her minions.

Gonar hacked with renewed vigor, slashed, cut, fended, slashed again. His scarlet armor now was soaked with blood and his horse slipped in red mud as he pushed forward.

She saw them coming, but she did not give ground. Behind the Prophetess also there thickened a force, a mass of flaying fighters determined to hold the gates and win the war. The sun, rising high toward noon, made shadows in their faces, made their mad eyes look like the empty sockets of skulls. Their lips oad after load of cum pumped into him, into his asshole, into his mouth, and still the assault continued. They pissed on him, they made him drink it from their cocks, they made him eat shit. They beat him with sticks as they fucked him… carrying sharp swords and spears. Merchants brandishing clubs, farmers wielding scythes. There were beggars on foot, some holding rocks to be thrown, some with slings that might only take down a bird. All had eyes that glittered with unholy lust, all rode the tide of blood want.

Closer, and then the army of Wa-at let fly the first volley of arrows, a brown and silver rain that fell with the sharpness of hail, that freshened a red harvest amidst the enemy ranks.

Yet still they came, not turning aside to care for their wounded but trampling them like so much wheat on the threshing room floor, horse hooves and boots and bare feet alike taking on the color of their compatriots' blood.

The armies met, and the clash of metal on metal, the massive scream of many deaths, the noise of war, replaced the thunder of hooves and bleating of chant.

Gonar's sword bit deep, drew red blood through black wool. He fended a blow, brought his shield to block a cut against Chom, felt more than knew the favor returned by his right-side defender. A whir of arrows, the second, descended upon the screaming, clawing enemy and a spear stuck in the hide of his shield, weighing it down so that he had to shake it loose.

How many he killed, how many of his own fell, Gonar did not know. Only the truth of the battle was real to him. And later, when his arm ached from the effort, the truth that though his line held the Dwork continued to assault.

It came into his mind that this battle was not like a war between kings. In a war between kings there was a goal, some object to be captured. Once the goal was obtained, or clearly lost, the battle was done.

As he fought he realized that in this battle the goal that the Dwork sought was anihilation. His men could fight and fight, kill and kill, but so long as the Dwork held sway in the warped minds of the enemy, they would continue to fight, even until they all died.

Unless, it came to him, unless their faith were shaken.

His eyes raked over the melee and came to rest upon the hideous banner of the Dwork, the dead woman hanging from a meathook. And there, below and before the banner, fighting with her nets and hooks, was the High Prophetess. If he could get to her, if he could kill her, if he could bring down the enemy banner, then he might yet effect a clear victory.

"Chom, my Master!" Gonar cried as he fought. "A point toward the Prophetess!"

Chom heard and gave signals. The line in which they fought peeled back from their teeth as their mouths screamed blind hatred.

Closer to her Gonar fought, and all the things that had been done to him under the aegis of the Dwork condensed in him to an ice-hard ball of rage. This woman, this Prophetess, was the highest authority of the Dwork, the creature who spoke the evil deity's words to the world. To kill her would be to avenge all those who had been tortured to death by her pious priesthood, mutiliated for the amusement of guilt-ridden worshipers. Gonar felt new strength flow into his sword arm at the thought of such revenge, and with a mighty effort cut forward into the fray.

But his anger betrayed him.

He fought his way forward ahead of his companions. Through his battle rage he did not hear Chom's signal call until it was too late, until the forces of the Dwork had feinted, fallen back, until he urged his horse clear of the men at his side and into a pocket cleverly prepared for him. By then it was too late. Warriors swept in behind him, closed, confined him to a circle of enemies, and all the cries and fierceness of those he'd left behind were useless.

His horse reared, stamped, split skulls. His sword cut, hewed flesh, but there was always more.

And then she was there, the Prophetess, her eyes blazing with a hatred of all that lived. Her horse confronted his. Gonar swept his sword up, cut at her, but her animal reared under her savage yank on the reins, and then her net whirled over her head, fell upon him like a leaden cloud, and his weapons were tangled, his arms entrapped in metal-wound rope.

Hands of beggars on all sides grabbed for the guys of the war net. The weight of a hundred bodies pulled him downward. Arrows and bolts thudded into the flesh of his horse and it screamed, then went down under him. Clubs struck him where he could not defend himself.

"Kill him!" the Prophetess crowed with a voice like the ravens of death.

"No!" cried a second voice, and even through the pain of the clubs and stones assaulting him Gonar recognized the voice of the High Priest of Dworkrimian in Jhent, the man he'd left impaled on the vile prick of the evil idol to die. "Take him alive that he may succumb with infinite slowness! I have a score to settle with Gonar that Your Holiness will find amusing!"

Then one of the clubs struck Gonar on the head and everything went blacker than Dworkrimian's heart.

is head was aching from the blow when Gonar finally awoke, but the pain he felt was not only in his head. His hands and feet were numb beyond aching wrists and ankles and painfully stretched arms and legs. He was naked and there was noise from a crowd around him, but it was not battle noise; and that hurt worse than the pain in his body. He didn't move, didn't breath deeper or differently than he had when unconscious, for he didn't want his captors to notice that he was awake; but he did carefully open his eyes to just a slit.

There was earth below, where he looked down, not far beyond his feet. There was a post driven into the ground just a little in front of him. He was, therefore, spread-eagled out of doors, probably between makeshift posts driven into the ground.

Was he on the battlefield, the war lost? Or had he been taken into the city as a captive? Either way, his friends had not been able to save him, and that could mean either a standoff in the war or a loss to his side.

"Wake him now," a voice said nearby. "The High Priest is coming.'

Gonar was suddenly struck full over his body with a bucket of cold water. There was no longer any use in pretending, so he opened his eyes and looked around, gaining what information he could quickly.

He had been right about his situation. He was staked upright, spread eagle between two posts, just inside the city gate; which was barred and guarded heavily. That could be precaution, or it could mean that the Dwork had lost the first battle and was now besieged. There were other captives about him in bondage, but none so fully displayed as he, and the reason for that was obvious as the High Priest marched toward him with several other priests in attendance, various implements in hand.

"So, Gonar, Champion of Jhent, you have returned to us," the High Priest smiled. "I had thought Dworkrimian had failed me when you triumphed in learning the whereabouts of Prince Hrendel, then escaped; but I see now that it was only part of a great plan. The god has raised you up that you may be brought down more usefully. Tell me, how did you feel when you reached Molukenor and found the prince dead?'

Gonar was stunned. The priest did not know yet that his messages had not got through, nor that the prince had been freed.

"What, no brave taunts?" Gonar's captor continued. "Then let me tell you what you felt. You felt anger, rage and the desire for revenge. The urge to rush back here and punish me for what I had done. It could not have been otherwise. Dworkrimian decreed that you should fall into my power, not when it pleased me, but when it would be of the most use. Now you shall be a supreme example to the people of Jhentfel of the ultimate power of the true god."

Gonar could not help himself. He spit in the face of the High

Priest.

One of the attendants brought a many-thonged lash hard across his chest, but the High Priest stayed the man before a second stroke could be made.

"Get behind him," the High Priest ordered. "Take hold of those massive thighs of his and push him toward me, so that his balls are atop the post."

The minions did as they were bid, and Gonar felt his arms and legs stretched so hard and far that the sockets of his shoulders were pulled free. His balls came to rest on the wooden post driven into the ground before him, and the High Priest straightened them there so that they were centered. Despite himself, Gonar felt the pain and the fondling of his nuts as a stimulation. His big cock grew hard and the High Priest smiled.

'Hold his prick hard against his belly," the priest instructed a third attendant, and it was done.

It seemed a long way to have kept his balls, Gonar thought, only to lose them within the gates of his home city.

The High Priest reached within his robes, but instead of pulling out a kinfe, he withdrew a rod of bronze that was sharpened to a point on both ends and doubled back in half, so that the points faced the same way, two finger-widths apart. He put the two points down on top of Gonar's ball sac, the bend in the rod facing up. Then he held out his hand and an attendant handed him a mallet.

With no preamble he brought the mallet up and swung down hard atop the bend, driving the sharp points through Gonar's scrotum above his balls, into the wood beneath.

Gonar cried out in pain, but inside his mind he compared the pain to what he had felt when Falwet of Moush had driven a dagger through his balls and his cock; and he realized that he was still ahead of the High Priest, if only in the ideals of Shegri.

Next the High Priest wiggled the bronze staple back and forth, until it came free of the wood. He took Gonar's balls in hand and moved them to the side, then he used the mallet to bend the ends of the prongs over on themselves, so that they could not be drawn back through the pierced flesh. Last he fastened a chain through the bent end of the device, so that Gonar was effectively tethered by his balls. He unwound the chain for the length of two horses, then he mounted a horse that was waiting for him, holding on to the end of the chain.

"Cut him down, and bring all of them along," the priest commanded, and Gonar felt his arms and legs released suddenly . He fell to the ground and the chain yanked on his balls, then bent hooks digging in made him howl. The High Priest tugged and Gonar was forced to stand on numbed feet, propel himself forward on pain-racked legs, and he was led along behind the priest's horse toward the center of the city.

He was led to the central square of Jhentfel and new horror seized him. What had once been a pleasant place to drink and while away a day was now a vision of damnation. Stakes had been sunk into the ground everywhere and men and women bound to them. The banner of the Dwork was not the only use of the hideous hook that Jhentfel had seen, for a number of people hung about on similar hooks, some alive, some dead and starting to decay. The smell of death was a miasma. Near the center of the square there were stakes arranged in a circle, and there the victims of the worst tortures were displayed, men and women disemboweled while they lived.

To the far side of the square new stakes had been set in the earth, and one foremost. Gonar was led to one and bound to it facing the others, a long chain wound round and round him so that he stood upright, his arms at his sides. Then the other prisoners he'd seen within the city's gate were herded along and bound, in a similar fashion, to the other stakes, where he

The High Priest mounted a rough platform at the center of the square and spoke to the gathering crowd.

'People of Jhent! Dworkrimian has told you that you must follow the true god, not the false heroes of the world. See now what happens to those who follow false heroes; even a hero you all recognize! See what happens to those who have come here to war at the urging of Gonar, who was called Champion of Jhent! Gonar the traitor!'

At that moment Gonar wished that he had forgotten honor, had left the city to its own doom and stayed away. For he recognized all of those who were bound before him; there were Cledata, and those who had escaped from Rhengfel; those of the surrounding mountains who had followed him and Chom to stop the Dwork. And he knew that they were his responsibility; that without his words they would now rest at home in bed rather than facing the dooms they now faced.

Torturer priests came forward with divers devices, but they came not to Gonar. Rather they went to the other captives: while a small squad of archers came and lined up facing him. Would he then be executed before those who died for him?

No such luck, he realized as the first torturer began on a young man barely eighteen summers, slicing open his belly with a dull knife, then drawing out his entrails before him.

The screaming was terrible and the sight worse, but Gonar could not turn away, could not close his eyes. These were his

people who died horribly before him. He had to share what happened to them in any way he could, had to show courage that they might have it to face their horrible ends.

But just as he was beginning to resolve it for himself, one of the archers raised and drew his bow and released an arrow, and swifter than a snake it struck Gonar's arm, biting in. He looked down at it, a long shaft of wood sticking through his arm, and he began to weep: not at what was happening to him, but at his ultimate and terrible failure.

A second torturer started on a second captive, this time with sharp knives that slowly cut the skin off the boy in long strips. Now there were two pairs of lungs screaming, and then a second arrow was loosed, piercing Gonar's other arm.

He understood. The High Priest was giving him pain in two ways and explicitly. One in his flesh, with the arrows, one in his soul with the torture of his troops.

Gonar knew in his heart that nothing he could do to the High Priest would ever repay this, though he live a thousand revolutions of the sun and everyone of them a new vengeance.

They fastened small cages with hungry weasels to the next victim, and the arrow was through Gonar's thigh. They began to splash boiling sulfur on another.

The High Priest came to him and looked at him.

"Gonar, your cock is soft," he said, amused. "Is this not to the taste of a Shegrin? Here, let me help you!"

He took Gonar's cock in his hand and stroked it, massaged it, even got down and sucked on it: but Gonar, Champion of Jhent, who had endured the deprivations of Rhengfel, could not respond. There was nothing erotic about what was happening to him. There was nothing in the spectacle of torture and death to arouse.

And that puzzled the High Priest of the Dwork, for it was clear that under his robes his cock was hard, that he was enjoying every bit of it, however much he concealed it.

How long it went on Gonar did not know. The many arrows that stuck out of his body, all carefully aimed at nonvital spots, were the least of it. That his men lived yet was what w abominable; and that he, who had brought them lived.

But when it was finished, and all his followers hu chains, there was one more horror.

'Now to the temple of the true god," the priest p and moved his horse, pulling Gonar's pierced boo the balls.

And in the crowd that watched, Gonar saw face faces of men he had fucked, and who had fucked hi faces were faces of fear and lust. Compassion had out of the hearts of the people of Jhent.

Itimately there was an escape for him, if or the horror in the square and whatever horro come. As he was pulled along, stumbling thr grown filthy with urine and feces that were no lo away, tripping over garbage that was part the detrit and part human detritus, it was no longer necessa participate in his own reality. He was free, for the open the doorways that lined the corridors of his r not have to be brave, at least for a while, and retreat: if not to happier times, if not to better tim other times

He thought back to the war council in the villag to the brief days in which his body had known re the tortures to which he had submitted himself in the freedom of Prince Hrendel. He tried to reeaxm transpired, tried to find a flaw in the plan that had current situation.

'We have not been idle in your absence," the v had said, sitting across the wooden table from small but sturdy house shared by the Head Man of Cledata, and Lady Lharna, who had been of Rheng spies to Jhent as soon as you left, to find out how against your return." pages filled with photos and detail how to locate nudist clubs, and w informative videos, books, and films wrapper. Send $1 with your nam ESCO-DR, P.O. Box 2668, Los An

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"And?" asked Chom, sitting beside Gonar.

"Ill," Chala responded. "As you told us, the king is mad. He has fallen completely under the sway of the Dwork and proclaimed Dworkrimian the only true god, and specifically god of Jhent. The priests of other deities are hunted down and murdered in the public square at the pleasure of the High Priest. The city and the country tremble under a reign of terror and worse is to come.'

"How worse?" Gonar asked, easing his body to one side, his legs apart to provide his healing balls as much comfort as possible.

"The great Prophetess of the cult of Dworkrimian has sent word that she will come to preside at the ceremonies that make Jhent totally subservient to the Dwork. It is said that once the rite of subjugation is complete, no other god will be able to pass the borders. What power Roghgota holds will fade. Those who keep to the old ways will be left without hope, save that offered by the Dwork. And that is only the hope of death."

"Has there been no resistance?" Gonar asked, trying to picture his country falling meekly before the black-robed inter-

"At first the people were loathe to oppose the King," said Chala. "When the full extent of the horror was known some did try to fight back, but by then it was too late. The agents of the Dwork were everywhere, and even respected people were likely to be found murdered in their beds or tortured to death in dark alleys. The Dworkists are now the Royal Guard, and their whim is law. It is a land ruled by treachery and torture, Gonar, and it will be all we are worth to set it free."

"To set it free?" Chom queried. "Free of what? Of its or- dained king? Of its newly chosen religion?"

There was silence in the room for a moment as everyone looked at Chom in surprise.

"Do you then advocate leaving Jhent in the hands of the Dwork?'

Gonar could not imagine Chom meaning that, but he did not understand what Chom was getting at, so he, too, stared, waiting for a response. Chom furrowed his brows, as if preparing what he had to say carefully. Then he spoke: "We Corsairs hire to whatever nation will pay us. To many that seems a hire without ethics; but that is not the case. We understand that nations change, that people embrace ideas sometimes merely because they are different; and we accord them that right. We do not choose sides in political debate because it is all the same to us. Kings rise and kings fall. Dynasties come to power and then diminish. The only measure of a people is success, for the idea, the country that does not succeed does not exist any longer. Foolishness is a major characteristic of nations, as it is of people. The difference is that people die quickly, one at at time, while nations die slowly, stretching out the death agonies of their peoples."

Chom paused, waiting to see if what he was saying was clear. It was not, and he saw that in their faces.

"Perhaps it is that I do not want to say this, especially to you, Gonar, but I must say it. If the King of Jhent is mad, then it may be time for Jhent to fall; and you must consider that before you try to save it.'

Now the attention of all in the room moved to Gonar, and with some shock Gonar realized that he, of all in the room, was the most concerned in that matter: for aside from Prince Hren-del , who still lay shuddering in a cottage nearby, he was the only true citizen of Jhent among them.

He considered the matter for only a moment and was surprised at how quickly his thoughts marshaled. It must be that he had seen the pieces clearly enough to sense the complete pictures, he told himself as he began to speak.

"Though King Rhanges is mad," he said, "the queen presumably lives, and her we know to be a woman of reason and resource. There is also Prince Hrendel, who may yet return to health and normalcy enough to rule. So there is some continui- ty to Jhent and its ruling line. It was a good place to li the Dworkists came, and if they can be driven forth, it good place again.

"When we speak of saving a nation, we must ask fro think the answer to that is clear, but the risk that goe also clear. What law is it that drives forth a god? Ha beings the right to limit the worship of their fellow have seen what comes of that! The Dworkists would f to their one god. Are we no better than they? We mi narrow path if we begin to limit people in their belie end like our enemies. We must be watchful for upholding our freedom. "It is, it seems to me, always the case that the rulers the responsibility for their rule, however good their in The King did nothing wrong in trusting the pries Dwork, for he had no reason to suspect them of ill w did make a mistake, and that mistake cost him his re possibly his kingdom. It nearly cost him his son.

"When we ride against the Dwork we must keep that Decisions are made by human beings, and human be be responsible for their decisions, whether they are bad ones. If we were ever to form a government in authority rested on any but human shoulders, ther could be made with impunity and compounded until ernment fell of its own weight."

This last statement broke the spell of Gonar's reason everyone laughed.

"And what kind of government would rest on any b shoulders?" Lady Lharna asked.

"The one we saw in Throm," said Chom, whose laus so great as that of the others: for after all, it was he introduced this philosophical debate into what she been a war council. "The elders of that town made a between them, ruling by consensus. They thought the sion made by many together would be proof against fa in the end they paid as individuals for a mistake mad mon by them all; and Throm is no more."

"How then can one protect against the mistakes of ment?" asked Chala, genuinely perplexed. She had come a warrior, a war chief, since meeting Gonar ar She was not familiar with the ways of kingdoms, or e

"One cannot," Chom sighed. "And that is why I question of whether or not we should seek to save the much to question whether we should, but in the someone might have an answer to the other questi plies; some of which Gonar has touched, and handled any…No, one cannot protect a people from the m government, but one can keep power responsible. I sion must be made by a person and that person must aware that if it is a bad decision, he or she must pay otherwise all must pay, even as the people of Jhent even as we will pay in blood to drive out the Dwork ar the kingdom."

"Will you slay the King?" Lady Lharna asked. She al-company was of noble blood.

They again turned to Gonar, for Rhanges was his

"Not willingly," he said. "Rather will we try to cap But to the priesthood of the Dwork we will show no su They will face death or exile. It may be that the King w impose his own verdicts upon them if he is restore victory and seeing his son alive."

They averted their eyes when Gonar said this, wh cause they felt it a bad decision or an improbability he tell.

"Then we march?" asked Chala.

"We march," said Gonar, shifting his weight again wanting to contemplate riding a horse while his balls si much.

Gonar stumbled, and the pain of his healing balls i

became the pain of his tortured balls in the present. The past, the council with its solid wooden tables, its warm fire amidst the mountain cold, its hot spiced wine; was ripped away. He was once more in Jhentfel, once more a captive.

And his reverie had taught him nothing. Each thing they had decided was right and correct. He had made no mistakes, nor had any of them. What they had done in making war was the right decision. It was only that they had not succeeded that was somehow wrong, somehow out of accord with the proper order of the universe.

Unless—and this thought frightened him more than anything yet had frightened him in life-unless the theology of the Dwork were the truth. Unless the world was no more than the excretions of an all-powerful deity who held all of life in con- tempt, a subject for cruel caprice.

The High Priest rode into the square before the high dark temple of Dworkrimian. Gonar gagged at the stench of corpses that had been left to rot in the sun, of spoiled vomit, of a world such as only Dworkrimian could make. He wept again as his mind reeled from the terrible prospect that the world he had known, the bright gods he had worshiped, might all be illusion.

He was dragged by his balls to the steps before the temple and there he was held face down by four of the Dworkist priests while the High Priest stood above him.

"Come!" the High Priest called to the scrofulous mob that gathered. "Come, for one last feast on the fabled body of Gonar, Champion of Jhent! Men, women, all of you—serve the true god by inflicting upon him your wildest lusts! Fuck him, a thousand of you, for from here he goes to his damnation!"

They started almost shyly, the first only sticking a dick up his ass and fucking him until the jism shot in. Several more followed suit, but then they grew braver, and besides, his asshole had begun to loosen and spill the puddled jism out. One beggar with a filthy cock shoved it into his mouth while another pushed a bigger one into him, then slid his hand around it so that he could masturbate inside Gonar. The pain of the arrows in his limbs dulled to an ache but was renewed when they discovered that by pulling on the arrow shafts they could make him twitch, make his hole clamp on their thrusting cocks.

Load after load of cum pumped into him, into his asshole, into his mouth, and still the assault continued. They pissed on him, they made him drink it from their cocks, they made him eat shit. They beat him with sticks as they fucked him, some cut him with small knives: these would have killed him had not the High Priest admonished that Gonar's death belonged to him, and to Dworkrimian.

The feeling slowly seeped away. His body could take no more. He was mildly surprised, for a while, that he did not lose consciousness, that his mind did not retreat completely. But when that thought occurred to him there was a kindling deep within, a something that said not yet: and yet that did not seem to mock him. The pain became a single pain, an ache that was his body and not separate from it, and then it did not matter.

The feeling in his spirit did not go away, but he put it aside for later. What he had done he had done, and nothing would undo it. Those who had died because he led them were dead; or dying. No hurt that he held would help them. Soon he would join them, and there, wherever dead spirits met (if they met) he would offer himself for their satisfaction. Whatever else, his honor was intact. He was, for all the use made of him, chaste. When that thought occurred to him, he almost laughed. Here he was, about to die, raped by the whole population of the city (or so it felt) and pierced through with arrows, and yet he could think of himself as chaste because of his precious honor.

Well, perhaps it was that precious after all. long, long, numbing time later he was dragged up and into the temple. They wasted no time taking him through the chambers of ordeal but carried him through the corridors that bypassed them.

He recognized the barracks room where he had watched priests torture one another of the "sin" of sexual arousal. He noted the room where the robes were kept while the priests slept naked, bound to their beds. The hollow stone halls still stank with a smell like incense and urine, but now, knowing what he did of the cult, he was not surprised, only further oppressed than he had been the last time.

He came to the antechamber with benches where supplicants awaited the higher levels of initiation. He passed through the room with the round fire pit and the crosses stationed around it. Here he had tortured the High Priest with the power of his own orgasm to get the information of the prince's whereabouts . Next he moved through the chamber where men and women were left bound dangerously overnight, the room where first he had found Fillian hanging upside down, his tits pierced with bones, his weight nearly suspended by his stretched balls.

He felt a pang at the thought of Fillian, and with that pang he was flooded with remorse that he would never see any of his loved ones again. Neither Fillian nor Chom nor Ketis, nor Chala nor Lady Lharna. He tried to mumble a prayer to Roghgota for their safety, but his throat constricted, choked the prayer off.

So it was true then; there was a spell that banned all other gods from Jhent. He could not even pray their names!

They dragged him into the inner sanctum of Dworkrimian, into the dark stone chamber lit with orange light, dominated by the huge veiled effigy of the deity, a thing neither male nor female but partaking of distorted and obscene features of both. There had been additions since last he had been in the room.

Now it was lined with X-shaped wooden frames, racks for stretching victims: no doubt those who would be sacrificed in some further rite than he had seen. They carried him to the central one, opposite the idol, and stretched his arms and legs out painfully, binding him to it. It was a familiar position, spread eagle, and it made what was left of the front of his body available .

They had some difficulty binding him to the cross because of the arrows that pierced him, but assiduous twisting that made

He was left alone for a while, how long he could not tell, and during that time the ache that was his body dulled, the pain that was his mind slipped off. It was not so much sleep, but it was close. When occasionally he came to consciousness he was surprised that he was not dreaming, that the semisleep was not filled with fitful nightmares. Even his dreams seemed to have been taken from him, perhaps at that bidding of the deity whose captive he was. He did not know, he only hurt.

A priestess came into the chamber and stood before him, looking at him silently. He noticed that she carried a wooden bucket and wondered what torture was next. She threw back the black hood of her robe and looked up at him, a grey-haired, haggard harridan with a mad smile. There was something familiar about her, but he knew not what. He supposed that he had seen her in the temple before. Was she the one who had admitted him that first day?…No, he did not think she was that one.

She opened the lid of the bucket and stepped up to him. She withdrew a ladle and held it to his lips.

'Drink it!" she cackled.

He thought back to the drugs that the torturers of Rhengfel had given him and thought to spit it back in her face, but once it was in his mouth he could not. It tasted like broth, hot rich broth, and he was hungry. He swallowed, and she continued to feed him.

"You will need strength," she crooned in a demented voice. "Oh, yes, strength for what you will have to do!"

He was wary of eating too much, of puking it up, but she seemed as careful as he in the matter and ceased to feed him when she judged it enough. Then she left.

He slept more, waited for the effect of drugs but felt none. Priests and priestesses came into the room from time to time and made offerings to the idol, throwing whatever it was they

DRUMMER 102

sacrificed into the death pit that waited like a latrine under the squat figure. Gonar was far enough away from the pit that at least he did not have to smell the reek of it, the place where fools who worshiped Dworkrimian hurled one testicle in a final initiation to the priesthood.

He wondered idly what it was that women gave, but that thought was not one he wanted to consider.

At last the High Priest came back, and with him the High Prophetess. Two priests moved a throne to a spot in front of the idol, facing Gonar, and she sat upon it, her face and body veiled as was the statue. Tripods were set up to either side of her and the bowls of oil and charcoal ignited so that she sat between orange bonfires contained.

The High Priest came to Gonar.

"So now the end, Gonar, Champion of Jhent. Now the death that you have sought so long in your Shegri."

"Shegri is not death," Gonar croaked through parched lips.

"Nor was any soul ever saved," the High Priest responded. "Perhaps today you will understand the difference.

He took Gonar's big cock in his hand and stroked it, toying with the ring they had put through it in Rhengfel.

"You have acquired some jewels since last we met," the High Priest said, conversationally. "You have always liked jewels, Gonar, since first we met. You bet Chom your body for the sake of a ruby firestone. Tell me, where is that firestone now?"

Gonar thought about it, realized that he had not thought about it in a long time, realized that he didn't know. He didn't bother to answer. That didn't seem to bother the High Priest.

"The firestone was not the prize you truly won, was it, Gonar? No, you lost that match but gained a greater prize."

He tweaked the ring in Gonar's right nipple.

"You won a Master, Gonar. You won a man whom you could love, a man to whom you could devote yourself. You became his slave, Gonar. Think about that. Think back to the happy times when he abused you, used you, made you suck him, fucked your ass.'

Even through the pain and the despair, Gonar responded. He was too weak to pull his mind away from the things the High Priest described, and as he saw them in his mind he felt them in his memory, and his cock responded. In the priest's knowle-degable hand it grew stiff. The pain of his body slowly transmuted , went away as the good feeling in his prick grew stronger.

"Gonar and Chom, the lovers of Jhent, the Shegrin and his conquerer," the High Priest crooned. "Sweating and responding , begging, loving every stroke of his whip upon your back, how you lusted to do your Master's bidding, oh, Gonar.'

The priest's hand moved faster, and Gonar saw no need to hold back; if one last orgasm was what he would get, then let the foul cleric give it to him. He trembled, his senses overloaded and channeling into the one release possible.

"How you wish you were with him now, Gonar, rather than here and alone, is that not so?'

Gonar nodded, his mouth open, his breath coming in pants as the load in his pierced, tortured balls prepared to shoot forth.

"Then we shall make it so," the priest whispered, just as Gonar shot, the semen spurting up, out of his cock, past the priest's rapidly stroking and squeezing hand.

… And as Gonar shot, the door of the chamber opened and warrior-priests of Dworkrimian dragged in Chom, bound, tortured even as Gonar had been: and behind him the others, Fillian, Ketis, Chala, Chebid, the Head Man of Cledata, even Norem-at, the priest of Wa-at.

… And shooting, his body experiencing one final and ultimate pleasure, Gonar knew that his people had lost the war, and faced a death more horrible than anything that had gone before.

The final, terrifying conclusion of Mason Powell's BOUND FOR GLORY will appear in Drummer 104. Watch for it!

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LEATHER NOTEBOOK

ILLUSTRATION by BILL WARD by LARRY TOWNSEND

Dear Mr. Townsend,

I am more or less a novice in SM-24 years old, with my first leathersex about two years ago. I'm no Adonis, but I seem able to attract the type of Tops I want. My problem is that I have also seen a number of my friends shot down by the current epidemic, and although I enjoy almost anything short of mutilation, I am really afraid to let a strange Top take full control for fear he won't observe all the safe-sex rules. Harping on this at the beginning of a scene-much less questioning the guy to make sure he knows what his limitations must be-can really fuck up the dominance / submission relationship .

If it were not for the fact that I may literally be putting my life on the line, I wouldn't be so concerned about it. (I mean to say that I have very few other limits insofar as things he can do to me.) Can you offer any helpful advice? I would imagine a lot of your other readers are in the same situation.

Name withheld

Dear Withheld,

A sensible Top will know the rules and abide by them, so I think your biggest problem is selecting a guy who isn't gone on drugs, or so infatuated with his own ego that he isn't going to have a concern for you. With this kind of a man you should be able to establish the "rules of the game" well ahead of time; i.e., in the bar or wherever you meet, long before you ever enter the play area.

There is also the situation which I have found-and discussed at length with several good Tops. Their feeling is that whereas they will generally stay within the rules set forth by the medical establishment, they do not look on themselves as potential threats to their bottoms. For this reason they may appear more casual than they really are to the men with whom they are playing. Although I would not recommend that anyone simply ignore the rules, I can see a certain validity in a man's feeling and projecting a sense of his own healthy condition. Bear in mind that the major dangers seem to lie in anal sex, SM sex which draws blood, ingesting urine and sharing intravenous needles. You might concentrate on these as your limits. It has always been the bottom's right to state these, and you are not exceeding privilege by doing so. And if in doubt…well, there's always Merry Palm.

Dear Larry,

I have become an avid collector of "erotic" videos, mainly because I find them the best alternative to the real thing-certainly safer. However , I have seen ads in European publications for tapes that are not available in the United States, but which are on the P.A.L. system, and can't be played on our VCRs. I know that there is a machine available in Europe that will play both systems, but had not seen an equivalent offered over here. Is there one? I live in a part of the country where we may not have as many of the new high-tech items on display in our stores as you do in your area.

Bert, Ames, IA

Dear Bert,

To the best of my knowledge there are two VCRs available in the U.S. which will play both systems. If I remember correctly, one is made by Pa-nasonic . They are not much more in price than a good, regular machine. However, you will also have to buy a TV set that works on the P.A.L. system, because the basic difference that makes the two systems incompatible results from the number of lines per square centimeter projected on the screen. Even with a machine which runs either format , you will not be able to dub from one to the other; you will just be able to watch the prerecorded tapes. They also run only on fast speed. Pick up a copy of Video Magazine and check the classified ads. That's where I've seen them offered.

Dear Larry,

Although I know from your answers in the past that you are against sex with animals, I have the following question to ask that I hope you will answer. I am a very expe- rienced bottom into FF, dil- does, W / S, etc. For the past few years I have wanted to expand my experiences to includes Great Danes and horses. Is there an organization that you know of that could help me with this?

Mark, Florida

Dear Mark, No.

Dear Larry,

You recently answered a letter from a guy who was having problems finding a rubber that was big enough for his lover's oversized cock. I've got just the opposite problem. I love to fuck, but my dick is really small-embarrassingly so, but I do manage to find a hole to poke it into once in a while. But when I try to use a regular condom, it fits like a large trash bag over a stalk of celery (or almost that bad). I've really hunted around, and I know the regular drug stores don't have my size. Underendowed, Baltimore

Dear Under.

How about one of those rubber fingers a doctor uses when he checks an asshole? I've seen them go over a fairly good-sized "social" finger; if you're that small they might work for you. Since they're used by the medical profes- ston, I should assume they'd form a suitable fluid / virus barrier.

Dear Larry,

I have been a devoted fan of yours for many years, but I also enjoyed the publications put out by RFM, until his untimely death…what? Four years ago? Whatever, I remember at the time it was rumored that he died of AIDS, and I never heard any definitive explanation . Can you enlighten me? Pat, Dallas

Dear Pat,

I might not be the best one to answer this, because I had not talked to Roger (RFM) for about six weeks before his death. This wasn't due to any problems between us, simply that we were both busy and didn't have any reason to call As you know, he lived in Po mona, which is about 40 mile from my home in West Holly wood, so it wasn't as if we wer next door to each other. Non of his close friends, however believed that he had AIDS. H car sideswiped the center d vider on the San Bernardir Freeway at about 3 A.M. on Sunday morning, while he w on his way home from a loc (West Hollywood) cocksuc ing palace. The autopsy app ently showed traces of ether his system, but no other dru It isn't clear whether his de was really the result of crash, or due to a coronar possibly brought on by sor thing he had ingested. convinced, in my own mi that he did not have AIDS, cause I think he would h told me, as he had with his ious other physical probl in the past.

(If you would like to have I Townsend address a partic problem or issue, you write him via Leather N book, Drummer, PO 11314, San Francisco, 94101-1314.)

WHITE POWER

Photos by LARRY TOWNSEND ne- ľm nd, be-ave var-ems arry ular

ER 102

A SATIRIC LOOK AT FANTASY PHONE SEX

With the help of Ma Bell and some enterprising entrepreneurs , a thriving new business has been created for all of us who might enjoy fantasy phone sex.

Throughout our land there are fantasy phone lines that, for a fee (paid in advance or charged on a credit card), will aid you in satisfying one of man's basic needs: achieving an orgasm.

You say you are lonely after coming home from the bar without someone in tow? Or you are high on grass at noontime and feel hornier than Joan Collins between husbands? Hosanna, there's an easy solution. You can pick up your Princess phone (or a more butch model) and dial the man of your dreams and he'll talk you into sexual nirvana. You can find many fantasy sex phone lines listed in gay newspapers and magazines in the Unites States. It's a business which is flourishing and handles customers from all over the world. And most compan-ies operate 24 hours a day. Usually the peak hours when business really climaxes (pun intended) are after the bars close and customers return home in varying conditions, but many horny enough to tackle even Quasimoto.

I decided to investigate the fantasy phone sex business since I had never participated in it; I always like to try something new. I'm very conservative with money but figured, what could I lose—maybe $25 or $50 which I would charge to my credit card?

To get myself into a sexual mood, I pulled out some issues of Drummer and mixed myself a martini. To fully appreciate gay fantasy phone sex, it is important for you to visualize (fantasize) the type of man who turns you on. You can, if you wish, just close your eyes and pretend he's on the other end of the line.

I surveyed the ads, looking for one company that would have the type of guy I dig. The names of some outfits intrigued me, such as: Adonis Phone Sex, Man-to-Man Phone Sex, Man-Talk, Cumfort Station, Los Angeles Hotline (whose slogan is "Reach out and touch someone"), Dude Phone Sex and Sandy's Phone Sex and Deli. The company that caught my eye sounded like just what the doctor ordered: Wolfgang's Whip-it Phone Sex.

When I called them, I got the boss himself, Wolfgang, and he explained his service. Wolfgang sounded like an ex-Nazi SS officer. He said he was uncut and dressed in full leather. With a strong, dominant voice and a pronounced German accent, he mentioned that he specialized in verbal abuse. Oh, boy, just what I like. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hi, this is my first time calling, so bear with me." Wolfgang: "Not to worry, slave, the Whip-it line never fails."

Me: "Could you crack your whip a little louder, Wolfgang?" Wolfgang: "Just imagine my cat-o'-nine-tails as it connects with the flesh on your plump thighs."

Me (Wondering how he knew my thighs were plump): "Tell me more, oh, great Master.'

Wolfgang: "Now get on the floor and imagine you are licking my Tony Lama boots.'

Me (Ye gads, he must be successful at this stuff if he can afford Tony Lama boots): "I'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it.

Wolfgang: "Get up, filthy pig, and peel off your leather."

Me (Nervously, I slide out of my L.L. Bean loafers and drop my festive, burnt-sienna pantaloons): "OK, Master, I'm standing here clad only in my Calvin Klein leather jockstrap, waiting for your next command, Sir."

Wolfgang: "I like your obedience, slave. Off with that jockstrap.

Me (I unfastened my jockstrap and let it fall to the floor—my jockstrap, that is; I'm now holding my "pulsating pacifier" in my left hand-I've always been a southpaw): "You are so demanding, Master. I am unworthy to serve you."

Wolfgang: "Shut up, slave, before I put your manhood to my vice. Get down on the floor."

Me (I swear I hear the squeak of the jaws of an ancient vice opening): "What are you doing next?"

Wolfgang: "Never mind. Are you on the floor?" Me: "Yes, Sir, I'm squatting on my Kurman rug."

Wolfgang: "You don't have a leather rug?"

Me: "No, the closest thing to it is my Rubbermaid bath mat." Wolfgang: "Well, pretend it's rough, uncured damascene leather. Is the feel of it tickling your fancy?'

Me: "It's doing more than that, it's leaving indentations on my ass. But it's turning me on."

Wolfgang: "You must be punished. I will whip you mercilessly.

Me (Wolfgang is frenetically cracking the whip and cursing me; I mix myself another martini and recline on my Castro convertible): "Oh, Master, flagellate me with reckless abandon.

Wolfgang: "You son of a leather mongerer, you are sorely testing my patience. How would you like my fist up your ass?"

Me (Now my blood pressure is up; my testicles are twitching, too): "I wouldn't want that, Sir. Even a finger hurts my anal canal and scrapes my hemorrhoids."

Wolfgang: "You must know pain to achieve a meaningful orgasm.

Me (Wondering exactly what he means): "How much has this call cost so far, Sir?'

Wolfgang: "One hundred twelve dollars American or 254 Deutschmarks."

Me (Climaxing immediately on this painful news): "I'm c-c-c- c-cumming, Sir. O-ooh, it smarts."

Wolfgang: "It hurts you to achieve an orgasm?"

Me: "No, I just sat on my tit clamps. They're so cold."

Wolfgang: "You vill call again?" Me: "Yes." (Thank God I have MCI.) "Good-bye, mein leather Fuhrer.'

Since this was my first experiment with fantasy phone sex, I felt somewhat inhibited. I did climax (but at such a cost). I am, I must admit, interested in trying it again, though. Hopefully, I will enjoy it more and talk less. I couldn't help but wonder afterwards though if I might not have been cheated by my "leatherman." What if he was wearing vinyl?

_lack Edwards

SEND YOUR ENTRIES TO DRUMMER REPORT PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

POSITION OPEN

Veteran policeman Richard Harrison, III was fired from his job in Gainesville, FL after he took part in the strip-search of 24 middle school students.

Girls were searched by a female physical education teacher, but the boys were taken by Harrison to a storage room, one by one, and ordered to strip to their underwear and forced to submit to a full body search.

The cause of all this? A reported theft of $10; the money was not found. Talk about cheap thrills.

SAD ABOUT SMADS

Referring to the government's recent crackdown on SM-oriented magazines and personal reasons, the editor of SMads informed Drummer that they will discontinue publication with the January 1987 issue. Mail will continue to be forwarded to advertisers until the end of March.

SMads started in June 1973 and traveled with the owner in his moves from New York City to Houston, TX and finally to Los Angeles. SMads will be missed.

BEEFCAKE COVER-UP

Playgirl magazine has announced that it will not let it all hang out! No more cock-frontal nudity-beginning with the February 1987 issue. Playgirl execs seem to think that sales will go up with the cover-up, but most of the people we've talked to say they will stop buying the magazine if there is no meat. That last issue should be a collector's item.

A BIT OF THE BUBBLY

The distributors of Gay Times in the U.K. refused to handle a recent issue because wholesalers objected to what they termed an indecent front cover.

The photo in question was chosen to illustrate a feature on the work of photographer Erwin Olaf Springveld and, oddly enough, the issue with the offending cover carried a major report on the rising tide of censorship which is hitting gays and especially gay publications in the U.K.

A modified cover was hurriedly printed to wrap around the original.

The New Zealand gay publication Out!, in defiance and celebration, used the same photo on their August issue.

MENTOR MENTION

A new condom invented by Mentor Corp. of Minneapolis is reportedly to provide greater protection against exchange of body fluids and therefore more protection against sexually transmitted diseases such as acquired im-munodeficiency syndrome.

The new two-part condom is called "Mentor" and has a safety shield adhesive that not only prevents it from accidentally slipping off during the sex act but also forms a watertight barrier to keep semen in and fluids out. The condom and its applicator hood unroll together, but the outside sheath is removed before sex, and a special adhesive seals the condom to the skin.

The material we received raises but does not answer the question of how the condom is removed. Ouch!

LIVING IN REDNECK COUNTRY

In October 1986, the first residents arrived in Stonewall Park at Rhyolite, NV. Plans for the restoration of Rhyolite include rebuilding many of the old buildings that once comprised a booming mine town of 10,000.

Living arrangements for fifty residents, to rough-it, have been made and project supporters are in hopes of one hundred fifty new residents in the next few months.

So far no problems have arisen, but the gay township's first town meeting had expected appearances by members of the Klu Klux Klan. The confrontation did not take place, although the KKK did advertise for support and demonstrators in at least four Western states.

The Nye County Sheriff's Department and the Nevada Highway Patrol were ready to insure that no violence occurred , but Nye County Commissioner Robert Revert stated, "This is not San Francisco. This is redneck country. When they get to the county line, they cease being gay, they turn into queers. Prostitution is acceptable to me, homosexuality is not," Revert said. "I don't think they can walk down the street safely.

Donations for Stonewall Park at Rhyolite are tax-deductible and channeled through the Rhyolite and Bullfrog District-Death Valley Historical Society. For information on current business opportunities and / or homestead information, call lopera-tor assisted) "Rhyolite Toll Station #2." or write Stonewall Park at Rhyolite, PO Box 1220, Rhyolite, NV 89003-1220.

HOT FLASHES

Dr. William Norcross of the University of California at San Diego said, about hot flashes in men, that they are not unique but occur in men with less frequency than in women and may be mistaken for the symptoms of a heart attack, according to his recent report in Western Journal of Medicine.

The symptoms are intense sweating, heart palpitations, fainting spells and flushing of the face, neck and trunk. (Sounds like my last hot scene.)

Hot flashes are linked to de- creased production of sex hormones in both sexes, but in men the condition is not biologically controlled. The largest number of men susceptible to hot flashes are those who have had a testicle removed , usually for cancer, or those who have had multiple hernia operations. This same group of men is at highest risk of heart attack.

INTERNATIONAL MS LEATHER

The San Francisco-based Mst. Enterprises, in association with Up Your Alley Productions , is presenting the First Annual International Ms Leather Contest to be held Saturday, March 21, 1987 at Club DV8 in San Francisco.

The contest was created to enhance a positive image of women in the leather lifestyle. Contestants may enter either as an individual or be sponsored and will be judged in four categories; leather image, physical appearance, attitude and personality, and stage presence.

IMsL is hosting the Ms San Francisco Leather Contest, to be held January 24, 1987 at High Chaparral in San Francisco . The winner will represent San Francisco at the Interna- tional Ms Leather contest.

Proceeds from First Annual International Ms Leather will benefit the AIDS Emergency Fund, Coming Home Hospice, AWARE, AIDS Alternative Health Project, and the Women's AIDS Network.

For information on how to host a contest in your area, write to International Ms Leather, 1519 Mission St., San Francisco, CA 94103. The use of "International Ms Leather" is with permission of, but not associated with, International Mr. Leather, Inc.

Drummer will of course be covering this important historical event for the leather community.

WM SON WANTS BLACK DADDY 40-year-old Master black daddy for full-time service. Total submissive, expand my limits. Novice in WS, bondage , C&BT and servitude. I can relo- cate and be self-supporting for the Black daddy that wants me. Prefer 50+ male. Bisexual action enjoyed or whatever the ole man wants of me. I want to serve for life. I am 5'11", 180 lbs., chunky, hairy build, 8" cut, large balls, tattooed. Write me, please, Daddy-I am eager and waiting to serve. Box 5093LF

NIPPLES BECOME ERECTILE

Shackled, tied, bound, you try to curse through a mouth stuffed with a large. soft foam ball, as torturous titclamps send twists of pain through overloaded nerve circuits. Then pleading, your cries become gasps as a toothed-parachute harness presses insistently into your encircled scrotum. Gasps become sobs as distended balls bear more and more weights. Buttocks red- den, burn, & blister as an eternity of paddling swats them into tortured firmness . Your asshole, stretched from its dildo-topped perch, now yields to one larger toy after another. Then darkness . Encapsulated in isolation from sight and sound, your nerve endings flush from sensuous strokes of leather on distended testicles, even as they recoil from drip after drip of hot wax. More than yesterday's torture, less than tomorrow's. When will it end? Will you collapse before your 41-year-old GWM Daddy gives the final rubdown with hot oil and commands, "You with hot oil and commands, "You passed, son. Cum." The tape recording of your agony will be a constant crotic myour agointy win use a constant erotic reminder, if you never serve another Master. Can pay my own travel expenses within 200-mile radius of New Orleans. Will occasionally combine pain and business trips to Virginia, Dc., Denver and west closars, with organization scene by giving you complete health checkover; you'll start—and stay—healthy, Bottoms must have dun—geon or playroom lined up at their own expense. Send age, height, weight, and b 205 pounder at Box 5034LF. Save your pictures. You'll be interviewed before Jon Corager agrees to top you.

TIRED OF THE CITY

Country "boy" wants to come back home to self-employed country man or country-based trucker who is hairy, big-dicked, bearded, naturally top, fun- lovin' Dad who needs a boy-minded young man as follower / boy / partner, not slave. You support us, I keep you happy or you whip me. Into smoke, beer. Photos answered first. Box 5043LF

LOOKING FOR LOVE in all the wrong places—spread-eagled and red-cheeked by SM aces—condom -trapped tongue inside studs who dig sitting on face-harnessed and hot-waxed for slave scenes and kinky embraces—hog-tied for the sleaze needs of raunch groups and drenched with the traces of everyone looking for love. White only. Bob, 20s, husky, uncut. Hot photo, descriptive letter to Box 5497LF

NAKED AND IMMOBILIZED

Professional in shape GWM interested in prolonged sessions of nipple and genital stimulation and ass exploration as either to or bottom. Am extremely healthy, financially secure and travel often. Most any scene considered. Box 1274, Petersburg, AK 99833. All answered . (LF5576)

DAD SKS RESPCTFL SON / LOVER Good-looking GWM, 37, 5'5", grey (bald- ing), moustache, muscular, You Responsible, hardworking, spiritual, in-shape, into leather, boots, Levis, VA WS, being dominated, etc. No drugs This dad is tired of bullshit boys. If ready to respect, serve, work hard and be loved, respond with photo, letter, phone to Box 5610LF

LOOKING FOR LEATHER PUNK Dominant Master, 38, 160, well built, looking for leather punk, 20-30, with goody body and decent looks. Appli- cant should love leather, discipline (mental and physical), bondage, shaving , torture, pubic exhibition. Send let- ter outlining sexual and lifestyle desires with pic to Box 5598LF

EGOS I DON'T NEED

35 yrs., 5'11", weighing in at 235 lbs. So you think your sexy, gorgeous, a beety, muscled hunk. You're nothing. This description fit you? Try the unbody. I'm the real thing. Big guy-Master. Photos get answers. J. Carroll, PO Box 2479, Kensington, MD 20895.

L.A. NIPPLES / LEATHER

Handsome, muscular, imaginative GWM, 37, 6', 170 lbs. Brown / blue, Moustache. Seeks other well-built uninhibited men for extended nipple sessions, and more. Let's safely and slowly explore our mutual fantasies especially body and nipple worship, leather, uniforms and S&M (particularly verbal and mental). Your mascularly verbal and mental). line good looks, moustache or beard, leather and uniforms and experience in S&M are pluses. But insatiable nipples, a good body, and red-hot sexual imagination are more important. Letter and photo: Suite 53, 712 Wilshire, Santa Monica, CA 90401. I travel extensively.

ARE YOU MY DADDY?

I've been looking everywhere, for so long for my daddy. My daddy is handsome , hairy, muscular, and he has a big dick, and his name is Sir. Though I've never met him, I know he'll want to pinch my tits and put his hand in my butt. I'm sure he'll spank me often and occasionally whip me, and he probably has a lot of other interesting ideas about how to treat his boy that I haven't even thought of. But he for sure knows how to treat his boy, with that beautiful blending of discipline and affection that'll make his boy just want to please his daddy. Boy is 37, 5'9", 140, brn / hzl, smooth and lightly muscled. If you're my daddy, I sure hope you'll call soon. I want my daddy. (415) 465-9767. (LF5607)

COCK TORTURE Looking for deprayed C / T scenes. Into piercing, mutilation fantasies, piss hole stretching, electricity. I have a cock with a PA and pierced tits that also enjoy weights and clamps. Also enjoy long fisting sessions. I'm 5'3", 150 lbs., 40, and into leather. Planning a trip to SF and want to stay and play? I have sleeping accommodations available. Mitch, PO Box 5276, San Francisco, CA 94101. (415) 861-7898. (LF5648)

POW SCENES

Leather Master / camp commandant requires military types to undergo POW scenes at prison farm. Requirement under 6, over 21, good shape, able to be interrogated at least 3 days or more. Write: LMB_PO Box 534, New Kensington , PA 15068

WANTED, HOT GUYS UNDER 25 To be tied spread eagle and tortured until you beg to stop by hot 22-year-old WM, mean and sane. From light to heavy. How tough are you? Photo, phone to Suite 4261, 303 W. 42, NY, NY 10036

ASIANS FOR FANTASY

Do you have a kinky side? Borderline fetish? Let's explore each other's fantasies . The time is now. Relationship is possible. I am 25, GWM, attractive, 6', 145 lbs. Send detailed letter / photo / phone to G.H., 495 Ellis St., Suite 204, San Erangiago CA 24402 San Francisco, CA 94102.

WESTERN NY ONTARIO 32 y.o. slim WM, looking to make friends with a man who wants to work/ play with me, mutually exploring/ expanding our world of SM, BD and leather, all in a safe & sensual context. A relationship is certainly a possibility Please write to me with your thoughts and how I can get back to you. Box

Bottom would like to be on call by demanding arrogant boot master who expects and demands total worship of boots and feet. Rituals, punishments, instructions on care of boots, socks and foot service for your pleasure and amusement. Will clean your heavy duty boots down to tread / cleat soles. Outdoor workouts greater with constant attention to your needs. Travel USA and overseas. 52, 6', 180 lbs. Box 4411LF

LET'S FIGHT!

Tough, hairy lighter wants the same. No rules. No holds or blows barred Man enough? Challenge me. (415) 885- 3218

LEXINGTON / CINCINATTI AREA 40 y.o. GWM seeking 18+ GWM, little family. Us: Vanilla / heavy asswork, many tats, piercings, big nutsac a turn-on ; heavy pain & torture, safe sex, leather, electrotorture, sharing, monogamous (group later), very hairy & desire same. Travel weekends. Pho- tos exchanged, thave little family, too. Equality important. Box 5654LF

FIT TO BE ABUSED slave seeks no-nonsense cop, master stave seeks individual seeks that who knows what they want. Should be into cigars, motorcycles and abusing a slave in any way. Master is over 6', 150 lbs. up. Will answer all, photo will get mine. Will relocate. Box 5653LF

SADIST WANTS MASOCHIST Squirm under pain and brainwashings. Send slim, topless photo, letter at once. Mr. Jones, PO Box 33336, Coon Rapids,

SAFE SEX MIND FUCKS

Be mastered through letters, personal tapes and videos. Submit to disgusting commands and sex games share in mail fantasies. Send photo and letter of submission, safe and hot. Box 5640

NEED HARD SPANKINGS

Good-looking Michigan college student wants to complete education over your knee-or in any other position. Want long hard spankings and more with good-looking top. Photo in Tough Cus- tomers issue 92. (TC1138) Box 5628.

PESKY COLT SEEKS MASC. TOP Country boy, 30, 5'9", 160, blue eyes and brown hair / moustache, looking for dominant / muscular big brother Untamed colt seeks long-term relationship with physically and mentally fit topman / coach. Into leather / uniform, and western realities. The right man could tame this boy. Moustaches a plus. Photo and phone with detailed letter will return same. Scamp, Box 5627

BAREBACK WHIPPING

Top, 45, 220 lbs., wants young bottoms who need heavy discipline. Also want to work with other tops. Torture and execution fantasies and shaved heads a turn-on. Write with photo & phone. Box 5626

WANTED: ON-CALL SLAVE Looking for GWM slave, 19-40, slim, for on-call slave. Must be able to report when called. Most limits respected. Send recent photo & limits & telephone No drinkers or drug users. Am WM 174 lbs., 6'3". I will answer all with photo & phone, just a letter takes longer. Address letter to Sire. Box 5660LF

MASTER HORSEMAN WANTED to break and train this potential man/ animal for total barnyard servitude. You must be a cowboy / rancher, sadis-rou must be a cowboyn ancher, satisfic, with appropriate boarding facilities for this unbroken stud. I am WM, 37, 34"W, 47"C, 6", 185 lbs., bearded & tattoos. Desire to be animal / slave / pet for right man. Photo & phone get 5642

LOOKING FOR ACTION and friendship. Traveling to NYC, CA and FL one time a year and travel Ohio to Nebraska, Wisconsin to Texas and Tennessee all the time. I am submissive , but can be top for right stud. 30s, 5'10", am into Fr. Gr. FF, spanking, light SM and recycled beer. Write with photo to Box 5296LF

QUIET-MASTER / DADDY

41-year-old, good-looking, easy going but firm, very health conscious, together, loving, looking for a special son / slave for mutual satisfaction. Dad is that special type who treats his partner with the respect and TLC he needs but must get back the respect and submission a dad deserves. Dad is looking for guys 21-36 who are in need of a father / master image, good friend or more. I am dominant in light S&M, being Greek active, bondage, spanking, shaving, and other fantasies depend- ing on my partner. Also enjoy touching, holding, fondling and am gentle and understanding as well. Son / slave should enjoy all that Dad likes, be a nonsmoker, non or light drinker, no drugs and nontem. I am located in New York, but taxed a drug the country. York but travel around the country. If interested, send photo and letter to Box 4711LF

ASSUME THE POSITION!

Mature hung Master wants weekend masochist sons under 40 who need a good workout and can show their stuff. No wimps, preppies, marrieds. Prefer bluecollar, military or construction types. One of the areas best-equipped slave rooms. Request application. Thom, Box 28852, St. Louis, MO 63123.

LOOKING FOR BIG BROTHER Small brother looking for big-dicked jock / sleaze brother (under 30) who is into caring, dildoes, bondage, also S&M, and your help financially. I will relocate. Am 5'4", brn., hazl, indepen- dent and want to go to college. Send phone # and photo. Bondage a plust Box 5354LF

HEY BUDDY Knowledgeable enough to give it like a man, confident enough to take it like a man. That's me: 32 yrs., 5'9", 157 lbs. man. Inat's me. 23, Vrs. 39 , 107 us., healthy, hunky, hairy, balding and moustached (at times bearded), Totally substance-free. Safe Fr. Gr. WS. FF, verbal, "motivating," Send letter: description, desires, photo, phone to

CHAINED MUSCLES

Wanted: an aggressive man who walks in boots, wears leathers, rides bikes, and sweats at manual labor; a tough man, especially when his hard-muscled body is heavily loaded with uncomfortable irons, a tender man, especially when he likewise chains his prisoner-buddy. Box 5190LF

BALL PAIN

Intense gut-wrenching ball pain. Yours, mine, ours. From heavy to heavier to…Soft moans to uncontrolled screams as our brains explode in agony. Box 5625

OBEDIENT COCKSUCKER

Would like to be your servant, Sir. I am longwinded, masculine-acting cock-sucker . Also an excellent, well- organized housekeeper and good driver. Put a collar on this GWM, 46, 6'3", 200 lbs., brn / brn, clean-shaven novice and train him as one of your animals. Light SM, VA, spankings. Northern CA, but free to travel. No WS, FF, scat, drugs or anal sex. Box 5624

MERCILESS MASTER CRAVED by unworthy white slave, 34, best but- tsucker and boot-sole worshiper in the world. Punish me eternally with pain, torture, humiliation, degradation for daring to offer my inferior being into your total control. Your commands obeyed instant i receive Your first let- ter. No limits. Repeat no limits. Box 5618

HAL LAMB Born 22 Oct. 1963. Miss you! Call me! Michael, (415) 964-1888.

HOT BULLWHIP STUD NEEDED Strip me! Rope me! Flog me! Animal, (918) 743-5219.

BOTTOM SEEKS TOP

Retired bottom searching for experienced top. Prefer L / L type, wish live-in with to who wants to own bottom. Hopefully, in time, top would love bottom. Slave has tried all scenes; heavy into assplay, all types, bondage, hoods, light discipline, W / S, safe sex. Prefer East U.S. but would consider expect if really interested. Box 5186LF

WANTED

We are looking for a boy who wants to service two daddied totally. We are mid-30s, kinky and sleazy, but in great health. You're 30+, white and ready to begin. Write a lengthy, detailed letter and describe your experience and desires, totally. Enclose phone number, a nude photo (if possible). Will answer all and arrange an interview. We're ready, are you? Box 5603LF

DADDY'S BOY, 24

5'9", 140 lbs., brn / grn, seeks big, mas- culine daddy, 35-55, into leather, S / M, all creative safe scenes. Overweight a plus. PO Box 4244, San Francisco, CA 94101

OBEDIENT SLAVE WANTED Opening for sincere, honest, devoted, breakneck fast, responsible, obedient slave. Must be willing to live with, be taken care of and obey two leathermen, together 16 yrs. We're into care, feeding , domination, discipline, Dungeon, equipment, lifestyle, orders provided. Move your ass and write, enclosing recent photo, detailed description Masters Larry (6'2", 168 lbs., bl / bl, muscular). Mike (56", 155 lbs., br / bl, mean top), P0 Box 1104, Sandy, UT 84091. (LF4088)

SHIT PHOTOS Dirty-assed turd freak wants to exchange filthy raunch shots of your shit-crusted asshole and sewer dumps, manure piles, and your hot smear, feast sessions. You will get mine in return. Real pigs and piglets get matched in action by good-looking Dad type, 48, husky build, huge turds. I like 'em young, but age no barrier. Let's get down and dirty. Box 5577

I-95 TRUCKERS and others. Get serviced by masculine white male. Richmond area. Box 5592

MIDWEST HOLES WANTED to fuck, fist, stuff, whip. ME: Leather top, 38, 150, 57", bearded, good health, looks, body & stamina. You: needing it, new or experienced, open or closeted. Forward photo, experience, specs & # Box 5413LF

PRIVATE STABLE SEEKS STOCK Slim, attractive, passionate / cruel/ affectionate, demanding Master (36, 59", 140, brown / blue, beard, thick 7" cut, fair-skinned, smooth; health- oriented, creative, high IQ, masterful lover) requires broad-spectrum services of small, permanent team of prime quality, tobacco-free livestock to create mutually beneficial city / islands lifestyle in spectacular Pacific North- west. REQUIREMENTS: Self- knowledge, openness, 200% dedication, sexual skill, intelligence, health, industriousness, teamwork. PREFERENCES: over 35 years; tall, big build; foreskin; bearded; hairy; heavy hung; muscles; earning power. Description, recent photo, SASE guarantee reply. Box 5277LF

MASTER SEEKS SON Dominant, good-looking GWM, 41, 175, 6'2", needs son craving dominance and affection. When you are good, you will be rewarded. When you are bad, disci- pline, spanking, TT, BD, shaving, Let's expand your limits and my fantasies. Write with photo to Occupant, PO Box 61, Arlington, VA 22210. (LF5270)

CIGARETTES AND WHIPSI Cigarettes and / or whip fetish? Learned young? Enjoy teaching? Need give or take bareback med. to heavy flogging and / or smoke torture? More than one cigarette at a time? T / B / C torture? A group is forming. Occupant, Box 115, 100 Valencia St., San Francisco, CA 94103. No drugs!

HOT, LEATHER TOPMAN GWM, 34 yrs., 5'11", 185 lbs., brown/ blue, moustache, hairy pecs with big, rock-hard nipples. Looking for similar hot tops / bottoms to 40. I'm a stable, well-educated, healthy, professional Interests include photography, BB, hik- ing. Enjoy mutual titwork, long, hot J / O sessions, jockstraps, toys and safe, hard workouts. Can be a hot Dad for the right man. Especially into uncuts, cow- boys, Asian men. No drugs or fems. Send a hot photo and / or phone to Box 4675LF.

BOOTS, BIKES, BLUECOLLAR WORKERS

Full-time bluecollar worker by day & occasional part-time cycle slut has fetish for high boots, black motorcycles. bluecollar men. Maybe we can practice safe sex in your garage, playroom or barn. Likes mechanically minded men, muscles from hard work, not pumping iron in a gym. No drugs, paper pushers, tennis shoes, computers rock videos, opera & high-tech preppies & clones. Slut is 35, 6'1", 220 lbs., blu / brn. Box 2702LF

CHAIN-GANG SLAVE

Master, WM, 40s, heavy build demands a slave, WM, 20s-40s, who is well-built, very affectionate, humble, obedient; ready for full-time, permanent, chained service as boot boy, body slave, field hand. Expect hard labor in heavy chain from a harsh slave owner. This position is not for the insincere. No drugs, FF, scat, damage. A photo is required with resume to Drummer Box 4855LF.

HEAVY TORTURE

Your only purpose is to scream and writhe and suffer for my entertainment. Hard, hairy bodies preferred, but smooth ones accepted and soft ones considered if you are really into being tied down and TORTURED. Electricity.

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Sandmutopia University School of Continuing Education For those who are eager to learn more OR who have a lesson to teach!

Desmodus, Inc.

PO Box 11314

San Francisco, CA 94101 Specify Small or Medium

(Sorry, L and XL temporarily on backorder) $10.00+$1.50 S&H. Make all checks payable to Desmodus, Inc. California residents add 61 / 2% sales tax

00

hot wax, needles, piercing flesh, whips, truncheons, fists probable. Urethral probes, cigar burns, hot irons, razor blades / knives, possible. No permanent damage, no permanent marks (unless you want them), but lots of "contusions & abrasions." Interested? Tell my why. Travel often & widely. Gene Hall, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101.

MORTHERN CALIFORNIA

RUSSIAN RIVER

Daddy seeks son for permanent rela- tionship. Son must be very much together, aged 30 to 45, like home life. Preferences may be discussed. Daddy is a writer, has been into S / M scene for years. Send picture and we can talk. Box 5461

TOP UNCUT BLACKS, LATINS wanted, who are macho, not fat and are into heavy raunch: sweat, headcheese, scat. plss. Sacramento and San Francisco areas. By WM bottom, 45, 61", 150 lbs. Box 5438

WANTED: YOUNG LEATHER STUD 19-35 years old, who wants to share leather sex with 36-year-old Daddy. Must be turned on by smell, feel and look of black leather or police uniforms. Need safe sex with right boy. Call me at home and ask for Rick at 445, 963, 7384 (415) 863-7384.

DADDY SLAVE WANTED

29 yr. old, good-looking, good body, needs a daddy to abuse VA CP TT and more. Daddy must worship his boy, pits & feet need special attention. Safe sane only write with phone #. Box 4973.

SF LEATHER DATE

6'2". 31 yrs… discriminating, English (SF resident) leatherman wants to meet similar, tun-loving locals and visitors. Box 5251 into rough sex of all kinds with other muscular men. Sweaty workouts, heavy 880, wrestling matches, ropes and chains, it torture, was Muscle vs. nussele. Write with photo to P0 Box 162518, Sacramento, CA 95816, (15522). (LF5222)

ROMANTIC TOPMAN

Ouiet, spiritual, I seek a solid, working relationship. Can become versatile for the right man. WM, 511", 190 lbs., well-built, 43, moustache, bald on top, Into classical music, angient Fount, sci-fi classical music, ancient Egypt, sci-fi and horror films. No S&M, drugs, FFA; just love. PO Box 5233, San Francisco, CA 94101. You: taller, trim, 30+.

HOT LEATHER BOTTOM GBM, 31, 6, 170 lbs, hairy, defined body, moustache, hung, uncut, looking for older GWM Mast lept Mith imagination for bondage scenes, life with imagination for bondage scenes, 18, 18, 18, 18, 18, 18, 18

SEEKING ASS MASTERS, TOPS, HUNG STUDS

Hot S.F. asshole needs good-looking fuckmasters, topmen, well-hung studs into total, safe, extended assplay trips. Tie me down, paddle my buns red hot, fuck me with rubbers, stretch my hole hungry with dildoes, FF, CBT, TT, VA. Make me your asshole slave in a prolonged action fantasy. I'm 35, GWM, 5'10". 165 lbs., dark hair / beard, BB, hairy, tan line, exceptional ass, capable of hard fucks. Preference to Mas-ble of hard fucks. Preterence to mus- ters with dungeon play room where space / time cease and only high ass fucking lantasies exist. Latinos. 3- ways or more. facial hair. Letter with photo (a must). Qualifications / photo

KINK

Kink is the name of the game. If interested, write. Letters containing photos will be answered first. Box 5307

GWM, 45

6'4", slim, novice slave, looking for eventual full-time Master who rewards subservience and obedience with much love and affection. You are also slim, 25-55, any race. In time, anything goes that's safe. Hike collars, chains, menial labor, symbols of submission and more I'm very Greek passive. Box 5308LF

UNIFORM POLICE OFFICER WANTED

WM, 34, 5'9", 165, moustached, in very good health and shape. Looking for motorcycle and mounted officer in his tall boots-Dehners-breeches. leather or uniform. Full gun leather, black leather, gloved hands and cap or helmet. I'm into the taste, smell, feel, sound and the look of black leather Bondage, motorcycles, camping, JO and safe sex a must. Sir, I'll take care of all your needs and in return all I ask for is to be your leather bondage prisoner. C. West, 2529 Post, San Francisco, CA 94115. Can travel. (LF5292)

HOT BONDAGE BOTTOM needs booted / gloved / leathered/ uniformed top interested in training a boot licking, cock sucking asshole, need to meet up with cops, bikers, leathermen and daddies with attitude! A mean streak and a kinky knowledge of heavy BD, heavy VA, moderate SM, hoods, gags, gas masks, enemas, boots and toys. This horny, hairy WM, 29, 6', 160, brown hair, beard & mous-tache needs cigar-smoking cops and leathermen to show me my place and keep me there. Will correspond. Photo for photo. Box 3711LF

FOR YOUR SM TOYS-SHOP SANDMUTOPIA SUPPLY CO.

HEY, TALL GUYS!

Does a short guy turn you on in a way no other man can? Do you yearn to subdue him to your will, and get more turned on when he resists? Me: thirties, handsome, bearded, 5'5". You: about 30-42, sexy good looks, fit, nonsmoker, drugfree, seeking monogamous rela- tionship. Photo required. Box 4952LF.

DRUMMER DADDY

WM, 40s, 61", 160 lbs., bearded seeks that special man who needs to be stripped and chained up by a Leathermaster in his dungeon. You should be lean, muscular bottom, any age whether a boy (with body under development) or whether a noy (with nooty under dever- opment) or a mature man (who has kept in shape). It you are man enough to take rough treatment like B / D, TI, C / BT and whipping, then you earn my respect and possible affection. Bo health reasons you will not be required to eat ass or take my load, but every- thing else goes. Will discuss your limits and a program to expand them. Appli- cation with nude photo given prefer- ence. Box 4988LF

MAN WITH EXPERIENCE is 35, 59", 160 lbs., muscular, hairy, moustached, tattooed, pierced, with a thick, stiff 7% inches. Looking for a boy who is a boy by virture of his menktal attitude, not necessarily just his age. My interests include: BD, VA, TT, GA, FP, FFA, boots, ass-heating FFA, boots, ass-beating, cigars, FF. FFA, boots, ass-beating, cigals, bondage, leather. Father / son scenes a specialty. You need not share all the above interests. Safety-conscious but not hysterical. Offer a firm, experienced, yet affectionate hand to res

BODY BUILDER SON WANTED

Muscular daddy seeks son for training and service. Long-term one-to-one relationship is desired. Son will pursue body-building career along with dad and under his direction. Should have strong desire to train and the body type necessary to excel. Disciplined workouts , body worship, leather sex; all part of the package Ideal chance to build a masculine relationship and mould a body. Photo. Box 4944LF

MASSIVE MUSCLES

Don't go to the gym, use my body for a workout! Get off on pumping up in front of the mirror using my nipples for dumbbells, my balls for cable pulls and punching bag, my face for squats and lunges! The only thing that interests you is watching yourself work out on my hapless body. The fact that I am handsome but out of shape and no on a comparison to you drives you to beat the shit out of me, pose before me, make me worship you. I disgust you as you overcome me with sheer strength until you verbally humiliate me. The sight of your own yein-studded body sends you into uncontrolled tit ripping sends you into uncontrolled it ripping, nut crushing, face slapping action until you can't do another rep. Now its time to relive all that swollen glory. Go for the burn! Sick-minded muscle jocks write, with photo. SF Bay

MASTERS FIND THEIR SLAVES IN DEAR SIR

TOUGH LITTLE BLOND executive in rural town, 56°, 135 lbs., 30 yrs., copper beard, furry, 8° clipped, oversexed, seeks to submit to bossman to horse around with for a night or a lifetime. Discipling honders both of lifetime. Discipline, bondage, both at home and in the Sierras. Humiliation, body shaving, ass beating, piss, tit- torture, all available to MASTER who needs to dominate a together stud and turn him into his butch son / slave dog. If you rope me you can hump me; if you cage me you can keep me. Age, looks, cock size unimportant, however head-space is. (Hairy preferred, but…) Hot- drity phone calls can be arranged. Mark PO Box 992, Clovis, CA 93613, (209) 435-3378. Do get to the coast often Box 5439LF

FUCK BUDDIES?

Have lover, need sleazy / safe triends for rough / careful fun, I'm 61", 33, 180, 8½", GWM, Into A / P F, FFA, WS, spanking , belts and creative ways to enjoy same and stay healthy. Write with photo, get same. Box 5400LF

S.F. CROTCH CLEANER

Seeks position under dirty talkin- facesitters, 40 yrs -plus Working con- ditions requested—ripe farthr ass- holes, cheesy, pissin cocks. Suds and imseat furnished. Serious only. No jack-off calls. Pigmouth (415) 776-2844.

SMALL MASTER WANTED WM slave, 56°, 150, seeks slim/ muscular little guy into domination, verbal abuse, discipline, humiliation, lather into hody worship, armoits leather. Into body worship, amplits, bondage, wrestling, J / O, Blacks, Asians and muscles a plus. PO Box 6655, San Francisco, CA 94101.

NIPPLE WORK

Lean, smooth, defined GWM looking for satisfying mutual chest work with trim. in-shape, imaginative men. Safe sex only. PO Box 14257, Station G, San Francisco, CA 94114.

ARE YOU A BONDAGE MASTER? Sir, GWM, 39, 59", 155 lbs., would like to meet a bondage Master who is look- ing for a mature Master-slave relationship . All types of bondage OK, age or race no obstacle. Please reply to, Box- holder, 584 Castro, #634, San Francisco, CA 94114.

HORNY DUO ys. 32, 58", 140 lbs., br / bl, and 138 lbs., br / bl, one smooth, one Two guys 29, 5'7", 13 hairy, both well-built, seek partners for hot, long sessions of cocksucking, ass rimming, tucking, Seeking healthy, masculine guys, 25-40, trim bodies for elegan esserions. Hunn, miscles a plus sleaze sessions. Hung, muscles a plus. Photo / phone to PO Box 5921, San Francisco, CA 94101-5921

FULL SERVICE

Toilet to relieve dirty shithole and horse-hung pisser of handsome, well-defined muscular black by clean-cut athletic white boy. (415) 535-0867

MARINE-TYPE

Muscular, hairless, uncomplicated guys who want a tall, together fuck- buddy, write: Dane, PO Box 3291, San Francisco, CA 94119.

VERSATILE MUTUALIST

34, seeks experience in safe, no-fluid exchange action. Open to new ideas. No exchange action, open to new loads, no bondage or heavy pain. Tell me your experiences in CB / T, TT, WS, enemas, diddees, scat, FF, caths, Interchain 931. Correspondence from anywhere welcome. Suite 255, 2261 Market St., Sa Francisco, CA 94114.

Chubby chaser into total body worshir onque baltis, massage, expert cock sugker. This 280-lbs. big-bellied, unct Toman lives in N. California but get around and might be visiting you are coon. Send photo and interests to 1 94101.

HAIRY BUTT NEEDED

Marin County man 6'2", 195, 44, dr free butt slammer with deep thrc seeks hot guy with hungry hairy bt C.R., Box 816, Larkspur, CA 94939.

TATTOED WHIPMASTER

WM, 53, good body, good-looki masculine, seeks slave, any age, un 5'9" Don, (415) 552-0744.

JOCKEY SHORTS

Into exploring sensual SNW with str willed, masculine, built, 36-50, enjoys showing skills with 39 5'10', husky, 160-lbs, novice, TT, ripped briefs, Attached, but w another discreet world, safe sex. Write: Suite 800, 808 P Francisco, CA 94109.

SEEKING S.F. LEATHER DA Good-looking, bearded GWM, 32, ing to S.F. in January, seeks I dominant man to show me around burly, well-hung type preferred, with photo to: PO Box 13186, At GA 30324-0186.

SEEK TICKLISH HUNKS For wild, tickling sessions. Yo immobilized and struggling v stroke your ticklish feet and ribs have your cock serviced by my mouth. I'm 29, tall, hairy, attr Send letter, picture to PO Box 91 Jose, CA 95157.

REALLY INTO LEATHE If LEATHER really turns you on own LEATHER pants, jacket ar keep reading. If you like to nated, worship your masters and boots and enjoy j / o, keep If you are looking to find a rexplore your LEATHER slave with, keep reading, I am GWN 220 lbs., good-looking, stabl- sional and sane master who into LEATHER. Turned on by smell, touch, taste and LEATHER. Also into very t NOT into drugs of any kind, anal sex, losers, heavy S&M ship is possible. Now reply and photo to: Jim, 1850 Uni San Francisco, CA 94123. [I

(I) (I) (I) (I)

HEARTBREAKER AND BALLBUSTER

It's obvious why Clint East-wood's Heartbreak Ridge was too butch for the Marine Corps. It puts down the "new Marines" at every turn as pussies and nerds, showing we couldn't even have won a little battle like Grenada without grizzled old vets like Eastwood ("I eat concertina wire and piss napalm") leading the way.

Before going into combat he was to train a backup group, the usual assortment of misfits and social rejects, including Mario Van Peebles ("What's white and 12 inches long? Nothing."), "the earl of funk, the duke of cool, the ayatollah of rock and roll-ah." There's only one guy who might be queer and he gets kissed by a girl and likes it before getting his ass shot off. Clint makes his preference clear in several variations of the line, "I'm not here to take long showers with you as-sholes ," but in the opening scene he's telling dirty stories to a young guy in a jail cell as if to warm him up for some action .

A silly running gag is an excuse to make the men exercise without their T-shirts. That leaves them in khaki shorts that are cute but don't show as much basket as the red shorts a rival platoon wears. When they all work up a sweat, it's the next best thing to a wet jockstrap contest. Where do I enlist?

The closest the script comes to a "Go ahead-make my day" is Clint's motto: "Improvise , overcome, adapt." If he's had to do any of that as director of Heartbreak Ridge, the polished results don't show it.

MISSION INACTION

The Mission is enough to piss off the pope. That's the good news.

While the Catholic church is the villain of this Eighteenth Century piece, the heroes are Jesuits, predecessors of those who would one day expel Rev. John McNeil for his work on behalf of his fellow gays.

But we just review movies, don't we? As such The Mission is a mixed bag, exemplified by its lead actors: Jeremy Irons gives one of his best performances , Robert De Niro, one of his worst.

Irons takes command of San Carlos, the mission at the top of scenic Iguaza Falls, and wins another convert in De Niro, a Spaniard who killed his brother (Aidan Quinn of An Early Frost). De Niro moves into the mission, where an Indian boy (Bercelio Moya) of 12 or so adopts him as a daddy.

The Guarani are a lovely bunch of near-naked savages converted and given sanctuary by the Jesuits. They play the general-audience movie game of "Hide the Salami from the Camera" all too well.

At this point Europeans are taking over South America. The Portuguese claim the Guarani land, including the mission site, and the church gives it to them. That leaves the Jesuits to stand and fall with the Indians in the final battle. Except for an interesting shot of men lying on their backs with their legs up to fireburning spears (symbolism?) and the fact that the Indians are the good guys, the climax is right out of an old western movie and a big comedown for a film that started with the imaginative scene of a priest going over the falls lashed to a cross.

YO, ADRIAN!

Our new star of the month is Adrian Pasdar, an ex-jock from Philadelphia turned actor. The 21-year-old hunk made his debute in Top Gun, appears in two films reviewed below and has completed a fourth, Made in USA. Not bad for a year's work, especially his first year in the business.

In Solarbabies, Pasdar plays Darstar, a kind of Indian who would rather be alone with his hawk than play skateball (rumble hockey) with the other kids in a futuristic, state-run orphanage.

Gasoline was the elixir of life in The Road Runner; here it's water. Otherwise you'll notice a lot of similarity, especially in the costuming. As the good kids, the Solarbabies break out and flee across the desert-on rollerskates! They encounter various remnants of civilization wearing remnants of clothing . Darstar's people wear scraps of cloth while the inhabitants of Tiretown wear scraps of leather.

The E-Police—"E" must stand for Evil-are a crypto-fascist organization commanded by vinyl-uniformed Richard Jordan, who uses a torture device which creates the illusion of one's deepest fears coming true. Not much potential as a sextoy, from the demonstration here.

Many of Solarbabies' themes and images are borrowed from other movies and seem mired in the '70s. It would have been lousy then, too.

DADDY ROCKY

Along with Rocky X or XII, Stallone will either have to turn to coaching or start a geriatric league, Klaus Maria Bran-dauer accepts his fate from the start in Streets of Gold, which is not likely to become a series.

As Paul Newman took a "paternal" interest in Tom Cruise's pool career in The Color of Money (written by Streets' coscripter Richard Price), Brandauer plays papa to two young boxers, Adrian Pasdar and Wesley Snipes, equipping them to face a team from his native Russia. He holds a grudge because his religion kept him off the Olympic team back home. Like the Nazis they once helped defeat , the Russkies don't like Jews or queers.

Ain't no queers in Streets of Gold though-it's set in Brooklyn, not Brooklyn Heights. And the Russian emi-gre community wants it known they're "not Soviets" -they're Americans now. What a country!

As you know from Burgess Meredith in Rocky and Ian Holm in Chariots of Fire, the trainer has the best acting role. With Brandauer in the lead, the balance of Streets of Gold shifts so the Rocky formula it tries to apply doesn't work. By the final fight our sympathy hasn't been engaged strongly enough, the suspense hasn't been built well enough for us to really care about the outcome .

Streets of Gold disappoints in other areas too. There are no good locker room scenes very little skin-they even box with shirts on. There's just one brief, sexy workout where the young boxers do pushup face-to-face - horizontally not vertically.

Brandauer has his boys or strict training rules: "…ne parties, no women." Thi means Pasdar has to ignore hi girlfriend, but Snipes neve expresses an interest in se anyway.

Steve Warre

IF YOU ARE ENJOYING THE CONTENTS OF DRUMMER, YOU WILL ALSO ENJOY THE BOOKS WHICH ARE WRITTEN BY LARRY TOWNSEND. THESE ARE OFFERED, ALONG WITH A WIDE VARIETY OF OTHER LEATHER ORIENTED PUBLICATIONS, TOYS & GEAR, THROUGH THE AUTHOR'S SPECIALIZED MAIL ORDER SERVICE.

If you are not already on the Larry Townsend mailing list, and wish to receive periodic notification of the available products, send your name and address, a statement that you are over 21 years of age, plus $2.00 (applicable to your first order) to:

Larry Townsend P.O. Box 302 Beverly Hills, CA 90213-0302

SANDMUTOPIA OPENING

One of the most unique stores in the country has opened in San Francisco with an offering of books, magazines, tapes, toys, novelties, videos and personal care items for the map who thinks he has seen it all. The long-awaited retail shop, Sandmu-topia Supply Company, had its official opening on November Sandmutopia Supply Co., the retail / mail-order branch of

Desmodus, Inc., has for years offered the unusual, unique and 26, 1986. hard-to-find items for advanced SM playrooms.

The entire catalog of items carried by Sandmutopia Supply Co. are on display and available at 15 Harriet Street in San Francisco. You will definitely find items not found in any other store in this country. Real tough shit!

A TRUE JAILBIRD

An escaped parrot took up residence in a rather odd place recently, San Quentin Prison. The mouthy jailbird, which squawked day and night, decided to inhabit a tier that was at the time under "lock down" and kept repeating only one phrase to its unamused captive audience…" (can talk; can you fly?" Guards and humane officials had to chase the feathered mocker among the rafters, but managed to net it. The parrot was the envy of hundreds of inmates when officials forcefully evicted him from the prison.

TOUR OF PLAYROOMS

Early in 1987, SigMa will present a "Tour of Playrooms," Work has begun on videotaping "workshops" ranging from the Angel corner" to the "dedicated dungeon." Several other

HE-MAN MASTER

Dolph Lundgren, best known as Drago in Rocky IV relationship with actress Grace Jones, will star in the ro cartoon character He-Man in the upcoming movie M Lundgren is excited about the role as He-Man, but the Universe. not as excited as his fans will be when they see him d skimpy leather, ready to do battle.

FAMILY SHOPPING?

A popular maxim is that "New York City heverything." Here's proof. The S&M Varie Street.

REAL ATTENTION GETTER

Sister Thomas Awuinas was an American n intil she decided on a sex-change operation

UNFRIENDLY PERSUASION

An American newsman, kidnaped by mercenary soldiers, is tortured for refusing to answer his captor's questions. Yes, it could be right out of this morning's headlines, or it could have been left over from your last nightmare!

The pain, however, is quite real. The groans and screams echo through your mind as the punishment is dealt out. Ropes cut into tender flesh as wrists are bound and limbs stretched for maximum restraint. The tormentors are unrelenting and thorough. No punishment is too harsh, no degradation too severe to accomplish their task.

The captive seldom sees his questioners, but he feels their touch, cruel and painful. And the questions , always the questions, unending. Can he keep from telling them what they want? Does he even know the answers? Will he survive if the truth is finally told and believed?

Unfriendly Persuasion, a video from Tape Odyssey , is fantasy but contains one of the heaviest torture sequences ever filmed for public consumption. The pain is definitely real, as are the men. Not for the squeamish.

Almost instantly, the reveling troops set upon him like rabid dogs. Buried and suffocating under a dozen ravaging men, Joe Buck's brain reeled. Then, just as suddenly, his attackers were being pulled off of him at the order of the ranking officer whom they called Mongo. The temporary relief Joe Buck felt, realizing he was not going to be harmed, quickly gave way to the fear that he was being saved for the personal pleasure of the infamous Von Sado. Tightly bound, his uniform in shreds, he was led through the jungle at a forced march. Soon the undergrowth parted, revealing a gleaming steel and crystal fortress clinging to the cliffs of a towering escarpment.

The tales of Von Sado's island citadel fell far short of its reality. The genius of its architecture defied the logic of its possibility. Inside the escarpment, monumental caverns of phosphorescent stalactites and stalagmites supported various levels of the city. Small personal flying machines traversed the inner megatropolis in organized air corridors. In the Ultimate Security Block, Joe Buck was positioned in a one-person transport tube, and in seconds was hyper-elevated hundreds of stories, through the ceiling of the caverns and up through a thick layer of onyx. Joe Buck found himself in the center of a vast black hall facing an enormous raised dais.

Assembled in shadows behind great onyx pillars, hundreds of Von Sado Army's elite surrounded Joe Buck in a fifty-pace diameter. Then slowly, through steam and smoke, on the dais arose a massive black throne occupied by the most awesome looking man Joe Buck had ever seen…the infamous Baron Heinrich Von Sado. As the huge throne silently locked into vertical position and rotated slowly to face Joe Buck, Von Sado rose majestically and approached his captive. Still tightly bound, Joe Buck instinctively snapped to an Academy brace, staring straight ahead as Von Sado loomed nearer. Not since his first meeting with Grey had Joe Buck actually felt energy radiate from another man.

TOUGH CUSTOMER

Each month we select the hottest candid photos for Tough Customers. If you wish to be included, send your black and white photos (color photos are acceptable but do not reproduce well) to the address below. On the back of the photo, state that you are of legal age, print your name and address so we can assign you a confidential TC Box number, and sign your name. (Photos are not returnable .)

To answer a TC ad, put correspondence in an envelope, seal, apply postage and write (in pencil) the TC Box number on the back flap; put this inside another envelope and mail, along with a quarter for handling, to Tough Customers , PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.

IN PASSING

SANDMUTOPIA SUPPLY CO.

This unique instrument uses a 9-volt battery to generate stimulating electrical impulses. Manufactured in the Orient for passive muscle exercise, it has even more interesting applications on other parts of the anatomy. One of the two controls regulates the intensity of the pulse from a gentle tickle to a jolt that will make him sit up and take notice, the other regulates the frequency of the pulse-a feature lacking on similar but much more expensive and much less portable "antique" relaxicisors.

Use the WalkMaster with a friend or by yourself. Use it in the playroom, the bedroom , or wherever you wish. You can even get wired up, slip it in a pocket and go off for a walk, to a bar, to the opera, or wherever!

Specialized accesories that can make your WalkMaster, or any other Electrotor-ture / Electropleasure device more versatile include CopperMesh Wrap, the LaFarge Electrifiable Cockrings, and the Electrifiable Butt Plug. The CopperMesh Wrap is a 5' long strip of copper mesh stockinette. It is perfect for wrapping around a leg, the waist, or wherever you wish. The LaFarge Cockrings are a set of five steel rings ranging from 1" to 2" in internal diameter. Each ring has a permanently attached insulated lead ready to accept an alligator clip. Use one in the usual position and another just behind the cockhead—or use your imagination. The Butt Plug is assembled from copper fittings , then chrome plated. A small loop at the base allows for the attachment of an alligator clamp. With the Butt Plug as one electrode and a LaFarge Cockring as the other, you get an electrical prostate massage ! Talk about Electropleasure!!!

SANDMUTOPIA SUPPLY CO.

A unique offering of Books, Magazines, Tapes, Toys, Novelties, Videos and personal care items.

SANDMUTOPIA SUPPLY CO., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314

Credit card holders may order by phone: (415) 864-3456. (For orders outside the U.S. contact us for details.)