At precisely 8 o’clock, I took a deep breath and rang Mr. Benjamin’s door buzzer. I’d been waiting there in the foyer of his brownstone for ten minutes because I didn’t want to risk being late — or a moment too soon, either.
The door buzzed in response. I pulled it open and walked inside, my heart pounding. A year ago, I had no idea who he was, had never heard the name. But a year ago I barely knew who I was, or what I needed. I’d come a long way since then, racked up a lot of experiences with some very talented topmen, and a few with other bottoms, too. I’d thrown myself into the s/m scene several years earlier, in my mid-20s, with the eagerness of the newly converted, and the more I tried, the more I wanted.
The feelings that flooded through me at the beginning of a scene, those first moments when I knelt in submission, or offered my wrists to be cuffed, were so exhilarating, so fulfilling, that they were almost enough to make up for the typical let-down at the end, after I’d been tormented, fucked, and allowed to come, then released from bondage. That’s when the men I’d worshipped and served turned into buddies — anxious to be reassured that I’d had a good time, and was I going to the party so-and-so was throwing next week?
I forced myself to smile and chat like a regular guy, when inside I wanted to scream with frustration. Is this all there is? I wondered. Just a complicated way to get off? Didn’t it mean anything that I’d crawled on the floor and licked their boots and drunk their piss? Was it all just an act we did for each other, this whole apparatus of dominance and submission?
From the first, I’d never felt like I was acting. I felt more real, more me when I was naked and chained, with my tongue on a man’s boot and my ass burning from his belt, than I ever felt in the office where I worked or the apartment where I ate and slept. Which was the act and which was real?
Finally I started to ask people who seemed to know what they were doing, who’d been around the scene a lot longer than me: Is there anything beyond playacting? Is it possible to submit for real, not just a scene? Or is that only another fantasy?
“Well, if you’re serious about this, you should see Mr. Benjamin,” I was told again and again. “He can help you, if anyone can.”
Was I serious? Of course I was, I insisted — to myself as much as anyone else. It wasn’t a game to me anymore. Been there, done that. I was less and less interested in a weekend’s sport. I wanted to put my life on the line in a way that would matter. I wanted to become a real slaveboy, not just a Stand&Model Chelsea boy.
Eventually I met a man who knew a man who could get in touch with a man who knew Mr. Benjamin well enough to pass on the message that I was interested in training with him. He responded eventually by e-mail, and we corresponded for a couple of weeks — mainly, I answered his questions, including filling out a very detailed questionnaire that covered everything from my financial status to how often I jerked off, and what I thought about while doing it! Whatever questions I asked him he deflected, saying only that there would be time enough to explain things after we met in person. He did make it clear that despite all the information I’d provided, he wouldn’t decide whether to take me on until he saw how I responded in our first session.
It’s almost laughable, I thought as I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. A man so hard to reach, you’d expect him to live in Trump Tower or some mansion, not this slightly rundown apartment building in Manhattan’s West 80s. When I arrived at his door I took a few moments to pull myself back into a more respectful, receptive mood. Before I could press the bell, however, the door was pulled open.
I’d been warned what to expect, but the man who looked coolly up at me, as if reconsidering whether I was worth his time after all, was unimpressive by the usual standards of the gay world. I towered over him, and if he had a physique sculpted by Nautilus, the three-piece suit he wore hid it well. Not even boots, for chrissake, just well-polished black dress shoes.
His thinning hair was trimmed very short, and his clean-shaven features were of the pleasant but undistinctive kind you can’t remember five minutes after the person leaves the room. So this was the elusive Mr. Benjamin? If he’d been a blind date, I’d have turned around and left immediately, muttering lame apologies. But this isn’t about sex, I told myself firmly. If he can teach me what I need, it doesn’t matter what he looks like.
“You must be Jeffrey,” he said with the bare trace of a smile. His voice was firm, quietly commanding.
“Sir, yes, Sir,” I answered crisply, louder than I’d intended.
“Come in, then.” He waved me past him into the hallway, shutting the door behind us. “Take off all of your clothes here, and place them neatly in this closet.” He opened its door to show me. “You’ll always undress here when you visit me. You may not wear clothes anywhere else in my home. Understood?”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” I said with alacrity. Now this was more like it!
“Drop that military affectation, boy. A simple, ‘Yes, Sir,’ will do, if a response is necessary.” I was about to answer when his raised eyebrow forstalled me. “And don’t apologize, either,” he said, “unless I demand one. Just listen, remember . . . and learn. When you’re stripped, go down the hallway and through the first open door on the right. Wait for me there. Do not go anywhere else. And don’t dawdle.” With that last injunction, he walked away down the hallway — and at the end turned left.
How quickly he’d taken control of me! I shrugged out of my leather jacket and hung it up. I deliberately hadn’t worn anything too flashy, just enough leather to make a good impression. All wasted on Mr. Benjamin, apparently. I took off my chaps, then sat on the floor to unlace my black lineman’s boots, then pulled them off, followed by my jeans. Would he make me wear suits, too?
I hadn’t worn briefs, of course, so the last thing I had to remove was my tight gray T-shirt, the one with the neat little “In training” logo on it. I wondered if Mr. Benjamin had even noticed it — probably better if he hadn’t!
Taking a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, I padded down the parquet-floored hallway in my bare feet. The hallway was bare, too, with no pictures or bric-a-brac, and the large room through the open door on the right certainly wasn’t a typical home “dungeon” or “playroom.” Only a few items suggested that it was used for anything less innocent than a quiet evening of leisure reading.
Most of the parquet floor was covered by a beautiful oriental rug, in deep reds and golds, thickly padded — my feet sank into it as I walked toward the overstuffed armchair covered in dark-brown leather. A low table stood next to it and a reading lamp behind it. The only other furniture was a matching ottoman, a tall brass-bound Chinese apothecary’s chest against the wall, and a torchière floor lamp that filled the room with light reflected off the ceiling. The one window was completely covered by dark curtains, the far wall by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. If there was a closet, it was behind them. The wall with the door, however, held a number of strategically placed rings, chains dangling from them, and a steel-barred “puppy” cage hulked brutally on the elegant carpet.
He hadn’t told me where to wait, or how, so I stood there, naked, and pondered the matter. Was this a test? He knew I’d read all the usual stuff and had some experience. Wouldn’t he expect me to know enough to kneel?
I was just arranging myself on my knees, facing his chair from a yard away, when he came into the room.
“On your feet, boy. You don’t know how to kneel yet.”
I leaped up, my cheeks reddening in embarrassment. I cast my eyes down as he came toward me. Nothing was said as he slowly circled my naked body. He was behind me when I felt something thin and hard tap my inner left thigh. It tapped again, on the other side.
“Take a wider stance,” he ordered. “Feel where your shoulders are and where your knees are. Whenever you stand for inspection, or wait in readiness, there should be a straight line from each shoulder through the corresponding knee and down to the floor.” I shifted my legs outward in compliance, and my cock started to get hard.
“Now put your hands behind you — no, don’t clasp them, just cross them at the wrist. . . . Higher. Higher. Yes, hold them right there, above your waist. Always leave your ass clear and unobstructed. . . . Yes, good. Now bend forward at the waist.”
I heard the unmistakable rustle behind me of a rubber glove being pulled on, and then my asscheeks were pulled apart and a finger was inserted in my hole, unlubricated. I relaxed as well as I could to permit the invasion. He fingered my prostate, and I sprang a boner.
“You’re used to being fucked, I see. Good control, though it’s always possible to do better. A well-trained slave has complete control over his anal sphincters and can relax them completely or tighten them like a vise as required. Straighten up.”
He came around in front of me again, and I saw that he carried a pointing stick, rather like an elongated conductor’s baton. It was slim and looked smooth, but I figured it could give quite a sting if he chose to hit me with it.
“The way you’re standing now is the ‘Ready’ position for a slave,” Mr. Benjamin explained, pulling the used rubber glove inside out and off his hand as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He stepped over to the table and dropped it, then turned back to me and continued in the same calm, even tone. “The same position but on your knees is called ‘Presenting.’ Normally you Present first when you enter a room, and you take the Ready position after you’ve been acknowledged, unless some immediate service is required.”
My cock was still hard, and he couldn’t help but notice it.
“Well, well,” he said, lightly tapping it with his stick. “So the boy likes being inspected and probed. Is that true, Jeffrey?”
“Yes, Sir.” It was true. I was pleased with my body and happy to show it off. And I liked being handled like a piece of property. That’s why I was there!
“You realize, don’t you, that not all Masters will appreciate this? Some will require you to suppress your erections, or They’ll do it for you. If you always respond like this to being dominated, you’ll need to look for a Master who likes that in a slave. . . . But we’re getting far ahead of ourselves, boy. You’re no slave yet. You’re just a boy who thinks he wants to be a slave. And you came to Mr. Benjamin to find out for sure, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. . . . Please, Sir — train me, Sir?”
“We’ll see. Now pay attention.” He tapped my balls with his springy stick, not hard enough to hurt — much. “The reason to keep your legs apart is to expose your balls and asshole. When you’re a slave, they won’t belong to you anymore, and you’ll have no right to protect them or withhold them. Remember that you’re supposed to be vulnerable and exposed. In time, you’ll feel strange and uncomfortable when you’re not naked and spread, when you have to wear clothes, for instance, or sit normally in a chair instead of standing or kneeling with your legs apart.
“Take this as an example,” he said, sharply tapping my chest, my nipples, my abs. “There’s a reason for everything I’ll teach you, and it all comes down to helping you stop thinking like a free man and start thinking like a piece of intelligent property. Some of the reasons will seem obvious, and some will be obscure. Don’t worry about them. You don’t need to understand all the reasons behind what I tell you. All you have to do is accept and obey. It’s not about acting like a slave; it’s about being a slave. The two are totally different. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“No!” he said, and underscored it with a slash of his pointer across my chest. It raised a welt immediately. I winced and glanced up at him but managed to suppress anything more than a small hiss between clenched teeth.
“I am not your Master,” he said in a tight voice, as if I’d touched a sore point underneath the armor of his formality. “I’m not anybody’s Master. I am simply a trainer of slaves. I take eager, clumsy, unformed boys like you and turn them into first-class pieces of property that any Master would be proud to own. . . . Eyes down, boy. Focus on the floor between my feet. Whenever you have no need to look up, keep your eyes on the floor. If you’re standing or kneeling in front of a superior, you may look at His feet but no higher — unless ordered otherwise, of course. Your place is at the bottom, the base of the heirarchy, and that’s where your eyes should always return.”
He came close to me then and reached up to my neck, kneading each side of it with his hand. Despite his self-deprecation, the confident, assured touch thrilled me, and my cock waved in the air.
“Relax these muscles, boy. A stiff neck is a sign of pride and self-regard. You don’t need to do anything; just stop tightening them. Let your head fall forward a little — it won’t break off. Just let it go, let yourself be relaxed and vulnerable. This is all about dropping your guard, learning how to be defenseless and unresistant.”
His hand moved over my shoulder and down my left arm, then the right. “You’re too tense here as well, boy. You won’t be able to hold your arms in that position for long if you lock them up like that. Let the weight of your arms flow down to your wrists and then into your back. It really needs very little energy to keep them there, if you don’t try too hard.” I felt the tension in my arm muscles ease as his fingers traced lightly along them.
“Now it’s time for you to kneel, Jeffrey,” he said from behind me, putting his hands back on my shoulders. “I’ll guide you. Keep your back straight and bend your knees. . . . Slowly, let yourself sink down. Don’t move your arms or your head; nothing above your waist needs to move. . . . That’s right, good. . . . Now extend your right leg back and lower that knee to the floor. Always begin each change of position from your right side, unless there’s some reason to do otherwise.”
Normally, I’d have bent my torso forward and my ass back as I went down, but Mr. Benjamin’s hands prevented that. Feeling awkward as hell, I kept my back straight and concentrated on not toppling. It felt as if my center of gravity was a foot in front of me, but I reached the floor without major mishap.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll get better with practice. It only felt strange because you’re used to doing it differently. Now feel where your shoulders and knees are and line them up.” I edged my knees a little further apart, feeling my balls hanging loose between them.
“Unless you’re given permission to sit back on your heels, or told to take some other position, always kneel up like this, with your back and thighs straight. Remember to bow your head about 30 degrees and keep your eyes down. That’s right. Good boy. Now stand up again, starting on the right.”
I almost fell over in the process of standing up — amazing how dependent I was on my arms for balance! — but Mr. Benjamin kept me centered with light touches on one side or the other. He stayed in contact with me as I moved, either correcting my position or just reinforcing a correct direction. I became accustomed to his constant touch; it was reassuring, even pleasant, to be manipulated by his warm, dry hands.
“Again,” he said, after I achieved the standing position. I bent my knees and began the process of moving down.
“And up . . . . And down . . . . Again . . . . Again . . . . Again . . . .” My muscles began to burn a little after a dozen repetitions, but with each cycle my movements became smoother, more graceful. My cock was no longer hard; there was nothing erotic about these exercises, yet they were curiously satisfying in another way. I was glad to let go, stop questioning, and allow my responses to be reshaped by Mr. Benjamin.
“Go all the way down this time,” he said when I was next on my knees. “Lower your torso and head, and move your ass back, till your forehead is on the floor. Yes, that’s right, now move your arms and clasp your hands behind your head. That’s right. Feel how your ass is now the highest point of your body.” His hand caressed my asscheeks, firmly and possessively. My balls dangled, loose and vulnerable, between my legs, and my cock started to fill out again. I didn’t know if he’d beat me or fuck me, but I was ready for either. It felt so right to be exposed like this, and not to have any say in how I’d be used.
“Focus on your ass, not your head or cock. Right now that’s what you are, a male ass with a slave attached. You have a fine ass, boy, and I’m going to enjoy beating it. Be glad that you can give me that pleasure.” Time stretched out as I waited for it to start. I thought I could hear him walk away from me, toward the other side of the room, and return, but with the thick carpet it was hard to be sure.
“I’m going to beat you now, Jeffrey,” he said directly behind me. “Remain as motionless as you can, and don’t say anything. Remember that you are here of your own free will. If you want me to stop, you may put your hands over your ass, then get up and leave. But you won’t be allowed to come back. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Wham! The first blow slammed into my ass. Whap! Whack! There was no gentle, erotic warm-up, just pain. I gritted my teeth and ground my forehead into the carpet. Wham! Whack! It wasn’t the pointer stick I felt — he must have retrieved a wide leather strap from the closet, or wherever he kept his equipment. Whap! He worked me over methodically, from my thighs up to my shoulders, as if he were out to paint my backside an even red. Wham! Whack! How I wished I’d been tied down! The beating would have been so much easier to take with restraints to pull against. But this was a test, of course, and I had to prove I could control myself. Whap! Whack! Wham! God, he was good! Every stroke landed solidly, laying down a broad stripe of pain that flared white-hot and slowly faded into the background, not quite disappearing before the next one arrived. It was like a forest fire leaping from one thicket to the next, flames engendering flames, until the whole forest was alight. Except the conflagration was in me, was me.
Wham! Whap! I’d endured heavier floggings, beatings so severe my throat was raw from screaming, but never one so thorough, so precisely controlled, so relentless. Whack! The force and rhythm of Mr. Benjamin’s blows never varied. Wham! Whap! He wasn’t playing with my sensations, ramping up and then down to pull me along, keep me turned on. It didn’t matter if I was turned on or not. All that mattered was that he was beating me, and I was letting him. Whack! Whap! Wham!
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he softly reminded me in between strokes.
I didn’t scream, just held still and whimpered. My nose filled with the smell of damp wool as my tears soaked the carpet under my face. Finally I was able to relax into the rhythm of the beating and let the pain carry me away. My ego shriveled — I had no consciousness to spare for self-awareness. I stopped separating myself from what I was feeling, stopped judging it as good or bad, stopped trying to anticipate an end to it. Wham! Whack! Eventually even the feeling of the individual blows was lost as the blaze engulfed me . . . .
“That’s enough for now, boy,” Mr. Benjamin said finally, as if from a great distance, and the beating stopped, though it took me some moments to realize it. “Straighten up and sit back. You can rest your arms on your thighs.”
I groaned as my welted ass settled back onto my heels.
“No complaining, boy,” he said from in front of me. “Just take a deep, deep breath, fill your lungs down to the bottom. Now hold it for a count of five . . . . Now release it, all the way, let it carry the pain out of you. . . . Repeat: deep breath . . . hold . . . release . . . . Again.” He made me repeat the breathing exercise four more times, and by the end I was feeling much better. A warm afterglow suffused my body, and Mr. Benjamin, standing there with his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, even looked a lot sexier to me than he had at first. I wiped my face as well as I could with my hands and sniffed to clear my nose. My cock, which had deflated during the beating, was hard again. I snuck a look at his face — he was smiling. I quickly dropped my eyes and stifled an answering smile of my own.
“You took that well, boy,” he said in an amused tone. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, still looking down at those damned shoes of his. “Not while it was happening, Sir, but now I’m glad that you beat me, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“Slaves need to be beaten regularly. Not as punishment — it’s better if there’s no particular reason, except to remind the slave of who and what he is. It’s hard to stay focused on the idea that you’re property, and a good beating brings that home to a slave’s mind in a very direct and unmistakable way. Most slaves come to enjoy their beatings and to miss them if the routine is interrupted. In fact, it’s a form of abuse to deny them that discipline, because nothing else seems to reinforce the special bond between Master and slave, or slave and trainer, as well as a regular, expected beating. While you’re being beaten, you have the full attention of the one beating you, and He has yours. Did it seem that the beating I gave you was mechanical or impersonal?”
“Umm,” I hesitated, not wanting to voice what might seem like a complaint, “yes, Sir, perhaps a little less personal than I’m used to, Sir.”
“Well, you’re wrong. It wasn’t impersonal at all. I was intensely aware of your reactions at every moment, almost as if I was reading your mind through the quivering of your flesh. But I deliberately put that aside. Instead of playing on your responses, adapting the beating to you, I wanted to see how you would adapt to a methodical, unmodulated beating. Taking a beating because it turns you on is one thing. Taking a beating just because someone else wants you to is quite another. . . . As I said, you did well.”
He seated himself in the chair and picked up a manilla folder from the side table. My file? I looked at his shoes while he shuffled papers. Why couldn’t he wear boots at least?
“Look at me, Jeffrey.” I raised my eyes to his. They were brown and large, surrounded by halos of tiny lines in his 50-something skin. Was he ever young? I wondered. Did he have any idea what it was like to be 28 and constantly horny and have your head filled with images of bondage and torture? Of being unable to look at a strong, handsome man without wanting to kneel at his feet? Of being so desperately ready to be taken over? I was afraid I’d turn rotten with cynicism and frustration if it didn’t happen soon.
“Are you with me, boy?” he asked, shaking me out of my reverie.
“Yes, Sir,” I said as firmly as I could. He chuckled.
“This session’s not what you expected, is it?”
“Sir, I’m not sure what I expected. They warned me, Sir, that you wouldn’t behave like any Master I’d ever met.”
“And just how many real Masters do you suppose you’ve met, boy?”
“A few, Sir,” I said cautiously.
“Damned few, I expect,” he said dismissively. “Those leather-clad studs you see at the bars with their keys on the left aren’t ‘Masters,’ you know. Most of them would be hard-pressed to know what to do with a real slave if they had one. They aren’t ready to own another man; they barely own themselves. Some of them may be competent tops for a scene, but as soon as they come their scripts run out. Those aren’t the kind of Masters I work for.” He looked down at the papers in his lap again, and I returned my own gaze to the floor between his feet.
“Your replies to my questionnaire are quite complete and satisfactory, Jeffrey. And accurate, as far as I can see. They give me a reasonably full picture of your experience, your interests, and your qualifications. All the usual domestic skills — very good. Computer savvy, experienced with a wide variety of programs — that’s very important now. Read French and German — excellent. You don’t speak them?”
“Not well, Sir. Only a little. But I could learn, Sir, if needed.”
“I’m sure you could. Fine, then.” He studied the papers some more.
“I see you were unsure about one of the items on the sexual part of the questionnaire, ‘Toilet training.’ Are you unsure what it is, or unsure whether you can do it?”
“Both, Sir.”
“Of course!” he laughed. “How can you know if you can do it when you don’t know what it is? Toilet service, which you didn’t question on the form, is when you take your Master’s piss or, sometimes, shit. Few American Masters will require you to eat their shit, though it’s more common in Europe. Piss-drinking is common here, though, and it’s not dangerous as long as you’re both healthy. Toilet training, however, means that you are not allowed to relieve yourself except with permission, and when you do so you may not stand to piss or sit on the toilet seat to shit. You sit on the bowl, or crouch over it, not touching it — or your cock — for both functions. It also means that you cannot close the door when you use a bathroom in your Master’s home. Or any other Master’s home or playspace. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you think you can do that with no trouble?”
“If necessary, Sir,” I said, betraying some distaste for the prospect.
“Believe me, boy, it’s entirely necessary, even more than toilet service, which not all Masters care for. Few things are so effective in teaching a slave that he’s property as taking away his ability to control his own bodily functions. Some training regimens even require you to be catheterized and plugged at all times so that you can’t go on your own even with permission. I don’t take it that far — too much work for me! Like other disciplines, toilet training can be very hard at first, but after awhile you won’t give it a second thought. It’ll just be the way things are.”
I felt his eyes on me before he told me to look up.
“You’re a healthy, intelligent, educated, attractive young man,” he said. “You have a good job and marketable skills, your own apartment, no heavy debts. You’re out of the closet, apparently comfortable with being gay and kinky, no evidence of debilitating mental or emotional problems. So why do you want to be owned? . . . Oh, I know what you said on the form, and it was very well expressed, too. But I need to hear it from your own mouth, in words you haven’t rehearsed and polished.”
I took a deep breath and tried to explain, as much to myself as to him.
“Sir, there’s something missing in my life. It’s like I have a hole in me, Sir, that never gets filled. Even when I trick with a good Topman, Sir, he never seems to demand enough from me. After they get their rocks off, Sir, they always go soft and want to treat me like a buddy. It was even worse, Sir, when I had a lover. He was always asking me what I wanted, Sir, or expecting me to make decisions. It’s not that I can’t make decisions, Sir, when I have to. I do it all the time at work. But I don’t want to have to make them at home, Sir . . . . That sounds selfish, Sir, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Is that it, then? You want to be spared having to make decisions? You’re not willing to be responsible for your own life?”
“No, Sir! I didn’t mean it that way, Sir. It’s true, Sir, that I don’t like making decisions, but that’s because I don’t know what my life is for, Sir! It all seems pointless sometimes. I work, I eat, I sleep, I jerk off — why? What’s the purpose, Sir? I need someone who’ll give my life meaning, Sir, by taking all I have to give Him, by demanding the best from me, Sir. What I do for myself doesn’t count, Sir. I only feel real when I’m serving someone else, Sir, making Him happy or more comfortable. If I have to take care of myself so I can serve Him better, Sir, that’s okay. Then it’s not for me but for Him. I’m not expecting a free ride, Sir, or to be taken care of like a baby.”
“And how much of this feeling is sexual, Jeffrey? Do you feel the same pleasure in service after you’ve had an orgasm?”
I flushed with embarrassment, because of course a lot of it was sexual. And I remembered how lazy I could feel right after coming. But he spared me having to confess that, and he seemed to understand that it wasn’t just sexual.
“Well, that proves you’re normal, my boy! Nearly all slaves find their calling because sex drives them to it. But those who stay in this life discover rewards beyond the sexual — they have to, because most Masters allow orgasms very sparingly! A horny slave is an attentive slave, and the same goes for a trainee. If I accept you for training, Jeffrey, the very first rule is that you will never touch your cock except to clean it, and then with a washcloth, and you will never come except on my order — unless you have a wet dream! And you can be sure I won’t order you to come for a long time, at least four weeks to start. These rules don’t apply only when you’re here. You’ll follow them all the time, everywhere. Can you accept and abide by that?”
“Yes, Sir!” I vowed, my cock paradoxically rock-hard at the thought of being denied release. “It’ll be hard, Sir, but I know I can do it.” Four weeks!
“Good. There are devices that can help insure your chastity, and I’ll look into getting something practical for you. But any device can be defeated if the slave is determined to disobey. Your obedience is much more important than your chastity. You will demonstrate that obedience by keeping a daily journal, and, among other things, you will note down in it every time you ‘slip’ and touch your cock. I will discuss your slips with you and encourage you to do better. If the violation was flagrant, I will punish you. A failure to be truthful with me is unforgivable. If I ever catch you in a lie, you will be instantly dismissed. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“A word about punishment. I don’t believe that you can train a slave to behave properly by physical punishment. I use pain as a reminder, or for emphasis, and to help a trainee focus. But the main force must always be your own desire to succeed and excel, to become what you say you want to be. I’m not going to beat that into you, or ‘break’ you, or any of that nonsense you’ve probably read about in porn stories.
“Oh, I’ll beat you plenty — every session will include some kind of a beating. As I told you before, slaves need to be beaten regularly. But I won’t beat you for punishment. I expect you to learn not only to accept regular beatings but to welcome them and enjoy them. The last thing I want is for you to associate them with misbehavior, or to encourage you to think you need to screw up in order to get beaten!
“Most of our sessions will be much like this first one, though longer and with more varied training in how to move, especially in chains, how to talk, and how to serve. If I think you need heavier torture or extended bondage, I’ll give you that, too. You won’t need to play games anymore the way you’ve been doing in the bars. You won’t have to try to seduce me into giving you what you need. Giving you what you need is what I’m here for. Think of me as your coach. I will prepare you to endure anything that may be imposed on you in service, and to do anything you’ll be asked for. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.” My head was spinning with questions! But I didn’t know where to begin, or how to ask them without irritating him. Of course, he saw that, too.
“If you think of questions after you leave today, you may write me, and I will answer them, if I can, when I see you again.”
“Thank you, Sir!”
“I don’t hold much with written contracts during training. Either your word is your bond, or you’re not worth anyone’s time. So here’s the deal: If you will agree to do whatever I tell you, to the best of your ability, until I release you, I will agree to train you to be the best slave you are capable of being. I promise that I will not dismiss you except for cause or when I judge you are ready to offer yourself to a Master. You, however, will have the option of quitting at any time for any reason — with the proviso that such a decision is final, and that if you quit I won’t see you again. Is all that clear, Jeffrey?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And do we have an agreement?”
Sweat broke out all over me as I wrestled with the decision. He made it seem so . . . so sweeping and irrevocable, although there was that escape clause. . . . Wasn’t this what I wanted? How could I back out now, without even trying? Just because he’s not a sexy stud? You don’t need to be a sexy stud to be a good teacher! But what if he expects to fuck me, or have me suck him off? . . . Well, so what? I can close my eyes and pretend it’s someone else. When I’m a slave I won’t have any choice about who uses my holes. Why worry about it now? I’m sure he’ll keep it safe; he’s no fool, that’s for sure.
“Why are you hesitating, boy?” he demanded finally. “Either you know what you want, or you don’t. Having sought me out with considerable effort, you know what I am. You know my reputation. You came here asking to be trained as a slave, and I have agreed to do so. Yes, I’m demanding a blank check from you, but you can stop payment on it at any time. We’re both adults. We’ve been candid with each other — or at least I have. You’ve had a chance to see and feel what my teaching is like. Trust your heart. Decide.”
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” I forced out. This was so hard!
“Does that mean you agree? Don’t hedge.”
“Yes, Sir, I agree, Sir. I will do whatever you tell me, Sir, to the best of my ability, until you release me, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” There! It was done. I was committed.
“Good boy. Put your hands behind your back again. Now bend forward and kiss my shoes. The left one first. Always begin on the Master’s left when you are offering service. Begin on your right side when you change your own position.” I could barely reach his gleaming black shoes, but he helped me by moving his feet out a few inches. After I kissed his left and then his right shoe, I knelt upright again, keeping my head bowed. Something cold and metallic slipped over my head and settled around my neck — a dog chain. He had slipped one end through the other, instead of locking it, and the loose end hung down my chest.
“Your collar, boy. It’s unlocked, because you still have the freedom to take it off at any time. But you’ll keep it on, won’t you?” Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to take it off!
“Oh, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!”
“You’ll have to earn a lock for it, boy, and that won’t be easy. You need to understand exactly what you’re giving up in becoming a slave, and this unlocked collar will be there to remind you. It’s almost time for you to go, but I’ll expect you back here tomorrow at 6 p.m. You get off work at 5:00, you said, so be punctual. You’re going to serve my dinner, and I don’t like to eat late. Tomorrow is Friday, so expect to stay here through the weekend. If you had other plans, cancel them. Bring a small bag with anything you think you absolutely need as well as clothes for work on Monday. Remember that your cock and balls are off limits to you now. Don’t worry too much about all the other rules I’ve given you today. We’ll go over them again and again until you’re incapable of forgetting them. Tonight just concentrate on not touching your cock — that should be hard enough, I expect! You can even sleep in your bed instead of on the floor; time enough for that later. Any questions yet, boy?”
“Yes, Sir. Forgive me, Sir, if this is too personal . . . but were you ever a slave?”
“Yes, boy,” he said with a laugh, “I’ve been where you are — that’s really what you’re asking, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for me to reply but continued, more gravely. “I was trained just as I will train you — if anything, more harshly and forcibly. I wasn’t allowed to live on my own at all once I entered training. I was brought into my Master’s home, stripped, collared, and regimented 24 hours a day from Day 1. I won’t ask anything of you that hasn’t been demanded of me. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, Sir. But . . . but . . . .” His eyes flashed, and I left the obvious question unstated, suddenly afraid I’d angered him. His expression softened, however, and he actually smiled down at me — kneeling before him put my head lower than his even though I was taller and he was sitting.
“Why am I not a slave now? Is that your question, boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said in a small voice.
“Who said I’m not, boy? There’s more than one way to live a life of service. We can’t all stay naked and on our knees, much as we might like to. For instance, right now you need to get on your feet, get dressed, and go home.”
“Yes, Sir!” I said, smoothly rising to my feet in the Ready position before turning to leave the room.
“Stop!” Mr. Benjamin said sharply. I froze in place. “Turn around!” I faced him, filled with distress at having fucked up already — and I didn’t even know how! “Do not ever turn your back on me, boy, or on any other superior. When you’re dismissed, you back away slowly until I turn my attention elsewhere, then turn and leave normally. Get down and give me fifty pushups! Now, boy!” I lowered my chest to the floor and then pushed back up onto my toes. “Count off each one, boy, and thank me for it. They’ll help you remember this lesson.”
“One, Sir, thank you, Sir! . . . Two, Sir, thank you, Sir! . . . Three, Sir, thank you, Sir! . . .” I was slick with sweat by the time I’d finished the punishment set, and my muscles burned, but I felt good! I’d learned a new lesson, and I’d been given a new boundary. I smiled to myself as I got onto my knees and faced him in the Present position, then rose to my feet again. Despite his words earlier, I could recall each of the rules Mr. Benjamin had already taught me. I recited them to myself as I backed away under his critical gaze. Every rule was a link in a chain of obedience, and the longer the chain, the safer and more secure I felt. As his eyes released me, I noted just the hint of a smile on his face. I smiled to myself, too, as I turned to leave the room — and enter into my new life.
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