when i woke there was this loud pounding noise. ragged screaming. i had forgotten. in my sleep i forgot he was bricked up in there. i forgot. He hadn't forgotten of course. to him it was fresh and awful. as i gathered my thoughts i realized what the noise was and it made me smile and made me hard. it was still new to him. he would stop pounding after a while -exhausted and hoarse from shouting. the stopping could come at any time, at a point i couldn't now predict, so it was important to enjoy his panic while it was lively. perhaps the stopping would come while i was at work. and when i returned home there'd be an awful silence while i wondered if maybe he'd done himself or expired from some cause i couldn't guess at. and that moment of uncertainty would bring everything into glassy clear focus and time would accordion while i wondered what to do next: masturbate? call the police? get the shovel? so many choices.
the best moments are when i told him he's small in my lap and he's naked and beautiful and fine and his cock hardens 'cause he likes that and he laps up into my mouth on a tongue hunt and my finger slips soft into his asshole and he wriggles squirms back onto it wonders when he gets another finger. The best moments are full and ripe with male smells and tastes, mingled smells and tastes that together form part of the signature of our fuck.
ready-to-cut his nipple yeeeaaah scrupulously clean scalpel hovers over the full dark offering hovers prepared to sculpt meat - i'm in garde mange at benihana
but he stopped pounding after only another hour or so, having screamed (words? or just noise? i couldn't make it out) and pounded through the night. he had not slept since he woke from his induced sleep. i could hear him panting, possibly weeping, on his side of the slit in the wall.
listening through most of the night i knew what he'd done to the few contents of the room. couple of chairs, a small table in splinters, sleeping pad shredded. the small lamp still illuminated the room. so he didn't break that. i imagined him: naked as i'd left him, and collapsed in a heap on the cold concrete floor, probably leaning against the new brick wall. Filthy with the (futile) efforts of the night.
the best moments are when he offers up his nipple to my mouth, knowing sure i'll bite it hard and hungry, roll it between my teeth, while the breath comes hissing from him urgent, quick, and almost articulated, while he holds my face fast to his chest greedy with both hands, while i puncture and i suckle and he smiles. in the best moments space collapses soft and warm around us and makes for us a fathering nest in a fold of oblivion.
with nothing but a lit cigarette to guide him, the sadistic explorer discovers some neglected backwater of the creature's body (such as the small of his back) and the rewards are copious but only rarely does the ashtray fully appreciate the excursion
the slit in the wall is a horizontal one just off the floor - intended as a pass-through for trays of food and occasional treats. the first meal passed through on the bakelite tray was simple: raw beef, a handful of oatmeal (also raw), a scallion, and a small paper cup of water. the note passed through with it was also simple: YOU WILL GET MORE FOOD 24 HOURS AFTER THIS TRAY IS RETURNED - EMPTY. i listened while he read the note. i wondered what he thought. i walked quietly away to give him some privacy with his food.
the best moments are when we both are near asleep his breathing slow and regular and our bodies comfortably settled face-to-face bound by the comparative warmth of our closeness, when he becomes at such moments feral, when his neck-nuzzling lips part to reveal white sharpness that pulls and gnaws at the flesh of my neck, that gnaws avid and wicked and boyish smart.
the best moments challenge both of us, liberate us from monotony, and join us together in the bright flashes of magic.
beating his small white ass with a nightstick is almost exactly like clubbing a baby harp seal to death except for two important points: first, i do it naked in my own room, and, second, there are no annoying wildlife photographers to stop me from my occupation
i had no way of knowing if that first meal was eaten or stashed in (or thrown to) a dark corner of his room. but when i came back the tray was returned, empty as demanded. i brought with me a candy, actually a caramel, this time, and tossed it through the slit. i didn't stay to see if he unwrapped and ate it. it was a matter of indifference to me. the screaming and the pounding did not resume. he disposed of his meal in a way that met my demands. he deserved a treat. it was important that he understood that his cooperation, if not obedience, would be rewarded. it was a beginning.
the best moments are hosts to small, wonderful achievements: a beating taken well, a larger dildo accommodated, a demand answered skillfully. these are earnestly sought, earnestly won, earnestly received. the best moments are always accompanied by laughter: of delight or of hilarity - it doesn't matter. laughter seems to be the music of our passion.
he hates piss so i wrap him in the gauzy piss-shroud i soaked in urine i saved for weeks for just this purpose and when his head his face is at last wrapped in my waste and his boner gives him away makes a liar of him makes distinct makes manifest his pleasure in mortification i begin to laugh from someplace deeper than my gut
this ritual, my passing his food through the slit and his returning a clean tray, continued with little change other than small menu adjustments (an apple one day, cooked meat another), for several weeks. it was, in a way, a kind of communication between us. the only communication. i knew little of his habits now. but it became clear that he was becoming, as i'd hoped, something of an animal. obviously he'd no way to shave or to comb or cut his hair or to brush his teeth or to bathe or for that matter no way to avoid shitting and pissing where he lived and ate. i could safely guess at this. the smell was rank and splendid that rose from the slit in the wall between us. it made my eyes water. that the animal was certainly used to these smells was satisfying. several times i masturbated my face close to the slit inhaling deeply the awful funk. he was ripening.
his cum is sweet and bleachy his asshole elemental masculine his sweat is only vaguely salty it seems almost simple as water his piss reeks and is strong and is comforting his shit is sharp and bitter but his blood is what goes best with the feast his body offers up. always the red with meat. always the red with meat. the best moments are frightening to both of us.
first principals: he learns to swallow a lit taper candle with his asshole - he impales himself fully on the first thrust or repeats the exercise until he is successful
the beginning of the third month of the animal's confinement marked the first real change in the ritual. i brought him his food tray as usual but, before he received it, i masturbated onto a second tray and passed it through the slit, with a note: LUNCH IS SERVED WHEN MY CUM IS IN YOUR BELLY.
i heard the paper rustle as he read it. he growled slightly. picked up the tray. a pause for a moment. he returned it. clean - perhaps a trace of his spit.
he wants to show off and i want to show him off naked or clothed bound or free i want him next to me and he is there.
facts-of-boy: i blindfold and masturbate him. he cries out and ejaculates when I whisper that i have a needle in my other hand.
as with the first direction (which was to eat) he only had and only needed one note to convince him to lick the cum from the tray that was presented him before food each day. by the end of a week he made greedy noises when he lapped it up. the food trays, in response, grew less spartan. after two weeks i further experimented: i pissed in a paper cup and slid it through with his portion of my seed. no note was given. no note was needed. the cup was drained dry quickly and returned with the cleaned tray.
he is even more attractive without the beard
he is a simple boy: you knee him hard in the testicles and he shrieks bloody murder and begs you to stop but his hard cock gets very much harder. simple.
after a month more of piss and cum appetizers, i changed the feeding yet again. a final time. in addition to the cup of piss, i left a small piece of cold shit flooded with my cum on the tray and passed it through the slit.
there was no sound at all for a time. then the sound of the cup being drained. and then loud chewing. then silence again. and he returned the tray.
the best moments: blurry distinctions between real and role, between flesh and fantasy. the best moments, perhaps, are meditations, played out on the instruments of our imaginations.
when i came back an hour later to collect the food tray i found that he'd eaten well and left a cum trail for me to follow.
i never, ever kiss on the first date.
copyright 1996 by dc mcglothlen