From: chuck@skatepress.force9.co.uk (ChucK)
Subject: Repost from BBS:  "Devils" (M/M; MMM; oral; anal; BDSM)
Date: Wed, 18 Feb 1998 08:36:56 GMT
Approved: moderated.stories@bigfoot.com
Keywords: xmm xmmm xoral xanal xbdsm xbond xdisc xsm

I found this incomplete file uncredited and in tatters on a local BBS.  The
work is very well written and there seems to be a fair interest in SM in this
group (or at least a Sub/Dom thing -- something I've never been into, nor
pretend to understand -- gimme some of that old homeboy loving and romance me
from time to time.  Damnit, I'm getting broody again -- I shall have to be out
a-hunting a boyfriend a-fore the break of dawn, Sire) Damnit, where was I?  Oh,
yes, as there's a fair interest in SM then it might go down well with the rest
of the readership.  As I say, sadly uncredited, but I'd be very interested if
anyone can tell me more about the piece as it's too good to be lost.


PART ONE 

It took me six months to get to join the club.

Since I picked up a guy on a bike and heard from him about the wild scenes to
be enjoyed through the "Black Cross" leather club, I'd been asking and talking
to guys I met at the bars for weeks. I'd almost forgotten about it and decided
he was making it up when I got a telephone call that the "Black Cross" club
were opening a new chapter in town and would I be interested. Of course I was,
any club that was that choosy recruiting guys into leather and S&M had to be
worth being on the inside of. 

It was almost another eight weeks before I got to meet anyone involved in the
idea. I was told to drop into an address in the warehouse district downtown for
a drink to discuss details. I turned up around eleven-thirty, rang the bell on
the metal side-door and waited, hearing footsteps descending to street level.

The guy who lets me in is blond, staggeringly build and speaks few words with
what could be a German accent. I follow him up the stone stairs - eyes fixed on
his perfect lean arse. We get to a big loft room with very little furniture and
acres of polished floor. There are three or four guys sitting around drinking,
and one shortish guy about 30 with close cropped hair who seems to be playing
host. The host comes over, shakes my hand and offers me a beer. He speaks
softly and quickly, his unusual eyes and soft tone make it clear at once that
this is his party.

The blond guy who let me in is sent to get me a drink and asked to introduce me
around, while the host disappears through a door to make a telephone call. 

I usually fit in pretty well in new surroundings, but the way all conversation
stops in the room and the fact that I've never even seen any of these guys
before makes me grab my beer like a liferaft and retreat into a corner to take
stock. 

I'm not left on my own long, after a couple of minutes casting appreciative
glances over the humpy numbers present I am called into another room with the
German Blond, who I've already decided is the hottest thing there, although I
wouldn't turn down any of them, believe me.. 

The host, whose name is Mort, explains that the club is meeting to initiate new
members the next Saturday. He sees me glance at the blond who sits unconcerned
on the edge of the table. "I see you like the look of Carl here, you must think
me a very bad host, he's my private property just now - but he'll be there to
help things along on Saturday." 

I'm speechless and red faced, I hadn't realised that my look revealed so much
of what I was thinking. 

"Now I've embarrassed you, we must make it up to you. Would you like Carl to
suck your cock?" 

I look quickly at Carl, he doesn't look up, just hangs his head in token
submission. I've run into this kind of slave/master relationship before, and
it's not uncommon for the master to "lend" the sexual services of his slave.
It's just never been offered to me ten minutes after meeting someone in such a
"matter of fact" way. I'm still embarrassed from being caught looking hornily
at Carl, but I figure I've got to say something. 

"Yeah," I mutter, "I'd like him to suck my cock, providing I can fuck his arse
afterwards." 

Mort stands up, grins and turns to leave. "Carl, give our friend a good time." 

Alone with the German boy I suffer another moment of indecision. I guess I just
can't believe my luck, he's so great looking. I pull myself together as he
drops to his knees and shuffles over to me. His lips rubbing over the crotch of
my leather pants. His eyes turn up to me with such a look of pleading
submission in them that I'm instantly 100 per cent sexual animal. I grab his
head and force his face into the smooth tight leather over my balls and cock.
He gives a little grunt as I crush his face into my swelling hard-on. 

I get him stripped.  God, his body's even better than I expected.

His hips are almost impossibly narrow, there isn't an ounce of spare flesh on
his flanks or belly, his stomach is concave except for the strings of abdominal
muscle that tighten as he breathes.

I walk around him, as he kneels, head bowed and awaiting some sign of my
demands. Standing in front of him, I order him to free my cock with his teeth,
unbuckling the belt and unfastening the top button of my pants to make it
easier. It takes him a couple of minutes to work down the zip with his teeth,
and release my painfully stiff cock. 

Without a second of hesitation he eagerly goes down on my heavy 8.5 inches. I
tell him to "suck me dry", and lean back, hand on hips while he dedicates his
every movement to stimulating my throbbing tool. I swear I'll come any second
if I don't push him away and get to work on that tight smug ass.

He stands on my order. Moving like a slave accustomed to obey every whim
without any sign of halting or surprise. I have him touch his toes and stay
down. Walking around, I brush fingertips over the downy rounds of his clenched
buttocks. He supports his weight with his hands above his knees, while I hold
him up by the hair with one hand, and fondle his dark tight hole with the
fingers of the other hand. I spit into my palm, then pass my hand around to his
face for him to contribute his share to the lubrication, then twisting my palm
around my stiff cock I probe firmly to find my way into his hot inside.

When it's all over and I've satisfied myself, I light a cigarette and dress
myself before allowing Carl to replace his own discarded garments. I sit and
draw deeply on the Dunhill as I watch him slowly and deliberately put his
clothes on; he manages to give every movement the urgency of a command, while
doing nothing extra of his own. 

Carl follows me back into the other room. He hasn't said a word during our sex
act and follows me back to the party like a beautiful dog. 

The host is totally cool, he enquires on Carl's performance and I say "great".
I catch a look of real relief on the German's face and suddenly realise their
relationship would require severe punishment if he had failed to please me. 

I leave slightly puzzled, with instructions to return on Saturday morning,
pondering the nature of a relationship where the slave seems genuinely afraid
of the master's punishment--discipline is supposed to be a game enjoyed by both
parties so either that German stud is so far into it that he acted fear to
please the other guy, or they have something really strange going. One thing is
certain, I'll be there bright and early on the Saturday to find out some more. 

Friday night is hot and cruisy. One of those nights when the bars pulse with
life, and everyone gets laid. I intend to get home early as the next day has
assumed great importance in my sexual imaginings during the week. I keep
getting flash pictures in my mind of the German stud Carl on his knees looking
up at me - I've never jerked off so many times in one week. 

Anyway I'm standing in a leather bar, mostly because I always visit the bars on
the weekend, and also because I'm so damned horny for some more of that Carl
that almost anything the same shape will do. I figure I'd better get laid, or
I'll be busting to cum within two minutes of seeing him again. 

There's a small knot of leather in one corner, although the bar is crowded
these half-dozen guys stand apart. I've seen two of them before, and usually I
wouldn't look twice, because they have both shown no interest in the past. 

Now I remember, I think I've seen the others here before also, only on weekends
and they aren't regulars - no friendly words with the barman, and no interest
in anyone who may cruise them. In my normal state of mind I'd have assumed that
they were a bunch of self-contained queens who were all locked up in dull
affairs, a kind of husband and wife outing. 

But tonight, in my excited state, (it is practically a full moon outside on the
waterfront, and that invariably makes me extra horny), I watch their behaviour
with more interest. Especially as they have a guy with them who is blond,
staggeringly build and resembling an older version of the German Carl. I want
that blond man, and tonight, I feel like I could land him - however uncruisy
his set might be.

My chance comes when he is deputised to fetch more drinks. 

He's dressed in a leather vest and leather pants. I get a closer look as he
approaches the bar, he's much bigger and more muscular than Carl, but that
doesn't matter, his blond hair is cropped shorter, but that doesn't matter
either, and he is probably five or six years older than Carl. He wears no keys
or kerchief (none of that gang do), so I can't tell if he'd want to play Carl's
slave role, I doubt it by the way he walks to the bar. Oh hell, if he wants to
kick shit out of my, why not. He's still enough of a look-alike to make the
trip a buzz. 

He reaches the bar and orders beer, in a heavy German accent. I'm so turned on
by this coincidence that I practically fall over in my attempt to end up
standing beside him. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to pick you up,
which actually I am. But you look exactly like someone I had last week." I
begin painfully. He doesn't reply, just flicks his eyes in my direction and
picks up the beer cans from the bar. As he turns to rejoin his friends I try
one more time. "You don't have a brother called Carl?" I begin. 

What happened next is so fast I don't remember the exact sequence. He turns to
me and speaks earnestly in what I assume to be German. Grabs me by the arm and
pushes me over to where his friends are standing by the door. He says something
in German to another guy out of which I decipher the name "Carl", and before I
realise it they have grabbed a beer each and left the bar carrying me with
them. 

On the street outside they coral a long cluster of bikes from the rack, I am
hoisted on the back of the big German's machine and we tear off along the
waterfront in a procession. I'm slightly freaked out by this sudden turn of
events, but I'm so happy fondling the bulky German's tits from behind that I
don't worry too much. I'm a big boy, I figure, what could possibly happen that
I wouldn't get off on?

We don't go far. I'm disappointed to see that the destination is another
leather bar. We all pile into the back room where there are fuck movies
flickering on the wall, and no other light except two red bulbs at almost floor
level. Cause that's where the action is anyway. 

My Blond German hasn't said much, he grunted assent a couple of times when I
passed the time. I'm just beginning to wonder if he understands English, when
he turns to me, passes me a spare beer brought from the other bar, and asks,
"When did you drink Brother?" 

I don't understand and say so, wondering if he means where do I usually do my
drinking. Clearly this is not what he means. He pulls himself up to his full
six foot-three and looks puzzled. The group are leaving, obviously they just
came here to pick up two more friends. The German puts a large heavy hand on my
shoulder and shakes his head sadly. 

"You stay here, or it won't be safe for you," he growls in his thick accent. He
turns on his heel and follows his friends outside.

By the time I reach the door they are gunning their bikes and disappearing,
single-file down the rough street. I take a couple of drinks in that bar, not
one of my favourites. Collect a much needed blow job from a shaven-headed
masochist in the back room and go off in search of a cab to take me home. 

Is there a connection between the "Black Cross" club, my membership ceremony
tomorrow and these humpy weirdoes?  I begin to suspect that I've just
encountered a mobile chapter of the same club and spend the night alone
wondering just what I've let myself in for, and why in Hell I didn't get into
it years earlier. I'm as anxious as a kid at Christmas and spend most of the
night awake prowling the local streets to kill time until Saturday morning. 


PART TWO

11 am, in clean Levis and leather jacket I wait for the footsteps to descend to
the door of the same building in the warehouse district. The door is opened by
a huge bear of a man, a mountain of well-defined muscle covered in heavy dark
hair, in tight cod-piece, black leather pants and athletic vest he looks like a
"Tom of Finland" prototype gone to seed. 

I follow his unshaven form up the stairs into the main warehouse room, which is
almost dark, heavy blinds being pulled over the windows. There are three or
four naked male bodies sleeping on piles of cushions, one of them is awake and
trying to get on top of the guy next to him his sleep-hardened cock in hand. I
see no sign of Carl, but have no time to identify the naked tangle as I am led
past and into the smaller end room. 

Mort sits in the half-dark drinking orange juice by the light of five big
candles. He doesn't look as if he has just woken, he is fully dressed and
clean-shaven. He sees me look at the draped windows and nods to the Bear to
draw the blinds. 

"I loathe the first few hours after dawn, revolting light. I don't need to
sleep as much as I used to," he adds as if by explanation. 

The Bear's name turns out to be Peter. It seems he is to become a member of the
club today along with me. Mort explains that there will be three of us. "It's
an experience best shared," he adds obliquely. 

I keep looking around for a sign of Carl, realising that he's the main reason
I'm so keen to go into all this. 

"Carl will be joining us this evening for the ceremonies, he's out working for
the club for the night." Mort answers my unspoken question; this is a
disturbing habit of his, I decide. 

Mort keeps me hanging around while he does this and that. I'm not invited out
into the main room where the sex is. Peter (the Bear) and I sit and talk,
speculate on the kind of ceremony a gay S/M club will put us through, and agree
that it will certainly be enjoyable and then lapse into broody silence. 

Around lunch time we are both getting pretty restive, as no one has come into
the room for the last twenty minutes I'm starting to wonder if we should get a
little action of our own going. Peter is obviously interested. He's let me know
in our talking that despite his bulk and strength he is thoroughly masochistic.


I experience a peculiar feeling of power in knowing that I can have sex with
him here and now if I reach out a hand. I hold hard for a few more minutes
before deciding that in an "anything goes" club, it'll really be OK to screw
right here. 

He isn't expecting my first move. I've had ten minutes to plan the way it'll
go. He's stretched out in a reclining chair with his face turned away from me. 

I move quietly up beside the chair and with one motion grab his mop of untidy
hair and the strong steel buckle of his leather belt. I swing him over the edge
of the chair. Going down on one knee, I hoist his protesting form sideways so
the small of his back is resting on my knee. For a moment he struggles, unable
to move anything but his arms, which reach up to try and dislodge my hands from
his hair. Then, suddenly he relaxes and allows me to push his head down under
my straining crotch to be held between my legs. 

His back must feel like it's breaking, supporting his huge weight on my knee,
but he gets right into it, and starts working around the seams of my Levis with
his tongue. I grab the thin vest at his stomach and tear it up around his neck.
I stroke his flat muscle-ridged stomach, feeling the springy fur that grows up
from his pants to make a thin hedge up to the dark forest that sprouts around
his massive tits. Pectorals like half-melons, with nipples standing erect and
firm in two small clearings in the springy hair. 

The cod-piece panel rips off from his cock and balls. I find that his huge
thick cock is pierced with a small silver ring, which fastens with a silver
chain to a steel cock ring around cock and balls. 

Letting a hand wander up to his chest, I discover that his nipples are marked
from piercing. This, I decide, is a stud who's been into everything. His
movements and the enthusiasm of his response to my rough touch on his taut body
make me know that the man sets no limits for himself or others. Well, let it
roll, I decide, grabbing a handful of tender meat in my fist and yanking the
big over-full balls painfully up over his rippling stomach. His head strains up
to where I'm releasing my own hard cock.

Wrapping his arms around my thighs to support his heaving body he forces his
mouth down on top of my glistening erection. As he is supporting his own weight
and moving his whole straining body up and down to take my cock deep into his
gurgling throat I'm free to explore the muscles that protrude and dance up the
sides of his straining great body. 

I discover that by putting my hands around his tense thick neck I can feel a
satisfying twitching and straining every time my hard tool forces down his
throat. His reaction to the pressure of my hands is electric, he reacts
instantly, in obvious excitement, bobbing his head faster, a new urgency in his
movements. As I tighten my hands around his warm throat, his obvious excitement
increases. I grip more tightly, enjoying the convulsive rhythm of his
half-choking sucks. The ripped athletes vest hangs around one arm and his neck.
Forcing his incredibly muscled arm through the strap, I tug the remains of the
garment around his neck like a collar. 

Grabbing his ripe testicles in a merciless fist, I increase the pressure,
forcing him to slow down his sucking movements to a deliberate, painful rhythm.
I only need one hand now to keep a steady dizzying pressure on his windpipe. 

Cruelly, I slam the underside of my fist down in his vulnerable stomach, timing
it just as I allow his head up for breath. He gives a half-scream convulsed,
gasping and kicking his legs wildly twice, then shoots cum volcanically, spurt
after hot spurt, up my hand and arm. 

The three guys who rush in don't as much as grin as they catch me with the Bear
bent double and groaning in ecstasy between my legs. Peter wipes a trickle of
cum from his mouth and falls back, naked into his chair. Here am I feeling as
if I've been caught stealing the poor-box, with these three naked studs just
standing there, saying nothing. 

Mort comes in, looking preoccupied, smells sex in the air and grins. "Oh dear,
I'm afraid it's the atmosphere - I sometimes think this building has a built-in
aphrodisiac. I hope you two recover in time for the ceremony."

Carl arrives late in the afternoon, there are about a dozen of us sitting
about, drinking revolting herbal tea, fully dressed. We aren't allowed sex or
alcohol before the important ceremony tonight. 

I'm just thinking that this is a bit wasteful - these guys certainly take their
pleasures seriously, when I see Carl in a one-piece black leather suit, and
right behind him, in an identical garment is an older more developed body
that's almost a mirror image of his. It's got to be the guy from the bar last
night. 
I don't get a chance to find out, because Mort returns from the other end of
the building carrying a tray with glasses and a decanter of amber-coloured
wine. 

"It's getting dark, so we can revive our strength and start preparations," he
announces, looking straight at Bear and me as he mentions reviving. 

I accept a glass of the spicy alcohol, find it revoltingly sweet and down it in
one swig. I'm thinking about Carl and the other guy, wondering if they are
really brothers, and if they have each other gutless. 

I've gotten such a hard-on thinking about it and trying to see it in my mind
that I have to stand up and fetch another drink to relieve the pressure. Funny
stuff, this wine, it leaves a warm feeling that rises up from the pit of the
stomach, and spreads down with a tingle to the balls. 

Three glasses later, Gary, a dark nervous kid with a fabulous gymnast's body,
the Bear and I are put into a small room next to Mort's lounge to wait for our
initiation. 

Mort comes in and explains that he's not about to explain what's going to
happen, we will each be sent for individually, but the main part of the
membership ceremony will be for all three together. 

I settle down to admire the gymnast kid, wondering if he's as hot as Carl -
knowing that he couldn't possibly match my fantasy Carl. The room we're in is
lit by three candles. It's completely draped in dark blue velvet, even the door
is covered. On the walls are two paintings showing wild orgy scenes with
obvious black magic overtones. The room is almost silent, just a vague buzz of
traffic noise and the occasional ship's siren penetrate the gloom.

We talk quietly for a while, but I'm so full of excited expectation and nerves
that all I want to do is enjoy my own brain feedback. I feel thoroughly stoned
on the wine, and am just about to speculate on what was in it, when the door
opens and Carl appears. 

He walks in with his head slightly bowed, and in his. thick accent explains
that we are to place all our clothes in the basket and wait to be called. He
doesn't look directly at me. I'm driven crazy with the desire to grab him and
have him on the cushioned floor. Finally he catches my look, half-grins and
moves over to me. He submissively unbuttons my Levis, peels my T-shirt gently
off, and kneels to release my boots, kissing each one lightly in turn as he
removes them. 

Then without a word he leaves the fucking room. 

I've gotten a big hard-on, which I now have to live down with the other two. I
keep my mind off Carl's hot young ass by speculating on the reasons these other
guys are here. 

I know with me it's pure horny lust, but I wonder, especially about the nervous
little gymnast, Gary. I wouldn't think he'd have the courage for such a way-out
scene. He sits on his own on a big low sofa. Now he's deposited his clothes in
the big laundry basket, I can appreciate, at least, why they wanted him. His
body's perfectly proportioned, every slender muscle tuned to perfection. He has
big soft eyes which dart towards the Bear and me whenever he thinks we aren't
observing him. I see a slight tremble in the powerful muscle of his thigh. I
also see him sneak a look at my softening cock, which still looks impressive
and was probably the reason they wanted me here. 

The Bear is easy to understand. He just thinks with his nuts. 

Looking at him sitting head in hands, I can smell the animal sexuality of him.
It isn't fear that I smell, it's pure excitement. He's been into everything, I
can see faint lines across his back and shoulders, which show through his tan
as well-healed whip scars. This is a masochist in search of a deeper form of
thrill, he doesn't know what's going to happen, and he doesn't care-as long as
it's new fuel for fantasy.

It occurs to me as my cock droops sadly onto my thigh, that I'm the odd man out
in this set-up. Good submissive types are bloody rare out there on the
waterfront, yet here I'm in a minority of one in liking the dominant role. 

I'm certain Gary shares the Bear's taste for submission, so does Carl, I
remember, with a rush of blood that produces instant re-erection. Whatever the
ceremony is that's ahead it will almost certainly involve submission on my
part. It's so many years since I anticipated such an event that I find it oddly
exciting. I am bloody determined to do whatever asked without hesitation. I've
got to get my noose around young Carl's willing neck whatever it takes. But is
that all of the reason? 

Like an actor on cue Carl appears through the door. 

He's stark bollock naked, and his body looks like it's been oiled it shines in
the candle-light, every perfectly developed muscle catching the glow, his long
shapely cock hangs invitingly below the big silver cup he holds in both hands. 

The Bear is the first to go into the other room. Carl tells him to drink all
the contents of the cup and follow him into the "Temple". Bear obeys silently,
pausing only to cup Carl's big low-slung balls playfully in his huge hand as
they turn to leave.

Alone with Gary, my nerves start to tingle in pleasurable anticipation. I catch
myself wishing I could watch what they re doing to that big dumb muscle-man. My
cock's as hard as it's ever been, straining to suck my balls up into its thick
shaft. I see that Gary's turned-on too. 

I lunge at him through the dizzy effects of the wine, and find the feel of his
smooth skin under my rough hands. Nothing ever felt that good, I start to think
that the wine must have an effect of heightening the senses, but drop the
thought in the onrush of sensation as Gary's firm body melts into my
controlling hands. His long thin cock is stretching up towards his navel as he
unfolds back into my arms. I find myself kissing him, tenderly savouring the
unfamiliar taste of his saliva and the urgent appeals of his darting tongue. 

I brush my hand up his smooth yielding body, and realise that this is a moment
less to do with sex than with tenderness. Suddenly Gary has brought out in me a
tender streak that should have been lost along with the key to my first pair of
handcuffs.

When Carl comes in to get me, we're sitting like that in each other's arms,
immobile, wrapped in the warm glow of the doped wine. 

I stand and move over to Carl in silence as he offers the chalice, and I drink
the small amount of red liquid inside it. He turns and I follow through the
velvet draped door and into a blackness punctuated with a circle of big
guttering candles.

PART THREE

Led through a circle of oiled male bodies, the taste of the drink from the
silver cup still bitter in my mouth, I stagger into the circle of candles.
Carl, his body glistening in the candle-light stands beside me in silence.

Mort stands in front of a rough wooden platform or table. He's the only one
wearing robes, and has a black draped garment that hides all but his chest and
impassive face in the darkness. 

High as I am tonight on whatever drugs and booze they have given me, I find his
confident quiet manner very attractive. He's not obviously sexy like the guys
he surrounds himself with, but there's power there - and a great body. If I
ever wanted to play the submissive role sexually, there are very few guys I'd
seek out.  Mort's at the top of the list right now. 

I see the Bear sitting on the floor in one corner, there's a guy each side of
him, like guards, but he doesn't move, he's so turned-on and spaced-out that he
simply stares ahead. At least he's in one piece, I am relieved to register, as
I square my shoulders and look Mort in the eye.

Suddenly I find myself holding his gaze, as if trying to see who will look away
first. He breaks the contest by saying, "Good, courage is needed." 

On his words the guys all around start to chant something. It's like my ears
just started to work for the first time. The noise is hypnotic and incredibly
male, filling my concentration. I glance over at Carl, fascinated as his
muscular chest heaves to the rhythm of his chanting. 

Mort moves over behind me, whispering instructions at me, he takes a black cord
and ties my hands behind my back. I sink to my knees, feeling vulnerable as
hell.

All I can see is Carl, part of the circle of bodies outside the candle ring. 

He is still chanting, sweat mingled with the oil on his bronzed body, he looks
impassive and remote. His cock is real hard, jutting out from his body. I am
kneeling in a white triangle on the floor. As the chanting increases Mort
signals me to stand up. 

Suddenly the chanting stops dead. 

I am seized by two of the guys behind me and walked over to where Mort holds a
bottle of yellowish liquid. The oil is smoothed over my chest, thighs, neck and
the base of my spine. Where it touches, my skin is suddenly on fire, an odd
warmth spreading down to my feet and up to my throbbing brain.

During the ceremony that followed words were said. I was told to repeat words
by rote, leather thongs rained down on my back and rough hands hauled me onto
the wooden platform. My memory is confused. I don't know if every guy in the
room fucked me or just one. I don't know if I drank their collective cum from
the chalice or if I hallucinated it. The exact word-forms the ritual took
aren't important this early in the story. 

I was made helpless and served all those present.  

That was the important aim of the night. 

When they finish with me, I'm hauled roughly over to where the Bear huddles. We
watch as the same process is repeated with young Gary, and all three of us
stand before Mort at the altar, while he makes a small cut in each of our
hands, squeezes out a drop of blood into a small clay pot and makes each of us
repeat an oath and drink again from the chalice.

The oil smeared on our bodies has an almost painfully arousing effect. My cock
is uncomfortably hard, tingling in an unfamiliar way. I can see that the others
are all affected the same way, covered as they are in the same drugged oil. We
are now members of the club. And the fun is only just about to begin. 

Mort doesn't join in the slowly building sex orgy, he stands withdrawn by his
altar, mumbling and making odd signs. Every now and then he throws powder onto
a burner which gives off smoke I guess is mostly hash.

I manage to walk over to Carl. 

His eyes are wild, I don't even think he recognises me. I drag him down onto
the wood floor. Crazy with lust, I rip at his body, tearing at him like an
animal. He responds in a mindless frenzy of pleasure. 

I handle him really roughly. Nothing I do to hurt him does anything but
increase his obvious pleasure. I know his hard smooth body will be bruised and
marked the next day, but we don 't care, so animal-like is our need. I've never
had sex in that state before. I can't tell what is real and what is
horny-fantasy. I taste blood as I force my mouth over Carl's and realise that
the cut on my hand is leaving red smears on our bodies, and that Carl has been
sucking the blood greedily from my fingers. 

Four of us end up in the bathroom, washing cuts and grazes and avoiding each
other's eyes. There's an embarrassing aftermath to such wild selfish enjoyment.
It's six in the morning, we've been at it in the initiation room until just a
few minutes ago, a marathon session during which Carl has picked up a dozen
angry whip-welts on his flanks, I have a loose tooth and teeth grazes on my
cock. The Bear has rope burns around his wrists and throat, and Gary's ass is
bruised and battered. 

Sitting around drinking Mort's good coffee after the others have left, I find
myself wanting to take Carl home with me. The three of us sit in a patch of
sunlight in the main room. Carl is stretched out, naked except for silk running
shorts, white to show off his tan and the odd reddened bruise. Mort intercepts
my gaze and smiles. 

"You're quite hooked on young Carl, aren't you?" he remarks. 

I nod, "Guess you could say that," as non-committal as I can muster. 

Carl doesn't look up at this exchange, he simply closes his eyes and wriggles
his butt down among the cushions, like a cat by the fire. Mort is still
talking, explaining that now I am a member of the "Black Cross Club" there are
meetings and parties three or four nights a week. 

"Is that all there is to it?" I hear myself ask. 

Can't think why the hell I said that, either. All that mystical bullshit never
appealed to me one small piece. Mort looks me hard in the face. 

"I'd rather not go too far into that this morning, some things have to be
talked of at night." He looks out of the window, then adds, "The club works on
different levels. I hope there will be more to it for you than for some others.
Carl doesn't go to the regular meetings, so if you want to see some more of
him, you'll have to earn the right."

That idea sticks in my mind, and I forget what else was said. 

As he sees me downstairs, I get Carl alone for a minute. "I'd like to see you
some night, if you're in town," I venture, patting his ass firmly. 

He looks at me quickly, with an almost panic reaction I can't read. "I live
here with my brother Max, Mort's our master. I have no will, although I hope he
puts us together often." This knock-out speech is delivered in an accented
monotone. He stares hard at his feet, leaving me wondering if I turn and leave
or reply. 

I decide: "OK, kid, maybe I'll take you away from Mort - your brother too."
It's a speech of bravado I don't feel. I just don't want this weekend to end up
on a note of defeat. Or do I mean it? I may well try. 

Monday. I can't work. I turn the business over to my assistant and announce a
two-week holiday for myself. I'm off sex, smoking a lot of grass and have a
self-diagnosed case of sexual obsession. 

I want Carl.  He represents a challenge as well as a perfect full-time slave,
which I've always promised myself. If he comes complete with humpy brother,
that's fine with me. Unfortunately I have no clear plan of how to bring this
liberation about.

Wednesday. I end up calling Mort and inviting myself to the weekly meeting. 

"Come early, and we'll talk," he promises. 

He's in his usual candle-lit chair, smoking his usual Camel and working on some
kind of astrological chart, surrounded with heavy reference-books. He waves me
to a chair, sits back, folds his arms and grins at me in his most magnetic
style. 

"Glad you came back for more," he begins, "I'm going to arrange to demonstrate
to you that you can achieve your goals through the club." 

I confess that there's one thing I want to bring off that I'm going to need a
little help with. 

"Fine," he responds. "Don't tell me what it is, we'll get to work on bringing
it off." 

Thank God he can't read my mind, I think to myself. Knowing that my aim is to
take Carl and Max away from him wouldn't leave him grinning so amiably, I
guess. 

Mort goes to the door and yells for someone to bring us some beers. Max, Carl's
massive brother, wanders in with a couple of cans, and one glass - for Mort. 

I find myself looking hard at him for signs of similarity to Carl. They are
almost as attractive, in fact I can imagine that with a few years and a lot of
working-out, Carl could resemble his older brother exactly some day. I'm
strongly attracted to Max, and knowing he's Carl's brother, and that they work
as a pair, makes me hotter still. 

Mort sees me looking. "Did you know that Max here and Carl are brothers? They
have an interesting story. I acquired them in Mexico City. They've been with me
for almost two years now." 

Max waits with his head bowed while he is the subject of discussion. 

His body isn't as bulky as the Bear, but his big musculature is exceptionally
well defined. Where the Bear is hard and smooth, Max is rigid and sinewy. 

"Strip your gear off, Max, and give our friend a proper look at you," snaps
Mort, in playful mood. 

Max strips, slowly and matter of-factly. He never looks up, just neatly folds
each garment and places them in a pile on the floor beside him. 

Naked he is stunning. Big heavy thighs, flat narrow stomach tapering to a heavy
smooth-skinned chest and up to knots of muscle on arms and shoulders. As he
slips off his shorts his big pendulous balls hang low beneath the long thick
length of his cock. 

I notice that the skin of his belly and buttocks to shoulders is a slightly
different texture. It looks matt, and looking closer I see that it is a mass of
small lines, remnants of scars from years of whips and canes. This evidence of
extensive abuse to his magnificent body is supremely exciting. There's an
unspoken invitation in each inch of toughened flesh. 

Wishing Mort would leave us alone like he did the last time with Carl, I
rearrange me Levis to accommodate a full hard-on.

Mort must have seen me, because he walks over to Max, and pats the flat
stomach, leaving his hand to explore the rigid muscles that tense as the big
man breathes. "He looks even better in action," he remarks, immediately having
Max begin a hard physical work-out, beginning with press-ups.

I sit and watch the big strong body flexing and straining. His buttocks clench
in muscular spasm each time he lifts his big shoulders off the mat. 

Mort puts his booted foot on the back of the taut neck, crushing the trail of
short blond cropped hairs that come to a point at the nape of the huge German's
neck. Max's up to around fifty press-ups, Mort has him stand on his head by the
wall, doing press-ups US marine style. This one's a killer, sweat runs down the
panting form before he's completed five of these tough exercises. The long fat
cock hangs completely flaccid down over Max's belly. His big loose balls flop
from one side to the other invitingly. 

On command Max lies flat on the floor with his hands up over his shoulders and
arches his big supple body into a gymnast's bridge. I can smell his effort -
the gym smell of sweat and male sex. He stretches himself up like this three
times. I can hear muscles snap and click as his body warms up to the effort.
His breath is staccato and jerky. I think this is probably the most exciting
sound in the world.

The door opens and Carl walks in with more beer. He must see his brother naked
and heaving on the floor, but gives no sign of surprise or recognition. He
leaves two more cans and another glass on the table and stands waiting to be
dismissed. 

Mort gives me another wide grin, I can see he's really getting into this little
game. "Strip Carl, and join your brother," he orders. I watch a second pile of
clothes grow on the floor and lie back in my chair to appreciate the
intoxicating differences and thrilling similarities between these two captive
animals. 

As they wrestle - compete physically and submit to each other under the orders
that Mort gives out - I learn something about the nature of power. It may
corrupt, but once tasted, even second-hand, it's a drug you cannot be free of.

Mort leaves the room briefly, during an arm wrestling contest between the two
German male-machines. 

I want to seize the opportunity to issue orders, of my own - hell, I don't want
to give orders, I want to strip off and wade into the fray. But their complete
absorption in their task, and Mort's dominance lingers to prevent me from doing
anything but watch in an orgy of frustration. 

Mort returns and sets them to punching each other's stomach in turn,
increasingly hard with each blow. The winner will be the one whose victim folds
over, out of breath. Max defeats Carl in this, not surprisingly, as he's a far
bigger tougher man. I almost leap out of my chair as Carl's beautiful body
crumples into a knot of agony from his brother's vicious blow.

"That's enough, you two," snaps Mort, "Go shower and get ready to work
tonight." 

The two pick up their clothes, Max bows in my direction with a Nazi click of
his bare heels and they leave without a word. Mort settles himself down eyes me
thoughtfully, and begins to talk.

"I'm going to tell you the history of those two guys. Perhaps it will help you
to decide what you want out of life. . ." 

PART FOUR

Young Wolf Schwarzmann won the Decathlon in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin under
the watchful eye of his patron, a military adviser later to become a
high-ranking officer in the Nazi S.A. 

The relationship of athlete and patron caused a little comment, they were known
to live together. Both were remote and uncommunicative to outsiders. Wolf lived
for his superhuman training schedule, and the Nazi seemed always to be present,
in the background.

That a homosexual, sado-masochistic relationship existed between them was
generally assumed, by those who knew enough to speculate - and there were few
enough of them. 

Wolf married in 1941, an older woman, housekeeper to his patron. The wedding
details were supervised by their patron, who never married and looked to this
union he had arranged for children to be brought up according to his ideas of
the Nazi ethic.

Three wealthy emigres arrived in Rio de Janeiro in March 1945. Wolf and Hilda
Truman, and Herr Truman Snr. settled in a wealthy Rio suburb and lived in total
obscurity until the birth of the first child in 1949. 

When Max was six, a second child, Carl, was born. Hilda Truman died in
childbirth. 

Max and his younger brother Carl were brought up in solitude by their father's
Nazi patron after Wolf's battered remains were found stark naked on the main
Rio highway in June 1957. The circumstances of his death baffled local police
officials, who claimed that he had been ritually tortured and dumped on the
highway to dispose of the body. Investigations seem to have halted at this
point, the files show a verdict of unexplained death by natural causes. 

It is impossible to imagine two boys raised in a sadomasochistic regimen. 

Carl remembers their daily routine beginning at 6am with three hours of hard
physical work on the estate followed before lunch by a training program in the
gymnasium. In the afternoons they were educated privately by a string of
tutors, mostly female and all English. 

Their patron took a personal interest in their physical training, and from the
time Max was 15, he was made to sleep on a mat on the floor at the foot of the
old Nazi's bed. They were brought up to obey every whim of their Patron
instantly, their budding sexuality was channeled into a masochistic mould and a
strange sexual bond was forged between them - born of mutual submission,
physical competition and the strangely formal atmosphere in which they were
brought up. 

The two boys were forced to look to each other for companionship, warmth and
finally sexual release. 

When their master died in 1969, Max assumed command of the household and they
continued their ingrained routine for a few months. Finally discussing with
Carl, and discovering themselves independently wealthy, they decided to travel
together to New York for a few months, to visit a friend of their dead mother. 

Both fantastically good-looking, they suddenly encountered a new environment
where the ground rules were considerably different. Max experimented with a
girl for a few days, before dropping the idea and returning to sleeping in the
same bed as Carl. They explored a few of the leather bars, searching for some
way to reach other people. 

Finding it impossible to pick up sadistic partners who would take on both of
them, or who could satisfy their need, Max experimented with sex without Carl.
This experiment failed.  Whatever happened they were bound together, sexually
and emotionally. Some photographs of Max in a porno magazine first caught the
interest of a photographer friend of mine. He arranged to photograph both
brothers together, and borrowed my house in Florida as his location. 

First meeting Carl and Max, when I drove into the airport to collect them was
an unnerving experience. They spoke very little to each other, tended to answer
a question with a short concise reply. Both called me "Sir" at once, an
affectation I took to be in the American Collegiate tradition although their
English was very good, the twang of German remained.

As the elderly gay photographer posed them and touched the pair of them up out
by my pool, I watched with interest from the house. 

Their total passivity and instant obedience to his tentative commands intrigued
me. At one point the photographer asked Max to return inside the house, so he
could do some solo erotica using only young Carl, who at that time was the
perfect combination of tender youth and hard muscle. 

"No Sir," retorted Max quietly, "we prefer to be together, if that suits you,
Sir." I saw the photographer pause at this, and unable to change the situation,
proceed with the session under Max's respectfully firm eye. 

The photographs taken that day never saw the light of publication. 

Things moved so rapidly, that I found it convenient to purchase the negatives
and originals from my friend the photographer. Carl cooked dinner that first
evening.  It wasn't discussed, it just happened. He vanished during the late
afternoon, and was next seen carefully cutting meat and preparing sauces in the
kitchen. 

Max cleaned the pool, swept the leaves and made up all the beds with military
precision. It started to become clear that a household routine was being
established. I just sat back and let it happen, slipping the pool-boy twenty
dollars when he called that evening, and telling him to come back next week. 

I really began to get the message when an immaculate place setting for two
appeared in the dining-room. Obviously our German guests intended to take up
their stations in the kitchen.

I ate with the photographer, waited on expertly by Max. After dinner I asserted
myself as far as announcing that we should all four take coffee and brandy out
by the pool. Carl and Max appeared in tight white jeans and black T-shirts
Carl's blond hair combed back, Max's short brush looking almost silver,
bleached white by the sun. 

Conversation ranged from the photographer and his photographs to his camera and
back. Max tossed in one remark about Leica cameras' superiority, and otherwise
neither of the two youths uttered a word. 

After dinner the photographer had to catch a flight. I was about to offer to
run all three of them to the air port, when Max offered to take my car and drop
the photographer off. I had assumed that they were all three leaving that
evening, but certainly had no objection to being moved in on by two such
attractive and fascinating men. 

Max left, taking the photographer and his meaningful glances with him. Carl
washed dishes and settled down to watch T.V. in the kitchen. I retired to my
study to read. 

I heard Max return and let himself in by the kitchen door. I picked up my book
again, deciding to let the next move be theirs. It was about an hour later that
a knock sounded on the study door and they both filed in. In the lamplight
their bronzed skin glinted, their white jeans hugged every contour of their
finely-tuned bodies. One leanly muscular and incredibly well defined, the other
taller, huskily bulky with definition almost equal to his brother. 

They stood in front of my desk, like a pair of schoolboys. Max, the older, was
their spokesman. 

"We were wondering, Sir, if you wanted us to leave tonight," he began. 

I replied that I hadn't thought about it, but they were welcome to stay if they
wished. I asked what their plans were. Max looked quickly at his brother, both
faces totally impassive. 

"We wondered if you might have some use for us, Sir. We only ask that you keep
both of us together." 

My voice shook slightly as I responded. 

"What sort of use did you have in mind, Max?" 

There was a pause and it was Carl who replied, 

"We are accustomed to a role of service, we will both provide whatever you
require of us. Our one condition is that if you decide to use either of us
sexually the other must be present. We work best as a team," he smiled a
little, suddenly looking far younger than his years, then recovered himself and
assumed an impassive expression to match his brother's. 

"I shall want to know what I'm getting. . . " I suggested. 

It was Max who replied that they would be delighted to submit to examination,
obedience tests or performance trials immediately, so that the matter could be
settled. 

"We are looking for a situation of this kind, Sir," he added. Pointing out
briefly that they were financially self supporting and would be pleased to
purchase supplies and pay any rent I might decide was suitable. 

I got up from the desk and walked around to where they were standing. Both
bowed their heads and stood legs astride, hands loosely clasped together behind
their backs. They waited for me to take charge of them. 

"Max, remove your brother's clothes," I ordered. 

Max moved fluidly towards his brother, who stood stock still while his jeans
and vest were carefully removed, folded and deposited on a chair.

When Carl was naked, only his rapid breathing betraying his response to events,
Max resumed his old position beside him. 

"Carl, strip your brother," I snapped, putting cold authority into my tone. 

This elicited a sharp "Jawohl" from Carl. I corrected him. "I prefer English."
"Yes Sir," he amended, proceeding to strip Max's big chiseled bulk. 

The cock that started to rise from Max's knotted stomach was long and thick,
lightly ribbed with veins. The massive tool was growing rapidly, responding to
the sexual charge that was building. It jerked at every casual touch from his
brother, who was helping the T-shirt off over his shoulder.

Seeing that they get off on each other so much, I sit back down in my armchair
and just let them stand there. Carl continues to pull the shirt off over Max's
heavy arm, his fingers sensually brush the big stretched bicep. A small
shifting of weight by way of response to this touch from the close-cropped Max,
makes Carl pause. 

He looks over to where I'm sitting, for approval. I make him wait a full
minute, during which they move apart and assume positions again, legs astride,
hands loose behind the back. Both look straight at me for the first time. They
seem to sense what I am about to say. 

"Carl, bite your brother's left nipple." 

I have steered the scene from S/M to sex between the two of them. Max throws
back his head and tenses his arms as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown
over him. The touch of his brother's mouth on his firmed nipple acts like the
electric chair. Orgasm explodes from his cock hitting my wooded desk, and a
moan escapes through his clenched teeth. Carl pulls away, cum running down his
left thigh. 

"I'm sorry, Sir," Max pants, "I shall suffer your discipline for this
wilfulness." He is telling me, and he's steering the encounter back towards
S&M.

Since that first evening we have played a tantalising swing game between S/M
and Incest. They have a remarkable ability to make love to each other while
totally involving the essential third party. They can only have each other
under the domination of some third person. Even with me they subtly fight off
the gratification they want most. Both boys are totally eaten up with desire
for each other. This is the root of their masochism, the reason for their lives
and the result of the perverted upbringing they received. 

In the coming months I would make them tie each other, whip each other's body,
and suck each other's cocks. They were so into masochism itself that they would
like to have pretended that sex played no part in the activity -

"Of course you had orgasms as your younger brother used his belt to redden and
sting your ass. That had nothing to do with being gay"

- And yet neither could disguise the erotic thrill he enjoyed being in a sexual
situation with his brother. They had only to touch accidentally in the shower
to spring apart like frightened rabbits. 

My greatest pleasure was to use the dominance they gave me to press them
together. I could just sit and order Max to heave his massive tool into Carl's
virgin ass-hole. Carl had never been fucked before, but so total was his
submission to my orders that he never made a sound, as his brother's eager cock
smashed a new way into the hot young passage. 

"Of course, Mort added, "they had to steer their way into a sexual relationship
with a gay man. Only in a set-up like ours can the incest be gratified without
guilt." 

He sits back in his chair, glances happily around the workroom and suddenly
reaches the point. 

"I suggested to you that the brotherhood could gratify your principal desire.
At that time your ambition was to have Carl and Max live here with you." He
switched on his magnetic grin. "If you still want that after what you have
heard, I am authorised to offer it to you." 

I am astonished and annoyed by his discovery of my secret idea. I can't claim
it was a plan, as I have previously seen no way to bring it about. 

I make an excuse to fetch more coffee, and return to the table determined to
see just what I have to do to get given the two humpiest bodies in New York as
my total slaves. 

He gets in by asking, "If I'm prepared to send those two over here permanently,
will you participate in some experiments with me?" 

I'm so hot from his description of his pleasures with Carl and Max that I'm
suddenly wondering if I can seduce Mort into bed. I have wanted to see how the
superego would act in bed, since the first evening in his loft apartment. I
pull myself up short, I don't even know if he wants to have sex with me! I
wonder how it is that Mort seems to bring out whatever is lowest and most basic
in me. I know I ought to refuse this offer of his two sex-slaves. I should try
and get-it-on with them some other way. But I know I am going to accept. Mort
has a secret-no one gets to manipulate so many people so intimately unless
there's an unusual influence somewhere. I am attracted to his magnetism, and
desperately want to possess the blond brothers myself.

I never had to voice agreement to the compact. 

We chatted about various members of the club, and the forthcoming initiation of
four new members, one of whom was a black bodybuilder, winner of a recent
physique contest. Mort left, casually mentioning that Carl and Max would arrive
early the next morning. 

"I told them they were to be joining you shortly after we first met. They are
completely willing," he smiled. 

Shattered that he had planned this development so early, I settled down to do
my business correspondence backlog. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the
humpy slaves the next day, and surprised to find myself excited at the prospect
of finding out more about Mort's experiments. I feel sure that sex will play
some large part in these occult rites, and since touching Carl's body I have
consciously committed my life to a sea of endless sex. 

If the devil is at work on me, he's showing a much polished technique. Seems to
have learned a few tricks since his clumsy conjuring tricks in the Middle Ages.


PART FIVE 

As I got to know every inch of Carl and Max's bodies, having them move about my
apartment, exploring each facet of their attraction for me, it's clear that I
shall never crack their mutual shell enough to actually know them as people.
The staggering physique of Max with its granite-hard slabs of muscle, its low
sexual flash-point and enjoyment of hard physical punishment. The youthful
golden flesh of Carl, smooth and yielding to my touch. I have got to know and
to be aroused by every part of them, and even their smell. 

The first night was wild, even by my standards. 

They arrived in the morning, casually lugging cases and grips into the
spare-room closet. They made no comment on having been sent to me. It was
assumed that they wanted to be here, and that I knew that it was what they
wanted. 

Max discovered my small gymnasium right away, and asked permission for them
both to utilise it during the afternoon while I was working. I dropped in on
them twice. Their workout was tough and demanding. A stench of warm sweat
permeated the small room, Carl was performing bench presses rivulets of sweat
running down his chest. 

Max, also slick with a fine covering of glossy sweat, performed mat exercises
in a demanding machine-like style, every movement a straight line of uniform
speed. Neither man paused in his labour at my approach. I ran one hand across
the wet nape of Carl's neck, and returned to my typewriter. In their work-out
they were totally self-contained, although I could interrupt at any time, they
took the procedure so seriously that I decided to leave them to their shared
ordeal. 

Showered and scrubbed they appeared to prepare an evening meal. My kitchen was
scrubbed and polished, a bath was run for me, and Carl presented himself at the
bathroom door to wash me. I'm not used to this kind of attention, but can
certainly get off on the novelty of it. Mort must be missing all this I
reflected, wondering for the hundredth time why he had made me a present of the
pair, and what he would exact as his price. 

Clean and relaxed, under the subservient eye of young Carl, I was asked to lay
on my bed to be massaged. I adore being massaged and Carl - stripped naked for
the task sporting a full hard-on - massaged my back with a touch that sent
waves of relaxation down to my toes. 

I turned onto my back, and gazed up as he massaged each muscle of my chest and
stomach. His face was lost in concentration, I grunted for him to repeat a
particular movement, and he complied instantly, managing to improve the motion
of his hands until I felt submerged beneath his touch. I had not allowed him to
use oil, so he sprinkled a small amount of talc on his hands at each pause. He
never touched my swelling cock. The impersonal dedication to his work was the
headiest stimulus he could have provided. I was as horny as hell, and planned
the hours that would follow in minute detail, drunk with the erotic
possibilities that existed before me. 

My compact gymnasium served a dual purpose. In the ceiling I had provided
sturdy steel rings, the twins of which had been imbedded into the floor by a
puzzled builder's workman some years before. Shifting the equipment into a
recess in one wall I could clear the floor area for whatever sport I devised. 

The lighting could also be dimmed so that only one amber puddle of light
illuminated the area. As Max and Carl knelt naked at my feet, motionless except
for their even breathing, I decided to strip naked also for the encounter. I
wanted to start on their level, asserting my control in subtle ways, rather
than standing over them in my leathers. 

Carl rose instantly on my command and gently removed my clothes. Never once
letting his eyes venture as high as my face. He folded each garment, then
returned unbidden to his kneeling position beside his hunky brother. I was
about to order Max's experienced mouth to work on my hardening cock, when I
found that both of them were looking up at me. 

"May we be forgiven for asking one question, Sir," began Max earnestly. I
nodded, slightly annoyed that my chain of lust should be interrupted. 

"We have been accustomed to serve in whatever way our master may require. Our
energies have long been directed to our master's ends, that is our function. We
like to imagine ourselves as a generator of energy. May we drain our energies
into your purpose, Master?"

I've no idea what they mean, but I see Carl nod slightly in agreement, and
realise that this must be important to them, for one of them to speak unbidden.


Plunging in the dark, I inquire: "Are you afraid that I might waste your
energy, then?" 

Carl replies quickly, "No, Sir, we would never suggest such a thing, to serve
you is all we ask. We only wonder if you would like us to show you a little of
what we have been trained to do." 

These two have a habit of running the show in their own way. I suspect now, not
for the first time, that their submission is probably the most effective method
of controlling others that they could employ. 

This is a watershed in the subtle interface between them and myself. I know
that if I blow this one, I shall no longer be in the driver's seat, also if I
act wrongly I may lose the right to command them. 

I am silent for a few minutes, during which they resume their passive waiting
stance. 

"I want to think more about what you offer. I cannot accept unless the time is
right and we are on the same wavelength," I finally reply. I hope this sounds
as if I have some idea what they are speaking of. I try to sound knowledgeable,
and know that I must play for time to consult Mort further. I daren't unleash
whatever can of beans they want to open if I am to be caught unawares by it. 

"We understand, Sir, and appreciate your wisdom. We have found a truly superior
master," Max concedes gruffly. "Would you like us to leave you to your
meditations, Sir?" he adds. 

I see Carl look up, and he chips in: "Perhaps tonight we may be allowed to
cater for your bodily needs alone, Sir?" he asks. 

Now I'm back on solid ground. That kid's got a big meaty hard-on to deal with.
He's asking for sex in the only way he knows how, and has no intention of
letting his brother's mystical ideas cheat him of his release. 

"Yes that's what we shall do," I get in hastily. Breathing a sigh of relief and
stroking my aching erection. "You can start by sucking my cock, you worthless
bastard." I have a handful of Carl's fine blond hair and force his willing face
into my crotch. "Max, I want to feel your tongue up my asshole - Move!" 

Alert to my commands it will not be easy to maintain it unless I can find out
more. The sex that follows is great, perhaps my mind is slightly distant, I get
my rocks off in style, watching Max lick the cum from my stomach and chest
while his brother bobs and weaves to extract every drop from his bulky
brother's own massive tool. 

I look down at the two golden ridged bodies on the floor and wonder again. If
this is second-best for them, what is it they wanted? Could it be better than
what we just had? I suddenly believe that it probably could be, must be. I
shall call Mort first thing the next morning. 

They sleep like cats, stretched naked across the foot of my big bed. Both fall
almost instantly into still, dreamless sleep, and I watch both wake at almost
the same instant, cocks hard and eyes excited and bright. 

It's a new day in my much altered household. 

Mort seems to be expecting my call. "Good, yes I have kept this afternoon free,
if things go well we shall also work tonight," he invites. "Come for lunch." 

Carl makes breakfast while Max shaves me with obvious pleasure. Bathed again,
this time by Max, massaged and assisted to dress, I swing my car out onto the
sunny city street in high spirits. I'm actually excited about the odd sexual
mysteries my two slaves are anxious to lead me into. And I'm actually horny
again at the prospect of again entering Mort's sexual hothouse. I may be
neglecting my business somewhat, but life seems too good to worry much. 

Lunch is a happy crowded meal. 

The Black Cross Club are setting off for a bike trip into upstate New York. Ten
or so leather-clad humps are eating noisily when I arrive. Seeing their
energetic enjoyment, knowing that they will soon fuck, whip, bite and orgy
themselves to exhaustion at every opportunity on the long freeway, I half wish
I could join their simple greedy company. 

Mort has gathered into his curious club some of the most powerful sex drives
I've ever encountered. Whether the club brings this quality out in them, or
they bring it to the club, I can't decide. Their company is pleasant, the meal
delicious and I am sorry to see them depart on their raucous expedition. 

After lunch Mort sits down with me in his study.  He's relaxed and charming as
usual. No sign of missing his two willing slaves. It's almost as if he were
glad to be free of them. A feeling I can't quite understand, but have some
glimmer of. 

"How are your two house guests settling in?" he inquires amiably. I tell him
they're fine. Then bring up the subject that's on my mind. 

"About our proposed experiments?" I begin. "Would they have something to do
with drawing energy?" Mort takes time to reply, sinking back into his seat and
lighting a Camel. 

"I see the boys have been talking," he replies flatly. "I suppose talk was all
that happened?" 

I nod, and he visibly relaxes. 

"Good. I was hoping that they wouldn't precipitate my ideas before I was sure
you were ready." I can't reply, as I have no idea what he's talking about. 

After a pause he continues, "I shall explain by telling you slightly more about
the Black Cross Club. You must realise that I didn't set it up for fun, the fun
is for the members. My purpose is one of exploration. I'm a student of people,
and naturally gather specimens for observation. That which is hidden in man,
waiting to be released, is my special concern. I'm an explorer of the
unconscious, and to explore scientifically I need the willing help of unusual
men. Men like yourself, who have a strong masculine drive and the intelligence
to channel it." 

With a smile he adds, "Channel it, with my help, that is." 

I say that I have realised much of that, and start to wonder what this crap
could possibly have to do with two hot masochist studs waiting for me to
satisfy them in some as yet unknown way. 

"I see that the theoretical side doesn't interest you much," Mort acknowledges.
"I think that may change when you realise its potential, but I am happy to
stick to basics." Then he simply asks: "What do you want to know?" 

I expect to be told what I want to know, but manage to piece the question
together. 

"I want to know how Carl and Max expect me to use them," I blurted out. "I also
want to get started on our experiment, whatever that is to be." 

Mort laughs. "You just want everything, and you want it now. Okay, firstly,
Carl and Max. They expect their master to use them for food. They are used to
feeding psychic energy to their mentor. That old Nazi was a fully fledged
vampire in his own way. I continued the tradition for experimental purposes.
Now you've got the problem." 

I can't deny that my new pair of muscle-bound pets do pose a problem. 

Mort continues, "You see, they need to be drained and put to good use. Their
perversion can only be supported on low energy levels. They require perpetual
domination, and no one man can possibly provide it without help." 

Mort suddenly stands and crosses the room to where I sprawl in a low armchair.
Walking up to me, he slowly reaches out his hand and places his flattened palm
on my neck. I can smell his subtle individual smell, physical nearness to him
is thrilling, sexy but unfamiliar. His hand feels incredibly hot planted on my
neck. I can feel his fingers drumming almost imperceptibly and the warmth on my
neck increases steadily.

Mort's voice is a low growl. "I want you to imagine that I am drawing the life
energy slowly out from your body into mine, he instructs. The picture is vivid
in my mind. I can feel myself getting weaker, but a strange peace descends at
the same time. And I still feel horny. Mort breaks the contact suddenly,
rubbing his palm gently and looking thoughtful. 

"It's not difficult to believe that I have taken power from you by that touch.
Of course it's a tiny amount, and you can easily convince yourself that I
tricked you into feeling what you did." 

"I believe I felt a warmth and an ebbing sensation," I mutter hoarsely. 

"Good," he replies, "we have a basis to talk on." 

He explains that there are many interactions between people. Some exchange of
energy of a level we can't detect with instruments, he says, is a very
satisfactory theory for the odd ways humans behave around each other. He asks
if I have ever met a person I couldn't bear to be near, who has made me feel
oddly listless and depressed. I reply that an elderly aunt of mine had that
effect. He nods, knowingly. 

"You see, she probably doesn't even know she's feeding on your manhood, she
just can't live without the power she draws out of other people." 

I ask what this has to do with sex, and Mort explains that there is "low energy
magic", sometimes called "white magic", using the small amounts of overspill
energy that are floating about free. "Power Magic" on the other hand, draws
upon the immense power of the human unconscious. It involves drawing from
particularly vital human beings, using them as a generating station. For this
reason it is called "Black Magic", and accused of being an evil practice. What
most people don't realise is that even the Christian church employs such
methods in its rituals, drawing power from its followers. Indeed many people
utilise this power from others all their lives without knowing how to do it
properly, or realising what they are doing. 

I begin to see why sex is so involved in all this. I suggest that the sex act
is the most usual place for this exchange of power. I can remember feeling
amazingly energetic after sex scenes with particular guys. Guys I searched out
again, mostly because of their energising effect. The idea is new to me, and it
has certainly never occurred to me that I would meet a pair of willing victims
for this kind of sexual vampirism. 

Mort explains that there are a few males with a remarkable capacity to generate
this odd power. He suggests that these frequently unbalanced individuals
desperately need to be unburdened of this surplus energy they carry, as they
are not equipped to use it themselves. "Those who make it can almost never use
it; those of us who know how to use it don't have the raw materials to generate
it," he explains. 

"And you think I could use this power in some way?" I ask, absorbed in his
story, and lulled into belief by his animal nearness. The smell of him still
excites me, the prospect of these currents of sexual energy flowing from a
submissive body to a feasting strong one, turns me on. It fits in with all my
sadistic kinks, and is an image I know will remain in my mind permanently. 

"What do I do with this power if I accept it from Carl and Max?" I ask. 

Mort chuckles. "That's for you to decide. You may either drink it like wine and
take the consequences of your drunkenness; or you can employ it and press it
into service for yourself. Whatever you eventually do with it, I shall ask you
to put some of it into my hands. I have a project on hand, which was the
experiment I spoke to you of." 

I wonder why he needs me. Why he can't draw this unlikely power direct from the
young slaves I don't know. But I'm anxious to find out more practical details,
and don't mind playing his experiment game. Mort has never failed to provide a
further stimulating experience at each turn. A talent like that has to be gone
along with, I decide. 


PART SIX

"I think we've talked enough," Mort ends his speculations on sex and power. "I
imagine you will be thinking back over your past experiences and identifying
those who drew you particularly strongly as unstable power sources." 

I haven't thought of it, but as he prompts I start to list the half-dozen main
sexual obsessions of my life, each one fits his description of a generator.
They may not have resembled Carl and Max, but they al1 hurled themselves into
the role of victim as they stumbled through life. Each was incomplete in
personality, yet oddly magnetic and each had moved on before I could locate the
secret key to possessing him. 

"Someone like yourself with natural predatory instincts will naturally be drawn
to likely power victims as fuel. Unless you know what the process is that draws
you, you will not be able to use them. Remember they are blindly searching for
someone to tap the energy. If you fail they will loose interest and seek the
next person they sense as a latent predator. Such people are attracted to
strength, and if you know how to put them to use, they will flock to your feet
begging you to feed on them." 

Mort's words are stirring up a big insistent erection in my leather pants. I
realise that the guy's seriously describing a megalomaniac's dream. It could be
that he's full of crap. But it fits, and when I'm turned-on I don't ask
questions anyway.

The small room Mort leads me into is one I haven't suspected existed before. He
calls it his "work room", but it looks more like a private chapel. I'm spooked
a little by the atmosphere, but still turned-on as he leads me over to the
purple-draped altar-table like an overheated bull with a ring through the nose.
He leaves me alone for a minute, sharply ordering me to "Strip". I remove my
clothes, aware of the curious smell of stale incense and weed in the warm dark
room. I find a chair in the corner and dump my gear in it. I then stand by the
altar and wait, concentrating on trying to slow my excited breathing. 

The door opens almost silently. Mort enters - also naked. He really doesn't
have a bad body. Great thighs and nice wide shoulders, I notice in the low
light. He walks over to me with a single piece of red cord. On the altar are a
small clay pot, a burner with a pile of powder incense, a wooden rod, a long
ceremonial sword and a sharp-looking black handled knife. There are also odd
objects like a metal disc and a vase of red poppies. 

The door closes silently on a spring, and the naked form of Mort walks
deliberately and smoothly towards me. He picks up the bottle of ceremonial oil
from the altar and smoothes it tingling over my belly, arms, neck and back. He
lights the burner and sprinkles the dark powder over the small gas flame. It's
the smell of the oil that hits me first, while Mort struts about the room,
making signs and chanting, I stand, eyes closed, feeling the drug and the
excitement take over control of my body. I hear a movement to my right, look
quickly and see young Gary is also in the room. The young gymnast with his slim
firm body and perfectly modelled gentle face seems vulnerable and out of place
amid the roaring approach of the drug and the crude power that seems to emanate
from the calm figure of Mort. 

Mort leads Gary into the circle on the floor in which we both stand. The
younger guy allows himself to be drawn toward the altar table, where Mort's
strong hands are ready, holding out the red cord, as if to bless it. 

As he ties the red binding around the vulnerable throat, Mort lets his finger
travel down over Gary's smooth round muscled shoulders and down his back to dip
between the orbs of his perfect compact ass. I watch his deliberate pleasurable
stroking with a catch in my throat. The oil has driven the sexual desire in me
into top gear. I can feel the tip of my rigid cock crawling out towards the
smooth yielding body of the frightened, submissive Gary. 

The trim, strong body allows Mort's firm hands to bend it back onto the altar.
He lies on his back, feet still planted on the floor, his head supported on the
table. His hands drop to his sides, as he anticipates what may be done to him
next, a gesture of yielding to whatever Mort may require of him. 

Mort's hand brushes the flat stomach, tracing the straight line that points
downward to his long semi-erect cock. A small line of golden hairs catches the
lamp-light, crushed under the unscrupulous hand. I pull myself up for a second.
How can a patch of fluff on a boy's belly get us so worked up? It's hopeless,
if I don't get into some kind of action in a few seconds I'll shoot cum all
over that warm firm belly myself. My cock feels like a steam boiler without a
safety valve. God, that oil's gotten to me, I want to laugh out loud, but
excitement bordering on fear prevents it. 

I feel a touch on my tortured genitals. Mort has another red cord, and is down
on one knee tying it tightly around the base of my cock and balls. He threads
the two ends up over my balls, and winds it skilfully about the ball sac,
forcing my nuts to squeeze up under my dripping cock. When he has finished he
leans forward. I can feel his breath cold on my stretched balls. He playfully
flips his tongue up my thigh, inside to the scrotum. My body rebels and
explodes into pain and pleasure. I throw back my head and bellow like a wounded
animal. When I look down again, Mort is standing beside the prostrate form of
the helpless Gary on the altar. The desire to bring my hand up to touch my
throbbing cock is too strong to resist any longer. I suddenly find that I can't
move my arms at all. I am locked in my position, and realise that I cannot
relieve the pressure of my screaming nuts. I can't move or stop the
increasingly near orgasm, but I know I shall not be able to cum until Mort
allows it. 

Breathing hard through clenched teeth, I see Mort rubbing his palms over Gary's
light skin. He strokes his proud chest, rubbing the small firm nipples gently,
next letting his palms slide down to feel the damp frightened sweat beneath the
strong young arms. Now he is brushing his fingers over the boy's lips. Gary
moans and moves his legs aimlessly. I notice that his half-closed eyes are
focused on my oiled body and he is watching my rigid caged cock as it jerks
slightly in impossible attempts to unload it's creamy release. 

As I watch through staring eyes, Mort lowers his hand over the erect young
cock. The big muscular hand glides the length of Gary's slender tool. The lean
stretched body squirms as the hand possesses his throbbing cock, his head moves
in circles, his eyes remaining locked to my lower body. The red cord circling
his throat looks like a dark line in the dim light. The smoke from the burner
is adding a swimming of the senses to my drugged stupor. I've been on the point
of orgasm now for about ten minutes, cramps are starting to lock my stomach
muscles, my cock is like ice, slowly melting over a painful flame. 

Gary's lithe lean body is beaded with sweat. The drugs in the air are getting
to him too. His eyes roll wildly; his mouth is open, the tongue circling the
lips. Mort seems unaffected, there's a slow deliberation in the movements of
his muscular body. His fingers trace the line of red cord, and move up to enter
Gary's mouth. The big fingers press into the moist cavity. Gary's lips brush
their roughness, his tongue darting lovingly over them and the boy's excitement
increases as they thrust down his defenceless throat. A surge of blood seems to
bust in my legs, I'm in the throes of an orgasm that sears my entire body, not
touching my cock, which still aches for an orgasm of its own. 

Mort looks over towards me. Thank God, he's beckoning me over, and my legs are
moving, as if by themselves, hundreds of miles from my brain, which is filled
with sex, overflowing, into my hard cock. As I reach the altar, and look down
on Gary's lovely trim musculature, a sudden movement from Mort catches my eye.
He has picked up the altar knife, and with a single motion brings it down to
give a hard prick to Gary's shoulder. Mort grasps the hair on the back of my
head, and forces my spinning head down the few inches to Gary's wounded flesh.
My numb mouth connects with warm young skin, and I taste the salty tang of his
blood. Mort's hand is working around my buttocks. His touch brings the orgasm
that throbs in me to boiling point. I kiss the young flesh at my mouth, sucking
the moist salty blood into my hungry sensitive mouth. 

As Mort's voice begins to chant, I suck harder, my passion directed into the
odd love-bite I am making on the yielding warm skin. I rock my head from side
to side, grinding my hard teeth into the bruise I am making on the boy's
shoulder. I hear him moan, his body thrashes in protest and subsides into
pleasure. I find that I can move my arms, it's as if his blood has returned my
strength. I remember what Mort has shown me about drawing power. I stroke the
panting young body, letting my fingers draw power from his immense physical
vitality, just as my greedy passionate mouth draws the life from his shoulder.
With Mort's skilful hands caressing my trembling body, I seem to rise like an
elevator as I drink in the sexuality of the gymnast's beautiful body. I don't
need orgasm now. I am lifted to a point where I imagine I can feed directly on
the lust trapped inside myself. 

When Mort's hand reaches my cock, I jerk and nearly fall. Only clutching Gary's
warm body painfully keeps me upright. He responds to this brutal grip with
obvious pleasure. He moans and parts his sturdy young legs. I brush one hand
over the downy hairs inside his taut thigh, he moans again. The cords tight
around my cock and balls seem to have grown to be part of me. Mort's hand
slides over my slick cock-head, causing a buzz of pleasure. I tear my mouth
away from Gary's bruised shoulder, seeing the curious whiteness and lack of
blood around the cut Mort made. He helps me lift his strong young legs, and
Mort moves behind his head and receives each leg as I lift it above the table. 

Gary's beautiful young ass is now level with my caged cock. Mort slips his
hands behind Gary's knees, folding the boy's legs into his heaving body. I
reach up for his athlete's hard pectorals, ripping his nipples between clumsy
fingers. He moves and groans in ecstasy as I move towards him and touch his
pink hole with my trembling cock. As I rape the warm young body my mouth is
drawn again to the reddening mark on Gary's shoulder. Bending my body heavily
forward onto his doubled-up legs, I bring my mouth down again onto the yielding
skin. Mort's hand on my head presses me on and goads me into again drinking the
vital power of this willing. victim. 

Gary's skin begins to feel colder and clammy under my touch. His ass-hole
clamps at my shaft spasmodically. It's not the small amount of blood that I
have drawn from his healthy body, I realise that I have drawn most of the
life-power from him, feasting on his masculinity and physical strength. I can't
stop pounding into him, I thrust again and again into the puckering entrance,
deep into his heated bowels. Climax approaches and I hear my own voice growling
and crying out. Suddenly Mort is beside me. Strong hands pulls me back, and I
am spun around so fast it makes me dizzy. My hands claw at Gary's still body,
desperately trying to re-enter the safe thrilling asshole, but Mort is too
quick, his hand milks my big cock and the red cords conspire to help him steal
the cum I so desperately want to spring inside young Gary's innocent depths.
But I can't care any more, the pleasure is too strong, and as Mort twists one
of my nipples brutally in his teeth, I explode into orgasm, rocking back and
forth in blindness, as gallon after gallon of hot cum spurts from my melting
cock. 

Mort catches my release carefully in a clay bowl, allowing himself the last few
jerks of explosion as his head drops and his hungry mouth sucks up the last
drops of my load greedily. Gary is sitting up, recovered slightly from the
total draining he has received. I am aware that much of the elated force has
left my body. Mort has trapped the fruits of our experiment in his bowl,
drinking only enough for himself to recharge his larger-than-life persona. I'm
still bounding with energy after an orgasm. I have learned the technique of the
sexual vampire, and have received my real initiation into the brotherhood that
hides behind the Black Cross Motorcycle Club.

PART SEVEN

The weeks passed, Max and Carl worked hard to keep me submerged in a sea of
domestic efficiency and sex. I was playing with the two slaves every night,
practising the various roles they humbly pressed upon me. The gymnasium of my
apartment became the most important place in my world, they practically lived
there, and both took to sleeping curled up beside the wooden altar Max had
built. I found that my business affairs prospered, I fired one assistant and
hired another from the Club. The everyday matters took care of themselves and
my income took a steep rise upward. The new dynamism I brought to living amazed
and exhausted my friends. I even suffered a severe warning from my doctor, when
I ran into him drinking on Christopher Street; he diagnosed amphetamines, and
was surprised to hear that I hadn't drunk any alcohol or used any drugs of the
regular kind for three weeks or more. 

A familiarity with the two German bodybuilders grew into an interdependence.
Both parties needed the other, this need grew as the time passed. Max, being
the stronger began to draw more of my attention. Carl, perfect object of sexual
desire became a treat for use during moments of leisure and relaxation. The two
young slaves moving through the days like hard-muscled sandboys. Contentment
radiated from them. The nightly session in my gymnasium/playroom was the focus
for all their waking hours. They worked out until their fabulous muscles
screamed for mercy. Pints of eager sweat dampened the equipment and floor. The
room became impregnated with their odour and heavy with the building power we
kindled each night. 

They become more openly slavish, and would sit patiently in the corner of my
room, sometimes for hours on end, eyes cast downward trembling in readiness to
obey any command that I might issue. 

More often they were naked in the apartment; I would find Max in particular,
naked and quivering with arousal, standing to rigid attention near the door
when I came out of my study. Carl would lie naked face down on my bed,
sometimes for hours, his legs spread invitingly, the invitation unspoken, but
irresistible whenever I came in to change or to use the bathroom. They were
never without each other completely. The other would always materialise
whenever one of them encountered, triggered desire in me, and the desire would
usually be triggered six or seven times a day. 

Our evening meal was prepared by Carl around seven each night. I got used to
eating earlier, because by ten we invariably entered the gym, dimmed the
lights, reached for the stimulating oil and closed ourselves away until the
small hours. This too became ritualised. I would find them naked and standing
to attention in front of the altar when I came in. The oil would be ready, all
the ritual tools they collected from Mort the day after my real baptism would
be cleaned and laid out for me. 

Max, whose big hard body required stronger treatment than his golden-skinned
brother, would climb up on the alter unbidden, stretching his muscle-knotted
limbs out and throwing back his head so that it hung down over the altar's
edge. While his brother stood at one side and gazed upon us, I would begin by
fondling and caressing his massive thighs and corded stomach. Max's eyes would
glaze, as the oil was smoothed around his throat and wrists by his brother.
Carl took pride in preparing his big strong brother for my attention. Once I
strapped up Max's big low-slung balls, and first touched his thick heavy cock,
he would spring to instant erection. The blood forced its way up into his
upright tool, pushing the drops of lubrication juice out from its round head. 

I had a big array of shackles, whips, clips and canes. I would first fix Max's
thick wrists into leather circlets which bound them to the table at his sides.
Then I would stretch a leather strap around his throat so his head and
shoulders were pinned still. Straps also held his thighs and ankles. The table
could be tilted up at a 45 degree angle, to allow me to hang him suspended on
an easily accessible slope. Getting him into this position, his brother
standing by his head, I would get to work heavily on his exposed belly, thighs
and pectorals. The punishment which that big heaving body could take, as I
watched him convulse to each stroke of my belt across his muscle-strung
stomach, amazed me.  His big heavily muscled thighs also received a steady
growing stream of blows and the cords around his balls supported weights, which
Carl kept increasing in increments as his punishment progressed. 

The warm animal stench of him, as he writhed and his body arched to meet each
new blow, always threw me into an aroused fury. With Car tucked warm between my
legs, sucking my engorged cock, I tortured Max's erect tits. His big hard
nipples, high on the slab of pectoral muscle each side of his chest, were
incredibly sensitive. The least touch of a finger in the area around each
nipple would cause him to groan and jerk against his sturdy bonds. Tilting the
board so that his head was pointing downwards, I could sit over his mouth, with
strong jawed nipple clips on chains like reins. By exerting pressure on these
agonisingly pleasurable controls, I could force his skilful, but reluctant
tongue up into my sensitive ass-hole, while Carl, his blond hair wet with
exertion, would impale his tender throat on my hard shaft. I corrected Carl's
technique occasionally with my belt, which hung over one of his shoulders in
unspoken threat, until he displeased his master and it curled down onto his
broad hard back. 

At some point, before any of us had shot our cum, I would apply the oil to
myself, and the two slaves would lay supine on the altar as my magnetised and
greedy mouth devoured the maleness of them. My fingers sung as they felt the
warmth of two strong muscular necks. My first kiss was to each mouth in turn, I
would then gently caress Carl's nipple with my lips. He would begin to purr
like a cat and a muscle in his thigh would twitch involuntarily, as his passion
mounted. 

Max's nipples received a similar treatment with my teeth; I could draw blood
from those fat hard tits with only increasing moans of pleasure from the bulky
stud who lay slick with sweat under my touch. I didn't need to drink their cum,
or drink their blood. As each neared climax he would scream the words of some
magic formula taught by Mort. At this signal I could absorb the gift of
masculine charge through my trembling hands on the heaving convulsed body. Or I
could drink it from the mouth in a brutal crushing kiss. 

After both had given me their precious life-force, I would force my own release
from their compliant bodies, pressing every device in my playroom into strong
service. With revitalised new blood coursing through my veins, I would string
up one hot body after the other. Using the tender reddened ass and belly to
vent my lust with belt or whip. Each movement my punishment produced was like
strong wine, and when finally I plunged my cock into Carl's tender asshole and
my fist up into Max's taught trembling depths and released my fiery cum we
would all three be exhausted and glowing. 

I would shower and collapse on my bed after these nights, barely able to sleep
for the strength and vitality sparking inside me. The mellowed slaves would
either stretch their vulnerable bruised bodies over the end of my giant bed in
a tangle of contended warmth and muscle, or spend the vigil of the night beside
our altar, recapturing in their dreams the pleasure they had tasted. 

I was mildly concerned at the reaction of my friends to my new domestic and
sexual exclusivity. Guys I used to see for a drink, dinner or an S/M scene
would drop by, admire my new room-mates and then usually leave early, not to
return, and too embarrassed to complain that my obsession excluded them. While
my work thrived, I had almost no social life outside Carl and Max and our
occasional visits to Mort. 

Mort would call me once a week or so, and request a repayment from the
energy-bank he had built in me. 

I would submit to his use with a will, the outlet his experiments provided for
my masochistic streak was essential to the maintenance of the top-gear
domination I dispensed at home. Mort must have known this, and over the next
few weeks, he took me under his cold dominance, far beyond the limits I had set
for myself in masochistic sessions before. 

I was used as brutally as any willing slave ever was. Each session would end,
however, with Mort collecting my cum in the bowl, which he would carefully
cover with a dark silk cloth and secrete behind his altar. I know he believed
that it contained greit deposits of male power, and for his occult purposes
that power could be released and directed. I didn't ask his purpose, for me it
was still a sexual outlet - more complete than any outlet before, and
increasingly important in my life, but sex was sex, and magic and voodoo
weren't for me; not to be taken seriously outside the bedroom. 

My habitual vacation for the week of the Fourth of July approached. Where was I
going? asked friends. A few ventured to offer hospitality, but they couldn't
really accommodate three of us, they feared. Carl produced three air tickets to
Berlin on the Friday morning. My slaves respectfully asked that I allow them to
travel with their master to visit the German Chapter of the Black Cross Club.
Mort was heavily in favour, in fact, I suspected it was his idea. I agreed
readily, and we arrived at the airport in plenty of time for the evening direct
flight. 

Travelling with two slaves who insist on calling you "Sir", takes a bit of
adjusting to. I shrink with embarrassment when Max storms the first class
hostess and demands: My master be seated right in the front with empty seats
behind. The woman is so taken aback that she looks hard at me to see if she
recognises the V.I.P., and complies instantly with his instructions. 

Carl later informs me that he has heard her balling out the Captain for not
passing on the V.I.P. warning. Word seems to have travelled ahead, because
there are two airline officials to meet us at West Berlin airport, and we're
slipped so fast through customs and immigration that we're five minutes early
for the limousine meeting us from the Club. 

The boss of the German Chapter is a guy of about fifty, a taut wiry man, with a
steely crop of grey hair, and bright hard aquamarine eyes. His house is in fact
practically a castle. Or as near to it as a discreet architect could come in a
major city. The discretion appears to have deserted him when he created the
interior, however, as its baroque grandeur and touches of Moorish decadence
contrast wildly and compete to saturate the eye. 

Eric, the leader, presides over dinner like a benevolent despot. His charm and
indulgence towards us is bottomless. His stern formality with members of his
household and the few members present is like granite. Not the kind of guy to
risk offending, I think, although his polite welcome for Max and Carl and the
great fuss he has made of me is impressive. 

The two slaves have never visited the German Chapter of the Club before,
although they've run across Eric on one of his frequent trips to New York. I
discern that they must have been loaned to him during his visit, as the
atmosphere between them is certainly charged with something extra. The odd meal
finished, two of the local lieutenants are deputised to take us on a guided
tour of the city. I get loaned a bike, and tell Carl to get on behind me. Max
rides behind the younger of the two leather boys. 

We thunder through the dark city streets, stopping to walk slowly through two
gay bars, staying only a few minutes in each, and not drinking anything.
Obviously our two tall silent guides on their powerful machines are hunting for
particular people in these establishments, rather than showing us the sights. 

I get used to the big bike between my legs, although the vibration at the
speeds I'm being led is turning me on almost as much as the hard clinging
embrace of Carl, whose thinly-clad body is pressed against my back obviously
turned on by the speed of the bike and the apparent danger as we corner in
tight formation. 

We approach countryside before we finally stop again. The three bikes are
passing fewer buildings, and when we find the next port of all it is one of a
series of large low buildings, which look like warehouses or barns. At the last
dark building we slow and halt. The two leather-clad bikers bound up the
concrete steps, followed by an eager Max. I pause only long enough to make sure
the bike is O.K., and to grab Carl's tits hard in my gloved hands, and thrust a
rough tongue down his ready throat.

The club barn shows no light outside, every window being masked over so that it
looks empty. The only telltale clue that it is filled with some of Berlin's
wilder young men is the long line of silent bikes parked up and down the local
streets. 

As we file in the outer door, we hear the pounding of music somewhere inside
the building. The inside is huge, very high, and divided with a criss-cross of
solid dividing walls into five or six huge rooms. Each room we enter is more
filled with people. 

Finally, we reach where the music is playing, to find a big room packed with
guys drinking; fucking and a few dancing. A big black cross symbol hangs on
heavy chains from the rafters in the roof, but although the air is heavy with
amyl nitrate, I know this isn't the place where the heavier rites are played,
just by the atmosphere. I can sense, much to my own surprise that no-one in the
room except one big black guy by the bar, is involved in the higher orders of
the Club. These buys are just here for the thrill and the sex. Their function
is to generate the right lust-charged atmosphere and to attract suitable
recruits.

Quite a few heads turn as we enter the inner room. Carl and Max attract a good
deal of attention, and I realise that with a heavily exclusive club like this
there can't be much turn-over in members. A new member is an event, most of
these guys know each other well. Of course, they were hand-picked to be the
hottest bunch in Berlin, but anyone new to appear is an instant star. Also as
we aren't new members they know we are important. To be important around here
usually means something specially heavy sexually. 

The big black guy comes over to us and speaks to one of our escorts. He then
walks up to me and after looking hard at me for a second, drops his eyes to the
floor. When he speaks, it is with a slight American accent to his English. His
voice is low and lazy. 

"Hi Sir, welcome to Berlin. I'm Nelson, boss slave around here. Eric has had me
in harness for three years now. He wants me to help you guys get settled in." 

He gestures towards Carl and Max, who have also assumed a submissive stance to
match his - they always pick up the first hint of a sexual situation and get
right into role. I find myself feeling proud of them, it's good to show these
guys that we do things properly back home. 

Nelson obviously earns his title "boss slave", by running this club for Eric on
a rod of iron. It's odd how a masochistic guy can have that kind of drive and
authority, but it often happens. Those who like to be the boss in life
frequently reverse and need to be dominated sexually. I also notice that
although this black dude is certainly a great physical specimen, he isn't bulky
like Max; but his arms shoulders and chest are probably as heavily muscled. His
torso tapers down to a very narrow waist and hips, which then bulge out into
massive thighs. He looks slightly top heavy in tight T-shirt and leather jeans,
but I can tell that his body will be superb naked - which is how I want it - as
soon as possible. 

I can also tell that he is very turned on by me. Sometimes a slave responds to
you as a master, not caring what you look like. Sometimes you get that same
reaction enhanced by physical attraction (that's not good, as it's usually a
one night stand - the average M who's into an S's looks enough to let it show
isn't heavily enough into S/M to be any use, or to stick at it with one guy). 

Very occasionally you get a guy like this heavy black, who clearly wants an S
who's smaller than himself. Nelson has been with small slim Eric for three
years, and I guess he wants to be dominated by me, because he is about half my
size again. Being just below average height works that way sometimes, but it
can also work the other way. Fortunately I'm not small enough to have too many
problems, just enough to attract a Nelson if he's exceptionally big. 

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