The Alchemy of an Encounter

by Lowell Mitford

Comments welcome: lowell.mitford@gmail.com

Chapter 3 - Ari

Aurelio proved a skillful and thorough teacher for me, especially about Benicio's businesses, but there was so much to know about the organization of the household and its shifting duties that I had to learn much mainly by observation. Harder still were the complicated histories of its members among themselves, and Don Benicio's wider circle of friends, frequent visitors to the house, with some of whom Benicio had once enjoyed, or continued to enjoy romantic privileges. Some of their inside jokes, historical references, and double entendres it was clear I would never master. Beyond Benicio's fondness for the men of his household, which was essential, every one of them was there for one or more essential reasons – and each was good at what he was required to do. Aurelio told me once that the eight of us had been the product of trial and error carried out among some 120 or 130 men. But he warned me to maintain silence at the evening dinners until I knew the "lay of the land." In this, as in so much else, he was looking out for me, almost like a big brother.

El Jefe had his own preferences and quirks, which I learned were not always those of the textbook dom. He hated whipping , beating or physical cruelty, which he thought counterproductive and pointless. Never did he draw a drop of blood from me. Similarly, he thought crawling around on my knees, for example, would be damaging in the long run to my body, which he was trying to spend a great deal of time trying to improve. If some activity required me kneeling beyond a moment or two he provided kneepads, which Benicio thought was very funny. From this rule against physical abuse he excluded the slap, administered in the way of the zen masters, if he felt my attention was wandering or he needed to "wake me up." If, after this corrective, I looked up at him shocked, or hurt, he would pinion my jaw in his strong hands, and administer a tender kiss.

A funnier characteristic still, for one who reveled in physical intimacy, was his fastidiousness about germs. Once he was taking me at twilight on the porch steps of the casita, with both of us standing. The duration and intensity of our session meant it concluded with me shooting with great force across the steps leading to where we stood. Still in the throes of a sub's passion, and recalling the session by the pool I murmured, "Do you want me to lick it up?"

"Madre de dios, nunca en mi vida! Cats piss on those steps. You could get leukemia! Get a rag and clean it up!"

Not only did he regard daily sexual release to be every man's privilege, he often told me he believed it was necessary for every man's health – and for a young man, essential to avoid prolonged mental distress. My own orgasms, however, he felt should be earned, if possible, and so often these were delayed until late in the day or into evening. Almost as much as he hated for sex to be cruel, he hated it ever to be boring or taken for granted.

El Jefe made it clear that while my body was entrusted to him, he would never take me without my consent, or by catching me unaware. Nobody in the household was to have rights to my body either. While situations arose in which he encouraged me to have sex with others, or combinations of others, my body remained my own.

Mind games, at which he excelled, were a different matter, however. I am still working out some of the ramifications of the strategems Aurelio practiced on me. He always carried these out with humility, however, never meaning to exalt himself above me. If he had a genuine problem with me – and there were several -- it was handled and settled privately between us, preferably without drama. I know he kept my confidences, as he did those of others. Often while describing a householder or an incident he would check himself in his narration, not sure he was authorized to reveal more. About his own early life he was also reluctant to speak; I would never have known, for example about his tour of duty in the Spanish Foreign Legion, without Benicio, who was much more forthcoming, having shared this. When I asked El Jefe, all he would say was that he had known the best and the worst of human nature while serving with the Legion.

My training with Aurelio, like our love together, was ordered by the demands and the schedule of the household. I taught myself to rise at daybreak and make the tea or extra strong café he liked the first thing. I would put it beside the bed, then shower and dry off. By then Aurelio would be sitting up in bed, his dark, hairy torso rising above the sheets like a sea god. Never would he greet me by name, using instead some endearment, like Hijo, Coraz"n or Compadre. This would be my signal to approach from the foot of the bed, and, opening my mouth, tenderly seek out his erect sex among the sheets. He loved the feel of my newly shaved face against his skin and spent many mornings helping me perfect my approach, my pacing, and my control. When done, he would rise, stretch, take a brisk run clad only in blue or red gym shorts, then shower and be off for the day. For my mornings in the office I was allowed casual business clothes, usually padding around the office, bare feet on tiles.

From noon to two, my office work done, I trained, either in the dojo with a martial arts instructor, or on weights at a health club a mile or two in town, where Benicio provided us memberships. This training, together with the careful calorie limits on which El Jefe insisted, began to produce amazing results within weeks, as I began to show signs of a developing a six pack for the first time in my life. Indeed, I so often looked behind me to check results that Victor joked I was "in danger of falling for my own ass."

After siesta I showered, answered business e-mails, did laundry, cleaned the bath, or listened to music, awaiting Aurelio's return. Shortly before the expected hour of return I stripped completely, so he could inspect the results of my hard work. These he went over carefully, sometimes suggesting changes to my routine or diet. On arrival he greeted me tenderly with the first kiss of the evening, a sublime moment that left me weak-kneed and leaking. After inspection he would pat me on the butt, shower, and lead me, fully dressed by now, to dinner in the big house, with me following in his shadow. By now I was permitted to dine "with the grown-ups," as Don Benicio said, but kept a discreet eagle-eye in case the group needed anything from the kitchen or the bar. After dinner there would be a video, or music, with "lights out" by a quarter to eight.

Then came the best part of the day for me, the hours to which I felt Aurelio applied all his creative ingenuity and care for me, those hours in which I was most truly his. Before bed I cleaned myself most thoroughly inside (so far as possible) and out. He then anointed me behind with lotion or fragrant oil, trying each day to use a little less. Music was set to slow, rhythmic arrangements or natural sounds to relax me. We would then explore which positions or techniques allowed him the greatest penetration within me, maintaining whenever possible my erection, which leaked pre-cum steadily on the flat rug I washed each day. When at last I began to show frustration at having been so long on edge, or we both felt fatigue from our long day, he would pinch my sensitive nipples, rub my belly, or compress the region around the prostate to bring me off in a mighty climax, after which he himself usually came in a few strokes. Washing off the excess with the bath hose, I toweled and climbed smiling into bed beside him, or took my place in the hammock to cool off.

I have spoken of the mind games Aurelio played; these were often of a gentle, therapeutic variety. After this first, initial phase in which we explored and mapped my body and its unique reactions, he began to explore my erotic subconscious. Holding me secure, he would whisper various images, scenarios, and possibilities into my ear, seeking always to test my responses – whether approving, indifferent, or fearful. In noting these responses he never took my verbal signals as the last word, looking continually to test them against my quickening pulse, my growing or diminishing erection, or (most rare of all) my uncontrolled orgasm. His view in this, which I cannot easily refute, was that the mind is capable of a thousand denials or diversions, but the body never. After he had explored my inner self, like a hitherto unexplored limestone cavern in the Dordogne, he would take the most positive and efficacious scenarios and weave them into elaborate fantasies that seemed not to involve me at all. These had the advantage of taking me out of myself, dispelling my tensions at the very points I was most stressed physically, so it seemed sometimes that my ego had left the room, and my consciousness floated above us, enjoying the beautiful show.

In many of these "spiritual exercises," El Jefe often observed the greatest aphrodisiac was surprise; if Aurelio uncovered a new, unsuspected factor that produced an immediate and spontaneous reaction in me, he exulted. Such moments brought us closer together, by sharing the mysteries of my body made known to we two alone, and ensuring that sex never became a repetitive, rote ritual for us.

About his own mysteries Aurelio remained a closed book. He after all was the master, I the willing student. About Benicio's and Aurelio's early history, separately or together, a curtain had been drawn which was seldom parted. The only real clues were the humorous stories they would tell on each other, and the black and white photo of the young Aurelio, shirtless but in the peaked cap and trousers of a Spanish legionnaire, that Beni kept on his dresser. I longed to steal it for myself, but the opportunity never arose.

Above all Aurelio never shared his experiences with other subs he had known. Surely he incorporated what he had learned, but never did he compare my responses to that of another, previous sub, whether favorably or unfavorably. His goal, always, was to build my own confidence, my feeling of uniqueness in my sexuality, and for this reason I had to remain "incomparable."

What were the hardest parts for me, you may ask. That had to be: To shed my hard, cramped outer shell, and to allow the tender, inner being to be born. Day after day, Aurelio ground away at my ego, while I furiously tried to maintain it in secret. Like an actor, I made believe the outer, visible self was the true me and was desperate to make El Jefe believe it as well. But through his intuition and his experience, my Master was able to see through me. On Sunday nights he put me through what he called "my catechism": the kneepads came out as I stripped for his examination and his questioning. As I knelt, he held my chin with one hand, and looked deep into my eyes, wordlessly, appraising me.

"What are you?" he asked.

"Your slave, Master," I would murmur. Or "your boy." Or "I am nothing, Jefe, nothing."

"I don't believe you," he would say gruffly, pushing at my chest with his foot, or giving my cheeks a slap, as I strained to be closer to him.

I would repeat the hoped-for phrases, again and again, until tears came.

"Tears mean the resister is still in there," he would say. "Tell your resister to leave." And so saying he would turn on his side, and prepare for sleep, while I climbed into the hammock or the cot, near despair. He had sniffed at my acquiescence and found me wanting. Instead, dry-eyed conviction would be required of me.

Among the things he examined me for, and rejected fiercely, was any sign of growing effeminacy or childishness. Sometimes, almost subconsciously I heard my voice and manner growing softer; I practically lisped when I answered him. When he detected this tendency he would look around, acting as though listening for an imagined female voice.

"Listen! Do you hear a woman?" he said mockingly. "If so, you must ask her to leave at once. Because I don't want a woman!"

I would choke back my sobs, swallowing and controlling my heaving chest with difficulty until I was calm.

"Oh, look," he would whisper. "I was wrong. It's a man. He can stay." And with a strong arm he then welcomed me into his bed.

Through this high-stakes game, the master sculptor turned me, chisel stroke by stroke, into his work of art -- one in which every twist of my body, every response to his touch, reflected his aesthetic, his will. One night in bed, having explored my body and its eager responses to him thoroughly, he spoke from the heart.

"I don't want our lovemaking to become like a computer program. You are not a card to be punched. I have to know that you can respond to any man's touch – as a man. After all, who knows? I may not always be around."

The thought of him leaving me, my gateway and my lodestar, touched the wellspring of my emotion. "Don't ever leave me," I cried. "Don't even talk about leaving me."

He thought for a minute. "I am going to put myself deep inside you," he said. "In a place where you can always find me." And then we slept.