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of their inside jokes, historical references, and double entendres it was clear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.