Chapter 1

 

 

It began on the night I retired as manager of a middling large branch of the bank on the Gold Coast of Queensland. We had had a very nice retirement dinner party after work and I had gone to bed at about ten, reading my current book as I always did before rolling over to sleep.

It was just a shimmer at first. A silvery, shimmering outline of a man's body. I wasn't frightened. For some inexplicable reason, it interested me rather than made me apprehensive. I put the book down and watched it as it slowly, very slowly, became more defined and acquired depth and substance. It was still silvery at first but then, after perhaps five minutes or so, its colour began to change into pinks and browns and to look more like a human body.

And over the next few minutes it became fully solid and I realised it was a young man - a naked young man. And then I realised it was him...

Here I must pause and tell a little of myself. As an adolescent boy and then a young man I began to realise I was different from my peers. Whereas their talk was always of girls and how they wanted to get into their pants, I found the discussions on the act of sex more than a trifle abhorrent. Oh I liked girls (and boys for that matter) if they were athletic and good-looking, but the act of sex and the sexual organs on both genders were of no interest to me at all.

My pubescent dreams were at first only of their bodies and their muscles (on both). I soon discovered slavery and wanted to be a slave to some commanding master or mistress myself. At that time I didn't care which one dominated me.

Later, that domination included forced hard labour (increasingly rigorous ultra-hard labour) and then discipline. This started with spankings but soon developed into canings, floggings, electrical torture and so on. These were the fantasies which fuelled my increasingly regular masturbatory exercises and I soon found they dominated every aspect of my sexuality.

Oh, I took girls out and I did all the right things with my male friends, too, going with them to sporting events, parties and pubs, but I never mentioned my inner thoughts. Even back then, I knew they were way out and as I passed adolescence and into young manhood, I came to realise I could never have a satisfactory relationship with a wife, for a woman's sexual organs were still repugnant to me. I slowly resigned myself to life as a bachelor and whilst at various times I tried sex with both men and women, I never came to climax with any of them and in fact could count those episodes on the fingers of one hand.

As I grew older and moved out of the family home and into my own digs, I acquired photos and drawings of handsome young men and athletic young women. So-called voluptuous women didn't interest me one iota and as long as her sexual organs were of the closed variety (no open, fleshy lips and certainly not her inner portals), I could delight in her body and imagine her as my slave. I had no wish to fuck her and neither did I want to do the same with a man's backside or to partake in oral sex.

Oh, I retained an interest in torture although it wasn't an all-abiding fetish. I rather preferred imagining my male and female subjects as slaves, put to appallingly hard labour, imagining their muscles sweating hard and quivering with fatigue under the whip of their overseer than ritual torture.

I even catalogued my photos into classes: Favourites, Pony-slaves, Forced Labour, Naked Exercises and so on. I had sorted my Favourites folder into an order of preference and now you will begin to understand the need for this rather long soliloquy about me, for the figure which was now emerging from the shimmering silvery outline was my Number One favourite.

I had acquired his photo from one of my favourite websites and while he wasn't named, he was of course stark naked and just about the most handsome, beautifully (and athletically) muscled young man I could have imagined and his skin was as smooth as silk (yet another of my fetishes). In the photo he was standing on a beach.

The only thing I would have changed on him was his pubic hair. He was otherwise nude (which expression I use to indicate hairlessness) as far as I could see and even his pubic hair was just a small tuft over the top of his penile root.

To my unbounded joy, however, the naked figure which was now taking shape before my eyes was totally nude, at least from his eyelashes down. He still had the shock of brown hair, fine eyebrows and long lashes, but the rest of him was quite smooth and I think I at least figuratively drooled as I stared up at this perfection of youthful beauty now standing smiling down at me.

"Hello master," he said and as I imagined it would be, his voice was cultured, the words well-articulated and smoothly delivered.

"Hello, yourself, er...?"

He grinned even more widely. "James, master. My name is James and I am your body slave."

"My body slave," I said wonderingly. "Er, um, I didn't know I had one, but," I added hastily, "you are most welcome... Er, what does my body slave actually do?"

"My function is to look after your rooms, your clothes and your body, master. And, when you wish it, to give you pleasure or to organise others to provide it..."

"You said rooms, but I only have this bedroom...?"

"For now, master, but let us not worry about such details. As your new slave, you will no doubt wish to inspect my body to satisfy yourself as to its suitability to perform my functions adequately for your service?"

As always, I was naked under the bedclothes. I hated pyjamas and had slept naked from the time I first lived alone but I was somewhat sensitive about it, particularly as my sixty-five year old body had gone to seed somewhat. He didn't seem to notice, however, and reached down to flick them off me while I again drooled as I watched his clean-cut muscles flex with his every movement.

He allowed me to rise unaided, stepped back and assumed the classic muscle pose (arms bent, legs slightly apart, belly sucked in and all muscles flexed into high tension, eyes staring straight ahead and certainly not looking at me).

Of course he looked stupendous, his biceps muscles formed into perfect balls of hard muscle, his silken skin gleaming; its muscles as well defined as you could ask for and I had to work hard to stop myself from rushing into his arms for this was supposed to be a legitimate inspection of his body as my new slave.

It was something I had dreamed of for years, imagining myself as a prospective buyer at a Nineteenth Century slave auction in New Orleans, or perhaps in ancient Rome or Athens; or more recently, perhaps in pre-World War I Istanbul, staring at and fingering the naked bodies of the best young slaves of both genders, running my hands down their sleek muscles, weighing the testicles of the males as if gauging their virility and exciting their cocks for the same reason; and of course examining in detail the vulva and clitoris of the female slaves.

I knew of course it was spurious: that each of the buyers were either delighting in the sensation of feeling the privates of the slaves or in the shame this generated in them, but it was the custom and all the buyers did it. Now I could do the same to James, who in all of the six billion people on this Earth was my ultimate fantasy - and he seemed to be welcoming the coming inspection!

First off, I just stood there and looked him over. This was something I had done almost every day for years, holding the photograph in my hand while I buzzed my cock and imagined the boy as my personal slave.

Oh, I have forgotten to tell of one more thing about me. Five years back, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer which resulted in a full radical prostatectomy, following which I became totally impotent - that is, incapable of an erection and neither could I ejaculate. I could still masturbate and feel some pleasure from it but the climax was very much smaller than previously. Still, I could enjoy the act. My reason for mentioning this now will become apparent in a while.

Right then, though, as I stared at the perfection of the totally nude young man standing in that posed position before me, for the first time in five years I felt the glimmerings of an erection. Nothing happened in a physical way, but I felt something and I was ecstatic about it!

Now I moved forward and reached out to touch his flesh. Oh God! It was everything I had ever dreamed of. His skin looked like velvet, but it also felt like it. And yet, under that so silky-soft outer layer, I could feel the warm smoothness of his so splendid muscles. As a youth, I had enjoyed gymnastics (about my only sporting accomplishment) and knew that well-toned muscles have this quality. His were about the best, I am sure.

I won't go on about that inspection. Just so you know I went over every inch of his beautiful flesh at least a dozen times while he stood there, that faint smile of approval remaining constant through it all.

But then it was over and I stepped back, somewhat reluctantly, I have to admit. I think I could have kept on feeling him down all night but I sensed he was tiring of it and so I desisted.

"If master has decided that I will be suitable as his body slave, then perhaps he will consent to give me my welcome?"

I stared at him in more awe. I knew what a 'welcome' was. It was used in Victorian times to demonstrate to a slave or servant his or her place in the household. In the English usage, it involved a caning to the bare buttocks on both male and female alike.

It was something which had intrigued me and I had many drawings (but no photos) of such disciplines. But did I want to cane him? No I didn't. I already loved him. No, not just his body - that I had adored for years; but now I knew I loved him. As a man. As a person and I didn't want to cane him. But it seemed if I was to accept him as my body slave, the 'welcome' was a necessary part of that acceptance and so I silently held out my hand for the cane he now produced and while he laid his body across my bed, prepared myself.

Draped like that his bottom was perfectly positioned for the cane and so I moved up close, raised it and then brought it down - hard - right across the crown of both of his narrow, high-crowned and so muscular cheeks. They tensioned and quivered as he coped with the intense pain but he didn't utter a peep. I stared at the result though in more than a little horror. Had I really made that awful mark on his so beautiful buttocks? They were quivering and flexing wildly however and I just wanted to throw down the cane and take him in my arms. He wasn't having any of that, though.

"The minimum is twelve strokes, master," he said, grinning up at me from his side-turned head.

"Oh God," I said resignedly. I now knew I was in the grip of forces which I had little or no power to thwart and so I raised the cane and lashed it down again, aware that if I had pulled the stroke, he would merely tell me that that one didn't count.

Each successive stroke brought more wriggles and contortions from his buttocks and his body but he didn't utter a sound, stoically taking each one as only a true man can. When I had delivered the twelfth and final stroke, he thanked me and promised to be a good body slave and it was then I realised this was a rite of passage - that to him, he was not truly my body slave until he had been welcomed.

"And now, perhaps master would like a shower, a massage and then bed?" he said.

"Master would," I replied.

The shower was wonderful; the massage even better and then he lifted me up as a baby and took me back into my bedroom, laying me in the middle of my double bed and climbing in after me. I did notice, however, that the awful marks I had inflicted on his buttocks during the welcome were now gone. How, I had no idea. In my experience, such bruises took days to heal, but his buttocks were now pristine and for that at least, I was genuinely pleased.

I waited to see what would come next. Remember, I had had less than a dozen proper sexual encounters in my whole life. I had no real knowledge of the sexual act at all and that sketchy and probably wrong, anyway. Neither did I know if he was proposing to engage in it anyway? I knew I had no intention of leading the action, waiting to see what he would do.

Yes, I know I was supposed to be the master and he the slave but I also knew he had been leading everything that had happened from the moment of his final appearance out of that shimmering grey outline.

First, he merely turned towards me and drew me into his body. Oh, heaven of heavens! What bliss. The feel of his beautiful flesh against mine! And then he kissed me, just softly but it was like something I had never felt before.

To that moment kissing had had the same effect on me as the sexual act: nothing! Like most people, I have watched kisses on the movies, but unlike them, the acts did nothing for me at all and neither did it when I tried it in the flesh. This was another part of my growing up that had told me I was so different from other people.

Now though, as his lips touched mine, I felt that electricity which is what others must have felt from their first kiss with someone they loved. But it was only the first of a series of revelations that changed me overnight.

He made love to me, yes, by fucking my backside as I lay on my belly beneath him and whereas to that moment I had felt this act to be disgusting (to put my best interpretation on it), now I felt nothing but an overwhelming joy as his body moved on top of mine and his cock reamed softly in and out of me. But then I wanted more.

"Harder, James, much harder," I screamed. "Fuck me for all you're worth!"

He did, his hands gripping my shoulders and now ploughing in and out of me with all the strength of his powerful muscles.

I wasn't erect, but I felt a delicious tingling in my cock and balls, something I hadn't felt since the operation. The loving went on for what seemed like hours until he sensed my anus was becoming sore (which it was) and he desisted but then held me tight until we fell asleep.