Chapter 1

 

I am a son, the only child actually of two very loving and caring parents who, however, did their utmost to ensure that they passed onto me their very high standards of morality and ethics.

My father was a rather successful insurance agent who did well enough that my mother did not have to work, or at least not outside the home anyway. But despite his success, they never upgraded their house but were quite happy to continue living in the one they built at Robina on the Gold Coast of Queensland after they were married. Nor did my father indulge in expensive cars or overseas trips, but rather invested all of his income surplus to immediate requirements in stocks, shares and other investments. This started out as his hobby but became a fairly important part of his life.

He used to talk about his investments at the dining table and from a very early age, piqued my interest as well. Even as a young teenager I understood his motives about the purchase or sale of a particular security and he then began to involve me in his researches and decisions.

I was as thrifty as they were in my personal savings and soon began, in a very small way, to copy him. He was very pleased to discover that I had a real bent for it but of course our discussions and my reading of the Australian Financial Review and other business and economic magazines had a lot to do with it as well. I never spent my pocket money on sweets and the like and I took on jobs such as mowing lawns or cleaning windows with our neighbours, and every cent I made, I invested. That started when I was about twelve and by the time I reached eighteen, I had already accumulated around fifty thousand dollars.

But then tragedy struck. My parents were both killed in a car accident whilst driving down to Sydney to see Mum's parents. I was of course, devastated, but as one does, eventually picked up the pieces of my life and got on with it.

I kept their house and car and then began to examine Dad's assets in more detail. Partly because of his thrift, but also from his very successful career as an insurance agent, and of course, his expertise in assessing and responding to the ever-changing conditions on the stock market, his investments now mounted to around nine hundred thousand dollars.

As I sat back and contemplated the management of this, to me, vast fortune, I remembered his philosophy on investment: divide what you have to invest into two and put half into rock solid, blue-chip shares. The other half may be directed towards more speculative stock but never invest a cent in this kind of security unless you are prepared to lose the lot.

I had always scrupulously followed this advice but, so far at least, almost all of my decisions had been the right ones and I decided to follow my nose in the same way, now.

As I said, I was now eighteen years old and had been at Bond University for the last year studying economics and business management. But I then talked to my tutors and professors about my future and advising them that I was going to pursue a career consisting of the management of my personal investments but continue to live frugally, as I always had done. Their advice was to pursue my goals in my own way, realising, I think, that a formal tertiary education was going to be of little value to me.

 

I now want to move on to a very much more unsavoury part of my life.

My sexuality.

From the very first onset of puberty, I began to realise that I was different from my schoolmates.

Their conversations, once we got around to talking about sex, were all about getting into the pants of a particular girl and about how they would like to examine her hairy cunt. For reasons I didn't then understand, this talk turned me right off. I knew, of course, that I was the one who was offside and made every attempt to join in and pretend to a lively interest in the girls' bodies and what we would like to do with them.

In fact, although a girl's body was of interest to me if she was athletic and homely, such creatures, if they were beautiful and voluptuous, held me rather in awe and I found over the years that I was far more interested in athletic young males, anyway. But I knew that even with the boys I hated the hair on them.

And then there was the act of sex itself. I did not want to fuck them, or them, me. I found it faintly repugnant with both men and women. I knew I was different and it worried me enormously but despite my closeness with my parents, I could not ever discuss it with them nor with even my closest friends.

Then it got worse. I already knew the sex act itself didn't interest me one iota. Now I found that I wanted to see handsome and muscular men forcibly stripped naked, against their will, and then tortured, sometimes for information and sometimes as a punishment by a sadistic overlord or the like. Such scenes became the subjects of my dreams and then later my pre-sleep night-time reveries. I tried to repress them but they kept coming back.

Oh, of course I tried to emulate my friends. I had girlfriends from time to time and I ventured into kissing them and fondling their breasts but I found it all rather sordid. I knew my friends delighted in smooching with their girls and made talk about the sweetness of their lips. I got nothing whatsoever from the act and in fact just thought it rather unhygienic. Some of my girls asked me to make love to them. I pretended to a moral wish to remain a virgin until I married and while they all thought this decidedly odd in this day and age, I got away with it.

Yes of course I masturbated. But it was generally to thoughts of young men in prison being forcibly stripped naked and punished, usually with the cane across their naked buttocks. I had a lively imagination and it was enough to fuel these exercises. Because of my upbringing I had never visited a sex-shop and I didn't even dare to purchase muscle magazines as, although I was a very keen gymnast both at school and university, that would not explain an interest in male muscle.

I know my parents were worried that I had failed to find a long-term girlfriend but when they died, I was still only eighteen and so I suppose they had reckoned that I still had plenty of time.

 

Enough about my upbringing and weird sexuality. Once I had got over my parents' death, I knuckled down and worked very hard to study the stock market and more importantly, an in-depth examination of the companies I was interested in. Top management capability, annual performance, aggressiveness in the marketplace and innovation in the manufacturing sector were all important parts of my research and helped me to make the right decisions when it came to buying or selling stock.

I began to build on Dad's wealth and over the next few years doubled and then tripled its value. It was a labour of love which I thoroughly enjoyed. My only other interests were surfing and keeping up with my abiding interest in gymnastics at which I was not too bad. This sport develops and hones its devotees' bodies better than any other I know of. It does not build huge muscles like those of the dedicated bodybuilder but those it does develop are perfect in symmetry and polished to the beau ideal, and as I had a real thing about physical perfection, I put my all into my thrice-weekly workouts at the gym.

As I said earlier, I have a real thing about hair on the human body; that is, I hate it. I know many men think a hairy chest and a wiry bush at the pubes is a mark of their virility. I just think it looks ugly and while I didn't dare to have myself treated while Mum and Dad were alive, one of the first things I did do after their death was to have myself permanently denuded of all hair on my body below my eyelashes. That is, my moustache and beard, chest and pubic hair and even that on my legs. Once it was all completed I could look myself in the mirror and consider myself very much more attractive. Yes of course I know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder but that's the way I felt about it.

 

And so for the next twenty or so years my life continued in similar vein.

I made money. A great deal of it. And all of it, I reinvested. I was quite happy with my parents' house and although I did trade in my car every four or five years, it was always just your run-of-the-mill family sedan. I lived comfortably but I didn't splurge. I had a lady come in twice a week to do the house but I enjoyed cooking and always did for myself.

I had a few friends from the gym who sometimes called around and with whom I went out for dinner but I never bothered with the pretence of a girlfriend and I was far too frightened of my own sexual predilections to ever encourage any sort of relationship with another man.

Yes of course I looked at them (hopefully without their knowledge) and then took the mental images home and used them in my ever more violent and sadistic fantasies but there was no-one in the world who knew of this or even suspected it, so far as I know. I was very careful; extraordinarily careful not to let my admiration for their handsome faces and fine, muscular bodies show.

But then, now aged forty-five, I had a brainwave. I was now worth in the order of half a billion dollars and yet I doubt there was a single one of my friends or acquaintances who had any idea of the vastness of my wealth.

What I dreamed up was my own private gymnasium. I say private, because it was not going to be open to the general public. I would have a clientele but it would be a very specialised and very private one.

I had, over the last twenty-five years been able to investigate the world of BDSM and whilst bondage did not interest me, discipline certainly did and so did the world of sado-masochism. And of just as much interest, was the subject of slavery.

This was something I had latched onto even as a pre-pubescent boy. The idea of a person being enslaved for whatever reason and then totally subjected to another's will and desire had me intrigued. I had the time and the resources to investigate all these subjects and over the years accumulated hundreds of articles, books, photographs and drawings which now became the driving force behind my now daily masturbatory exercises.

I still eschewed any sexual or even emotional contact with another man, still far too frightened of these, to me, terrible and perhaps even evil thoughts and desires. But then at the gym one day I met a new member who was a psychologist and who I immediately liked. We got together at times over lunch or dinner (he was still single and unattached then) and once I got to trust him, asked him if thoughts about BDSM and the like were normal in a man.

He laughed and told me that I would be shocked at the proportion of both men and women who harboured such thoughts and in fact, who actually practised them. I didn't open up to him about my own feelings on the subject, claiming simply that I had read an article about it and simply wondered if it was common. He accepted that and we then talked about other things.

But it was that conversation that led me into delving deeper and now I found that there are a great many gay couples, female as well as male, who actively engage in voluntary slavery. More researchers led me to some of these and after making their acquaintance, I asked how they went about exercising their slaves and whether a boutique and very private gymnasium dedicated solely to them might be of interest.

Without exception, the 'tops' I consulted were more than interested. The idea that their slaves could be trained naked, 'forced' to workout harder than any public gym or club would dare to ask, and even whipped or caned when they didn't perform up to scratch, had both them and their slaves demanding to know when I was going to start it..

Thus encouraged, I acquired a suitable block of land in a light industrial area of Robina and, at the same time, designed (in company with an architect acquaintance of mine) and built it.

It was going to be a state-of-the-art gymnasium but would also include a cellar area with cells (to incarcerate slaves desirous of close confinement), punishment and storage areas. The gymnasium was on the ground floor and that level also included a small, two-level restaurant (for the slaves' sessions might well be all-day affairs) and which overlooked the gym room itself - for a master might well like to sit there and munch a sandwich and sip his café latte while watching his slave put through his (or hers for that matter) paces.

Yes, I was going to admit female slaves and their mistresses, but there would only be gay couples.

On the floor above the gymnasium itself was my apartment. And this was no tiny bed-sitter. I didn't stint on any part of that building. From the cellar, with its prison-type cells and punishment area, to the gymnasium itself and restaurant, and then to my apartment above, everything was first-class - the best I could buy in every case.

For example, the gymnasium was quite enormous and at least thirty metres high. Thus we were able to accommodate such items of equipment as a horizontal bar, Roman rings, and a set of twelve climbing ropes, as well as a vaulting horse and box, parallel bars and of course a fully equipped weight room.

My apartment was panelled with real timber, carpeted with an expensive Wilton and the furniture, all new and top quality, and it exuded good taste and luxury. The building and its equipment and furnishings all set me back quite a few million but I didn't care one whit. For the first time in my life I had lashed out and spent money on a whim. But I knew in my deepest heart that this was exactly what I wanted to do and I had not a single qualm about it.

And as it happened this was what led to me finding HIM.