Kneeling, he looked up to his Master, on his face an expression of anguish.
What pleasure does it give you to humiliate me this way? he said.
Before he could finish speaking he felt the slap of the leather across his cheek.
He recoiled. He recognized he had no choice but to submit.
Sir. I forgot myself, Sir, he said.
Not enough, the Master said.
It was late and Kloom pushed the chair back from his desk.
Helen was in bed and calling to him.
Soon, Cookie, he called in, saved his work and went to brush his
teeth.
He lay down in bed and felt the weight of his body sink into the mattress. He lifted himself and lay upon her.
They kissed.
My Lord, she gasped as he pierced her.
The train sped over the prairie. It was surprising to see how much the western landscape resembled the fabled Western Landscape that has been projected into our minds so much by the movies.
Lance looked at Roberts and their eyes locked before either of them could do anything about it although they had succeeded several times before in managing to avoid each other.
Their hesitation melted, and a bond was formed as the train sped all the way to the allegedly pacific ocean. Far from pacific; each of them knew that often the ocean was turbulent. You could drown in it if you forgot yourself.
That night, snug inside a sleeping compartment, they fell upon each other mingling hot breath and sensing the oceanic pull of tides flowing and ebbing, swirling them up in the flood, flinging them out in the burst.
The D train banged along its rails. Inside his head the furies
wove vaporous fantasies.
He never lost them, the fantasies, but turned them into books -- thirty-seven of
them already he'd published. At first his writing did not bring in
much money, but then his books caught on and they began to sell
in astonishing numbers. There was a market - one of the nicest
sentences you can say to someone in a capitalist society is there's
a market for it - there was a market for the stuff he wrote, and it
wasn't hard to do. Just draw from your unconscious without
censoring. In other words, it was essential not to think.
You had too let your unconscious think through you. Don't judge.
Just shape what emerges. Keep the words going and try to keep up
with them when they're starting to spurt out.
Kent lived to come. He was a foursquare clean cut guy you would've been happy to have your sister go out with - no matter what gender your sister happened to be.
He went to the gym where both men and women looked at him. He didn't look at anyone once he'd established he had nothing to fear -- that there was nobody around who could outdo him.
He seduced many beauties, male and female, over the course of many nights, establishing, each time, with each, that he had nothing to fear and nothing, consequently, really to desire.
It became quite clear that desire for him was caused by fear.
Helen began to complain that Kloom was withholding himself.
You're always turning some plot around in your head or cultivating
some fantasy, she said as she poured boiling water into a tea cup .
We wouldn't have this duplex if I didn't, he said.
But we might have each other, she answered.
You don't like living on the twenty-eighth floor in Manhattan?
I don't like sleeping by myself.
Then don't.
What's that supposed to mean?
Whatever you want it to.
I wonder how you'll manage if I decide to leave.
I'm not holding you.
Exactly!
He sold the duplex and gave her half of what it brought.
She bought a condominium in Inwood.
He bought a house in Williamsburg, a four-story brownstone with an
intact gray stone stoop. There were trees on the street and a view
of the river.
The Chasidim did not dominate the neighborhood as they once had.
Artists, writers, painters, bohemians, all kinds of queers were
flocking to the neighborhood. Real, independently owned coffee
shops and bookstores, galleries and performance spaces were
opening on every street, and something was going on down many
an alley.
In the warm June night he wandered through the streets of this old
and transformed section of Brooklyn, wondering how Hopper would
have composed the surfaces and angles passing his gaze.
Brad knew who Kloom was when he saw him, for his picture appeared on the back flap of
his books.
He had first noticed him a few days earlier as he was banging away
on his laptop at the Internet Café.
Brad was on his way to The Duck, where he tended bar till midnight.
But he stopped when he saw Kloom.
I dig your stuff, he smiled.
It took Kloom by surprise. He turned his gaze from within to the world
around him. A smile that warmed your heart greeted his reentry. But
he hadn't heard what Brad had said, and Brad repeated it.
I've read your books. You're Adam Kloom.
Adam extended his hand.
Blumberg, actually.
Brad laughed.
Brad Philips, actually.
They shook hands and did not let go quickly. By the time they did,
everything had been determined, decided. They saw eye to eye.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the evening stars through a skylight. Straightening, turning to the window, he saw the stretch of the bridge illuminated by a necklace of copper yellow light spread across the throat of night, suspended above night's watery body.
The spur of desire is suppression. The more desire is opposed the more insistently demanding it becomes, but because it is not wanted, honesty can only show its true face as a mask, as a series of masks.
The doorbell rang. Kloom saved his work. It was Brad.
Do you live like the characters you write about? he asked as they
shared a joint and drank San Pelegrino.
Each confessed a fascination with the ideas of domination and of
being made to serve.
From early on each had had erotic daydreams about demands for
obedience.
We were the lucky ones, Kloom said.
What do you mean?
It was the sand in our oyster that made the sensibility we have.
You certainly made something out of it, Brad said.
Well right now I'd like to make something out of you.
Brad smiled and said, I'm here to be made.
Show me, Kloom said.
Brad fell to his knees and looked up at Kloom questioningly.
That's good, said Kloom.
How can I show my subjugation? Brad asked.
By being obedient.
Brad said nothing, but looked questioningly, full of desire but ignorant
of the practice by which it could be expressed. His look said, what do I
do now? He was willing, but he wasn't caught.
Say Yes Sir, Kloom said.
Yes Sir, he repeated.
Strip to your underwear. Kloom wanted to see what the kid wore underneath
his clothes, next to his skin. Then he'd know what he's about.
Kloom wasn't disappointed.
Brad wasn't wearing any undershirt, but little gold rings pierced his
nipples. His chest was smooth. He was lean and well ripped. His skin
shone with vitality. His muscles were exquisite. You could tell he'd been
devoted to chiseling himself. He was waiting to be admired.
He pulled off his jeans and remained standing with a newfound pride,
daring in his obedience, wearing only a black microfiber thong.
Kloom got down on his knees and cupped the pouch with cock and
balls in his palms, pressed his head against the boy, bit the cloth and
blew a soft hot breath upon the cock which stirred, stretched and
jumped when he pulled the thong down.
Helen gazed at the rising morning and saw dawn's shadows lift night's
fog off the breast of the Hudson. Rachel quietly came and stood beside
her. She traced an arc with her finger like a feather across the sweep
of the small but pronounced muscles on her slim upper arm until by
degrees she came to cup her hand upon one of Helen's square
shoulders, pivoted and was face to face with her.
She drew close to Helen and their lips met.
Brad gasped as Kloom's fingers tortured his nipples. The rage of his
cock to shoot was more alarming every second until all the breaking
passion of long-confused desire crashed about him shattering
everything that had held him back. With lifted wings he sailed into
the sun and saw it burst into innumerable stars.
[When you write, please put story name in subject slot. Thanks.]