Best Gay Romance 2013 (6 page)

My instructions were rather simpler than I had expected. My Master said, “Obey me in everything. Obey me at once. I will always be fair with you. I will never let anyone hurt you. Be humble and be proud at the same time. Do you find that confusing? Don't worry, boy. I will show you what I mean. Nothing will be expected of you that is beyond your ability to achieve.”

Later that week they came, the men and women of The Hellfire Club. Never in my short life had I beheld such an assemblage as gathered in the drawing room that evening, and I had grown up in the theater! I had seen boys dressed as girls and girls dressed as boys. I had met a good number of both ladies and gentlemen who preferred their own sex to the other. My mother had a friend who was born with two penises, which he insisted on showing me one evening, and I must confess I was fascinated. But these people who knew, and clearly loved, my Master, took the cake.

Whilst the butler served brandy, which I was not offered, I was ordered to sit on the carpet at my Master's knee. I felt the great weight of this honor and was frankly rather smug about it.
Do they all know I'm his,
I wondered. It seemed they did because a number of very haughty men and women looked down on me and asked, “Is this your new boy, Marcus? Isn't he pretty.”

At one point I responded, “Yes, I'm Jade Swift,” and received a slap across the back of my head for my trouble.

“The only thing swift from now on will be retribution if you speak again without permission,” Master told me firmly. Burning with humiliation I learned a sharp lesson, the first of many, and sat in silence eyeing the party.

The Masters and Mistresses were unmistakable because they walked about freely or sat on the beautiful furniture while talking and laughing. Many wore clothing that designated some sort of rank—heavy, leather belts with metal studs and high leather boots. More than that it was their attitude, the authority with which they carried themselves, that set them apart from their minions.

The slaves, though, sat on the floor, some naked under their cloaks and with various chains and restraints upon their persons. They were silent unless spoken to, kept their eyes lowered for the most part, and remained very still beside their Masters and Mistresses. I became fascinated by a man, quite a bit older than myself and wearing what appeared to be a muzzle, who sat beside a woman's knee, panting like a dog and suffering constant, exacting correction. I looked up at Master, and when he noticed me, I nodded at them. He leaned down, saying, “That is a puppy in training.”

My mind was in a whirl.

Soon enough I followed my Master and his guests down into the extensive cellars of the great house. A sign on an immense barred wooden door read DUNGEON, and my heart began to pound. The dungeon was lit by flaming torches set in wall sconces. The corners were dark and cavernous. There was a general air of revelry; the slaves bright-eyed, their chests heaving; the Masters and Mistresses sure of themselves and in control.

I was ordered to strip as were all the slaves, male and female, young and old and every age between. Master, who dazzled my eyes in his black trousers, black leather boots and snow-white
shirt, watched me and smiled as my nipples and cock reacted to the cool air.

“Precious Jade, tonight you will be tested,” he said. Overwhelmed with excitement, I was led to a post by the wall where I was bound like Christ on the cross, ankles together, hands above my head. I was a picture of angelic beauty with my blond hair about my shoulders and my slender body stretched out for all to admire. And admired I was for about five minutes by my Master's friends, gathered about to gaze at me. It was my moment in the spotlight. Then it was over. “Observe everything, beautiful boy,” were Master's last words to me. After that I was left alone.

For the remainder of the night I witnessed scenes that enthralled and delighted me, yet I was miserable. I went from boredom to tears of frustration, from horror to fascination as the hours wore on. From my ignominious place in a dark corner I watched floggings and spankings that I wanted to experience. I saw slaves restrained and gagged in a myriad of different positions and styles, with everything from rope to leather thongs to iron manacles, and I was jealous. I saw hot wax poured over sensitive body parts making me wince while wanting to experience the sensation. I saw a life I wanted and I was provoked to insane jealousy of every slave my Master touched, flogged, punished or smiled upon.

When at long last my Master came over to me. I wanted to scream at him in frustration, but I was clever enough to know that that would be a mistake. “Master, you said you would test me,” I said quietly.

“You have been tested, precious Jade.” With care he released me from my bonds. “Your patience has been tested and you have made me proud.” I all but swooned with joy. He took my face in his hands. “You are an impatient, demanding boy and I
am going to tame you. Everything is a lesson. Now come with me.” He led me to the middle of the dungeon and to my delight spanked me soundly while everyone watched. I was in the spotlight again.

Afterward he hugged me close and I whispered, “I love you, Sir,” and waited for him to respond likewise. But all he said was, “And so you should. You should always love your Master.”

In the days that followed I learned that I held a cherished place in my Master's heart. While he was teaching me the basics of being his slave I was showered with praise, kisses, scrumptious hours in the dungeon—and my favorite thing in the world—the privilege of being allowed to sit in Master's lap. At night I was permitted to sleep beside him in his bed. But he never declared his love for me, if he had any.

I began to get quite full of myself, I admit. The euphoria I experienced from being tested to the limits of my endurance can only be compared with the heightened awareness I got from sharing my Master's best opium, which on a few rare occasions I was allowed, and which I sometimes thought made me invincible.

It was this invincibility which led me to thinking it my right to take advantage of an offer from a handsome, sun-browned gardener, only a little older than myself, whose sole desire one hot afternoon was to suck my admittedly small cock behind the stables. He was on his knees and I had my eyes tight shut, moaning openly when I felt the stinging flick of a whip across my bare belly. My eyes shot open. My handsome friend screamed as he too took a lash from Master's single tail, across his bare back. The pair of us stood with our heads hung like schoolboys before an enraged headmaster. The gardener was sent back to his duties whimpering after several more lashes and I was slapped hard across the cheek and ordered to pack my bags.

In the days that followed, in my mother's dingy lodgings, I poured out the whole tale of passionate love and delicious subjugation. Mother held me close in her big bed at night while I sobbed for all I had lost. I pressed my face into her ample bosom and was able to keep my sobs down to merely pathetic while she stroked my long hair, twisting it into ringlets round her finger, saying “Mother's darling boy.” It was when she called me her
precious Jade
, my sobs rose to truly melodramatic heights. “He calls me that!” I wailed.

I had always thought a broken heart was something to aspire to, something that would set a boy apart, making him purer and nobler. I never expected a broken heart would leave me weak and empty. Snot dribbled down my face as I sobbed; I pissed in my mother's bed two nights in a row. She forgave me, god bless her, but after a week she told me in no uncertain terms that there was a job available at the Adelphi Theatre cleaning the dressing rooms and that I had better take it and bring in some money.

I was humiliated to the very core of my being after my first day as a broom boy. I lay thoroughly exhausted, curled up in the middle of mother's bed, watching her ready herself to go back there to “warble for the punters,” as she put it.

“Visitor!” was screamed up the stairs by the landlady whenever one arrived. I did not move from my prone position, not expecting anyone would want to see me. Mother opened the door and invited the visitor in.

“Get up when I enter a room, boy.” I heard my Master's voice and reacted like a starved dog. I leapt to my feet, stumbled to my knees and kissed his black leather boots. Mother raised her eyes to the damp-stained ceiling, proclaiming, “Good god,” and sat down again to arrange her hair. “If your intention was to
humble my sweet boy, you've done it. Now will you please take him back?” she said calmly.

I sat back on my heels waiting for his answer, looking up into the face I had grown to love and had missed desperately these empty days. I waited, afraid to breathe. “How do I know he is sufficiently humbled?” Master asked.

Mother swung around on her stool. She was in her silk corset and lace-edged pantaloons, her face half made up, and was not the slightest bit abashed by my fine gentleman. “He cries for you every night. He calls out your name in his sleep. He hardly eats.”
Please don't tell him I pissed in the bed,
I thought desperately. “And he wet my bed the first two nights he was home,” she added for good measure
.

I hung my head in shame.

“Excellent,” Master stated, smiling at mother. “I see where the boy gets his beauty.”

Mother was not averse to flattery even from a lover of men, and smiled back. “Too bad he didn't get my voice. He has the face of an angel and he used to sound like one, but the minute he turned fourteen…” She shook her head sadly.

“Yes, I've heard him sing,” Master said. They continued talking as though I were absent.

“What made you come to get him back?” Mother asked.

I gazed up at Master adoringly, wanting him to say,
I miss him, I love him, I need him
. Instead he said, “I always intended to come for him. This was just another lesson. I could have flogged his bare arse until he screamed as a punishment for taking liberties, but I thought the gentler way might be better on this occasion.” He looked down at me, wagging a finger. “Pack your bag and come home. And this time, behave yourself.”

“Do you love me, Master?” I whispered. “Do you love me as I love you?”

After a long pause, during which mother turned her back to allow us a modicum of privacy in the small room, Master said loudly and firmly, “Yes, Jade, I love you. I love you very much.”

I smothered his boots with kisses and still do whenever I am overcome with gratitude that Master noticed me all those years ago when I was eighteen years old, presumptuous and foolish. He still calls me his
precious Jade
and he still tells me I am beautiful.

Max Pierce

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stood at the top of a grand staircase suitable for a classic MGM musical, but feeling less like Cyd Charisse and more like Debbie Reynolds: an eternal boy next door. Perennially cute, but seldom sexy. I forgot that sometimes cute wins over sexy.

It began as the
worst
date ever: a comic misadventure of epic proportions. If one was reading
TV Guide
, the log line would read something like this: Romantic Comedy; Boy travels to Sin City and finds nothing is as he expected yet discovers love in the process.

However, I hadn't the luck to read the log line. Three hours before I stood on that staircase, located in the swankiest hotel in town, I only knew I'd been invited on a potential romantic voyage and it was sinking faster than the Titanic, with no lifeboats in sight. Cue up Celine Dion.

Notice I wrote
potential
. I paid for my airfare but Tom insisted he'd pay for the hotel and we would be sharing a room. He was cute, I was cute, and it
was
Vegas, right? I'd read the literature.

This was my first visit to Las Vegas and I'd jumped at the chance to go. Showgirls! Roulette wheels! Ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails! If I were feeling particularly decadent, I might even smoke a cigar. So what if I didn't smoke? And the kicker: meeting Ann-Margret after her concert. Sexy, age-defying Ann, who'd rocked with Elvis, pined for Birdie, and was iconic enough to appear in animated form on “The Flintstones.” Tom had a connection who had guaranteed we'd get backstage after the show. The time: early November, Halloween was out of the way but holiday thoughts hadn't taken over. The setting: Caesars Palace. And for the next eighteen hours, I rolled the dice and had the best date ever. And it wasn't with Tom.

 

Reality had kicked in shortly after I stepped off the United flight from Los Angeles, overnight bag in hand, and found I was being whisked
away
from the glittering Las Vegas Strip to the more moderately priced downtown area. Our hotel was no grand resort, more a glorified hostel with a room the size of a closet and the smell of an old humidor. It was perfect if you'd lost your pagoda at the Pai Gow table and needed a place to slash your wrists or swallow a handful of Seconal: precisely the reason why none of the windows opened. The presence of two twin beds in opposite corners, no less, squashed any idea of romance, as I'm not one for shoving beds together. Our $3.99 dinner in the hotel restaurant, a necessity due to our late arrival, made me eager to find a McDonald's—or a bathroom.