By Any Other Name
by Tigger                          
Copyright 1998 - all rights reserved

Part 1.  Words of Power
     
Did you ever stop to consider the power that words, and in
particular, words used as labels, have on you as you grow up? 
I have, but that is mostly because of the impact three
particular words had on me.

The first two words may surprise you - man and boy; boy and
man.  Noah Webster will tell you that "man" refers to an adult
human male while "boy" refers to an immature human male.  Of
course, those are only the simplest and least threatening
connotations to those words.

I grew up in a small, rural town in the southern midwest - not
quite the Ozarks, but close.  My parents had four other
children, all boys, all older than me - the "runt of the
litter".  Two of my brothers earned big time college football
scholarships while the others enlisted in the Marines,
following dutifully in my father's World War II footsteps. 
All the males in my family are big, powerful, strapping
examples of masculine physical perfection.  Which I wasn't
back then and am not now.

That is not to say I am small or weak.  What I was, and still
am, is sort of average.  I'd already topped out at five feet
nine inches tall and one hundred and sixty pounds by the time
I had reached age sixteen.  Unfortunately, that left me more
than five inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than the
next smallest of my siblings.  And while I was a fairly good
athlete (I won regional cross country titles in my junior and
senior years), I did not play *football*.

This failure to play a "real man's game" infuriated my Dad who
had gotten quite used to basking in the reflected glow of his
sons' gridiron glory.  He therefore embarked upon a "make a
man out of Jimmy" campaign.  If it had not been so painful, it
would almost have been a joke.  "When are you gonna quit that
silly runnin' and go be a *man*, *boy*?" Or "Where the hell is
your *pride*, *boy*?" But perhaps the most damning question in
his eyes, was the one he felt obligated to bellow at me almost
every Saturday night once I had started high school.  "What in
hell are you doing home readin' a god damned book when you
could be out with a girl, *boy*?"

Always *boy*, never Jim or James - as if by using that word he
was denying me any rightful claim to manhood.  As if the only
way I could prove my manliness was by giving in and doing what
he considered to be *manly* things.

I further compounded these blotches on my father's heretofore
undoubted reputation as a prepotent sire of *real men* by
being very good academically at school.  So good, in fact,
that I won a National Merit Scholarship.  It was one thing for
one of his brood to win a football scholarship at the local
university.  If you *had* to go to college, that, at least,
was the *manly* way to do it.  But to earn a scholarship based
on academic performance alone?  *Not* one of *his* kids! Nor
did it help my standing in his eyes one little bit when I was
the only male in the state to win one that year and the
picture in the newspaper showed five females and me.  The
final crowning indignity, however, was when more colleges
tried to recruit me for my academics than had courted my last
brother who had been our home state's "Mr. Football" the year
before.  My father washed his hands of me, and mostly left me
alone from then on, certain that I would never be *his* type
of *man*.  

Which meant, that I wasn't any kind of a man in his eyes, and
never would be.        

Not surprisingly, I snatched at the opportunity offered by the
scholarship to get as far away from my roots as possible.  I
ended up at a small university in the Northern Virginia
suburbs of the nation's capital.  It was not the most
prestigious institution that recruited me, but the additional
financial aid they offered meant I could afford to go there
and still have a little walking around money.  I was even able
to continue running track, *unmanly* though that pursuit may
have been to my father. 

It was toward the end my undergraduate years that the third
powerful word entered my life, and changed it forever.  My
first inkling of its existence came when I was surfing around
the 'Net, searching for something to use as reference material
for a paper that was coming due.  I don't even remember what I
thought I was actually looking for, but I do remember what I
found.  I had stumbled into the cyber-world version of
dominance and submission.  In particular, I had stumbled onto
the world of female dominance and male submission.

Everything in my hill country upbringing told me I should have
been outraged at what I saw portrayed in word and image on
that site, or at the very minimum, been intolerantly amused.
*Real men* did not submit to *mere* women. *Men* ordered,
women *obeyed*.  Back home, "henpecked" was the kindest thing
that would have been said about a male who was not in firm, if
not total control of *his* woman.  Whatever would *they* say
about that. . . person in the photo, tied naked and suffering
under what appeared to be a whip wielded by a nearly nude
woman?  With as much righteous indignation as I could dredge
up, I left the site and shutdown my computer.

But I remembered the site's address.

And over the course of the next few weeks, found myself
returning to that site over and over again.

Naturally, it did not stop there.  I followed the links to
other sites and found more material about what I now knew was
commonly referred to as D/S and Femdom.  Then, I, again by
accident more than intent, chanced upon the site of a woman
dominant and author.  

It was her writings that captured my attention, chilling me to
my soul, even as they gripped my imagination.  Her words
pointed to a woman of strong, and to me, unexpected contrasts. 
She wrote of torments in one paragraph, and of cuddles and
pets in the next; she spoke of abject humiliation in one
sentence and unimaginable pride in another.  The stories were
starkly colored tapestries of pain and pleasure, of caring and
hurting, and most remarkably of all to me, of love.

I knew then, what that third word was, but even more
importantly, I knew without doubt that the word aptly and
truly described me.  That word was and is submissive.  I was,
at first, thoroughly devastated by that unexpected revelation,
because it was incontrovertible proof that my father had been
correct about me all along. I wasn't a *man*.  After all, how
could a *real* man even contemplate putting himself willingly
under the power of a woman?

Only the words and stories on that magical site that kept me
sane during those dark times of self examination and
introspection.  The images she painted with her words reminded
me of old chivalric legends - of dragons to conquer and fair
maidens to rescue, of contests to win and trials to endure. 
There was courage in those scenes, and that gave me hope.  If
a submissive could show courage and bravery in the face of the
trials set for him by his Lady Fair, then perhaps it wasn't so
weak a thing to be a submissive?  At least, in such a context?

Heartened by that idea, I decided to try and find my own lady-
fair - which I thought would not be all that difficult.  One
of the more surprising lessons learned during my years as an
undergraduate, far away from the small town comparisons to my
rugged older brothers, was that most young women I met at
school *liked* me.  In retrospect, that is probably because I
was so unused to being around women my own age that I really
listened to them, which is not something my Dad's kind of
*real men* often did.  Over the years, particularly now that I
was a graduate student, I had developed close, if not quite
intimate, relationships with several very nice young women.  

Slowly, very cautiously, I began feeling out my then-
girlfriend about experimenting with some of the gentler games
I had found in my researches about Femdom.  Only I guess we
weren't *that* close, after all, because she dropped me like a
rock and all but ran for her dorm.  She never spoke to me
again outside of the classroom.

Other attempts were a little more successful, but not by much. 
One young woman tried playing with me, but sh got carried away
with using her belt to whip me, badly bruising me about the
thighs and buttocks.  Her look of trenchant self disgust when
she realized what she had done heralded the end of another
friendship.  Yet another relationship died when the woman in
question mocked me and derided me as "less than a man" after
she had finished with me.

Greatly discouraged and humiliated after that last abortive
attempt, I returned to my room and began to brood, a bottle of
cheap wine left over from a party helping me dull the pain. 
On a whim, I returned to the web site that had first fired my
now flagging courage.  How was it, I asked myself forlornly,
that she could accept such needs in a man, nurture such
feelings in a person, while these other very nice and caring
women could not?

Those questions kept eating at me and eating at me.  Finally,
my inhibitions drowned by half a liter of the fortified wine,
I clicked on her home page's "mailto" link.  I poured out my
questions, my recent failures and, yes, my pain into what
became a very long email message.  I clicked "send" button
before I could change my fuddled mind and then promptly fell
asleep at the keyboard.

Much later, the incessant chime of my email client announcing
new messages pierced my wine fogged brain.

It took a few moments to realize where I was and what was
making that hideous and agonizing sound.  As quickly as I
could, all the while being careful NOT to move my head, I
acknowledged and silenced (thank you, God) the new email
alarm.  Bleary-eyed, I looked at the offending message, but
did not recognize either the user name or the address domain.

Painfully awake now, I figured I might as well read the
message.  
     
     Dear James,
          
     I see by your email address that you attend college
     near where I live.  The emotion of your message
     touched me.  You have actually made me think you are
     sincere, a condition I assure you is very rare in my
     experience.
          
     It is always difficult to have something inside that
     others do not share, to be different.  Perhaps you
     would like to talk.  Tell you what - I will be at
     the Mall today for some shopping.  If you are at the
     Starbuck's Coffee shop at noon, maybe I can help you
     find where to search for your answers.  I will at
     least buy you a cup of coffee.
          
          Martine.
     
Stunned, I reread the message and then recalled my impulsive
message of the night before.  My stomach roiled as I realized
what I had done and I ran to the bathroom where I paid back a
first installment on the previous night's wine folly.

~------------~

Facing what appears to be a major, perhaps life changing
decision is always difficult.  Facing such a choice while
suffering the consequences of your first ever hangover is pure
hell.  That is how I felt about meeting Martine - for real, in
person.  Live, even.

One of life's hard-knocks lessons is that anticipation and
fantasy are usually better than the real life experiences. 
Martine's stories and essays had become very important to me
over the past year.  Many of my dreams and fantasies had been
built upon the strong foundation of her writings.  What if she
was really a wholly different person than the one pictured in
the stories she told?  What if everything I saw had been
nothing but a lie made to myself?

Emotional cowardice stalked me every inch of my march toward
my private Holy Grail.  I desperately wanted to turn back at
each stoplight as I drove to the mall.  Even after fighting
through all that, I almost headed back to the car at the mall
entrance, and then again at the caf‚ itself.  What it was
inside me that got finally propelled into the small
coffeehouse style seating area, I cannot really say.  Once
inside, whatever hidden reserves that had seen me through to
this goal vanished.  I just stood there, staring helplessly at
the people enjoying their coffee, their papers and their
books.  I guess I must have "looked" like I was looking for
someone, because a soft voice behind me asked "James?"

I turned around to find the owner of that voice.  A stockily
built woman of average height, wearing faded jeans, a
fisherman's knit sweater and old running shoes was looking at
me, an almost shy smile on her face.  Her hair was dark with
auburn highlights, shoulder length and very curly.  I was
bemused to find that I had to look down to see into her
laughing amber eyes..  That put her height at about my own,
and I guessed her weight to be something over 200 lbs.  Off
hand, I figured she was about ten years older than my own age
of twenty three years old.

"Ms. Martine?" I asked of this person so different from the
images I had built up in my mind.

"Yes, James.  Come and sit.  I hope you like coffee."  Numbly,
I followed as she led me to a little table in the back corner
of the shop.  I took the seat she indicated as she sat herself
down across from me.  

"Not quite what you expected, am I?" she said forthrightly. 

Still operating on pure nerve, I said what I really thought. 
"No. . .no. . you look so . .normal."

That earned me a hearty chuckle instead of the set down my
gauche statement deserved.  She took a sip of her own coffee 
and then settled back to study me closely.  "I don't have
pictures on that web site because I value my privacy, James,
not because I am uncomfortable or embarrassed by my
appearance.  I don't suppose you have ever heard of BBW's?"
she asked teasingly.  At my blank look, she smiled.  "Didn't
think so.  So, tell me, James, what made you write that
remarkable letter to me last night?"

This time, I made the conscious decision to be honest.  "I was
hurting, and I am afraid, more than a little drunk."

"That tells me what caused you to want to write that, James,
but not why you wrote to me."

I considered this for a long time before answering.  "Your
stories, mostly." I said softly.  "The romance and mutual
affection that you write about in your stories.  You've sort
of become my unofficial spiritual guide in all this."  I took
a deep breath.  "I guess I was thinking that you might
understand, and that you might be able to tell me how to find
the answers I don't seem to have."  

She did not say anything to me for a very long time, just sat
there staring through me.  Finally, it occurred to me that I
had probably offended her.  "I am sorry . . " I stammered as I
started to rise.

A surprisingly strong hand caught my wrist before I could
clear the table.  "No, stay right there.  Sit!"  Her tone of
voice had changed, becoming commanding.  I could now begin to
sense the power that pervaded her writings.  "I find that you
intrigue me, James.  You read my stories of enslavement and
torment, and see romance and affection.  That is very
intriguing, indeed.  You do know that I have done everything I
wrote about in those stories?" she asked in a more normal
voice.  "I have caused a great deal of pain in my time in the
scene."

"Nothing beyond what was expected, and you always saw to them
and cared for them afterwards."

"So?" she challenged, "Pain is pain.  Maybe I just don't want
to have to find new toys, so I am careful not to break them. 
Maybe I just toss them a few crumbs so they keep coming back
to me."

I considered that for a moment.  "Then, you are the best
author of fiction I have ever read, because you spend more
time talking about the caring and sharing than you do about
the whips and chains."

"Touche, James."  My answer must have pleased her because her
face lit up in a smile that made her look beautiful.  "So, do
you think you are ready to learn, first hand?"  Her grin was
infectious and she made a barely perceptible spanking motion
with her right hand, "Under my hand, so to speak?"

"MeeeeEEEEE?!?!?" I answered, surprise making my voice slide
up an octave."

"Yes, you, James.  You see things in my stories that most are
either too blind to see or choose to ignore.  I offer you the
opportunity to find your own answers.  We will try a scene,
you and I.  Afterwards, we will decide if we want to go beyond
that."

A knot the size of a grapefruit almost choked me, but nothing
was going to deny me this chance.  "Please." I whispered.

She nodded sharply, and handed me a card.  "Tomorrow is
Saturday.  Be at that address at ten o'clock tomorrow
morning."  There was an explicit "or else" in her voice.

This was all going so fast.  "But what. . . I mean. . what
will we do?"

She rose up and smiled gently down at me.  "Why, whatever *I*
want to do, James.  But don't worry *too* much, dear.  It
won't be anything too harsh, I promise, not for such a sweet
little novice slaveboy like you.  A little bondage, of course
- can't have you getting away before I have finished with you. 
Introductory stuff only.  I'll even promise that you'll still
be able to sit down after we've finished, but I will also
promise that every time you do for the next few days you will
remember me. You will remember me *very* well, indeed."

"Okay." I whispered.

Oddly, then her face hardened, and she reached down to cup my
chin up so she could stare into my eyes.  "One thing, though,
James.  I do not, will not *ever* fuck my slaves, *boy*.  Does
that change your mind?"

Slowly, stunned that she felt she even needed to say such a
thing, I shook my head, moving her palm with each movement of
my chin.  "Good.  Be there on time, James." then that sly grin
was back.  "Or suffer the consequences."

Unable to move to move from my seat, I just sat there watching
her leave, my eyes tracking each little movement.  Once she
was out of sight, I found I could breathe again.

I tried grimly to sort out my feelings on this.  Initially, as
she had no doubt seen given her first words, I had been
disappointed about her looks.  Somehow, in my fevered
imaginings I had envisioned her as a some supersexy, fetish-
garbed morph of Cindy Crawford, Elle MacPherson and Demi
Moore.  But my disappointment had faded quickly once I started
hearing her voice, once I had started seeing *her* and not my
silly fantasy.

What was that word she had said about me?  Intriguing - that
was it - she had said that *I* was intriguing.  Well, so was
she - *definitely* very intriguing.  She certainly looked . .
well. . cuddly was the only word I could find that adequately
described her figure - like someone you could really share a
hug with and not have them squeal about it being too tight. 
And her eyes and smile were simply spellbinding.

She certainly gave a whole new inflection and meaning to the
word "boy".  If my father had said it to me the way she had, I
would have been upset, but when she said it, it almost sounded
like an endearment.

One thing was certain - NOTHING was going to stop me from
keeping that appointment with her the next day.

By Any Other Name
by Tigger                          
Copyright 1998 - all rights reserved

Part 2.  Rites of Passage

I arrived early, finding an old yet very well maintained farm
house back off the main road.  It wasn't that I did not trust
her to keep the consequences she'd promised within reason - I
just wasn't quite *that* sure and so decided it was better to
be safer than sorrier.  

The house itself was situated in a large, private wooded lot
that was once probably the center of a working farm.  That
much free land (that is, undeveloped land) is unusual this
close to Washington DC, but I suspected the proximity of the
local D.C. prison had a great deal to do with why there
weren't fifteen tiny planned communities crammed into this
area.

My watch beeped, and I stepped up to the door.  There was no
bell, only an old fashioned door knocker that clunked noisily
when I released it.  The door opened to reveal Martine,
dressed much as she had been the day before, only wearing well
worn work boots in place of the running shoes.  "Turn around"
she ordered preemptively, "and put your hands together in the
small of your back."  Once I had done so, I felt her slip
something over each wrist that quickly tightened to
comfortable snugness.  A gentle tug assured me that any use of
my hands was lost to me until she freed them.

Something slipped over my head and covered my eyes,
effectively blinding me.  I felt her breath against my ear and
then she began talking to me in a breathy, just above a
whisper voice that sent thrilling shivers up and down my
sweating spine.  "I do hope you remember how many steps up
onto my porch, boy, because we are going to play a little
game.  I am going to take you on a tour of my place.  You will
follow the sound of my voice.  If you get lost, I will have to
come find you, and I won't like that.  Just follow the sound
of my voice, Jimmy-boy, and everything will be fine."

And it was, although walking blindfolded over unfamiliar
terrain without your hands to catch you if you fall is a just
a bit scary.  In my darkness, time itself lost meaning as my
entire focus became her voice.  Finally, we entered into a
building (at least, I thought it was a building since the sun
was shaded and the floor was wooden.)  The air was redolent
with familiar scents my boyhood - hay, animal and manure.  She
took me by the arm now and led me up to some type of post,
whereupon she freed my hands only to rebind them in front of
me, but around the post to some type of hook above my head. 
The blindfold went next, but the room was so dark that I still
could not see.

A single, harsh overhead light blazed on.  And she stood
there, in front of me holding something that looked like a
black fraternity paddle in her hand still dressed in her drab
work clothes.  "That went very well.  You trusted me to keep
you safe and just followed where I led."  Her hand came up to
stroke a lock of hair out of my eyes and she saw me giving her
the once over.  "Disappointed, boy?  Leather and latex are
expensive and uncomfortable in this heat.  I only wear them as
a reward for slave boys who have been especially good boys. 
Perhaps, if you do as well in the rest of my little drama, we
might have something here."

I don't remember much of that first session except bits
and pieces out of time, like a mosaic that you stood too
close to see the whole picture.  I remember . . . .
     
     The paddling starting over my jeans, and then
     progressing - first pulling down the jeans, and
     finally the shorts to get to bare skin.  
     
     Being surprised that one side of the paddle was fur
     covered, and nearly coming out my skin when she
     stroked that against my scrotum.  
     
     Her petting and touching me over and over again, and
     talking to me - words that reminded me she was there
     with me, but that did not seem to say anything.  
     
     Little bites and pinches, that never seemed to hurt,
     but rather, simply seemed to wake up the nerve
     endings.
     
     Crumpling bonelessly to the floor at her feet when
     she finally freed me and how wonderful the icy cold
     dipper of water she fed me tasted.
     
I don't know how long we had been in there - in that old barn
that stood in a little clearing behind the main house - or how
long I simply laid there at her feet, out of touch with the
world.  Later, once I had come back to myself, she invited me
in for a light lunch.  It was then that she asked me if I
wanted to try more.  My look of disbelief made her laugh. 
"Not *right* now, silly.  I meant, do you want to try more
serious training?  Understand, that today was very gentle and
I am *not* always gentle."

"Could I?" I breathed?

"You would have to become my slave, James.  I would require
you to serve only me and those I put over you.  No more
seeking out others to dominate you unless you first come to me
and either get permission, or renounce me."

"I'd never do . ."  She cut me off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't make promises you cannot keep, James.  The heart is
unpredictable.  You may fall in love and want to give yourself
to her.  I already told you that I do not make love with my
slaves, and I infer from your letter that you are a virgin. 
That is how you will remain for a long time to come if you
give yourself into my keeping."

Swallowing hard, because I had a secret I could not share with
her, I answered.  "Would you please accept me as your slave?"

She studied me for what seemed like hours, and then nodded. 
"Yes, I will.  The next time you come here, James, we will
begin your training in earnest.  In the meantime, you will
study my web site, again.  I want you to make a list of what
things on the list excite you, things that frighten you, but
most especially, those things you do not think you could do
for me.  Be ready to present them and discuss them with me
next week."

She stood and led me to the door, where she took me into her
arms and hugged me tightly.  Pleased to find out that I had
been right, I hugged her back.  Definitely cuddly.  I was
almost out the door when something caught in my mind. 
"Martine. .  errr. . ma'am?  How do I address you?"  I asked
uncertainly.

"Mistress will do, James, until and unless I decide you have
earned more."

I drove away, marveling at what I had just committed myself to
doing.  Of course, it wasn't as if I had all that much choice. 
Unlike Martine, I knew what the secret was.  Somehow, sometime
today, I had fallen in love with her, and I could no more
renounce that than I could fly.  She was the one I wanted to
whom submit myself, and if that meant going to my grave a
virgin, so be it.

My training began that next weekend as promised, and it was a
rare week that I did not spend at least one evening in her
barn-dungeon.  The few times I missed a week were the result
of school work that had to be finished.  Mistress was adamant
that school came first, and on two occasions literally
banished me from her sight until a paper or project was
finished to *her* satisfaction.  I learned to get ahead at
school and stay ahead.

I was given a safe word and "trained" to use it.  She found
out I was ticklish and drove me mad until I safeworded, my
heart pounding and my breath coming in panting, rasping
heaves.  I was feeling ashamed for using it under such a test,
until her next words told me she had intended for me to break
this day.  "Remember this, slaveboy." She ordered sternly. 
"Remember that you can and did use the word and that you were
NOT punished or ridiculed for using it.  That code is for both
your protection and my protection.  I expect you to use it
*if* and *when* you feel you need it."

She had been truthful when she'd told me she wasn't always
gentle.  I learned firsthand about her hard side the first
night of mid semester break when she had introduced me to her
strap and her dressage whip.  That scene had me close to
safewording when the intensity seemed to cut back a little,
just enough that I could handle it.  When it was over, *she'd*
been the one crying, but she'd been smiling through her tears
when she did it.  

I got very thoroughly hugged that time, and later, after I had
recovered, I was further rewarded for my courage under trial. 
Mistress had a girl slave treat me to my first oral loving.  I
had been so "blown" away by that, I did not even balk when the
slavegirl had kissed me afterwards, sharing my semen with me. 
Later, when I thought what my father would have said about
*that*, I still felt too good to worry about the *manliness*
of having given myself a "blowjob by proxy".

However, not everything went that well.  Once, she brought in
another male slave, Allan, to participate in one of her
sessions with me.  That one turned into my first "failure" to
please her.  To make a long story short, Mistress wanted me to
perform fellatio on Alan, and that time, I *did* balk.  All I
could think of as Mistress maneuvered Alan's erection ever
closer my restrained face, was my Father sneering at me,
laughing at me for my lack of manhood that I would even
contemplate doing such a thing.  And at the command of a
*woman*.  

I safeworded at the top of my lungs, all the while straining
and crying to get free, to get away from Allan and his erect
cock.  Alan took it badly, and broke down emotionally at my
rejection of him.  Mistress ordered the sobbing Alan to go
wait for her in another room and then moved behind me to
attend to my restraints.  After freeing me, she tonelessly
ordered me to dress and leave for the night.

"I am deeply disappointed." she said quietly as she watched me
clothe myself.

The vivid pain in her voice all but unmanned me.  "Mistress, I
. . I . ."  I stuttered, unable to get out any words of sense
or reason.

"I am disappointed in us both, James." she said softly with a
sad shake of her head.  "In you, because I had believed you
were more open than your performance tonight.  And in myself
for not seeing that and then subjecting someone like poor
Alan, whose only failing in this was to trust me, to the kind
of pain he is going through now.  I have to take care of him. 
I will call you in the morning."

Nodding at her reprimand, I turned to leave.  "James?" her
voice stopped me. "Go home and get some sleep.  It will be all
right."

The disappointment and the hurt in her voice, I thought as I
walked shakily to my car.  I had caused that - I had *hurt*
her that way.  My stupid macho pride born of a father who had
long ago rejected me and whose bigoted teachings I'd thought I
had long ago abandoned.  I had even met Alan before this
evening, had known he was also a slave of Mistress.  He was a
great guy, and my stupidity had devastated him.

I was not going to do anything like that ever again.

Oddly, nothing more was said about that incident other than
Mistress telling me she had added that to my list of limits. 
I should have told her then that I had reconsidered, and that
she did not need to do that, but I didn't.  I am ashamed of
that, just as I no ashamed that I was glad that she took any
decision, and by extension, any responsibility, out of my
hands.

Other things changed after that, too - subtly to be sure, but
noticeably none the less.  It was like Mistress was walking on
eggshells around me, handling me with kid gloves.  She still
"worked" me over, but scenes seemed to stop sooner now.  Fewer
strokes of the cane, just a bit less stringency in the bondage
tie ups or one less twist of the clamp screw.

Frankly, I was getting worried.  Was she getting tired of me? 
Was she thinking about releasing me and was therefore letting
me down easily?  

Such was the state of my mind on what was to become both the
worst and the best night of my entire life.  I had been
cleaning up her kitchen for her in lieu of our regular weekly
scene before going home.  She'd not been feeling well and had
decided to go to bed after asking me (the asking part really
scared me) to straighten up for her.  I was just about to turn
off the light and go home when I was grabbed from behind about
the neck. 

I caught a glimpse of something metallic glinting out of the
corner of my eye just before something sharp stung me right
beneath my chin.

"Don't say a word, little man.  Don't even *breathe loud." a
harsh voice with fetid breath rasped in my ear.  "And you just
might live to see another sunrise."

Suddenly, I was lifted off the floor and carried by my neck to
the corner of the kitchen, my feet dangling nearly a foot off
the floor.  I was slammed head first into the corner and then
was spun about to face my assailant.  Two things immediately
got my attention - both the man and the knife he was holding
against my throat were *huge*.

He had to be a foot taller than I was and nearly twice my
weight. And all of it looked to be muscle.  A bare stubble of
hair covered his chalk white scalp.  "You thinkin' of doing
anything stupid, boy?" he whispered harshly, as the tip of the
knife cut into my throat.  

Afraid to move, I choked out an almost soundless "No."

"That is real good.  Real smart, too."  He seemed to relax a
bit then, and began to study me as I studied him.  It was then
that I saw the marking on his shirt.  "Lorton" it said.  He
saw the recognition in my eyes. "Yeah, boy, I am a con.  Just
so you know, I think I killed me a guard escaping, so it don't
make me no never mind if I have to kill you, too. Understand?"

"ye . .yes sir." I stammered.

"Sir." he said softly, a sadistic grin lighting his hard
features.  "I like that."  Then something caught his eye and
the knife moved to point at my throat.  "What's this?"

I felt the knife graze against leather and remembered that I
was still wearing my collar.  He moved closer, his breath
fetid and rank.  "Property of M" he read aloud.  "Who's M?"

Now I was really frightened - not for me, but for Mistress
Martine asleep upstairs.  "My. . .my Master  - his name is
Martin."  Saying the furthest thing from the truth I could
think of.

"Master, huh? Where is he?" 

"Home. . .he went home earlier and I was cleaning up before
going to bed."  I said letting my very rea fear for Mistress
show in my voice to aid my deception.

"Well, that is just too bad for you, isn't it?  Or maybe it
isn't.  Well trained little slut like you just might be good
enough not to get hurt."  The knife moved back to my bare
throat, and slid a line of stinging fire across my windpipe. 
"Into the living room, slutboy." he growled, shoving me ahead
of him.

In the living room, he immediately pounced upon the handcuffs
that I had not yet put away.  "Just what we need." he said,
jerking my arms roughly behind me and locking the cuffs so
tightly about my wrists that I quickly lost feeling in my
fingers.

An ominous >ziippp< sounded behind me just before I was thrown
crashing loudly to the floor, landing hard.  I'd barely had
time to hope Mistress had not heard that noise when a huge
hand twined in my hair and jerked me bodily to my knees, where
I found myself face to face with his groin.

"So you play with boys, slut?  Well, unless you want to get
cut real bad, punk, you are gonna make me feel real good."

His penis was large, and getting larger.  The knife point
prodded me to get on with it, and I felt a wet heat trickle
down my neck.

A great calm came over me at that moment.  I knew, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, that I would not survive the night.  And
having accepted that, all I could do was try to buy time.  For
what, I did not know, but each second he was occupied with me
was a second he was not prowling about the house.  With a
silent prayer for her safety, I closed my eyes, and opened my
mouth.

His body reeked.  I almost lost my dinner at the first taste
of his urine-rank skin.  Fortunately, all my convulsive
swallowing did was excite him further.  Recalling my
experience with the female slave, I tried to mimic what she
had done to me on this man.  Grimly, I began to tease him,
trying to excite but not satisfy.  In the back of my mind, I
hoped that he might drop the knife and try to use both hands
to fuck my mouth.  What I would have done in that case was
never very clear in my head, but at least he would be unarmed. 

I changed my point of attack several times, trying to stretch
out things out as long as possible, slipping from his penis to
his balls and back again.  I put the reality of what was
happening, of what I was doing, out of my mind as I instead
focused on Mistress.  Every lick, every taste was for her, and
in a very real sense, was a way of making love to her.

A new salty flavor began to permeate my mouth.  The grip on my
hair tightened and I felt him moan.  "You are pretty good,
slut boy, but I got places to go and people to do." he panted
raspily. "Now quit your fucking around and suck my cock,
bitch!"

Time was running out.  My mind was going a thousand miles a
minute as I tried to figure out something - anything that I
could do.  But what?  With both hands free I was no match for
this monster, but somehow I had to find someway to protect
Martine.  But WHAT?!?!

Then, it was taken out of my hands.  I had just shifted my
mouth back to his scrotum when an amplified voice blared.
"Police!  The house is surrounded.  There is no way to escape. 
Come out with your hands up!"

I felt him tense and the knife start to move back towards my
unprotected neck.  I was going to die and this animal would be
alone in the house with Martine.  I did the only think I could
think of - I took both balls into my mouth and bit down as
hard as I could - trying to make marzipan out of them with my
molars.

His scream of pain was deafening, and I felt two hands now
trying to rip my hair out by the roots, but I held on,
grinding my teeth back and forth across the rubbery nodules. 
A hot, coppery flavored fluid spurted my mouth as a loud
crashing of glass and wood joined in the cacophony of his
screaming.

Gentle hands gripped my arms to try and pull me off him.  I
looked up to see a shotgun leveled at his head.  I released my
jaws and was pleased to see him fold into the fetal position
his bloody groin dripping onto the hardwood floor.  Two
officers helped me to my feet in time for a satin dressed
tornado to bowl me over back onto the floor.  

An angel asking me "Are you all right?" was the last thing I
heard as I slipped into a dead faint.

~---------~

Much later, after the police had finally left and the
paramedics had proclaimed me all right except for a couple of
superficial nicks and cuts, the house was again quiet. 
Martine had me, bandaged up and bundled up, on her big leather
sofa, a cup of herbal tea steaming in my hands.

As I had learned from her statement, she had heard the crash
when the escapee had thrown me to the floor.  Upon creeping to
the hallway, she had seen me being orally raped at knifepoint
and had called 911.  The cops had immediately recognized her
description as the escaped convict and had dispatched a SWAT
team.

"You did that to protect me, didn't you?" she said softly, her
eyes shining with surpressed tears.  "That is the only
explanation.  I remember how your reacted to Alan.  I don't
think you would done that just to protect yourself."

I wasn't so sure of that.  Living had been very high on my
list of priorities, but she had been, too.  "I love you,
Mistress." I answered simply.  "And I would do anything to
protect you."

"Even that, eh?"

"There are no limits when it comes to your life and safety,
Martine." I used her name intentionally, using it to emphasize
how much I meant those words.

She nodded slowly, understanding in her lovely amber eyes. 
"And I love you, man of my heart."  then she stood, offering
me her hand.  When I took it, she pulled me to my feet and
began leading me toward the stairs.  Her lovely smile lit her
face with secret promise. "Come to bed with me, James.  A Lady
is entitled to reward her knight-champion . . .properly."

A dazed thrill shot through me.  She had told me that she
*never* slept with her slave boys.  Did this mean we had gone
beyond that? My mouth went cotton dry and I licked my lips to
moisten them.  The sweet promise of love was snuffed out and
was replaced by cold prickling terror as I tasted the residual
blood still clinging to my lips. 

I stopped dead, all but shouting.  "No Mistress. . .we. . .we
can't."  Confusion and then sadness dimmed the light in her
eyes and I caught on that she thought I was rejecting her. 
"NO!" I said.  "We can't make love yet, as much as I would
give my life to share that joy with you.  That animal and I .
. .we shared bodily fluids.  He. . he might have been carrying
. . . carrying. ."  My voice cracked in fear and
disappointment.

"Are you worrying he might have AIDS, James?" she asked
understandingly, and I nodded.  "All right.  We will wait and
inquire tomorrow, after you have rested and the prison doctor
is available.  We will make sure before we consummate our love
that way.  However you *will* join me in my bed so I can hold
you and watch over you all through the night."

And so she did.

~------------~

Murphy was evidently on vacation that night.  The escaped
prisoner had not been HIV positive at the time of his escape. 
Six months later, both he and I remained HIV negative, so I
finally felt safe about accepting the new role Mistress
Martine had decided I would fulfill in her life.

Part of that role has taught me a whole new meaning for that
powerful word, *boy*.  As in *whipping* boy.  You see,
Mistress Martine. . ., excuse me, I am now honored to refer to
her as "My Lady", is herself being dommed - by her Doctor.  It
seems that Doctor Domme thinks that My Lady really needs to
lose some weight.  She is still a Beautiful Woman, but the
good doctor says she cannot be quite so big a Woman in the
near future.  

While that is great for her good health and well being, it
does have several negative aspects to it.  Guess who gets to
"help" her remember not to eat the things she *really* wants
and likes?  Or who gets to "help" her take her mind off being
hungry by providing her with some alternative activity to keep
her mind (and good right arm) occupied?  Got it in one try,
didn't you? (Yeeeoouch! *THANK* you, My Lady.  May I please
have another?)

Of course, I have also have learned a new meaning for the word
"man".  My Lady loves me as I love her, and at her command and
to my deep pride, I now wear her ring in addition to her
collar.  I am *her* man, and something even more than that. 
These changes stem, at least in part, from the reason behind
My Lady's mysterious visit to Doctor Domme's office.  She
wanted a baby . . . my baby.  What was it Jesse Jackson said?
Any animal can impregnate a female, but it takes a *real* man
to be a dad?  The magnitude of that responsibility scares me
half to death, but when she isn't *too* hungry (either for
food or for play), My Lady assures me that *she* has every
confidence in me and knows that I will do just fine.

Oh, and another thing - a man repays his debts.  Alan and I
have since scened together with My Lady, and I satisfied both
her and him that time.  It wasn't all that bad - kind of warm
and nice, actually.  Alan and I are now the best of friends in
addition to being lovers for our mutual Owner's pleasure.  He
even stood up for me as Man of Honor at the wedding ceremony
when my brothers, having heard something of my relationship
with Martine, declined.  

What's that?  Oh, the Man of Honor thing?  That was My Lady's
idea - she told me that there was only one *Best Man* at our
wedding, and she was marrying him.  A good submissive knows
better than to argue with his beloved Domme.