Chapter 1

 

As the train drew me closer and closer to HIS station, my excitement, and with it, my fear, grew stronger and stronger. And yet that fear was fuelling the strongest sexual thrill I have ever experienced.

Perhaps I should explain. All my life, or at least ever since I first began to understand what sex was all about, the idea of slavery was what stimulated me the most. It was me who was always the slave. Never - not ever - the other way around. And since my father was a strong personality as well as a powerful man physically, it was always he who was my master.

Later, other men assumed this role as their sexuality appealed to me but every time, it wasn't that I wanted to have sex with them - always, it was that they looked me over, felt me down and then bid on my body. My naked body of course. My enforced nudity was always a part of the deal. I would be made to strip naked before them and then have to show off my muscles and my sexual organs to fuel their obvious lust.

As I said, my father was a powerful man physically. He was very handsome and was also tall and muscular, a keen sportsman who excelled in everything he did. He owned his own business, a quite large hardware store in South Brisbane and was active in community affairs as well as golf, tennis and iron-man competition (in the masters division, of course).

I am much smaller than him but my body is naturally muscular and so I gravitated to gymnastics, which I became pretty good at it. I think he was disappointed I wasn't his mirror image but he was proud of my achievements.

I was devastated when he died of a massive heart attack at the age of forty-three when I was just sixteen. And then, my mother followed him almost exactly a year later. By that time I was just finishing up at high school and contemplating a physical education degree at Queensland University. In the meantime, I was working for a sports store near my dad's shop where I had always filled in during the school holidays.

But you want to know about my sex life. From what I have already said, you will gather I had a bent towards the male of the species. It wasn't exclusive. Peer group pressure ensured I had girlfriends and of course tried out all the usual things a boy does with a girl - and that same pressure meant that I avoided experimenting with boys. I wanted to but I think it was more a curiosity about it than a real need for homosexual love.

I imagine my kissing and cuddling, and the occasional - the very occasional - foray into the real thing were very amateurish and probably did very little to educate me or the girls into good sex but of course I talked about it with my mates and we all agreed we were the ant's pants when it came to 'making it' with the girls.

But my dreams were still about slavery - and it was always to a man like my father. A strong, muscular, dominating personality who owned me in every sense of that word. I never once imagined myself owned by a woman. Indeed, the idea actually horrified me. So far as they were concerned, if I thought about it at all, I simple assumed the man took charge (although politely and respectfully) of most issues - because that was what dad did.

Not long after mum died and I was all alone (for I had no siblings) I found a magazine devoted to male slavery and read it from cover to cover with a huge excitement. It had ads in one section and they included a few from the greater Brisbane area. One appealed particularly:

Do you want to be a slave? A real slave, not a boy who merely plays at it. Do you want to be owned by a real master who will train you with love but also with hard discipline? If you are prepared to give up your soft life as a free boy and accept my will as your only criterion for action, then reply to Box 121 of this magazine. Include a recent naked photograph of your body.

I read and re-read it countless times and I even used my digital camera to take hundreds of shots of me posing before a plain white wall in our house. I culled most of them of course but in a fit of wild abandon, actually sent off an electronic application together with a half dozen of the best of my photos.

And that is why I was sitting in the train right now. An answer had come back almost immediately and it had been very specific. How I was to get there; what I was to wear; how I was to prepare my body; and what I should - and should not bring...

I was to come by train - and the actual train was named. I was to wear a pair of very brief silk athletic shorts and a coloured athletic singlet - and a pair of thongs. Nothing else. No underwear or even an athletic support. Just the pair of thongs and the two other garments. To prepare my body, I was to shave it - completely. Every last hair except for that on the top of my head, my eyebrows and lashes. But all the rest was to be removed even including my pubic hair.

I think this last was the greatest thrill of all. My dreams of slavery always had my master depilating my body nude, sometimes even from tip to toe so that I looked like an android or perhaps a store dummy but I had never actually shaved any part of it except of course my beard. I am not a naturally hairy person being smooth-chested, but I never could bring myself to shave off my pubes, again peer-pressure, I suppose.

Now though, as I thought of myself as already under the thrall of my master, I had a massive hard-on throughout the operation of shaving my pubes, underarms and legs then examined every square inch of my body to ensure I hadn't missed a single hair.