Indiscreet Box Set

Chapter 5

Donald K. Drummond, founder and CEO of Drummond Real Estate, strode into his Trenton office shouting, “No calls” to Sally Tierney, his long-time administrative assistant. Sally had been with Donald since he opened his own firm fifteen years before. When he decided to leave his old firm to open his own office, she packed her desk with composure and told Donald he would need her in the coming weeks while he prepared to open.

Donald told her he could not afford to pay her right away, Sally Tierney cast him one of her looks and said, “You’ll be able to pay me soon enough, Mr. Drummond, and then you’ll pay me more than I could ever get anywhere else.” With that, she handed her resignation to the receptionist on their way out the door.

Donald laughed at her. Moved by her loyalty, he repaid it many times in the intervening years. He tried to promote her, but his attempts failed and Sally’s rear remained firmly planted on the seat just outside his office. Sally proved right, as always.

She earned one of the highest salaries in the firm, and he listened to her scolding and advice when no one else dared to challenge him in his den.

Confident he would remain undisturbed; he set down his briefcase on the king-sized executive chair and walked the few steps from behind the desk to the floor-to-ceiling double hung windows, covered in cherry wood plantation shutters. His large strong hands, with their blunt manicured fingers, absently stroked the burgundy watered silk papering the upper non-brick, portion of the wall. The brick wall bisected from the rich paneling at the bottom by a highly polished, chair rail, carved from the same wood.

Donald caressed the smooth texture of the silk as it slid beneath the pads of his fingers. He loved the look, feel, and texture. It reminded him of watching silk as it glided over the hard planes of a lean torso and the bubbled cheeks of his former sub, Antonio’s, perfect ass while its owner un-wrapped his package for Donald’s exclusive attention. The unwrapping was a form of dance enticed with its undeniable decadence. The thought of silken shirts and satin sheets abruptly ended his reverie. He refused to think of that bastard, Antonio, now.

Donald took several calming breaths and put the morning into perspective. He peered out the shutter slats to a busy street below. Trenton was becoming fashionable again and Donald Drummond and Drummond Realty played a huge role in helping to make it happen. He drew some satisfaction from that. What he failed to comprehend was how a man so successful in his business endeavors remained so inept on choosing a life companion.

Another unsatisfactory interview, I should be used to the disappointment by now. More than a dozen interviews and not one produced a candidate who could even aspire to become my boy. I know Reed believes that I am too picky, but in this, I will not settle, ever again.

To Donald, his boy was real. He lived in Donald’s head and starred in his most private and flagrant fantasies. Donald Drummond belonged to Indiscreet, a private gay b**m club converted from a 200-year-old farmhouse in a rural corner of Monmouth County, New Jersey. Until the nasty business with Antonio, which made him both the ultimate fool and cynic, Donald “The Bear” Drummond, was the Master Dominant at Indiscreet. Bear was Reed’s silent partner at Indiscreet, and the only aspect of the business Bear insisted he handle was the position of Dungeon Master/Master Dominant-Trainer for every Dom who aspired to membership at the exclusive club.

After Antonio, he had no patience for training cocky tops that, in their abject ignorance, would irreparably harm a submissive with real potential by making the boy into either a pain slut or a brat.

Following that, the top would ask him to retrain the recalcitrant submissive, when in truth it was the god-awful Dom who needed some sense beat into him.

Donald remembered Antonio as a perfect example of the problem. He took the ebony-haired Latino with his fine bones, smooth olive skin, and fiery dark eyes as a live-in submissive. His goal was to retrain the boy his master claimed to be incorrigible, and prove a point. Even if Antonio was not that Sir’s boy, it was possible to train him to become someone else’s boy. He kicked his Lobb Oxford shoe on the molding, despising his own pride, weakness, and stupidity.

I thought I could make him into the perfect submissive. I thought that with my training, any boy could be “my” boy. Antonio made all the right moves, he acquired the look, stance, and mannerisms of an extremely well-trained boy and was adept at the subtlety it took to hint at the fires that raged within him.

Even so, Bear was experienced enough to know that Antonio was all show and no go, and Bear was about to pull the plug and find the boy a more suitable placement.

It was ego, as well as sheer laziness and a lack of self-discipline on my part, which kept Antonio longer than the six weeks it took to make an assessment. Antonio was smart enough to read the prevailing winds and took off with an older and much wealthier rival. Cutting him loose without a settled position and contract was never my intention. He ran straight into the arms of a well-heeled club guest whose proclivities as a Dominant made the Marquis De Sade a pacifist and gave me permanent regret.

The Brat irrevocably changed Bear.

He violated Bear’s trust, attempted to steal money, which, under the circumstances, he would have received when Bear ended his contract. Antonio, however, did not possess an honest bone and therefore did not trust the initial promises Bear made to him should the match sour. At the first sign of Bear’s displeasure, he took off with what he thought was a richer, more amiable sucker he had been scouting.

The man was not an official member of the b**m scene, and wasn’t registered with any of the tri-state clubs. He lured Antonio to him with the promise of no rules to follow or expectations to meet. He said to Antonio that he wanted his gorgeous Latino as an indulged pet, a beloved new toy. The man claimed he only wanted a young stud on his arm to play with and adore.

Antonio thought he was clever, but was in truth foolish, gullible, and vain. He left Trenton and Bear for the bright lights of the Big Apple. Six months later, Bear received a call from the Sixth Precinct of the NYPD to come to the city and identify the body. The police found Bear’s address clutched in the hand of a boy dumped in an alleyway off Seventh Avenue behind Weng-Feng Wok, a local Chinese restaurant. The owners, Misters Weng and Feng, discovered the body when they took the kitchen garbage out to the dumpster after a three A.M. closing. Bear vividly remembered the scene.

A Detective Sergeant by the name of Patrick O’Malley, a wiry Irishman from Homicide, brought Bear into the squad room.

“Take a seat, Mr. Drummond. As I explained to you on the telephone, we found your address clutched in the victim’s hand.”

“Have you ever seen this before Sergeant O’Malley?” asked Bear.

“Unfortunately, this young man is not the first found in that condition in this precinct,” O’Malley responded. The Detective Sergeant laconically pointed to the pictures of young men pinned to a corkboard on a wall of the room, visible from every desk. “All of their faces were beaten and cut to a point beyond recognition.”

Bear grimaced.

“You can make the ID from a photo,” O’Malley suggested sympathetically.

“No, I’d rather see him and be certain,” Bear said as he silently prayed the man in the photo was not his former sub.

They took a squad car for the silent ride to the City Offices of the Chief Medical Examiner. Bear was in a fog of guilt and remorse. O’Malley ushered him into the cold room followed by one of the assistant coroners.

Bear shivered. The bodies of the victims were stacked in drawers that were piled four high and consumed the entire back wall of the room.

O’Malley spoke, “Drawer sixty-seven.”

The assistant opened the drawer and slowly drew the sheet from the body.

Bear gasped, and then gagged. O’Malley grabbed his arm.

“Do you recognize the victim?”

“Yes, it is Antonio Rialto.” It was Antonio, but an Antonio Bear would not have been able to identify save for a birthmark on his lower left abdomen.

O’Malley spoke again, “You’re sure.”

“Yes I am sure, I remember the crescent shaped birthmark, it was unique.” Bear gazed at his former sub. The dark Botticelli angel’s face was riddled with deep cuts made by a serrated knife.

Both eyes were black, and even after time in the cold drawer, swollen shut.

The assistant coroner spoke, “The autopsy showed every rib was broken and the lung perforated. They shot out his kneecaps and his whole body is covered in welts. He was whipped.”

Bear was lost in thought, tears coursing down his face, more poignant for his silence. He did not notice his wet cheeks. The beautiful boy in drawer sixty-seven was provocative, mischievous, and so very alive in his memory. He recently turned twenty-six. The toy had failed to please.

O’Malley grabbed Bear’s arm and ushered him out of the room handing Bear his handkerchief. Bear was thirty-two years old and had not cried since he was sixteen. He made a silent vow, after this, I will never cry again.

Bear turned to O’Malley. “You’ll get this bastard?”

“With your cooperation…” O’Malley countered.

“Anything you need,” Bear replied between clenched teeth.

On the ride back to Trenton, the tears coursed down his cheeks as he repeated his mantra, I will never cry again, I will never cry again, I will never…

* * * *

The next morning Bear was on the phone with Reed, co-owner of Indiscreet. “We need to talk.” Bear said, “I identified Antonio’s body last night at the city morgue.”

“How bad?” asked Reed.

“Bad enough that I was about to puke. Someone pummeled his face and then cut it repeatedly with a serrated knife. The bastard shot out both his knees so he couldn’t run and whipped him until the skin was hanging in strips. It took a long time for the kid to die.”

“f*****g son of a bitch.”

“Yeah.” Bear answered as his fist came down on his antique desk.

“What now?”

“Now we set up the best security system on the coast so this never happens to one of ours again,” Bear replied with cold determination.

“Whatever you think. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know if I will ever get over his face looking up at me from that cold drawer out of my head. But, it is never going to happen again on our watch, you hear me Reed…never again.”

“You have a plan?”

“Would I have bothered to call you this early in the morning if I didn’t?”

“Shoot.”

“Every candidate for Master must undertake a four weekend training course, no course, no admittance to the club. He can take it at several different clubs or all the lessons at one. With one proviso, all testing is done at Indiscreet. That is non-negotiable.”

“That’s not going to go over too well at the Shore Clubs,” Reed replied.

“We are the biggest, fancy-assed club in the area. If the Doms can get an entrée here at a reduced membership fee for completing the course, they will come and since I own so much of the Shore Real Estate, I can back up my threats.”

“Okay, what about references?” Reed asked.

“We standardize the reference form and procedures for all the Shore area clubs, each newbie needs a background check and three members to vouch for them. Transfers have to undergo a complete background check and carry a written, verifiable reference from their former club.”

“Will the others go along, do you think?”

“Since all of the clubs want boys trained here, I think they’ll comply.”

“When we meet to explain the new procedures, I’m asking O’Malley from the NYPD to come down and show photos of the New York victims. After they finish puking, they will sign up.

Besides, a club who can offer vetted Masters as well as vetted subs is going to get more traffic. The program is in their self-interest.”

“We’ll call a meeting then.”

“One more thing, I give the final test to all the Doms until I can find someone else I can trust not to let anyone slide.”

“Your call. That side of the house is yours, always has been.”

“Yeah, my call…It sure didn’t help Antonio.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. The man came with a member and met our former guidelines.”

“Antonio was a sly, money grubbing, cheating bastard. Even so, he didn’t deserve that kind of death. No one does.”

Bear stayed with the program for a year, training Doms and subs; running both it and Drummond Realty until he felt he had found an acceptable replacement.

Bear met Bull Raleigh in a club in Union City where Bear was giving a lecture on screening the membership. Bull hailed from North Carolina. He liked the man but got a strange vibe.

He called Reed. “I think I’ve found my replacement. You will need to run an in-depth check. Ask Jim Boy to reach out and touch some of his snake-eater friends.”

Two days later, Reed reached Bear at the office. “You were right, former Special Forces, very hush, hush. The man was a Captain and highly decorated. He was snagged in “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Bull Raleigh is an alias for Raleigh Davis. There was a very public fight when he was thrown out of Special Forces. My informant says Bull doesn’t want to play martyr for the cause.”

“f*****g bastards,” Bear cursed. “I am going to ask him to interview for the position. Have Jim Boy and one of the pain sluts available. I believe in his integrity, but he needs to know how to handle the tools.”

Two weeks later Bull took over as Dungeon Master at Indiscreet.

Feeling he left both Indiscreet and the new system in Bull’s capable hands, Bear left the club burned out. He returned only when his belly clutched with need and his loneliness left him on the razor’s edge of sanity. He would do a scene with one of the club’s submissives who had yet to find a Master or was not ready to take up the life on a twenty-four seven basis. He took care of the sub and himself with the minimum of attention that good aftercare allowed, and then he left.

Bear banged his fist on the molding in frustration. It took three and a half years for the image of the beige speckled cinderblock walls in the basement morgue not to haunt his every waking hour. He could not forget the others who would have to look down at the frozen remains of their loved ones in drawer sixty-seven. It would forever remain emblazoned on his eyelids as he slept. Antonio’s many barely-healed scars, coupled with the new ones, made what was once the face of a dark Botticelli angel into a grotesque mask of Carnivàle.

They caught the fucker, a pimp, and New York State tried, convicted, and sentenced him to life without parole. Yet, something in Bear had died with Antonio. He had not loved Antonio. Antonio hurt Bear’s pride by leaving, but Bear’s overzealous conscience did not let it lie with that. Maybe if I had reached out, tried to talk to the boy, assured him of his safety with me until he found his legs and knew what he wanted and where he was going…

Bear’s fists squeezed tight and there was a bit of moisture about his eyes. His whole body was tense.

The interviews were difficult. Every one brought back memories of Antonio’s death. Why do I continue to do this? Bear asked himself.

The selection process is akin to beating my head against a brick wall.

Donald answered his own question, I continue because it will feel so good when I am finally able to stop.

Donald K. Drummond shrugged hard and left the window.

He had a business to run. He turned away from the street scene below; pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache he felt lay in wait. Donald thought about today’s young sub and all of the others who Reed sent to him to interview since he began an active search six months ago, three years after Antonio’s demise. Each boy was lacking in some aspect of physique, temperament, or demeanor. They were good boys; however, they were not his boy, the boy who lived in his dreams. This time, no other boy would do.

He hadn’t listened to his heart the last time, Antonio was an almost. Almost was trying to hammer a square peg into a round hole. You could do it, if you diminished the size of the peg, yet if you needed the peg again, it would not be useful because you had compromised its inherent integrity. Donald had compromised his own and Antonio’s integrity, and that is why, despite Antonio’s duplicity, he still mourned Antonio’s death. Deep down, where no one but he could see, he put a good portion of the blame on himself. After the incident, friends of the incarcerated pimp, a small time hood by the name of Giovanni Benzano, had tried to “reach out and touch” Donald. They learned to their misfortune that Trenton was Donald’s town and he had friends of his own.

Donald thought carefully about his choices.

I cannot be alone forever, that is where madness lies. I need a boy who is prepared to meet my exacting expectations. This boy would be my friend as well as a lover. He would have the fortitude to be mine, owned, body and soul, yet still think independently, able to amaze a room with his wit and intelligence. He would possess a personal demeanor capable of gracing a dinner with his presence as adeptly as he could serve it. Most of all, he would be a balm to my soul, bring passion to my body and love back into my heart.

In other words, I need my own freaking miracle…not likely. Hell, bloody pigs would be piloting F-22s before I ever find what I need.

Donald gave a dry chuckle at his own impossible dream.

He laughed because he knew what he most desired was as unlikely as finding a 1943 Lincoln cooper penny in the Sahara.

Donald wanted love and more than that, trust. The man who was incapable of trusting anything or anyone wanted his boy to trust him.

Donald knew he had a temper. He spoke too loud. Several times during the interview process, he had more than lost his patience with Reed. Just this morning Reed presented him with an entirely unsuitable candidate.

After the boy left, he exploded. “Goddamn it, how long have you known me?” he shouted. “What in hell made you think that kid was even remotely acceptable?”

“Calm down. They can hear you in the kitchens. Everyone already knows you are one tough son of a b***h, is it necessary to constantly prove it?” Reed said wryly.

“That kid was a twink. I raised my voice and he cringed. What would he have done if I really blew my cool? s**t, he would be hiding under the table. I need a boy who respects me, not one who is terrified every time I bark.”

“Maybe you should try not barking so often. It would help your blood pressure to say nothing of making it easier to find you a sub.”

“I want a sub who accepts me as I am, Reed. I am thirty-five years old, and set in my ways. I am not likely to undergo a personality transplant for a sub that does not even wake up my prick. I’ve already told you several times, I do not want any Antonio look-a-likes. If you don’t pay attention to my preferences, every Goddamn interview will end the same way.”

“Every goddamned interview has ended the same way. You bellow, you pound your fist, but that does not get you one whit closer to finding a sub. It only frightens the pool of candidates.”

“Well, look in another pond. I’ve had it with interviewing greedy twinks. I watch their eyes. They have no interest in anything but my money and my status as Master in this club.

Don’t call me about another bloody boy until you find me what I asked for.” With that statement ringing in Reed’s ears, Bear left Reed’s office, slamming the door behind him in a fit of temper.

Bear knew he was opinionated. The right sub could provide the motivation he lacked to change the status quo. He rejected many potential candidates because they provided him with no reason to grow into the kind of Dominant he longed to be.

Those boys would never inspire him to explore the breadth of his character or the depths of his soul. His heart cried out for a boy to make him smolder, to strike a spark and set him afire. None of the boys Reed presented, so far, had found the matchbook, much less lit the match. He looked about for distraction, disturbed at the road his mind had taken this morning and visibly upset he had lost his temper, yet again.

Donald shoved down his desires and closed the gates. It was past time for him to get to work. He loosened his tie. His first priority was to take a piss, followed by washing up and straightening his clothing. He thought he would indulge himself in a glass of good Bordeaux since it was already close to noon.

He stepped over to the credenza on the wall to the left of his desk and pushed a button. The panel beside the credenza opened, revealing a well-stocked bar with a twenty-four bottle wine rack and cooler. Donald looked at the labels Sally applied at the end of each shelf. Yes, Reed was right, although Donald preferred the word exacting to fussy. He decided to taste the 1985. It was a good year for wine, Bordeaux in particular.

Grabbing a tall glass with a wide bowl of cut crystal from the overhead rack, he uncorked the bottle to let it breathe before he poured. The glass would encourage the bouquet of the Bordeaux to the top of the bowl, allowing it to linger on the palate and display the clarity of the wine selection. Placing the open bottle with the glass on his desk, Bear mused he had come a long way from Thunderbird Wine in plastic cups. He stepped through the door into his private washroom.

A full-length mirror hung behind the door. The room was large, the long wall with its glass tile countertop sported two ruby glass bowl sinks and an antique armoire, which stored towels along with a few suits, several shirts, and fresh linen. Along the back wall was a shuttered booth containing two sections. The first section held the facilities, the second, a well-lit dressing room with mirrors and a small platform used when the tailor came to customize something Donald bought off the rack. To the right of the enclosure stood a waterfall shower and tub. The washroom was a work of art, yet today Donald failed to notice.

He unzipped the fly of his custom made navy pinstriped suit and pulled out his uninterested d**k.

Useless. Not once, in any of the interviews, had it leaped to attention.

His d**k did not even make it up to half-mast. Sometimes he wondered if it still worked!

He stood stock still, allowing himself to conjure up a picture of his perfect boy. His boy was slender but well-built and only tall enough to tuck under Donald’s chin. His skin shone pale and fine and shaded to Irish Cream if exposed to the sun. It would take marks well, but to Donald, dominance meant control, not violence. If a sub enjoyed the lash, he would oblige.

However, Master Drummond did not need to flog or whip a sub to demonstrate his mastery. A strong arm did not prove dominance. It proved the Dom had a submissive with the ability to handle pain. He loved to spank a round, tight, perfect ass, and knew exactly how much force to use to make the sting and heat pleasurable and exciting. He had the talent to wield a variety of b**m tools. He chose not to do so unless pressed. He was the acknowledged champion of the single-tail bullwhip. He could wield his weapon of choice maximizing pain while reducing lasting injury, a much-prized skill among b**m enthusiasts.

However, Bear did not want a sub who loved his whip, he wanted a sub who loved his Bear.

A sub who gave his Master absolute trust, perfect obedience with reverence and grace demonstrated the Master’s true ability to dominate his submissive. A Master did not obtain submission by lavish reward or by extreme punishment. He obtained it by earning trust and inspiring love.

Donald remained uncompromising against even the appearance of infidelity. An infraction of this tenet of Donald’s personal code was his Achilles’ heel leftover from his time with Antonio. He would not forgive infidelity, even the idea of a flirtatious sub rubbed him raw. Growing up in a working class family, with a drunken and abusive father who flaunted his infidelities in front of his mother, Donald Drummond never had anything he could keep for or to himself. On his seventh birthday, his mother had saved enough money to buy him the Millennium Falcon, Hans Solo’s ship from Star Wars. It was his favorite toy. He stayed up late that night playing with the action figures, totally absorbed in his imagination.

Donald did not hear the footsteps in the hall until it was too late to put the toys away. He made a valiant effort to put the model back into its box and under his bed before his father could open his bedroom door.

“What the f**k are you doing up so late, boy?” his father asked.

“I was playing, Dad, I’m sorry. It is only ten minutes past bedtime. Please Dad.”

Donald knew what was coming.

“Is this the foolishness your mother spent my hard earned money on?” His father staggered into the room. He had only managed to get the Falcon into its box and shoved halfway under the bed. His father bent down to pick up the box almost falling over in the process. Donald could smell the beer and whiskey on his breath.

Donald tried to catch his interest. “It’s the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars, Dad, isn’t it a beauty?” His father sat down on his bed and Donald began to hope.

“Donald, your bedtime is at nine P.M., not ten minutes after. This is interfering with my household.”

His father threw the beloved toy on the floor, got up off the bed, and crushed it with his heavy work boots until there was nothing left. “This is what happens to things that cause disobedience. Now pick that mess up, stow it in the trash and all those stupid dolls that go with it. I’ll make a man of you yet.”

Donald began to cry, when his father noticed his snuffling, he backhanded him across the face. “Get rid of this s**t now. You can spend the night on the porch, you sniveling little bastard.”

Donald’s nose started to bleed and his father grabbed the paper bag out of his pocket and took a swill of whatever remained and threw it on the floor. “Go, now, and don’t let me see that kind of s**t in my house again.”

Donald crept out to the porch listening to his mother’s tears and cries of pain. He tentatively knocked on the backdoor of his neighbors, the Sanatores. Mama Sanatore welcomed him warmly, disposed of his broken toy and the broken bottle of Seagrams 7 in the bag. “Is your mama all right?” she asked.

Donald shook his head in the negative. “Don’t worry Donnie, I’ll send Pop over to put him to bed. Meanwhile let’s get some ice on your nose and I’ll check your hands for cuts.”

In the background, Donald could hear Pop Sanatore cursing out his father and Mama telling him, “Just get him to bed, Sal.

You call the cops and then what, the bastardo will be back in the morning to do more damage. I’ll keep Donald here tonight, he can get his school things in the morning. You see to his Mama too, eh?”

The next morning when Donald went for his books and school clothes, he found his mother sporting a black eye and his room torn apart. His father smashed every toy beyond recognition and was snoring in the living room, sleeping it off.

His clothing, his toys, and his room…nothing was ever safe from his father in a drunken rage. As a result, Donald began to keep anything of significance with the Sanatores and became very protective of what was his. This is why it was not in his makeup to share the boy who would become the center of his life. He shared his wealth with charities all over Trenton and Hamilton. When Pop Sanatore got laid off from his job at the linoleum factory, he bought the property on Route 29 and invited the Sanatores to come and live with him to take over the housekeeping and maintenance duties.

He asked them to work, only because he knew Pop would not take a handout.

Therefore, he shared his home with Mama and Pop Sanatore and their assorted family. Donald was not cheap, or selfish, just protective. There were things he gladly gave away, but after his father and Antonio, he could not, would not share his boy.

Once he decided to claim a boy, the boy would be his. The contract prepared for his boy to sign contained explicit clauses regarding prohibitions of certain behaviors around other males.

Donald would make it very clear at the onset of the relationship.

If his boy permitted another man to touch him, his contract became invalid. The contract clearly stated any breach of this clause would mean banishment from Donald.

Donald had no compunction over sending a boy naked to the Master who defiled him. The clause that required fidelity in his contract was, by his own instruction, unbreakable. The only person who could rescind it was Donald, and Donald couldn’t conceive of an occasion where he would void that clause.

The fidelity clause was harsh, almost Spartan in its rigidity, but it would remain in the contract as a warning to any boy who dared to think of Donald as an ATM.

If the initial trial period of a contract ended, and both Donald and the sub mutually agreed to part ways, the sub would receive a generous cash settlement.

If there was subterfuge on either side of a D/s relationship, no true power exchange existed. The trust the power exchange engendered made Donald’s d**k hard. For someone with an inability to trust, trust became Don Quixote’s unreachable star. For your boy to look up to you with absolute love and trust was the headiest feeling on this earth. Most Masters knew the submissive held the real power in the terms of the Power Exchange.

A Master must earn the trust and love of the sub. It became the ultimate gift, the gift of giving complete control to your lover.

Because of this gift, a sub would sit at the center of his Dom’s life and become his total focus. If a boy earned his trust, Donald would deny him nothing. He would sell his very soul to keep his submissive lover at his side.

He shook his head to purge his mind of the thought.

Everything is in place. All I require is a boy who can restore my faith with his honesty. I can learn to trust again. I will find my perfect boy. He is out there waiting for me. I have to know this and to believe in it with my entire being. I will love him and he will love me in return, and I will trust my lover.

Donald stiffened; he would not travel around that weary circle in his mind. Obedience, lust, and love, if he got so lucky, were enough. If he never quite brought himself to trust his lover completely, so be it. He learned not to trust at too early an age for him to forget the lesson now. He disciplined his mind back to the fantasy in his head.

Donald watched in his mind’s eye as his massive hands massaged the boy’s body with sweet scented almond oil, making love to his n*****s and bare chest. His boy did not necessarily have a virgin ass, but it would be tight around his throbbing shaft.

As Donald’s mind sunk into the whirlpool of his fantasy, his alternate persona, Master Bear of Indiscreet took hold.

Bear’s mouth would torment the balls bound with a c**k ring and suck vigorously on his sub’s c**k building pressure, so it leaked copious amounts of pre-c*m, despite the tight fit of the leather harness surrounding the balls and base. Maybe, if the boy begged, he would add a weight or two to hang from the bindings.

His boy had two n*****s pierced. They had gone together to get it done.

Donald pictured a platinum chain connecting the piercings and smiled for the first time this morning. His c**k rose rapidly as the familiar fantasy played. Throwing his head back, he pulled a long, hard stroke, dropping further into his daydream. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene. He grabbed at the bulbous head of his c**k and stroked it to the script.

Bear honed his own skills in preparation for his boy by teaching Doms again. A picture-perfect Dominant in tight black silk and leathers highlighting what Antonio had called his kong-sized c**k, Master Bear, the toughest Top in the state, hid a tender heart. He ratcheted up the heat as he pulled harder, while squeezing and rolling his balls in his other hand.

His fantasy played on in his mind standing in front of the sink. He and the boy attended a function at Indiscreet. He stood, speaking to Reed. Jim Boy, Reed’s sub, stood behind Reed in a Standing Attention mode.

His boy knelt, legs parted revealing his long, thin, perfectly formed c**k, encased in a c**k ring that Donald had secured a few hours before. His head remained bowed, but his eyes were alert beneath his long lashes to watch so he could anticipate Donald’s smallest desire. The boy kept his hands locked behind his neck, with his ass poised on the back of his heels, his spine straight and showing no strain after holding his position for over two hours.

Donald tapped his trousers with the index finger of his left hand, once. The boy rose with effortless grace from Kneeling Attention to his knees and, keeping his eyes lowered to the floor, crawled to a position which placed his face at the center of Donald’s belt. He opened his Master’s belt and undid the closure to his tailored pants.

The fantasy in his head was echoed by his now erect member.

Abundant streaks of clear pre-c*m leaked from Donald’s thick c**k head. He took his manicured thumb and pressed it into the slit, rubbing the liquid around the head. His shaft felt as hard and heavy as polished concrete over steel, Donald let the fantasy to play out to its inevitable conclusion.

Donald closed his eyes and imagined the boy as he reached into Donald’s dark silk boxers with hesitancy, waiting for his Papa’s permission. Although his boy loved to suck his Master, he knew sucking his Master’s c**k came as a privilege given or withheld at Master’s discretion. He caressed the sub’s wavy, platinum hair, pressing down on his head in encouragement.

Those long slender fingers cupped and kneaded Donald’s balls as the boy’s hot tongue engulfed his c**k and worked its way down to his sacs with cat-like licks.

His boy learned in detail what his Master craved. He followed the licks by flicking his tongue up, down, and across the prominent veins on the underside of his shaft. He would then adjust his mouth around and under the head of his Master’s huge c**k, until Donald shivered with need. Donald pulled his boy’s head closer. This amazing boy gave him total control over every aspect of their lives. All he asked for in return was his Papa Bear’s attention and care for his health and happiness.

Bear thought he received immeasurably more. He tapped his boy’s neck and the perfect oval of a mouth with wet pink lips swallowed the whole nine inches of Bears fat c**k until it hit the back of his throat. He relaxed his throat muscles and suppressed his gag reflex, and then he began to massage his Master’s c**k with the muscles in his throat. To do this, he had to trust in his Master to pull back and let him breathe. The fantasy felt so real to him he could feel the boy sucking his c**k.

Bear took pride in the fact the boy placed his hands in a locked position behind his back. He knew the Master he loved would never harm him. Therefore, the boy would neither gag nor attempt to pull back, giving Donald the power and trust to do as he would. Donald would go deep, f*****g his boy’s mouth with hard, swift strokes. He would come in streams and his boy would swallow it all and keep Donald in his mouth, licking around the head and shaft until Donald became soft, drained dry and depleted.

When Donald ran a rifling touch through his hair, his boy straightened Donald’s clothes and resumed position, navy eyes shining up at his Master in adoration, love, and absolute trust.

Donald worked at his c**k, and several strong pulls later, released. He came in long streaks all over the sink and countertop, leaving him shaken and holding onto the rim.

He knew his faults. Neither his face nor physique would win any competitions. He tried to even the playing field by the understated elegance of his surroundings and conservative panache of his wardrobe. Even if Bear would be more comfortable in jeans and leathers, he dressed like the Prince of Wales to convince himself of his own worth and prove to those who knew him back then, that now Donald Drummond was a man with whom to be reckoned. He finished cleaning the sink and vanity with a disposable wipe and whispered his request aloud.

“Give me a boy of my own. I need to be special to someone: A Papa Bear…” He had wasted enough time today on this foolishness, he really had to get…

A loud thump interrupted his thoughts, followed by the sound of a slight click. Seconds passed, then a muffled voice hissed, “Oh s**t…Fuck.”