slavery is not about suffering…
slavery is about service.

slavery is not about humiliation…
slavery is about humility.

slavery is not about pain…
slavery is about being present.

slavery is not about being used…
slavery is about being of use.

slavery is not about control…
slavery is about letting go.

slavery is not about your desires…
slavery is about giving to others.

slavery is not about abuse…
slavery is about acceptance.

slavery is not about proving anything…
slavery is about being real.

slavery is not about contempt…
slavery is about respect.

slavery is not about how you look…
slavery is about the size of your heart.

slavery is not about denying yourself…
slavery is about being open.

slavery is not about bondage…
slavery is about freeing your spirit.

slavery is not about punishment…
slavery is about discipline.

slavery is not about being unable to escape…
slavery is about being committed.

slavery is not about submission…
slavery is about obedience.

slavery is not about fear…
slavery is about trust.

slavery is not about sex…
slavery is about love.

slavery is not about pleasure…
slavery is about happiness.

~ David Stein ~

First, there’s a leather family in Michigan which is run on the Rule of St. Benedict, a traditional Christian monastery rule. The Household Keppler: http://www.householdk.org/

Much of the Master and slave concepts in the leather community also expressly discuss this lifestyle as a particularly spiritual one. Check out some of the Master/slave training groups out there.

Butchmann’s Training Academy: http://www.bornslaves.com/butchmanns.html
There is a good snapshot of their theories on “heart of a master” and “heart of a slave” on the Arizona Power Exchange’s website: http://www.arizonapowerexchange.org/academy.html
The Arizona Power Exchange is involved with the Southwest Leather Conference in Phoenix every winter.

Master Taino’s Training Academy too, though the website has no articles you can read right now: http://masterslavetraining.org

Master Taino’s Training Academy: http://www.mastertaino.com/training_academy.htm

I’ll keep adding links as I find them.

I stand before you and speak the truth.
I am the mirror to show you the way.
My weakness is my strength,
For I take all into me.
I bend as the willow in the wind
And yet I do not break.
I have learned the use of my tools.
Vulnerability and resilience are but a few
That I hold in my hand.
But they must be used
Else they grow weak and broken.

I stand before you and speak the truth.
I am the mirror to show you the way.
I am the cauldron of life,
And Transformation is my goal.
But without the violence and anger
There is no fuel to stoke the fire.
No pain or fear to mold and shape anew.
And so if I am a mirror
You too are my reflection.
And your challenge echos in my own.

As I rose back to the midworld, I realized that her screams were like that of an awakening Princess, as in the stories where the Prince comes to rescue the Princess to trigger growth into Queen and King (which is how I often interpret these mysteries of the Tarot).  I have never thought that the Princess might scream, or resist the rescue, but I now realize that this is often how we experience rescue or awakening. Further, as I rose back up to the midworld of my dungeon, I realized that these screams were also like those of a submissive, who in encountering suffering or fear, screams in response even as they desire the birthing and unity which is the natural part of healing and initiation.

I as a top must allow for those reactions, even as I may worry about the feelings of disrespect or anger that they can cause. (Of course, the issue of a top dealing with the anger of a bottom is the subject of another post altogether.) The mysteries can be functioning as they should, the energies flowing where they need to, even when there appears to be disrespect or anger, destruction or death.

Yours,
Daniel

Now for those who don’t know, I’ve been in 3 relationships with this 1 man for about 4.5 years now. He lives in D.C.; I live in Chicago. And I travel a lot too: by motorcycle and by boat — for instance today I was exploring the Fox River here in Illinois by canoe. In one of those relationships, he is Sir P and I am his plaything. When I am not visiting him, where he can dominate me physically, he does so over text message on his cell phone, and by a private blog we maintain (we have a blog for each relationship).

Today, I told him I was going canoeing. I thought he might like the opportunity to play. Long story short, I ended up on a small island that is part of a forest preserve. It’s Tuesday; there’s no one else about except a few fishermen, who are all on the riverbanks. I have the island to myself (except of course for Sir P on the cell phone). He gets me into it: naked; balls wrapped; edging; playing with mud (he loved the kayak story which is earlier on this blog and I made the mistake of telling him that the island was kind of muddy). About halfway through this play, a goose starts honking close to my island, responding to another goose close to another island. It got closer. I began to worry that I was on its turf or something, but it didn’t get close enough to fight me off. Still, it honked and honked and honked, while I jerked and hit and moaned.

Finally, Sir P was pleased enough with me to let me come after edging me several times. Naked, in the sunshine of summer finally come, smeared with the mud of the spring river, the geese honking (with goslings at some nests), the wind blowing, the insects mating, I leaned up against a tree and brought myself close to orgasm. As it happened, the goose suddenly changed it’s tune. I mean immediately upon the first spurt exiting my cock! It suddenly started honking twice with each breath! And continued throughout my spurts. Then, as I sank down to earth, it took off into the air. It had hung out close to me for about 15-20 minutes, but wasn’t really within sight of me. I doubt it could see what I was doing, though it probably saw motion in the trees.

It was too coincidental. I have always felt that these orgasms in the woods were appreciated by the fairy folk, the trees I lean against, and the wind. But this is the first time that I’ve felt like another animal has felt and responded to my orgasm.

I suspect that leather is especially open to spirituality because it got started in the woods, with leatherclad motorcyclists heading into the mountains to fuck and play as they wanted, much like I imagine many spiritual beings have and do retreat from the bustle of humanity. I have long made a practice of jerking off, or at least edging up, when I come upon beautiful bits of landscape, or in thanks to the spirits of a place when I have been well cared for there (like at a campsite or place of regeneration), or have been given what seems like especial entry into some hidden beautiful place. I am wondering whether I need to bring other men out with me.

I got to say, as I was playing on that island, I repeatedly looked out under the branches at the water and woods surrounding, keeping an eye out for folks who might see me, ready to stop and hide. But as the goose began gearing up its honking I realized that the wood may very well have been magically cloaking me for this activity, and that I might have been slightly protected for this sex and play, which is after all holy stuff. And when the goose flew off into the glare of sun glittering on the water, I felt a kind of chiding correction from the entities around, as though they were saying to me to get over myself and my anxiety and share more often and more widely such sexy things.

A very nice afternoon, I must say.

Yours,
Daniel

We know that at the heart of all our play, or work, is trust. A submissive or bottom must trust that he is safe in a larger context, and a dominant or top must trust that his partner is capable of taking care of himself and identifying his own boundaries. There is more than enough gravity to the topic of trust to write several books about it. In the end, trust is the cornerstone of the relationships we build in a leather context.

But as my friend indicates, our safe words don’t really make us safe. I can’t speak for him, but I would suppose that insisting on the use of a safe word makes a person appear afraid or distrustful of their partner. Since everything we do is built on the concept of trust, I can see how this indication may seem to damage the relationship. If we are brutally honest with ourselves, our safe word holds no power. It is symbolic. We trust that our partner will respect our limits and boundaries, and if we need to use a safe word to change what’s going on, we do so.

But a safe word is not a magic key or a get out of jail free card. It is symbolic trust. It is one more layer that we add to help ourselves be safe. Much like there is no such thing as safe sex, only safer sex. Maybe we should call it a safer word instead of a safe word. It helps us take care of ourselves, keep ourselves and our relationships healthy, and helps us build a language of symbols that aid our communication.

Just as you have the right to fuck without a condom, you have the right to play without a safe word. But I think it’s abominable to condemn or demean people who choose to be responsible, who choose to engage in safer sex and safer leathersex.

“What the fuck!” I yell, trying to twist away as he pulls my head up by my hair. He forces me to my feet and shoves me against the wall again, pinning me there and twisting the handcuffs until my wrists burn. Smell of paint on the wall, then a faint musk as I’m thrown, almost bodily, onto the bed. “You can’t do this!” Fear now, heating behind my eyes, I can feel it trying to boil over, becoming anger. Faggot. How dare he?

I kick at him as he follows me onto the bed and he grabs my ankle. I flop around, landing on my wrists as I try to pull away. Disturbingly, he says nothing. I look at him, seeing a hunger in his face, almost a madness. It consumes the air around him, burning away the atmosphere like a black sun, ripping the pieces of the world from their proper places. I freeze, shocked, and he’s on top of me, weight pushing me down on my wrists as he forces my head to the side and digs his teeth into my throat. The pain is immediate and harsh and I cry out, bucking beneath him but his teeth and hands are vices above me.

Snap-click. Cold on my throat. When did I close my eyes? I open them, he’s staring at me, grinning ferally. The cold at my throat moves and I feel it prick my skin. Knife. I freeze as he moves the blade down and hear it cut through my shirt, the cotton giving way freely. He pulls the cut hard with his hands, exposing me to my waist, and forcing the remnants of the shirt down to my wrists. The place where he bit me feels like it’s bleeding, throbbing with my heartbeat.

He begins to get up, the strong length of his body levering above me. I kick at his nuts, and before waiting to see if I struck home I begin to turn my body, rolling off the bed. I turn and hit the floor with one foot, then the other and run for the stairs. He grunts angrily behind me, I daren’t look back.

I have to get the fuck out of here. All I can do is get up those stairs and out the door and I’ll be fine. He can’t do this to me. My foot strikes the first stair and I start up, then fall against the wall as my wrists are pulled up harshly, then down. I stumble down the stairs and he forces me against the wall. I must have missed the fuckers balls. I try to turn around but his knee is suddenly in the small of my back, pushing in hard. I hear the fabric ripping and being cut as he removes the rest of my shirt.

“What the fuck man! I’m not a fag. You’ll fucking die, I’ll kill you!” He presses all of his body to me against the wall, and bites me again, behind my left shoulder. Again I lose myself for a moment, the strength and fight seeming to drain out of me. My pants are being cut away. He says something about not moving if I don’t want to bleed. I hold still, keeping my eyes closed. Smell of paint, and now sweat. My own. Fear. I clench my fists and feel my nails biting into my palms. my pants fall away. He cuts away my briefs and unbidden, a plea for mercy bubbles up from my stomach, more a whimper then actual words.

He reaches around with one hand, pressing me against the wall again and grabbing my dick. I begin to pull away then freeze. Cold at my throat, I try to open my eyes, and find his face there. I open my mouth to tell him what I think of him, but the words die in my throat. Fucking faggot. Fudge-packing little homo bitch queer. How could he do this? His hand moves lower, and I stiffen as his fingers wrap around my balls. He squeezes, I remain as still as I can, my open mouth toning a sound of pain.

I close my eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I ask as he steps away from me. I feel suddenly cold, and shiver, trying not to think of the stairs to my left, of how close I am, but how far away. He grunts and begins to wrap something around my forearms above my wrists. Rough rope winds and winds and I blink back tears from my eyes, the situation beginning to set in. “Please.” I say.

The rope pulls tighter, roughing up my skin. Click-click, Click-click, then handcuffs come off. I twist my wrists and the rope burns them. “Because I can’t stand self-deluded little haters like you.” he says. His voice is surprisingly gentle. Like steel wrapped in fleece or cotton. Hard and unyielding, but with a softness that lulls. “Because I’m sick of watching you fill yourself with hate and spread it like a disease.” His hand on my ass and I realize I’m holding my breath, as if it really matters to me. “And mostly because I want to fuck you.” He squeezes and I shudder involuntarily, shaking my head violently and trying to pull away, but the strength is mostly gone out of me.

“No. Nonononononono.” I start shaking my head and screwing up my face in horror. He can’t do that. He won’t. I can’t let him. I start shivering all over, shaking my head violently and pulling away from his hand. Getting away isn’t even a thought. I just can’t comprehend what is going on here. I hide against the wall as if it would offer me shelter. There is no shelter though. I huddle down, crouching low against the wall and tucking my head under.

Suddenly I am back in school. I see the faggot in the locker room, turning his head away from his, hiding his face in the lockers, as if that would make a difference. His skin was so pale, I can make out every hint of a pimple on his cheekbone, the black hair wet from the shower hanging half-over his face. I hear him crying as my fist connects with his stomach. I pull on his hair. I can smell his tears. Something in my stomach uncoils, a serpent rising up to strike. Spontaneously I lick the tears from his cheek.

A slap to my cheek brings me back to the present. I look up at him, taller than me, and turn my face away. “No, please don’t.” He only responds by grabbing me by the hair and pushing me down onto the cold floor. More rope as he pulls my ankles together. I whimper quietly, too stunned to do anything, my mind being drawn back several years, but the cold of the floor too severe and present for my mind to escape.

When he’s done with my ankles he slaps my ass with one hand, and the sting pours through my body, racing along lines of energy beaded with sweat. He pulls me up to my knees. His hand tightens in my hair, pulling on it until my eyes roll back in my head. He punches me in the stomach and I begin to cry harder, clenching my eyes against the tears and then he bites me again, and I’m lost in the taste of my tears on my lips. .

My friends have left gone home. He looks up at me, brown eyes full with tears and pain, now curious. I pull his head back with his hair and scratch at his collar bone with my teeth and fingers. He moans and I punch him in the stomach again. The moan increases in volume. He leans, losing his balance. Half against me and half against the lockers. His body falls into me and I feel his cock, rock hard, against my hip.

I come back to myself and begin to struggle again. Pulling away from him and now he smiles. “Get away from me!” I yell, falling to the side as I try to pull away. He grabs my shoulder, his fingers digging into the places he’s bitten me and I cry out as he pulls me back up to my knees forcibly. Both hands on my shoulders he yanks my head back by my hair. He unzips his fly, the blue jeans bulging as he reaches in and pulls out his cock, full of life and ready.

“Don’t even fucking think about it faggot!” I say. “I’ll bite it off.” He lets go of my hair and slaps me suddenly across the cheek, then he is low, his breath against my cheek and my body kneeling up held against him, his other hand grabbing at my balls again, squeezing them.

“If you even think about it again I’ll cut your balls off one by one and feed them to you through a tube.” There is threat in his voice. My body shivers convulsively and he suddenly lets me go. I fall back, my ass hitting my heels and my head falling forward, hiding from him.

I tighten my hand in his hair and pull back, biting his throat and shifting his body to lean against mine. My hand goes around the back of him and my fingernails rake his spine, then dig into his ass. His eyes are closed and I let go of his hair, watching subtle changes in his expression as he presses against me. His hips twitch up further, he’s on the balls of his feet now. One hand on the lockers the other on my hip, clenching the waistband of my briefs. He opens his eyes.I see some sort of reflection there and the tears pour freely down his face. The scent of salt is maddening. Tears on his lips. He kisses me suddenly and I freeze, violently stunned. Faggot.

He puts his thumb on my lips. “Open up.” He says. I turn my head away from him. The head of his penis barely an inch away from my cheek. I lift my chin stubbornly. He chuckles and I feel his fingers gathering along my cheek, beads of my tears, which he rubs into his penis. Salt and precum in the air, a bubbling in my stomach. He turns my head back to him and presses the head of his cock to my lips. “Or else.” he says, low in his throat. So quiet I can not be sure he spoke at all. My lips part and he places the head of his cock on my tongue. “Now suck”

I bring my knee up into his crotch and he goes down with a deep moan. I grab the back of his head and pull, crouching down, wanting to see the tears, the taste of them still on my lips and in my mouth. His eyes are glazed over, and his mouth partway open. When the sense returns to his eyes a smile quirks the corners of his lips. I open the fly of my briefs.

His hand is on the back of my head now and he pulls me in. I choke, trying to pull back, and my gag reflex fires again and again. He pulls out slightly and I try to breath, to catch my breath, and he forces his way all the way back in until I’m sobbing and sweating and unable to struggle from lack of air and energy, and then he slides in and out slowly as I try to breathe, recovering myself. Then again, his penis is filling the back of my throat and the cycle continues. I wonder if this is about getting him off, or breaking me down. My wrists twist in the rough fibers and I moan.

I bit the flesh just inside his hip and he started to moan. “Don’t do this to me!” he said. He always said that. “I’ll do what I want faggot.” I said, hitting his balls with my open hand. I bit until I was happy with the mark. By this time he was crying. His hands were clenched in the bedsheets and his face screwed up with pain. I hit his balls again, hard this time, and slapped his stomach. His body arches up from the bed and I can hear the small noises he begins to make in the back of his throat.

“You like that fag, don’t you?” I say, and he nods jerkily, and again as his body settles to the bed, moaning. I can smell his cock and I climb on top of him, licking his face, nipping his cheek bones with my teeth. He giggles as though I’d tickled him and thrusts up against me. He grabs at my shirt, pulling it up until he can place his hands on my chest. I grab him and force him down, holding his wrists. I kiss his lips teasingly, “Fucking faggot. You’d like to see what’s under my shirt wouldn’t you?”

I can see he’s not in the mood for this. He whimpers but doesn’t lie. “Yes. Please!” He isn’t playing the game. I smile, all the better if he’s not actually in the mood. I bring my knee up and press it down against his groin. He shudders and his eyes close. “God no, I’m sorry! Nooo..”

I blink, delusional. I can breathe again. I’m panting and he’s biting my chest, teeth digging into my nipples and pulling on them. I cry out. “Stop! Owwwww!” And try to pull away, but he punches me in the gut. My new found breath escapes me and I double over onto him. He moves and pulls me to my feet by my hair. Shoving me onto the bed. “You’re going to get fucked now.” he says. I’m too weak even to fight back. But I try to roll over anyway, worming towards the other side of the bed. He grabs the rope at my ankles and pulls me back down until my ass is hanging over the edge of the bed. He slaps my ass hard and unties my ankles. Spreading them out and tying them to the legs of the bed.

I whimper and he says. “Doesn’t this seem familiar?” He chuckles and I moan as he pulls a piece of rope under my arms and ties it to the headboard, preventing me from straightening up at all. He tightens it until it hurts and I begin to whimper steadily. He hits me on the ass with something hard, a paddle maybe. I jerk, surprised. This is new. He chuckles and hits me again and I start to sputter words. “Stupid faggot, what the hell. You need to soften me up before you fuck me? Stop, no, ow! Stop it!” It goes on and on, I can feel myself bruising.

I leaned harder against him until the pain is so great he can’t make any more noise, then I reached up above him and pulled the piece of clothesline out from under his pillow. He’d stolen it from his mothers basement. I eased up on him as I tied his wrists together, tightly, and then abruptly climbed off of him entirely. I pulled on his wrists and dragged him the rest of the way up the bed, his ragged breathing shallow and fast as I tied his wrists to the metal posts of the headboard. I climbed back on top of him then, and bit his nipple as hard as I could without ripping it off. He screamed and I slammed my hand over his mouth. My fingernails scratched down over his ribs and stomach, over the turn of his hips and down his thighs.

I slapped his cock until he stopped moaning from it and then squeezed it as if I were strangling a snake. All the while, “god no, please, why no, it hurts, i hate you, you fucking hetero mother fucking breeder piece of shit. Stop, it hurts, I can’t stand it. god damn it just get me off already. No I’m not in the mood I don’t want this I want to cum you fucker, stop, just let me go!” All the begging just made me meaner. I can never tell if he whines to make me crueler, or if some part of him really wants me to stop. Still, when I turned him over and lengthened the rope tying his wrists to the headboard so his hips were over the edge, his body responded with a parting of his legs and a thrusting of his hips. I turn him over onto his stomach.

I’ve stopped yelling at him. I don’t know if I lost my voice, or if I just forgot to keep protesting, but my ass and thighs were burning and felt as though they must be twelve shades of purple. Smell of my tears on the sheets, damp, and the sound of him behind me. I moan “Why?” “To hurt you.” he says. My shoulders and elbows are on fire and I twist a little, trying to ease the pressure. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” I start to plead. Whatever he wants he must already have had it. He couldn’t really want to fuck me. “Don’t do this to me, Not anymore.”

Sound of a condom wrapper, the squish of lubricant. Something breaks inside of me. I jerk fiercely against the ropes and cry out in pain and terror. I start to shiver and pull, ignoring the pain, determined to break free of this, to get away from him. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, pulling me back and his knees are to either side of my hips, and he bites me. My body freezes, all the pressure and fear draining out of me, transfixed by the sensation shooting through me. I let out a purgative roar and collapse against the bed as he releases me.

I use a condom. I know it will never be like this time again. His ankles are tied to the legs of the bed frame with more clothesline, spread apart. I put a pillow under his hips and knead his ass with my hands. “Oh god no, I’m not ready for this. Don’t do this!” he starts babbling as I open the condom. He starts to struggle, causing the bed to creak and shake and I soothe his body. His speech degenerates into a bubble of moans and pleasure sounds as my lips and teeth and tongue find the soft parts of his back and shoulders. Finally his breathing settles and I press a lubricated thumb against him. Pushing in until I hear a low moan. “You like that don’t you faggot?”

He nods and whimpers, and I smile. You won’t for long, I think. Something clicks inside me as I place the tip of my dick against the cleft in his ass. A part of me already regrets what I’m about to do, but most of me knows that if it’s not rape, it won’t satisfy either of us. The pain and ordeal is what makes it meaningful. I put just a little more lube on my cock and then nicely softly massage him, letting him think it’s going to be easy. I rub my cock against him until he relaxes enough to think it won’t be so bad. Then, after just the tip of me is in with that slow pressure and easing, I pierce him like the sun through the clouds. His yell is somehow subsonic, and his tears leave my eyes.

He is raping me now, harder than I raped him. I wonder if I’m bleeding. My body is in some sort of mysterious shock that scares me and drives me happily wild. The sex is fierce, and my protests have long since been burned away by the heat of his body against my ass, by the pain and bruising and the sheer feral passion that rolls over us. I bite the sheets, angry that there is nothing else to get my teeth on, and taste my tears. I am blind with sensation, I hear his body, his blood pumping in my veins, smell only my own heat and the mix of my fear and pain. I am beyond my ability to process this experience and so I ride it, surging on the swell of his body, my heart echoing his beats until I don’t know where the lines between us are anymore.

I lick his wrists, deep marks from the rope, from where he struggled so hard when he realized I wasn’t going to stop. He is in my arms on the floor, the pillows and sheets piled up around us. I was afraid that somehow I’d broken him, but there was some sort of glow coming off his skin now, and it was brighter in his eyes. His head was on my chest and I sucked blood back into the skin of his wrist. He pushes his head against me, as if trying to climb inside me, and I stroke him softly, fingers parting his hair in sweaty clumps. I tug on it and he turns his face up to mine as his arm wraps around me.

He finishes and walks away, leaving me there, sobbing silently in pain and anger and fear. I hear the condom hit the garbage. Then the pressure on my arms is gone as he cuts through the rope. He unties my ankles, then my wrists. I don’t move at all. he covers me with a sheet, and suddenly I’m cold, and I pull my body in around myself, wrapping the sheet around me, and then he’s there too, cradling me in his body. He strokes my temple and body until I am no longer cold, and the warmth of his body reminds me of life. I press against him, needing assurance, needing presence, feeling strangely alone in my body. He kisses me, his hands in my hair, and I’m no longer alone. I blink, and smile, and tension that I didn’t know was there vanishes into the ether.

“Thank you.” I whisper, smiling up at him. My hands stroking his arm and shoulder now, caressing him.

“Thank you” he says, and we kiss again. I grin at him. “What is it?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

“That hurt.” I say solemnly, and grin in what feels like a goofy manner.

His smile is small, something fragile, but it carries the weight of his eyes and he wiggles his ass against me. I kiss him, and lose myself in the taste of salty tears, and the kiss that he gives back. When I open my eyes again he says “Thank you.” and I whisper “You’re welcome.” His eyes glimmer with something impish inside. His smile becomes a grin. “What?” I ask.

“ow.” he says in all seriousness, then bursts into a fit of giggles.

He seemed to be paddling somewhat erratically now. Sometimes with great powerful forward strokes — maybe he thought I’d do something once we got into the protection of the weeds and shoreline — and then slacking off, realizing that he might be getting too far ahead of me. I just kept paddling regularly on. After a couple of times of this, he grinned over behind me and took a turn, like some giant puppy or porpoise, completely circling me, pumping his naked chest hard as he powered through the water, splashing himself and laughing, and I got even more hard, seeing that hairy chest glinting with water droplets in the summer sunshine. Thankful that I had brought along some rope in the bottom of my boat.

Suddenly we were across, and gliding swiftly up a stream, reeds brushing the sides of our boats. Both of us got into the beauty surrounding us, watching the birds we had startled rise up into the air, and the fish and shells below the surface of the water. Quietly we glided in, slowing as we stopped paddling, until we’d passed two or three turns and were entirely surrounded by reeds, quiet water and sunshine. I stroked hard twice and glided up next to him, slowing with precise paddle strokes, and held out my hand. After a moment of confusion, he extended his paddle to me and I slipped it into the bands on my boat. I reached out my hand again. He paused, weaving his eyebrows together, and then smiled in recognition, and threw his t-shirt over to me. I grinned and nodded. And held out my hand again. This time he bit his tongue for a moment, but only a moment, and soon he was throwing over to me his shorts, and his underwear, and his shoes, and his socks. All of this I stored in my boat. And held out my hand again. He handed over his small backpack, which contained a towel and spare shirt and jacket. He even handed over his life jacket, because now we were in 3 to 12 inches of water and 2 feet of mud, so he wasn’t going to drown. Then, totally naked as he was, we explored. I thought of how useful a kayak is. Someone on shore wouldn’t be able to see below the waist! And they would not know that he was naked. I’d make him go back to the rental agency in the small seaside town like that, but we had stuff to do first.

I watched him explore. At first, of course, he was full of excitement, but that quickly dissipated and he seemed to explore with much more calmness, and solicitude of me actually. He kept close, and he smiled lovingly in my eyes much. We explored around in a biggish circle: the creek, finding no one there, and some little island all of three or four feet round, and when we’d seen enough of what was around, I returned us to one of those islands.

“Go up to it,” I said, and he paddled up to it. “Land,” I said, and he pushed the bow of his boat up on it. “Get out,” I said, and he looked plaintively over at me. I was floating off to his side, about six feet away, and he didn’t want to get out, because this little island was mud. Not hard earth. It was mud, deep mud, and though the water was warm and the sun bright, he shivered, because trying to get out into that mud meant that he was going to sink deep, and maybe even feel things down in that mud that slithered against his feet and legs, and he would not be able to run up onto dry land, because there was none of that out here in the marsh.

But he did as he was told. Gingerly. He pushed with his powerful shoulders up on the sides of the cockpit, and raised his naked ass onto the coaming. I admired his beautiful body as he did this. He gingerly swung both legs over to one side, the kayak shaking with the force of his control, wanting to flip over with the movement, but he balanced it like he was on a high-wire, the muscles in his body standing out in the tension. And then he put his feet down. They settled through the water and touched the silt of the little island … and kept going. In past the ankles they sank. Up his shins they sank. And when the water was to his knees, and the mud only three inches below, he finally got a solid grip.

I floated closer. He slowly stood up, bracing himself against the kayak, the muscles in his ass standing out strong, and his feet sank quickly deeper, till his knees were sunk in the mud. “Go on up to the island,” I said, and as he waded up to the island, I reached out and pulled the kayak suddenly away from him, hanging onto the rope at the stern. He wavered as his arms flung out, but did not fall, and kept up his pace till he was up out of the water itself, but still knee-deep in rich dark, silty mud. Once he almost fell and put out his hand, but quickly pulled it back, not wanting any other part of himself to touch the mud. I tied his kayak to mine as he slowly turned toward me.

A beautiful sight. A man naked in the natural wilderness. His face was contorted just slightly in beautiful concentration, and I did not fail to notice that his balls were pulled up tight and his cock mostly full but not hard.

“Back up,” I said, and he began to turn around to go further onto the island. “No — I said: back up.” And so he began to try to walk backward. Much more difficult, but he did it. As he got up to the center of this three foot diameter island in the swamp, he suddenly hit a soft spot and dropped down till the mud was almost at the center of his thighs. “Stop,” I said. He almost looked terrified.

“How’s it feel?” I asked, worried a bit that he was getting too scared, and ready to nudge my craft quickly up onto the island that he could fall onto my bow and be saved if need be.

“OK,” he said nervously, “I don’t know what’s in here. And he paused and looked around, breathing a bit easier and his cock fililng up a bit more. He looked up at the sky, and felt the sun and smiled.

“Pose,” I said. He looked confused and then began to do poses for me, like he was at some competition. “Work that cock up for me,” I said, and he did, slapping it around and getting it nice and hard. “Get it close to coming,” I said, as I pulled my own shorts open and began to jerk off, and he did, this beautiful man under the sun and smiling broad.

“Go as far as you can without coming,” I said, “and when you stop, raise your arms to the blessed sky.” He went faster. He went harder. His breathing moved his chest in and out. I paddled slowly around the island, watching my man jerk off for me from all angles. Suddenly, with great gasps of breath, he stopped and raised his arms and face up, to the sun and sky, and breathed and sighed.

“Sing,” I said, and he laughed and began singing whatever he could think of with great gusto and celebration. I lifted up my paddle and smacked the water, sending spray all over his front. He gasped and stopped singing but then began immediately again and I went a little bit around to his side and splashed some more water on him. I’d stroke my cock, then stop and lift the paddle high and smack the water onto him, and go round a little bit more, and around and around I went, till he was soaked in water, his cock bouncing shiny in the sun, singing Irish drinking songs to the whole wide world.

“Stop,” I said, and we both rested. He made to lower his head and look at me. “Nope,” I said, “Keep it all up.” He smiled, then quickly reached down and stroked his cock with an evil grin, showing that he was going to keep it *all* up, and then raised his arms again. I could tell his arms were getting tired. I waited. When I saw him lose his smile slowly in the effort to keep his arms raised, I did what I had been wanting to do this whole time.

“Kneel,” I said. He blanched. I swear he blanched. I grinned broad. I thought he might not do it, that I might have to instruct again, but then he began. Very slowly. Very very slowly, his thigh muscles bulging hugely out, he knelt down into the mud.

And kept sinking.

He sank quickly down his whole thighs. He held his arms up but he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the sight of his cock and balls lowering into the mud. He gasped, almost cried when they met the stinky mud, and then his eyes grew big as he felt the fine silt, the muck of life, rise up to cushion his balls, rise up into his ass crack, rise up the cock as he settled down slowly. He grinned widely as he felt the mud slowly encompass his cock and then settled completely into the kneel, the mud rising up to cover his bush and the ridges that rose up from his hips, but it didn’t quite reach his button.

I paddled into the island, letting the bow of my boat rest there in the reeds to the side and whispered, “Let your hands fall into the mud.” He let them fall, with a sigh of rest, resting them curiously with palms up on the mud. “Down deep in the mud,” I said, and he dug his fingers in. At first, delicately. I saw his mouth twinge in disgust. But then he became fascinated, and dug in deeper, till he’d pushed them in halfway up his forearms.

“Pick up two huge handfuls,” I said, and he shivered. He knew what I was going to do. But I was going to whisper us through it. I was going to go slow. He was going to experience every moment of that slimy, smelly immersion.

He raised up the handful, dripping wet stuff. I think I saw some worms and bugs fall out of it. He looked up at me with a dare-you face, with a face like ‘fuck it,’ with a face that with open mouth and showing teeth was both a grin and a howl in the silence. He waited.

“Cover yourself,” I said, “slowly and completely.”

He did. He took those handfuls and, shivering uncontrollably, brought them up to his chest and smeared them all over, brought them up to his armpits and wiped that all down. Picked up handfuls more and rubbed it all over his neck.

“Your hair!” I said, and quickly he bent over and picked up two more handful and ground it into his head, shivering and panting and his cock growing hard.

“Your back!” I shouted, and he pulled up gobs after gobs and threw it over his shoulder, twisting side to side to get his hands absolutely everywhere.

“Stop!” We sat there. I had pulled somewhat away from the flurry of mud. The water chuckled on the hull. The wind blew gently by. “Two more handfuls,” I said. He did. There was only one place left uncovered and we both knew it. “Your face,” I said quietly, and slowly, like a benediction, he bent his head and gently smeared the swamp mud all over, gasping, almost crying, in obedience to my desire. He was covered, head to toe and in all cracks, with muck.

He dropped his hands to the side, and gently opened his eyes. The whites looked out at me and he tried not to grin but he couldn’t help automatically sticking his tongue out to start to wipe his lips and then he grimaced and then he spit and then we both got the giggles.

I paddled up within arms reach (he made to smear me but I with facial expression pointed out the other kayak, in the reeds distant from his reach and he grinned back and let his hands stay where they were). I pushed strong up onto the island and reached out to my smeared man. I ran my fingertips all over his chest. I smeared the mud around his nipples. I ran my hand around the edge of the mud. I pushed one finger down into the beginnings of the crevice of his ass. And then I pulled up my sleeve and plunged my hand down into the mud to grab his cock and jerk it, there down deep in the mud Our eyes locked. His breathing began to increase, and tears came out his eyes. Suddenly, I don’t know why, I just wanted to: I spit in his face. He froze. And then that was the moment: he relaxed toward me, slumping, almost falling into my arms with his surrender.

We didn’t go on long like that. I raised up my muddy arm from his cock and ran it up the center of his body, up his neck, up past his lips, and then to his nostrils, and slowly rubbed in circles there till the mud got further and further in. Not too much. Just a little. Then I pushed off the island, gliding backwards to where I’d parked his kayak in the reeds, tying it to the stern of my kayak.

“Stand.” He did. Struggling to keep somewhat level, but not nearly so delicate as he had been. The mud was beginning to dry and cake on his shoulders and I half wanted to leave him like that and see what it was like, but another time, I decided, and so said, “Get close.” And he began to jerk himself off with the slick mud. When he came close, he yelled “May I SIR?”

“No.” I said. “Follow me *now*,” I said, and quickly began to paddle down the stream toward the lake, his kayak following. After a moment’s pause, I heard thrashing through the water, thighs plunging through mud, a great noise. Birds took off from nearby. “Sir!” he called and I stopped and looked back but he just needed the acknowledgment. I smiled. “Come on!” I shouted and kept going and soon we were in water 2 feet deep, and a harder bottom, and I didn’t here the thrashing of the effort of going through muck and I pushed hard the last little bit and shot out into the lake, quickly curving ’round to watch my man emerge.

He came, his thighs clean from the coming through the water, and he saw me out in the deep, and he grinned huge. I put my paddle in the bands, and raised my arms toward him as though to give a hug, and from 15 feet away I saw my boy grin, surge forward with water to his thighs and suddenly, covered in muck all the way, he raised up his arms and dove in.

The water showed a torrent of mud behind him. He dove under and swam under water, and as he came, me paddling backward to be sure not to let him get to close, I saw a tunnel of mud become a half pale thing, become a wholly clean thing, and he surfaced, his hair streaming mud, but his face and neck and shoulders clean.

“Cavort,” I said, “Clean off,” and he thrashed and dove and rose and breached like some otter or whale, and the mud washed off and off. At one point he curved up onto his back, throwing his legs in the air so that for a moment I could see his ass crack with his hand there scrubbing away.

After he was clean I untied the kayak and extended it to him and he swam to it. I handed him his paddle, and he lifted it up on top, and I braced his kayak against mine, and held his paddle down and he lifted himself (beautiful shoulders, beautiful man) up and on top of it stomach first, his ass in the air.

“Stop,” I said, and he did, looking up at me with quizzical looks. I pushed off till I got about five feet away, and swung his kayak around so I was behind him, and then I raised up my paddle and swatted that bare ass three times, increasing in hardness, till he was grounding his hard cock into the fiberglass. I paused. And then hit him hard once. And then once more. The red showed up on his ass, especially where the pole ridge caught him.

“Get in,” I said, and with some beautiful struggle, he got himself in.

Then I paddled close to him again. He slumped at me a bit, like he was thinking this was over already or something. Silly boy. I pulled his hands behind his back and tied them there with one of the ropes I had. Then I took his paddle and pulled it athwart the cockpit and with another rope tied it down hard to his cock and balls. Then I tied his kayak once more to the stern of mine and began to paddle back toward the livery.

O so unfortunately for my boy, kayaks tip. And paddles are long. And several times he couldn’t keep quite the balance he’d want and the tip of the paddle would hit the water and pull, trying to get away from his control, with his groans and moans to help out, but my boy’s cock and balls are strong and wouldn’t let the paddle get pulled away, no matter how far the boat pulled off to the side. He’d just have to angle his hips to get it to come on up out of the water. But of course, then he’d be overcompensated on the other side! And the kayak would tip. And the other end of the paddle would dip in. O so unfortunate.

It was a nice afternoon of paddling it was, and when we were coming back into town and he was begging for his clothing, I made him promise me all kinds of things in order to get each article back.

Until then, why not check out:

• http://www.lifelube.org/
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• http://brotherhoodofthephoenix.org
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