The Hidden Slave
The man stood in a cone of bright light, tall and broad
shouldered, his hard muscles gleaming like marble. He
wore a leather jock strap and a wide studded band on his
left bicep. A black leather mask covered his entire head.
Dark eyes glittered through the slits as he looked down at
Lonny, crouched naked at his booted feet. The boy could
hear his own heavy breathing beating against his ears like
waves in the utter silence. He could smell his own sweat
and fear; feel the gnawing hunger to taste the man in front
of him, ingest him, feel the heat of that strong hand on his
body. His wrists were tied behind his back but he leaned
forward, straining to lick the man's muscled thigh.
"Not so fast, boy." The voice cracked like a whip in the
air above his head. "You haven't earned it."
Lonny started violently, lost his balance and fell
heavily to the concrete floor. He swallowed his scream as
his cock bent under his weight. A heavy boot landed on
his back, pressing him to the floor. Dampness, laced with
the hot smell of sex and highly polished leather clogged his
"Please," he gasped. "Please."
The boot pushed harder. It forced the breath out of
him, grinding his cheek bone against the unyielding
cement. Just as he thought he would pass out, the boot
pulled away, then shoved his hip so that he rolled over on
his back. Light blazed in his eyes, blinding him. The great
dark man bent down and grasped Lonny's cock in his huge
hand, squeezing, squeezing until the boy cried out with
pain, his eyes clamped tight against the light. And still his
cock throbbed hard and hurting, straining to spurt its load
into the hand that gripped it so mercilessly.
The toe of the boot forced its way into Lonny's
mouth, tasting of dirt and polish and the faint hint of urine.
Lonny's eyes sprang open, but all he could see was the
glistening leather, the rows of eyelets, the black laces cris-
crossed up the ankle and a ridge of grey wool sock hanging
over the top. Tears slid down his cheeks, spilling onto the
boot, sliding in a crooked path to the floor. And still his
cock remained hard.
Let me come, he prayed, his eyes pleading, as he tried
to see the faceless man who towered above him. And
then he focused his attention on the leather shoe, letting
his tongue caress the pitted worn surface. As the man
slowly withdrew his boot from Lonny's mouth, the boy's
tongue followed it, laving the small surface he could reach
to a high gloss.
He wasn't thinking any more. Deep inside the heat
was gathering, exploding like a fist in the gut....
Lonny sprang up in the bed with a cry. He was naked,
the twisted bedclothes sticky with cum. He stared around
him in the darkness of the spacious room as if expecting to
see the oiled splendor of his fantasy man. The shadows
were silent and still. Gradually his breathing evened out.
He raked back his sweat-soaked hair with a shaking hand
and fell back on the pillows, exhausted from the dream.
The man in the cone of light. The faceless man with
the voice like thunder and hands that hurt and healed at
the same time. The man in the photograph he had found
all those years ago, hidden away in his uncle's carved
camphor wood chest with the brass corners. For years the
picture of the man had haunted his dreams. Then it had
disappeared, swallowed up by the more present images of
boys in the gym, naked young bodies slick with water from
the showers, gym shorts tightly packed with engorged
cocks. Now the man was back, eerily resurrected by his
uncle's death and his own inheritance of the locked chest,
with that cryptic note inside addressed to him.
Lonny pulled himself abruptly to his feet. He switched
on the bedside light. The dream filled him with a nervous
energy, scattering his thoughts, making his pulse race. He
padded to the bathroom, his bare feet noiseless against the
plush rugs. In the shower, he let the scalding water pour
over him, plastering his hair to his scalp and soothing the
tension in his body. He felt like a tuning fork, just after it
has been struck, the vibrations quivering along each nerve-
ending under the skin. The smell of leather. Eyes glittering
through slits in the mask. The deep yearning to belong to
the man in the cone of light. When had it started?
It was the surroundings, he told himself sternly. Living
in his uncle's condo was bringing back these adolescent
fantasies. Although he had been here almost a month, he
was still not settled in. He had hung new pictures on the
walls, arranged his collection of wind up toys and music
cds on the shelves of one bookcase, put his books with the
others. A lot of the nick knacks and objets d'art had been
sent away to collectors or friends named in the will. And
still he felt like an intruder in the place, surrounded by the
heavy antique furniture and the glowing oriental rugs.
From time to time he would look up, almost certain there
was someone in the room, a dark lively presence quite
unlike his uncle. He could almost hear soft laughter.
Sometimes, late at night, he thought he could smell his
The strange messages he had been receiving on the
answering machine the last few weeks didn't help matters.
No one ever said anything. There was only music, the first
few bars of some piece he never recognized played over
and over again. It was eerie.
And then there was the chest.
It stood where it had always stood, at the foot of the
big brass bed, and he still felt a faint tinge of guilt when he
looked at it. When he was fifteen years old, he had spent
two weeks with his Uncle Martin before school started. It
was an unusually long period to stay with his bachelor
uncle. Up to this time, the longest they had been alone
together, apart from family holidays like Christmas and
Thanksgiving and the occasional visit to the cottage in the
summer, was a weekend, and neither the man nor the boy
had any idea what to do with each other.
Bored one day when his uncle was at work, Lonny had
wandered around the apartment, looking for something to
interest him. The chest caught his attention. Perhaps if it
hadn't been locked, he would never have developed the
fascination with it that drove him to file his way through
the thin hasp of the lock and throw back the top. At first
he was bitterly disappointed. There appeared to be nothing
inside but old clothes, old army uniforms, shirts, two
embroidered dresser scarves and a finely stitched quilt.
Why the lock, he wondered.
And then he found the wide studded belt and the
black leather vest. He remembered the feel of the soft-as-
butter vest, the faint smell of the leather, the creak of the
belt as he twisted it in his hands. He was intrigued, but he
still had no idea of the meaning of what he had found.
Somehow he sensed there was meaning, though, and he
kept looking, turning over the boxes of letters and old
photo albums until he found it. The pictures were in a
cigar box, right at the bottom, and the heady scent of
Cuban tobacco still clung to them. They were black and
white, done by a master of lighting, whose lens lingered on
each male body with adoration. Some were classic nudes,
male shapes entwined like Greek statues, their faces
without expression. These had a cold beauty that didn't
move him. But under these, was a group of men in
leather. There weren't many, but each one was sharp and
hard, an image that struck straight to his soul and made
him tremble for an unnamed knowledge. They stared at
the camera, sure of their maleness and strength, even
when their hands were bound behind their backs and their
mouths stretched with a gag.
The man in the cone of light was the last one in the
box. For some reason, his was the image that returned in
Lonny's wet dreams, the man whose touch he craved even
as he tumbled the photos back in their box and hid it once
again under the old clothes. With trembling hands, he
fitted the lock back together, so it looked undamaged and
he left the bedroom, grabbing his windbreaker from the
front closet and rushing out to roam the streets, the same
restlessness driving him then as now. But now he had an
inkling of what it meant. His uncle had never said a word
to him about the broken lock. The next time he had
checked out the chest, the lock was gone. So were the
pictures. After all these years, they were back in his