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A Tale Too Many Times Told, Revisited For Grownups
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
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A Tale Too Many Times Told, Revisited For Grown-ups
It was cold, on top of the mountain, though a fire burned in the grate.
The log gave off a hiss and crackle, not unlike the muttering whisper of
our hero...
"He'll come here. I know he will. The old man... he wanted me once.
Turned my whole life around...then he left. `See you next year', he said.
Fuck that noise. This time, I'm ready for him. This time, he gets what
he deserves, what he gave me. This time _he_ can do the crawling and
begging."
He peers into the mirror, and likes what he sees. Leather chaps, not so
new that they shine, but still with that musky reek of the tannery. The
nipple rings, well-healed by now, with heavy chromed skulls hanging from
each. The boots, the hat, the studded codpiece, everything perfect, down
to the well-used and flexible riding crop and whip, hanging from a belt.
This belt has no rings on it, unlike last year's... He licks dry lips,
pours himself a cup of eggnog, and settles down in the comfortable chair
to wait.
The comfortable chair sits in sharp contrast to the chair opposite.
The room is lit with a single bare bulb, which makes that chair all the
more sinister... It could be a prop from a 1930's horror movie. Bare
wood, with straps for wrists and ankles, and a tall back, with a neck strap.
Wires and clips hang over the back, connected to a battery sitting on the
floor underneath.
"He made me crawl for him. He was my Master, and he abandoned me. He's
going to pay. My heart almost burst for him..", in a voice that rumbled
with the sound of old tears fought back too many times. "What I'm going
to do to him...he'll beg me to stop, he'll beg for more, I'll bet he's
always wanted this. Everyone thinks he's such a fucking saint. I never
did. His thing...he wants everyone to love him, to wait for him, to spend
restless nights hoping for the pleasure he brings. I can see that now.
I'll show him love." He caresses the handle of the whip, slowly, with his
long, long fingers lingering on the knob, a stirring behind his codpiece.
He reflects back on years of waiting like this, patient, after the Master
first broke him to servitude. The winters of hoping, each time, that he
wouldn't have to kiss his Master's boots, that he could peel off his
Master's red and black garb, that he wouldn't have to share him with the
others. That was the toughest part, of course, all those other calls on
his Master's time. Such a short time. The others didn't care, of course,
not the way he did. They took the Master for granted, had been born to
servitude, those weak, pasty-faced little ones. He cared, because no one
had fought harder than he to break the Master's spell. He had driven
himself to the utmost lengths, lit from within by puritanical zeal, to
drive the Master forth from his community. But the Master had come, and
had overcome him, soothed away his doubts with the warm glow of love...
then left again. And again. And again, over the years..."This time, he's
staying until I let him leave." There was a table by the bare wooden chair,
littered with black and silver objects, some of which gleamed in the dim
yellow light. A ball gag. Long pins. Nipple clamps, homemade, designed
to hurt. A mound of table salt. "This time, I have presents for _him_."
The clock strikes midnight. He waits, now impatiently, gets up and
surveys himself in the mirror one more time. His grey fur sticks out in
tufts around the hat, and he smooths it. The face in the mirror looks too
hopeful, too eager. So, the Grinch, with an inner twich of glee, permits
himself a full-blown gnarly scowl, remembering old times, because he hears
a rattling in the grate, and sees the flicker of the fire that means the
Master, former Master, will arrive momentarily.
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