Feature Writer: Kirk Brothers
Feature Title: Hecate’s Offerings / Second Benedict/David Adventure – Hecate’s Offerings
Story Codes: Voodoo, Witchcraft, Devil Worship, Rituals, Murder, Sacrifice,
Contact: Kirk Brothers <[email protected]>
Uploaded: 15.11.1997
Copyright: All Rights Reserved / (Characters copyright 1990 in “Night of the Coven”)
HECATE’S OFFERINGS
“Mr. Benedict,” said the slim brunette in the front row of the Monday night audience, “this is my first time here, so I don’t really know anything about witchcraft–except the old ghost stories and so on. So I’d like to ask you a very serious question, if I may.”
Benedict nodded his assent. “What I want to know,” she went on, “is just what is the connection between witchcraft and the cult murder in Central Park last Friday night?”
Benedict, who had invited her question, frowned when he heard. He collected his thoughts while glancing around the room on that hot evening of June 14–the summer of 1999 already promised to be a real scorcher for New York City. Benedict, a slim man with long thinning hair in a pony tail and scholarly features, was a well-known “character” in Greenwich Village–an occultist with a shop on Christopher Street selling paraphernalia for “magic” rituals. He had declared himself to be a Shaman, or male witch, and “white magician”.
But this was not his shop, with its skeleton and black cat– its arcane books and exotic, colorful candles, amulets, and crystal balls. Every Monday at 8:00 he held a public lecture and discussion on occult subjects in a rented Sunday School room in a non-denominational gay church. Tonight his audience numbered about fifteen or twenty. Most of them he knew by name or face from his shop, but he had never seen the brunette before–nor two men sitting far apart in the back row.
One of them was apparently in his thirties–the other at least fifty–and Benedict had noticed they appeared to be more interested in the audience than in his talk. They had sat with folded arms throughout.
Also in the back row sat David Martinez, a handsome Hispanic in his mid-twenties, in his hustler garb of tight jeans and a black leather jacket. A pair of handcuffs adorned the left shoulder strap and a tiny gold ring in his left ear was shaped like the letter “S”.
“Well, Miss–“, he began.
“Stone. Diane Stone.”
“Well, Miss Stone, I really can’t imagine why the media have been calling this a cult murder from the first news item. The facts as reported are very few and simple–and horrible, of course. Perhaps the horror element is the reason for the hysteria of a cult killing–or perhaps it was the tattoo.”
He paused to review the facts in his mind. The “cult murder” was getting a heavy play in the press–the media had dwelt on the sordid, sensational aspects of the crime, seeing it as the New York counterpart of the California and Mexico cult murders of a few decades ago.
At six A.M. the previous Saturday morning, a rider named Daniel Ulrich, out for an early canter on one of the many bridle paths on the west side of Central Park, had nearly been thrown when his mount shied–apparently scenting the body before the horseman saw it.
The rider took one stunned look and then galloped off to find a police officer. Fortunately, Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas had been on duty since midnight and was nearby. The officer rode back with Ulrich, dismounted, and used his radio to notify his command. Within minutes police cars were headed for the scene. City newsrooms, monitoring police calls as usual, overheard the transmissions–and in less than thirty minutes the media were out in force, asking questions and dutifully reporting the findings and theories of any officer who would talk to them.
The victim had been described in the press as a black man of light complexion, naked and mutilated. On one arm was the tattoo that had fueled the stories: a female head with the blank eyes of a Greek mask, and the name of the Pagan deity Hecate: Goddess of Hades.
The man’s eyes had been removed, the tongue had been removed, the hands removed, and the genitals removed–apparently before death. Bloodhounds were quick to track the victim’s scent back to a tree hidden by dense shrubbery, where physical evidence showed the man had been tied and tortured before he was strangled slowly– apparently with his own belt.
The autopsy report suggested death had occurred about two that morning. An outfit of man’s clothing, obviously cut off with a knife, was found in a litter basket–and the dogs easily located a shallow hole near the murder site, in which had been buried the man’s missing organs.
By Sunday, newspapers had pointed out the lines from Macbeth that “witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s offerings”, and by Monday there were rumors that a Caribbean cult with an enclave in Brooklyn was being investigated. Some TV reporters were asking “the man on the street” if Satanist cults should be stamped out by police.
Most of those whose opinions were broadcast said yes.
“What are the facts in this gruesome business that even suggest a cult of some kind is involved?” asked Benedict rhetorically. “Well, I say the same facts show even more conclusively that this is not a cult killing.
“Back in 1940 a man was killed by black magic, here in New York City. The case is even cited in the Encyclopedia Britannica, in its scholarly article on occultism. But as all anthropologists and students of Nature religions point out, a cult killing uses black magic to destroy its victim. And, for the magic to work, the victim must know that magic is being used against him, and he must believe in its power. In common parlance he must be superstitious.
Black magic has no effect whatsoever unless it is sincerely believed to be true. The same is true of white magic, of course.
“There was no black magic here: mutilation with a knife and strangulation with a belt are not the devices of a black magician.
A member of the Obeah cult, for example, would probably use a Voodoo doll of his enemy, trimmed with a lock the victim’s hair or fingernail clippings, and stuck with pins.”
As he spoke, Benedict noticed that the two men in the back row were now leaning forward attentively, their arms no longer folded across their chests.
“Now, some Satanist cults–which are perversions of Christianity, since they worship the Christian devil, Satan–might practice human sacrifice. Like the Mexican cult some years ago that kidnapped an American college student and murdered him in a ritual.
But those cults take great pains to conceal the evidence of their sacrifices. The victim is never found, except by diligent police work. This case obviously doesn’t fit that general rule, either.”
He paused again, putting his final conclusion in proper order.
“I suppose–purely as a theoretical possibility–that a witch might ‘go crazy’ and commit such a crime. So it’s not absolutely impossible that the Central Park murder was committed by someone in this room now–but it’s totally unlikely. There’s a characteristic which is unique to witchcraft which we must keep in mind.
“A cult as most of us use the word is a closely-knit group with a recognized leader and his or her disciples–like the Charles Manson ‘family’ in California, which was a Satanist cult, in my view. Manson was the final authority within his family. Other cults have had autocratic leaders–such as the one in Jonestown, Guyana, who ordered his followers to drink poison in Koolaid. Hundreds obeyed him.
“But witchcraft is in essence a personal and individual spiritual philosophy. We have a very loose organization, and quite flexible beliefs. Each witch, to a large degree, determines his own spiritual needs and the means of fulfilling them. True, we have a High Priest and Priestess, but the only times we meet are the eight Sabbats a year, in gatherings called covens. These are, traditionally, groups of thirteen witches, who celebrate the forces of Nature and enact rituals of white magic. As a matter of fact, the summer solstice occurs next week, so I shall take my vacation starting next Sunday, and there will be no meeting here next Monday –I will be at a gathering in Ithaca.”
Benedict had now reached the central theme of his beliefs, and he expounded briefly. “So witchcraft is not a cult in the sense of a rigidly organized group. We do not worship Satan. We reject all such practices as a mandatory article of faith. And witchcraft is indeed a religion which teaches, rather than preaches, spiritual goodness. It is merely a minority and unorthodox religion. It so happens than at one time I was a priest in the Wiccan church, but
I now follow my own spiritual path, and have my own personal affirmation of faith which perhaps no other witch uses.
“In brief, I affirm that I am a creature of Nature; I celebrate the bounty and wisdom of the Universe; I live by natural laws in peace with all other beings; I strive to develop my psychic awareness of a meaning and purpose in our existence; and I affirm that love of self and others is the only valid moral basis for all human actions.
“I know of no witch who would seriously dispute any of my beliefs. And, if that be so, how can witchcraft be involved in the Central Park murder? Does that answer your question, Miss Stone?”
“You’re saying it’s not a cult killing,” she answered–at which there were a few suppressed snickers from the audience.
Benedict glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, but our time is up for this evening. The room is mine only by the hour, so I’m afraid we can’t have any more questions. However, if anyone wishes to talk with me about anything we’ve discussed here, please stop by my shop on Christopher Street–you all know where it… Blessed be!”
There was a mumbled response of “Blessed be’s” from the small gathering, a scraping of chairs and a shuffling of feet, and the audience drifted out. Benedict noticed that the two men in the back row made brief eye-contact, and trailed out after the rest.
In the rear, David Martinez waited for Benedict.
“Blessed be, Benedict,” said David, shaking hands.
“Blessed be, David,” answered Benedict with a smile. “When did you decide to use the witches’ greeting?” It was casual conversation, and he did not wait for an answer. “It’s good to see you again–it’s been a while. Let’s see, when did we see each other last?”
“May the eighth,” answer David promptly. “A week after Beltane. About five weeks ago.”
Benedict picked up a small wooden box that had been placed on a table by the entrance. There was a slot in the top, which bore the lettering, “Contributions Gratefully Received. Blessed be!”
He opened the box absently. There were a few bills–all ones–and a big handful of change.
“About nine dollars,” he estimated. “Not enough to cover the room rent here, but it will have to do. I say, David, what brings you here? Not the cult murder, I hope. And what are your plans for the rest of the evening?”
“I wanted to pick up our conversation from where we left off last time. Do you remember?”
They were now walking down the steps to the sidewalk on the south side of Fourteenth Street, and turned toward Seventh Avenue South. “Of course,” said Benedict with a smile. “I had given you your horoscope and a copy of my own–asked if you’d like to be like a son to me, to study with me and work in the shop–and offered myself to you as your sex slave for life. You said it was a heavy proposition, that I’d mixed you up, and you’d have to think it over. How about having a bite to eat with me, and come home for a drink and talk? No strings attached. No coercion–either way.”
David know that meant no hustling. “Okay?”
“I’d like to,” said David, and they started down the avenue toward Christopher Street. “It’s none of my business,” he said as they waited for a WALK sign, “but you have a weekly listing in the Voice about your lectures–and you rent the room there–and tonight you took in only nine dollars. And I’ve never seen your store really crowded anytime I’ve walked by. So how can you keep going and have drinks at Stacy’s–and invite me to have a bite with you?”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Benedict. “Life has been good to me in many ways. My shop is in a brownstone that my great grandfather built, doing most of it himself, back in 1898. I was born in that building, on the first floor of apartments over the storefront. Your birth date, but twenty-four years and eighteen minutes earlier. I’ve always known the exact time, because my mother believed in astrology. We used to have a family joke: the midwife spanked me–I cried–and my mother said, ‘What time is it?’
When the midwife said it was twelve minutes after two, my mother kept saying to herself, ‘two-twelve. Water boils at two-twelve,’ so she’d remember.”
They had reached a little Spanish restaurant Benedict wanted to try. “How about your native cuisine, or are you tired of it?” David looked at the menu in the window. “This place is too pricey, Benedict! You invited me to have a bite, not a banquet!”
Benedict laughed, then in a teasing tone of voice he said, “Any hustler worth the name should be quick to get a good meal on a john! Why not let me treat you?”
David answered seriously. “Because you’re not a john to me! Damn it, Benedict! I feel different toward you than I would to any other guy–that’s why you mix me up, offering to be my dad, and my teacher, and my slave all in one!”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Benedict sincerely. “But I haven’t eaten since noon, and I feel like a good meal–and you’re invited! Let’s go in.” David shrugged, and they pushed through the front door with a tinkling bell that signaled their entrance.
They took a booth for privacy and a waiter brought the menus, looking curiously at David’s handcuffs. “Why don’t you order some- thing you especially like?” asked Benedict. “Surprise me.”
David smiled. “Okay.” He turned to the waiter and spoke in Spanish. The waiter answered in the same language, and the two talked briefly–not a word of which Benedict understood. The waiter departed for the kitchen after filling their water glasses, and David again grinned. “I asked him to have the chef fix a couple of Caribbean dishes I ate when I visited relatives in Puerto Rico.” He took a swallow of water and turned back to Benedict.
“You were telling me about being born in the building above your shop.”
“Yes,” said Benedict. “I said my great grandfather built the brownstone. That talent got him into the real estate business, and my grandfather and father inherited it and kept it going for three generations. I went to college, where I met my wife. Her father was a banker who’d set up a trust for her. Later, after dad and my wife died, I sold the business but kept the family home and followed my own interests. There are four floors above the store with two studio apartments on each floor, and the rent keeps me in the black–even if I lose a little money on my shop or lectures.”
David nodded. “So you’re rich.”
Benedict smiled. “By your standards, perhaps. But material possessions aren’t a driving force in my life. I could afford a half-dozen Brooks Brothers suits, but it’s not my lifestyle. I’m comfortable in turtlenecks and slacks, so that’s all I wear now. I have a comfortable income, low overhead–and no master but myself.”
“Too bad,” said David, echoing Benedict’s teasing tone of a few minutes before. “I’d like to be your Master.” He glanced sideways at Benedict to see his reaction. “The first night we met at Stacy’s, I told you I was a hustler, working masochists who like to be whipped. I could tell that turned you on–I’ve always felt strong vibes from you.
“But since that talk I’ve changed a lot. I used to cruise any john for any kind of action–even if he wanted to be the top man and make me blow him, or let him whip me–I used to take it if the money was high enough. Now I don’t. That first talk we had made me see that I’ve got to be the Master all the time, and now I don’t work any scenes except S/M–and the john has to be my slave.
“And the last time we talked you said that sex is a religious ritual to you–even heavy S/M. You said you couldn’t just pretend to be my slave, but you’d want to make it real–for the magic to work. I remember you used those words exactly. Just what did you mean? How far would you go for me?”
“You’ve been thinking about it, then.”
“A lot. And what mixes me up is how I could call you dad or Benedict one minute and be a son or lover to you–and call you slave the next minute and beat your ass to a bloody pulp! Oh, here’s our food! Doesn’t that look good?”
Benedict peered at the serving dishes as the waiter dished out their portions of two large meat and vegetable dishes, steaming hot with a spicy aroma to whet the appetite. When the waiter left,
Benedict said, “This looks wonderful! What’s it called on the menu so I can order it again some time?”
“It’s not on the menu. Now, back to my question. How can we be teacher and student one minute, and dad and son the next, and master and slave the next, and not screw up our relationship, if we have one?”
Benedict nodded as he chewed the first mouthful of his supper.
“A good question, but it has a simple answer. First, remember that in our relationship only my body will be enslaved–my mind and spirit will be as free as yours. Sexually you will always be the top men and Master of our relationship, and you must enjoy it!
“Outside the sexual area of our relationship, we must agree on a few basic rules that never change. If we need to talk as man to man, we’re Benedict and David. I’m Benedict until you move in with me–and dad once we’re living together.
“At any time we’re in the shop, classroom, or in public or some social group, call me dad. When we’re alone, call me any- thing you want. If you call me dad I’ll answer David. If you call me slave I’ll answer Master–or you’ll whip me for it. Of course, you can whip me anyway, whenever you like, as much as you like.”
David asked seriously, “How much can you take?”
Benedict was equally serious. “How much can you give?”
David paused and savored the food before answering.
“You wouldn’t believe how much I can give,” he said at last.
“I have at least a dozen johns who need a good whipping often enough to call me pretty regularly. Part of my deal is that onwe start a scene, I don’t stop until he uses a safe word, or I want. Most guys can take it only once a month or less, but one john is hot for me, and he wants a real rough session just about every
Friday night in his high-rise on Columbus Avenue.
“He always wants the same thing, more or less. He has a gym horse I tie him over, so his ass is up high, bent over so I can swing the whips overhead and down across his butt. I never hit a guy anywhere else unless he asks for it. He has a nice collection of canes and straps and paddles that can draw blood, and really hurt!
“A john can set outer limits–like no blood or scars–and he can use the safe word if I go so far he can’t take any more. But if he doesn’t use the safe word, he can cry and bleed and scream and beg for mercy all he wants, and I just get hotter!
“Well, this guy won’t use the safe word–that’s the part of a scene with him I like the best! I always hit full force right from the start–and I never let up.” He paused to recall the memory.
“Last Friday we had a long session–he said he wanted it super hard and raunchy–all weekend if I wanted to. He paid me plenty.” He paused before grinning again. “He got his money’s worth.
“I beat his ass, off and on, for eight solid hours–using his canes and whips and paddles the way they do in prisons. I burned the skin off his ass with lighter fluid, and stuck a few hundred needles in it before I dripped melted solder all over his butt.
For good measure I gave him twenty-five good cigar burns in each cheek.”
His mouth curled in a smile that was somehow cruel and sexual at the same time. “While I was resting my arm I scrubbed red pepper liniment into the cuts on his butt! He really howled!” He looked down at the table and not directly at Benedict as he spoke next. “At first I was surprised he could take that kind of torture, but he said he likes to be sore all the time and think about me when he feels the scabs and burns–especially when he sits down!
“After his punishment, or sometimes when I’m resting my arm,
I make him blow me, or I fuck his ass with a condom. He’s really tight from the whipping! And of course I piss in his mouth and make him drink it–as much as I can. I like to stick my dick in a john’s mouth and empty my bladder full force, to see if he spills a drop! If he does, I whip him extra for wasting good piss!”
David now looked directly into Benedict’s eyes. “Last Friday this john had bought a toilet seat on legs so he could lie under it with his face under my ass when I sat down.”
“A rim seat,” said Benedict calmly. “For licking the asshole, or eating shit. Nothing at all new in either of those acts.”
“It was the first time I actually did it to a guy,” admitted David. “I’ve always liked the humiliation part of S/M best of all, and I’ve wanted my own toilet slave since I was sixteen.”
He chose his next words carefully. “I always use condoms–I’ve never had a sex disease–and I get regular tests on my blood, piss and shit. I’m in good shape, and I take care of my body. I eat right and my intestines are super healthy.” He looked down at the table again. “This john said he wanted to be my pig. He said he didn’t want me to–“, David paused, “–use the bathroom during the day, but save it all for him. So I did. And I made him my pig.” He paused. “You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Benedict calmly. “Would you enjoy doing it to me?” It seemed a perfectly natural transition for Benedict to make, and his voice was completely serious. “How often–every day?
And most important–would it really turn you on sexually to do it?”
The waiter arrived to clear their plates and serve the dessert of flan and Cuban-style coffee. Benedict casually changed the subject. “So tell me about your career in show business, David,” he said. “Are you getting any work?”
“Once in a while. I’m up for an off-Broadway play now, and I get one-day jobs now and then as a movie extra, or making a music video. Sometimes a modeling job for a magazine ad. But it’s not steady, and the money doesn’t last long.”
“Well, if you ever decide to quit show business and get off the streets, remember my offer. You could work in the store and study with me when you’re not in rehearsals or making a little extra on a one-day job.”
David was businesslike. “How much could you pay me to work in the store?” he asked seriously.
“How about fifty percent of the gross take? I can pretty well count on an average of a hundred dollars a day, six days a week–so your half would be three hundred a week. If you live with me, your rent is free–and all the S/M you want as a bonus.”
“That’s a good offer. I could say yes to the work and study part of it–“, he grinned, “and the S/M part right now! But I want to give myself six months more in show business. I’ll tell you what. If I don’t get a break in six months, I’ll quit show business–and the streets–and move in with you, if you still want me.
That gives both of us about six months to get to know each other a lot better than we do now–with no strings on either side. You can cancel the deal, or I can, any time we find it’s not going to work.”
“Very sensible.” They had finished their meal, and Benedict signaled for the check. “Come home with me for a cognac, and we= can finish our conversation there, where I can show you a few things about the layout.” He left a tip on the table, paid the cashier, and they walked out together to finish their stroll to Benedict’s shop.
As they walked, Benedict said, “David, I want to ask you a serious question.” David answered with a chuckle, “Like Miss Stone at your meeting tonight?”
“Something like that. Suppose you were hustling the upper west side. Would you work Central Park–near the bridle paths? Do you know any hustlers, at least on sight, who do?”
“Are you kidding? Central Park at night? I wouldn’t go in there after dark unless I had a cop with me! In the daylight, no problem–a lot of hustlers score with johns cruising the park, even now. But after sundown they work the safe bars on Amsterdam or West End. I can’t think of any stud who’d take a chance in the park at night nowadays. I know it used to be different. Why?”
“I have a suspicion about that murder. You’ve just made it stronger. Thanks.”
“You think a sadist was pretending to be a hustler–like you said I was, last time we talked after Beltane?” Benedict smiled at the recollection. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He asked.
But he didn’t answer David’s question.
David shrugged. “You’re welcome for whatever I said.” They walked a few paces more in silence. Then David asked, “Last month you told me you could make a religious ritual out of any sex act-even rough and raunchy S/M. Well, I’ve told you about the action I like. So you tell me how you could turn that into a ritual.”
Benedict nodded. “Have you ever heard of flagellation as a religious act–a sacrifice called penance?”
“Sure. In school I read how monks used to flog themselves. –And they still have parades somewhere where men whip themselves until the blood runs down their backs.”
“The Philippines, on Good Friday,” answered Benedict. “But flagellants aren’t masochists–they’re penitents suffering a degree of martyrdom for their spiritual development. Flagellants may also whip each other–so as to hit harder and longer–and often flog the bare buttocks in the privacy of their commune, for medical safety. Some of the penitents might secretly enjoy whipping a Brother, I suppose, but it’s not overtly sexual.”
“But to witches it is?” asked David.
“Why not?” answered Benedict. “We see sex as a cosmic force that creates life, and we believe that sexual energy and psychic energy are one and the same, operating on two different planes of existence. So a religious flagellant and your john up near Central Park are both using the same cosmic energy–but for your john it’s merely a pleasure trip on the material plane.”
“Do you like being whipped as a sex act?”
“I haven’t been punished like that since fraternity-hazing days–and we never talked about the implicitly sexual aspect of it. We simply accepted it–as I would accept it from you.”
“Do you have any whipping equipment?”
They had reached Benedict’s shop, and Benedict paused to work the electronic combination lock that raised the burglar gate which protected the front of the store at night.
“Yes, as a matter of fact–a rim seat, too. It’s all in a special room in the basement, waiting for the right time and right partner. Let’s have a drink first, and then we can go downstairs, if you’d like to see it.”
“I sure would!” They were inside, and Benedict again worked a combination lock that lowered the gate again. “How would you get out in case of a fire?” David asked.
“Kitchen door on the side alley. That’s how I take the trash out. There’s another gate for security, of course.”
They walked through the shop to the curtained archway at the rear.
“This is where I spend most of my time when I’m not working. The hallway has stairs down to the basement–there’s a big eat-in kitchen at the rear, and a bath behind this wall.”
David looked around the room with curiosity.
“Just a studio?” asked David. “How could another man fit in here?” He sounded dubious as he seated himself on the sofa.
Benedict walked to the liquor cabinet which held a variety of stemware.
“This was originally the family room, and the sofa makes into a bed we used for overnight guests. My wife and I had a big room downstairs with its own bath. If you move in, I’ll sleep down there and you can sleep up here when you want to sleep alone.”
Benedict poured two generous shots of cognac into snifters and carried them back to the sofa.
“I know the house could use some new furniture. I’d like a marble table in the kitchen for food preparation, and more contemporary things here–but I don’t have time to redecorate, and since I live alone I don’t bother.”
He handed a snifter to David.
“The sofa and recliner chair were my parents’ originally–all good when they were new, but getting shabby now. If you ever decide to move in, we might do the place over for both of us to enjoy.”
David nodded appreciatively as he savored the aroma of the cognac.
“I’ll show you the rest of the place after we enjoy our brandy. Blessed be, David.”
David smiled and answered, “Blessed be, Benedict.”
His hand cradling the snifter to warm the cognac, David raised it to his nose to again inhale the intoxicating vapor. “We were interrupted by the waiter at the restaurant,” he said. “Let’s finish what we were talking about then.”
“I was about to. I asked you how rough and raunchy you’d enjoy going with me, and how often–just so we understand each other, and not be surprised after we make a deal. I said you may flog me whenever you want, as much as you want, on condition that it is on the buttocks only–to be safe and sexual–and I will submit to all the toilet sex you want me to take. In fact, I’m willing to take everything you said you did to your Columbus Avenue john last Friday–as often as you want to. So let’s lay our cards on the table. How far do you want to go with me, and how often?
Up front. No secrets. No guilt trips. Tell me.”
David took a sip of his cognac and rolled it around on his tongue before he swallowed it and answered.
“Benedict,” he said at last, “I’ll have to admit I like it so much I’m afraid I might get carried away and almost kill you. I really love to whip a man! I like being a young stud who dominates and humiliates an older cock-sucker! I like to make his butt turn from white to pink to crimson, and then start to bleed! I like seeing his tears, and hearing his screams, and laughing when he begs me for mercy! I like having his life in my hands–it’s a real trim for me, because I’m a real sadist.
“I told Mark about this–he’s another actor who shares our pad on West Fourth Street, and he hustles too, sometimes. In fact, you saw him once. He’s the redhead who found me in Stacy’s on Beltane and told me about the phone call from Jacobi. Mark has studied psychology, and he says I’m a heavy sadist for older johns because psychologically I want to punish my dad for raping my mother and never knowing I’m his son. Would you agree with that?”
Benedict smiled. “Anything is possible. The truth is in your own head. Answer this question for me. If you ever met your real father–the sailor who raped your mother and conceived you–would you enjoy beating him the way you beat your johns?”
“You’d better believe it! I couldn’t hurt him enough! He’d have my shit coming out of his ears!” He shrugged, and went on.
“I’ve never told anyone else this, but you’re a special man to me. I could hurt a john that bad with no hangups at all–I really like it! But I don’t think of you as a john. I’d be hot to whip you, and all the rest of the scene–but I’m afraid I’d go too far.”
Benedict nodded. “I know your horoscope, David. And I’m not afraid you’ll go too far. In fact, you might not go far enough. In that respect I know you better than you know yourself. That’s how I know I can trust you with my life.”
He finished his cognac, set the glass aside, and then knelt at David’s feet.
“Please, David,” he said, “I beg you to do it all to me, just the way you did it to your john last weekend–as often as you want. Just for the sexual pleasure it will give you. I’ll explain the how and why to you another time. It’s not important that you know it right now. The only important thing is that you get sexual kicks from hurting a man who’s at your mercy–and there are no stop words. If I beg for mercy, laugh at me! Whip me until I pass out from the pain, if you would enjoy it.” He touched his head to
David’s boots. “Please,” he said. “I’m begging you, David. Please.”
David hastily gulped down his own cognac. “Shit! I’m all mixed up again! I was just teasing you, but now you’re down on your knees begging me to whip your ass until you faint, and saying you’ll be my toilet and all the rest of it! You shouldn’t have said that! You’re getting me hot to do a super heavy scene on you and make your ass bleed for me!”
Benedict continued to press his head against David’s boots.
“Please, David,” he repeated. “Please. I mean it. Please.”
David stood up. “Okay, you asked for it, Benedict! But just remember this–to you it’s a religious ritual, because that’s your scene! Some day I might get into that aspect of S/M, but right now I’m just a sadist out for fun! I don’t care if you have a psychic experience from it or not, because I’m still down on the sexual plane, and I admit it! If you can accept that, maybe we can do something for each other.
“If you have any limits, let’s set them now, because once I have you tied down it’ll be too late to stop–and I mean it! Do
you want to think it over for a day or two?”
“It’s not necessary. You’ve already said you’ll torture me on the ass only–that’s a limit to keep it medically safe. And as long as you keep in shape and eat right–and don’t pick up any intestinal disease or parasite–toilet sex is safe enough. My only taboo is diarrhea to any degree. So let’s just agree on the basics. We’ll lead double lives. On the other side of this drape, we’re dad and son. On this side you’re my Master and I’m your sex slave–all the way–no faking–totally real.”
“Agreed. Anything else?”
“A few things. In the special room downstairs, we talk as little as possible. You concentrate on getting your sexual kicks, and I concentrate on converting your sexual energy into psychic form–I’ll explain it some time. The point is that before we go into that room we both know exactly what you’re going to do to me, and once you begin there’s no mercy. If you need to communicate anything, keep it brief.”
“Agreed.”
“A couple of minor points. I don’t smoke, but you are free to use either tobacco or grass in moderation. How much do you smoke?”
“A little grass once in a while, but mostly cigars. A lot of johns think a cigar makes me look butch–and, of course, they’re good for burning a guy’s butt!” He rose and peeled off his jacket, exposing a bare chest covered with curly black hair. He tossed the jacket on the couch and sat down again, extending his booted feet to Benedict.
“Take off my boots and lick my feet, slave,” he commanded.
Benedict pulled on David’s boots and slid them off. David wore so socks, and his bare feet were sweaty and smelly. “Lick them clean,” David commanded. Benedict kissed each one, then pressed them to his face and licked them thoroughly, using his tongue to probe between the toes, and meticulously clean the soles.
At length David stood up again, unbuckled his belt, opened his fly and pulled down his tight jeans. He wore no underwear, and his body had a pungent aroma of stale sweat. Benedict removed his glasses and dentures and began to strip. David grew impatient.
“You’re taking too long, slave!” he said–giving Benedict a vicious slap across the face. The cheek turned crimson.
“Please don’t do that again, Master,” said Benedict quietly.
“That’s not a sex act, is it? It’s hostility or contempt.”
David paused a moment and blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Benedict smiled. “Don’t feel sorry–just don’t repeat it. You’ve always acted out fantasies in one-night stands, and didn’t think in reality terms. This is for real. Oh–two final points.
“If I faint, don’t revive me. I’ll explain why some other time. Just let me come to naturally. And, last, never make empty threats. Always say what you mean and mean what you say. We’re not playing make-believe games–we’re creating our own special reality.”
Benedict paused to stare David straight in the eyes. “You said that last Friday you gave your john an eight-hour flogging, off and on, with no safe words, and toilet sex all the way. And you said you want to abuse me the same way, with no mercy. So that’s the pleasure, or job, you have ahead of you now. An eight hour flogging, if you can–unless I faint first–as hard as you can possibly lay them on. And everything else.”
David smiled grimly and cracked his knuckles for emphasis.
“You’re asking for it. Okay,” he said, “you’ll get it!”
Benedict led the way downstairs to the large bedroom with its own bath. Everything was clean, but clearly had not been used for some years. The ceilings were also high, and there was not a sound from the outside world, thanks to air conditioning to eliminate windows, and heavy soundproofing. Benedict led David to a door leading toward the front of the basement. With an inviting gesture, he opened the door.
The special room, David saw at once, was a torture chamber, with what was obviously a whipping horse, a toilet bench, an array of ominous-looking whips, straps, canes, paddles and scourges–and a table loaded with paraphernalia obviously designed for anal torment, including a large box of condoms. A jug of murky liquid, labeled STRONG LINIMENT–USE ON BUTTOCKS ONLY! was full to the top, with a shallow pan, a sponge and scrub brush beside it.
Benedict picked up a pair of leather ankle cuffs from the table and handed them to David. “Can you put these on me, please, Master, while I put on the wrist cuffs?” It took about two minutes to fasten the strong restraints around Benedict’s four extremities.
Next Benedict picked up a wide leather bondage belt and handed it to David, who wrapped it around Benedict’s waist while Benedict fastened a bondage collar around his neck. Finally Benedict donned a black leather bondage hood and pulled it over his head.
“After tonight we can save time by having me wear the harness under my clothes during the day. There are seven chain snaps on the whipping horse, and one snap fastens to each of the D-rings on the harness.” Before mounting the horse, he added, “Use any of the whips you want as much as you want.” Then he knelt on a padded shelf on the horse, bent himself over the raised central support so that he was jack-knifed with his buttocks high and in the perfect position for overhead flogging, and nodded. “Fasten me tight,” he said, “and don’t let me up until you’re satisfied.”
David quickly snapped the strong steel snaps to the wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, waist belt, and collar. Now Benedict was absolutely helpless and at David’s mercy.
David walked over to the array of flogging implements which were hanging on the wall–all in matched pairs, and all obviously unused. They were also extremely vicious torture instruments. David smiled in appreciation of Benedict’s design and construction. They were certainly far more severe than anything David had seen in the Village sex shops.
He finally selected one of the milder-looking floggers for a start. It was one of a pair of what appeared to be riding whips, but was nearly three feet long, and consisted of a length of half-inch rubber hose reinforced with a flexible fiberglass rod.
He swung it through the air a few times to get the feel of it, then took his place at one side, where he could raise the whip at arm’s length overhead and swing it down and across Benedict’s bare buttocks with all his strength. He grinned in anticipation.
“Okay, Penitent,” he said, “here’s the start of your eight hours!” With that he gave Benedict’s rump the first stroke, using his martial-arts training to inflict maximum force with minimum effort.
WHACK! Benedict felt nothing for a fraction of a second, but during that moment saw a flash of white light as the pain impulses reached his brain and overloaded his nervous system near the visual synapses. Then the pain surged through Benedict’s body in powerful waves, and Benedict involuntarily gave vent to a shrill scream of sheer agony at the unexpected severity of that powerful jolt.
WHACK! Benedict’s screams blended into a long howl, as he began to sob violently.
WHACK! David grinned, and continued his unhurried pace.
WHACK! Benedict’s buttocks were now scarlet, and already a trickle of blood began to ooze from still-invisible cuts.
WHACK! “Oh, no!” screamed Benedict. “I can’t take it!”
WHACK! David continued to flog with a grim expression on his face.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!…
By the count of fifty, Benedict’s buttocks were bloody. David set down the whip, shook the jug of liniment, and poured a little into the shallow pan to soak the sponge. Picking up the sponge, he rubbed it vigorously down Benedict’s bleeding buttocks, from top to bottom, as Benedict’s howls of pain redoubled at the contact of the mixture of wintergreen and red-hot peppers on exposed nerve ends.
Picking up the scrub brush, David dipped it into the liniment, and then viciously scrubbed the liniment into each of Benedict’s torn buttocks. He grinned as Benedict’s screams of pain shot up an octave to become shrieks of hysteria.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! Please, David, stop!” Benedict begged.
He was sobbing uncontrollably.
David suddenly stopped, unsnapped Benedict’s restraints, and swore briefly. “This isn’t going to work, Benedict! No way!”
“Why not, David? What’s wrong?”
“You’re not a masochist! You’re not a faggot! You’re a virgin to S/M and you want me to give you the worst treatment I could give a fag slave I don’t give a shit about! Do you know how much I’ll hurt you if we go through with our deal? Hell, you’d never survive it!”
“Let me prove myself to you, David!” pleaded Benedict. “Give me a chance!”
“A chance! What kind of chance does a straight man have if he’s a virgin to gay sex, much less S/M? You want a chance? You want me to treat you like a sadist would treat a masochist? Okay, I’ll give you a sample!”
His voice snapped Benedict to attention like the orders of a military drill instructor. “Turn around, Benedict! Spread your legs, bend over and grab that whipping horse to brace yourself!”
He was stroking his penis, which immediately swelled to a full nine inches of stiff muscle. As Benedict assumed the position for his first experience receiving sodomy, David opened a condom and rolled it over his tumescent organ.
“Are you going to lubricate me?” asked Benedict quietly.
David grinned. “Sure, I’ll lubricate you!” he said, picking up a tube of Bengay from the table. “My condom is lubricated already, but this will increase your stimulation!” With that he inserted the nozzle up Benedict’s rectum and gave the tube a hard squeeze. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned, “or I may use one of your dildos on you, too, for a couple of hours!”
Benedict gasped as his rectum throbbed from the Bengay, and he felt David placing himself in position behind him.
“Don’t let go of that horse!” ordered David. He picked up a pear-shaped leather gag from the table. “Bite on this,” he said.
“You’ll need to, to keep from screaming again!”
Benedict obediently took the gag in his mouth and waited for the pain of the first penetration. David maneuvered himself into the best position for a direct assault on Benedict’s anus, placed the head of his penis gently in contact to make sure of success, and then grabbed Benedict around the waist.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, and suddenly thrust his pelvis forward with all his strength, forcing his swollen penis into Benedict’s tight rectum, now burning from the ointment.
Benedict bit the gag and grabbed the whipping horse with clenched hands, making loud moans of pain as David raped him with deliberate cruelty–thrusting his penis all the way in at each forward stroke, and pulling it all the way out with each backward motion. In and out, in and out, all the way with every powerful thrust. Benedict, who had never imagined how much anal sex could hurt if the sodomist really wanted it to, managed to hold his position as ordered, but sobbed as piteously as before.
David smiled to himself in satisfaction at Benedict’s genuine agony. Benedict’s suffering brought out David’s inner passions.
He was virile, aroused, and in no hurry to terminate his pleasure with a quick orgasm. “Do you like being fucked, Benedict?” he taunted. “Do you want it every night? Two or three times every night?” He continued to fornicate as brutally as possible.
Benedict’s sobs became quieter as the relentless assault on his sphincters gradually forced them to relax just enough to accept
David’s deliberate torture.
The rape lasted nearly thirty minutes before David allowed himself to achieve his orgasm, which he did with loud moans of pleasure. His passion spent temporarily, he withdrew his penis and peeled off the condom to squeeze the semen on Benedict’s face as a gesture of humiliation.
“Well, at least you’re not a virgin any more!” he laughed.
Then he turned and headed for the door.
Benedict hurried after him. “Please, David, don’t go! Wait a minute and listen to me! We’ve got to talk this out!”
David was grim. “What is there to talk out? You said you wanted a super rough flogging, but you begged me to stop before the first fifty with just a riding whip. You said you wanted to be fucked, and this was your first time. You said you wanted me to make you drink my piss and eat my shit, and you’ve never done either one. You’ve just got a fantasy about me, and you think it’s real. Well, it’s not going to work–you ask for action you can’t take. What else is there to say?”
“Will you be fair enough to listen to what I say, David?” asked Benedict quietly. “The problem isn’t with you or me–it’s with the way we feel about each other.
“Suppose I was a john you cruised in a bar, and I told you I had been married but was bisexual, and I’d be a faggot for you. Suppose I told you I was curious, and I wanted you to give me all the action you gave your trick last weekend, and I’d pay you five hundred dollars for a weekend like it.
“Suppose I told you I didn’t want any safe words, and if I screamed and begged for mercy, I wanted you to laugh at me and keep going the full eight hours. And all the rest. Force me to drink your piss, and whip me as much as you had to to make me eat your shit.
“Suppose all of this, and suppose you’d never seen me before, and wouldn’t see me again. It would be a one-time scene, but I wanted you to make it as rough as you wanted, whether I liked it or not. Would you do it to me then?”
David was pulling on his jeans. “You bet your ass I would!” he laughed. “But you’re not a john I cruised in a bar.”
“You cruised me in Stacy’s on Beltane,” Benedict reminded him.
“Yes, but that was before you helped my mother and me,” David said. “And before I got to know and respect you, like the dad I never knew.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, David. The problem isn’t that I’m a virgin to S/M but the fact that–” he paused, “–we care for each other. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes. I’ve said so, haven’t I?”
“You have, indeed. I think it’s obvious that, deep down in our hearts, we both love each other to some degree. But love can take many forms: romantic love, dad-son love, and Master-slave love.”
David was stepping into his boots. “And you want to combine dad-son and Master-slave?” he asked. “How could we have both kinds of love–if that’s what it is?”
“It’s a small problem,” admitted Benedict, “but I think the solution is to shift the emphasis in our relationship. Instead of being dad and son full time, and Master and slave part time, we’ll need to be Master and slave all the time, and dad and son just some of the time–only when we’re working, or in public. And as Master and slave, our deal is no safe words, no mercy–but you honor my limits, as you agreed to. If I’m a virgin, tough luck. If you hurt me, too bad–I might need first aid after a session, but never surgery.
“You let your love for me get in the way. You backed out on your half of the deal–which was to show me no mercy. You said you were a real sadist, but you couldn’t make good on your promise. That was another cop-out. The deal you agreed to was that you’d always say exactly what you mean and mean exactly what you say, with no empty threats and no bluffing. Well, you chickened out, David–you talked a tough scene, but couldn’t deliver the goods. What kind of sadist are you?”
David turned pale, then he scowled in anger. “Well, shit!”, he exclaimed. “You’re the one who begged me to stop, and I’m the chicken?” He had pulled on his leather jacket–the handcuffs still dangling from the left shoulder strap. He paused, and his lip curled in a sneer.
“Okay, Benedict,” he said at last. “You said you want another chance to make it work–right? Okay. But not tonight. I’m turned off, so I’ve got a few orders for you, and you’ll have a day to decide what you want to do. Write a list down on a piece of paper, now.” Benedict had a notepad and ballpoint pen handy, and nodded.
“Tomorrow you’ll buy a can of lighter fluid. I’ll use it toburn the skin off your ass before I whip you tomorrow night. And get a pack of five cigars–cheap ones are good enough, because I’m going to use them just once in a while to burn my initials in your ass–what’s left of it.
“You’ll go to a hardware store and get a soldering iron and a spool of solder I’m going to melt and drip on your ass–and get some long sharp pins or needles from a sewing store I’ll stick in your buns. A few hundred at least.
“You said your only taboo in toilet sex is diarrhea. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’ve had diarrhea exactly three times in my life since I grew up–every time from food poisoning. Usually I shit twice a week–three times at the most. My john on Columbus Avenue ate part of a two-day load last Friday night, and I haven’t dumped since then. So tomorrow I’ll have a four-day load saved up for you! And you’ll eat every lump of my four-day dump before I stop torturing you–get that straight!”
He unsnapped his left shoulder strap and removed the hand-cuffs, which he tossed on the sofa. “I’m leaving my cuffs here now–to remind you. I’ll be back tomorrow night before you close up, and I’ll either pick them up and go home for good if that’s what you want–or I’ll spend tomorrow night here, working you over the way you say you want a sadist like me to work you over. If you get the stuff, I promise you I’ll give you the works tomorrow night–and another session on Friday! I promise you your ass will be raw meat when you leave for Ithaca next Sunday!
“But if you take it all for me this time, I’ll go this far for you. I’ll give up hustling this week, to start working in the store, and study with you when I don’t have a job in show business.
You’ll be my boss and teacher in the store and my slave back here, and I’ll use you just like you asked for!
“I’ll live on West Fourth Street until I give up show business for good. Then I’ll move in here–as your Master always, but your son in public. Now it’s your decision. You decide before eight o’clock tomorrow night. I’ll be back then for your answer. I’m leaving now. How do I get out through the kitchen?”
“This way, David,” said Benedict, leading the way. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. Blessed be!” David turned at the door. “Blessed be, Benedict!” he answered.
Benedict saw him close the outer gate to Christopher Street, then stepped inside, sighed, and started to put the sitting room back in order for the night.
HECATE’S OFFERINGS – Conclusion
The “cult killing” was still in the headlines the next morning–the victim had been identified from fingerprints taken from the amputated hands. His name was Carlos Sanchez–a Colombian national who had done time for drug trafficking–a million dollars’ worth of street cocaine–in Florida. His last known address was in the Cuban community of Miami.
Newspapers seized on this new information to speculate that Sanchez was a supplier of drugs to Satanist cults, who were alleged to be heavy users of narcotics and mind-altering chemicals of all kinds. It was theorized that he had been killed either because he failed to deliver promised drugs, or perhaps to avoid paying him for drugs he had supplied. When he read the latest news reports,
Benedict smiled grimly. He did a few errands before opening the store, and the day passed slowly, with a steady but small clientele of faithful customers dropping in to admire the colorful merchandise offered. At about four o’clock the door opened to the jingle of its bells, and Diane Stone entered. She had appeared last night be be about twenty-five years old, but after a careful scrutiny by light of day Benedict now placed her age at closer to thirty-five. Last night she had worn tailored dress, and had taken copious notes during his lecture. Now she was in a business suit, with a purse that matched her shoes.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Benedict,” she began. “Do you remember me from the discussion last night?”
“I do, indeed. It’s Miss Diane Stone, isn’t it? What may I do for you? I had the impression you weren’t too interested in witchcraft.”
“Oh, I’m interested,” she protested, “but not a convert, if you know what I mean. I happened to be in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop in for a moment to talk, as you invited us to do. You see, I live up near Central Park, and I’m terribly anxious about that murderer.”
“Murderers,” corrected Benedict. “Oviously there were two or more.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Carlos Sanchez was a convicted drug trafficker. He was not taking a pleasure stroll in Central Park at midnight. Or meeting a hustler for sex. Nobody does any more. So he went there on business–I don’t care to speculate on the exact nature of his business, but he was no novice at crime. He must have been armed, and he would never have let only one person overpower him and tie him to a tree. So there had to be two or more.”
“Of course. It’s an obvious deduction.”
“There are a few others one could draw,” said Benedict drily.
“Have you thought of communicating with the police?” she asked. “Do you remember a man named Peter Hurkos?”
“The Dutch clairvoyant? Certainly. Hurkos was called upon by police departments in a number of European nations to help on their unsolved mysteries, using his psychic gifts. Some cases he helped solve–on others he could give no help at all. That’s the way it is with a real psychic. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.”
“But if you have ideas that might help solve the case,” she said, “don’t you feel you ought to at least write police a letter?”
“I think I’d be written off as a ‘harmless crank’–but let me ask you a question, Miss Stone. You took many notes during my talk yesterday. I presume you remember when I briefly mentioned my Master’s degree in Anthropology?”
She wrinkled her nose, as if trying to remember. “Oh, yes,” she said at last. “From Indiana University in Bloomington.”
“Absolutely correct,” said Benedict. “But I’m afraid your memory has played a trick on you–as I have. You see, I did not mention my Master’s degree last night.”
She looked at him blankly.
“Yet you knew I had one, and the school and its city. That means you have access to a dossier on me–obviously, a police file. So my question to you, Miss Stone, is why the police are curious about me. Last night there were two other police officers in the audience–at the rear–one man in his thirties, and the other about fifty. They sat with their arms folded, which is a bit of body language showing a defensive or hostile attitude. Symbolically hiding behind crossed arms. They were watching the audience, not. Yet here you are, and now I ask again, Miss Stone, what do the police want of me?”
She had been biting her lip during Benedict’s speech, and now she flashed a rueful smile. “I underestimated you, Mr. Benedict. Just as I had underestimated your dedication to your religion. I’m here today because the identification of the body throws the case into an entirely different light. We have ourselves discarded the cult-murder idea. And since you showed a very keen mind when you demonstrated why it wasn’t a cult killing, I thought you might have some other ideas that might indirectly benefit our investigation.
To be frank with you, Mr. Benedict, we have physical evidence that there were in fact at least two men involved in the murder–perhaps a third. Do you have anything else you would care to share with us–or with me as an individual?”
“Are you on duty now, Miss Stone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I am talking to a representative of the police about a matter of police business, and what I say has a certain degree of privilege in the event that I make any observations which someone might construe as libelous. I may say indeed that I have had certain ‘hunches’ or ‘psychic impressions’ about this case from the first reports. And I believe I could name one of the three men involved in the crime, but I have no evidence whatseover.
“Nevertheless, if you wish me to play Peter Hurkos and give you my impressions, I will do so. But remember, I can only surmis that evidence will be found to support my ideas–once you know what person is to be investigated. The ways and means of such an investigation are clearly within your expertise, not mine.
“There are several questions I think are significant. The first is why did the murder take place in Central Park? The second is why did Sanchez go there? And the others all deal with the sordid details of his murder. You remember the tattoo of Hecate that started the rumor that this was a Satanist cult murder.”
“Yes, because she was the goddess of hell.”
“No. She was the goddess of Hades.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No. Hell is a Christian concept of eternal fire and damnation. Hades is ancient Greek mythology, and it’s the abode of the dead.” He paused for emphasis. “Also known as the Underworld.”
Diane Stone raised her brows.
“So I suspected from the start that the victim was not a member of a cult, but a member of organized crime–very much like a secret society within the underworld, the members of which wear a distinctive tattoo for to mark them as members of their special brotherhood. And then the facts which have been so widely published took on an entirely different light.
“As you well know from your profession, the criminal codes of some nations–those of Islamic persuasion especially–are extremely cruel. It is the law there that a thief is punished by the removal of the hand which has stolen. The amputation is performed by an execution, not a surgeon, and publicly–as a warning to other potential thieves. The criminal underworld also has severe punishments for those who break the rules.
“I have no evidence, but can only infer that Sanchez’ eyes were removed because they had seen too much–his tongue removed because he had talked to the wrong people–and his hands removed because he had stolen from the mob. Perhaps the million dollars’ worth of cocaine for which he served time. There is no pardon in the criminal mind.
“As for the amputation of the genitals–that I believe to be simple sadism: an act of blood lust by the torturer who relished his power over his victim, and inflicted that final agony simply for the pleasure of making Sanchez suffer as much as possible. And at last Sanchez finally allowed to die, by being strangled slowly. I’m sorry–are you ill, Miss Stone?”
She shook her head. “I’m all right. You just reminded me of the morgue photographs, that’ all.”
“My apologies. But to get back to the murder, Sanchez’s death was, I believe, a gangland execution. But if so, why was it done in Central Park? Why wasn’t Sanchez simply kidnapped and disposed of secretly and privately? I believe it was intended as a warning to all other men whose arms bear the tattoo of Hecate that the punishment for violating their code is the fate Sanchez suffered last weekend.
“Now, Sanchez’ hands were cut off because he had stolen, if my theory is correct. But the killers certainly knew his fingerprints were on file. So, why did they not dispose of the hands elsewhere, to delay the body’s identification and help cover their escape? I believe the answer is they wanted his identity to be publicized–it was necessary that his fate be widely known, if other Hecate society members were to be warned by his death.
“Now, Sanchez had to be lured to his death by some bait–the nature of which we may never know–but the fact is the bait worked, and he went to his death last Friday night.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Which leads to another question. Why was the body moved from the tree where he was killed to the bridle path? Again, if the killers wanted time to escape, the longer they could delay discovery of the body the better. But they untied the body from the tree which was hidden in deep shrubbery and dragged it along the path found by the bloodhounds to the riding trail. It was done deliberately, so it must be important.
“I believe it was because they wanted the body to be found at a time that would be most advantageous to them.” He paused to see if Miss Stone followed his train of reasoning.
She did not. “Why would it be advantageous to have the body discovered by a rider at six in the morning?” she asked. Benedict answered her with a question.
“Would you go into Central Park at night, alone?” he asked.
“Not for all the money in Citibank,” she answered promptly.
“I asked someone else I know that same question. He has a belt in Kung Fu–is a tough street fighter–and very strong. He said he wouldn’t do it unless he had a cop with him.”
“So?”
Benedict was now most careful in choosing his words.
“Imagine if you will, Miss Stone, a rogue cop in New York City. One on the payroll of the underworld. A cop who can meet Sanchez–perhaps as a member of the group Sanchez plans to see–or perhaps to falsely arrest Sanchez, handcuff him, and deliver him, helpless, to his waiting executioners. A cop who acted as lookout, probably, not taking part in the actual killing, since he doesn’t want any trace of his presence if possible–until the body is discovered.
“Then Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas will ride back with a horrified citizen on horseback to officially discover the body, start the rumor of a cult killing, and trample over ground he had previously covered–just in case the bloodhounds picked up his scent. Thomas came on duty at midnight, and would be relieved at eight. So the body had to be found during his shift, when he could be on hand to plant the idea of a cult murder in news stories, and misdirect the investigation.
“Those are my ‘hunches’, Miss Stone. I now forget them–I have communicated them to an officer of the law, and what you do with them is your concern.”
Diane Stone’s expression was one of stunned surprise. “I’ll keep your remarks absolutely confidential,” she promised, “and I’ll consider relaying them to my superiors. That’s all I can say.
Thank you, Mr. Benedict.”
“Not at all. Blessed be.”
At seven forty-five the bell on the door jingled again, and David entered, wearing the same jeans, jacket and boots he had worn the night before. The store was empty except for Benedict behind the counter.
“Blessed be, slave!” said David as a greeting.
“Blessed be, David,” answered Benedict–and he raised a hand as David opened his mouth to speak in reply. “The store is open for business, and we’re on this side of that curtain. In back of this room, I’m your slave and you’re my Master, but on this side of the drape–and anywhere outside the shop–we’re Benedict and David for another fifteen minutes. Your agreement,” he said with a smile.
David laughed. “Okay. I was just testing you.” His voice was overly-casual. “I came by to pick up my handcuffs. You’ll remember I left them here last night for safe-keeping.” His eyes met Benedict’s like bullets. “Do you have a sick headache tonight,
Benedict?”
Benedict suppressed a smile. “No, I feel fine,” he said,
“except when I sit down.” His tone was a casual as David’s. “A man I know said that scabs on the rump give one an active memory for how they were acquired.” David’s mouth turned up at the corners, but he said nothing. Benedict went on. “I’ll have to test the truth of that for myself, won’t I?”
“Where are my handcuffs, Benedict?” asked David pointedly. “I said I’d be back to pick them up.”
Benedict nodded. “I have them right here under the counter to give to you. They’re in a box with a few other things you wanted.”
He reached under the cash register and brought up a small cardboard curtain containing an odd assortment of merchandise.
Benedict withdrew the handcuffs and held them up to view. “Your handcuffs,” he said, returning them to the carton, and pulling out the next item.
“You ordered a can of lighter fluid, but didn’t specify the brand or size, so I bought four cans, large and small of each of the two brands, so you have your choice and we don’t run out too soon. I also picked up a big tube of Bengay, since you opened one last night.”
“You ordered a soldering iron and spool of solder, but the solder was cheap, so I got a second spool while I was there. I also picked up two packs of cigars we can keep fresh in the icebox, and while I was picking up pins in the sewing store I got a box of map pins with every color head available, in case you would like to make designs of an artistic nature to photograph–and a few boxes of sewing-machine needles in different gauges.
“Oh, while I was in the hardware store, I thought a few sheets of sandpaper on a small block of wood might come in handy for odd jobs you wanted to do. You’ll have your choice of extra-coarse, medium, and extra-fine grit, if you want to sand rough corners off anything.” Benedict, still smiling, returned the box to its place under the cash register. “Did I miss anything?”
David’s handsome face slowly broke into an ominous smile that managed to convey cruelty, desire, and sexual passion all at once.
He rubbed his hands together slowly as though washing them, relishing the situation. “That was very thoughtful of you,” he said.
“I promise you I’ll use everything–though not all of them tonight, or any one night, of course. But I promise you they will all be used on you at some time or other, and I will enjoy every tear and scream! I remember you wrote down your shopping list on one of those little scratchpads you have everywhere. Do you still have it handy?”
“Yes, here it is,” said Benedict, retrieving it and standing ready to write in it.
“From now on you’ll keep that notepad handy at all times. Whenever you disobey me I’ll tell you to write down your offense as I dictate it–and how many demerits you get for each one. Put down the date every time, and once a week after the shop is closed we’ll go downstairs for a nice long session, and we’ll work off your demerits for that week at so many whacks on the cheeks you like to have whacked! Five hundred demerits–five hundred whacks. I’ll use my studded belt on you, full force, and my choice of any of your own toys downstairs. You get the point?”
Benedict nodded. “Like a fraternity pledge’s notebook,” he said, smiling. “Any Brother could penalize any pledge for anything at any time. Ten demerits for this, fifty for that, and on Pledge Night every pledge was paddled by every Brother according to his sins for that week.”
“Yes,” said David. “Maybe ten licks for minor violations, or fifty for serious ones. My scale is a little higher–one hundred for the first offense, five hundred for the second time you annoy me, and a thousand for the third count on anything. Friday nights we’ll go to bed as late as we need to, because your bill has to be paid in full every week, Benedict. No matter if it’s ten thousand or more.” He grinned. “I’d rather whip ass than eat–almost. Remember that.”
Benedict nodded obediently. “I’ll remember, David.”
“Your first order, for the record. In this room we talk man to man, so David is permissible. In our private world David is not permitted, unless I call you Benedict or dad first. Is that clear?”
Benedict raised a hand in question. “Is the word ‘sir’ also acceptable in addressing you–and is ‘Master David’ also permissible, so as to show obedience and respect but also intimacy? We will be rather intimate, after all!”
“If your tone of voice is respectful, ‘Master David’ or ‘sir’ will be acceptable. Sarcasm or lack of respect in any way will be punished as insubordination. Severely. Isn’t it time to lock up?”
“Five minutes more, David. In our man-to-man relationship in this room, or outside, we may certainly discuss our Master and slave relationship, I trust. So if anything is causing a problem for either of us, we must finish the scene if at all possible but be able to have a frank talk, as we did last night, to resolve any problems. Last night you resolved it by leaving your cuffs here and ordering me to pick up these items and have them now if I was willing to accept the punishment you dictated verbally.
“We had previously agreed that before we went downstairs I would always know exactly what was in store for me, because you would always say exactly what you mean and always mean exactly what you say. So now, David, as man to man, what will you try to do to me tonight?”
Benedict’s deliberate use of the word “try” provoked an immediate glare from David’s piercing eyes. Then he smiled again, very slowly, with a sensual and yet cruel expression on his face.
“I’m not going to just ‘try’, Benedict! I did a lot heavy thinking today about you and me, and I think I’ve got my head on straight now. I’m going to do everything I did to my john last Friday–only more of it. Doing it to him was fun–but just a paying job. Doing it to you will be putting you and me in our right places for the rest of our lives together. It’s important to get your head straight, and my own, on what we mean to each other. So I’m not going to abort the scene again tonight. I’m going to hurt you, Benedict! I won’t harm you seriously, but you won’t believe how much I’m going to hurt you until you feel it! It will be awesome, I promise you!”
The clock chimed the hour. “It’s eight o’clock,” he said.
“Lock up!” He picked up the carton with his handcuffs and the torture supplies, and walked through the curtained archway into the sitting-room behind. Benedict walked to the front door, worked the combination that lowered the burglar gates over the front door and windows, and switched off the overhead lights. The window display would be illuminated until midnight by its own timer.
When Benedict stepped through the drape into the private room, David was still fully dressed and inspecting the lighter fluid.
“From now on you strip first, slave,” he said. “You have thirty seconds to get naked, and have your clothes hung up and put away and your glasses off and dentures out, ready for action.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Starting now.”
Benedict hurriedly peeled off his customary black turtleneck shirt–a “trademark” for him–revealing his wrist cuffs and slave collar already buckled tightly in place. He loosened his belt as he kicked off his shoes, and peeled down his trousers, displaying his wide bondage belt already fastened around his waist. He stepped out of them and pulled off his socks, revealing his ankle cuffs. He was wearing only jockey briefs as he pulled out his dentures to put in a glass of water, and removed his glasses.
“Time!” called David. “You’re on penalty time now, slave, so keep going and snap it up!” Benedict nodded, and continued to disrobe. He was totally nude, glasses and dentures and clothing in hand, in fifteen seconds more. He flung open the left-hand closet door and hurriedly hung up his clothing as ordered. Then he raced to the kitchen to put his dentures in water. He picked up a scratchpad from the table and returned to David.
“I’m ready, sir,” he said, pad and ballpoint pen ready. “I’m writing now, June fifteen, failure to disrobe in thirty seconds. What is the penalty, sir?”
“That’s not your demerit book, slave!” said David. “I have it here with the stuff you bought from the store. Substitutes are not acceptable–write your offense again on this one.” Benedict did so, while David looked at his watch again. “Sixty-five seconds in all, or thirty-five seconds penalty time at one hundred whacks per second. That’s three thousand five hundred–so far–for Friday.”
Benedict wrote hurriedly on the notepad. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “What may I do for you now?”
“Take off my clothes, shit head! Slowly and respectfully, and hang them up properly!”
“Yes, Master,” answered Benedict, and helped David slip out of his leather jacket. As usual, David wore no shirt, and his subtly erogenous body odor suggested he had not showered since his last visit. Benedict opened the right-hand closet and took a hanger from the empty clothes bar inside. David’s jacket was now the first article in his own closet. David was sitting patiently waiting. “Pull off my boots and lick my stinking feet clean,” he ordered. “That’s standard.”
“Yes, Master.” Benedict put the boots in the closet, and repeated the humiliating but sensual ritual of slobbering over
David’s sweaty feet and licking them clean with his tongue.
“Now take down my pants–very respectfully,” ordered David, standing. Benedict at once unbuttoned David’s waistband and unzipped the fly. As he peeled the tight jeans off David’s loins, David’s penis, already stiff with anticipation, popped into full view.
Benedict ignored David’s organ, and pulled the jeans to the floor. “Could you please step out of them, sir?” he asked in a respectful tone.
David did so, and when Benedict had hung up the jeans in the closet, David handed him his demerit pad.
“Write this down. ‘Failure to show respect by kissing my Master’s naked erect penis when stripping him.'” Benedict wrote down David’s words with a smile on his face. David spoke again. “Add this offense. ‘Smiling when ordered to write down the preceding order.'”
Benedict wrote without smiling. “May I ask what the penalties will be, Master?” he asked.
“Yes, you may. For failure to show respect to my cock by kissing it, you get five hundred more. For ridiculing me by smiling when you wrote down my order, add a thousand more.”
“A thousand!” gasped Benedict in dismay.
“Make that two thousand,” said David. “Your answers to me will be respectful at all times. You will accept my word as law, not to be questioned. Do you understand, slave?”
Benedict swallowed. “Yes, sir.” he answered.
“Now, how many demerits have you earned so far for us to work off on Friday night?”
Benedict quickly reviewed the brief list of offenses so far.
“It comes to six thousand so far, sir.”
“Very good, slave. We should run it up to well over ten thousand before the evening is over. Now, come over here and stand very close to me, face to face and eye to eye.”
Benedict did so. David was now fixing his almost hypnotic gaze into Benedict’s eyes.
“Never forget one thing, slave,” said David. “When we have anything important to say to each other, as man to man, we do it
like this–full eye contact. No evasion. Straight with each other all the way. If we’re making casual conversation or playing games with your demerit book, eye contact doesn’t matter. But for anything important we have to say to each other, nothing else is okay.
“I’m going to say something now I might never say again. But I’m saying it this one time because it’s true.” He wrapped his strong arms around Benedict and drew Benedict to him in a tight, warm embrace. “I’m going to kiss you, Benedict,” he said.
He placed his sensuous mouth on Benedict’s, probing inside Benedict’s lips–which at once opened to accept David’s tongue deep in the mouth. Benedict made quiet sounds of contentment as David’s deep kiss lasted a full twenty seconds or more.
At length David withdrew his tongue, almost reluctantly, and looked Benedict in the eyes, with their faces almost in contact.
“I love you, Benedict,” he whispered. “Never forget that–no matter what I do to you downstairs–because I never will.”
Benedict’s eyes brimmed with silent tears.
“I love you too, David,” he said.
David held the embrace nearly a minute before impulsively pushing Benedict away. “Okay, slave!” he said in his tough voice, “now we get down to business. You have eight hours of flogging ahead of you, for one thing–and don’t think what we just said will get you off the hook for anything. Get your ass down to the basement, and move fast! And take your demerit book with you–we might need to add to it.”
xxxxx
At five o’clock the next morning, David finally unfastened Benedict from the horse, and carried his limp and bloody body over to a low bench with a foam pad. It was where Benedict was to be laid if he ever passed out during a ritual–which he had not. David placed Benedict gently on the cot on his stomach and stepped over to the sink, where he soaked a sponge and cloth in warm water, and picked up a towel. Benedict was moaning quietly, in mild shock from the worst physical punishment he had ever endured. David gently sponged the blood from Benedict’s buttocks, and washed the area with the cloth. Benedict’s eyes opened slightly and his voice was feeble but perfectly coherent. His face was tear-stained and showed the strain of the past eight hours of torment.
“Where’s the first-aid stuff?” asked David. “I’ll do what you tell me–you’re in no shape to do it yourself.”
Benedict pointed to the shelf of remedies and dressings for cuts and traumas. “Let me see it,” he said, and pointed to three of the vials and dropper bottles. “This one first, a drop on my tongue for shock. It will bring my pulse and temperature back to normal fast. That one to heal nerve damage and burns. That one if the bleeding doesn’t stop by itself soon. Once the bleeding stops all I need is rest.”
He closed his eyes as David quickly administered the simple treatment. The color was back in his face by the time the last of the lotions had been applied to his burned and lacerated buttocks.
Then he asked, “Can you take a piss again, Master?”
“Probably. I drank a lot of cranberry juice all day yesterday so I’d have lots of it, and it’s still working! You want to drink another load?” he asked in mild surprise.
“If you can give it to me, Master, yes, please. I need fluid right now because I’m still in shock. Piss is pretty much the same thing as shock solution, and it’s good enough for a slave, sir.”
David felt the pressure in his bladder and grinned. “Okay, slave. You get every drop, every load, every day and every night.
Open your mouth.” Benedict obeyed. David’s penis slid into Benedict’s receptive mouth for the fifteenth time in the past eight hours, and David grunted as he released his urine at full force. “Don’t spill a drop,” he warned, “or five hundred more demerits!” Benedict didn’t spill a drop.
“Thank you, Master,” said Benedict, when David had emptied his bladder. He sighed. “I’m very tired, Master. May I go to bed now, please, sir?”
David smiled. “You may, slave. And we’re sleeping together in the big bed in the next room. Are you strong enough to stand up and walk by yourself now?”
Benedict nodded, and together they walked to the room and the king-size bed where Benedict had slept with his wife. David pulled down the big cover. “From now on you sleep on her side,” he said, and Benedict obediently lay down on David’s left side.
David lay beside him, and at once threw his right arm and leg over Benedict in an act of male sexual possessiveness.
“I have something special to say to you, Benedict,” said David, with a new confidence and maturity in his voice.
“Yes, Master?” answered Benedict.
David smiled. “I called you Benedict,” he said. “This is man to man talk.”
“I know, Master,” said Benedict. “I just felt like calling you Master, man to man, to see how it felt. I like it, somehow.”
David smiled again. “And how does your ass feel, now that it’s all over at last?” Benedict winced.
“It’s throbbing like a hive of bees,” he said, “and I don’t think that liniment will ever stop burning entirely–but in a way it’s starting to feel sort of sexy, in a rough way.”
“That’s what all my johns have told me. It’s awful while you’re getting it, but when it’s over it starts to feel real good– a few hours later. How would you like to have another session like it tonight?”
Benedict took a quick hissing breath, like a suppressed cry of dismay. He held his breath, paused slightly, and let out the air in a sigh of resignation to fate. “Are you going to whip me again tonight, Master?”
David chuckled. “I wasn’t planning on it–I need to rest up from last night. So you get a day’s rest, too. Besides, if I whip you too much too often you’ll pass out on me, and that’ll end the scene too early.” His tone was calm and friendly. “I want you to stay conscious, so you feel everything I do to you. So I think from now on we’ll have two sessions a week–every Friday, to fulfill your vows and knock you out with pain if you can faint–and every Tuesday, to work off your demerits.” He paused.
“And any time in between if I feel like it–special occasions.” Again he paused. “So Friday evening we have a date, and you already have a string of demerits we can add to over the next week to set you up for next Tuesday, or the first night you’re back in town after your visit to Ithaca.”
He laid his head next to Benedict’s on the big pillow and spoke softly into Benedict’s ear.
“Benedict,” he said, “I figured out something else during our session tonight. Something about you and me separately, and the two of us as a team.”
“Tell me, Master.”
“I said I love you and I always will–even though we might not discuss our real feelings very often. This is one time we have to. This is what I figured out while I was beating the shit out of you.
“You’re not gay. You’re not a masochist. You’re taking this from me as an act of penance, for some spiritual reasons you’ll tell me about later, when I’m studying with you.
“I’ve whipped and raped and humiliated a lot of faggots and masochists, Benedict. They all thought they loved me, but they didn’t. They were just faggots on a fantasy trip with a rough hustler. They didn’t love me, but I made them feel good when I abused them, and they took it for their masochistic pleasure.
“You’re not a faggot, and you’re not a masochist–yet–but you might become one if you start feeling good after I work you over.
The important thing is that you feel a spiritual love for me, and you know I’m a sadist, so you’re giving yourself to me as my slave.
“I know now you give yourself to me because you love me. And
I know now that’s why I love you–because you’ve given yourself to. Does that make sense?” Benedict nodded.
“In this bed we’re dad and son. You really love me, and I really love you. And I’m going to prove it with a little mutual love I’ll never do for any other guy.” He nudged Benedict. “Get in the sixty-nine position.”
Benedict at once twisted to face David, with his head toward the foot of the bed. “Take it, Benedict,” said David. Benedict gratefully opened his mouth as David’s penis, half erect again, slid between his lips. Benedict felt David’s warm, sensual mouth around his own penis, which had not been so lovingly worshiped since his marriage.
David gently licked and sucked Benedict’s penis, feeling Benedict performing the same erotic service on him. “Stop and start when you feel like it,” he said, “and I’ll do the same–any time during the night. It doesn’t matter if we cum or not. The important thing is we make gentle love to each other. You need that after tonight–and for some reason I want to do it for you.”
David snapped off the overhead light, leaving just a few dim nightlights glowing to show electric switches. “Good night, slave,” he said, as he rubbed Benedict’s back with his now gentle hands and snuggled his face into Benedict’s crotch.
“Good night, Master,” answered Benedict, returning the embrace and erotic stroking. “Sleep well.”
“I will, slave,” said David, “thanks to you.” Benedict grunted, and almost immediately fell asleep.
xxxxx
On Friday evening Benedict, his buttocks raw and crusted with scabs from Tuesday night’s eight-hour flogging, fainted after the first three hours and thirty-seven minutes of an equally-vicious beating from David’s strong arm. David smiled to himself in satisfaction at his absolute dominance over his older lover. He laid Benedict gently on the pad in the dungeon and waited for him to come to.
When at last Benedict stirred and moaned, David asked, “Well, slave, you fainted. Did the ritual work for you?” Benedict shook his head.
“No, Master. My medicine, please.” David handed him the first-aid kit.
“Tough shit, slave. You asked for it, and you got it. And I got my kicks from knocking you out. So make up your mind. Do you still think you can go through with this, full time for life?”
Benedict smiled weakly. “Yes, Master. And thank you, Sir.”
David grinned back. “You’ve got a deal.”
xxxxx
In Ithaca the following Monday, Benedict and his fellow Shaman Paul were watching the late news on television. A story from New York City was well covered. An internal police investigation had incriminated a rogue cop, Mounted Patrolman Michael Thomas, who had been indicted for conspiracy in the gangland execution of Carlos Sanchez in Central Park ten days ago. Thomas had given police statements implicating two men now charged with the grisly murder.
A police spokesperson, Ms. Diane Stone, said that the rumors of a cult killing had been started by Officer Thomas. However, an undercover investigation of so-called witches in New York City had established that witchcraft is merely a pagan religion which is protected by the First Amendment. The police department regards such witches as merely “harmless cranks”.
“Thank you, Ms. Stone,” said Benedict ironically. “At least she didn’t cite me as the source of her quotation.”
THE END