Sunday, 12 August 2012



My readers have now been hearing of David Hockney's BDSM shenanigans in London steadily for more than six months without knowing anything of his artistic development. Most people find such an endless litany of sexual perversion without a change quite as much as they care to take; perhaps too, it may do our hero good to lay off being flogged for a while, that he may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path; moreover, the exigencies of a story teller must lead him away from sexual perversion now and then. Like the rest of us, occasionally he must have a change of air, or else he has to go off to a tutorial, or at least to the studio to do a bit of work; to wear a French artist's beret with or for some one, carrying such aesthetic conviction as he can with him, so that he may come back from every journey into his imagination, however short, with a wider horizon. Yes; to come back home after every stage of life's imaginative journeying with a wider horizon - more in sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is above all, and around all, and beneath all - this must be the end and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold, and spending time and labour and journey-money on that which profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the whips and fetters of the bondage dungeon for a short space, and take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new.

Of all Hockney's tutors Ceri Richards was his favourite because the Welshman was - like our hero - a horny-handed son of toil. Richards was born in 1903 in the village of Dunvant, near Swansea, the son of Thomas Coslett Richards and Sarah Richards (born Jones). He and his younger brother and sister, Owen and Esther, were brought up in a highly cultured, working-class environment. His mother came from a family of craftsmen; his father, an employee of a tinplate foundry in Gowerton, was active in the local church, wrote poetry in Welsh and English and for many years conducted the Dunvant Excelsior Male Voice Choir. All three children were taught to play the piano, and became familiar with the works of Bach and Handel in the cycle of Christian celebration. In later years music would be an important stimulus to Richards' painting - as would his youthful sensitivity to the landscapes of Gower and the cycles of nature.

At Gowerton Intermediate School Richards drew constantly and won local competitions. When he left school to become apprenticed to a firm of electricians in Swansea, he devoted his evenings to studying engineering draughtsmanship at Swansea College of Technology and drawing at the Swansea College of Art.

In 1921, at the age of 18, Richards enrolled full-time at the Swansea College of Art, then under the direction of William Grant Murray. During his time at the College he spent less time in painting than in drawing from classical casts and studying industrial design and graphics. The strongest impact on him during these years appears to have been a week's summer school in 1923, which he spent under the direction of Hugh Blaker at Gregynog Hall, the country house of Gwendoline and Margaret Davies, where he first saw the canvases of Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, C├ęzanne, Corot and Daumier, the sculpture of Rodin and sheets of old-master and modern drawings. The experience confirmed him in his vocation; and in the same year he applied for, and won, a scholarship to study in London at the Republican College of Art.

Richards entered the Republican College of Art in 1924. Afterwards Richards spent most of his life in London, apart from a period teaching art in Cardiff. In 1929 he married Frances Clayton, a fellow artist. He and Frances had two daughters - Rachel (born 1932) and Rhiannon (born 1945). But having a wife and family didn’t mean that Richards was incapable of swinging the other way! His work gradually moved towards surrealism after exposure to the work of Picasso and Kandinsky. He was also a talented musician, and music is a theme for much of his artwork. When Hockney encountered Richards as an RCA tutor, his teacher had just begun making prints for the Curwen Press.

"So what's this all about then?" Richards asked as he examined a self-portrait Hockney had made of himself bound and being whipped by Kitaj - as he simultaneously gave his rubber master a blow job.

"Well,” Hockney replied, "I don't want to do away with representation all together, but at the same time I wish to bring some elements of expressionism and even abstraction into my work."

"That's very good aesthetically,” Richards admitted, “but I want to know what you’re doing in this picture."

"Oh, I'm giving my friend Kitaj oral sex while he beats me."

"Does your friend come in your mouth?"

"Sometimes,” Hockney admitted, "but more often he likes to pull out at the last moment and shoot his jism all over my face."

"Very good, very good!” Richards enthused as the rubbed his hands together in excitement.

"Yes it is very good.” Hockney conceded. "Although I love drawing and painting I believe that BDSM sex is even better than either."

"And do you just do this BDSM stuff with Kitaj, or do you do it with other men too?" Richards probed.

"Oh I'm Kitaj’s rubber slave, so I need his permission to do this sort of thing with other people. But if he's okay with it then I'll fuck virtually anyone."

"But surely you don't need Kitaj's permission to develop your art practice by having sex with your tutors?"

"I suppose not but I'll have to check with Kitaj first..."

"Very good! Now take your clothes off! No sex involved I just want to see what you look like naked!"

Hockney did as he was instructed and as soon as he was naked Richards ordered him to get dressed again. He told Hockney he had a piece of work for him to do in his own studio, where he was building a set as a film and photographic backdrop.

Richards led Hockney from the student studio to where the tutors had their spaces. When they reached Richards' studio, the tutor ushered Hockney inside and locked the door behind them. The RCA was busy in the middle of a weekday but Richards knew there was respect for even the strangest of artistic practices and so no one would disturb them once they'd locked the door, no matter what noises were heard coming from behind it.

Hockney looked around apprehensively wondering what Richards might have hidden in the depths of his space, despite the fact it looked quite empty aside from a lot of props and a few paintings leaning against one wall.

"As you can see, Hockney, I have got started on a set design that I want to use as a backdrop for some film and photo shoots – this is private stuff circulated under the counter, not for consumption by the general public. This main part of the set I've had for quite some time, very solid; I spared no expense in making it. It does not move at all, but this is my private studio used only for my most favourite of sexual masterpieces. I want to add more elements to heighten the dungeon feel that I have going on here, that is where you come in."

Then pointing to a stack of heavy beams that looked like they might have belonged to a railroad track at one time, Richard's continued, "I was thinking a stockade and maybe a small wooden cage from those pieces would suffice for now. Do you think you can handle the job?" Richard’s studied the boy's every expression and movement carefully.

"Yes, sir, I think I can manage that," Hockney smiled; it seemed to be almost too easy a job to be true. The tools that he would need were out and he went to work in building what his tutor had roughly drawn out on paper - not noticing that as he was building Richards was busy adding new props by securing heavy chains to the wall, as well as hauling out various whips and floggers that had been hidden in the depths of the space.

Hockney took off his shirt as he started to sweat while hammering together the small cage - this was after he'd finished sawing out the stockade and piecing it together. He had never built such things before, but found it was second nature to him, how he loved to work with wood – it made such a change from painting. Richards admired the boy's body, plotting his next move, urging his desires to be patient.

"Well, Hockney, I must admit I'm eager to see shots from this set design," Richards announced as Hockney was finishing up the cage. "Perhaps you’d act as my model for the tableaux I wish to bring to life here."

"Uh well yes Sir, I have never modelled before but I'd be willing to try," Hockney was a bit nervous and yet pleased that he could be considered for a modelling job.

"I'm willing to take that chance, Hockney, sometimes one finds new talent and you definitely have the look I want for these shots, know now though it is a serious shoot and I will expect full cooperation."

Hockney looked around at the dark scene - a fake stone wall back piece, complete with heavy chains and instruments of torture - then nodded in agreement to his tutor. Still, Hockney felt a bit nervous as to what the shoot would entail.

"This is your costume" Richards said as he picked up the garments.  "Here’s some oil too, so please oil up well. I want a shiny look for the photos."

Hockney nodded nervously as he took the oil and costume. The outfit was tight leather slacks and a leather harness. The leather was snug against his tight muscles and his cock was clearly outlined against the slacks; he had to admit even if leather wasn't his usual thing, he looked extremely hot in it. He really was curious now as to what kind of photo shoot this was going to be.

Richards couldn't help but think to himself what a perfect boy he had found this time and knew he had better not to reveal his scheme to the rubber slave right away. He directed Hockney to the wall, first locking his wrists securely into the cuffs attached to the chains. He could see a question in Hockney's eyes but he said nothing.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need to redden your chest a bit for the picture I'm going for, Hockney. It will sting, but I think you'll be surprised what a pleasant sting it can be."

The alarms in the back of Hockney's head started to sound – Kitaj wasn't going to like this - but he only nodded as he really wanted please his tutor too - and how bad could a light flogging be?

Richards grinned and continued to hide his hand as he went to a small chest and pulled out a leather flogger. Before starting he opted to secure the boy's ankles just in case a struggle was to ensue. With the flogger in hand, Richards showed little mercy bringing it down repeatedly in hard blows over Hockney's chest - until tears rolled from the young man silently begging him to stop. But Richards did not stop till the skin was a deep crimson – and when it was he stood back to admire it.

"Yes, good Hockney, just the look I want, such a wonderful glow your skin has," Richards smiled as He snapped pictures from many angles.

This one would be easy Richards thought to himself. He’d suspected Hockney would invoke the name of his master and swear he could not be unfaithful to him. He hadn’t yet but Richards still knew he must tread carefully.

Hockney stood stunned by the fire in his chest, the flogging had been more then he bargained for and had he not been chained up he'd have sat down. He fought back his tears embarrassed to be seen crying over a beating. He just kept telling himself he needed to please his tutor, and for a reason he didn't want to understand his cock was hard and throbbing, wanting relief from the tight leather that encased it.

"You are doing splendid, Hockney,” Richards announced. "I have an add on to your outfit for the next shots. Don't worry, it won't be that bad."

Richards winked at the so far compliant post-graduate student. He had expected getting him this far into the game would have been more difficult, but Hockney had been a push-over. Richards took two adjustable nipple clamps and carefully attached them to Hockney's hard nipples. He was careful not to put them on too tight knowing he shouldn't push things too far. It took all of Richards' self-control not to bite and pull on the delicious looking nipples.

Richards snapped the flogger harshly over the clamped nipples - quickly and swiftly bringing the colour back to the flesh before capturing more shots of the boy on his camera. Richards couldn't help but notice the rock hard bulge in Hockney's pants. Excellent, the boy enjoys this treatment Richards thought to himself.

With the camera flashing rapidly, Richards' passion for the boy was now raging almost out of control. His loose pants were hiding his own excitement as he went to light candles in preparation for wax shots. Richards dripped the hot wax expertly over Hockney's chest watching with great pleasure as the muscles tensed and the chains grew taut. There were also delicious low groans from Hockney's clenched lips.

Richards leaned in close to Hockney and whispered into his ear, "I lied, boy, there was never a shoot, just a great desire for you, Any objection, any struggle will only increase my thirst and drive me harder, I'm going to have you. I'm going to take you away from Kitaj!"

"Please, Richards, take me, I don't care about Kitaj!" Hockney could hardly believe he was speaking the words that came out of his mouth.

Hockney's chest was pulsing in pain, his cock throbbing in lust, his mind was confused and he yearned for relief.

"All in good time, boy," Richards taunted as he sank his teeth into the Hockney's shoulder and drew blood.

Richards unchained Hockney's ankles just long enough to take off the student's leather pants, then placed him back in the shackles.

Hockney had a lovely cock. Long and thick with a set of low hung balls, it was most magnificent! And it was also drizzling pre-cum! Richards took the flogger and began an assault on Hockney's groin and thighs. The post-graduate was unable to hold in his howling screams and they drove Richardson on to bring the flogger down harder and harder.

Richards pulled out a padded riding horse from behind a curtain. He unchained Hockney from the wall and bound his wrists and ankles to the four legs of the horse. Hockney's arse was wide open and vulnerable to Richards. The painting tutor picked up his leather flogger and bought out fresh bruises on the flesh. The heavy thwacks echoing about the room followed by the Hockney's agonising cries, were sweet music to Richards' ears as he snapped the leather down harder and harder and watched the student’s flesh pulses turning a dark crimson.

Hockney was sweating profusely, his was cock dripping pre-cum onto the floor. His cock throbbed against the padded sawhorse. Richards too was soaked in sweat and he eventually became so exhausted he had to stop his assault on the boy. The deep dark crimson pulsing crimson welts he’d inflicted on his victim were driving him out of his mind with lust. Stepping up to Hockney, Richards undid his pants. He gave no mercy with his huge rock hard shaft as he slammed it into Hockney's tight crack. His victim’s screams only serving to make him thrust deeper and harder. He slammed away until – yes, yes, yes – he shot his genetic wealth right up Hockney's rim of dark pleasure! Hockney came too and finally achieve release from the lust that had chained him down since he'd entered Richards’ studio.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012



That evening Hockney found himself at "The Choughs" with half a dozen others. Patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier than ever. One by one the rest of the men dropped off, the last saying, "Are you coming, Hockney?" and being answered in the negative. Kitaj had repeatedly told Hockney how pretty Patty was. At first the rubber slave had been worried by this but now he'd come up with a plan to eliminate her as a love rival. Patty may have been a girl but that didn't mean he couldn't seduce her and make her fall in love with him!

He sat still, watching Patty as she flitted about, washing up the ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out her work basket; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron she was making. Then he broke silence:

"Where's your aunt to-night, Patty?"

"Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some friends."

"You and I will keep house, then, together; you shall teach me all the tricks of the trade. I shall make a famous barman, don't you think?"

"You must learn to behave better, then. But I promised aunt to shut up at nine; so you must go when it strikes. Now promise me you will go."

"Go at nine! what, in half an hour? The first evening I have ever had a chance of spending alone with you; do you think it likely?" and he looked into her eyes. She turned away with a slight shiver, and a deep blush.

His nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few days by the fear that he was going to lose Kitaj's affections as they slowly turned towards this kitten, that Hockney seemed to know everything that was passing in her mind. He took her hand. "Why, Patty, you're not afraid of me, surely?" he said, gently.

"No, not when you're like you are now. But you frightened me just this minute. I never saw you look so before. Has anything happened to you?"

"No, nothing. Now then, we're going to have a jolly evening, and play Darby and Joan together," he said, turning away, and going to the bar window; "shall I shut up, Patty?"

"No, it isn't nine yet; somebody may come in."

"That's just why I mean to put the shutters up; I don't want anybody."

"Yes, but I do, though. Now I declare, Mr. Hockney, if you go on shutting up, I'll run into the kitchen and sit with Dick."

"Why will you call me 'Mr. Hockney'?"

"Why, what should I call you?"

"Hockney, of course."

"Oh, I never! one would think you was my brother," said Patty, looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. Hockney's rejoinder, and the little squabble which they had afterwards about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite this enchantress, the work-table between them; and he sat leaning back in his chair and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particularly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. At last he roused himself.

"Do you know what BDSM is, Patty?" he said, sitting up.

"There now, I've won," she laughed; "I said to myself I wouldn't speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were. I thought you would never begin."

"You're a little goose! Now I begin then; what do you know about BDSM?"

“I know all about that. Your friend Kitaj was in here earlier on telling me all about your activities with him as a rubber slave!”

"What, Kitaj?"

"Yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and--"

"What, Kitaj here?" interrupted Hockney, utterly astonished.

"Yes, he's been here two or three times lately."

"The deuce he has!"

"Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. I'm sure he is a very nice gentleman, after all. He sat and talked tonight for half an hour, I should think."

"What did he talk about?" said Hockney, with a sneer.

"Oh, he asked me whether I was a virgin, and if I had a boyfriend, and all about my sexual preferences, and made me feel quite pleasant. He is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. I'm going to like him very much, as you told me some time ago."

"I don't tell you so now."

"But you did say he was your great friend."

"Well, he isn't that now."

"What, have you had a quarrel?"


"Dear; dear; how odd you gentlemen are!"

"Why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is it?"

"No, not in the public room. They're always quarrelling there, over their drink and the bagatelle-board; and Dick has to turn them out. But gentlemen ought to know better."

"They don't, you see, Patty."

"But what did you quarrel about?"


"How can I guess? What was it about?"

"About you. Well we haven’t yet but we will do when I see him"

"About me!" she said, looking up from her work in wonder. "How could you quarrel about me?"

"Well, I'll tell you; until I met Kitaj I though I was gay and then he showed me in BDSM there is no gay or straight. Now I want you to be my master. What do you think of that?"

They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts crowded into Hockney's head. He was in the humour for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the worst construction on Kitaj's visits, fancied his master fancied Patty more than a man like himself. Hockney did not trust himself to speak till he had mastered his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of his heart, and weighed it down there with a good covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve. He was plunging down rapidly enough now; but he had new motives for making the most of his time, and never played his cards better or made more progress. When a man sits down to such a game, the devil will take good care he shan't want cunning or strength.

Hockney talked Patsy into putting on a record and dancing with him. They cleared some tables and waved their arms and legs around to Hound Dog by Elvis Presley.

"Thanks for the dance," Hockney blurted as the song ended.

"Hey!" Patty grabbed Hockney's arm. "You think I'm going to bite?"

She lifted her arms up as if to put them around Hockney’s neck and waited. What could he do? He walked into her and put his arms around her waist as she draped her arms around his neck.

Although he preferred men Hockney was got an instant stiffy.

"Mmmmm," Patty cooed as she snuggled her chin on Hockney’s shoulder.

He gazed for a moment at the metal stud in her tongue and thought you will be assimilated, resistance is futile. Patty squeezed even tighter. For a skinny girl, she sure seemed strong. She rubbed her pelvis against Hockney’s, rolling his boner around between his upper thighs.

Then Patty’s and Hockney’s lips were pressing into each other. Hockney thought the stud on Patty's tongue felt weird every time his tongue slid over it.

“Let’s go to one of the upstairs bedrooms!” Patty hissed

"Yeah, but what about Kitaj?" Hockney asked.

Patty rolled Hockney’s boner against her crotch and said, "Forget Kitaj for now!" Then Patty stuck her tongue in Hockney’s ear and licked all around the ridges for a few seconds. He almost had an orgasm just standing right there!

"C'mon! I promise you an hour of pleasure like you've never had and never will have again. Don't pass it up." Patty lisped

Hockney followed Patty up two fights of stairs to one of the pub’s special rooms.

"Uh, mind if I use the bathroom?" Hockney asked pointing to the master bathroom through a door in the bedroom.

"Not that one," she said. "That's for women only. Use the one down the hall."

Hockney shrugged, wondering why an en suit room would have a women's only john; but he followed Patty’s directions, took a shit, and returned to find her tall, skinny, ashen body already naked in bed. Her skimpy top, her black leather skirt, her fishnet stockings, and her shoes were in a pile on the seat of a chair in front of a wide sliding glass door that opened out onto a huge balcony. Hockney thought it odd he didn't see a bra or panties among the discarded garmentry.

"C'mon!" Patty said. "I've felt how big and stiff it is. Now I want to see my prize."

Hockney kicked off his shoes, removed his shirt, then his socks, and finally his pants. "Is this what you wanted to see?"

"Yeah! Bring it to me, baby!"

Hockney climbed into bed with Patty and they were immediately swapping spit, her ashen skin and black lipstick no longer a concern. His cock just needed to take a plunge -- nothing else mattered. He rolled her onto her back and began to suck her perky little titties. Her nipples were little more than tiny red pimples, but Hockney managed to give them a tad more fullness as she cooed, "Ooh!" and "Ahh!"

Hockney started to crawl lower, but Patty pushed him onto his side and said, "Want to fuck my mouth?"

"Wow!" Hockney gasped. Did she really mean that? Does she really know what it means to have a guy fuck her mouth? "Yeah!"

Patty rolled flat on her back, stretching her arms over her head, and said, "Go ahead! Have at me!"

"You really want me to?"

"Yeah! Like my mouth was a pussy. Go ahead! Don't hold back!" Then she faced straight up at the ceiling and opened her mouth wide.

Hockney couldn't believe it. He swung a leg over her head and settled onto her, facing her crotch. He slid his cock into Patty’s gaping mouth, then slammed his pelvis down, pressing his crotch tightly to her lips, before she could change her mind.

Hockney felt his cock twist sharply at the back of Patty’s mouth - as it slid past her throat and down her gullet. She began bucking wildly under him, nearly throwing him off her a few times. There was no way she was going to make him disengage before he was fully satisfied. He didn't even have to pump her mouth -- her strenuous gag reflex did all the work, milking his cock far more tightly than any pussy, hand, or asshole ever could.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Hockney groaned as he flooded Patty’s throat with his spunk. Her continuing gagging and squeezing of his cock drew more cum from him than he could have ever produced with his own hands. He just kept coming and coming and coming,

Hockney pulled his cock out of her mouth and rolled off her, panting. After a few seconds, he sat up and said, "Patty! Wow!"

Patty didn't answer.

"My God! Patty! PATTY!" She was out cold. Hockney ran to the bathroom and found a cup. he filled it with water, ran back, and splashed it on her face. He slapped her face a few times and she started to cough and sputter.

"Patty! I'm sorry! I..."

"It's okay," she said and coughed for a while. Then she grinned wide and said, "But now it's my turn."

"What do you mean?" Hockney asked. "Now we fuck normally, right? But I don't think I have any more spunk left in me after that."

"No! Now I ride you and you make me come with your mouth."

"Sure," Hockney agreed

"You'll love this!" Patty pushed Hockney onto his back. In an instant she had straddled his head, hovering her ass just inches above his face. He was staring into in the thickest, blackest muff hair ever known to man. Her pussy was the merest slit between her twin mounds. And she had a little tattoo of a unicorn on the inner surface of her ass cheek with its horn about to impale her anus.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah!" Hockney said.

Patty sat on his face. Hockney’s nose was shoved up her asshole, and her pussy was pressed tightly to his mouth.

Patty squeezed Hockney’s nose with her anal sphincter and said, "Make me come, Hockney. You're not taking another breath until I come."

Hockney felt Patty swing her legs straight out in front of her along the sides of his body. Her pussy mounds twisted his lips under her weight as she swung her legs around. The pressure on his face increased, and it quickly dawn on him that his visage was supporting her full weight. Despite her slight build, her full weight on his skull was crushing and painful.

Hockney slid his tongue up between her tight rubbery pussy lips and tasted the musky wetness within. He slid his tongue up and down her pussy and in and out of the hole a few times. Then he found her clit. He flicked it a few times with his tongue, then drew it into his mouth between his lips.

Hockney’s lungs were already gasping for air, and so he tried to motion her with my hands to let him take a breath, but his arms were pinned at his sides under her legs. Hockney had no choice but to continue working her clit. With her clit pulled into his mouth, he swirled and flicked it with his tongue. She began to moan, "Oh! Ah! Ohhh! Aaaaah!" as Hockney batted her clit with his tongue.

Hockney was on the verge of passing out when Patty started to quake on his face and gushed a heavy stream of pussy juice into his mouth. Then the taste hit him. It wasn't pussy juice. She was pissing into his mouth as she came. Hockney struggled to get Patty to stop, but his head was pinned under her ass, and his arms were still pinned under her legs. Just when Hockney was on the verge of blacking out, Patty fell forward onto him.

"Whoa!" she said. "You're good!"

"Aaaaaah!" Hockney said, his mouth was full of pee and he couldn't say anything else.

Patty turned and sat up on Hockney's chest looking down at him.

"Ahhh! Ahhh!" Hockney said, pushing her to get off him.

"No! I'm not getting off."

"Ahhh! Ahhh!" Hockney said again pointing into his mouth. He so wanted to spit her waste out of his mouth.

"No, Hockney! Swallow it. I'm sitting right here until it's all gone."

So Hockney swallowed her filth.

"There," Patty said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"But why'd you pee in my mouth? And why wouldn't you let me get up to spit it out?"

"I pee during powerful orgasms. And you gave me one of the most powerful orgasms ever!"

"I, uh, well..."

"And I swallowed your cum. So you can swallow my pee."

"I guess so..." Hockney figured Patty had a point there. Even though cum wasn't exactly waste.

"Besides, haven't you ever heard of water sports?"

"Well, yeah," Hockney said. "But to date I’ve only been a piss toy for men, and that’s different."

"And what did it taste like to you?" she asked.

"It didn't taste like anything, really. I guess it wasn't so bad. But girl pee is still different to man piss."

“Kitaj told me about using you as a piss toy. He said he’d give you the idea that he fancied m. He wanted you to want to fuck me. And after I’d done the shag-nasty with you he told me to pass on the message there is no gay or straight in BDSM - only mind games!"

It was ten o'clock instead of nine before Hockney left, which he did with a feeling of defeat and tears in his eyes. Hockney walked quickly to Kitaj’s pad. But Kitaj was out and the next day Hockney dared not go and confront him over Patty and his sexual orientation. Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever faster downwards Hockney plunged, the light getting fainter and ever fainter above his head. Little good can come of dwelling on those days. He left off pulling himself off, shunned his old friends, and drank with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal fun.

Boshier, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he saw plainly enough. He was sorry for it in his way, but it was no business of his. He began to think that Hockney was a good enough fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he was going to turn into a misery guts crying for attention by threatening suicide. But everything returned to normal when Hockney received a note from Kitaj saying he’d been a bad rubber slave but his phony punishment of banishment was over and now he must return to his master for a beating.

Wednesday, 11 July 2012



Hockney went to Kitaj’s bedsit in high spirits, humming the air of a popular song. Kitaj was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but untasted, before him, and no books open - a very unusual thing with him at night. But Hockney either did not or would not notice that there was anything unusual.

Hockney seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could, without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the complimentary things that had been said by Paolozzi and others of Kitaj's BDSM mastery. Then he went on to describe the supper party he’d just attended; what a jolly evening they had had; he did not remember anything so pleasant since he had been up at the RCA, and he retailed the speeches, and named the best songs. "You really ought to have been there. Why didn't you come? Boshier sent over for you. I'm sure every one wished you had been there. Didn't you get his message?"

"I didn't feel up to going," said Kitaj.

"There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Hockney, as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Kitaj had hurt himself in some particularly hardcore BDSM session.

"No, nothing," answered the other.

Hockney tried to make play again, but soon came to an end of his talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence. At last he stopped, looked at Kitaj for a minute, who was staring abstractedly at the sword over his mantel-piece, and then said:

"There is something the matter, though. Don't sit glowering as if you had swallowed a furze bush. Why you haven't been smoking Mother Charge, old boy?" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the others shoulder. "I see that's it. Here, take one of my weeds, they're mild. Mother Charge allows two of these a day."

"No, thank'ee," said Kitaj, rousing himself; "Mother Charge hasn't interfered with my mood, and I wil  have a pipe, for I think I want it."

"Well, I don't see that it does you any good," said Hockney, after watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without saying a word. "Here, I've not managed to say the one thing I had at heart. You are in the the best bondage and rubber master in the whole of London!”

"Well," said Kitaj, making a great effort; "the real fact is I have something, and something very serious to say to you."

"Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Hockney; "I'm not serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious tonight. It's no use, so don't look glum.”

“I have every reason to look glum, my rich friend with the BDSM dungeon just spent a fortune to try a new perversion and it all went wrong. He’d read an anthology of short stories entitled Egyptian Mummy Porn that extolled the virtues of doing necrophilia with mouldy oldies rather than fresh corpses. He was convinced that it was worth parting with thousands of guineas for an ancient Egyptian mummy so that he might have sex with it.”

“I wish I’d been there to see it!” Hockney interjected.

“Well I was there and I wish I hadn’t been!” Kitaj replied. “When my pal tried to hump the mummy it disintegrated and we all inhaled this horrible black dust. It was indescribably disgusting and now I think we’re cursed!”

“Don’t believe those old wives tales? You’ll be fine after a good sleep. And tell me more about this Egyptian Mummy Porn anthology? Who is behind it?”

“It was edited by an American fella called Blaster Al Ackerman. He also wrote the best story in it The Ecstasy of Macaroni.”

“Do you have a copy of the book I could borrow?”

“No, I read my friend’s copy.”

“Do you have anything by Ackerman?” Hockney persisted.

“Just this.” Kitaj hissed as he picked a thin pamphlet and handed it to Hockney. “You can borrow it if you’ll just go home to read it and leave me in peace.”

Hockney agreed to this condition and although he felt sorry for his friend, he skipped through south Kensington thinking he’d just acquired a fantastic one-handed read. Hockney undressed and got into bed naked. He had tissues beside him to clean up whatever mess he might make as he worked his way through Blaster Al Ackerman’s story. This is what Hockney read:

2976 Vienna Sausages by Blaster Al Ackerman

My friend Plopman had inherited his optimistic, visionary spirit from his father, who had been able  to see little iridescent and transparent winged  things crawling up his legs... up everybody’s legs.  Plopman’s own gift lay less in the realm of second-sight, more in the area of transcendental theory and extra-practical application of the same.  That is to say, Plopman was an inventor with lots of ideas that didn’t always work out the way they were supposed to. For example, one of the ideas he developed when he was living on the second floor of the Dunlap Commercial House between Tenth and Eleventh on Omaha Street had to do with putting together a suit made entirely out of vienna sausages.

It wasn’t that Plopman was overly, or even particularly, fond of vienna sausages. But he did have his eye on the hefty blonde who occupied the room just opposite his across the court. She was a gym teacher or something. Over a period of months Plopman had tried every trick he knew to get her to be as interested in peeping across into his room as he was in peeping across into hers. These included such old reliable attention-grabbers as 1) doing nude exercises all night long in front of his window with the shade up and a flashlight gripped  between his teeth, 2) standing on one leg on his chair for hours like a stork, and 3) anything else he could think of. All to no avail; not only did his attractive neighbor refuse to glance his way, she seemed to be making a deliberate point of refusing to glance his way. Things were starting to look hopeless until Plopman had his great inspiration for constructing a suit built entirely out of vienna sausages. That would rivet her attention, he told himself. Once he exhibited himself at the window attired in the splendor of his vienna sausage suit, she would no longer be able to resist him.  He immediately plunged in and set to work on it, exhilarated.

The exact number of Vienna sausages needed for such an undertaking came to 2,976. And so, inasmuch as Plopman was highly unskilled when it came to handling a needle and thread, and found the stubby, slippery little franks devilishly tricky to keep a grip on, it took him a long, hard time to stitch his suit together. About two years, all told. Which soon brought to light a number of problems he had failed to anticipate. To begin with, there was the problem of how rapidly and thoroughly a suit built entirely out of unrefrigerated finger-food can spoil, to say nothing of how oppressive this can grow to be over a period of two years, particularly in the confines of one small room during the summer months. Long before Plopman reached the stage where he could try his suit on in front of the mirror and see how spiffy it looked, the 2,976 Vienna sausages had gone to pot and were frankly reeking. The smell was cloying and pervasive — worse than a fart in a phone booth. As a result, Plopman spent a lot of time in the bathroom feeling ill.

One month — two — three, the foulness intensified, and spread, far beyond the four walls of Plopman’s room. Flies soon became a big problem. Some of them came from as far away as Eberley’s Meat Market, on Shook Avenue, drawn in swarms as if by a powerful fly-magnet. Thanks to their presence, Plopman’s room took on the air of an unmucked stable, or abattoir. Also, hardly a moment passed when Plopman could not cock his ear and catch, floating up from below stairs, the plaintive yowls of most of the neighborhood cat population, who had taken to worshipping his suit from afar; to them, the redolence of the 2,976 fetid little sausages was more exciting than even the dumpsters out back in the alley or the grease traps at Church’s Fried Chicken two blocks over on Tenth and Vine, which was saying something. Plopman had never liked cats and it made him nervous to think of them down there now, clinging to the back screen at all hours as they yearned after his weenies. He began, rather morbidly, to fantasize, picturing to himself what might happen if the whole hairy-tailed gang of them ever succeeded in breaking down the back door and came pouncing up the stairs, intent on flensing him of his suit. Plopman’s eyes darted feverishly and there was much dark brooding over the cat situation.

Not that it ultimately made much difference one way or the other, but given the continual strain and fatigue he was under, Plopman couldn’t help experiencing certain mental lapses. As the months wore on, there were moments when he found himself sliding right off the end of the map, as the early cartographers might have put it. One day he had been hard at work on the left sleeve of his suit for nine straight hours and the flies were out in force, so he was doing a lot of swatting and mumbling, when he looked up, and there was Mr. Greenberger, his old high school shop teacher, stepping out of the wall, apparently unaffected by the passage of years, or, for that matter, by the fact that he, Mr. Greenberger, had been deceased and buried for the past seventeen of them.

“Mr. Greenberger,” Plopman said.

“Hello, birdbrain,” Mr. Greenberger said, and waggled his tongue suggestively.

Plopman didn’t know what to say, so he said: “How’d you get in my wall?”

Instead of bothering to tender a direct answer to this question, Mr. Greenberger held out his arms and looked at them. They were covered with black bristles. “When I see my arms,” he whispered rather horridly: ” — when I see my arms I see as if a cat was wedded to a fly. Sometimes it would have the cat head and the fly body. Sometimes it would have the fly head and the cat body. Well? So what?” Then he looked at Plopman and laughed like a loon, and then he stepped back into the wall.

At such moments as these — and there came to be more and more of them as time went along — Plopman would press his knuckles against his temples and decide he needed to take a few days off from his suit — kick back and chill out. Nothing simple about putting together a suit of 2,976 Vienna sausages; it could wear a man out. But it was toward the end of the first year, when the suit was only half done, October or thereabouts, that Plopman suffered what was perhaps his worst set-back: the blonde across the courtyard moved out. Evidently she was gone for good, and her room was soon taken over by a retired army man who drank bourbon and 7-Up all day and fell asleep with a lit cigarette at four every afternoon and set his bed on fire. Coming awake to find his mattress smoldering or his pillow lightly ablaze he would holler, “Help! Where am I? Am I in hell?” He seemed a tormented individual, not at all an attractive or satisfactory replacement for the hefty blonde

So at the end of two years (or twenty-three months, three weeks and four days, if you want to be perfectly accurate about it) when the big day finally arrived and he could at last don his suit for the first time, Plopman felt like he’d climbed Everest or something. Dressed, standing there with the 2,976 Vienna sausages actually encasing his body in their slimy embrace, Plopman found the proximity virtually overwhelming in terms of aroma, and for several minutes he had to fight hard to keep from passing out. Up that close the fumes made his eyes leak and run like a pair of badly cracked eggs.

Once he managed to get his eyes focused, and the flies shooed away, and could see himself in the closet mirror he felt immediately reassured. His suit was everything he had hoped it would be, and more. Massive, streaky pink in color, glistening squamously, it made him look as though he were festooned in all the foreskins a busy hospital might hope to harvest in a year’s time — or like a high priest of the White Worm Cult of Eastern Thrace — or like something huge and blobby grown with steroids in a vat — or... Plopman ran out of superlatives at this point, and as he stood there quietly savoring his triumph, Mrs. Dunlap, the mad fretful old landlady, banged on his door with her cane and then rattled the knob. Fortunately, the door was locked; even so, it made Plopman jump; this, in turn, caused his suit to sway to and fro around him, and as it did so, there was a faint but audible squish-squish sound. The mixed feelings engendered in Plopman’s mind by this sound may be well imagined by anyone who has ever cleaned and prepared a tub of eels.

“Mr. Plopman! Mr. Plopman! What smells dead in there? Are you boiling your shorts again?”

“No, I’m not, Mrs. Dunlap. Everything is fine in here.”

Plopman groaned. He had been afraid all along that this was going to happen, mostly because of how, over the last two years, ever since the stench had first started getting out of hand, Mrs. Dunlap had been coming around about once a day, regular as Queen Estrus, to bang on Plopman’s door with her cane and pester him about what smelled “dead” in his room. To make matters worse, or anyhow more ridiculous, she had somehow got it into her head that Plopman was engaged in the exotic practice of “boiling” his shorts. Who could say why? It’s just something that had sprung up between them — part of the nitwit, singsong routine that invariably took place whenever she appeared. By now, it had become a litany, practically. Plopman gritted his teeth, foreseeing twenty or thirty minutes of anguished lassitude while they shouted back and forth at each other through the door.

“Well,” called Mrs. Dunlap, next, just as she always did, “I thought that since whatever you had in there smells dead, you were probably boiling your shorts again, Mr. Plopman?”

“No, I’m not, Mrs. Dunlap,” called Plopman, just as he always did. “I’ve told you and told you — I never boil anything in my room; I don’t even own a hot plate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to admit to it either, Mr. Plopman, if I was the one who was in there with the door locked, boiling my shorts.”

“Neither would I, Mrs. Dunlap. But I’m not. So I can’t.

“Well, I can’t say I blame you for wanting to conceal your activities, Mr. Plopman. People who boil their shorts aren’t very welcome in polite society.

“I know that, Mrs. Dunlap. But the thing is, that’s not what I’m doing.” In short, a typical exchange.

As such, it dragged on with only minor variations for the next quarter of an hour; and when Mrs. Dunlap finally hobbled away, bound for the basement to check on the mouse traps, always her customary next stop after visiting Plopman’s door, Plopman at last had a chance to look down and take stock of himself. By then, of course, enough time had elapsed for heavy natural attrition to take its toll; his suit, he saw at a glance, was in a bad way, was on its last legs, in fact — tragically foundering. Because his eyes were still watering, it was hard for Plopman to tell whether the left sleeve had come apart before the right leg dropped off, or vice versa. But the whole spongy pink mass continued to sluff away at an alarming rate, unraveling on him even as he watched. In less than two minutes it was as good as gone — proof beyond question, were any needed, that Vienna sausages are far too glutinous and unstable ever to be much good for suit-making.
Plopman heaved a sigh. Damn. It was depressing to realize how miserably his suit had fared. And Mrs. Dunlap’s meddlesome, ill-timedintrusion. There had only been a few minutes in which to wear and admire his creation — so brief, so fleeting, it was — and she had effectively distracted him from any real enjoyment of it. It hardly seemed fair. But, standing there, now, knee-deep in the ruined and steaming pile of 2,976 malodorous little weenies, Plopman told himself that perhaps something might yet be salvaged from the experiment, provided he could locate some crackers and have those along with part of his suit for a late-afternoon snack, without poisoning himself. That was the thing; you couldn’t let an obsessive, unbalanced, crackpot personality like Mrs. Dunlap drag you down and mire you in defeat. You had to go ahead and make the best of things, no matter what.

Plopman began to feel more optimistic as he got busy rummaging in his closet — and the crackers turned up in fairly short order, only a little stale from having spent time under a pile of Plopman’s unlaundered shirts and socks. Plopman sat down on the edge of the bed to have his snack of crackers and suit, and at that moment the faint aroma of burning mattress wafted in through the open window. “Help! Where am I? Am I in hell?” he heard his neighbor across the courtyard holler.

Having read Ackerman’s story, Hockeny was laughing his arse off and he forgot all about in engaging in a five knuckle shuffle, since he knew from experience how challenging it was laugh and have an orgasm at the same time.

Thursday, 28 June 2012



At nine o'clock on a Saturday evening David Hockney was at the door of Kitaj's room. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. Kitaj had thrown himself into their BDSM encounters so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Hockney, but had warmed most of the boys and nearly all the department girls in his favour. It was he who had managed the rope knots in every bondage session, and his voice from wherever he stood had come to be looked upon as a safe guide as to how to have fun regardless of whether his slaves could see or had been blindfolded.

So Hockney had recovered his old footing in the dominatrix's room; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. Kitaj's supper was on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. Hockney marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder.

"What, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "Come; shut up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you."

Kitaj looked up with a grim smile.

"Are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, I was just reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?"

He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was reading. It was Venus In Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, and Hockney, leaning over his shoulder, read:

A Russian prince made his first appearance today on the promenade. He aroused general interest on account of his athletic figure, magnificent face, and splendid bearing. The women particularly gaped at him as though he were a wild animal, but he went his way gloomily without paying attention to any one. He was accompanied by two servants, one a negro, completely dressed in red satin, and the other a Circassian in his full gleaming uniform. Suddenly he saw Wanda, and fixed his cold piercing look upon her; he even turned his head after her, and when she had passed, he stood still and followed her with his eyes.

And she—she veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes—and did everything possible to meet him again.

The cunning coquetry with which she walked, moved, and looked at him, almost stifled me. On the way home I remarked about it. She knit her brows.

"What do you want," she said, "the prince is a man whom I might like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I can do what I please—"

"Don't you love me any longer—" I stammered, frightened.

"I love only you," she replied, "but I shall have the prince pay court to me."


"Aren't you my slave?" she said calmly. "Am I not Venus, the cruel northern Venus in Furs?"

I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words; her cold look entered my heart like a dagger.

"You will find out immediately the prince's name, residence, and circumstances," she continued. "Do you understand?"


"No argument, obey!" exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have thought possible for her, "and don't dare to enter my sight until you can answer my questions."

It was not till afternoon that I could obtain the desired information for Wanda. She let me stand before her like a servant, while she leaned back in her armchair and listened to me, smiling. Then she nodded; she seemed to be satisfied.

"Bring me my footstool," she commanded shortly.

I obeyed, and after having put it before her and having put her feet on it, I remained kneeling.

"How will this end?" I asked sadly after a short pause.

She broke into playful laughter. "Why things haven't even begun yet."

"You are more heartless than I imagined," I replied, hurt.

"Severin," Wanda began earnestly. "I haven't done anything yet, not the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization, when I shall lead a gay, free life and have a circle of admirers about me, when I shall actually fulfil your ideal, tread you underfoot and apply the lash?"

"You take my dreams too seriously."

"Too seriously? I can't stop at make-believe, when once I begin," she replied. "You know I hate all play-acting and comedy. You have wished it. Was it my idea or yours? Did I persuade you or did you inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now."

"Wanda," I replied, caressingly, "listen quietly to me. We love each other infinitely, we are very happy, will you sacrifice our entire future to a whim?"

"It is no longer a whim," she exclaimed.

"What is it?" I asked frightened.

"Something that was probably latent in me," she said quietly and thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a powerful impulse, fills my whole being, now that I enjoy it, now that I cannot and do not want to do otherwise, now you want to back out— you—are you a man?"

"Dear, sweet Wanda!" I began to caress her, kiss her.

"Don't—you are not a man—"

"And you," I flared up.

"I am stubborn," she said, "you know that. I haven't a strong imagination, and like you I am weak in execution. But when I make up my mind to do something, I carry it through, and the more certainly, the more opposition I meet. Leave me alone!"

She pushed me away, and got up.

"Wanda!" I likewise rose, and stood facing her.

"Now you know what I am," she continued. "Once more I warn you. You still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave."

"Wanda," I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes, "don't you know how I love you?"

Her lips quivered contemptuously.

"You are mistaken, you make yourself out worse than you are; you are good and noble by nature—"

"What do you know about my nature," she interrupted vehemently, "you will get to know me as I am."


"Decide, will you submit, unconditionally?"

"And if I say no."


She stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile about her lips, she was in fact the despotic woman of my dreams. Her expression seemed hard, and nothing lay in her eyes that promised kindness or mercy.

"Well—" she said at last.

"You are angry," I cried, "you will punish me."

"Oh no!" she replied, "I shall let you go. You are free. I am not holding you."

"Wanda—I, who love you so—"

"Yes, you, my dear sir, you who adore me," she exclaimed contemptuously, "but who are a coward, a liar, and a breaker of promises. Leave me instantly—"

"Wanda I—"


My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began to cry.

"Tears, too!" She began to laugh. Oh, this laughter was frightful. "Leave me—I don't want to see you again."

"Oh my God!" I cried, beside myself. "I will do whatever you command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you will—only don't send me away—I can't bear it—I cannot live without you." I embraced her knees, and covered her hand with kisses.

"Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash, for you are not a man," she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure, not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt most. "Now I know you, your dog-like nature, that adores where it is kicked, and the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you shall come to know me."

She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed on my knees; my head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes.

"Come here," Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman. I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me sombrely, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior of her eye. Smiling, she drew me toward her breast, and began to kiss the tears out of my eyes.

Hockney knew roughly what Kitaj was thinking so it came as no surprise when he was instructed to go out and pick up a girl and then bring her back for his master to fuck. Hockney took a cab to the other side of Hyde Park, found a prostitute and had her stepping out of the taxi in front of Kitaj’s South Kensington digs within 15 minutes. There wasn't much to the fucking Kitaj did with the girl – a few thrusts and it was all over. The real shock for Hockney came when Kitaj offered the girl – who said her name was Lara - a couple more pounds to mistreat his slave.

Back when he was an RCA student, Hockney had the slim dream body of a fashion model, and it was only partly veiled by a semi-transparent negligee Kitaj made him don. At that time Hockney wore his dark blond hair fairly short, in a well-arranged disarray, and his face was most attractive. Hockney's smile seemed to bewitch the prostitute, and his voice possessed that certain erotic something that makes girls go crazy: low volume, unobtrusive, with a deep vibrating overtone, but without seeming smoky.

Once Hockney and Lara were completely naked, the streetwalker tied the john to a standing X-cross Kitaj had in his room. This gave her he best position from which to explore his upper body. She started by stroking Hockney’s silky skin softly to discover the most ticklish spots. This produced joyful shivers, and goose bumps appeared everywhere. But only when Lara increase her fingertip pressure did Hockney start giggling and laughing. It wasn't really torturing at this stage, it was mere play.

Lara continued her game on Hockney's palms. The art student confessed that every touch there has an erotic quality for him. The girl then explained that the most ticklish parts of the body are the erogenous zones. Fingers travel downward over the forearms to the elbows. The elbow crease usually belongs to the ticklish spots, and Hockney's were no exception.

Things get even more interesting as Lara touched Hockney's freely accessible armpits. A first squealing scream escapes him. As her fingers continued to dabble there, his squeals turned into heavy guffaws. Hockney's features contorted into a tortured but still laughing expression, with some slight similarities to a climaxing one. Kitaj who was looking on surmised this was one of the main attractions for any tickle enthusiast: almost orgasmic facial expressions combined with a helplessly writhing body. The reflex to cover underarms and sides is overwhelming, but the bondage prevented Hockney from doing that. The rubber slave was forced to bear the unbearable, and by this time his only wish was that Lara would stop tickling him! But an experienced tickler knows that, and will continue to tickle unless a safety signal is given.

Lara knew from experience that a mere word for a safety signal is not sufficient when it comes to tickling. Tickle victims often laugh so heavily that they can't utter a comprehensible word. But a cough always works. This signal has got another advantage: if your ticklee swallows the wrong way during his laughter, it can be very dangerous to the breathing. But then he has to cough involuntarily, thus interrupting the tickling before the problem gets more serious.

Apart from that, Lara knew any halfway ticklish person would beg you to stop sooner or later, although like Hockney he might really be enjoying this sensuous torture. The real kick for the ticklee lies in the neural overloading. A clever safety signal allows the victim to beg and plead for mercy to his heart's delight without depriving him of this special kick. And begging is an important part in this game of power and surrender.

Therefore, Lara's fingers remained in Hockney's armpits a little longer, until real breathing troubles started. To grant him a little break, Lara tickled and caressed his nipples, which were already erect from the torture. The girl's next target was Hockney's ribs. As Hockney was still slim, his ribcage was deliciously pronounced, and Lara was able to count his ribs. Each and every touch elicited heavy guffawing. Hockney's most sensitive spots in this area turned out to be the area directly below his nipples, and the short lower ribs near the stomach. Touching the lower ribs made Hockney double over even in his bondage. The reflex point is right at the diaphragm. Anyone you care to name is almost sure to laugh at a touch there, because that's where all laughter originates, not only during a tickle session.

This area can be tickled in two different ways: Surface touch and deep kneading. Tickling the surface results in twitching and giggling, whereas the strong touch elicits a heavy guffaw coming from deep within. If you continue the latter it tortures the victim into severe breathing difficulties. This is what Lara did to Hockney, until another break was called for. The girl loved filling these interludes with other forms of erotic stimulation. Hockney's skin had become much more sensitive from the tickling, and being a skilful tickler Lara was able to thoroughly arouse her victim with constant changes between tickling and pure erotic touch.

To bring some variation to the session, Lara took two stiff feathers from a "Surprise Bag" by Kitaj’s bed. These classical tickle instruments were glided softly over Hockney's upper body. They tickled and stimulated simultaneously, as the slave confirmed.

"That's making me so hot!" Hockney cried between his moans and giggles.

Lara's feathers begin to explore Hockney's lower parts. His inner thighs and the hollows at the back of his knees proved particularly rewarding areas. The knee tickling caused Hockney to lose his balance, buckling forward in his bondage not just once but many times. However there was more: using her thumbs and middle fingers like a broad pincer, Lara squeezed Hockney's thighs just above the knees. The result was loud screaming and strong struggling; real tickle torture.

Then Lara took the feathers again to tickle Hockney's pubic area. He tried to pull his legs up as far as the straps that restrained them allowed, but it was never far enough to protect this sensitive area from the girl's touch. Hockney fell into continuous giggling, sometimes interrupted by loud laughter. His V-shaped loin creases produced the most intense sensations and he started to howl at every touch there.

Until then, Lara had carefully avoided touching Hockney's cock directly, but now she draws her feather full-length along his pork sword. As Kitaj watched the scene with curiosity, Lara grabbed Hockney's cock with her hand and started to jerk him off. Hockney squeaked and threw his body back and forth; he seemed to ride the length of the girl's hand. After continuing with this for a few strokes, Lara stopped before Hockney shot his load. She then tickled his genitals with her the tip of the feathers tip, and this produced new fits of giggling and squealing – especially when she worked the feathers around Hockney's balls.

Standing up to apply her fingers to Hockney's upper body once more, Lara saw the art student's eyes: they are "tickle-drunk", a special gleam produced by laughter and arousal. When Lara resumed the kneading on Hockney's ribs, eliciting jubilating screams, the slave repeatedly pressed his lower body against the prostitute and attempted to get his erect manhood into her creamy slit. The victim's reactions, his facial expressions, the tortured but still cathartic laughter, the severe struggling and wriggling in his bondage, they all had the effect of an aphrodisiac on the girl, and Hockney's abdominal movements added greatly to her excitement.

Not to make the game too boring, Kitaj hands Lara various gadgets from his special bag: a small, pointed paintbrush, Q-tips, and a small dildo. Lara’s put the dildo in Hockney’s mouth while promising to shove it up his arse if he behaved himself. She tickled Hockney's nipples with the paintbrush and he couldn't help laughing. The dildo fell from his mouth and clattered to the floor.

As interesting as these gadgets proved to be, the best tools for tickling Hockney were Lara's skilful fingers. She found using them a most satisfying experience. With them, she could feel the involuntary twitches beneath Hockney's silky skin, a thoroughly sensuous vibration. She particularly enjoyed it as her fingers tickled Hockney's stomach and hips.

Hockney always got breaks at the right moments, filled with soft kissing on his ears and nipples. During this, he would bend down his head to breathe his excitement into Lara's ears, renewing her arousal. As she started to tickle his armpits again, Hockney screamed for mercy. Lara desisted.

"Why do you stop? I didn't use the danger signal, did I?” Hockney spat cheekily. “I really enjoy this torture, although it gets unbearable sometimes."

Hockney got his punishment for this from the heaviest possible tickle attack. He was forced into loud, continuous guffawing, and during inhaling, a small "grunt" escaped him.

"Coughing is the danger signal, not grunting!" Lara admonished him.

This elicited a new fit of laughter, although Hockney wasn't being touched, and then he grunted again, resulting in more involuntary mirth.

Lara then took Hockney down from his upright position and tied him face down on the bed. Once he was secured she tickled his feet. The very first touch on his arches made him scream, and Lara was glad she'd tied each of the slave’s limbs to a corner of the bed. The restraints prevented her being hit as he writhed.

Hockney's laughter took on a different quality. It really sounded tortured, bordering on hysterical. His feet were incredibly ticklish, and Lara extracted the maximum of erotic stimulation from this weakness. She licked and nibbled at Hockney's toes. Her tongue between them left him a half-crazy wreck, his voice repeatedly failing. And the feathers drawn across Hockney's toe balls made him scream. The tickle slave was visibly exhausted by this point, his face and neck flushed, but still he had an aroused gleam in his eyes when Lara pulled his head back and looked into them.

“There are fifty shades of pink in my pussy!” Lara told Hockney as she untied him. “I want you to turn over so that I can sit on your face while you lick out every one of them!”

“And Hockney thinks he is gay not straight.” Kitaj laughed as his slave gave the prostitute a good tongue job. “There is no gay or straight in BDSM!”

Sunday, 10 June 2012



"What's the time Hamilton?"

"Half-past three old fellow," answered Richard looking at his watch.

"I never knew a day go so slowly," said Hockney, "isn't it time to go down to the torture dungeon?"

"Not by two hours and more, old fellow - can't you take a book, or something to keep you quiet? You won't be fit for a good whipping at six o'clock if you go on worrying like this."

And so Richard turned himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as composedly as if he had just come back from the torture dungeon, though, if the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Hockney's restlessness infected him.

Richard Hamilton's whole heart was in the torture dungeon; and so, though he had pulled dozens of gang bang chains in his time, he was almost as nervous as Hockney over who would fuck who tonight. Hockney, all unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer. So he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He was not able to answer Richard when his friend enquired of him what he had seen, after he'd drawn in his head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room.

"How hot the sun is! But there's a stiff breeze from the south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't you?"

"No need to worry about that when we’re down in the torture dungeon. It is so well insulated that not even the candles will flicker should we chose to light some."

"I hope to goodness you’re right," said Hockney.

"Don't think about it old fellow; that's your best plan."

"But I can't think of anything but having my arse whipped and fucked," said Hockney. "What the deuce is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?"

Richard apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot, toot" Hockney pulled on his coat and fled into the street.

The BDSM gang bangers often ate an early dinner of steaks and chops, stale bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece. The predominant theory about group gropes and collective torture was at that time - as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that most of these sex maniacs imbibed. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and violent sexual exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human nature rebelled against it; and though they did not admit it in public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. To keep to the diet at all strictly involved a very respectable amount of physical endurance. It was a sadism directed inwards rather than against a slave – and it made everyone that much more vicious when they were having sex.

Hockney appreciated the honour of being invited to the torture dungeon gang bang so keenly that he had almost managed to keep to his training allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and disagreeable frame of mind.

He fled away from Richard Hamilton’s flute, but found no rest. He tried Boshier. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing with himself, and this only increased Hockney's thirst and soured his temper by the viciousness of Boshier's remarks on Hockney’s sexual performance when the latter declined a request from the former to give him some head.

By way of compensation Hockney tried to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of Oscar Wilde, with no success whatever, so he wandered away, and found himself in five minutes in the torture dungeon belonging to an aristocrat who Kitaj had met through a sex contact advert.

There were half a dozen men tied up already, with three guys either whipping them listlessly or getting the subs to suck dom cock. Having taken in the scene, Hockney walked up to the kitchen - which was on the floor above - where he grabbed a beer. There was no way Hockney was going to get drunk. He walked through to the living room and sat down on his own. When Hockney stood up about 10 minutes later he had a little head rush. He attributed it to the fact that he was still a little apprehensive about the big gang bang he’d been promised that night - and also that it was pretty hot in the room he'd been sitting in. He plonked himself down again and soon found he was starting to get a little drowsy. Sometime later Kitaj entered the room and sat down next to Hockney. He had a big smile on his face. He said it was time for everyone to have some fun. It finally dawned on Hockney that he’d been drugged. He tried to get up but couldn’t control his body. Kitaj laughed and then put his hand on Hockney’s crotch. He told Hockney his cock felt pretty nice but he wouldn't need it today or ever again. Then Kitaj started rubbing Hockney’s thigh and soon they both knew the sub was completely blanked out.

When Hockney woke up there was a blindfold over his eyes. To be more precise it was a pair of swimming goggles that had been blacked out. Hockney tried to stand but quickly ascertained that his hands were chained to the floor, as were his legs. All he could do was get onto his hands and knees. When he did so he heard some laughter and then Kitaj spoke.

“I’m sick of half-arsed rubber slaves who waste my time with their failure to fully submit to my will.” Kitaj spat. “That’s why I told you you’d be getting gang banged tonight. I knew you’d assume it would be all fun with a load of different guys. But I’m not going to give you the pleasure of seeing what they look like. I’ve got twenty geezers in this room who all want to fuck your brains out. Not only will they shag you so hard that you won’t be able to walk - but you’re going to beg them to cum in your mouth after they’ve been up your bum!”

Hockney was in shock. He’d imagined there'd be some foreplay before the gang bang. He struggled a little and everyone laughed. Kitaj then pointed out that Hockney’s cock was not only rock hard - but this was going to be twenty times better than when they had sex together because there were twenty more men to fuck the rubber slave.

Kitaj told everyone to let Hockney know they were there. One at a time each man walked behind Hockney and whacked their hands against his arse. They didn't yet penetrate Hockney’s dark rim but by the fourth whack, the sub was starting to push back against these strangers' fingers. About half way through the spanking KItaj told Hockney to start begging for cock.

“Please fuck me.” Hockney squeaked.

Everyone laughed. When Hockney repeated the same three words several more times there was even more tittering. When all those present had given Hockney a slap or two on the backside, Kitaj spoke again:

“It doesn’t look like anyone here thinks Hockney is good enough to gang bang since you’ve all ignored his request. You know what slave? You’ll really have to beg if you want to get laid!”

Kitaj then started to rug Hockney’s anal rim with a finger. Hockney felt incredibly horny and pleaded to be rogered.

“I’ve a really tight arse. It will feel like heaven if you all plumb my depths. I really want all your cocks up my jacksee. And I want them down my throat too! I really love cum and I need to feel it spurting inside my mouth!”

Meanwhile Kitaj continued to work Hockney’s arse with a finger - so that the sub felt hornier than a bitch mongrel on heat. After several minutes of Hockney's begging for cock, Kitaj stopped rubbing his arse.

“I think this pathetic submissive is ready for some anal abuse!” Kitaj announced to cheers.

Hockney felt some cool gel being rubbed into his rim of dark pleasures, then a man stepped up behind him. He felt the head of a cock press against his buttocks. Hockney tried to relax but he wasn't doing a good job of it. Next he felt a hard slap on his bum just as the pork sword broke into his sphincter. It hurt and yet the dick was but inching in and not even half of the shaft had disappeared!

“I can’t hear you begging!” KItaj screamed at Hockney. “If you don’t plead for throbbing gristle that prick will be pulled out and you’ll have to wait.”

“I'm prepared to die for the pleasure of a huge cock plumbing my depths! I like men who are so big they could split me apart! Please, please, please shove that huge blood sausage up my shit-chute and make me scream with pleasure and pain!” Hockney bellowed.

Slowly the cock was worked back and forth and with each thrust it inched further into Hockney's taut bum. It hurt but nonetheless Hockney kept begging for more pain and punishment. The throbbing protrusion drilled faster and faster as it worked it's way down into the veritable depths of Hockney's being. The pain was still there but so was something else. The anal abuse was starting to feel like a pleasurable treat. Hockney was pushing back against the thrusts that bore down on him. He was really turned on and was desperate to play with his his own ding-a-ling. The fact that he couldn’t reach his magic wand was a delicious frustration.

Hockney was really getting into the butt fucking when the massive tool was pulled out of his sphincter. At first, the art student didn't know what was going on or what to do. He thrust his posterior back a few times. Everyone was laughing and jeering. The man who had been butt fucking the sub moved around to the student's front. Hockney felt another man behind him. A glans smoothly penetrated the rubber slaves tail. The butt fucker reached over, grabbed Hockney’s hair, and pulled the sub's head back. Hockney felt a warm stream of cum hit his face. He instinctively stuck his tongue out and licked up the spunk that had hit him on the lips.

After this, Hockney focused his attention on the mandrake root that was being rammed deep into his pelvic floor. When he felt it pulled out he knew what was going to happen next. Hockney’s anus was ready for another cock and he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out for the liquid genetics he knew were coming. He wasn't disappointed. Another meat puppet smashed into his backside and more cum was directed at his mouth. Hockney pushed his neck forward in the hope he might give some head. His mouth found a cock and he sucked on it until it was pulled away. The love muscle in Hockney’s arse was still banging away and the rubber slave was simultaneously licking up cum from his lips.

This same scenario was repeated time after time. Once ten men had gang banged him, Hockney’s bottom felt really sore. He was no longer as enthusiastic about either thrusting back to meet rock hard manhood or about milking those love poles with his lips, teeth and tongue. All Hockney really wanted to do was play with his own length. He knew it would have only taken a few strokes with his right hand before he shot his load.

Finally the last guy pulled out of Hockney’s sore booty. The art student thought it felt good when the arse fucking stopped after twenty-one men had been right up inside him. The last prick was shoved rudely into the rubber slave’s mouth and he sucked it dry of every last drop of cum. All those present cheered as the now limp dick slipped from Hockney’s pallid lips.

“Hockney,” Kitaj announced, “you’re a piece of shit for thinking you could ever be a real sub. You’re just a piss toy and nothing else.”

Moments later Hockney felt the first stream of urine hit him. Soon everyone was pissing on the rubber slave. Hockney felt pint after pint of piss coat his body. It was warm and felt really good. There were yellow torrents of urine gushing over Hockney’s arse and face and every other area of his body. The rubber slave moved himself back and forth - making sure that he was being completely soaked with piss and that his hair was dripping wet.

Twenty-one men were laughing and calling Hockney a piss slut, a cum whore and a fuck toy. When the BDSM gang bangers had all done urinating, Hockney listened to them leave. Finally he was left all alone in a pool of piss.

A long time passed. Hockney was still very horny and tried to jerk himself off by rubbing his widget on the piss covered dungeon floor. Eventually Kitaj returned and tittered at Hockney as he tried to get himself off. Kitaj placed a finger on Hockney’s sore bum. Hockney pulled away and Kitaj slapped his arse hard.

“Never to pull away from someone playing with your booty!”

Kitaj then made a point of torturing Hockney’s sore hole before pushing a butt plug into it. When the rubber master unchained Hockney, the sub rolled over onto his back. Hockney didn't care that that he was lying in a puddle of cold piss.

“Don't you dare take that plug out of your arse!” Kitaj hissed. “And now I want you to get up and take a shower before you get dressed. Then mop up this floor before you go home.”

Saturday, 2 June 2012



R. B. Kitaj, David Hockney and Derek Boshier ate an early dinner together on what was to be a very special night. Boshier ordered his steak medium, and Hockney his medium rare, but Kitaj told the waiter with polite domination that he’d have his very rare: “Cook it just long enough to warm it, but make sure it's left good and bloody". The waiter looked surprised by this command but scribbled it down on his order pad.

The conversation at The Kensington Steak House was lively but not forced on any topic except the one that had brought them together that night, Hockney's initiation into new depths of BDSM pain and humiliation. Boshier interjected an observation from time to time, but kept his conversation low key despite sitting next to Hockney in the high backed booth, with Kitaj sitting across from them. Kitaj spoke more than the other two men.

After steak the three men went round to a pad owned by a friend of Kitaj’s. Kitaj tied Hockney and Boshier up and whipped them a little, but did nothing particularly wild or extravagant. This indoor sex session was just a little tease, a warm up for something far kinkier outdoors afterwards. Kitaj took a devilish delight in nipple clipping Boshier and Hockney together as they knelt across from each other with their wrists tied behind their backs. The dom used little birch rod love brushes across his slave's backs to make them pull back from each other - stretching their nipples out as they did so.

"Don't worry, Hockney," Kitaj spat at his fellow art student as he took deep pleasure in lightly caning the man bent over his lap "your punishment will get way more intense than this once we're in Hyde Park."

Kitaj then made Hockney lie prone on rough cotton fabric sheets as he blindfolded him. The sub's face was buried in a pillow and Kitaj pushed the scarf he was using as a gag deeper into Hockney’s mouth, to restrict his air supply. Hockney’s wrists and ankles were stretched taut to the four posts of the bed.

Boshier was ordered to switch roles to that of a dom. He was told twist and stretch Hockney’s cock while Kitaj roughly shoved his own love pole deep inside the sub’s arse. Simultaneously Kitaj worked Hockney’s heaving shoulder blades with a taming touch from his birch rod bundle.

Then Boshier reverted to a sub role once again and was tied into a pea pod sixty-nine with Hockney. Kitaj worked first one man's arsehole and then the other - while his leathered riding crop popped and stung whatever piece of exposed flesh caught his eye. When the two subs were untied, Boshier was told that from now on he would do no more than watch. The three men dressed and carrying various piece of kit in bags they took with them, walked to Hyde Park. They climbed over the railings since this public space was locked up at night.

Before getting far, Hockney’s foot dropped into a hole in the ground he’d not seen in the dark. His fantasies and desires snapped with the same sound as what he took to be his bones breaking. The sub screamed: “I think I've broken my ankle...damn it to hell!”

"Let me take a look." Kitaj said dropping his bag on the ground.

Kitaj pulled down Hockney’s sock and examined his ankle: “No visible bruising and it's not swelling much, no bones sticking through, you probably just sprained it a little. Here, this is the noise you heard!" The dom chuckled as an old but thick freshly broken twig was fished out of the hole that Hockney had stumbled into. “You'll be alright!” The master reassured his slave.

Supported by Kitaj on one side and Boshier on the other, Hockney walked on. The men stopped when they came to two lone oak trees about six feet apart. The oaks were about two feet thick at the bottom. Six feet in front of them was a fire ring on the ground made from loosely assembled rocks with a dark pile of old ashes in the middle. Hockney was immediately convinced the site had been recently used for ritual purposes. Wild ideas about what kind of ritual raced through the sub’s mind. Surely Kitaj wasn't involved in devil worship and human sacrifice!

"It's time, Hockney!" Kitaj barked. "Drop your bag and be very, very still".

Having ordered Boshier to sit by himself and observe, Kitaj pulled the gear he needed from his bag. Next he organised a bit of firewood. Hockney started to feel cold as he stood still, but he didn't dare move around to keep warm as he’d been told to remain motionless. An involuntary shiver from the cold and of anticipation ran through Hockney as Kitaj built a fire.

The heat from the fire warmed Hockney and so he felt comfortable about the next instruction he received – which was to strip naked. Hockney’s ankle was still a little sore but he now realised he’d suffered no more than a mild sprain.

“Are you ready, Hockney,” Kitaj spat, “for the last step of your first beginning, your life as my total and complete slave?”

"Yes, Kitaj I am ready!" Hockney replied

“Kneel and kiss!” Kitaj instructed

Hockney knelt naked in the dirt and kissed Kitaj’s boots as the dom bent over him and slapped his arse as hard as he could manage from that angle. Using ropes and cuffs, Kitaj soon had Hockney war-eagled between the two oak trees: wrists bound and arms pulled taut upwards, ankles bound and legs spread open wide horizontally towards the trunks of the trees. The yellow and orange flames of the fire whimpered down to red-hot embers, waves of heat shimmering and shattering the cold of the night. Hockney’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was partially closed with a shaped leather gag with air holes punched in it. Kitaj used his hands to roughly slap Hockney’s chest and genitals, hitting them hard, before moving around to the sub’s arse and back and abusing them with an equally untamed force.

Then thheeewwwhacckkk!!! A cat o'nine tails found Hockney’s exposed shoulders. The art student hadn't seen the whip come out of any of the bags before feeling it. Kitaj moved the whipping around to the sub’s front and took great delight as Hockney’s eyes widened and screams of very real pain hiccupped forth from the deepest part of his lungs - the sounds impeded by his gag!

Kitaj didn't hold back. Hockney didn't want him to although his body convulsed and thrashed from the continuing rain of blows to all parts of his naked flesh. Trickles of blood were already oozing from dermal abrasions on Hockney’s chest, stomach and back, as Kitaj switched from cat to cane.

Rockets of pain shot through Hockney as Kitaj canned his chest and butt and back. The dom was sideways flicking the sub’s nipples with short punchy swipes, hitting softly enough not peel them off but hard enough to send pure bolts of pain to the centre of Hockney’s brain. Eventually Hockney passed out and a look of concern passed over Kitaj’s face as he went over to a bag and rummaged through it.

Once an ammonia cap had been broken under Hockney’s nose, the sub regained consciousness. Kitaj was then able to continue his sadistic work over of the art student with a large studded paddle. When Hockney was hit square on the genitals with this torture implement, he couldn't help but piss himself. Kitaj just smiled and laughed at Hockney’s temporary incontinence as he threw a new instrument of torture atop the burning embers of the fire, with its handle hanging over the perimeter rocks that contained it. Then he removed the gag that had muffled Hockney's screams so effectively.

Kitaj snatched up a scalpel and it's blade glinted in the moonlight. "Are you ready, Hockney, to become my property, my slave for life, once and for all, for all eternity?"

"Yes, Kitaj, yes!" Hockney shouted. “Do it, do it now! Make me your Slave, mark me, brand me, do it now!"

“Kiss and suck the blood of your master first, slave!" Kitaj commanded as in one motion he pricked a finger with his scalpel and shoved the bleeding digit into Hockney's mouth. The blood tasted so sweet that the sub sucked at it like he was a kid with a lollipop. After a minute or so, Kitaj removed his finger from Hockney's gob, wiped it's bloodied end with a handkerchief and placed a plaster over the cut.

Kitaj proceeded to use the scalpel to knife-play all over the sub’s body; expertly slicing Hockney just enough to leave traces and ever so slightly open the top layer of his skin, but not doing this so often or so deep for it to leave permanent scars.

Kitaj’s mouth found Hockney’s gob and they kissed. In the flaming embers of the fire, the shaft of a branding iron was turning from black to grey as its design head became white atop the yellow-orange of the glowing ashes.

“It is time, Hockney!’ Kitaj announced.

On Hockney’s reddened and nicked and knife-worked chest, Kitaj’s practised hand drew a design with a razor-pointed pen, the emblem of Kitaj's ownership of Hockney. The sub was hypnotised by the cobra charm of the red-dotted scalpel being waved before his eyes. Kitaj was breaking Hockney’s skin and muscle as he simultaneously broke whatever remained of the sub’s free will. The slipstream edge of the blade carved into Hockney’s flesh like a metal jet stream parting the art student's past life from the new submissive arising like a phoenix from the ashes of sexual compromise. Miscellaneous torrents of blood poured from the emblematic wound.

Going over to the fire, Kitaj scooped some damp cold ashes out from one side. These were shoved under Hockney’s nose for him to smell. They stank to high heaven. Hockney didn't react until Kitaj smeared the ancient darkening substance into the open wound of his slave emblem. When this happened the sub screamed until he was out of breath.

Before Hockney could recover fully, Kiraj darted over to the fire and came back with the white-hot brand. Kitaj knew that the hotter the brand was at the time of placement the better it would be for Hockney, since the quicker the brand was on and off the sub's flesh the less pain there would be. Nonetheless, Hockney wasn’t ready for how much the branding hurt. He soon lost consciousness.

Kitaj beckoned Boshier over to help him. They untied Hockney and dressed him. Then Kitaj opened up a few cuts on the sub's face – so that Hockney was covered in enough blood to give him a serious fright when he came to, but not enough to endanger him in any way. By the time Hockney regained consciousness Kitaj was gone, but Boshier was still there to help him out of the park and to the sanctuary of a nearby pub called The Choughs. When the pair entered the bar, the old lady who ran it dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a start and little female ejaculation, and one of the caretakers from the RCA - who was drinking in this establishment - stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed:

“Bless us, if it isn't Master Boshier and Master Hockney, of the Republican College of Art. Why what's the matter, sir? Master Hockney, you be all covered wi' blood, sir.”

“Oh dear me! poor young gentlemen!” cried the hostess. “Here, Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room.”

“No, please don't. It's nothing at all,” interrupted Hockney, laughing. “A basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I'm very sorry to have frightened you all.”

Boshier joined in the assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's claret, which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the interest depicted in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. Hockney bathed his face, and very soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of his nose where he’d been caught hard from a crack of a whip.

Boshier meantime - seated on a table - had been explaining the circumstances of the BDSM initiation to the landlady and the caretaker who listened with rapt fascination. “And now, ma'am,” said he as Hockney joined them, and seated himself on a vacant chair, “I'm sure you must draw famous ale.”

“Indeed, sir, I think Dick - that's my ostler, sir - is as good a brewer as is in the whole of London. We always brew at home, sir, and I hope always shall.”

“Quite right, ma'am, quite right,” said Boshier; “and I don't think we can do better than follow the old caretaker here. Let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us, Jem? Or will you have spirits?”

Jem the RCA caretaker was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to it being the best in London, and Patty drew the ale, and supplied two more long glasses. Boshier, with apologies, produced his cigar case; and Jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate Havana (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to their digs. This offer was politely declined and then, Jem's hour for bed having come, he being a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar. Nothing could have suited the two young art students better, and they set to work to make themselves agreeable with further drinking.

They listened with lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a widow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer to her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to; all trades were so full, and things were not as they used to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the happiness of Boshier in London, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at The Choughs.

Dick was to come up to RCA first thing in the morning with a barrel of ale to be placed in Boshier's studio. At last that worthy appeared in the bar saying they should have shut up at least an hour before, and was sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, Hockney and Boshier found themselves in the street, and set off for their digs, agreeing on the way that The Choughs was a great find, the old lady was the best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in London (although not quite as attractive as some of the men they knew). They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, soon reached their separate homes.

Thursday, 3 May 2012



Within the next week or two several important events happened to our Republican College of Art friends. Hockney had introduced Blake to Kitaj. Hockney did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit it off together. When he began cautiously to approach the subject, he was glad to find that Kitaj liked Blake.

"Blake is a first class fuck,” Kitaj informed Hockney, “and very able as both a dom and sub. But he really needs to find his path in the BDSM scene and develop in a single direction only…”

Then the BDSM training begun in earnest. It was Kitaj's contention that to really enjoy BDSM and get the most out of it, practitioners of this wonderful sexual deviation needed to take themselves to a peak of physical fitness. So he took Hockney and some others along to a gym. They worked out for two or three hours a day, and participated in their fair share of bad locker room jokes about women, faggots and the like - and laughed just as much as the others at these inanities. Every night in the shower Hockney had to fight with himself so as not to look at the other men in way that would seem suspicious. Kitaj apparantly had no difficulties with this and told Hockney he was looking for someone at the gym who was a little on the shy side and who hardly ever got their end away, but mostly satisfied their needs by masturbating.

Kitaj eventually hit on a small guy called Mike who was at the gym every single night. Kitaj used his charming smile and manner to match on this closet case. It was obvious that Mike had lusted after Kitaj from the minute he first laid eyes on him. Kitaj pretended not to notice and acted as if Mike was just one of the guys. Hockney became insanely jealous but said nothing, since he knew it would be out of place for him to do so.

That was until one evening after working out, when Kitaj approached Mike. It was a cold night and there was no one around but Hockney, as Kitaj went up to the pint sized muscle man and said: "Say boy, how about you and me go get ourselves a drink?" Mike who was smitten agreed immediately. To Mike’s great surprise Kitaj took him to a gay bar, and had Hockney tag along silently behind them. Kitaj ordered two beers and sat down with Mike in a private booth at the back of the drinking den. Hockney was on all fours lapping water from a bowl that had been placed under their table

After a few general remarks, Kitaj cut to the chase: "You're gay right? I mean, you're good at pretending not to check a guy’s arse or cock out, but it can be spotted. I mean, it takes one to know one."

“Yes.” Mike replied. "I'm as gay as the next man and I fantasise about butt fucking and cock sucking all day long..."

Kitaj smiled at Mike and clasped his hand. There wasn’t much that needed saying after that and once they finished their beers – and Hockney his bowl of water – they all went on their way to Mike’s place.  As Mike closed the door behind them, Kitaj told Hockney to be a good dog and ordered him to curl up in a corner of the room. He then turned around and kissed Mike. The pint sized muscle man kissed him back and it was the kiss this lonely bodybuilder had been waiting for since he'd first laid eyes on Kitaj. From Hockney’s point of view, it was from there that things went wrong. As Mike and Kitaj kissed he thought he felt something like a needle sting his butt. As Hockney yelped in surprise and pain, he saw that Kitaj was holding a syringe. Hockney started to ask was going on, but he felt dizzy and as if his mouth was full of cotton. As darkness closed in around him, Hockney could still see Kitaj holding the syringe as he laughed uproariously. Mike disappeared and the scene in the room somehow changed.

When Hockney woke up he couldn't move. He was tied to a hospital bed, with straps around his legs, his hips, his arms and across his chest. He tried very hard to break free, but all his muscle power accomplished was a weak shaking of the bed, which was obviously bolted to the floor. Hockney tried to yell, but his mouth was filled with what he later learnt was a penis gag. Not long after Hockney woke up, Kitaj appeared by the side of the bed. He was accompanied by Peter Blake in a doctor's outfit and what looked like some kind of nurse but was in fact Pauline Boty. She was dressed in tight-fitting white rubber. She wore platform shoes with very high heels and she looked very afraid of the "Doctor' Blake.

"So this is the useless specimen you want transformed, R.B.?" the doctor said to Kitaj as he flung away the sheet that covered the sub. Hockney was stark naked underneath and his bulging muscles stood out against his bindings.

"Yes, Dr. Blake," Kitaj confirmed, "This is the one."

"And you want only the surgery and the hormone treatment?"

"Yes. All the conditioning and training I'll handle. After all that’s where all the fun is."

At this both Kitaj and Blake laughed.

"Yes you are certainly right about that." Blake agreed.

Hockney was getting very scared. Transformation? Surgery? Hormones? What were they talking about? Hockney tried to yell and break his bonds once again. This pathetic show seemed to amuse Kitaj.

"There, there, my little slut. I'll soon give you something real to yell about. In the mean time let's see what an excitable little slapper you are." Kitaj minced as he brought his face to within an inch of Hockney’s visage.

Kitaj touched Hockney’s dick and began to stroke it gently. To Hockney’s eternal shame it quickly became rock hard. Hockney tried to look away but Kitaj grabbed his chin and forced him to look into his eyes as he continued with the hand job. In a few minutes Hockney was ready to explode. His yelling had turned into moaning and his attempts to get free had turned into sexually charged squirming. All he cared about was cuming. And just as he  was about to cum, Kitaj removed his hand. Hockney yelled with frustration as Kitaj laughed at his twitching cock. He left him like that with a remark to the Blake about picking Hockney up in a month. When Kitaj had left the doctor turned to Hockney.

"Let's get started, shall we?" Blake bellowed as he plunged a syringe into Hockney’s arm and everything went black.

Waking up Hockney felt weak. It took him forever just to open his eyes and even longer trying to move. When he finally tried to shift around, he found he was still tied up. Hockney didn’t really care so much about this. He was drugged and all he really wanted to do was sleep. This went on for what seemed like eternity. He woke up, found that he was still strapped to the bed and then went back to sleep. Hockney didn't know how long this went on, but he guessed it was for well over a week.

When Hockney finally began to come around for real he noticed his hands and feet were covered in thick bandages and that these appendages were completely unresponsive when he attempted to move them. His face and throat were also covered in dressings. Hockney also felt a tightness in the skin on his chest and a weight there that was unfamiliar. What had happened to him?

After a while Peter Blake came to check him. Hockney tried to make disgruntled noises behind his gag, but no sound came. Blake made the bandaged parts of Hockney’s body the main focus of his attention. A rubber nurse called Ida Kar who had received instructions from Blake carried out various operations once the English pop painter had left – changing Hockney's bandages and the IV drip going into his arm. As Kar performed these duties she removed the sheet covering Hockney and he saw what caused the tightness and weight on his chest. He had tits! They were nowhere near the size of those the rubber nurses sported, but they were definitely large. Hockney tried fighting and yelling again, but he was too weak and still no sound came from his throat.

Then Kar gave Hockney something to eat. This was done by inserting a tube into a hole in his gag and feeding him a liquid mush. Then she saw to his other needs. Kar started most unpleasantly by inserting a catheter into his cock and draining urine from his bladder. She left the catheter in and attached a new bag to the end of the tube, leaving him no bladder control. His piss just dribbled into the bag whenever the need arose.

The last thing Kar had been instructed to do was to clean out Hockney’s bowels. To do this she raised the bed until she could kneel down under it. Then she removed the piece of the bed directly beneath Hockney’s arse and proceeded to stick a tube up his jacksee. Hockney clenched his buttocks as hard as he could and the rubber nurse was unable to stick the tube up his shit-chute.

"Please allow me to give you the enemas," Kar's voice had a strong lisping quality as if her huge lips prevented her from speaking properly, "If you don't allow me to give you the enemas, I'll be forced to call someone to punish you. Believe me, you don't want that to happen."

Although the rubber nurse said this with an imploring tone, Hockney didn't give in. Nobody was going to stick a tube up his bum. When Kar realised her efforts to convince Hockney to cooperate had failed, she turned around with a sigh and left. Thirty minutes later Kar returned with Peter Blake who was still dressed up as a doctor - and looked furious.

"Stupid slut!" he yelled into Hockney’s face as he slapped the submission bitch hard, "You are nothing but property. But don't worry cunt, I'll teach you. Just you wait and see."

He fetched some wires with large alligator clips at the ends. One was attached to Hockney’s cock and although painful it was nothing when compared to the attachment of the next two clips. These were placed so they engulfed a whole testicle and squeezed it hard. The pressure on Hockney’s testicles made him want to scream, but no sound came. Hockney thrashed in his bonds but all to no avail.

Blake had an evil smile on his face and it turned into a huge grin as he applied current to the wires. Hockney’s crotch exploded with pain as Blake pulsed the current and soon the sub was prepared to do anything to have the current stopped. But just to make a point Blake continued the torture for a good while longer.

"Are you going to be good little girl now?" Blake asked. Not caring that Hockney didn't like being called a girl,

Hockney nodded vigorously. Blake seemed satisfied with this and turned to the rubber nurse: "She won't give you any more problems, but just to make sure give her ten enemas instead of the usual five."

With that Peter Blake turned and walked away.

Although not as painful as the electric current, the enemas were very painful and very humiliating. By the third, Hockney was crying and wanted desperately to plead though his gag for the session to end. But no sound came from his mouth. By enema number six the she-male was exhausted, and would have done anything to avoid any more pain. But of course there was no mercy and by the time it was all over, Hockney had no fight left in him and just lay limply as the rubber nurse replaced the section of bed under his arse and covered him with a sheet.

Left alone Hockney gradually gathered his thoughts and pondered his situation. Was he being turned into a girl? And if so, why? And how come they’d left his cock intact if that was the case? He understood nothing as he fell asleep.

The next few weeks passed in much the same way, except that Hockney was determined not to get punished again, so he willingly allowed various rubber nurses to give him enemas. His bandages were changed once a day and he was fed via the tube in his gag twice every 24 hours. Other than that the only thing he had to do was to watch his tits grow. And did they ever grow! They grew so fast that he was afraid they were going to burst and after about three weeks Hockney had 40DD tits. Then the bandages came off his feet, his hands and his face. His appendages had shrunk and were now small and very feminine.

Then gradually Hockney’s body returned to normal and he realised he was in Kitaj’s room. His friend was there, and explained to Hockney that he hadn’t been strapped to a hospital bed for weeks, instead Kitaj had spiked his bowl of water in the bar with a new mind bending drug called LSD. The CIA were using it in mind control experiments and Kitaj had used suggestion techniques and hypnotism to fool Hockney into believing he’d been imprisoned and transformed into a chick with a dick! The LSD ‘trip’ had lasted about eight hours, not the weeks that Hockney had believed had elapsed.

“Wow!” Hockney said, “that’s the most muscular piece of BDSM drama we’ve ever engaged in and all you used was a drug and a few suggestive phrases!”

“It was a little more than that,” Kitaj responded proudly. I did tie you down and I also blindfolded you. That way I knew whatever was whispered in your ear would have maximum effect. If you’d been able to see I don’t think my little experiment would have worked nearly so well… I've been studying the technique one of the CIA's top researchers - Dr Ewen Cameron - calls psychic driving....”

"Cool!" Hockney replied. "Those that are familiar with modern day torture techniques will also practice the most advanced forms of BDSM!"

"Right!" Kitaj shouted back while simultaneously clapping his hands. "So aren't you a lucky boy!"