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.

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!”

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.

Monday, 2 April 2012



How many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of the second term of a masters degree at the Republican College of Art? So far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could find to ask for at that period of his life if a fairy godmother were to alight in his room and offer him the usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for "all the twenty-one year old boys in the world," and "all the beer in the world," was indeed driven to "all the twenty-two year old boys" as his third requisition; but at any rate his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be substantial wants; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of boys and booze. David Hockney would have been in the same condition as a wisher except that he would have asked for further developments in his bondage and discipline encounters with Kitaj.

After giving Hockney the treatise and cock and ball torture, Kitaj had allowed the holidays to come and go without subjecting his rubber slave to any further sexual outrages. Therefore readers will scarcely need to be told that upon returning to London for the second term of his masters, the first thing Hockney did - after depositing his luggage - was to call on Kitaj, and he found his rubber master deep as usual in his books. Hockney immediately occupied his old place with much satisfaction.

"How long have you been back old fellow?" he began; "you look quite settled."

"I only went home for a week. Well, what have you been doing in the vacation?"

"Oh, there was nothing much going on; so, amongst other things, I've nearly floored my little-go work."

"Bravo! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thought you would take to the grind of painting so easily."

"It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Hockney; "but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world have you been doing to your walls?"

Hockney might well ask, for the corners of Kitaj's room were covered with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace.

"Well, don't you think it is a great improvement on the old paper?" said Kitaj. "It is a hint to the landlady that the room needs redecorating. You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask you whether you don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement."

"Why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said Hockney, who had got up to examine the decorations. "And what in the world are all these queer pins for?" he went on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map nearest to him.

"Hello! Take care there, what are you about?" shouted Kitaj, getting up and hastening to the corner. "Why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of Greece and Rome."

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't know I was in such august company;" saying which, Hockney proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back in the wall.

“Don’t you know that BDSM first flourished in ancient Greece and Rome? I can see that you still have a long way to go as a rubber slave.”

“Oh punish me master!” Hockney said as he got on his knees and placed his palms together in prayer.

“If I punished you I’d be rewarding your impertinence. Aren’t you aware that we know BDSM was practised in ancient Rome thanks to Petrarch’s Satyricon, written in the first century of the Common Era.”

“No!” Hockney squeaked.

“In Book 4 Encolpius is given an aphrodisiac to drink.” Kitaj informed his rubber slave. "Encolpius has his hands tied behind him and the servant girl Psyche fondles his penis, trying to arouse him.  Psyche also pricks his cheeks with her hairpin to silence him when he tries to cry for help.”

“But that’s boring heterosexual BDSM!” Hockney complained.

“I’m here to dominate you - not to pander to your fantasies!” Kitaj snapped. “A bit later Encolpius and a woman Quartilla are forcibly bound together, for sport, by a group of young soldiers.  The type of bondage used on Encolpius and Quartilla forces her mouth into close contact with his mush, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and their thighs each pressed into each other’s. As a result of the aphrodisiac he’d consumed Encolpius becomes filled with lasciviousness and begins performing on Quartilla who on fire with a similar wantonness shows no reluctance for the game, to the great amusement of the soldiers.”

“I’m not interested in straights!” Hockney wailed.

“But it gets better!” Kitaj insisted. “At the same time as he is thrusting into his bound partner Quartilla, a gay man mounts the bound Encolpius from behind. Though Encolpius falsely claims he finds this repulsive, he wriggles in response to the intruder’s thrusts, just as fast and furiously as Quartilla is wriggling under him – although this dope claims his reactions are involuntary. The young soldiers find this spectacle quite ludicrous and burst into laughter to the humiliation of Encolpius.”

“That’s better,” Hockney admitted, “but why all the hetero stuff?”

“In ancient Greece and Rome,” Kitaj explained, “as well as in other cultures, there was an association between fertility – that’s success in conceiving children to you - and some types of flagellation.  For example, whipping the buttocks with nettles was supposed to increase fertility according to the ancients.”

“Fooey!” Hockney spat.

“Shut up and listen to me!” Kitaj exclaimed in a stern tone. “In the ancient world flagellation was also considered an aphrodisiac, or stimulant of sexual desire. Men were often whipped by hookers to restore waning desire. There is much Greco-Roman art depicting a sandal being used for erotic spanking or slapping. It can also be surmised that much of this activity was consensual, since the person being whipped was seeking to get something out of it — arousal or fertility.”

“I don’t want to hear about female on male domination, I want you to punish me!” The words exploded from Hockmey’s mouth like s stinking fart from the arse of a tramp.

“Go!” Kitaj declaimed as he pointed at the door. “And I don’t want you to come back for at least a week. Learn obedience before you trouble me again.”

After the long holiday during which he’d had not sex, Hockney was feeling particularly randy. He had heard about a place in Soho where men might leave messages for each other. Hockney knew he shouldn’t be doing it but he paid for a card he’d hand written to be displayed on a notice board. The shop owner had explained to him how he might code his message, and also told Hockney he should return the next day.

The next morning Hockney got to the Soho shop before it opened. When the  proprietor turned up and gave Hockney his messages, the first letter was from a guy who just wanted to fuck him. While the thought of someone’s cock slipping up his arse was a nice idea, he could get that type of action anywhere. Hockney was looking for a sterner master than Kitaj, and when he opened the next message he thought he might have found one.

The missive didn't really tell Hockney much beyond the fact that his correspondent lived in London and his last slave had been found dead floating face down in a canal, so he was looking for a replacement. He said he would consider Hockney but made no promises about a long-term arrangement until the art student had been tested for obedience. The letter contained the address of a hotel. Hockney's contact said that if this young man wanted some serious BDSM action, he was to go to this establishment – which was in Bayswater – and leave a note with the concierge saying he’d turn up at the establishment the next day. When he returned at the appointed time, Hockney would be told which room to go to. He was also under strict instructions to appear dressed in women’s clothing. The rubber master said in his letter that he had everything else required, so Hockney was just to turn up suitably attired.

The next day, after buying the necessary clothes and changing into them, Hockney got to the hotel at precisely 7PM. He made sure he was punctual as he didn't want to start off on the wrong foot. The bellboy told him to go to room 23 and when he got there he found the door was open. Walking into the suite, Hockney found the curtains were drawn and that there was a message on the bed, He could see someone sitting in the corner of the room but the man didn't say a word. The note simply told Hockney to go into the bathroom to perform a listed series of tasks.

Once he was in the bathroom, Hockney stripped off and started washing even though he’d had a bath before making his way to the hotel. Then Hockney shaved down below – it seemed his new master disliked pubic hair. Once his hygiene tasks were completed, Hockney’s instructions were to return to the hotel bedroom naked. The art student wondered if he'd get a second chance to reapply his make-up and don once more the female clothes he’d taken so much trouble over for this date – or if he’d been told to arrive in them simply as a form of humiliation. Hockney had quickly got to really like his French knickers and stockings, so stripped of them he felt even more naked than usual!

Emerging from the bathroom Hockney saw that while he’d been preparing himself for the sex session that was about to commence, the main door to the room had been shut. Likewise, some PVC knickers & stockings had been placed on the bed. Hockney made his way towards the fetish gear, but his master stood up and called him over.

“Sit on the chair!” The man ordered.

Hockney did as he’d been told. At the same time he got to see what this rubber master looked like. He was around six foot tall and slim too. Clean shaven and wearing a suit, this dude was in good shape for someone in his late-thirties. The rubber master undid his own belt, unzipped his flies and loosened his trousers so that he could spread his legs wide and make the two sides of the zipper taut. With his breeks held up by pressure from his outer thighs, the master sat on Hockney’s legs. The two men were facing each other and they French kissed. The rubber master took the art student's erect cock in his hand and rubbed it against his own limp member. As he did so he made sure he dragged Hockney’s dick against one of the taut edges of his fly for some scarification. The slave let out a yelp of pain. The dom twisted Hockney’s cock around so that they could both admire the scars he'd made on it.

“Now if you have another master and he looks at your cock, he’ll know you’ve been with me and he’ll punish you!” The dom hissed.

Then the man got up and ordered Hockney to put on the fetish gear that had been left on the bed. The art student minced across the room to where the PVC gear had been carefully laid out. While putting the knickers on Hockney made sure he kept bending over and exposing his arse to the master he could no longer see - just to prove what a total cum slut of a cross-dresser he was. When he’d got the stockings on, he turned to look at himself in the mirror and decided he was pretty hot!

After walking across to the bed, the rubber master passed Hockney some cuffs for his ankles & wrists. After Hockney put on the cuffs, the rubber master placed a blindfold on the slave and then announced that he would do whatever he pleased with his bitch

He pulled Hockney into the middle of the room and the art student was left just standing there not knowing what to expect. The rubber master's hands were touching parts of Hockney’s body but not his nipples and certainly not his cock or arse. The rubber slave was disappointed by this considering how hot he figured he looked with the PVC knickers on. Then without warning, the art student found himself pulled over into a bending position and his hands were quickly strapped to his ankle cuffs

After this the dom walked around his prey and ripped open the rubber knickers before pulling Hockney’s arse cheeks apart. The slave briefly felt the man’s breath on his rectum. Then the rubber master walked away and Hockney wondered what was going to happen next! He didn't have to wait long to find out, as the dom returned to his arse not with an hard cock – which was what Hockney was really was hoping for - but to punish him. He hit the art student so hard with a whip that Hockney nearly fell over!

“What do you say you slut?” The rubber master demanded as Hockney was still smarting from the sting of his whip.

“Thank you master!” Fortunately for Hockney, Kitaj had already taught him the correct response to this question.

And having been thanked the man repaid Hockney by sending another spasm of pain through his body with a second crack of the whip. This was followed by another lash and then another and another. The punishment went on for 20 minutes and Hockney knew before it was over he would not be able to sit down for a week. Nonetheless, his cock was harder than it had ever been before – even with Kitaj - and Hockney knew if his dick was just touched he'd cum.

Hockney didn't know what to expect when the rubber master stopped beating him. The art student kept still and listened. He couldn’t work out what the dom was doing. Finally he felt the man’s hands on his straps and cuffs – they were being undone.

“I’m leaving now,” the man told him, “stand still and count to 500 before removing the blindfold. By the time you’re ready to leave the hotel I’ll be long gone.”

Hockney did as he was told. When he removed the blindfold he found a note on the bed telling him he’d passed the first test and that if he wanted another beating he was to return to the same room in exactly one week, and to make sure he left a message with the concierge the day before if he intended to do so!

Hockney was in a state of high sexual excitement and after reading the note the first thing he did was go into the bathroom and jerk himself off over the toilet. Hockney knew he’d been unfaithful to Kitaj but figured his real master need never know about this. Kitaj had told him not to show his face for at least a week, so that meant he could give the wounds on his cock time to heal up before seeing his true love again. Hockney had just been desperate for sex and figured that if in the future Kitaj gave him good times, then there was no need to see this new rubber master again. Hockney really was a most disobedient slave!

Saturday, 10 March 2012



Our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first college crush. The great, strong, badly-dressed, badly-appointed whip master R. B. Kitaj, who seemed almost at the same time utterly reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion of all around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and Berserker rage, alternating like storms and sunshine of a July day on a high moorland, his keen sense of humour and appreciation of all the good things of life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first seized powerfully on all Hockney's sympathies, and was daily gaining more hold upon him.

Blessed is the man who has the gift of making sex slaves; for it is one of Eros’s best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating whatever is ignoble and base in another man or woman.

But even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to find out whether a man is really a sex slave or not. The following is recommended as a test in the case of any submissive about whom you are not quite sure; especially if s/he should happen to have more of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank or money, or what not, than you.

Fancy the man stripped stark naked of every thing in the world, including every last stitch of clothing, without even a name to him, and dropped down in the middle of Holborn or Piccadilly, Would you go up to him then and there, and lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to your own home and demand of him that he suck your cock? If you wouldn't do this you have no right to call him by the sacred name of sex slave. If you would, the odds are that he would submit totally to your will in all things sexual, and you may count yourself a whip master.

Hockney was rapidly falling into a bondage and discipline relationship with Kitaj. He was not bound hand and foot, gagged and carried away as a complete captive yet, but he was already getting deep in the toils.

One evening he found himself as usual at Kitaj's door about eight o'clock. The oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked at the inner door. Nevertheless he entered, having quite got over all shyness or ceremony by this time. The room was empty, but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle was hissing away on the hob. "Ah," thought Hockney, "he expects me, I see;" so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home. A quarter of an hour passed, and still Kitaj did not return. "Never knew him out so long before at this time of night," thought Hockney. "Perhaps he's at some party. I hope so. It would do him a good deal of good; and I know he might go out if he liked. Next term, see if I won't make him more sociable. Why won't he be more sociable? No, after all sociable isn't the word; he's a very dominant fellow at bottom. What in the world is it that he wants?"

And so Hockney balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the Windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it was exactly which ought to be added to Kitaj to make him an unexceptional object of hero-worship; when the man himself came suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting his cap fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our hero.

Hockney jumped up at once. "My dear fellow, what's the matter?" he said; "I'm sorry I came in; shall I go?"

"No - don't go - sit down," said Kitaj abruptly; and then began to smoke fast without saying another word.

Hockney waited a few minutes watching for him, and then broke silence again: "I am sure something is the matter, Kitaj; you look dreadfully put out. what is it?"

"What is it?" said Kitaj bitterly; "Oh, nothing at all - nothing at all; it’s just that I should like to chain you up stark naked in the common room and horse whip you in front of as many of the RCA students as possible?”

“But that would be terribly embarrassing for me!” Hockney observed.

"Exactly!” was Kitaj’s rejoinder. “That’s precisely why I want to do it.”

“Couldn’t I just suck your cock in front of the entire student body?” Hockney pleaded.

“That wouldn’t be nearly humiliating enough!” Kitaj snapped.

And so after much arguing back and forth, Hockney eventually agreed to be horse whipped in the common room. Which is how Kitaj came to put a dog collar around Hockney’s neck and had him crawl on all fours to the Republican College of Art, leading him by a chain. Together they headed down to the basement where the common room was located. Hockney was made to strip naked in front of dozens of his fellow students who were socialising there. Then he was chained to the ceiling via some hooks that Kitaj had installed a few days earlier. All the students in the basement fell silent and watched in awe as Kitaj shoved a gag into Hockney's mouth..

The sharp, violent sound of Kitaj's whip against Hockney’s cock echoed through the room, immediately followed by his muffled screams and heavy panting. Hockney writhed in pain for a few moments before quiet was restored in the dim concrete basement. The only other noticeable noise was the quiet chime of the chains holding his hands up toward the ceiling. Hockney knew there was no escape so he gave up on wasting energy trying to free himself. Instead, he focused on bracing himself for the pain.

Another sharp crack, this time to his lower back. His hips jerked forward, but he didn't have much room to move. Hockney’s feet were tied spread eagle fashion to hooks Kitaj had put into the floor and with his hands stretched above his head he had very little mobility. He shut his eyes tightly as if to wish the pain away, but to no avail. Kitaj was in complete control, walking slow circles around him plotting his next move. Hockney looked at Kitaj doe-eyed pleading his case to be unchained and shown mercy, but they both knew they'd be in that sweltering basement for some time.

Drool from the mouth gag tickled Hockney’s midsection as it trickled downward from his chin. Kitaj placed his hands on Hockney’s hips and gently massaged his delicate skin moving down to his thighs and back up across his abdomen to his back. Hockney quietly moaned, welcoming the change in sensation from pain to pleasure. Kitaj worked his hand down and began massaging Hockney’s erect cock. The quiet back and forth motion of Kitaj's fingers was accompanied by the swaying of Hockney’s torso and the clanking of the chains that bound him. Beads of sweat ran down Hockney’s body as his breathing became increasingly heavy. Forgetting that he was bound and at the mercy of Kitaj, his body screamed for sexual release. Hockney received just that as Kitaj worked his hand ever harder and faster along the full length of his crank shaft. Hockney gurgled from the saliva backed up in his mouth, a sure sign he fully consented to the sexual relief he was getting from Kitaj. Hockney was enjoying the sensation too much to remain consciously aware of the fact he was bound and gagged in a basement. When pain from the manacles on his wrists reminded Hockney that he was chained up, he realised that only someone who was completely twisted could enjoy the things Kitaj was doing to him. How can I be turned on by this he wondered?

"Wow," Kitaj shouted, "you're an even bigger freak as I am! You're really enjoying this!"

Embarrassment washed over Hockney, making the airless, muggy basement seem that much hotter. Hockney looked over at the assembled students who were silently watching him and wanted to apologise to them for his sexual kinks. Kitaj undid the gag that prevented Hockney from speaking.

"Look you don't have to do that..." was all Hockney could blurt out before Kitaj forced an O-gag into his mouth. Kitaj pulled up a chair and stood on it so that he could greet Hockney’s now permanently open mouth with the tip of his dick, erect and pulsing. He forced Hockney to tongue the end of his tool. Hockney immediately began to drool as he stuck his tongue as far out as it would go and massaged the head of Kitaj’s manhood with it. Kitaj didn't let Hockney take a break as he kept pulling his head forward. Hockney’s tongue became heavy and he began taking deep breaths of the stale, humid, smoke filled basement air.

Then Kitaj grabbed Hockney’s head and forced his cock deep into the back of his throat with large, violent thrusts. Hockney couldn't do anything but accept the punishment and humiliation as Kitaj’s heavy thrusts, which barely let him breath, had him yearning for that stale basement air. All Hockney could do was gasp and make pathetic gurgling noises as the saliva gathered in the back of his throat.

Kitaj took his cock out of Hockney’s mouth. It was dripping with spit and glistened in the dim lighting. He then undid Hockney’s O-gag and stood on the chair before him, cock erect and sparkling. Kitaj began stroking it. His mighty hand dwarfed his giant love muscle as he slid it back and forth. After just a few strokes, Kitaj spewed his massive load all over Hockney’s face. The jet of cum took Hockney by surprise and before he knew it his face was masked in the thick, sticky mess. The assembled students clapped. Kitaj asked if any of them wanted to lick his come off Hockney's face but no one took him up on the offer….

Sunday, 19 February 2012



It was not long before Hockney had effected his object in part. That is to say he had caught Kitaj several times in the corridor coming out of his studio, or the canteen, and had fastened himself upon him; often walking with him even up to the street door. But there matters ended. Kitaj was very civil and gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him which Hockney could not make out. But as he only liked Kitaj more, the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more than a mere speaking acquaintance.

One evening he had as usual walked from the RCA buildings with Kitaj up to his door. They stopped a moment talking, and then Kitaj, half-opening the door, said: "Well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on The Serpentine tomorrow," and was going in, when Hockney, looking him in the face, blurted out, "I say, Kitaj, I wish you'd let me come in and sit with you a bit."

"I never ask a man of our college into my room," answered the other, "but come in by all means if you like," and so they entered.

Kitaj told Hockney he knew the northerner wanted another handjob, or else to have his cock sucked. Kitaj said he might even do such things for Hockney if the painter was very good, but that he liked both girls and all sorts of other sexual activities. Kitaj told Hockney he wanted to make him a rubber slave. Kitaj took a chastity belt from a drawer and after making Hockney strip, put it on him. Kitaj told his friend things between them were changing as of right now. He explained everything he wanted from a slave in great detail. Finally, Kitaj told Hockney how long the chastity belt stayed on depended on how quickly he learnt to submit. Hockney knew Kitaj was serious when he explained that the chastity belt could be connected to the mains and be used to give his cock and balls electric shocks when he wasn't behaving. Kitaj pulled the plug and lead from and draw and showed Hockney how it worked by slowly increasing the intensity.

“I'll do what ever you want.” Hockney howled.

“Good.” Kitaj replied. "I am going to give you an enema the bathroom.”

Kitaj instructed Hockney to bend over the tub. Hockney did so reluctantly. Kitaj wanted to clean him out before there was any anal play. Kitaj got out his enema bag, a rubber glove, and some lube. He slid his finger into Hockney’s butt. He was looser than Kitaj expected so he pulled out the single digit and slid in two. Kitaj  pushed hard to get them in deeply. He slid the fingers in and out a few more times but when Hockney started moaning, the top pulled the fingers out. Next Kitaj slid the end of the enema tube into Hockney’s butt and released the tube lock. The water was warm but it still shocked Hockney to have fluid rushing into his bowls. He was thrashing around as the water went in. Hockney screamed he couldn't stand it, that he wanted Kitaj to stop. The top told him to shut up. He pushed down on the small of Hockney’s back as he held the nozzle in the bottom’s butt.

Eventually Kitaj  handed the enema bag to Hockney and ordered him to lie in the bath and hold it. The top told his slave he was going out, and that by the time he came back Hockney had better have given himself a further enema and shaved his body from the neck down. Hockney nodded ascent, he didn’t dare speak.

After a couple hours Kitaj returned. Hockney was just coming out of the bathroom. He was not a pretty sight. He was a little overweight. Kitaj told him he was going on a strict diet starting tomorrow, and if he didn't follow it there would be severe punishment. Hockney started arguing, so Kitaj ordered him into the bedroom. He refused to go, so Kitaj punched Hockney in the face until he submitted to the demand. It only took three punches.

Kitaj tied Hockney face down to the bed. He got out the lube and squeezed a glob onto Hockney’s arse crack, and started massaging it into the hole. The first two fingers went in without much effort. The third was a bit more difficult, but Kitaj kept on pushing until Hockney’s sphincter gave way. Then the top started massaging Hockney’s prostate and the sub was moaning and groaning like a superannuated male porn star on heat. Kitaj kept massaging and feeling his way around. Hockney was loosening up nicely. Kitaj's arm was tiring so he took his fingers out of the shit chute and grabbed a butt plug. Once again Kitaj lubed Hockney up, and then viciously inserted the sex toy, ramming it home with great force. Kitaj pulled the butt plug back and forth several times, then pushed it in as far as it would go and left it there.

Kitaj started spanking Hockney’s arse. He did this slowly, first with one hand and then the other. It wasn't long before his hands started hurting. Kitaj then bit Hockney’s arse. After a dozen hard bites, Kitaj got out a short whip and the cat o’ nine tails too.

The cat o' nine tails, commonly shortened to the cat, is a type of multi-tailed whip that originated as an implement for severe physical punishment, notably in the Royal Navy and Army of the United Kingdom, and also as a judicial punishment in Britain and some other countries.

The earliest recorded use of the term ‘cat o’ nine tails’ is around 1695, although the whip and it’s design are much older. It was probably named in reference to its "claws", which inflict parallel wounds. The cat is made up of nine knotted thongs of cotton cord, about 2 1⁄2 feet or 76 cm long, designed to lacerate the skin and cause intense pain.

The cat traditionally has nine thongs as a result of the manner in which rope is plaited. Thinner rope is made from three strands of yarn plaited together, and thicker rope from three strands of thinner rope plaited together. To make a cat o' nine tails, a rope is unravelled into three small ropes, each of which is unravelled again.

The naval cat, also known as the captain's daughter (and this was the type Kitaj would be using on Hockney), weighed about 13 ounces (370 grams) and was composed of a baton handle and nine cords.

Contrary to popular belief, the standard cat was not the most feared implement of punishment on the high seas; being made of rope, it was less painful than a leather whip or a wooden birch-rod, while the modes of application (number and intensity of lashes, anatomical target, baring) of any implement can be more important than its intrinsic potential to cause pain.

Kitaj used the cat to warm Hockney up and the short whip to give him some nice welts. Kitaj switched between them, and took his time doing so. Hockney started crying. THAT really turned Kitaj on, so he immediately increased the savagery of the beating he was dishing out. It didn't take long for Hockney to give in completely and just lie there almost motionless. There was no movement on Hockney's part beyond a heaving in his chest and shoulders brought on by his sobbing.

After Kitaj had finished whipping Hockney, he scratched him with his finger nails. Boy did the sub jump and scream! As Kitaj lessened the pressure from his nails to a light scratch, Hockney stopped crying and started moaning and moving his arse in slow circular motions. Kitaj took hold of the butt plug that he'd inserted into Hockney's crack and started moving it in little turns and thrusts. Hockney’s moans got louder. Kitaj leaned close to his ear and whispered to him that he was going to fuck him hard up the arse. Hockney screamed: "YESSSS!" Kitaj pulled the butt plug out and slowly pushed it back in a few more times.

Kitaj untied the bottom and told him to get on all fours. It was then - as Hockney was looking up at Kitaj - that his master told him to suck him off. Hockney gazed at the dom’s erect cock and slowly opened him mouth. He gingerly sucked up and down for a few minutes until Kitaj took the back of his head and pushed his throbbing manhood slowly and deliberately to the back of Hockney's throat. Hockney must have gagged a dozen times before Kitaj was through.

Then Kitaj decided it was time to arse fuck the slave. He pulled out the butt plug. At first Kitaj went slowly and deliberately as he penetrated the sphincter. Hockney was barely moving. After a few minutes Kitaj gauged just how much cock Hockney could safely handle and thrust harder and deeper. Hockney was pushing up to accept and accommodate the full length of the throbbing member. Before long Kitaj had discharged a thick wad of liquid genetics into the veritable seat of Hockney’s being.

“Now it is time for you to get dressed and go.” Kitaj told his slave. “If you want you can take a shower before you leave.”

"Will you promise to always turn me out when I am in the way?" Hockney demanded.

“I’ll do whatever I bloody well like!” Kitaj snapped. "I'll turn you out as a rent boy and pimp you if I feel like it!"

And so the two men parted. Hockney without bothering to shower and with his clothes in disarray thanks to the hurried way in which he'd dressed. Both men were happy that they’d established just who was the master and who was the slave.

Once he was alone, Kitaj's first thought was one of pleasure at having been sought out by a postgraduate who seemed to be just the sort of sex slave he craved. He contrasted our hero with the few men (and many women) who he'd previously fucked, and felt that Hockney was less of a man than any of them - and thus a far better submissive. With such happy thoughts flooding his mind, Kitaj took down a volume of Don Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment reading it before turning in.

Sunday, 5 February 2012



No man in the RCA gave such breakfasts as Derek Boshier. Not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty with an orgy afterwards, which came once or twice a term, when everything was supplied out of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the Dean before you could have it at all - and the Dean always insisted that the best looking boy was kept back to pleasure the staff. In those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of the first year MAs might rival the most artistic, if he could only pay his battle-bill, or get credit with the cook. But the daily morning meal, when even gentlemen commoners were limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was Boshier's forte. Ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were content with the ever-recurring buttered toasts and eggs, with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, with a marmalade and bitter ale to finish with; but Boshier was not an ordinary man, as you instantly saw when you went to breakfast with him for the first time.

The house in which Boshier lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in which, thanks to Boshier's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from Wheelers in Soho arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts he employed had learnt to fry delicately in oil. Fresh water cresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchedcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were plover's eggs; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette; and an Acton baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread - the common local loaf being of course out of the question for anyone with the slightest pretension to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts.

Then there would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a piece-de-resistance, and three or four sorts of preserves; and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee were there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast eaters in Boshier's bedsit. Pleasant young gentlemen they were at Derek’s south Kensington abode; I mean the ground and first floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for the second floors and basements were nobodies. Three out of the four had huge allowances to live on; and as as a consequence they treated their grants as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it.

Two out of the three were the sons of rich men who made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to RCA because it was very desirable that these talentless and rather stupid young gentlemen should make good connexions in the art world. In fact, the fathers looked upon the RCA as a good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud.

Boshier, the third of the set, was not an heir of an old or a rich family, and consequently, having his connection ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college.

The fourth man at the breakfast-club, Allen Jones was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. His grant was small for the set he lived with (he’d been kicked out of the RCA for making pornographic sculptures and was now studying at Hornsey College of Art in north London), but he never wanted for anything. He didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fast set, and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich first years (in the hope that their father’s might buy his work). But with the first years he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms, and used their wines, cars, and other movable property as his own. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad driver, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to the college to form eligible connections; for was not his pornographic imagination a font of riches?

Our hero had met Boshier at an art opening in York shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had rather taken to one another. Boshier had been amongst his first callers; and, as he came out of the closet one morning shortly after his arrival by telling everyone within earshot that it was cock and not pussy he was after, Boshier's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. No one was in Boshier’s bedsit when he arrived, for none of the club had finished their toilettes. As Hockney entered, a great splashing in an adjacent bathroom stopped for a moment, and Boshier's voice shouted out that he was in his communal tub, but would be with him in a minute. So Hockney gave himself up to contemplation of the flock wallpaper.

Hockney had scarcely finished admiring a dark damp stain on the wall when the door opened, and Boshier emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry eye, with a twinkle in it, which spoke well for his sense of humour; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a complete degenerate who’d be fun to know.

His first act, after nodding to Hockney, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said: "'a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer. We were playing Van-John in Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after that without something to cool his coppers."

Hockney was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to him; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another minute, a bouncing and scratching was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look, and a way he had of going nuzzling about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. Hockney, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, which evidently pleased his host - who like to indulged his voyeuristic streak with dollops of bestiality. And then the breakfast arrived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colours went, than Boshier. They were introduced to Hockney, who thought them somewhat ordinary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them remonstrated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast.

It was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely worth repeating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel drawn to a man who feeds you well; and, as Hockney's appetite got less, his liking and respect for his host undoubtedly increased.

When they had nearly finished, in walked the Peter Blake, a fat man, two or three years older than the rest of them; good looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with the drawing up of his nostril, and a drawing down of the corners of his mouth, which set Hockney against him at once. The cool, supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own.

"Here, Henry," said the Peter Blake to the scout in attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes; "what is there for my breakfast?"

Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two.

"I don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any gudgeon?"

"Why sir" said Henry, "there was only two dozen this morning, and Mr. Boshier told me to cook them all.

"To be sure I did," said Boshier. "Just half a dozen for each of us four: they were first-rate. If you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you."

"Just go and get me a broil from Wheelers," Peter Blake snarled, without deigning an answer to Boshier.

"Very sorry, sir; I don't have time to go to Soho, sir," answered Henry.

"Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets."

"I say, Henry," shouted Boshier to the retreating scout; "not to my tick, mind! Put them down to Mr. Blake."

Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to his waiting; and Peter Blake set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn.

Hockney thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his host and Blake, for Boshier seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong; the fact being, that during Boshier's first term, the other had lived on him-drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his scooter, and winning his money; all which Boshier, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in London, had stood without turning a hair. But Blake added to these little favours a half patronising, half contemptuous manner, which he used with great success towards some of the other art students, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, but which Boshier, who didn't care three straws about knowing Blake, wasn't going to put up with.

However, nothing happened but a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratified with some of the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which Boshier lounged.

"Who are you going to run down today Farley?" asked Blake.

"The boating-men," Farley announced; "did you ever see such a set? With their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters? They're so ridiculous a blind man wouldn't fuck them without being paid to do so, let alone suck their dicks!"

"What the devil do I care," broke in Boshier; "I know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can't lay rough trade without putting down pounds."

"Getting economical with the truth!" sneered Blake. "When was the last time you took it up the jacksee from a horny handed son of toil without paying the cockson?"

"Well, I can see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and blistering one's hands, if at the end of it all you get your behind abused by the brutish coxswain," said Farley. "He's an  mean and ugly motherfucker, just the type I liked. But the boatmen he teaches the Greek rite! Pah!"

"Why, after the coxswain's had them, they aren't able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said Sidney Chanter; "and are reduced to giving the rest of the team blow jobs."

Here a newcomer entered called Peter Phillips entered and was warmly greeted by Boshier. Blake and he exchanged the coldest possible nods; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game of pyramids till luncheon time. Phillips took a cigar which Boshier offered, and began asking about their mutual friends, and what they'd been doing in the vacation.

This pair were evidently intimate, though Hockney thought that Boshier didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as Phillips took his fancy at once. Hockney was rather left out of the conversation to begin with, but then Boshier cordially drew him in.

“Did you know David that Peter can tell fortunes?” Derek asked.

“No.” Hockney replied.

“Give me your palm.” Philips commanded and Hockney did as he was bid. “Ah, I see you’re going to be a very successful artist, far more successful than me. Before you die you're going to have a blockbuster show at The Royal Academy…”

“You’re joking surely,” Hockney half-laughed.

“Not at all,” Phillips replied. “It will be called A Bigger Picture and art lovers will be fighting for tickets! Before that you’re going to have a ball with lots of beautiful young men in Los Angeles. Looks like you’ll be mutton jeff in your old age too….. Have you got much time?

“Is it eleven yet?” Hockney asked. “I have to go for a tutorial at eleven.”

“You’d better rush,” Boshier informed him.

“That’s a shame,” Phillips said, “I so wanted to tell you about your death.”

“I’d rather not know about that,” Hockney replied as he bolted for the door.

"Alchemy is a quality of a given psychic movement," Phillips shouted after Hockney, "a release of forces which, responding to the action of an as yet unknown compulsion, is capable of causing certain phenomena to pass from one state of being to another in the direction of a synthesis which is a quantitative act of knowledge, and which we call the blackening. The serpent, centring itself in a point of a line formed by the boundary between the white and the black, draws its substance by making the mass in the depths converge toward this point. The dragon, having been born at the same junction and also represented by a point, projects out to the exterior world through divergence and in a superior form corresponding to those which lie in a latent state in the depths of the inner world. The material must be immodest, insolent and brutal, if it is not to fall into annulment."