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."