I watch my boys lose themselves in each other, and I wonder how any master could dare be cruel to their men.
Maybe it’s the sunlight. I hear lots of it makes you happy, and that’s why they spend their days at the villa naked as jaybirds. I must be getting sentimental, but who could blame me? Look at the way he touches his chin, like he’s cradling heirloom china. And how the other holds onto his thigh, not for fear of letting go (we got rid of fear months ago), but because it belongs there much in the same way our hands belong at the ends of our arms.
It’s peaceful here, amid the wind and their moans. That’s what it’s all about: the peace. Not spit, not pain, not enslavement. They are not dogs. They are not subhumans. In fact, it’s the peace of simply humanity that brings most men to my door; the serenity that comes with “I am human,” and nothing more.
That’s what the training focuses on: submission, in a sense. They know what they’re getting into; they sign the forms and agree to it long before any real magic happens. It’s submission to simplicity. Submission to humanity: to blood and flesh, love and lust, free of the strictures of the Out There and free in the clarity of the In Here.
They get the bliss of life free of “don’t”s and worry. I get a hefty sum and to spend my days maintaining a hillside home teeming with men stripped of clothes and inhibitions. Some call me a saint. Some call me a sinner. In Here, those terms don’t exist. Too many connotations with them.
Here, they all just call me Sir.