Cinematography Award

by Allen Baker

I'd come close to winning such awards a number of times. So though I wasn't by any means a household word, the public would recognize names of my films and people in the industry respected my work. Especially directors. And they were the ones to do the hiring.

For more than ten years, I'd led an active, grueling schedule. That, and the fact that I was weary of prima dona actresses, is probably why the project somewhat appealed to me. That, and the fact that I'm gay.

Arthur Jackson was renowned for his documentaries. Which translates to being able to raise financial backing. Therefore, this was a stable, mainstream project in spite of its title: Homosexual Slavery in Modern America.

My first reaction was that the title would have to change. Sounded too much like an academic's doctoral thesis. My second was surprise that it would be a topic Jackson would tackle. Third, why me?

Jackson and I had never worked together before and, other than an occasional meeting at some social event, didn't really know each other. I'd never done a documentary. It was a genre all its own into which I'd never even dabbled. Why was he requesting to see me about the project?

I had already decided I wouldn't take on the job, but I was curious as to the answers to those questions. A meeting wouldn't hurt.

* * * * *

Arthur Jackson was true to his reputation. Enthusiastic to a fault. Garrulous. By the end of the first five minutes, I was exhausted from listening to his effusive mouth and trying to fit in an edge-wise question or two.

Finally, in desperation, I stuck two finders through my teeth and gave my taxi whistle full force. Startled, he abruptly halted in mid-word with his mouth hanging open.

"Now, if you can just abandon the non-stop sell, I'd like to ask you a few simple yes-or-no questions. Or a short explanation."

"Sorry, I get carried away."

"Obviously."

To his credit, A.J. tried to reign himself in and give short, precise answers. But habits die hard. Eventually, all I had to do was place my fingers to my whistle formation, and he'd blush to a halt. As we continued, however, I found myself being more and more drawn in.

I was homosexual, but had experimented only marginally with pain, SM, leather, and such. I did like the idea of a major Hollywood-quality film being made about the gay community. It seems while on location of a previous film, Jackson had come across an adult book store that displayed some explicit leather magazines. His professional sociological mind was intrigued by the existence of an entire underground gay subculture built on the Master/Slave relationship.

Little by little, A.J. had begun collecting publications and videos. And he'd discovered that the community was by no means small. And it was well-organized with training facilities and even a lecture/demonstration circuit. It had taken a number of years to cultivate acquaintances and trust, but now Jackson finally had a high-ranking member of the culture willing to allow a documentary. It would, of course, need to be heavily supervised to guard privacy and anonymity.

The final clincher came late in the interview. "And get this: most of the time these are week-end or short-term relationships. Occasionally, a love relationship develops and it goes long term. But just recently I've learned about a total-slave camp, somewhere in the Southeast, that trains slaves for life-long service. At the end of the training, there is an actual slave-market auction! Men bid for ownership, and the slaves turn themselves over to them for life! Can you believe it? In this modern day when our government is championing human rights around the world, we have slaves living among us without our even knowing it."

A red flag slapped me between the eyes. "And we'd be allowed to expose this?"

"I'm still working on that. Not yet. I may only get to hint that I suspect such a thing. We'll see how far I can push it. But even without that aspect, the project works. And the main reason I want you, is that I don't want it to look like every documentary down the line. It's got to be more story-oriented.

"I've found a bottom who decided to enter total slavery. Scot is willing, no eager, for us to document his life. Starting with his teen years, he's ready to act out the transition of his sexual life from a troubled teen to an openly gay man. Form strictly vanilla to kinky experimenter. And now form independent life to dominated ownership. This is my golden opportunity, but he won't wait forever. We have to move with it now.

"I've already arranged to film some sessions between him and a Master. We may be able to follow him to the training center. If not, we'll have to reenact that section of his life. As to the actual slave auction, I can't tell yet. Might have to end with a sale bill with Scot prominently offered. We'll have to see how ti develops. Well, what do you think? Are you in?"

I tried to keep my face impartial. Look uninterested and you can bargain up your fee. But form where he sat, A.J. couldn't see under the desk, or he'd have known I was interested. My hard prick pushed up against the bottom of my desk drawer. My pants were soaked in spots from my sticky ooze. My God, yes, I wanted this project!

* * * * *

Two months into the project, I knew that my life had changed forever. Don't get me wrong. No way did I want to give up my career and become a slave. But I had definitely discovered my role as a submissive bottom. My need for pain. My thrill for bondage. Sex had never been so great.

After the first day on the set, I wore a jock strap under my jeans. It was necessary. The scenes were so hot, I was always rock hard. Starting the second day, I always wore a condom, too, also out of necessity. I began to empathize with Scot so much that every time he shot, I did too. Without even touching myself. At those points, I had to be sure the camera was securely anchored, or my trembling spasms would ruin the taping.

Scot was everything Jackson had said and more. The twenty-eight-year-old body-builder was a real hunk. Waste length auburn hair that he kept in a braid. He'd let his body hair grow back in so we could do a shaving scene. He was scattered with body jewelry. I'd seen pierced nipples before, but the rings and things in his groin were a surprise even to Jackson.

And what a groin! Twelve superb inches and low-hangers the size of turkey eggs. He was even obscene completely limp and covered with a speedo suit. Nude, he was worshipful.

From the first week, we realized there'd have to be two versions of the film. Even Hollywood could only take so much. For that version we'd push the envelop as much as possible. Yes, there'd be total frontal nudity. But whenever things got too hot or too graphic, we'd have to either digitally blur parts of the shot or go with a sound track of Scot doing an interview-style commentary of the scene. Even that might have the censors hemorrhaging in their seats.

The second version was to be totally uncensored. Probably only publically shown in a few of the most liberal art houses. But the real purpose of that version was for rentals and DVD purchase. Anyone turned on by the screen version would just have to run right out and buy the uncut DVD with extra footage and interviews.

We started following Scot through his troubled teen years. This was tricky. We couldn't possibly use Scot, he was way too mature. Nor could we legally use underage actors either. We couldn't even use legal agers to depict anything explicit if they were meant to be teens. So we resorted to artful fades, broad innuendo, and voice-overs by Scot.

But once he reached college age, we showed it all. Video booths at book stores, glory holes, public johns, back seats of cars, cheap motels. This boy had led a busy life. One-night stands. Affairs ending in heartbreak. Leather bars. Gang bangs and sex clubs.

Even with his previous research and extensive interviews, Jackson was regularly shocked by the reality. Scot kept saying, "I told you this was what it was like." A.J. would nod his head, but his eyes still registered disbelief.

Then came the night Scot arranged for us to attend a meeting of a bondage club. We met at the club's second floor location in a seedy section of the city and were ushered into the lobby. It wasn't a real meeting. Scot had gotten some of the more exhibitionist members to volunteer. They had agreed, once assured of remaining unknown. Except for Scot, they'd all wear masks or hoods.

But once everyone had arrived, we hit a snag. Before they'd proceed with the filming, they insisted on our entire crew complying with the club's one basic rule: no clothes allowed in the dungeon play space. Clearly A.J. had not been apprized of this ahead of time. He nearly convulsed. The rest of crew looked startled. A.J. tried to reason and bargain, but got no where. It seemed to be an impasse. Finally, I took matters into my own hands. Without a word, I sat down my equipment and began to strip. Our crew and A.J. had been filming male nudes in all states of arousal for weeks. But they stood gawking at me as if they'd never seen a naked man. As I got down to the jock and pulled it off, there was an audible sigh. Slowly, I pulled off my already damp condom and flung it aside, picked up my gear, and moved through the door.

Soon, the entire crew had joined me. It was somewhat comical. They didn't know where to look and strategically placed their work gear in front of themselves. A.J. was the last to enter, trying very hard to hide a smallish, but very rigid cock.

Twenty minutes later, and the guys had relaxed into their professional roles. The cameras were rolling as the masked club members entered. Scot, of course, didn't bother with a mask; plus by this point of the movie the viewers would know him by seeing any part of his anatomy from any angle.

The rest of the members varied in size, shape, build, and race. In all lengths and thicknesses. Cut and uncut. You name it; it was there. I ever saw some things I didn't have names for yet.

They had an opening circle ritual where they gave their first names and preferences for the evening. By the time they finished their say, our crew was visibly shaken. This was way beyond anything they'd heard of or even imagined.

Suddenly, people paired off or moved into small groups. It was obvious that many things would be happening at once. This would keep our four cameras busy. I directed the other three to roam and get a variety of events, not stay with any one. I was going to stick only to Scot as the main story line. The rest would be used as background – and for my own personal library.

Throughout the four-hour event, I never lost my rigidity. This was something I'd never dreamed of. One burly dude used hundred of feet of rope to lash a young guy to numerous hooks in the top of a padded table. Then he picked up a basket of clothes pins and, starting with the nipples, decorated the man from the neck down. When the guy began to protest and beg too much, the top ordered, "Open your mouth, boy!" Soon there were three pins on the end of his tongue. The guy tried to scream around them. He didn't know what to do. He tried to pull them in, stick them out, wiggle them. Nothing helped. Finally, he relapsed into sobbing whimpers with tears rolling down his face. "Shut up, wimp, or you'll get two more."

One other bottom was ordered to sit down on a wooden arm chair. Firmly attached to the seat was a sixteen-inch dildo that broadened to near four inches at the base. The guy slowly, deliberately complied. Two inches form the seat, he seemed to have reached his limit. But the top had been patient long enough. "Shit, boy, let's get this over with," the top said as he sat on the guy's lap forcing him down all the way. Then, with straps and buckles, the guy was lashed into place. Tit clamps with weights were attached to his chest. A ball gag with a clear tube running through it was tightly applied. The other end of the tube was attached to the bottom of a trough with a sign that read "Piss here." The top laid the chair with its attached man on its back to get a better gravity flow, then left to join another scene.

Across the way, there was a guy strapped to a barber's chair. The buzz of clippers slid through his hair, leaving his head a stubble field. Then the top pulled a homemade torch from a jar where it had been soaking in some liquid. He began at the guy's neck and worked down. He'd light a patch of body hair about the size of a playing card and, using his other hand, slap out the flames. Then he'd repeat the process until the hair was gone and move on to the next area. The bottom gasped with each touch of the flame. But I noticed threads of excited goo dripped from the tip of his aroused dong.

Everywhere I looked, guys were tied, strapped, and bound to walls, tables, and exercise horses. I heard hits from paddles, slaps from floggers, snaps from whips, and sounds from men: moans, groans, screeches, and screams. I smelled aromas, hot wax, piss, burnt hair, sweat, man musk, and cum.

And to me, all this was but a back drop. A stage setting to surround and augment the spotlight on the main event: Scot with his Master.

Not even A.J. had ever met the man. Jackson knew that Scot had sought and acquired his Master's permission to do this film. But we also knew he did not intend to reveal his identity to the world. He had a private life to protect. Scot had recently confided that this Master was actually a married man. That explained why Scot wasn't his full-time slave already.

Now the Master came over to A.J. "Scot says you're the guy in charge." He held out a beefy hand. He was huge and menacing, but affable enough in his speaking. "The filming and lights won't bother us. And any time we take a break, you're welcome to interview us. But please don't interrupt uninvited. Believe it or not, it's a delicate art to develop each step in a scene. It's a gradual increase of tempo and endurance. Break the mood or concentration of the slave, and all is lost."

"Don't worry," A.J. pledged, "Scot already drilled us on those ground rules."

"Good. But for the same reasons, don't call him by name when you talk to him. Use slave, or boy, or shit head, or any other demeaning name you wish, but not Scot. It'll pull him out of the scene. Well, I'm ready to play. Hope you enjoy the show."

He shackled Scot face down on a St. Andrew's cross. Reaching between the boy's legs, he snapped a parachute around the low hanging nuts and attached a one-pound weight. Beside him was a table. He opened a duffle bag and began laying out his favorites. Whips, paddles, flogs, and numerous other clamps and toys.

He greased up a large butt plug and rammed it home. Scot jumped slightly, but refrained from making a sound. The Master picked a flogger. He showed it to Scot. Required him to kiss the handle, signifying permission, no submission, to have it used on him. The Master began by lightly tapping it across his shoulders, down his arms. Then switched to his calves and up to his thighs, to his upper back again, and finally down to the round, inviting buttocks. Then he repeated the process slightly harder. By the end of five minutes, Scot moaned with the intensity of every blow. Sweat from the concentrated efforts poured off the Master.

Suddenly he dropped the leather instrument and began to lightly run his fingers all over the reddened welts he had raised. The change made the boy shudder with each caress. Master kissed a few of the raised places, added a five-pound weight to the parachute, then picked a heavier flogger, and began all over again.

At the end of half an hour, he laid aside the leather and leaned his body against the slave's back. "Oh, you're hot. The heat of your skin sizzles against my sweat." He whispered and crooned into the boy's ear as his very hard, drooling cock dry-humped the guy's damaged butt crease. He talked the boy back down from his flight.

"Just rest a few minutes. Then we'll start again."

Scot hung totally limp in his bonds. I actually wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Meanwhile, his Master had walked over to the trough to piss. He let loose his stream, and I focused my lens on the leading edge of yellow as it coursed through the tube. It disappeared into the ball gag, and suddenly the bottom was gulping. His Adams' apple bobbed as he drank it down.

After a cigarette and a few minutes shop talk with another Master, he returned to Scot. With a playful slap on a tender ass cheek, he let Scot know he was ready to resume. "Time to slip the pancake, boy." He undid the manacles and turned Scot around to face front. He still had the weights pulling at his discolored balls. He still had a raging hardon.

The Master chuckled and stroked Scot's cock. "I see you're having a good time tonight."

Scot grinned. "Yes, Sir. It's a very special night."

The Master now repeated the entire process on Scot's front. In addition, he added clothes pins and tit clamps with weights to the boy's chest.

After another rest period, he moved Scot to a leather sling. He removed the weights from the parachute and attached it, instead, to a hook in the framework above the sling, effectively pulling the boy's genitals up and away from his asshole. He stowed his flogs back in his bag, removing a variety of shapes and sized of dildos which proceeded to lay out in order of size on a cart which he kept within reach.

First, he put on a pair of elbow-length, latex gloves. Then he grabbed some lubricant and squirted some up Scot's ass. He worked it in with a finger, then two. He added more lube and kept up the finger fuck until Scot was moaning and willingly impaling himself. Then the Master reached for the first dildo. It was about an inch in diameter and bout eight long. He toyed it around Scot's brown pucker. He'd tease by placing it at the opening and adding a bit of pressure, then pull it away again. He kept that up until Scot was blubbering and pleading for it with desperate desire.

Then with one swift shove, he buried it. Scot gasped "Oh, yes. Thank you, Sir," he whispered. The Master worked it in and out a few times, then proceeded to the next bigger one. When he got Scot good and open enough, he substituted his own real thing and fucked in earnest. Sweat poured off the man as he built himself up to bliss. Finally he crooned to Scot, "I'm about to cum, boy. I want you to nut when I do."

"Yes, Sir."

The Master closed his eyes and entered his private world. Soon his hips went into overdrive, and his muscles began to shudder. "Now, boy. Now!"

Scot grunted and spewed his white, creamy fluid all over his belly and chest. No one had even touched his cock. God, what a sight!

"Now, I've got to piss, boy." I expected the man to pull out and go over to the human trough. Instead he stood still for a few seconds and then let out a huge sigh. I nearly shit myself when I realized he was giving Scot a piss enema straight from the spigot.

The man grabbed a huge butt plug and slammed it home as he pulled out. "Don't let that go. I need a cigarette."

By the time he returned, it was visibly evident that Scot was in distress. He was clinching his ass cheeks as hard as he could. His teeth were bared and his lips pulled back in a grimace. The Master ran his hand gently over the boy's distended belly. "Good job, boy." He picked up a bucket and held under Scot's rear end. "Ok, kid. You can let it out now."

By the sound of that plug hitting the side of the metal bucket, it was probably traveling sixty miles an hour. The torrent of liquid gushing from his ass looked like an over-sized load of piss exiting a cock slit. Scot sighed and relaxed his fists.

Master didn't let him relax long. "You're really open now, boy." He picked up the next rubber prick and pumped it in and out of the sloppy hole.

I couldn't believe the largest pretend prick disappeared entirely into his opening. A full four inches across and easily eighteen long. And on the end protruded enough for the Master to keep his grasp, turn, and pump it! Scot's head slowly rolled from side to side as moans of pleasure issued from his throat.

Leaving the plastic prong in place, Master reached down to a shelf on the cart and opened a crisco can. Handfuls coated his arm all the way to his shoulder! Instinctively, I somehow knew what was coming, but my mind didn't believe it.

"Shoot it out, boy."

Scot grunted and pushed. The huge dildo was propelled about four feet and slammed into A.J.'s crotch. A.J. reacted by doubling in pain. Master laughed. "Good aim, boy, good aim. Now get ready, I'm about to do an interior exam."

Master pointed his fingers together and slowly introduced them into the kid's gapping opening. He slowly worked in and out, gradually going deeper and deeper. Just when I thought it wasn't going to happen, it did. The hand slid totally inside and the sphincter closed down around the wrist. A look of pure bliss spread over Scot's face. His rigid cock bobbed and thumped his belly.

Master waited for the boy's canal to adjust to the intruder. When the grasp on his wrist eased, he began to push again. Patiently, slowly, Master deepened his interior search. By the time his elbow disappeared, a persistent purring croon was emanating from the boy's gullet. It wasn't until the motion stopped, that Master had reached the limit, that it dawned on me that the man's arm, clear up to his pit, was totally inside Scot!

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw A.J.'s hand motions evolve from comforting his wounded nuts to stroking his rock hard dick. Master grinned as he, too, saw the change.

Slowly, Master eased out of the boy and put his arm straight out across Scot, toward his chin. Scot lifted his head and looked where the man's hand lay in the middle of his chest. He groaned loudly. "That's right, boy, that's how far I explored. I could feel your heart beating against my knuckles. I could have opened my fist and crushed it in my grasp."

I thought Scot was going to pass out.

Just then, Master was distracted by A.J.'s panting. He left Scot and strode over to A.J. I sensed this was going to be momentous, but realized I couldn't show Jackson's face on film. I concentrated on the Master's mask and the action from the neck down. He grasped A.J.'s wrist and stopped its action. He put his face inches from A.J.'s and spoke.

"Did I give you permission to stroke that thing? Did I say you could whack off? . . . Well did I, boy?"

When it came, the reply was small and contrite. "No, Sir."

"Damn right. I'll tell you when and how to cum. Get over here."

I couldn't believe he was dragging A.J. into the scene. While certain A.J. would have to cut this from the movie, I kept the film rolling. I'd have a copy in my private collection at least.

Master handed A.J. a foil pack. "Rubber up, boy." When A.J. had his protection in place, the man positioned him between Scot's legs. Then he took his hands and lashed them up to the frame. Jackson's face was panic stricken. But he was hard as a rock. The man guided A.J.'s cock into Scot's ass. A.J. started to move his ass, which elicited a swat across his butt. "I didn't say you could fuck him. Hold still, shit head, and spread your feet."

Master knelt down and stuck his head between his legs. I had to nearly crawl my camera underneath the sling to chronicle the events. Through the viewfinder, I watched as the man's open hand slipped past Jackson's hanging nuts and slid into Scot's ass along the bottom side of A.J.'s cock. "Just hold still, I'm going to grasp your prick and jack you off."

Soon the man's active hand had A.J. panting and ready to shoot. The pounding against his prostate had Scot's prick streaming a puddle of ooze into his belly button. "Ok, you two, on the count of three, I want you both to cum."

They did, and Master called for twenty minute rest break. We all needed it.

* * * * *

At the end of the break, the Master came over to me. "Got plenty of film?"

"Yes, I got hours more. Always bring twice what I expect to need."

"Good. We've got something special coming down tonight."

Good god, this hadn't been special? "Like what?" But he'd already strode off. He hopped onto the elevated shoeshine chair and planted his feet on the raised support. I started up my camera. Immediately Scot knelt between his feet.

"May I have permission to speak, Sir?"

"Yes, boy."

"Sir, it is my desire to give up all my individual rights and enter into a life of permanent servitude. I am ready to do my Master's every bidding. I am ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to prove my willingness to serve, my loyalty, and my devotion."

"You please your Master. I have spoken with Doc. He'll perform the ritual rites, boy. So prepare yourself."

Scot reached back and grabbed his waist-length hair. He tied a knot in the end of that over two-foot long tress. Then he accepted a pair of scissors from his Master's hand and cut it off. I gasped. I sensed we were reaching toward the major steps to Scot's goal.

With both hands, he offered the hair to his Master. The man grabbed it by the knot and began to use it on the boy as a flog. "Thank you, boy, for your gift. I will have it braided and fit into a leather handle. It will make a lovely, soft flogger."

Two other men took Scott by the biceps and legs and carried him to a padded table. They washed him front and back and shaved him from the neck down. Then from the chest down, they strapped him tightly on his back, but left his head and arms free.

"One last chance, boy, to change your mind."

"No, Sir. I want to do this for you. I need to."

"Thank you, boy." The Master leaned over, and they exchanged a long passionate kiss that left them both greatly aroused. Scot just nodded his head once to signify that he was ready to proceed. "Ok, Doc."

This new man rolled a cart over to the table. While I hadn't noticed him doing so, he had evidently been getting prepared during this time. Objects on the top of the cart were covered by a light cloth which he now removed.

I focused my camera on the medical objects there. Vials of liquid, syringes, needles and sutures, scalpels, clamps, gauze, bandages, and more. I had to steady the camera against a prop as I began to tremble. I suddenly realized what Scot had meant by ultimate sacrifice: castration! If A.J. had any inkling things would come to this, he'd never shared it with me. I was stunned.

Doc took a bottle of some disinfectant and lavishly splashed it all over Scot's shaved crotch. Then he took a vial of liquid and a syringe. Scot's breathing grew ragged with emotion and fear as he watched the glass tube fill. "This is a local. It'll deaden the pain." Even so, Scot grunted each time the needle was jabbed into his sack. He must have gotten it eight or ten times. The Doc stopped to refill.

"Now, either side of the groin." The needle went a good inch into the area just left of the base of the cock. Scot gritted his teeth as tears rolled down his cheek. Then the needle went into the same area on the right side. When the syringe was empty, Doc refilled it one more time.

"And at last, the fun part: directly into each ball." Scot visibly paled and began to whimper even before the needle touched the deadened skin. As Doc pressed down, the boy's mouth flew open to scream. But it never happened. The pain was so great that Scot held his breath and no sound emerged. When Doc yanked it out, it was like flipping a switch. The shout happened.

Master held up his hand to temporarily arrest Doc from moving on. They waited for Scot to calm. Then Master spoke. "Boy, that almost sounded like you don't want to have this happen. That so?"

"Oh no, Sir. I want this. Please, Sir, I won't cry out this time. I promise."

"Ok, then, show me how tough you are, boy. Doc, give him the needle. I want him to do the second one himself."

Doc guided the needle in Scot's shaking hand. "Ok, kid, that's the place. All you have to do is shove it in and push the plunger down."

Scot took three deep breaths, audibly exhaling each time, gritted his teeth, and jabbed down. His eyes fluttered and nearly rolled back into his head. But he held on and pushed down on the plunger. Almost immediately the medication began to work to kill the pain. He'd done it. He'd not cried out.

"Good boy." Master soothed Scot's brow and rubbed his heaving chest.

Doc swabbed at the drops of blood from the needle pricks. "Give me ten minutes and we'll be ready to cut. Actually, boy, the worst of the pain is over." He moved a strap to trap the boy's hard cock up out of the way.

Meanwhile, Master raised the head of the table. "I want you to be able to see every bit of this, boy."

Doc took up a scalpel. "Here we go."

Off to the side a couple of our crew turned aside, unable to watch. Jackson looked green at the gills. So he hadn't known after all. I had a sickish feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my nuts pulled up into my groin in empathetic fright.

The scalpel moved along in a two-inch line off to one side of the scrotal seam. Following its lead, the scrotum separated and blood flowed out. Scot moaned slightly, not in pain, just in acceptance. Master reached out and took one of Scot's hands in his own. The boy squeezed and seemed to garner strength from it.

Doc had stanched the main flow of the blood. He reached a finger into the opening, dug about a bit, and popped out the boy's right testicle shrouded in a greyish-colored pouch. A.J. rushed over to a bucket, and I could hear him upchuck in the background. No one even bothered to look his way.

Doc picked up some surgical scissors and snipped an opening in the pouch to expose the ball itself. It was raw-meat red. Alien looking. It hung by a series of cords and vessels and dangled into Doc's palm. He deftly sutured the cords and tied them off. He picked up the scissors to sever the ball completely form the kid's body. Doc hesitated and looked up to Master.

Master turned to look questioningly into Scot's eyes. Slowly the boy gave a short nod. Master gave Doc a nod without breaking eye contact with his boy. They both heard the snip of the scissors. It was one of the loudest things I'd ever heard. When they looked back down, Doc had placed the separated nut on a metal tray on the cart. Scott couldn't take his eyes off it.

Doc expertly tied everything off, spayed antibiotic into the cuts, and stitched everything closed. Then he moved to the other side and reached for a clean scalpel. I watched through my viewfinder in renewed fascination. There was much less blood than I had expected. It was akin to watching lab experiments in biology class. But with much more dire results. Soon Doc was ready to cut the cords on the second testicle. Master reached out to stop him. He took the scissors from Doc and slowly placed then in Scot's hand. The boy groaned but made no protest. He positioned them as Doc pulled the ball up and away from the groin. Master whispered into the boy's ear. Scot took a deep breath and squeezed the jaws of the scissors. There was a click as they closed entirely and did their job. Scot's body trembled and his cock shot a huge last load all over his chest and belly.

I focused on Doc finishing off his stitch work and did the final cleanup. Then I slowly panned to the tray on the cart. Gradually, I zoomed in on the two round objects on the tray and faded to black.

* * * * *

Jackson normally viewed all film rushes the next morning. In this case, it went a full week, and he still hadn't watched them. Finally, I couldn't resist. "A.J., you haven't watched the club footage yet, have you?"

"Nope."

"How come?"

The silence went so long that I wasn't sure he was going to answer me. He looked everywhere but at me. Finally he had his words together. "I'm still trying to take it in. All along, I guess, I had been seeing this project as just another story. An intriguing one. A dark fantasy. But I guess deep down I really hadn't believed it. Then at the club, I was confronted with that boy's reality. He wasn't an actor who'd subjected himself to special effects. What happened was real, irreversible. I . . . I'm still in shock."

I didn't say anything. I just let him stare at the floor and meditate. Finally, he continued. "You know when I threw up? I hadn't been sickened by the sight or bothered by the blood. I had just realized something about myself. I realized I was turned on more than I'd ever been in my life. I had liked being bound up. I had liked being controlled and manipulated. I liked having a man touch me. And when I watched Doc cut into that boy I shot my load. And when he pushed out that nut, it hit me like a sledge hammer. I liked the thought of pain: causing pain, being in pain. And the realization shocked me so, that my stomach did a flip and was suddenly sick."

Again we sat in silence for a few minutes. "And I still haven't sorted it out. I've got to think things through about me before I can be objective enough to watch that footage. Before I can relive it."

"Maybe watching it would help," I suggested.

No response. Then with a slight shrug and shake of his head, he walked out of the office without another word.

I didn't see A.J. much after that. He moved our editing work to a private studio and phoned me. "I already had the contractual rights to take over the editing myself. I want you to assist. I'll have a key to the new studio dropped off. No one but you or me is to ever go there. No one. There's a light above the entry door. If it's on, I want to be alone. Just go away and come back some other day." And he hung up. I didn't have a chance to ask anything. But after I reflected on our previous conversation, I thought I understood. Not only was he editing, he was coming to grips with who he was.

For a month or so, I absolutely didn't see A.J. He worked through the nights, leaving me notes. Or occasionally a voice mail with instructions or comments on our progress.

Then I got an excited phone call. "Listen, man, we've got forty-three minutes to get to the airport. Can you make it in time?"

"What's up?"

"We've got permission to visit the slave training facility. Scot is being taken in. We won't be allowed to film anything, just observe. So all you need are some duds. Actually, it'll be like the club, so don't even bother packing anything. Meet you at Gate A-14. Now move it." The line went dead,

* * * * *

Because of the last-minute rush, we weren't able to get seats together on the flight. Probably just as well. It would have disturbed those around us to overhear us discussing the project, and how could we not?

Scot met us at the airport. "They don't want you to be able to identify anyone or the actual site. I'm to take you to a rendezvous spot and drop you off. You get into the back of a panel truck with no windows. You're never to know the exact location of the Camp."

A.J. was disappointed, but not in the least surprised.

"They are between training sessions," Scot continued, "so there will be only a few guards and the Main Man to show you about. They will all wear masks or hoods." We pulled up behind a van on a deserted back road. As A.J. opened the door, Scot gave one last instruction, "You have to strip and leave everything here with me. They want to be sure you don't have any hidden cameras or recording devices. And while they didn't say it, I suspect humiliation and control are part of the plan."

We weren't happy with the arrangements, but what choice did we have? We complied and climbed into the back of the van. The ride wasn't overly long, maybe 35 or 40 minutes. But there's no way we'd have ever found our way back.

The Main Man opened the back of the van. He was in black leather. Chaps, boots, cod piece, harness, biker cap, and mask. He had one of those deep, gravelly voices that always resonates in my groin.

We never met anyone else, although twice I glimpsed an armed guard off in the distance by a fence.

It was an amazingly large facility. The people who ran the place had offices and housing in a wonderful lodge. Masculine, manly, but very modern with every luxury. Nearby was another large building of similar accouterments for the visiting Masters who came to inspect and purchase.

The slave quarters were low, primitive log structures scattered among the trees. You couldn't stand upright in them. Dirt floors, no window, no lights. All along the ground at the edge of each long wall were wooden stocks. Each night, the slave would lie on his back with his neck and wrists in the lower grooves. Then heavy logs with the upper notches were lowered into place, locking the whole row in for the night. The ankles of each slave were tightly chained to the genitals of the slave on the opposite wall.

"What about someone like Scot who's been castrated?" A.J. asked.

"There's always some point of attachment. Tit rings, a Prince Albert, something. If it does already exist, we create it."

We saw some outhouses where the slaves were trained for toilet service. And I don't mean just piss. We saw all kinds of equipment for punishment and pain. Much of it I couldn't imagine anyone surviving.

And the entire time, I kept thinking, yes we can recreate the set. But without seeing it in action, how were we ever to recreate the atmosphere, the scenes themselves. How would we accurately produce a true picture of the events and mood of what happens here. Wouldn't it be an obvious fiction after the real-life footage before it? The more I saw the more depressed I became, convinced that we'd be better off ending with Scott going through the entry gate, never to be seen again.

I could tell that Jackson was reacting in a similar way. He asked fewer and fewer questions. But as we were about to get into the van for the return trip, he turned to me. "Just have a seat. I need a few private words with the Main Man."

I waited quite a while before Jackson returned and we were off. "A.J., how can we possibly do this justice? I could tell you were thinking the same thing."

"Yes, you were right. That's why I wanted to talk to him alone. I've secured permission to film here."

"What! How? When?"

"Next week, when Scot is inducted. I'll be allowed to come, too. They won't submit to masks or hoods or anything that will in anyway change their normal routine. Therefore, all the initial editing will have to be done here. They will insist on view all footage that leaves to ensure that no on will be compromised. They may even censor some of the activities, that remains to be seen. But completing the film using actual events will preserve the integrity of the project, even to the point where Scot is sold on the auction block and led away to his new life."

I was so excited, I could hardly stand it. "Oh my god, I can't believe this. We've got a lot of work to do before we get back here next week."

"Yes, there's a lot to do. But not we, just me. I could only get one of us in. And it's going to cost dearly."

I was terribly disappointed. I knew Jackson would handle the filming. It might not be quite as artistic as my own camera work, but we could fudge the editing enough to make up for it. "Well, whatever they're charging, it'll be worth it. How much?"

"No money." There was a long silence as he stared at the floor. "The film will come out, but I won't."

He said it so simply, quietly that at first I didn't comprehend. Then finally it hit me, "Oh, shit. You've sold yourself into slavery, didn't you?"

It took him a moment to martial his emotions before he whispered his reply."Yes."

* * * * *

I received the daily rushes. I was able to reply and send back working versions of the scenes through a P.O. Box. Finally the film was finished. And I never saw nor heard from A.J. again. He had given his lawyer power of attorney over all his possessions except for the film itself. That he legally put into my hands.

At first the police and FBI hassled me a bit about Jackson. But after submitting to a lie detector test, they finally were convinced that I had told them everything I knew. They had no more leads and could do nothing more. The FBI confided that they had been unsuccessfully trying to infiltrate the gay slave trade for years. They hoped the film would bring it to the public's attention enough to give them new avenues to search. Secretly I hoped not.

The film was reviled by the religious right and shocked even the liberals, but it was a financial and critical success. The uncensored DVD version outsold any other film in history. Partly due to Jackson's disappearance. At first, everyone suspected a publicity stunt to promote the film. But when he didn't show for the Academy Awards program, people began to get nervous.

That was a wonderful night for me. I arrived with my new Master. He conceded to TV censorship as far as nudity was concerned, so I was clothed. But our attire left no doubt about our relationship. Especially to anyone who'd seen the film.

When I accepted the award on Jackson's behalf, Master accompanied me to the podium. When I finished my speech, he clipped a chain leash onto the studded collar about my neck and led me away.

Now Master has allowed me to use my take from the project to start my own gay pron film company. Maybe someday I'll invite my Master to sell me into total servitude, but for the time being, I'm content to serve him and lead a life unfettered by public convention. I love my new life and know it would never have come about with Jackson's project. And just occasionally, I view the documentary again and ponder where A.J. and Scot might be and what their lives are like now. But I guess a sequel is out of the question.