Hubert O'Halloran goes from timid biology professor to slave master in the sleazy subculture of 1960's San Diego. From the lowest of lows, Hubert climbs the social ladder of aberrant gay sex and intrigue within the secrets of a very wealthy, famous gay family.
Warning: Fully equipped dungeon, medieval rack
The leatherman stared in fierce, almost laughing invitation. A motorcycle jacket hung over a Salvation Army-issue chair. Black engineer boots were aligned at the foot of the cot. Something about him hinted of the Orient, but any feature taken alone was clearly Caucasian. Hubert was deeply stirred, as though something inevitable and possibly dangerous was about to happen. Mustering the jaunty attitude he'd learned from sailors, he steadied himself against the doorjamb.
"Excuse me. Have you the time?"
The man glanced at his watch. "Close to eight. Pacific Standard Time." An arrogant grin replaced the frown on his steely, sculpted features. Hard cruising usually didn't start until later, after ten.
"Thanks. May I come in?" Hubert asked with uncustomary boldness.
"You don't have to be so formal. Haul your butt in here." Installed on the throne of the cot, the stranger made no attempt to defer to his guest. "Aren't you going to shut the door? We can't have the whole world looking in." He gave the mattress a crude slap.
Hubert closed the door and then awkwardly boarded the allotted space. The tough leatherman had a patch of hair on his chest and a muscular, rippled stomach. A dark mane or love trail ran from his navel to the pubic area, just visible above unbuttoned Levi's. Hubert's pant leg brushed rough denim. Something like an electric current passed between them. Neither made a move.
The name helped explain the Oriental-Tartar aura. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Hubert. Hubey if you prefer. I think my parents wanted a priest or monk. I got a stuffy name to counter the Irish," he added in hopeful good humor.
The leatherman didn't bother to shake hands. Without warning, he grabbed Hubert's calf so tightly it smarted. "The world doesn't need more priests. That goes for monks. Pull down your pants."
"You heard me. Not next year. On the double."
On the double. The Army years surged to mind. The Army had taught Hubert to adapt to austere, often-embarrassing situations. Reflexively, he stood beside the cot, unlaced his cordovan oxfords and laid his signature tweed coat over the chair seat below the motorcycle jacket. His Ivy League shirt he placed on the silver radiator, which suggested the vertebrae of some prehistoric reptile, below a curtainless window. A square black eye stared in silent judgment. Woodenly, he pulled down his trousers. These he lay across the small desk provided for the meager clerical needs of the down and out.
Down to just jockey shorts, he climbed back onto the cot. Ivan had, also, shed his Levi's. They lay in a compact military pile against the wall. Hubert took it as a veiled compliment. He'd heard that leather tops remained fully or mostly dressed while their slaves or boys cowered in naked vulnerability like inmates in a concentration camp. Their bare legs touched from hip to knee, reactivating the electric current. Taut labored breathing.
"Peel off those undershorts."
Hesitantly, Hubert removed the last protection of a puritan past. Ivan had an instant hard on. A sword-like stiffness, rather than a large endowment, was his chief calling card. He gripped Hubert by the neck, forced his mouth onto the arrow-like head and held him rigidly in place. Gasping for breath, Hubert finally had to pull free. Being used solely for someone else's pleasure sparked resentment. He was trained to take charge of a classroom. Such aggressive, humiliating behavior was more than he bargained for.
Ivan's eyes glinted with sadistic cunning. The buddy-buddy phase was over. Something was radically wrong.
Yet, a hidden part of Hubert refused to bolt for the door. The Army had taught him to stand his ground, just as teacher training instilled a dogged sense of follow through.
Ivan lurched onto his knees and pinched Hubert's bare nipples. He applied steadily increasing pressure with thumbs and forefingers.
"Oh, that hurts! Stop, please."
"I love it," Ivan said in a transport of brutal delight.
Hubert came close to wrenching loose, but something held him there, taking it. Just when he thought he could endure no more, the torture ceased, followed by a sharp slap on the face. Hubert saw wildly darting stars. He throttled a surge of anger. Where is my self-respect? Why don't I fight back? Was it punishment or self-disgust for shunting aside the lab reports?
"You'll do what I tell you," Ivan hissed in a low voice so no one in the hall could overhear.
His taste for violence shocked to the same degree that it intrigued. Hubert hadn't dreamed such kinkiness went on behind the walls of a Christian institution. Next to this, stalking sailors in back alleys and restrooms was child's play.
"What kind of piss-poor answer is that?"
"Yes, Sir," he corrected himself.
"That's more like it." Excited by the rough repartee, Ivan jumped off the creaking cot. He crouched beside his victim like a gladiator making ready. "Get up on hands and knees."
With a rush of fright, Hubert squirmed by degrees into the required position. He hadn't considered himself a candidate for losing his virginity in regard to rear-end assault. He'd wondered how bad it would hurt, but that was all. "No one ever did that before. Please go easy."
"We do things my way."
A rushing sound as Ivan donned the leather jacket. He set a police cap at an anonymous angle over his brow, pulled on his boots, buckled the straps. Cap, jacket, boots--all leather. He took a strategically placed jar of Vaseline from a dresser drawer. He lubed himself, then his victim, perched in a humiliating position, half-falling off the cot.
Hubert received a sharp slap on the rear. Head jammed against the mattress with blood rushing to his temples, he beheld what appeared a blurred, upside-down warrior poised for attack.