By Evan Robertson

(Honcho.Feb.1996.)

As in America, I had little problem getting around, demanding service, getting my way. Only in the service of a demanding Top, a sadist if you will, did I succumb, becoming someone else: his slave, his entire submissive. It was a role I relished and sought out. While touring Paris for the first time, the ambition to locate such a dominator filled my mind. By no means helpless anywhere with anyone, I constantly yearned for some hard role playing.

A buddy back in San Francisco with similar inter­ests put me in touch with a possibility in Paris: le Picasso, the notorious leather bar, located on a dark, cobbled backstreet high on the Montmartre.

Because Parisian bars opened late and remained open nearly all night, I took my time finding the place, spending time touring the beautiful Sacre Coeur Basilica, snapping pictures of the marvelous view of Paris, having a drink and sandwich at a charming outdoor cafe, wandering through the town square examining the display of amateur paintings by young artists.

What I wore didn’t seem to be special: T-shirt; leather jacket over it; jeans; boots. At twenty, almost six feet tall, satisfyingly muscled, and blond, I was simply another tourist in town. Killing time, I wan­dered around, frequently being asked by other tourists to snap family pictures for them as a kind of favor. I was happy to oblige, although my mind was elsewhere.

Having had encounters with dozens of American sadists, I was curious as to what to expect from a foreign guy. This would be a first. In America, you grew accustomed to certain signals, certain rituals, and certain reliable expectations. In a foreign country, the impulses may be similar in intent; however, the practices were supposed to be quite different. I was anxious to find out how different.

Around eleven that night, I discovered the very private bar, le Picasso, a seedy, backstreet dump beginning to fill up with rough looking leather types drinking, soaking, and groping each other. No women, predictably, anywhere in sight. Even — for a change — the bartender was a man. The sparkling sound of French filled the air, nat­urally, but stemming from these rough guys it seemed incongruous. One rather anticipated “shit,” “fuck,” “damn,” and the like in a gay bar, but here if one were ignorant of the language, such were lost on a visitor. And man, was I ever in that class!

Being aware of the price of American booze over there, I ordered a glass of wine, sipping it slowly so it would last. Everyone around me at the bar ignored me, caught up in animated conversation with bud­dies. Accustomed to this behavior throughout Paris, I had the opportunity to concentrate on the crowd­ed bar. The action had various similarities: the dark backroom; the pool table clicking; the busy bath­room; the noise, shouting and greetings. But, as I would soon discover, S/M practices were another matter entirely.

Suddenly, standing behind me watching me care­fully in the bar mirror, was a tall, heavily muscu­lar, tattooed, leather capped hairy guy with smol­dering eyes. He said something to me in French, which I took for some kind of greeting, so I wheeled around on my bar stool, facing him directly. When I failed to respond verbally, he asked: “You are Ger­man? Dutch? American? Speak French?”

“American,” I replied hopefully. “Speak English?”

“A little,” taking a now empty stood next to me, “if you speak slowly. You are, how you say, tourist?” Nodding, I smiled. He bought me a drink.

“Merci,” I said courteously. The stranger nodded back and we clinked glasses. And then commenced a half baked conversation during which he introduced himself as Fontaine, a resident of this community on the hill, and an experienced Dominator. He was in the market for a slave; he wondered if I were interested? Naturally, I speculated why I would seem to qualify as a slave; however, pursuing that ques­tion was simply too complex. “Oui,” I politely replied, using one of the few French words I knew. Speak­ing any kind of fractured French to a Frenchman always seemed to please them.

Somehow, we came to an agreement that I would accompany him home. I began to grow curious and excited. To actually see how the French lived, and particularly how a French Dominator exercised his prerogatives! As we left the bar and wandered down winding cobblestone streets, I wondered how much conversation would be involved in this encounter.

There was, understandably, no question con­cerning mutual roles in this S/M arrangement: no long term deals; no “limits”; an assumed recogni­tion of experience. This would be a famous one night stand, apparently mutually understood. There was no question, however, that Fontaine wanted me, as he wrapped a strong arm around my shoulders, steering me over to his apartment.

In the back of a sagging building, he led me to a garage, up an outside staircase, and into his loft, a large room with a torn curtain half covering one big window; stacks of paintings leaning against one wall; a kind of kitchen in one corner; a remote bathroom in the distance; a large bed, obviously used as a couch during the day, in another corner. Scattered over the floor were weight lifting irons. Fontaine locked the door.

The sole familiar dungeon aspect was an expensive, black leather bench which also served as a coffee table in front of the couch. There were no chairs. But as he lit candles and lowered the lights, I glanced up: several chains glistened against the ceiling. Against one wall was erected a kind of “artistic” wooden rack of cross beams from which ropes and chains were attached and a small cupboard nearby probably hid what most Dominants used for “toys.” A guy, an experienced slave or submissive, couldn’t ignore such positive signals.

We had a pleasant drink while I pre­tended to admire his apartment. He removed my prized leather jacket, and indicated that I should take off my boots and socks. He turned up the heater, warm­ing the loft. Yanking off his cap and jack­et, he revealed a magnificent build: broad shoulders; muscled chest and biceps; a mass of black hair covering his bulging pecs; big, strong hands. His handsome face was arresting, captivating. Those hooded, smoky eyes! He had the longest lashes, heavy eyebrows, and well licked lips. He kept pushing back the black curls descend­ing over his eyes.

“You like?” he asked, waving his arm toward the loft.

“Yes,” I lied, “c’est tres bien!” He grinned, joining me sitting on the couch.

“You like moi?” he asked.

“Oui,” I answered, smiling.

As it turned out, my only essential response to a Master would be “Merci, monsieur.” This was one response that all Masters expected, an obedient, instant, gratified answer. “Yes Sir, thank you, Sir.”

I was not being cynical, I was merely curious as to differences. In certain respects, our roles shared similarities. The treatment, however, was where things diverged.

For example, a French Dominator enjoyed pat­ting a slave’s face, his chest, his stomach, his legs. A Frenchman’s approach to encouraging and reas­suring was to hiss, sort of a “tisk-tisk” sound, as if the slave were resisting his treatment. I could inwardly chuckle at this nonsense for awhile, but not when my Master got down to business. Fontaine wasted little time.

He began unbuckling my belt, gesturing that I should get naked. While I was disrobing, he pulled off his shirt, dazzling me with his hairy, heavily muscled pecs and arms before kicking off his boots and sliding off his pants. His shorts barely restrained his enormous bulge. Pulling me down beside him, he turned me around, folded my arms in back of me, and cuffed my wrists together. Switching me back into position facing him, he pulled me up on my knees and began fingering my nipples.

I’d always loved having my tits worked over, an action which immediately sent electricity down to my crotch, producing a mighty hard on. Between sucking on them and twisting them, Fontaine pat­ted my body, up and down. Felt weird, not partic­ularly exciting, but he seemed to enjoy doing it to me. A French guy’s sort of reassurance or something, or a kind of physical compliment for my endurance under fire.

I commenced to feel the fire. His teeth fastened on to one of my nipples, now so thoroughly swollen that it could be grasped, chewed and pulled. His hand violently twisted the other simultaneously. Fucking painful. I moaned, more with pain than gain, and during such moments, he’d let go and start the damned patting. But it was never long before it was back to sucking, chewing, biting, pulling. He made certain that both nipples received similar attention. And when I cried out in pain, he grinned. Jesus, he was stretching out not only my nipples but the pecs surrounding them! His lips and mouth were powerful. Getting up, he went to his cupboard, gathering his toys, and returned to torturing me. Seeing the tit clamps, I knew what was coming.

No difficulty in attaching the clamps, my nipples were now swollen and hard. And sore. Fontaine played with the thin chain linking the two clamps, firmly yanking it, putting pressure on the clamps to pull on flesh. I hollered in agony, but the merely grinned again, gesturing that no one could hear me because the front house was deserted. All of this information was deliv­ered in pantomime, which in a way was funny. This guy would be great in charades! However, what he was doing to me was very real. Having pulled my nipples out to an astonishing length, he picked up his cigarette lighter, lit it, and using one hand on the chain, held the flame under my tit. Alternating the little flame, he allowed the increasing heat to scorch my tender flesh. Now I was really yelling! So, looking annoyed, he picked up a used, dirty jockstrap and stuffed it into my open mouth, smothering my protests. Now and then, he’d click off the lighter and pat me up and down, only to wave the flame under my flesh again. As my protesting groans increased, so did his atten­tion to my pain.

Finally, he removed the clamps and examined his work — my scorched nipples. Cooling them with his lips, he still managed to create pain by gently biting them. Then, he uncuffed my wrists, pushed me down before him, licked his lips and pointed to his boots. I knew the routine and it was a hell of a lot preferable to having my nipples nearly pulled off of me: I was silently ordered to lick his boots clean and shiny, and then to pull them on his feet. I immediately got down to work, carefully sucking on the hard toes, lathering the soles, licking up and down the tall lengths, and making the two buckles glisten. Before being permitted to fit his big feet into them, I was ordered to orally suck each of his toes, clean between each one and lick the soles of each foot. The guy had smelly feet, so I tried not to inhale too much.

After a long while, Fontaine indicated that he was satisfied by patting me again and that he was ready to wear his boots. Getting them back on him was a job, man! Bent over as I was, I failed to see one boot­ed foot side under my crotch, the hard toe gently but firmly pushing my balls around and poking my asshole. My hips bucked, mostly from sudden fear of his brutalizing my genitals. Still, he looked damned sexy sitting there, his big arms outstretched for balancing, his hairy legs spread wide, and his shorts clearly showing the length of his restrained meat lying across his thighs. He saw me lick my lips.

He crooked his hand, beckoning me to move my head close to his crotch. Holding my head in posi­tion, he moved it around his crotch, making my lips work on favorite areas and almost completely damp­en the fabric. Hungrily, frustratingly, my jaws gripped the rock hard meat under the shorts. How­ever, he refused to satisfy me.

“Non … non,” he smilingly chided, as I slipped my tongue under the legs of his shorts to get at his balls. Obviously, he was going to make me work for it. And man, I worked for it! His pouch was sodden with my saliva before he reached for a knife, a sharp hunting knife. I wondered: what the fuck? Then I caught on: since removing his shorts would involve the boot business again, he simply handed me the knife, indicating that I was to slice off his shorts. And pointedly (every pun intended), I was to be fucking cautious. Gingerly, almost fearfully, I slipped the blade under the cloth, along his thigh, far away (I hoped) from his restrained cock which was lying in the opposite direction. Still, I had the massive, fleshy spread of his balls to worry about. Covered by fabric, it wasn’t simply to determine how much leg space his balls covered. Still, I must have been cut­ting it right: he grinned happily over my intense concern and care.

With a final upward jerk of the blade, I severed his briefs, pulling the shredded material from his body. His shorts were ruined, hanging in strips. Not to worry. He merely tossed them to the floor while he stroked his cock into a towering inferno of veined, swollen thickness. Pulling up his legs, he exposed his hairy asshole, beckoning my tongue to explore it. I moved closer to the dark cave and began licking and probing. His musky odor assailed my nostrils as I listened to him moan and felt his hand on the back of my head, burying my tongue in its destination.

Fortunately, I had a long, eager, hungry tongue which I made good use of, licking my way into the labyrinth, tasting the folds and fibers, occasionally touching sensitive rectal muscles and being reward­ed with his sighs and twitches. He prevented me from exploring with my fingers — I wondered if Frenchmen enjoyed being fucked? — demanding tongue work only. His asshole couldn’t get enough, as he kept me occupied with it for over half an hour. I wondered, also, when I’d get a crack at his cock, raging rock hard above me. His stroking of it seemed to satisfy for the present.

When the anal exploration was over, he pulled me up and began sucking my lips, burying his tongue in my mouth and then greedily sucking my tongue into his throat. Next, he got up and chained my arms above my head to an overhead chain. I sort of hung there while he sorted through his cup­board toys, extracting a small roll of piano wire. Getting down on his knees, he went for my sagging cock, nursing it into a hard, pointed erection. While sucking me, Fontaine was busy coiling the wire around my tender testicles and hanging — one by painful one — metal weights to the wire. Each time I wavered, my balls swung, and the weights pulled even harder. Standing as still as possible was the name of this game.

Positioning a chair some distance from me, he placed a heavy metal object on the seat, fastening one end of the wire to the object, then stretching the wire out to coil around my erection. It didn’t hurt at first, so I became optimistic. The quick pat­ting commenced and there was more sucking and twisting of my nipples, as he let his patting move around to my bubble butt. Stepping behind me, his pats evolved into smart, hard slaps. His hand swung powerfully, landing blow after blow on my tender ass. Naturally, inevitably, each heavy blow made my body shudder and move, automatically swing­ing my hips and testicles.

The weights were merciless, but apparently I wasn’t suffering sufficiently to satisfy my tormen­tor; he attached another metal weight to my balls, and this time I yelled. Grinning, Fontaine returned to his slapping work. Shit, I could feel his hand­prints all over my buttocks! I knew, though, that this pain/pleasure was what I was here for and what he anticipated as a Master. At that very moment, as my hips bucked in pain, I was clearly aware of more wonderfully painful sensations to come.

Soaking in a silver pail in the corner were sev­eral long canes; I hadn’t noticed them before. Fontaine, selecting one and slapping it against a table, bent it for resilience and weight. Then I felt his hands smoothing over my burning buttocks, rubbing that cane up and down my crack. I had had whips and crops on my ass before, but never a cane! Observing my fear and excitement, Fontaine came around, kissing me and saying encouraging things — I hoped. Then, he stepped back behind me, snap­ping the cane menacingly. Then he swung.

I saw stars with that first smashing cut across my bare back. It was livid agony! But that wasn’t the sensation that really hurt; it was the aftermath of each blow of the cane. My body buckled; my hips shuddered; my howls went unheard. The wire con­necting my cock and the weight on the chair tight­ened, squeezing my meat and forcing it forward! For each crash of the cane, I had to get out a “Merci, monsieur!”

After some fifteen blows, he’d ask: “Plus, mon cher? Plus?” And of course, I’d agree with “Oui, monsieur.” Fontaine would kiss the scarlet stripes on my back, butt, and upper legs, and then wal­lop them again. I felt numb; my body sagged.

Putting down the awful cane, he dabbed his fin­gers in a jar of medical cream and began lathering my back and ass; I flinched at his every touch. I felt his fingers expressly lubricating my asshole with the stuff, and then, shockingly, his greased cock pen­etrated me easily, pushing my hips back and forth and consequently activating the piano wire coiled around my cock. The fucking pleasure was modi­fied by the genital agony I endured. His muscular arms held me close to his rocking hips as powerful, searing thrusts filled my rectum. Fontaine kept mur­muring soothing things while he kissed my neck and fucked me senseless. Deep in me, he wallowed, scratching my smoking ass with his pubic forest. I gave up screaming, descending to coarse moans with each anal jolt. He came in me violently, ramming gallons of hot cum into my hole.

Finally finished, he pulled out, wiped us both off with a towel, and unleashed me. Cradling me in his big arms, he carried me to the bed and let me doze off in grateful isolation.

Next morning, numb and blistered, I awoke to an empty, silent loft. A small note said: “Good­bye, thank you, see you around.” I hurriedly dressed, rang for a taxi, and was driven back to my hotel on the Rue de Seine. Strange, how a sub­missive still wants to be dominated, after all I had endured! After recovering from my beating, I returned night after night to le Picasso in Montmartre, warding off various guys and impa­tiently waiting to see Fontaine. He never appeared. I had left my hotel number with him at his loft. I had a vague idea of where he lived but naturally wouldn’t go banging on his door. It was as if we had never met!

In bed at night, I would jack off thinking of him, of his body next to mine, of his treatment of me. It was pure emotional torture realizing that Fontaine was somewhere in Paris, and indifferent to me! I promised myself that were I fortunate enough to have him at me again, I would be a hell of a lot more grateful, cut out the screaming and the writhing, take him to dinner somewhere, offer myself for anything he desired. But he was gone out of my fire.

There was little consolation in allowing two strong guys to overpower me one night under a bridge on the Seine, where I had gone to nurse my woes. They were the lowest of Parisian scum out to rob me, beat me, and fuck me. Listlessly, I submitted as the guys alternated between my mouth and asshole, finally leaving me a total wreck under that shadowy bridge. So, one day I made plans to catch the train out of Paris for Germany. However, I wanted one more stroll about the lovely, heartbreaking city of light.

It was noon, I remember, as I wandered along the busy Rue de Rivoli heading to the Place de la Concorde. The narrow street was thronged with elegantly dressed Parisians heading for various cafes and restaurants. Businessmen, gesturing and hollering above the city noise, moved in groups up and down the sidewalks. The sky was sunny, bright; everything was colorful, in motion. Could this have been the very street where mobs of Parisians screamed with delight as Marie Antoinette, bound with her arms behind her and wearing a white bonnet, had ridden in a garbage cart to the waiting guillotine?

It was, accordingly, difficult to reconcile that these sophisticated, well dressed, animated handsome folk could ever be a screaming mob thirsting for the head of an aristocrat! But then, I remembered Fontaine, who grinned while he flogged me. Per­haps, sadism was a basic fundamental of every person, one way or another? We submissives must be the abnormal ones.

Across the street, a small group of men made their way, avoiding the traffic and chattering avidly. I paused in my tracks, gazing at two of them, both men devastatingly handsome, smiling. One of these two was fair haired with a sweet, beautiful face. The other was Fontaine.

At first, I didn’t recognize him in a suit, smartly elegant, a total businessman on his lunch hour. Not a vestige of the enticing leather gear, the tough manner, the magnificent muscled body beneath that business suit! I didn’t move. I simply stared at both men, mostly at Fontaine. Among the crowds, I stood alone. As the group neared me, one guy, the fair haired one, glanced at me. Scowling, he waved his arm at me and shouted in French some­thing about did I want a photograph? Laughing, he then ignored me and continued walking with the group of men.

Fontaine, still chatting away, never looked back.