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be part of a search for something else…"
    "So it's a two-year phase for me, Martin. So The Club is the perfect landscape for my search."
    "I'm not so sure, Elliott."
    "It's too much like the boyhood fantasy I had, don't you see? Being sold to the Greek master for a period of years. It's too perfect…"
    "Time doesn't mean much in a fantasy…"he objected.
    "Martin, the die was cast when you told me about the place. Now if you won't sign the papers, I'll find some other way…"
    "Don't get angry." He had cooled me off at once with that easy smile. "I'll sign the papers. And for the full two years if that's what you want. But let me remind you that there were a lot of elements in that boyhood fantasy you told me."
    "This is too beautiful!" I said.
    "You may be searching for a person rather than a system," he went on. "And when you go to The Club, Elliott, the system—in all its remarkable splendor—is exactly what you get!"
    "I want the system," I'd said. "I can't turn away from this! If it's half as good as what you've described, I wouldn't miss it for anything in the world."
    ******
    So the contract for two years at The Club with its male and female slaves, male and female guests, its male and female handlers, trainers, staff. All right.
    Okay. That's
exactly
what I want. I don't think I can stand it. How could anyone stand it? It is just exactly what I want.
    ******
    No good to think of all that while trying to refrain.
    After six days at sea I was like a male dog tormented by a bitch in heat when I finally heard a key in the door.
    It was afternoon and I was just coming out of the bathroom, showered and shaved after a really late sleep. Maybe they knew that. Saved them work.
    It was the young blond-haired kid with the deep-bitten suntan and the white sleeves rolled halfway up his arms.
    He came in smiling again.
    "All right, Elliott," he said. "We're eighteen hours away from port. You're not to speak at all unless you're spoken to. And just do as you're told."
    There were two other men with him, but I didn't really see them. Instantly, they had swung me around, pinning my hands behind my back. I got a glimpse of a white leather blindfold before it was slipped into place. Secret panic. If only they wouldn't use the damned blindfold. I felt my pants being un-snapped, and the shoes being pulled off my feet.
    It was all beginning, really happening. My cock was immediately hard. But it was hell, absolute hell, not being able to see.
    I waited for the gag to come but it didn't, and as soon as I was stripped, my wrists were being shackled with leather cuffs and lifted over my head. Not too awful. Nothing as awful as being tied up tight.
    I was led into the corridor, and in spite of all the training I'd had, I was sort of stunned.
    But it was like an aphrodisiac had been pumped into me. When they hung my wrists up on a hook above me I was sorry I'd played by the rules all those nights in the cabin when I was alone.
    I didn't know where I'd been taken, except that for some reason it sounded like a large room. I could feel the presence of others there. I could hear them making small sounds. I could hear a sort of whimpering as though one of the slaves nearby was about to cry. I realized it was a woman slave.
    So we really were mixed together, males and females, just like they'd said we'd be. I couldn't picture it. And the sound of the woman confused me. Maybe I felt more powerless because I couldn't protect her. Or it tantalized me to know I was suffering silently in the same manner that she was suffering. I just couldn't tell.
    I hated the blindfold. Couldn't stop hating it. I rubbed my face against my arm trying to get it off but that was useless. And I had to make myself quit.
    And it crossed my mind as it would a hundred times that maybe Martin was right and I'd made an awful mistake. Training in Martin's house in San Francisco, what was that? And the brief stays at the country place, scary as they were, what had they been