Issue 26, January/February 1992
6
"Do those chains go where I think they go?"
For the remainder of that school year I was seldom allowed out of the chains except for swim team practice, running, working out, or while we were in bed having sex. As awkward and embarrassing as these chains could be in certain situations, there was no way I could escape, even temporarily, since Eric kept the keys on his keyring. Even though the locks were only tiny suitcase size locks, I couldn't figure out how to jimmy them since they were good Master brand locks and not the cheap junk which can be picked with a paper clip.
In addition, along with the chains came another accoutrement of slavery from Eric's creative imagination. Eric explained very carefully that a slave who wears girl's underwear is obviously a slavegirl, and slavegirls, like all other girls, have monthly periods. "Therefore," reasoned Eric, "I will expect you to exercise proper feminine hygiene one week out of every month."
As logical as Eric tried to make it sound, it never did a damn thing to ameliorate my embarrassment when I had to appear at a drug store check-out counter with a big box of sanitary napkins. After all, how many eighteen year old males do you know who have periods? Nevertheless, one week out of every month found me with an adhesive-backed pad in my panties pressing snugly against my penis. Since girls don't have sex during their periods, the pad did fulfill a useful purpose in that it absorbed any involuntary ejaculations, thereby eliminating any embarrassing wet spots in the front of my trousers which would have aroused Eric's wrath.
The guys in the frat house had eventually gotten used to seeing me in my panties and chains and had pretty much stopped hassling me about them, especially if Eric was around. Without much being said, at least in public, it seemed to be understood that the relationship between Eric and me was somehow different and was to be respected as such. Actually, I believe that most of our fraternity brothers were somewhat intrigued by the fact that I appeared to be Eric's perpetual pledge and was still obviously under his authority. In any event, Eric was the oldest member of Alpha Chi and far too respected to be given any hassle about anything he was into.
Nevertheless, in spite of all this, the utter impossibility of hiding the fact that I had been spanked or whipped did provide an occasional source of public humiliation which was simply too good for the brothers to pass up. Whip welts on various parts of my body were impossible to hide and even an ass paddling could not always be hidden by my underwear, since its redness would usually be visible through the thin nylon of my panties. Assuming that Eric wasn't within earshot, some moron would invariably feel compelled to call attention to my plight by making some sort of adroit intellectual observation such as: "Hey! Dean! Looks ‘zif Eric really hadta put it to ya, huh?" Or, "Jeez, Dean, whata fuck ja do to piss ‘im off so goddam bad?" Or, "Holy shit man! You're gonna hafta fuckin' grow a new ass this time!"
One of the more awkward incidents involving the chains occurred at my first piano lesson following spring break. My mentor, a wonderfully kind man who was like a father to me, kept staring at me with a quizzical look on his face as I banged my way through a Chopin ballade. When Leo could stand it no longer, he stood up, came over to the piano, hooked a finger under my neck chain clearly visible in back above the crew neck of my fraternity T-shirt, and asked me point blank why I was wearing a dog chain around my neck. With his other hand, Leo began to trace the bulge made by the padlock and the lumpy line which ran down the front of my shirt until it disappeared into my Levis. As well as I knew Leo and loved him, I still could not help blushing as he carefully examined my lock and chains. Even though Leo knew all about the abuse I had taken during Hell Week and had been appalled by it, still, he was no fool, and I was totally at a loss as to how to explain those damn chains.
However, before I even had a chance to open my mouth, Leo jumped the gun on me by asking, very directly and in a totally nonthreatening way, "Did your big Marine lover put these on you?" After I had recovered sufficiently from the shock of his astute observation, I silently bit my lip and nodded my head. "Do those chains go where I think they go?" Leo continued. After I had again nodded in the affirmative, Leo simply shrugged and said, in a very sensitive, nonjudgmental way, "Well, all I can say is that you must love him an awful lot." Then, after a brief pause, he added somewhat wistfully: "But then—of course—he is gorgeous!"
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