Issue 26, January/February 1992
Clothes Make the Slavegirl
In addition to the rigorous discipline of being made to "toe the line" physically, domestically and scholastically, Eric also undertook the renovation of my wardrobe. He walked into our room one afternoon and announced that it was about eighteen years past time to do something about my clothes. When I dared to ask just what the fuck was wrong with my clothes, Eric got that crooked, disdainful smirk on his face and said that my taste in clothing vacillated somewhere between girlish, faggot and preppy. "You're a fucking Texan," he said. "Goddamit, you ought to look like one."
What was behind all this was that a check from my father, made payable to Eric, had just arrived with a note saying that this was the money to buy me some "real men's clothes." Obviously, it was all part of their conspiracy to "make a man out of me." When I balked over going clothes shopping with Eric, the matter was quickly settled in typical Eric fashion. He simply made me drop my pants, flipped me over his knees and paddled my panty-covered ass, while reminding me that slavegirls do not have opinions; they simply do as they are told.
Consequently, within hours, my wardrobe was transformed from sissy-faggot-preppy to macho-Texan, which means that I instantly looked like everybody else in my fraternity. I felt like a fucking clone. Numerous pairs of Levis and a jean jacket replaced my khaki shirts and sports coat. Several of those goat-roper, western-style plaid shirts and a big pile of T-shirts took the place of my baggy angora sweaters and my pastel oxford cloth button-downs, which were now relegated solely to dress-up occasions. Cowboy boots and athletic tube socks took the place of my tasseled loafers, fluffy crew socks and argyles.
Previously, I had scarcely owned a T-shirt. Now, I had to wear them most of the time. Most of my collection were either plain or decorated with designs as innocuous as the university and fraternity logos. However, a few others were more difficult to explain in polite company. These were the ones Eric had ordered through the mail with such embarrassing inscriptions as "GIRLFRIEND," ‘SLAVE," or "IN TRAINING" stenciled on them.
In addition to having to wear these shirts around the frat house, Eric would always make me wear one of them whenever he took me to a leather bar. On these unnerving and stressful occasions, I would also be wearing my chains, or my leather slave collar with its little brass plate stating that I was Eric's property. In the beginning, I was still too young to drink beer legally, which would have been difficult anyway, since my wrists were often handcuffed behind my back; yet another humiliation which did nothing to make these leather bar excursions enjoyable for me. The most I could hope for, assuming that Eric was in a good mood, was to be allowed to sip pop through a straw.
These periodic forays into the leather bars of several south Texas cities are among the most uncomfortable memories of our college escapades. One traumatic Saturday night in particular will be forever etched on my mind. Eric, who was pissed with me over something—I don't even remember what—took me into a bar handcuffed, and with the cuffs fastened by a chain to the D-ring in the back of my collar which kept my wrists jacked up into the middle of my back. In addition, he had also fastened me into a very tight leather cock harness and ball stretcher before making me put on a pair of very lacy, ultrafeminine pink panties. As though this wasn't punishment enough, Eric had refused me anything to drink and kept whispering threats like, "How would you like me to drag you up there on that stage and jerk your pants down so these studs can get a load of the kind of undies a real slavegirl wears?" Finally, when he could see that I was on the verge of tears, Eric put an end to my misery by saying, "C'mon, let's get out of here so I can really give you something to cry about!"
All that aside, ironically, it was in the leather bars that I learned the most about this complex man I both loved and feared. Eric has a way, without even trying, of attracting the attention and respect of other men. This meant that it was not at all unusual for us to end up with a whole shit-load of guys crowded around us. Under the right circumstances, if Eric was primed with enough beer, as well as the right questions, he could become quite talkative; something he seldom was otherwise.
It was under these circumstances that I discovered something of the origin of Eric's fascination with corporal punishment as well as the whole leather and discipline scene in general. Among other things, I learned of his childhood on a relatively poor Minnesota farm and of his grim determination to make something of himself. I also learned about his devout but overly strict Swedish Lutheran father, and listened with spinetingling fascination as Eric described their frequent trips to the woodshed.
One question I had never had the guts to ask centered around how Eric had been treated as an Alpha Chi pledge. Given his age, maturity and formidability, I had always found it difficult to imagine Eric being put through Alpha Chi's customary barbaric hazing. It was also impossible for me to conceive of Eric ever being that submissive. To my surprise and delight, Eric got steered onto this subject in a bar one night and began to tell of his own personal experiences of being disciplined; first by his father, then in boot camp and, finally, as a fraternity pledge.
Since Eric had always prided himself on being able to handle whatever those in authority could dish out, he had worked hard to be "one of the guys" and not to appear intimidating. He was well aware that he was at least three years older and far more experienced than the sophomores who were in charge of initiating him. The pledgemasters, apparently aware of Eric's potential to intimidate, and unwilling to risk his getting out of anything or receiving any special treatment, assigned, as his big brother, the biggest, most mean-spirited, most insensitive sophomore in the entire fraternity; a not very bright asshole who was not in the least impressed or intimidated by either Eric's size or his background.
According to Eric, his big brother made him drill holes in his big oak paddle and forced him to "assume the position" at the slightest provocation or for no provocation at all. There were apparently other times when Eric was tied up for paddling sessions; sometimes suspended by his wrists or bound over the back of a chair with his ass in the air. I was especially interested in the fact that, as macho as Eric is, he admitted in the bar that night that there had been days when he had had difficulty sitting on his raw ass for classes, especially since his big brother made him wear a piece of scratchy burlap inside his jockey shorts at all times. I could well believe that Eric had really had it stuck to him, since his big brother was the same motherfucker who had paddled me black and blue one day during Hell Week outside the music building. Eric concluded the tale of his fraternity initiation by commenting wryly that, as hard as this son-of-a-bitch had tried, he still hadn't been able to top what his father used to do to him in the woodshed back on their farm in Minnesota.
I also remember vividly, on another night and in another bar, when Eric told of his enlistment in the Marine Corps immediately following high school, and the circumstances which led to his becoming an MP. I suspect that I wasn't the only man in the bar that night who felt his penis stiffen as Eric launched into detailed descriptions of how he and his fellow MPs handled the servicemen who were unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches. One night in particular, I recall being blown away by Eric's story of how some older, more experienced MPs had taught him the fine art of how to administer a whipping without leaving any telltale marks on the naked body of the man being whipped.
However, the most memorable part of the evening was Eric's description of how he and his MP buddies had disciplined an obstreperous, hunky Marine who had been arrested for being AWOL for the second time. After they had gotten their prisoner booked into the brig, they dragged him down to an uninhabited section of the brig and slammed him into an empty cell. When they had removed his handcuffs, belly chains and leg irons, they forced their handsome prisoner to strip himself naked. After they had blindfolded him, they gagged him with his own jockey briefs which they tied in place with one of his own socks. Then they tied both of his boots to his balls by their laces before roping their captive spread-eagled to the bars of the cell. At this point, they informed their unlucky prisoner that he was going to be whipped. This, they told him, was the best punishment for Marines who try to write their own rules, are habitually AWOL, and are caught while wearing nonregulation skivvies.
As Eric went on to describe the actual whipping, I could feel the juices beginning to churn in my balls. About the time he got to the part where the MPs forced the poor guy to kneel and suck all their cocks before being fucked by them, I completely lost it. Luckily, for me, it happened to be the week of my "period," so the pad im my panties absorbed all the incriminating evidence and kept Eric from finding out about my accident.
Through nights such as these, I began to get a glimpse of what makes Eric tick, as well as gaining insight into his uncanny ability to do for me that which no one else had been able to do; specifically, to take control and make me do the things I should be doing—or else!
My three years in college with Eric were undeniably the making of me. I had entered college a somewhat effeminate, self-indulgent, temperamental, spoiled brat—a talented brat—but, nevertheless, a brat. I emerged on the verge of my senior year no less talented, yet tamed, disciplined, and with a manliness and a respect for authority I had never before possessed.
In addition, thanks to Eric, I also had a body of which I could really be proud. Although I had always had a pretty nice body—what people often refer to as a "swimmer's body"—I had never looked so good. I recall being enormously proud when Eric began to brag openly that I was just about the only boy in the whole music school who didn't look or act like a wimp or faggot. Somehow, this alone was worth all the endless running, swimming and iron-pumping, not to mention the countless hours of manual labor on my folks' ranch during vacations.
Dad had been so delighted with the work—I called it slave labor—Eric had volunteered us for during that first spring break, that he hired both of us to work for him the next two summers. Mostly, we did hot, sweaty grunt work on the ranch, except on those occasions when dad needed one or both of us at the clinic in Richardson to fill in during staff vacations. Naturally, I much preferred working in the air-conditioned clinic where Eric wasn't in a position to boss me around. There was also less chance of my being tied over the old examining table in the barn for a paddling [see THE MARINE AND THE SISSY – 4] when my work didn't happen to please him.
An interesting footnote to all this is that, during our college years, Eric gradually stopped making crude remarks about "those fucking goddam queers." He also stopped bragging about how "straight" he was. Obviously, Eric is plenty smart enough to spot the incongruity of protesting one's total heterosexuality all the while one has his mouth clamped firmly around another guy's erect cock. Although it has always seemed somewhat out of character to me, the longer we were together, the more Eric seemed to enjoy occasionally sucking my cock, provided, of course, that it was solely his idea. I also noticed that, during our first year together, Eric's dates with women became fewer and fewer until eventually they stopped altogether.
When, finally, my curiosity had overwhelmed me and I had worked up enough nerve to call this to Mr. Studley Macho's attention, instead of the violent explosion I had anticipated, Eric did something which was totally out of character. He simply slipped his hand down the waistband of my jeans, playfully pinched my pantied ass—hard—and dismissed the whole subject once and for all by chuckling, "You're woman enough for me, slavegirl!"
The only really bad news in all this was that our time together eventually had to come to an end. Eric graduated at the end of my junior year and went back into the Marine Corps, this time commissioned as a second lieutenant. The good news is that, ultimately, this very difficult parting was not destined to mark the end of our relationship.
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