Quite a few of the submissions asked Foster what he had to offer. These were rejected out of hand. There was no point in responding to those who couldn't appreciate the significance of the word, applications. Also discarded were those admitting to an age above eighteen. He didn't mean that he was looking for someone over eighteen, but rather someone who could claim to be that age. In point of fact, Foster wanted a person who appeared to be and could be younger than that.

Most were culled, a few chosen for a reply. Perhaps one a month received the e-mail, "If you are serious, come to me." It then went on to provide the direction to take the bus from wherever the aspirant lived, to plan the trip to arrive on the 10:15, in the morning, and to let Little Master know what day he would be arriving, not to worry about missing the stop, it was the end of the line. There to look for a short, heavy man in black jeans, black leather jacket and black leather fedora. He told the young men, that if things didn't work out, he would provide funds to return home, therefore to save their receipts. That would be the last Foster would hear from them, except once.

*****

Blake didn't know what a fedora was and had to ask someone before he left Spokane. A hat like gangsters used to wear in old, black and white movies, he was told. Easy to spot, the man was even shorter and fatter than Blake had expected. It pleased him that he would not feel physically overwhelmed. Closer to, the baby faced fellow gave an impression of softness and weakness. Little Master's age was only given away by gray sideburns.

"I'm Blake," he said upon approaching the man.

Foster recognized the handsome, sandy haired youth from the photograph he had sent. He smiled a greeting and motioned towards a nearby, wooden bench. "Let's talk," he said.

As soon as they were settled, Foster began. "Give me your wallet."

"What?" the boy asked, although he had heard all right.

"Well, that's all right, Blake," Foster assured him. "Some people really aren't cut out to be Slave Boy. Show me your receipts and I'll give you the money to go home."

"No, wait!" Blake pleaded. "I'm new at this. Please be patient, I want it to work." The youngster dug into his back pocket and offered Foster a worn leather wallet.

The man took it. "Well, OK Blake. The first thing you need to learn is to do what I ask of you without question. And I wont put up with much hesitation either. Unless its because you're not sure what I want. In that case, you should ask." Foster put the boy's wallet in his own pants pocket.

"OK," Blake said.

"You know something about computers, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know what a default is."

"It's what happens if you don't specify something else."

"Right," Foster agreed. "We'll be using defaults. For example, your default is silence. You don't speak unless I ask you something, or give you an instruction that requires speaking, or, as I said before, if you need further instruction."

Blake said nothing.

"Good," Foster commended, after a short wait. If I should get up and start to go someplace, your default is to follow behind me about three or four steps. If I want you to walk beside me or to do something else, I'll gesture or tell you what I want. If I call your name, come to me at once. Got it?"

"Yup," Blake said.

"In public you call me, sir, at home you call me, master."

"Yes sir," the boy uttered by way of correction and then wondered if he should have spoken. But Little Master did not admonish him. Instead the man got up and, without saying anything further, began to walk away.

Blake jumped to his feet to follow, but the man stopped after only a few paces. "Blake," he said. The lad went to him. "There's a public toilet here, do you need it? We'll be a while before going home."

"I better," the boy said.

"I'll wait for you on the bench."

*****

Blake followed the man to Cafe Express. Foster took a table near the window and sat down. He motioned for Blake to take the other chair opposite him.

"Coffee or something else?" Foster asked the boy.

"Coffee's fine," Blake declared.

Once their order had been taken and the waiter departed, Foster said, "Some masters mess with their slave's food, deciding what he will eat. And how. Some make the slave eat out of dog's dishes on the floor. I'm not interested in that sort of thing."

The man took Blake's wallet out of his pocket and emptied its contents of everything but folding money. He put the accumulated cards and slips of paper in his own shirt pocket. Then he took out his own wallet, removed about ten twenties and stuffed them into the boy's wallet. Handing it to Blake, he commanded, "Carry this and pay for whatever we buy. I like to see their faces when the kid pays the bills."

Little Master smiled and Blake returned it. He liked the joke, but wondered if it was permissible for him to smile. "Smiling's OK," Foster reassured the youngster. "Expressions and subtle gestures, too. I don't want to control those."

Their coffee came and they drank it in silence.

*****

The rest of that morning and early afternoon they toured the town, stopping for lunch at Capi's. Little Master pointed out the location of The Vault, the town's leather bar, and more mundane places including the post office, town hall and bank. Foster wanted time to observe Blake before he took him home. If he sensed anything dangerous about the boy it would be easier to get rid of him before Blake knew where he lived.

Shortly before two, Foster headed toward his condominium in the East End. It took fifteen minutes to reach Dyer Street, where they turned. Half way down Dyer they turned again into a short, private drive. They came to a house with a green door that had two inset, cut and frosted glass panels and a porcelain knobbed, crank handle for ringing the bell.

Little Master unlocked the door. "We're upstairs," he said, leading the way past a short hall and foyer that once led to downstairs rooms before the condo conversion. Facing Blake at the top of the stairs was a tall case clock with carvings of father time on the center panel, a gargoyle at the top and the sun at the bottom. In the mind of the youngster it was a grandfather clock. He recognized the other furnishings as being antique but without knowing the names of the styles.

Foster gave Blake a quick tour of the three room apartment. "If you need to use the toilet, ask. I wont refuse you. Some masters want to control their slaves bowels and bladders. I don't. But I do want to know what you're up to."

Foster took a seat in a wooden armchair and put his feet on a low stool. "Your default is to sit on the floor, anywhere within eyesight. Or you can stand or do push ups. You can read if you want. Help yourself to the books or magazines or whatever. But before you do anything else go into the bedroom. You'll find a cardboard box in the corner. Bring it out here."

Blake returned a half minute later carrying a two foot corrugated cube that had the top flaps pushed down into itself.

"Put the box on the floor near the top of the stairs," Foster directed. When the boy had done this, Little Master continued. "OK, take everything off and put it in the box.? Your default is to be naked unless I tell you to put something on."

"On second thought," Foster amended, "everything probably needs to be washed. Just put your boots in the box and come with me."

After stowing his boots, Blake followed Little Master into the bedroom. The man opened the closet door. "I keep that green bag in here for dirty laundry. Take it out."

They proceeded to the bathroom where there was a stackable washer/dryer. Limiting himself to no more than resting a hand on the lad's shoulder, Foster showed the boy how to operate the machine and left him to it. Blake emptied the laundry bag into the washer, then removed and added his own clothes. He set the water level on high and put in a capful of detergent. Once the machine was going, he returned to the main room where the two front windows gave little views of the bay between the one row of houses in front.

He stood in the middle of the floor and when Little Master glanced at him, Blake pantomimed washing himself. Foster smiled. The boy's body was more beautiful than he had expected. The skin was nearly flawless, the had the musculature of an amateur athlete, showing more definition than a swimmer, less than a gymnast. "Do you want to take a shower?" he guessed.

"Please," Blake said. He did feel grubby from the log trip, but he also wanted to be sure his bottom was clean if he was going to be putting his bare backside on the oriental carpet.

"OK," Foster said, "you have permission to wash. But be careful with your dick. I don't want you having any orgasms other than the ones I decide you can have."

*****

Once Blake was both naked and clean, he manifested an expectation of imminent sexual activity. Little Master, however, was engrossed in looking through the cards and slips of paper that he had taken from the boy's wallet. Blake sat down of the floor and waited. Foster knew that the greatest pleasures of the fantasy would be derived from a gradual development of the theme. He wanted to experience acute feelings of sexual desire for an extended period and he wanted the youngster to undergo them as well.

Some masters deny their slaves all sexual release. This was not Foster's way, but he did want the youngster to be dependent upon him for that excruciating pleasure. The boy would receive it only from Foster and at a time determined by him.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Little Master read and listened to music. When the laundry was dry he showed the lad how he wanted things folded and put away. Then he went back to his book. As Blake waited, his mind wandered among reminiscences and day dreams.

The man called out, "Boy." Blake, startled out of reverie, jumped to his feet. "Do you know anything about cooking""

"A little," he claimed, although it was very little in fact.

Little Master began Slave Boy's instruction with salad making; the washing and drying of lettuce leaves, the cutting of vegetables into interesting shapes, the artistic arrangement of ingredients, the use of embellishments such as anchovies or cheese. While supervising this project, Foster readied a loin of pork for roasting, parboiled potatoes, and prepared some beets. Later he taught Blake how to set the table.

*****

After dinner, Blake learned how the man wanted him to wash the dishes and stack them in the drying rack. Then he sat at Little Master's feet while they watched a movie. Occasionally, the man played with his hair. The film finished and Foster went into the bedroom, Blake followed.

"Pull all of the covers over the foot of the bed," Little Master ordered. Slave Boy complied. "Put the pillows on the floor." Foster took a tube of KY out of the drawer in the bedside table. He had the youngster hold out his hand and he squeezed a dollop of the lubricant onto Blakes's fingers. "Apply that to your anus." The boy did. The man gave him a hand towel to use. "Lie face down and spread your legs as far apart as you can."

Blake got into position and waited, listening to the sounds of the man disrobing. "I'm using a condom," Little Master assured the boy. "I'm HIV negative, but I'm using one anyway. You shouldn't ever let anyone fuck you without a condom, slave boy or not. There isn't any way you can be sure that the other person is honest, or maybe just careless."

The youngster closed his eyes. He felt the bad sag as the man climbed onto it, then a pair of hands vigorously massaging his buttocks, fingers spreading the two halves apart, the man's penis pressing into him, the weight of the other's body. Afterward, Little Master held him, caressed him and masturbated him. He felt incredibly relaxed.

Then Slave Boy cleaned himself, retrieved the pillows and the bed clothes. He lay down nest to Little Master, on his side, sharing a pillow as he had been directed. "I want you to whisper into my ear, everything you remember of yesterday, what you did, what you ate, what you thought, who you spoke to, what you said, what was said to you, everything. When you're finished with yesterday, start on the day before, and so on, until I fall asleep."

*****

In the days that followed, Blake became chauffeur, among other things. They seldom went anywhere other than the supermarket. Slave Boy would follow behind Little Master, pushing the cart. Foster had a list and knew the store well enough so that they could start at one end and work their way to the other without needing to double back very often.

At home, the youngster was the maid and butler as well as doing all of the cooking. Except for a morning walk they hardly ever left the house. That was a two mile round trip to the center of town. They got coffee to go and drank it sitting on a bench in Lopes Square.

Foster would play with the boy several times a day, bringing him to orgasm. But he only screwed him once a night. Then Blake would resume, day by day, the story of his life. Sometimes he would remember something that had happened in a period he had already covered and have to flash forward. Sometimes the next day, the man would ask him a question of clarification about something the youngster had spoken of the night before.

Blake had a lot of time to think about his situation. He had answered Little Master's personal ad because he had wanted to experience being Slave Boy. It was an idea that had gnawed at him for some time. So when the notice appeared, he saw his chance and he took it. Of course, he was not really a slave, that was a legal impossibility. He could walk out on it at any time, unlike a real slave.

Although it was merely a game of role playing, he had agreed to the role and had wanted to play it. In effect, he had given himself to the man for a while. It had worked. The boy really felt at times as though Foster owned his body, had the right to direct his behavior and to do with him as he liked. It was satisfying the craving that he had felt.

At the end of a few months, he found something else as well, something he had not expected. Perhaps it was the endless, nighttime telling of his story that made the difference. Blake felt that Foster wanted him more than he thought it was possible for one person to want another. Sure, his parents and siblings loved him, were worrying about him no doubt, after he just took off again, leaving a note again. His friends wanted him, but not as thoroughly. Little Master wanted to know every inch of his body, every thought in his mind. The youngster realized that, unlike a slave, he was the center of the man's life.

Now and then, Little Master would ask Slave Boy what he was thinking. The next time Foster inquired, Blake announced, "I was thinking that I love you." The youngster was as much surprised by this statement as the man was. It hadn't taken this form in his mind before that moment. How, after all, could he be in love with a short, fat, milquetoast man past middle age? Yet the aesthetics of the situation were satisfied for Blake by Blake. His own beauty was constantly the focus of their lives. Yet it was the man's intense interest in him, physical and beyond the physical, that he appreciated, that and the thoughtfulness and kindness that were shown him in many little ways.

"Do you love me?" Blake haltingly asked.

"Well, yes," Little Master admitted, reluctantly. Perhaps he knew what was coming, and regretted the transformation. Honesty was one of his worst traits.

Both were silent for a while, then, "I don't want to be Slave Boy anymore, but I don't want to leave either."

"I guess we'll have to play a different game," Foster sighed.

*****

Foster and Blake became coequals. The teenager continued to do most of the cooking, but they did menu planning together. The middleager took over dusting and vacuuming. The boy wore clothes. Their relationship slowly and relentlessly transformed itself.

A little less than two years after his arrival, they celebrated Blake's eighteenth birthday. The lad announced that the time had come for him to get a job. He wanted to learn the restaurant business, perhaps become a chef and owner. He would start looking for an entry level position.

Foster used to go to bed by eleven. The youngster trained himself to wake up at twelve thirty. He would get dressed and walk down town. He would arrive outside The Vault at one on the clock and wait for the leather men to straggle out at closing time. He would be noticed. Men who had not found a partner for the night engaged him in conversation. Most nights he went off with someone. Little Master had been just right for him when he was a kid, but now Blake wanted to be with strong, viral men who practiced a more robust sexuality.

*****

Years later, after Blake had been to culinary school, apprenticed with experienced chefs and saved his money, he opened his own restaurant. It was called Little Master's and the sign featured the black silhouette of a short, fat man wearing a fedora.

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