By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 2: One’s Company

Roger let me know that he’d made not only the room arrangements but also an appointment for us with Major Timmons of the St. Bevons State Labour Program.  “I confess that I have had the tour already, but I will enjoy meeting him again, and I am sure that you will enjoy it too.  We will meet him at his office at 9:00 a.m. on the second day after your arrival.  As for our own meeting, may I suggest 7 p.m., local time, on the day you arrive?  I will make our dinner reservations for that hour in the restaurant of the King George Hotel.  I think you will find the Oak Room more than passable.  We can meet in the lobby.”

“Thank you—but how will we recognize each other?  Should I carry a copy of ‘BDSM for Fun and Profit’?”

“Oh yes, that is a question.  For purposes of recognition, my dear sir, I humbly request a photo of yourself.  You will note that I am not yet requesting an exchange of names.  After all, what, to the world, is a photograph without a name?”

Always the dom, I thought.  But he was right.  What’s a picture, at this point, without a name attached?  I broke my normal rule and sent him one.  It was only about three years old.  Just the generic slacks-polo-smile.  I looked pretty good.  Having sent my own picture, I could see no reason to get sticky about his.  After all, he was going out of his way to handle all of this, and it wasn’t as if I was supposed to turn up in some dark, remote location, where he would rob and rape me.

So there.  Everything was settled.  We were free to continue our chats about St. Bevons and its penal labor program–which, it seemed, Roger knew a great deal about.  I had always connected BDSM with games: dungeons in the basement, safe words, real men who really, on the inside, wanted to be enslaved by a loving man.  That was fun, and it had brought Roger and me together online.  But now I was waking up to other possibilities: real, public, official, permanent, cold, uncaring, inescapable bondage and discipline.  Roger left the details indistinct and tantalizing, so that the more I thought about it the more ideal it seemed.  To see it first-hand would be amazing!  I found myself fantasizing about it constantly, and for the first time in a long time, I was constantly getting hard.

Roger must have known that, because he soon brought up “a regrettably serious topic”–“good conduct, or what is deemed to be good conduct, on the isle of St. Bevons.  You doubtless remember my mentioning the conservatism of the islanders.  This means that public . . . exhibits of sexuality, are, in any form, very much frowned upon.  And for visitors, sexual expressions toward slappies are grounds for expulsion from the island.”

“Too bad!” I said, although I didn’t know whether it was bad or not.  But “public”: who wants to see other people with their dicks hanging out anyway?  And who knew what those slappies actually looked like?  And smelled like!  But I didn’t want my virility to be questioned, so a show of disappointment was in order:

“That doesn’t sound like fun,” I said.

“Yes, perhaps,” he replied.  “But what goes on within closed doors, among the population of the place—that is another matter.  Who was it who said, ‘That’s what doors are for’?  And among free people, of course . . . .”

“Of course.”

I wished I had thought of something different to say than that.  Roger was a complete English, or Caribbean, gentleman, but he was much more determined than I’d thought, and it could be embarrassing if, actually, he wanted to start a relationship.  I wanted to see St. Bevons, but I didn’t want to wake up as The Boyfriend.  I’d seen too many guys start off with a great BDSM thing, and a few months later they were rotting with boredom.  They’d tried to combine love with their fetish, but isn’t a fetish something you have instead of love?  Besides, what do two dominant guys have to do with each other?  Enough said.

But how could I change things now?  I couldn’t.  But to tell the truth, I wasn’t happy with my own reaction.  I’d been the CEO of an investment company.  I knew all about risks, and surmounting them.  Then I sold out and retired.  I should be spending all my time doing things simply because I wanted to do them.  I should be traveling more, having more adventures . . . .  But I’d noted lately that I was becoming more withdrawn, more risk averse, more afraid of spoiling things than of doing things.  It was as if I’d already tried to be happy, and I’d failed, so I quit.  I was sure there were ways to escape from this depression that seemed to follow me around; I just had to find them.  But if I wouldn’t even take the risk of going to some boutique “country” in the Caribbean . . . .

So then the trip started looking hot again.  But on the day before I was supposed to leave, I got a text from Roger:

“Terribly sorry–am unable to arrive tomorrow.  Cannot desert negotiations here in Wien.  May we reschedule?”

Fuck what a disappointment!  After all that effort to get myself ready!  But maybe, I thought, this isn’t the problem; it’s the solution.  It would be interesting to meet Roger and have him show me around–interesting, and risky too, with that cloud of “relationship” hanging over my head.  Why couldn’t I go on this trip myself?

I saw my opportunity, and I took it.  “No hard feelings!  But my schedule is so difficult . . . .  I’m afraid I’ll have to proceed to St. Bevons alone, and look forward to meeting you at another time.”

I sent the message and winced.  It was a lot colder than I’d intended.

There was a loud silence on the Viennese end of the conversation.  Finally he said, “I understand.  Yes, we must meet at another time.  I will notify the hotel to expect you only.  Major Timmons also.”

He didn’t seem to be upset, and I hoped he wasn’t.  “Negotiations here in Wien . . . . ”  Maybe he was having second thoughts about meeting me as well.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it!” I replied.  “I’ll tell you all about my visit.  And whether I decide to invest in St. Bevons.”  “Excellent!” he said.  “I may do so myself.”

So we were back to banter—happily.  I wouldn’t have wanted to worry about him, while I was having fun on St. Bevons.

The next day I was on my flight, as scheduled.

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