Dennis had trashed the house again.  As always, he hadn't meant to, but something happened, he hit the bookshelf with the vaccuum cleaner while running over the cord with the machine on "heavy plush" setting.  Books toppled, hit the exposed cord and caught fire.  And one more time Dennis had given the civic services of their peaceful suburb something to do.  Police cars and fire trucks from both Demun and neighboring Bellevue crowded the entire block of the one-way street.  He and his parents stood on
the sidewalk, his mother clinging to his father with a stricken look as three firefighters broke windows and shot water into their house.  Neighbors crowded outside to watch, middle-aged women clucking and tittering, kids running up to ask bemused policemen what was going on, and could they play with the siren?

The insurance company settled for them once again, but Mr. Davenport assured his mom and dad that if this happened one more time, no firm would accept their application, no matter how much they were willing to pay.

And poor Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.  Dennis had offered to mow their lawn all year to make up for the fact that an out-of-control basketball had destroyed half of Mrs. Wilson's "Precious Moments" collection.  He had no idea how the ball had gotten into their house and gone through two rooms and a hallway to do its damage.

Wednesday when he was mowing the Wilsons' lawn, his shoe came untied.  He thought for sure that he had set the motor on "idle" while he took care of the shoelace, but it seemed like the idle was one part of the mower that wasn't working right.  Just Dennis' luck.  Scratch one flowerbed.

Both the Wilsons and his parents had decided to take a vacation. As usual, they left Dennis and made plans for him to go to somewhere else, probably on the other side of the country.  Or the world.

Once he turned fifteen, they felt fine letting him travel on his own.  Now he was seventeen, senior year just a few weeks away. He wondered where he was going this time.  They always found something interesting for him to do, where he could meet people his own age.  Amazing, but he almost never destroyed anything while on his trips.  Only once or twice, and it wasn't his fault.

It was boring in the house by himself, and depressing looking at the water damage on the ceilings and walls of the second floor, so he decided to take a walk around the neighborhood.  Summer was here, but wasn't too hot yet.  Perfect for getting out and messing around.

He didn't want to visit Margaret.  She had always been boy-crazy, even when they were in kindergarten, and now she was acting in ways that made Dennis want to keep his distance.  She invited him to her house one afternoon early that summer, sat him on the couch and fed him some excellent snacks.  But then, when he was off guard stuffing a crab canape into his mouth, she leaned close, breathed in his ear that her parents weren't home and caressed him between his legs.  Dennis bolted up out of the couch, a flailing arm sending an antique lamp crashing to the floor, his knees catching the tray (which had the bad fortune to be hanging over the edge of the coffee table) and launching it across the room, miniature quiches and tiny sandwiches flying in all directions.  To say the least, Margaret was upset and sent him out the door ahead of a barrage of ashtrays and curios.

No sense in risking a scene like that again!  Much better to head over to Joey's house and play a few games of Magic or toss a baseball around.  Joey and his house seemed immune to Dennis, so Dennis hung around there as much as he could.

Never mind the fact that being near Joey made Dennis uncomfortable, in a different way than being near Margaret did. The heat of summer must be affecting him, he found himself wanting to smell Joey's curly hair while they leaned over their cards, touch him on the shoulders while he stood behind Joey and watched him play combat simulations on the computer.  Whenever he could, Dennis got Joey out of the house to play pinball at the laundry down the street, or whatever it took to get away from the temptations of Joey's bedroom, especially since Dennis was sure Joey wasn't interested in him that way.

But Joey wasn't home.  Joey's mom told Dennis he'd gone to a movie with some girl from their class.  Dennis thanked her and headed back home, a pang of jealousy catching him off guard.  Was he losing his best friend?  This was the fourth time in the past two weeks this had happened.

Still in a funk, Dennis walked up the steps of his home.  I guess I'd better check the mail, he thought.  It would most likely be the most exciting thing to happen today.

He didn't notice the boy standing on the porch, and nearly fell back down the stairs when he saw him.  The boy had stepped, silky and silent as a shadow, to stand between him and the mailbox.  He looked quite a bit younger than Dennis, nine or ten years old, and was dressed in loose black pants gathered in at the ankles, black slippers, and an emerald-green tunic, his hair and eyes as dark as the pants.  His olive skin looked middle-eastern.

Dennis wondered how long he had been waiting.  The boy didn't look impatient, and didn't sweat even in the midday sun.  He spoke in a mellow voice with a faint accent.  "Dennis K____?"

"That's me."

"Mr. K____, I have a delivery for you.  It is a gift from your parents."  The boy handed Dennis a silver-enameled box that looked like a jewelry box.  Curious now, Dennis took the box and opened it.

A silver key, its handle encrusted with tiny emeralds, sat on the grey velvet lining of the box.  Dennis held the key up to look at it better.  The emeralds shone in geometric patterns on both sides of the key, and maybe the metal was white gold, or even platinum.  It was more expensive, he was sure, than his parents' and the Wilsons' houses together.  Confused, he asked, "This is a gift?"

The boy nodded solemnly and handed Dennis a vellum envelope "Enclosed is your itinerary.  Please bring the key and make sure you are at the designated place on time."

Dennis stared at the envelope, which bore his name and address in hand-lettered calligraphy.  "Um, sure."

But he wasn't talking to anybody.  The boy had disappeared just as he had arrived, soundlessly, invisibly in the light of day.

The slave had taken the leather belts from his arms and legs to practice today;  they were too tight to let him move freely, and since he knew he wouldn't have any visitors for a while he didn't worry about staying in uniform.  The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged taut under pale skin, his arms forming a perfect "T" with his naked body as he suspended himself between the rings.  Slowly, he pulled himself up, legs bending at the hip at a precise right angle so that now they were straight in front of him.

A bolt of agony shot through his left arm, forcing him to let go and drop to the floor.  He landed safely but had to sit down for a minute while the pain dwindled down, moving by tooth-gritting degrees from bad to good, the kind that he liked, the pulsing pain that made his penis throb in response.  He massaged the arm, forcing the distracting pleasure away.

He had been practicing to help himself think, to sort out the news he'd received today, but as usual he'd worked himself too hard, didn't compensate for the bone that wasn't quite healed yet.

Two hours ago, the bell in his room had rung, which in itself was strange since the management rarely bothered with him.  The tiny blond messenger girl looked afraid of him when she first opened the door, but stuck to her training and delivered her message with a neutral face and voice.  "The management wishes to inform you that you have a new master.  Their arrival date is, at present, unknown.  That is all."  The door closed.

A new master.  Did that mean the old one was never coming back? The slave hoped so.

This man had broken and torn him when he could easily have strained and bruised him.  He could have tied him up, slapped him hard, used the tools in the room in any way he wanted, to leave his slave in such condition that he'd be good as new a day or three later.  But he hadn't.  The slave wasn't sure if his arm would ever be perfect again.

The Palace infirmary had to treat the slave for some new injury, on the inside or the outside of his body, nearly every time his master visited.  And the slave hated him.  Every time he heard the latch click, every time the smirking 30-something Japanese businessman stood in the doorway, jewelled key in hand, every time the man's narrow eyes devoured him behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses, the slave wished him dead.  Wished him dead even as the pain he inflicted made him hard and helpless, even as the blood he shed merged with the semen from his own and his master's bodies.  And now, today, his wish may have come true.

He wondered what his new master would be like.  He must be better than the previous one, because there was no way he could be worse.

The itinerary requested Dennis to wait on the front steps of his house the next morning at 6:00 a.m., and to bring as much clothing as he thought he'd expect to need for as long as he chose to stay.  That was one of the strange things about the packet of information he'd been given.  Apparently, being the owner of the emerald-encrusted key, he could go to "the Palace" any time he wished, for as long as he wanted each time.  The Palace even had an 888 number he could call to arrange for transportation from any place in the United States.  How much had his mom and dad spent on this?

Dennis packed for a five-day stay.  Looking over the brochure in the vellum envelope, the Palace didn't look exciting at all. "Well-appointed facilities for the discerning man or woman." "Fully-equipped gymnasium, sauna, and pool."  "Confidentiality guaranteed."  Ho-hum.  Not a word about bowling or softball leagues, or youth groups, or even tourist trips.  It sounded like a place adults went to sip cocktails and be genteel.

Dennis arranged for Joey's mother to come and look after the house and the dog, and was on the porch with his suitcase and backpack at the appointed time.  He was taking a pull from a 20-oz. diet cola when a black limosine pulled up.

A young girl who could be almost be the twin of the boy from yesterday, even wearing the same outfit, stood beside him, and took his suitcase to the limo before he could stand up.  He wondered how they did that, moving from place to place without crossing the space between.  She handed the suitcase to a tall, pale man in a cream-colored tunic and trousers, who put it in the trunk.  The girl held the car door open for Dennis, while the man took the chauffeur's seat.

The trip in the limo was strange.  Dennis sat in the back of the limo, facing the girl, and the boy from yesterday.  Recognizing the boy, Dennis smiled at him, and then at the girl.  The only response they made was to glance at each other, a silent communication flying between them, small smiles crossing their faces.  The smiles passed so quickly that Dennis thought he must have imagined it, especially when they turned back to him with solemn faces.  They looked as though they expected something from him.  Trying, and failing, to strike up a conversation with them, Dennis gave up and pulled out his Walkman and his current s.f. book.

The rest of the journey was, for him, pretty uneventful.  First he was on a 727 heading west, in the first-class section.  The man in the cream-colored uniform sat next to him, with the two kids sitting across the aisle from them.  Poor luck for the man, the plane hit some turbulence as Dennis was getting ready to take a sip of soda.  He was dry, but the man got drenched from top to toe with the contents of his glass.  "Sorry..."  The man waved him off.  He was very polite for someone whose clothes were ruined.  Dennis thought he heard one of the children stifle a snicker while the man wiped himself off, but by the time he got a chance to take a close look they were looking blank again.

After two changes of transportation, from the jet to a prop plane to a bus chartered for just the four of them, he realized he was completely lost and slept through most of the trip.  The itinerary had somehow blown out of the window of the bus, but his travelling companions knew where they were going, and the man reassured him that everything was taken care of, and that they would be at their destination soon.  So Dennis leaned back in his seat and dozed off again.

He woke up with a start, the man's long, white hand shaking his shoulder.  "Sir, we've arrived."  Dennis, still not fully alert, stumbled down the bus steps to the concrete drive.

His fuzzy head was jolted into life by an explosion of multi-colored lights that surrounded him on all sides.  Night in Las Vegas.  They had alighted at the valet entrance of a huge hotel, the lights of the Strip making it seem like day even though it was likely after midnight.  A cool, dry desert breeze ruffled Dennis' hair, and despite himself he got excited about his vacation.

He had never heard of the Palace before, maybe it was new?  He looked up at the towering hotel.  True to its name it was shaped like a palace from the Arabian Nights, at least twenty-five stories high, perfectly placed next door to the pyramid and sphinx of the Luxor.  Too bad, he wasn't allowed to gamble for another three and a half years, but if the Palace was boring he could find a show or an arcade to go to instead.  Maybe he should have packed for a longer stay, after all.

The slave made sure he remembered the first day he arrived at the Palace, through all the days and months that followed.  The memory fed him, reminded him that he had existed before that day, even though, after his training, huge blank spaces remained where parts of his past should have been.  The Palace had used drugs like an eraser on his brain, leaving pieces that he couldn't fit together, sensations with no context.

The Shadow Girl arrived at the door of his room that first day, and guided him to the place that would fill his life until the time he would receive his first keyholder. He asked questions as they walked through opulent high-ceilinged corridors, rode in silent elevators, walked down echoing flights of stairs.  She met
his eyes briefly and replied, "Your trainer will tell you all you need to know."  He got no further response from her.

The room the Shadow Girl led him into was plain cream, walls, ceiling, floor, nothing to relieve the sense of emptiness but the bed, the chair, the mat, the bars, the rank of tools hanging along the walls.

His trainer was a tall, pale-skinned man with white-blond hair and light blue eyes, his paleness emphasized by the long-sleeved tunic and pants that he wore, which were the same color as the
room.  From that time on, the slave knew him as the Phantom Man. The Shadow Children were his assistants.  One boy, one girl, black-haired, dressed in emerald green and black.

Silently, before he could react, each Shadow Child took an arm and held it behind his back.  The Phantom Man looked down at him.

"What is your name?"

He answered.  The Phantom Man's mouth twisted, distaste, almost a smile, he never knew.  "No one has a name here.  If you have one, you must forget it.  The Palace protects itself with the anonymity of its staff, so deviance from this principle will be punished.  I will ask this question again over the course of your training.  Your answer will be, 'I don't know.'  Do you understand?"  The slave tried to struggle, but the Shadow Boy pressed a spot on his elbow joint that made him double over, gasping in pain.

Then the Phantom Man injected him with something.  A drug that made the blood sing under the surface of his skin, separated his mind from his body while at the same time making everything far too clear, the twisted hold of the Shadow Children sending information to his brain that it took in but couldn't analyze.

The Shadow Children stripped off the slave's clothes, revealing his flushed body, the erection he didn't know had started.  The Phantom Man nodded to the Shadow Children, who guided him, floating, to the bed, laying him down and tying his wrists to its posts.  One Shadow Child perched to either side of him on the bed, awaiting further instructions.  The slave felt, or thought he felt, a small hand squeeze his shoulder.

The Phantom Man spoke as he took off his own clothes.  The words fell in clumps and clusters into the slave's ears, not sounding like English but some foreign language.  He clung desperately to every word, but no use.  However, the Phantom Man said similar things, so many times over his training that he remembered:

"You might not realize it, but you're very lucky.  The Emerald Key is meant for a wealthy person with specialized tastes.  To be the slave assigned to this room is a privilege that usually comes from years of experience here.  Our client chose you over any other, and over the management's protests.  So we must make you ready for them, ensure that you are pleasing to them."

The Phantom Man pulled a long leather strap from a hook on the wall and approached the bed.  He climbed onto it, motioning the Shadow Children to the side.  He crouched over the new slave, whose tears felt like they were falling down someone else's face.

When he was alone, the slave tried to piece what the Phantom Man said together with other memories that scattered like autumn leaves in a gust of wind.  A woman, holding her arms out towards him, pleading.  A middle-aged man's snarl in close-up.  "You've been a very bad boy, son.  This will hurt me more than it does you."

The Phantom Man showed the slave, with the slave's own body, how and where to bind a man's genitals, and with what, so he would writhe, so his orgasms were delayed just long enough to be exquisite and exhausting.  He was taught how to use a whip to make the skin tingling and sensitive.  The drug enhanced his learning while he was chained to the bed, his lower body propped up on the Phantom Man's knees.  The Shadow Children handed items to the Phantom Man, who displayed them and gave their names before using them on the slave's body.

He learned the anatomy of bone and muscle, used the gymnastic equipment in his own room to develop his flexibility and strength and to learn his limitations.  His body, every body, was a machine, and the slave learned the machine's every working, as a mechanic learns the universals of car motors and takes pleasure in simply putting one together and taking it apart.

His nipples and ears were pierced, his uniform issued:  four leather belts strapped around each arm, six around each leg, that could be removed and linked together to bind or whip him.  The uniform was his new identity, the Palace's gift to replace the one they had taken away.

"What is your name?"

"I don't know."

A robin's egg-sized stone of heat formed in the slave's breast as the drug broke his past into senseless pieces.  It glowed like a coal as the training became who and what he was.  He kept it secret from the Phantom Man, because even though he didn't know what it was or where it had come from, he was certain that the Palace would get rid of him if they discovered its existence.

The Phantom Man spoke to him about his attitude early on in his training:  "You are a slave, whose duty is to serve.  You cannot look at your master with hate or distrust in your expression or bearing.  Give in to whatever they request politely and promptly. I am playing the role of your master now, but I guarantee that your true master will be nowhere near as kind or lenient as I am.  If they complain to the management about you, you will be sent back to me to be re-trained.  Believe me, you do not want
that to happen."

The Robin's Egg first flared inside him when he heard those words, an inchoate, burning pain that flooded his chest and throat.  Why? it asked him, his eyes filling as it demanded an answer.

The slave quieted it.  Please, stop, whatever you are.  It died down to a coal again, as the slave answered the Phantom Man, "I understand."

The Palace was just as impressive inside as it was outside. Dennis stepped through the revolving door into a lobby that took his breath away.  A glass-domed ceiling, fifty feet up, showed a night sky with a waxing moon and an explosion of stars.  The floors were pearled marble, echoing with every step they took. The front desk, columns, and tables supporting tasselled lamps were made of polished blond wood, the chairs and couches upholstered in colorful, but tasteful, middle-eastern designs. The whole area was bathed in mellow golden light whose source Dennis couldn't see.

He approached the front desk, the man, boy and girl staying behind at a discreet distance with his suitcase.  He smiled appreciatively at the long-haired redhead behind the desk.  Her uniform, long-sleeved black tunic and short skirt, while professional, emphasized her figure, and she moved in ways that set it off to advantage.  "How may I help you?" she smiled back at him.

"I'm Dennis K____, I have a reservation here."

The girl pulled him up on her computer, paging through information on the screen.  She looked at him closely, frowned, fussed with the black pill-box hat on her head, pressed more keys.  "May I see the...Emerald Key, please?"  Worried, the girl's heart-shaped face looked adorable.

"Is something wrong?"  Dennis rifled through his backpack, found the enameled box, and handed it to the girl.  She opened it, took out the key, and inserted it into a slot on the side of her CPU. A few more strokes on the keyboard, and she removed the key from the slot and handed it back to him in the open box.

"No, nothing is wrong.  Everything seems to be in order.   The assistants will guide you to your room, where your slave will be ready for you.  Have a pleasant stay."

Stunned, taken aback, and suffering from disorientation and travel fatigue, Dennis couldn't say anything but "Um, what?" before his three travelling companions whisked him off to the elevators.

The bell in the slave's room rang.  The same messenger girl as before stood in the doorway to blandly make an announcement from the management.  "Your new master has arrived on the premises. He will be at your room in five minutes.  Be in uniform and prepared as per regulations.  That is all."  The door closed.

His new master.  The slave's hands shook, ever so slightly, as he pulled the belts tight around his arms and legs and made sure all of his piercings were snug.  His main room and the bathroom were clean and tidy already, all the equipment and tools in their proper places.  The unknown quantity would enter his room in a few short moments.  Knowing this, the Robin's Egg grew agitated, its tiny fingers of flame reaching down to clutch his belly.  But as his body went through the steps the regulations demanded, it
quieted down, waiting, a banked coal ready to burst back into burning life.

A slave?  What was this?  Dennis mulled it over while the numbers over the elevator doors lit up one by one, moving smoothly higher and higher.  He couldn't expect an answer from the Addams family riding up with him, so he tried to work it out for himself.

Slavery was outlawed over a hundred years ago, Dennis thought. What a stupid thing to think, of course it was illegal.  "Slave" must be some funny term they used here to mean "valet," to keep up the Arabian Nights motif.  A guy who hung around the room and brought you breakfast and pressed your T-shirts.  Yes, that's what it had to be.  This place was ritzy enough to have somebody like that working in every room.

The elevator chimed on the 19th floor and opened on a wide corridor with Persian carpeting and the same mellow lighting as in the lobby.  The tall man walked in front of him with the suitcase, the boy and girl walked behind.  Dennis got the weird impression that they were escorting him to jail, that although he was the one holding the key he wasn't allowed to escape.

They stopped at the third room on the left, and the man gestured for Dennis to unlock the standard hotel-style door.  Dennis did so, the key humming in his hand as it clicked the latch.  The door swung open.

Dennis' mouth fell open, the key and his backpack tumbling to the floor.  He didn't notice the assistants' exit, or the door closing behind him, or even the room itself yet.  A light red-haired boy, well-muscled and naked except for some straps on his arms and legs, stood at attention two yards in front of him,
pale green eyes staring into his.  The boy's voice came in a light, even baritone:  "Good evening, master.  I am your slave. Please feel free to do what you like with me, for the extent of your stay."

The slave's new master faced him across the room.  A boy, a year or two older than him, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Obviously not an athlete.  But the thing about him that made the slave hesitate before he finished his introductory speech was the expression on his face.  Not delight at his new acquisition, not lust or the predator's grin of his previous master.

Shock, horror, drawing back toward the door.  Not the submission of a masochist, the rehearsed dance, the words and their coded meanings, but silent, unrehearsed fear.

The Robin's Egg fluttered, pulsed out A mistake.  The slave shut it up, trying to assess his master's needs.  It went quiet again, its chant Mistake, mistake flowing in rhythm with his heartbeat.  His training hadn't equipped him to deal with this, but he would do his best.  He took a step back, one hand raised
slightly and eyes lowered, to reassure his master.  The speech regulation called for had to be finished;  maybe it would soothe him, smooth the way.

"Master, you have no need to be afraid of me."  This he added on the spur of the moment.  He hoped the management would understand the deviation for his master's comfort.  "I am trained in a full array of bondage and sado-masochistic techniques.  Any tool in this room may be used with safety on either me or yourself.  I can be either top or bottom, sadist or masochist, according to your wishes.  If you are the receiving party you are encouraged to tell me a 'stop' word.  If you speak this word, I will stop immediately.

"I have been chosen by the Palace as one who will best suit your special needs.  I hope that my service pleases you, master. Welcome to the Emerald Room."

"Thank you, um, nice to meet you," Dennis gulped.  His head was spinning.  This was too much to take in all at once.  The naked boy didn't seem like a bad guy, in fact he was being nice.  He wasn't friendly or smiling, but he was acting like he sincerely wanted Dennis to not be afraid.

A nice thought, but impossible.  He had a pleasant, sexy voice, but the things he was saying made Dennis want to run, or cry, as unmanly as that might be.  The boy said something about the "tools" in the room, and Dennis' eyes shot here and there, taking in his surroundings but his mind not quite in step with them.  Part of the room was a gymnastics floor with suspended rings, parallel bars, pommel horse and floor mats.  On the other side of the room was a bed sunk into the floor, its rectangle surrounded by wooden rails.  Straps and metal rings studded the rails in several places.  And, on the wall, the "tools."  Metal, leather, chains, cuffs, ropes, whips arranged tidily like chefs' utensils ready for use.

Dennis felt a sudden need to sit down.  There.  The floor would be nice.  In fact, maybe he would lie down instead.

The boy's startled face was the last thing he saw before he fell.

...and his face was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Rails behind him, check, Dennis was in the bed, a cool cloth on his forehead and what felt like bags of cement under him.  He sat up, embarrassed, the cloth falling to the bed beside him.  He'd fainted!  What a way to make a first impression.  But the boy kneeling, still naked, three feet away from him didn't act like anything unusual had happened.  "Master," he said, in that voice Dennis was coming to like, mellow, not too high-pitched, not too low, "are you hurt?  If you wish, I can summon someone to come look at you."

An image of the tall, pale man and the dark-haired children came to Dennis' mind.  Lurch, Puggsley and Wednesday.  "No thanks, I'll be okay without them."  He found he'd been lying on a bunch of hard pillows, the bed piled high with them, but no cushions or blankets.  He looked at the boy, who gazed back at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes.

Dennis had a familiar feeling then, a feeling that took him back home to Demun, to Joey's room, for just a second.  He wanted to put a finger under the boy's chin and raise it, forcing him to look at him.  From there the image grew fuzzy like the forgotten last moments of a dream, but one part of his body didn't care. It got hard, telegraphing looping thoughts to his brain.  He's yours, you can do whatever you want with him, he said so himself.  The words played like a song, over and over.  His eyes moved over the boy's body, his well-developed shoulders and chest, nipples pierced with hoops, flat belly moving gently in and out as he breathed, his knees spread slightly apart as he knelt.

A slave.  His slave.  And the toys that came with him here at Addams Family Disneyland.  That thought spoiled the moment, replacing sexual desire with a desire to throw up.  Dennis sighed, which brought the boy's head back up to look at him. "Um, listen, uh, what's your name anyway?"

"To you, I am 'slave.'  To me, you are 'master.'  In the Palace, our roles are our names.  Nothing else matters."  The boy spoke the last sentence softly, a hand moving toward his chest for a second before it went back to rest on his leg.

And on top of the sick feeling in his gut, Dennis felt a pang of pity for the boy.  The boy did not feel sorry for himself, that was obvious, and he wouldn't welcome Dennis' pity either, just as obviously.  So Dennis swallowed those feelings and smiled at him.  "I think I want to take a bath.  Then maybe we can go to the dining room and hang out, or something."

The boy stood up, ready to do Dennis' bidding.  "Very good, master.  If you wait for a few minutes, I will prepare your bath and make myself ready for you."  The boy swung easily over the rails of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

Dennis called out, "If it's all the same to you, can I take it by myself?"

The boy turned back, mission cut short.  "Of course, master. Anything you wish."  He stood, quiet as a mannequin, as Dennis climbed awkwardly out of the bed and went towards the bathroom. Dennis fought the urge, as he passed the quiet boy, to grab his arm and take him into the bathroom with him.  The boy was supposed to serve him, Dennis thought, it felt wrong to refuse the things he offered.  But it also felt wrong to accept.

Their silence broke with a "click" as Dennis shut the door to the bathroom.

The slave stood, stunned, as his master strode past him into the bathroom.  Quite some time had passed since his master arrived, and he had not tried his slave out at all.  The slave had thought for sure that his master felt desire for him as he recovered in the bed.  An intense look in his eyes, body turned his way, a flushed face.  Though the slave hadn't been able to tell if his master had an erection or not; he was wearing a T-shirt and shorts several sizes too big for him.  But almost immediately, his master had shut himself off, with body language and then his physical absence.

If his master intended to use him, he was subtle.  So different from the previous one.  That one hadn't wasted any time at all. The first day, as soon as the door closed behind him, he took a second to place the key in an inner pocket of his suit jacket (this became his habit), then waited as the slave finished his
mandatory speech.  Then he strolled across the room to the slave, and gave him a long look.  He gripped a handful of the slave's hair to tip his head up, using the other hand on the small of his back to press their bodies together.

"Kirei na yatsu da naa."  His master's eyes shone black behind the glasses, his face a mask that communicated danger, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile that threatened to turn to anger for any, or no, reason.  That master always spoke in Japanese, which the slave became grateful he couldn't understand.  Just like English when he had been on the drug, the man's words flowed into his ears, snarled or cooed, equally meaningless.

The Palace had misread his master's tastes because the majority of his training was put to waste.  It was impossible to maintain an erection when your master put the bad pain to you, in sharp shocks, red bolts, blinding terror, but the man didn't act like he cared about that anyway.  His pleasure came from torturing his slave, then satisfying his lust inside him.  On the days that his master was lazy and gave him bad pain that died down to good pain, the slave was able to enjoy the sex.  This did not make him hate his master any less, or the Palace and its staff, for putting him here and letting his master do as he pleased.

Over the weeks, months, however long the man came to visit, the slave became the machine he was trained to be.  The Robin's Egg was wearing out, whatever fueled it falling lower and lower, its glowing going cold in his chest.  It was in danger of dying.  To preserve itself, it erected a sullen, unresponsive second shell around itself that became his outer bearing: speaking rarely, never smiling, accepting the pain, accepting his fate whether good or bad.

But now, he could feel that second shell starting to crack and fall away.  A mistake.  The quiet, pulsing chant of the Robin's Egg grew into a throb that made his head ache.  He put the back of his hand to his forehead.  He was feeling feverish, he thought.  He needed to work out for a while; the Robin's Egg was getting out of control and physical activity should quiet it down.  He turned away from the bathroom and walked to the gymnastics area.

Dennis' heart sank even further when he saw the inside of the bathroom.  The massive tub was surrounded by metal rails much like the bed's wooden ones.  Another selection of "tools" was arrayed on the tiled wall, some of whose functions he knew, some he didn't want to speculate on.  He made sure he faced away from that wall as he drew his bath, shucked his clothes and climbed over the rails to sink into the warm water.

The water was nice, a hidden, quiet mechanism causing it to flow around him, soothing and massaging muscles that were stiff from stress.  He leaned back, closing his eyes, and tried to relax. But, now that he was alone, his mind went back, stubborn in its one track, to the boy in the main room.  Right on cue, he got hard again.  He didn't touch himself there, not yet, savoring his thoughts and the swirling water, enjoying the feel of the blood pulsing between his legs.  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to get into bed with the boy and try a thing or two, tie or handcuff him to the rings, lie him down so he could explore him, play with the hoops in his nipples.

What had the boy's life been like, before today?  What had brought him to this "Palace?"  Did he like it here?  Or did he hate it, being a slave?  So many things about this place confused him.  How did a huge hotel full of sex slaves exist in Las Vegas? It should've been busted two seconds after it opened. How had his mom and dad found out about it, and why had they gotten the key for him, and where had they gotten the cash for it, it had to be unbelievably expensive.

Going down that road made his head spin again, so he focused instead on soap and shampoo.  But no matter how much he scrubbed with the soft grey washcloth, he couldn't wash away where he was and who waited for him outside the closed door.  With another sigh, Dennis opened his eyes and climbed out of the tub.

The boy stood in the doorway of the bathroom -- how did they do that, Dennis hadn't heard or seen a thing -- a huge grey towel in his hands.  Before Dennis' startled, scrambled brain could take this new information in, the boy was inches away from him, running the towel through Dennis' hair.  Dennis could only stand, rooted to the spot, as the boy moved the towel professionally over his body.

Dennis' hard-on from when he was in the tub hadn't gone down, and now, with the boy standing so close Dennis could smell his hair, rubbing him all over with the towel, it was painful, demanding to be taken care of.  The boy didn't act as though he noticed, as the fluffy towel dried Dennis' skin, leaving it
flushed and hot.  The boy was kneeling now, drying his legs. Dennis couldn't look down.  He had to look.  Feeling and sight hit him, dizzily, as the earrings in the boy's left ear grazed the side of his erection, on purpose, he knew, inviting him.

The boy raised his head as he finished drying Dennis' feet. Light green eyes, patient, waiting, ready to follow any order that Dennis might give.  Earrings, studs and hoops, ran up both ears.  On the right ear, a torn space, a jagged scar.  Dennis found his voice, which he had forgotten how to use all of a sudden.  He squeaked, his voice much higher than usual, "What happened?"

The boy stood up, his full height a couple of inches shorter than Dennis', the towel hanging over his left forearm.  "Master?"

"Your ear.  What happened to it?"  Dennis pointed, stupidly, at the place he was talking about.

"An accident, master."  The boy waited for Dennis to say something else, then took the towel off his arm and tucked it neatly around Dennis' waist.

This guy obviously took care of himself, Dennis thought.  He was fit and healthy, and his hair and body were clean.  Every move he made was smooth and confident.  He wouldn't be so careless as to snag an earring on something.  So, he was lying, someone else had done it to him.  Someone careless, or someone who didn't care.

Oh god, he couldn't take this, the sadness of it, the wrongness, everything.

However many things had happened by accident to drive his parents and the Wilsons nuts, Dennis had also, on purpose, caused things to happen to people that crossed him, or Joey or Margaret.  A guy that was harassing Margaret, scaring her by cornering her at school and touching her, found his car suddenly unable to start. Several mechanics, over several days, trying to discover the problem, finally gave up.  A stink-bomb in the guy's locker caused Demun High School to be evacuated and closed down for two
days.  A bully who beat up on Joey, and a teacher that picked on Dennis, both met similar fates.

Dennis laughed out loud.  At last, there was something good he could do here, the thing he'd been born to do.  The Palace, and the ghouls that ran it, were going down.

Before any mission, there had to be a reconnaissance.  And he knew the perfect place to start.  He turned toward the boy, grabbed him by the upper arm, and led him to the main room. "C'mon, let's go to dinner."  He let the boy go, and knelt to open his suitcase, humming happily to himself as he rummaged through his clothes.

The slave was hopelessly confused.  He had been certain that his master was going to use him at last, as he was pulled into the room with the bed.  He was sure he had done the right things, at the right times, and his instincts told him that the time had come.  His skin tingled, anticipating his master's blows, his penis became semi-erect, another signal to coax and seduce, matching subtlety with subtlety.  But, again, his master had done something he hadn't anticipated.  Dinner? -- as though the last few minutes hadn't happened, his efforts put to waste.

He would not be able to please this master after all, the management had definitely made a mistake in sending him to the Emerald Room.  The slave shivered, his head pounding worse than it had before he worked out.  Goose-pimples ran up his arms, the fever was getting worse.  The Robin's Egg was a molten, thundering stone in his chest, its waves of heat smashing against its outer shell, which threatened to burst or crumble any moment. His eyes burned, and his breath was heavy and labored.

His master, almost dressed, looked up.  With a dismayed expression, he came close to the slave to look at his face. "Hey, are you feeling okay?  You look sick."

"I'll be fine, master."

His master was doubtful now, worried.  "You look like you're freezing.  Better put something else on."

"Yes, master."  The slave went to the closet next to the bathroom.  The Robin's Egg was settling down again, and he was able to think clearly, but if it had another spell he would be seriously ill and unable to perform.  Angry, he reminded the Robin's Egg that if he displeased his master, he'd be sent down for more training, or be gotten rid of.

He moved his attention toward choosing some clothes to wear.  He took the straps off his thighs and upper arms, putting on a pair of snug leather shorts, a three-quarter sleeved leather jacket and a simple, buckled collar.  "I am ready, master."

His master stood by the door, backpack on his shoulder and key in hand.  Anxiously, he looked at the slave, blue eyes questioning. Then he smiled and beckoned him towards the door.  "Good, you're looking better already.  Let's get going, we've got lots to do."

The dining room on the second floor was, Dennis had to admit, beautiful.  The walls, paneled in light reddish wood, rose twenty-five or thirty feet to a sloping ceiling.  The round dining tables had silk tablecloths, each cloth a different rainbow color, with small golden oil lamps lit on the tables at which people were seated.  Most of the light in the room came from a mysterious source, like in the main lobby, but at spots along the wall more lamps shone, giving the dining room a quiet, intimate atmosphere.

A blond young man greeted them at the entrance, wearing a long-sleeved goldenrod tunic, loose-fitting black trousers and slippers, styled the same as Puggsley's and Wednesday's outfits. "Good evening, sir, and welcome to the dining room.  Would you like a table or a private booth?"

"A booth, please," Dennis answered.  The man led them to a far wall of the dining room, where colorful tents were lined at discreet intervals.  As they walked behind the maitre-d', Dennis scanned the dining room, getting his first glimpse of the other guests and inhabitants of the Palace.  There were only two other master/slave couples at the tables, one a woman and girl chatting and laughing together, the lamp illuminating their cheerful faces, and the other couple a man and boy who had paused in the middle of eating to grope and kiss each other.  Who knew how many others had found their privacy in the tents?

The maitre-d' paused in front of a royal blue tent with gold piping at the seams, opening a flap to allow them entry, and Dennis and the boy stepped inside.

If the dining room was opulent, the interior of the tent was decadent.  A low table sat in its center, covered in royal blue silk, another golden lamp casting its gentle glow and making flickering shadows on the tent's walls.  The floor was covered with rugs in jeweled patterns, and tasseled ropes hung around the edges at shoulder height.  Far more comfortable than the room on the nineteenth floor, in Dennis' opinion.

The host handed Dennis a menu and a wine list.  "Sir, a waiter will come by in ten minutes to take your order.  If at any time you do not wish to be disturbed, simply tie the tent flaps closed and make sure the ends of the rope can be seen from the outside. Please enjoy your meal."  And, with that, he was gone, the cloth falling into place behind him.

"That was rude.  Why didn't he give you a menu?"  Dennis wondered out loud.  The boy had sat across the table from him, so he scooted across the rugs so they could look at the selections together.

"That's all right, master.  I don't know how to read."

Another of those matter-of-fact statements that made Dennis shudder but didn't seem to bother the boy.  Dennis read the menu out loud to him, doing his best to control his voice and hands from trembling.  When the waiter arrived, he ordered a bread and cheese plate, an appetizer platter and a bottle of wine for both of them.

The boy ate the food with gusto but didn't touch the wine, even when Dennis poured a glass for him.  Dennis had ordered the wine mainly to see if he could get away with it, and wasn't surprised when he received it since there were so many other illegal things going on in the Palace, anyway.  Now that he had the wine, and his account had paid for it, he may as well drink it.

It tasted nice, and for some reason the more he drank, and the nicer and more mellow he felt, the more he wanted, and the quicker he needed to refill his glass.  He stopped after drinking half the bottle, remembering some advice Joey had given him that if you drank too much, too fast, you ended up feeling more bad than good.  Dennis was feeling really good right now, and he didn't want that good feeling to stop.  His fingers and the end of his nose were numb, but everything else felt rosy, bathed in a
warm glow that matched the atmosphere in the tent.

He caught himself staring at his dinner companion as they ate. Even as he was wolfing down his dinner, the boy sat in a way that Dennis could look him over.  The jacket he wore was only closed at the bottom, the top part gapping open to show off the muscles of his torso and those fascinating hoops in his nipples.  The boy's body was turned slightly his direction, giving Dennis a vivid view of just how little the snug leather shorts concealed. A light dusting of gold-red stubble covered the boy's chin, and Dennis' attention riveted there, and to the boy's mouth as he ate.

The path of least resistance yawned in front of him as he stared at the frankly erotic motions of the boy's mouth as it wrapped around a fried mozzarella stick whose end dripped with tomato sauce.  Dennis could keep the key, learn how to turn the boy on, have sex with him (he knew he'd never have that so good again), and leave him to his keepers while Dennis went home to Demun.

Who was he trying to kid?  He'd never be able to live with himself.  What a waste, though....

Plans had to be made to get them out of here; Dennis' conscience gave him no other option.  He gave the boy one last going-over before he opened his backpack.  He pulled out a pad of graph paper and a pencil, placing them on the table.  The boy was done eating, and now knelt on the rugs, anticipating Dennis' orders. Dennis handed him the pencil, which he took with his left hand. "I know you just told me you don't know how to read, but I need your help.  Can you draw what you know about the Palace on this paper?"  Dennis pulled a red pen from the front pocket of the backpack.  "I'll label what you draw with this pen, so I know what I have to work with."

The slave was trying very hard to understand his master's desires, laying subtle clues and temptations in his path as dinner wore on.  He had arrayed himself while eating to display his body and show his skills with his mouth.  He observed his master getting drunk, his master's eyes taking the slave in, up and down his body, face flushed with drunken desire.

The slave had never felt his own need or desire, except when the good pain forced him to.  But now, seeing his master, his youth, his shyness, his hesitancy to do anything to the slave, the slave wanted.  Wanted his master, wanted him to desire his slave, wanted his master inside him, all these wants and his knowledge that his master wanted him too, stirring the Robin's Egg. Instead of fever and headache, this time it sent warm tendrils out and down, to his belly, to his sex, swelling it, making it press painfully against the confines of the tight-fitting shorts. Good pain.

Good pain, interrupted as his master handed him a writing utensil and pushed a pad of paper towards him.

The slave knew a great deal about the Palace.  Every time he'd been taken from his room down to the training room, the Shadow Girl or Shadow Boy had taken a different route.  But, due to the drug, or despite its effects on his mind, the twisted routes had coalesced, over the weeks, into a whole, a pattern, a map of the Palace which, as the master handed him the pencil, superimposed itself on the paper's grid, floor by floor, room by room.

His only difficulty was using the pencil.  He leaned close over the paper, concentrating, breaking the point twice (his master sharpened it again for him).  His master was concentrating just as hard as he was, writing the names of the rooms that the slave knew.  The slave didn't know why his master was so anxious to know this information, and he thought he was breaking a regulation by giving it to him.  But, for now, as his master leaned in close, exclaiming periodically at the map he was drawing, he didn't care.

Until he saw them coming.  The Phantom Man and the Shadow Children.  He glimpsed them through the slightly open flap of the tent, the Phantom Man asking a question of the maitre-d', who pointed a finger that pinioned the slave to the spot.

The Robin's Egg flared in horror, overloading his mind.  They were coming.  And maybe they would take him, who had failed in performing for his master, away from the one person who had treated him kindly in as long as he could remember.

A number of things happened all at once in Dennis' dazed perception.  One second, he and the boy were working on the Palace map, the oil lamp throwing warm shadows on the boy's intent face, making him handsome and human, the ideas the map was giving him, and the twin smells of leather and the boy's hair throwing him into a spell of mental and physical pleasure.

The next second, the boy stiffened, dropping the pencil, gaze fixed on a spot outside the door.  Before Dennis could see what was going on, his shocked senses were full of the boy, who now was straddling his lap, murmuring "Please, master" into his ear, warm breath bolting straight through Dennis to his crotch.  The boy had guided Dennis' hands, the right to the nape of the boy's neck, the left to his rear, while the boy's arms gripped his shoulders, pressing their bodies together.  The boy's mouth moved to his neck, Dennis' nose full of his hair, chin stubble grazing him, "Please, master," again, a sweet baritone against his throat.

Dennis gasped as, through their clothes, his erect penis bumped between the boy's legs, his hips tilting up and his left hand intuitively pressing them closer together.

But, why was the boy acting this way?  He hadn't tried to force the issue before, seeming happy enough to let Dennis decide when to make a definite move.

Then Dennis looked up.  The Addams family, all three of them, stood in the doorway of the tent, Wednesday and Puggsley, mirror images of each other, standing at attention and holding the flaps open so Lurch didn't have to duck to step inside.

"Please excuse us," the tall, thin man said.  "As the Emerald Room's slave is our special charge," and here he nodded to include the emerald and black-clad children, "we have come to make sure his service has so far been satisfactory."

Oh, shit, Dennis.  Say the right thing.  The boy on his lap shivered, so slightly that Dennis could barely feel, and he was sure the people in the doorway couldn't see in the muted light. The man's light blue eyes bored into Dennis, neutral and merciless, as though trying to find the truth inside him before
he had the chance to lie.  To stop his hands from trembling, because all of a sudden he was afraid of the family grouping that faced him, he ran them along the boy's body, the right caressing the back of his neck and the soft hair that fell there, the left moving up and down his back under the jacket.  The boy was silent now, but his "Please, master" echoed solidly in Dennis' head.

Dennis gathered his courage, looking the scary man right in the eye over the boy's shoulder.  "What can I say?  He's incredible. Better than I ever hoped for."

"I am gratified to hear you say that.  The Palace strives to match its slaves to its keyholders' desires.  If, at any time, your slave fails to satisfy you, just dial '027' on the telephone in your room and we can assign a new key to you."

"That easy," Dennis whispered.  Out loud, he said, "Well, thanks for the information, but I'm sure I'll be happy with him."

"We will leave you, then.  If you need us for any other reason, you can contact us at the same extension.  We can make any modification to the Emerald Room that you wish, supply room service or restock linens and personal items."

"Thanks again,"  Dennis said.  "'Bye, now."  The tent flaps fell closed.

Dennis sighed, relieved.  One disaster averted.  Then he realized the position he was in.  Not ungently, and not without regret, he pushed the boy off his lap and onto the rugs beside him.  "What the hell was that?  And why do those freaks keep showing up?"

"They are my trainers, master," the boy replied.

"You're their 'special charge?'"

"Yes, master."

"'Just dial "027."'  Fuck them.  Damn them to hell."  He remembered, with alarm, the plans they had been working on.  The game was up, before it had even started.  But the space on the table where they had been working was empty.  "The drawings. Where are they?"

"I put them in your backpack before my trainers came in, master."

Dennis verified this, and, in a rush of excitement that must have been the wine working on his brain, grabbed the boy's shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips.  For just a second, he savored the boy, tasting chicken wing spice on his lips, remembering the murmured plea.  Embarrassed, but pleased, he let him go.  "I was right.  You are incredible."  He stood, moving to the tent's doorway.  "Let's go back upstairs.  We're gonna need some real privacy, I think.  We've got some things to finish up."  The boy joined him, looking somewhat dazed.

Dennis took a moment to look back into the interior of the tent. Contemplating, almost absent-mindedly, he took the near corner of the blue silk tablecloth in his hand, tugging it toward himself. The oil lamp on the table spilled over, soaking the cloth, which promptly burst into flame.

The entire tent was ablaze by the time Dennis and the boy reached the entrance of the dining room.  Staff members in uniforms of every color poured into the dining room, some with fire extinguishers in hand, others ushering the guests and slaves to safety.

Dennis turned from the chaos, striding across the hallway to the bank of elevators, the boy following in his wake.  He pushed the "up" button, but unfortunately the elevators had shut off in response to the fire alarm, a polite female PA voice informing Dennis of this when his finger left the button.

He gave his partner a rueful look.  "I hope you're up for some exercise, 'cause we've got eighteen flights of steps to walk up."

Dennis almost fell crossing the threshold of the room.  His lungs burned, his legs throbbed, and his head felt like it was full of sand.  He dropped his book bag next to his suitcase, and flopped face-down onto the low-pile grey carpeting.  What he wouldn't give for his bed right about now.

The boy moved to the closet he had gotten his current outfit from, stripping it off, putting it away and replacing it with the leather straps he had been wearing before.  Dennis watched him the whole time, carpet pressing into his cheek, thinking if this didn't excite him, he'd never be turned on again in his life.  At the moment, he could only appreciate the boy as a work of art, his sculpted body, golden piercings, eyes of pale green glass.

With a groan, Dennis heaved up into a sitting position.  He needed to get a good night's sleep so he could be awake and alert to carry out his plans.  The phone sat in a niche by the door and, like an oasis in the desert, he crawled towards it, pulling himself up by grabbing onto the shelf that held the phone books.

He picked up the receiver.  Part of him balked at dialing the number, but he had to if he was going to get any sleep tonight. 0.  2.  7.

The other end rang twice. A surprisingly pleasant voice answered on the other end, to Dennis' relief it was Wednesday, not Lurch. He realized he had never heard her speak before.  "Hello, sir. How can I help you?"

"Hi, there.  Could you bring me up a mattress and some sheets?  I don't think I can sleep on the bed that's in here."

"Of course, sir.  Is there anything else you'd like?"

"No, thanks."

"Very well, sir.  We will be there immediately."  The line clicked, and Dennis set down the receiver.  He sat down, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes.  When he opened them he was startled, first of all, to see the boy kneeling, naked again save the straps, not a foot away from him, and second by a bell ringing from somewhere in the room.  The Palace employees were scary in their efficiency.

"Come in."

The boy and girl entered, one behind the other, a large bundle slung over their shoulders.  With supernatural cooperation, they found a large space of floor between the bed and the gymnastics area, unfurled a huge futon mattress down onto it, tucked sheets and blankets around it, and set two plump pillows at its head. Dennis must still be a little drunk, or too tired to pay attention, because the next thing he knew, the children were by the door, standing in identical postures, looking down at him inquiringly.  "Will you be needing anything else, sir?" the young boy asked.

"I don't think so.  Thanks for bringing the mattress."

"You're welcome, sir.  Feel free to call any time of the day or night."

"Okay, but don't you need to go to bed, too?"

The girl gave him a quizzical look, as though pleased with his concern but trying to hide it.  "Our supervisor will attend you if we are asleep, sir."

She must be talking about the creepy tall man.  "I see.  Well, g'night then."

"Good night, sir," the children replied in unison, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving him alone with the boy.

"Master," the boy said.

Dennis turned his head away from the door, toward the sexy, soothing voice.  "Yeah?"

"If you wish to make use of me before you go to sleep, I can make myself ready."

The boy's eyes flickered down, then back up to Dennis' face. Dennis' eyes moved down as well, half curious as to what he was looking at, drinking his body in, down to... down to his kneeling, spread legs, the flesh there awakening, slightly erect, inviting his touch to come fully to life.

Dennis' thought about never being turned on again became a lie in less than a second.  Somehow his exhaustion had completely melted away.  He sat up, away from the wall, his face inches away from the boy's.  Their eyes met.  Unsure, despite his body's insistence, Dennis touched the boy's shoulder, just barely, leaning the top of his body forward so their lips touched.  Just one more kiss, a little one.  He could stop there, and no harm done.

He should have known better than that.  The boy's lips parted under his, "Yes, master," and he guided Dennis' hands again, one to the middle of his back and the other to his chest, palm flat against it with a finger threaded through the hoop in his left nipple.  Their bodies were close, almost touching, needing only a slight pressure from Dennis' hand for him to feel the length of the boy's body against his own.

The boy kissed Dennis now, the aggressor, the expert, his tongue in Dennis' mouth, tasting him, inviting Dennis to taste him back.  Which Dennis did.  One flickering of his tongue, then another, small licks on the tip of the boy's tongue and his lips.
He was delicious.  Dennis could go on like this all night, kissing him, one hand on the boy's back, the other on his warm, firm chest, heartbeat steady under Dennis' fingers.  But one hard part of him wanted and demanded more.

The kiss broke.  Dennis didn't know if he could stop himself from going further this time.  But he had to, he had to.  Let go, pull back.  His hands, stubborn, resisting, continued to hold the boy, the one resting on his back threatening to clutch him in and drown them both.

"Master, here."  The boy's left hand took Dennis' wrist and moved it away from his body, the finger trapped in the hoop pulling the boy's nipple.  The boy let Dennis' wrist go, and Dennis moved his hand back forward.  He drew his finger out of the hoop and caressed the boy's chest, the nipple a small bump against smooth muscle.  He took the hoop between his thumb and forefinger and, ever so gently, tugged it towards himself.

The boy cried out, a helpless sound, his eyes dilated, body taut, penis fully erect.  "I can teach you, master," he whispered. "That is only the beginning."

Dennis gulped around the lump of shame that formed instantly in his throat.  He let the boy go, folding his arms, his traitorous hands trapped in his armpits, his voice a ragged thread.  "I'm sorry.  I can't do this.  I shouldn't have even started it.  That was wrong."

"There is no need to apologize, master.  I was trained to be sexually stimulated by giving and receiving pain.  Owning the Emerald Key gives you the right to do those things with me."

"But you're a slave.  That's what isn't right.  If you were somebody I met at school, or at the mall, or something, I wouldn't have a problem having sex with you.  I mean," and Dennis felt himself blush to the roots of his hair.  "I'd be freaked out at first, about the pain, or 'S' and 'M,' whatever you call it, but I'd get used to it.  Those plans we're working on," Dennis nodded his head towards his luggage, "they're to get you out of here, if you want."

The slave had gotten close, so very close this time.  The jolt of good pain his master had given him by pulling on his nipple ring hadn't been much.  Almost nothing.  And the kiss had caused no pain at all.  But, out of proportion to the stimulus, his body responded.  His heartbeat increased, he could feel its every pulse thundering in his chest and in his engorged sex.

He had almost succeeded in seducing his master. But then, his master was apologizing, drawing back, letting him go.  The things he said made little sense to the slave.  Very little he had said or done during his stay had made sense, in fact, but at least his behavior was consistent.  Never greedy, always kind.  Reading the menu to him, staying in the Emerald Room when he could easily move to a different room and a slave that better met his needs.

His master then told him why they were making the map.  The slave couldn't have misheard, his master was right in front of him. Nothing in his voice or the way he behaved indicated that he was lying or trying to torment the slave with the impossible.

Was it possible?  Did his master really think he could get them out of here?  His master waited, silent, anxious, for him to answer.

The outer shell the Robin's Egg had constructed, which had started to crumble right before his first bout of fever, had fallen almost entirely away.  His armor, his protection against the world he lived with, that he thought was indestructible and impenetrable while his previous master had held the Emerald Key, was disappearing, nearly gone, the stolid machine he had been transforming to something else, someone he couldn't understand and who made him disoriented and uncertain.

All that he had left was the Robin's Egg, with its fevers and unpredictable fits.  The slave was sure he could not put the broken outer shell together again.  Another trip downstairs would destroy him, make him worthy only to be gotten rid of.  "Master, I..."  He found himself unable to speak.  When he could again, his voice sounded odd to his ears.  "I don't know what to tell you.  I need time to consider, if I can."

"Sure, no problem.  I think we need some sleep, anyway."  His master smiled at him, a freckle-faced, snub-nosed smile full of mischief, acknowledging and enjoying the sexuality between them. Then his master went to his suitcase and pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste.  "I hope you don't mind if I use the bathroom first."

"No, master.  Of course not."

Dennis closed the bathroom door.  He brushed his teeth, and washed his face using the wrapped soap sitting in a wicker basket on the counter.

He turned away from the mirror, leaning on the countertop, hands gripping its edge, knowing what he had to do next, knowing under the circumstances it was the only good thing to do, but, for the first time in his life, not wanting to.

He pulled off his sneakers, his socks and his shirt.  He had washed the boy's smell from his face, but it still lingered on Dennis' shirt where their bodies had met in the dining room.  He held the shirt in both hands, ran it over his face, down his neck, his chest, slowly over his nipples.  What was it like to have a piercing there?  What had the boy felt when Dennis pulled the hoop?  A tug from the inside....

The shirt dropped to the floor. Just get it over with, Dennis. Don't torture yourself.  He pulled off his shorts and underwear, kicking them aside.  He moved over to the toilet and grabbed a washcloth from the metal rack above it.  He draped the washcloth over his right hand, placed his left on the top of the tank and leaned forward.

He wondered, as he stroked himself, the washcloth making friction all along his length, if the boy felt like this inside.  Rough, warm, tight.  Then he tensed up, inhaled sharply, the results of his brief effort spilling into the toilet, one long, strong burst, a couple of short ones, he went limp, gulped in air, and it was done.  Dennis flushed the toilet and dropped the washcloth into the linen basket.

Exhausted again, sleepy, every muscle in his body aching, he put his underwear back on, gathered up his clothes and left the bathroom.  He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed to see the boy sitting in the bed with the rails.  He dumped his clothes on top of his suitcase and went over to sit on the futon.

From there he could see that the boy had taken everything off. He was completely bare, no straps, no piercings, nothing.  The boy swung out of the bed and went into the bathroom.

Dennis laid down, pulling the sheet and blanket over himself.  He was almost asleep when the boy came out of the bathroom.  "Since you're still up, could you turn out the lights?"

"Certainly, master."  The boy flipped a switch by the door and gradually the sourceless light began to fade.  The last thing Dennis saw before the room went completely dark was the boy curling up on the hard pillows in his bed.  A minute later, the boy spoke.  "Master?"

"Yeah?"

"You can make use of me during the night, if you like.  I am always available to serve you."

"Don't worry about that.  Just get some sleep, okay?"

Another minute passed.  "Hey," Dennis said.

"Yes, master?"

"I meant what I said earlier.  If you want to get out of here, I'll find a way.  I promise."

"I... I understand, master.  Thank you."

Dennis yawned.  "You're welcome."  In moments, he was asleep.

The slave was having trouble sleeping.  His master's promise ran through his memory, making his heart race and causing a storm of agitation in the Robin's Egg.  "If you want to get out of here, I'll find a way."

Should he say "no" to his master?  Simply because he was afraid?

The fever was starting again, the slave unable to contain the blaze of the Robin's Egg.  It was flooding his whole body with white heat.  This time was much worse than before, worse than ever.  His head hurt, behind his eyes, his forehead, his temples, in his ears, making them ring.  His skin flushed, then paled, waves of heat and cold following on each other unpredictably with the Robin's Egg's erratic flashes.

The fever was tiring him; he could no longer stay awake.  He fell into an uneasy sleep, and dreamed.

The curtains along the back of the Emerald Room were open.  A figure floated in midair beyond the picture window, backlit by the moon, in silhouette, beckoning to him.  As the slave moved closer to the window, he could make the figure out more clearly. His master, in the shorts and striped shirt he had been wearing that day, book bag over his shoulder, smiling at him.

The slave opened the sliding door, but instead of a balcony, the door opened onto empty space, lights of the street blinding below him.

"Come on out.  See, I'm fine.  You won't fall, either."

The slave woke up, his headache so bad he was starting to feel nauseated.  He tried to sit up, to get out of bed so he could go into the bathroom.  But his vision went completely black, black with colored sparks in his peripheral vision that flitted away when he tried to look directly at them.  He forced his breathing to slow down so he wouldn't hyperventilate, lying back down.  His sight came back in a few minutes.  He could see the dark shape of his master, hear his quiet breathing as he slept.

The slave had not been outside of the Palace since he had first arrived.  During the first part of his training, when the Phantom Man had finished with him for the day, and the Shadow Children had left him, staggering, still fuzzy from the drug, in the Emerald Room, he would open the curtains and sliding door and walk onto the balcony, keeping the room dark, and look down at the lights of the street below.  A galaxy of color, headlights, marquees, the pain on the inside and outside of his body making
him lean on the railing as the drug gradually wore off.  At times he could see the moon.  He hadn't thought to open the curtain in a long time.

A memory, or a dream?  The slave didn't know.  A woman, crying, crumpled on the floor, covering her face with her hands.  When she moved her hands away, her weeping face was revealed, older than his but looking very much like him.  Eyes a different color than his, but the same shape; the same nose, the same red-gold hair. "Things will get better, I swear.  Please stay." The slave tried to move towards her, touch her, comfort her, but the more he tried, the harder it was to move.  And then, more than just being detained, he was being pushed backwards, away from her.  As the woman got farther away, her tears turned to screams.

A wall of glassy water formed between them, obscuring her face and her voice.  "Come back, come back."  The wall got thicker, her words muffled in its bubbling flow.  The woman got hysterical, crying a name, over and over, her voice dimmed almost entirely.  Just like the effects of the drug, disconnected sounds hit his ears as they dissipated through the wall.  But, by now he knew how to hold those sounds, keep them hidden away, decipher them as he deciphered the Phantom Man's words after the drug's effects faded.

The woman, and the dream, were gone.  When he woke up, he knew. He shot upright in bed, bathed in sweat.  He had to tell his master, in case he didn't remember when his fever got better. Right now it showed no signs of doing so.

"Master."

"Master."

"Hmmm?"  The slave could hear his master turning over in bed. Was he awake?

"Master."  More urgent, almost panicked.

"What?  What's going on?"  The bedclothes rustling, a shuffle, two steps, a thump, "Ow, shit, what the hell was that?"  A fumbling, another thump as his master fell into his bed.

"Are you okay?  You're breathing pretty hard."

"Master!"  His master was quiet, sensing the desperation in his voice.

"It's Kyle.  My name's Kyle."

His master's hand was on his shoulder, his form close in the darkness, his voice quiet and controlled, "Kyle," then filled with concern.  "My god, you're burning up.  I thought you might be getting sick before."

"As a matter of fact, master, I'm not feeling very well."  And the slave, Kyle, vomited.

Dennis was once again faced with the prospect of dialing downstairs to Addams Family Headquarters.  He had bundled Kyle's sweating, shivering body in the blanket from his futon and tucked a pillow under his head, and put a damp towel over the soiled spot in the railed bed.

All he could do was hope to hear a sympathetic voice on the other end of the line.  If the supervisor picked up, he figured he'd just say "Never mind" and hang up.  0.  2.  7.  Two rings.  "Yes, sir.  How can I help you this evening?"  Thank god, a young voice.  Dennis kept his own voice as even as he could.

"Hi again, sorry to bother you.  Um, my... ah, the boy, he's caught some kind of flu.  I'm wondering if you could bring up some medicine for him."

"We'll be up right away, sir."

This time Dennis was not surprised to hear a light tap on the door seconds after he hung up the phone.  He opened the door. The young girl and boy, still in uniform, as alert as if it were the middle of the day, breezed past him and, before Dennis could blink or move that way, had cleaned up the disaster and now were quietly assessing Kyle's condition, the girl holding his mouth closed around a thermometer, and the boy coming from the bathroom with a pail of cool water and a washcloth that he placed on Kyle's flushed forehead.

"How long has he been this way?"  the boy asked.

Dennis came over to the bed and climbed in.  "Well, he had a little bit of fever before we went to dinner, but he seemed okay after that.  He woke me up a few minutes ago.  I don't know how long he'd been feverish before then."

The girl checked the reading on the thermometer.  "101.3.  We need to get him to the infirmary, sir.  You can either stay here, or we can transfer you to another room until your slave has recovered."

Dennis resisted the impulse to shove the children away from Kyle, cover him with his body.  As though that could stop them.  "No. I want him to stay here."

Twin pairs of dark, neutral eyes looked at him.  Dennis coughed. "He's not that bad.  I'm sure if you give him an aspirin he'll be as good as new in a little while."

The children glanced at each other, some kind of silent communication flying between them, a decision made.  The girl spoke again, but her expression had changed.  No longer impenetrable, imperturbable, but vulnerable, almost helpless. Nine or ten years old, a witness, the bearer of a secret that threatened to tear her apart.  "Sir..."

Dennis regarded her cautiously.  "Yes?"

"Sir, my brother and I saw your papers down in the dining room." A bottomless black pit opened under Dennis.  The girl continued, "Our -- our supervisor must not have seen them, sir.  Otherwise you and your slave would have been separated immediately.  It was very lucky that he was able to conceal them in time.  What I, what we wanted to tell you was, we urge you to be careful."

"No one knows besides us.  It would be easy for it to stay that way."

"We realize that, sir.  But our knowledge puts us in worse danger than you know."

The boy spoke now, kneeling by Kyle's head, periodically dipping the washcloth into the water, squeezing it out, and putting it back on Kyle's forehead.  "Sir, your slave."  Did the young boy shiver?  Did he place a hand on Kyle's arm in protection, possessiveness?  "He hasn't had an easy time of it here.  My sister and I assisted our supervisor in his training.  To have known what he was like when he first arrived here, to see what happened to him.  It's very difficult for us."  He gripped Kyle's arm tightly, bowed his head, and said nothing more.

The girl took up for him.  "Your slave's previous master was not kind to him, sir.  We had to take your slave down to the infirmary when his ear was torn and when his arm was broken.

"At considerable risk to ourselves we made sure that that master could never come back.  And we expedited matters for you to come here.  We'd like you to stay in the Emerald Room, with your slave.  Or, if you both wish to leave, we will assist you."

They must have made quite a picture, the three of them, each hovering over Kyle, mother birds competing to see whose wing protected him from the wind and rain.  The children's facade was gone, the young boy sniffling, head still bowed over Kyle, the girl kneeling, the stronger one, eyes full but not spilling over, hands clenched on her knees.

"Okay, you two.  Heads up."  Dennis climbed out of the bed again, cursing the rails, and came back with the hand-drawn map in his hand.  The three of them huddled over the pieces of paper with Kyle's scrawlings and Dennis' labels.  A plan, which at first had been fantastic and half-formed, solidified, becoming as real as the hard cushions beneath them.  All it required now was for Kyle to be well.

Kyle, the slave, shivered.

On top of a mountain

On the bank of a frozen river

In the city, in the snow

Always cold.  Naked, barefoot, alone.

Half-conscious.  A voice, a face.  "Kyle, are you okay?   Damn it, he's out again."  Hands bundled him in warmth before he fell back down into blackness.

A large city

A small apartment

A sorrowful woman.  His mother.

"Things will get better, I swear.  Please stay."

"Kyle, come back.  Please.  Don't leave."

"Kyle!"

Half-conscious.  Lying on a soft mattress, his master, a locus of warmth next to him, shaking him, voice trembling, afraid.  "Kyle. You've got to get better.  Soon.  We don't have much time."

Downstairs

Cold as the interior of a refrigerator

Huddled in a corner, the Phantom Man looming over him.  Tools on the wall, metal, serrated, no potential for pleasure, but only ripping pain.

"No one has a name here.  If you have one, you must forget it. The Palace protects itself with the anonymity of its staff, so deviance from this principle will be punished."

Did you forget?  Have you forgotten?

Potential for pain, become pain.  His previous master, the Phantom Man, superimposed, melded, become one.

The outer shell was already gone.

The Robin's Egg fought for its life, burning, too quickly. Caught on the edge of agony.

Sparking, sputtering.  Dying.

Dead

Half-conscious?  Conscious?  Regardless, blind.

Kyle, the slave, sat up.  Where was he?  He blinked as a washcloth wiped the tears and sweat from his face, its coolness on his neck, his chest.  His master's face swam up from the darkness, first blurred, then in focus.  "Kyle, you've got to stop screaming like that.  You just about scared the shit out of
me."

He reached out towards his master, put his arms around his master's waist, clutched him close, face buried in his shirt, soft cotton, a warm, beating heart, crying out the terror and the darkness and the cold.  "It's gone, it's gone -- master --"

Arms around him, his master's quiet voice, "Kyle, it'll be okay," again and again.

Time passed.  The cold passed, the terror, miraculously, passed, and somehow he was still here and still alive.  Slowly, he let go of his master, pulled back, regained his bearings.  "I think I'm all right, master."

"Are you sure?"

"Not particularly."

His master gave him a wry look, holding the bottom of his shirt away from his body.  "When you make a mess, you don't kid around."

"I'm sorry, master."

"Don't call me 'master,' Kyle.  My name's Dennis."

The children's next shift didn't start for another three hours. Just to be safe, Dennis wouldn't call down to them for another four hours.  By then, they had to be ready to go.

Dennis scrutinized the inside of Kyle's closet.  None of its contents was suitable for wearing anywhere but indoors.  So Kyle ended up wearing a pair of Dennis' jeans, far too big, cinched in at the waist with one of Dennis' belts and turned up at the hems, and a T-shirt that was too snug in the shoulders.

Kyle had no shoes, so Dennis' extra pair of high-tops, the shoelaces tied together, was slung around his neck.  The sneakers were a full size too big and Dennis didn't want to take a chance of Kyle's tripping in them if they had to run.

Dennis' question whether Kyle wanted to take anything from the room with him was met with a quiet but emphatic "No."  Dennis raided the bathroom for soaps and shampoos and Kyle's toothbrush, putting all that was absolutely necessary into his backpack.  The suitcase would get left behind.

Kyle knelt close by, back stiff and upright, as Dennis reorganized the contents of the backpack for the fifth time.  He seemed agitated, as though he wanted to say something but wasn't quite ready to.  "Master.  Er.  Dennis."

"Yeah?"  Faced with something to do, an action to take, Dennis was cheerful, worst-case scenario solidly frightening in his head, but mostly overridden by the prospect of helping Kyle and, as a bonus, being witness to some severe collateral damage.

"I don't think I'm ready to leave."

"What?  Why not?"  Dennis hesitated, cut short in the midst of his puttering.  This possibility hadn't occurred to him.

"Where will I go?  What will I do, once we're out?"  Kyle huddled in on himself, out of place in Dennis' clothes, eyes anxious and brows creased with worry.

"You can go back to your family, can't you?"

"I don't remember any of them except my mother.  I can't remember much of anything from before I came here, because of my training. I don't know where I'm from, or even my last name.  And maybe my family wouldn't want me."

"But you can't stay here, either.  Those kids can only do so much for you without getting caught.  And who knows who the 'supervisor' will pick to replace me when I'm gone."

"I understand all that.  I have to tell you.  I'm afraid."

Dennis' voice softened.  "I'm afraid, too.  But I don't see that we have any other choice."  A minute later, he continued, "You need to decide for yourself.  I'm not going to force you to do anything."

Dennis continued to pack and organize.  The silence was thick for several moments.  "All right.  I'll go with you."

0.  2.  7.  One hand trembled on the keypad, the other hand, palm sweating, gripped the receiver.  Two rings.  The young boy's voice answered, tight, urgent.  "Yes, sir.  How can I help you?"

"We're ready."

"Understood, sir.  We'll meet you in ten minutes."

Dennis replaced the receiver.  He opened the door for Kyle, bowing.  "After you."  The door to the Emerald Room clicked shut behind them.

They took the stairs down, Dennis having suspected, and the children concurring, that the elevators were tracked and monitored, while the steps, seldom or rarely used, were not. Dennis' shoes echoed in the stairwell while Kyle's bare feet padded behind.

Going down the steps was nowhere near as hard as going up, which Dennis was thankful for, still slightly weary from his trek up the same steps half a day ago.  They reached the first floor landing.  There were two doors here.  The door straight ahead led to the elevator foyer. There was also a door to the left, locked and flush to the wall, which Dennis tapped lightly with a knuckle.

The girl opened the door for them, ushering them into a service corridor.  The corridor also echoed every sound they made, putting them on edge.  The light in the corridor was provided by light bulbs on the ceiling, so shadows danced in front of and followed behind them.  Dennis half expected the supervisor, the bogeyman, to catch them around a blind corner, talons cutting and snatching Kyle away.  To reassure himself he grabbed Kyle's hand and squeezed it.

They stopped at the place they had agreed on, and the girl tapped once on another door flush to the wall, which the boy opened from the inside.

The computer room lay behind the door, the core, the pulsing heart of the Palace.  Banks of servers along one wall, flickering CRTs, humming printers, whirring tape drives, like something out of a science fiction movie or a Big Brother nightmare.

Dennis turned to the boy, who in less than a second had gotten hold of the nozzle of a fire hose.  "Hey, listen," Dennis said.

"Yes, sir?" the boy replied.

"Do you want to come with us?  As long as you're here."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't."

"You're starting to sound like Kyle.  So why not?"

"I don't have time to explain, sir.  All I can tell you is that we are part of this Palace and cannot leave.  What would happen if someone like you came here again?  We would have to be here to assist them as well."

Dennis hadn't understood much of anything the boy said, except that there wasn't any time to waste.  So he stood back as the boy gripped the nozzle by its metal handle, aimed it toward the center of the computer room, and nodded to the girl who stood at the ready by the water valve a few yards down the hall.  With one strong movement, she turned the metal wheel.

The next seconds passed in near-hallucinogenic confusion.  The nozzle bucked in the boy's hands and a solid cylinder of water shot from the end of the hose, spreading out all over the inside of the computer room.  Electric circuits and outlets showered sparks, and the lights in the room and in the service corridor flickered, strobed, hiccoughed, and went out.

A hand, which Dennis presumed to be the girl's, grabbed his, Dennis grabbed Kyle's, and klaxons began to go off as they splashed through the service corridor.

The girl opened a door on blinding light.  "Go!  Hurry!"  Dennis and Kyle staggered out, still holding hands.  The door thunked closed behind them.

When he could finally see, Dennis nearly fell.  The Palace was gone.  Completely, entirely, as though it had never existed.  And in its place?  Cornfields, a blazing Midwestern sun, a well-worn tractor path.  Panicked, Dennis gripped Kyle's upper arms and stared into his face.  Yes, he was still there, still solid, still real.

"What the fuck -- what the -- where --"

It didn't take Dennis long to recover and start moving, thinking and planning, adjusting to his new situation.  Kyle sat down in the dirt road and put on the high-tops, and they began walking. Dennis figured that the road would eventually lead to civilization, no matter how isolated.

They were soon rewarded by meeting a young man walking the opposite direction on the same path.  He smiled at them pleasantly, totally unsurprised, as Dennis told him that he and his "brother" Kyle were lost and needed to get to a bus station, and where, exactly, were they?

Mr. Andersen, a tall, slender man with wavy brown hair, was very nice, the exact opposite of the the crotchety old farmer of myth.  He led Dennis and Kyle to his house, the late summer sun falling warm on their backs as they walked between the maturing rows of corn, scuffing little puffs of dirt up from the road.  He had them sit on his porch steps and came back with some ice water and some cans of juice that he urged Dennis to put in his backpack.

After they had finished their water, Mr. Andersen did a puzzling thing.  He crouched on the steps beneath Kyle, holding Kyle's face in both hands.  His gentle hazel eyes closed, and his brow wrinkled in concentration.  When he opened his eyes again, he was upset and Kyle looked like he'd just stepped out of a particularly fast carnival ride.  Mr. Andersen stroked a hand through Kyle's bangs.  "They really did a number on you, didn't they, Kyle.  I wish I could do more for you.  But it looks like you're in good hands."

"Thank you, Mr. Andersen," Kyle replied.  He was going to say more, but Mr. Andersen shushed him, smiling.

"In its own time."

Kyle -- smiled?  A tiny smile, one side of his mouth moving up a fraction of an inch.  "All right."

Mr. Andersen gave them directions to the nearest town, and sent them on their way with some sandwiches he refused to accept money for.  He also gave them each a business card with his name and phone number on it, urging them to call him when they found their way home.  They thanked him again, and went on their way.

Most of the route to town followed narrow country roads; the last half-mile or so led along an unnerving stretch of interstate. Dennis was astonished at the change that had come over Kyle. Completely passive during the first part of their escape, content to be led, now he walked side by side with Dennis and at times even took the lead.  Dennis would swear he almost looked cheerful.

Dennis commented that Kyle seemed to be feeling a lot better about things.  "Mr. Andersen helped me put some pieces back together."

What a strange thing to say.  "I don't get it."

"It's hard for me to explain.  But my training broke my memories apart, I suppose.  One piece here, one piece there.  When you came to the Palace, when you were kind to me, the pieces started to come back together again.  Mr. Andersen finished up what you started."

Dennis didn't ask any more questions, since he didn't think he was ready to hear any more answers that just made his brain hurt.

He walked with Kyle alongside the interstate's exit ramp.  Maybe Mr. Andersen was a conductor on a miniature Underground Railroad for the Palace's ex-slaves.  And maybe he had other powers that
Dennis would never understand.

By the time they reached town, it was nearly dark and the bus station had closed until tomorrow.  So Dennis decided to use his parents' credit card to get them a room in the motel across the road from the bus station.

Dennis really wondered about this town when the middle-aged lady behind the counter at the motel assigned them a room with a single bed, refused to accept the credit card, and winked them on their way.  This day had been altogether too surreal; he was also worn out from walking and his head was pounding.  All he wanted to do now was go to sleep.

When they got into the motel room, Dennis took off his shoes and flopped face-down onto the bed.  He'd done the right thing by getting Kyle out of the Palace, of that he was certain, but now he didn't have the slightest idea of the correct thing to do.  He sat up on the bed, and motioned Kyle over to sit on the bed with him.  "So, what's next?" Dennis asked, smiling, covering his anxiety with cheerfulness.

"Do you think we're safe here, master?"

"Dennis."

"...Dennis.  Sorry."

"I guess so.  If this was a set-up, or if that woman was part of the Palace, we'd be busted by now."

Kyle fidgeted, fussing with the flimsy counterpane on the bed. "May I tell you something?"

"Well, sure, go ahead, say anything you want."

"I, I can't go with you.  I need to get to San Diego."

"San Diego?"

"Do you remember how I said Mr. Andersen helped me put my memories back together?"

"Sure..."

"When Mr. Andersen touched me, I remembered so many things.  I remembered my mother, she and I, going to the San Diego Zoo.  I remembered a stepfather who beat us both.  I remembered the apartment we lived in before I left.  I remembered leaving that place.  My mother was crying, begging me to come back.

"I want to see if she's all right.  I want her to see I'm still alive."

"That's great, Kyle.  I'm happy for you.  We can get you a ticket to San Diego tomorrow."  To cover up the pang of sorrow that had welled up in him, he leaned over and kissed Kyle, lightly, on the cheek, then once again, a little more roughly, on his lips, then pulled back.

A kiss goodbye.  Kyle did not belong to him, and never had.

To his astonishment, Kyle moved forward and returned the kiss. And then some.  Nibbling and biting his lower lip, nipping his ear, then down the line of his jaw to his neck, pushing Dennis onto his back with strong hands.  Dennis put his palms on Kyle's collar bones and tried, but not too enthusiastically, to push him off.  "Kyle, I didn't mean it that way, you don't have to..."

Kyle broke off, letting Dennis go.  He got up, gave him a long look, and without a word, went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Dennis really wished Kyle hadn't done that, or that he hadn't started it by kissing him.  Grief and horniness were waging uncontrolled war all through him.  He didn't know whether to cry or sexually assault Kyle as soon as he got out of the bathroom. He got out of bed, moved across the room and turned on the TV, went back to the bed and laid on it on his stomach, chin propped up on his hand.  He tried to ignore the pleasant discomfort he caused himself lying that way, and hoped the episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 playing on the TV would distract him from his roiling thoughts.

It wasn't long before he got caught up in the silly antics of the prisoners of the Satellite of Love, and he wasn't entirely paying attention when Kyle opened the bathroom door.

"Master."

Dennis looked up from the TV screen.  "Kyle, I've told you, I'm not your..."  His jaw dropped.

Kyle faced him, naked, leaning against the door sill, one foot propped on the opposite side, Dennis' belt wrapped around his hand with the end dangling to the floor.  Dennis' gaze riveted to the belt as Kyle trailed it up his leg, his thigh, across his erect penis.  As though he had never been lost and helpless, but always, completely confident and assured.

"Dennis, let me call you 'master.'  For just a little while."

Part 7:  Golden Summer Mirage
 

All Dennis could do was stare as Kyle walked over to the TV and shut it off, then came over to the bed and crouched on the floor in front of him.  Dennis scrutinized Kyle's face.  "Uh, are you sure you want to do this?"

Kyle moved closer to the bed, placing a hand on its edge, his mouth brushing Dennis' lower lip.  Kyle's breath came hot on Dennis' chin as he whispered, "Yes, I want to do this, master. Very much."  His mouth moved up, and he kissed Dennis, a small kiss, his tongue brushing Dennis' upper lip.  Dennis ran a hand through Kyle's bangs, his hair, down to the back of his neck, pressing Kyle's head forward while he propped himself up on the bed with his other hand.

He closed his eyes and tasted Kyle all over again, the same Kyle he had kissed in the Palace, but yet so different.  He couldn't get enough of him, this Kyle who was naked, who made little sounds as they kissed, who was free of the Palace and still
wanted him.  No need to hold back.  With this thought, Dennis felt how painfully hard he was and how much he himself wanted Kyle.

It wasn't long before the arm propping Dennis up gave way and he fell face down on the bed.  He laughed, "Sorry about that.  I'm not much of a jock."

Kyle came up on the bed next to him.  "That's all right, master." Dennis sat up.

Kyle set the belt by Dennis' leg.  "I am your slave, master, and you can do anything you like with me.  Recently, there's been a problem."  As he spoke, Kyle took the hem of Dennis' shirt in his hands.  He continued talking, looking straight into Dennis' eyes, pulling the shirt up to expose Dennis' torso.  "I've been a disobedient slave.  I escaped from the Palace, trying to get away from you."  He gave Dennis a nod, encouraging him to lift his arms so he could pull the shirt the rest of the way off. Dennis was embarrassed at the obvious bulge that had developed in his jeans. That was stupid, Kyle had it all hanging out and he wasn't shy about it.  "As you can imagine, this is unforgivable.  I must be punished.  But at the same time, I am your favorite slave and you want to convince me to stay."

Kyle took the belt from beside them and wrapped the buckle end around Dennis' trembling hand.  "This is stupid," Dennis protested.  "Why do we have to go through all this?  I don't want--"

"There's no harm in it, master."  Kyle leaned forward, murmured against Dennis' neck, each word causing shivers all down his spine.  "It's playacting.  I want you to play my master, and punish me for being disobedient to you."  He put his lips to Dennis' ear.  "Please."

Dennis couldn't say "no" to Kyle then, realizing as Kyle drew back again, that Kyle had initiated the playacting and was, therefore, the one in control of it.  Somehow this made him more confident.  "Okay.  I'll try."

Kyle's face and manner changed in an instant.  He looked like he had lost his best friend, and Dennis would swear his pale green eyes filled with tears.  He put his hands on Dennis' knee, and bowed his body down so that his forehead touched his hands. "Kyle?"

"Oh, master.  I've done a terrible thing."

"What's that?  It can't be that bad."  Dennis still felt stupid. He patted Kyle's back, a little clumsily.  "Sit up, Kyle.  Tell me what you did."  He nearly fell over as Kyle grabbed him around the waist, turning an imploring face up to his.

"Master, I'm so sorry.  I tried to escape tonight.  The supervisor caught me before I could get away, and brought me back to you."

Dennis smiled down at him.  "That's okay.  As long as you don't do it again."  Kyle gave him an impatient look.  "Ahem.  What I meant to say was, that's unforgivable."

"I know, master.  You told me so many times that if I tried to escape, you would punish me.  Perhaps I didn't believe you.  I thought you would be merciful.  But now, I know I was wrong." Kyle let go of Dennis, moving away from him to the head of the bed.  He knelt, back to Dennis, head bowed, hands gripping the headboard, legs spread apart, both displaying a picture of submission and displaying the nicely developed muscles of his back, arms and buttocks.

"Master.  You must strike me.  I know you have no other choice. I will endure it to prove that I can be obedient to you."

Dennis stared at the belt in his hand, at the boy across the bed. He came up close to Kyle and tilted up Kyle's chin with his hand. Kyle was panting, his breath coming fast and sharp, as though he... with a glance down, Dennis confirmed what he had suspected.

"Do you want me to--"  He took his hand from Kyle's face and moved it toward where Kyle seemed to be experiencing the most distress.

"You must strike me first, master."

Dennis stopped.  "But--"

"Strike me, master.  Please."

Dennis was shaking so badly, he was sure he was shaking the bed as well.  He put a hand on Kyle's belly, felt and heard his labored, erotic breathing.  "Do you really want me to hit you, Kyle?"

"Yes, master.  I do."

Dennis raised the belt in his other hand.

Kyle tensed, prepared to feel Dennis' -- his master's -- blows. His penis was pulsing, anticipating, almost on the verge; only a few blows would cause him release.  And to have Dennis doing that to him, kind Dennis who had kissed him and stroked his hair, whose hand quaked as it touched his belly (perhaps he should have let Dennis touch him down there, too, that would have been nice), to have Dennis beat stinging strips of pain across his back and buttocks, just the thought caused new ripples of pleasure to course through him.

Kyle heard an object hit the wall by the door and clatter to the floor.  The hand on his belly was gone, Dennis' warmth gone from beside him as well.  "I'm sorry, Kyle.  I can't do this." Dennis' voice was muffled and strained.

Kyle looked up, let go of the headboard, and turned around. Dennis crouched, his body huddled over, face in his hands, as far across the bed as he could get and still be on it.  Puzzled, he moved toward Dennis.  "Master, is something the matter?"

Dennis took his hands away from his face.  Those gentle blue eyes were filled with tears.  "Yes, something's 'the matter.'  I can't believe you want me to do that, after your ear, and your arm, and whatever the fuck else that other guy did to you."

Kyle tried to reason with Dennis; for him to be upset like this made no sense.  "It's not the same.  That master gave me bad pain.  This would have hurt a little, but I would have enjoyed it.  Believe me, I enjoyed very little of what my previous master did to me."

Dennis, confusing master, moved back towards him.  Dennis kept his distance, never pushing, never forcing, this time simply putting his hands on Kyle, one on his upper arm, fingers running gently along his tricep, the other caressing his cheek, moving back with feather-light touches to his ear.  "Can I ask a favor?" Dennis asked.

"Of course, master."

"If we're gonna do anything, can we skip the belt?"  Dennis' hand was in Kyle's hair again.

"Certainly, master.  Whatever you like."  Anything.

Dennis grimaced.  "And stop calling me 'master.'  It gives me the willies."

Dennis could not know the confusion he was causing Kyle.  Kyle's nerve endings sang as Dennis' fingers touched his neck, his collarbone, trailed down the middle of his chest, brushed across his nipples, one by one, caresses that touched him more deeply and stimulated him more than any blow he had ever received.

Kyle pushed on Dennis' shoulders, meeting no resistance as he laid him onto his back on the bed.  He straddled Dennis' waist, letting Dennis feel Kyle's erection on his belly as Kyle leaned over to kiss Dennis again.  Dennis seemed content to let Kyle play him for a while, as Kyle nipped him lightly on the lips and chin, Dennis' arms around Kyle's waist pressing them closer together.

Dennis jumped when Kyle inched free from his grip, kissing down his neck to his chest, stopping to suck on a nipple.  Dennis moaned out loud, stroked Kyle's back, and bucked his jeans-clad hips upwards.  Kyle moved off of Dennis, causing him to make a disappointed sound which transformed to a sigh of pleasure as Kyle stripped off his jeans, underwear, and socks.

Kyle laid down on his side next to Dennis, who immediately rolled to meet him, pressing their bodies close together again, showering Kyle's face with kisses.  Kyle hooked a leg around Dennis' waist, and their kisses got rougher as their erect members bumped against each other.

"Dennis."

"Mmmm."  Dennis opened his eyes.

"Would you like to penetrate me?"

Dennis hesitated.  "I think so."

"I stretched myself open in the bathroom.  But for our comfort I need to do one more thing."

"Okay.  This won't hurt you, will it?"

Kyle gave him a small smile.  "No.  Not at all."  Kyle moved his head down Dennis' body.  He had to be quick, make sure Dennis didn't orgasm as he coated Dennis' penis with his saliva.  Dennis groaned "Oh, Kyle" once, but seemed mostly in control.  He did look somewhat uncomfortable as Kyle brought himself up to face Dennis again.

"Um."

"Yes?"

"I haven't, I mean, I don't have a lot of experience with this kind of thing."

"You'll do fine."  Kyle encouraged Dennis to sit up, and sat on his lap, facing him, using Dennis' legs and the bed for balance as he positioned himself.  He reached a hand forward, took Dennis' slick penis in his hand, guided the tip to his opening, and simultaneously wrapped his legs around Dennis' body and pushed himself forward with his free hand, relaxing himself, embedding Dennis fully inside him.

Being penetrated was never entirely pleasant.  He always partially lost his erection when it happened.  But, to compare now to those times when his previous master's rough hand pushed the back of his neck, shoving his face into the hard cushions of the Emerald Room, Kyle's arms twisted and tied behind him, his genitals manhandled, vision gone red, bad pain on top of bad pain...

Don't think of that.  He's gone.  You're free.  And Dennis is here, now.  Inside you.

This was amazing.  The little fantasy Dennis had had in the bathroom of the Palace was nothing compared to this.  Kyle was warm and tight inside, all right, but to have Kyle's legs wrapped around him in some impossibly athletic position, to have Kyle making incoherent noises and sticking his tongue in his ear, while that tightness squeezed him at his base, he wanted this to go on forever, but it had to end soon, there was no way Dennis could hold back much longer.

Dennis leaned his head down on Kyle's collarbone, giving him a chance to peek between Kyle's legs.  Kyle had stayed hard for quite a while, and Dennis wanted to touch him, make him come. Keeping one hand on Kyle's back, he moved the other down Kyle's chest, to his belly, enjoying the feel of Kyle's hard muscles under the smooth skin.

This was something Dennis knew about.  The angle was strange, upside-down or backwards or something, but was perfect for Dennis to stroke his thumb up the underside of Kyle's penis, along the ridge between the head and the shaft, back down to the base, fingers playing with the hair there and gently running over his tightening scrotum.

Kyle's voice, rich, beautiful baritone, begged him, "Dennis. Please."  Just like in the tent at the Palace.  But tonight, no supervisor, no fear.  Dennis got serious now, no more playing, gripping Kyle tightly, feeling Kyle's body go tense as he squeezed and stroked him faster.  It was not long at all before Kyle's entire body went taut and he came, all over them.

"Oh shit, Kyle.  I'm sorry."  Dennis had to laugh as he looked at Kyle, sleepy and content with goopy stuff sprayed all over him. He moved to push Kyle off his lap, half-forgetting he was still buried to the hilt inside him.

"Dennis.  Let me finish it."  Kyle tightened his legs, forcing Dennis back in and making him gasp.  Kyle guided their bodies so that Dennis was lying back, propped up on his elbows, knees bent with Kyle leaned back against them, Kyle's feet at Dennis' sides and his legs spread wide.  With Kyle in that position, Dennis could both see and feel everything as Kyle, skilled and strong, moved himself up and down, tight muscle all along Dennis' length.  Kyle's flaccid penis bobbed as he worked Dennis, the sight egging Dennis to thrust his hips up as Kyle moved down.

Dennis' hips moved of their own accord as the feeling built, instinctively reaching, his body sweating.  There it was.  At last.  He closed his eyes, let go, and came, long and intense.

He was coming down, going soft, exhausted and happy.  He reached for Kyle, slipping out of him, hugging and kissing him again, not caring how messy they were.

"Kyle."

"Yes, Dennis?"

"Do you hear something?"  A light groaning sound had started beneath them, and now grew in intensity.

The groan broke on a huge "crack."  Dennis clutched Kyle to him as the old motel bed collapsed underneath them.

In a little while, after a quick wash-down and an embarrassed phone call from Dennis to the lady at the front desk, Kyle and Dennis were situated in a new room.  They were in bed together, Kyle snoozing naked on one side of the bed and Dennis sitting up, wide awake, on the other.

Kyle had had a rough couple of days and deserved his sleep.  It would be rude for Dennis to wake him up, kiss and explore him again, even if it was what he wanted to do more than anything else, and especially since it was likely to be the last time they would be together.  He satisfied himself with looking at Kyle. One time he laid light fingers on Kyle's back and leaned forward to put his lips on Kyle's hair.

Eventually he laid down to watch him.  Kyle wasn't quite as attractive from this angle, with his mouth hanging open, snoring quietly.  Dennis scooted close so he could feel Kyle's breath on his face.  He put a hand on Kyle's hand and squeezed it gently.

He had meant to stay awake all night.  But within minutes of lying down, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, the sun was blasting in his eyes and the ringing of the wake-up call vibrated through his head.  He picked up the phone, thanked the front desk, and sat up on the bed.  A cold chill ran through him when he saw Kyle was gone.  He peeked in the bathroom, then stumbled to the window to check outside.

His stomach settled back into place when he saw Kyle sitting on the concrete stoop outside the room, dressed in Dennis' clothes, the sun making his face glow and setting off golden highlights in his red hair.

Dennis took a minute to watch Kyle again, trying to memorize every detail before they had to go across the street to the bus station.  What was going through Kyle's head?  Was he sad, or excited, to go back home?

How long had he been in the Palace?  And did being here, outside, frighten him after being a prisoner for so long?

Kyle had been torn apart, physically and mentally, broken into pieces that may never be put right again.  And somehow Dennis had been allowed to get into the Palace and make him free.  Having freed him, it would be wrong for Dennis to try to keep Kyle for himself.  Kyle needed to get to San Diego, find his mother, finish putting his life back together.  Maybe saying these sensible things over and over to himself would make Dennis hurt less.

It was time to get ready to leave.  Dennis walked to the door of the motel room and opened it.

The man behind the desk at the bus station looked at Dennis oddly when he asked what the date and day were.  And, in his turn, Dennis looked at the man oddly when he only had to put fifty
dollars on his parents' credit card to buy tickets for both himself and Kyle to get home.  Irritated, the man shooed them out onto the bus platform.

Kyle's bus was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, Dennis' in a half-hour.  So little time left.  Kyle sat next to Dennis on the bench, seemingly oblivious to everything but the tickets in his hand.  Dennis had given Kyle his backpack and most of his vacation money; Kyle held the pack on his lap.

Ten minutes left.  Five.  The sound of a distant diesel motor disturbed the dusty silence of the bus platform.  Dennis snatched a piece of paper and a pen from the backpack and scribbled his address and phone number on the paper, then pressed the paper into Kyle's hand.

The bus pulled up.  Unmindful of whoever might be on the bus, or the crabby guy in the bus office, Dennis hugged Kyle and gave him a kiss on the lips.  "Goodbye, Kyle.  Take care.  Please write me, if you can."

Kyle stood up and looked down at Dennis soberly.  "Thank you, Dennis."

Dennis smiled back up at him.  "Sure.  No problem."

Kyle boarded the bus.  By the time Dennis' eyes had dried, Kyle's bus was gone from sight, and Dennis' bus was pulling up to the platform.

Kyle watched Dennis out of the window of the bus until a bend in the road obscured the platform from view.  He realized he had squashed the paper Dennis had given him in his fist.  He carefully flattened it out, folded it, and put it into the front pocket of the backpack along with Dennis' paper money and the card that Mr. Andersen had given him.

He spent a while looking out the window of the bus, the sun shining on rows of crops and farm houses and warming the backs of horses and cows.  When he got bored with that, he opened the backpack, looking through its contents and placing the items on the seat next to him.

Three cans of juice, socks and underwear, little soaps and shampoos, toothbrush and toothpaste, plastic bags of chips, chocolate bars, a book with a strange illustration on the cover, two pads of paper, two pens, three pencils, a pencil sharpener.

And, in the bottom of the pack, a rectangular box.  Kyle pulled it out to look at it, turning it in his hands.  The box was lacquered silver.  Kyle undid the latch and opened the box, curious.

Lying on a bed of grey velvet was the key to the Emerald Room. Kyle took it out.  Its gems twinkled in the light diffused through the windows of the bus.

A gift from Dennis.  Kyle's freedom, heavy and solid in his hand.

Kyle's vision blurred, and his throat felt tight and sore.  He clutched the key until the gems on its handle made indentations into his palm.

Usually Dennis was happy to get home from one of his enforced vacations.  But now, after a miserable bus trip, and being greeted by his parents' cheerful "So, how was Epcot Center?" and realizing that school was starting in a week, Dennis was sure this was one of the unhappiest days of his life.

True to his promise, he called Mr. Andersen an hour or two after he settled in.  Of course, Mr. Andersen hadn't heard from Kyle yet; Dennis was sure he'd be on the road for a while, and who knew how long it would take for him to track his mom down?

"While I've got you on the phone," Mr. Andersen said, "could I make you an offer?"

"What kind of offer?"

"To be frank, the operation I'm involved in could use someone like you.  Somebody who lives close to a large city and can lend assistance to the little jailbirds that land there.  I know you're still in high school, but maybe you can call me after you graduate.  It'd only be a part-time job, but--"

Confused, but pleased, Dennis told him he would consider it.  He gave Mr. Andersen his phone number and asked him to call if he happened to hear from Kyle first.  Mr. Andersen promised he would, and they hung up.

Thoughts of Kyle filled Dennis' every waking moment.  Memories of the Palace, their escape, little things about Kyle.  The smell of Kyle's hair, the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the taste of his kisses, and how he had felt -- his hard body, his tightness inside.  And another feeling, one that was harder to pin down:  who Kyle was, how little Dennis had gotten to know of him in the short time they had been together, how much more he wanted to know.  A longing to see him again that was almost a physical pain, an emptiness.

Dennis' fantasy life was incredibly vivid for quite a while after he got home, with the added benefit that Joey no longer tempted him in the slightest.  And Margaret, another mercy, decided to back off, telling him one afternoon that she had started to get interested in other guys.

Dennis dialed the 888 number for the Palace the day before school started, just for the hell of it.  He shouldn't have been surprised to hear the "operator" voice tell him that the number he had dialed was not a working number, but he had the shakes for hours afterwards.

Time passed.  School started.  Every day, Dennis rushed home, checked the mailbox and looked at the caller ID box by the phone to see if anyone had called from San Diego or Mr. Andersen's town.  But, every day he was disappointed.

He took walks around his neighborhood each evening, trying to get his mind off his worries, but always asking himself the same questions.  Where was Kyle?  Why hadn't he called or written? Had the Palace caught him?  Or had some other predator gotten hold of him?

More time passed.  Worry transformed to anxiety, and anxiety gave way to biting sorrow, then numbness.  Kyle must really be gone, and Dennis would have to live with that fact.  His parents remarked that Dennis seemed less accident-prone than usual.  For some reason, that made Dennis sad all over again.

October arrived.  And it wasn't that Dennis forgot about Kyle, not at all.  But his memories, and his fear and sadness and missing Kyle had gotten fuzzy around the edges, losing detail, as summer gave way to fall and he dealt with midterms and finding colleges to apply to.  Dennis didn't even have a physical object to look at to remind him of Kyle.  It was almost like Dennis had imagined his summer vacation.  But never entirely.

November arrived.  The days got chillier and, in fact, on the second day of November, a phantom snow fell, an inch and a half that melted an hour after it fell.  Dennis came home from school in a hurry that day since he, Joey and Margaret were going to the football game that night and he had to get ready.  His dad gave him a package on the way in, and Dennis took it upstairs with him, tossing it on the bed while he changed and put his school things away.  The return address caught his eye as he sat on the bed to put on his sneakers. Time stopped.  He grabbed the package, half-afraid that it would vanish as soon as he touched it.  With trembling hands, he opened the bubble-packed envelope.

Inside was the Emerald Key and a letter in a handwriting that was labored, or even childish, as though the writer had taken great care to make it legible despite their inexperience.

The contents of the letter made Dennis smile even as tears poured down his face.

In a number of minutes, he had almost calmed himself down and gotten his shoes on.  He put the letter and key carefully on his desk and went down the steps to the front hall to wait for Joey to arrive with his car.

Dennis paused by the china cabinet outside the dining room.  He looked at it and its contents carefully, running a considering finger along its edge.  A smile broke across his face, and his eyes narrowed, gleaming.

He was sure he could arrange a trip to San Diego for Thanksgiving break.

The End of the Emerald Key.