He pushed his big toe into my mouth. “So if you ever want it again, you know where to come. You’d be crazy to ask for it, though. I like danger. The possibilities—the games—are endless. Sooner or later…”

He pulled his toe from my mouth and pushed my face to the floor with his foot. “Now get out. I’m tired of you.”

I staggered naked to my room. It was dark outside. I looked at the clock. I had spent eight hours in his room. I closed the door and crawled into bed. I saw the leather strap on my right arm. I wanted to put it back on my left, but I was afraid he would know somehow.

I heard Michael in the hallway, then in the shower. He was singing happily, basso profundo, as I dropped off to sleep.

Sunday morning I woke up sore and stiff. My ass ached, and there was a lingering fire in my groin. The marks he had put all over my body stung beneath the sheet. My nipples were raw. My arms ached. My jaw ached.

I stared at the ceiling and thought about the night before. Perversely, my cock began to harden.

There was a knock at the door. I stiffened with fear. “Who is it?”

“Sharon.”

“Oh.” I pulled the sheet up to hide my chest. “Come in.”

She entered with a tray of food. “Michael said you were under the weather today. I thought I’d bring you something to eat.”

“Thanks. Just set it on the dresser. I’ll eat it later.”

“Okay. You do look pale,” she said maternally. Then she looked puzzled and frowned. She was looking at my armband, on the right now. Or was it my hairless arms?

“Well,” she said, “I’ll check on you later. Call if you need anything.”

I ate the poached eggs and toast, drank the soup. I noticed that my pants and my wooden locker were by the bed. Michael must have returned them. I cringed to think that he had been in the room while I slept.

I tiptoed to the bathroom to put ointment on my welts and take a long, painful crap. It felt like I was shitting my guts out. There was blood, but not enough to worry me. Then I returned to my room and slept like a dead man till dusk.

Later in the evening I went to the bathroom again—dry heaving this time. As I was leaving I heard someone in the hallway. I couldn’t bear to see Michael again. I switched off the bathroom light, cracked the door, and looked out.

It was Michael’s blond friend, Carl. The regular visitor who used to live in my room. Who wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Whose pants seemed to have no bulge at the crotch. He was wearing a tank top. His tanned arms and chest were smooth and hairless.