A Boy

Author: Bob Harris ©

used with permission. This article was originally written for the section of Gloria Brame's website called "Perspectives Of A Male Submissive".



A boy died tonight. You won't find anything about it in the local papers. You won't hear anybody talking about it around town. You probably won't even notice anyone missing. But he died just the same.

Sitting at a dark corner of the bar, the boy looks at the reflection staring back at him from the mirrored wall. He looks tired, drawn, defeated. His eyes, that once caught everyone's attention because of how they sparkled with laughter and just a hint of mischief, now were puffy, barely half-open, devoid of spark.

The collar and lock that seemed permanently attached was missing. Once it had been of symbol of who he was. A source of pride and identity, marking him as the property of his Master, a role he cherished. Now he hardly seemed to miss it. The boy in him had died.

Looking at his reflection, he wondered just what had happened? How did that part of him which he had worked so hard to develop just suddenly fade away? He had come to be respected as one of the best boys around. Unequaled in the devotion and service he lovingly gave to his Master. Looked up to as a role model, he had gained the respect of Dominants and submissives alike. But now it was gone.

Actually, it had been a gradual death. One he had been fighting for several months. Growing pressures from the outside world, his job and family, plus increasing pressure from the "lifestyle" community to give more and more, had finally taken its toll. His outside responsibilities were causing him to feel that he was not giving his all to his Master. That he was letting Him down, and letting Him down was the one thing the boy could not forgive himself for.

Despite reassurances from his Master, try as he might, the boy could not get over feeling inadequate. Master tried to help by relaxing some of the boy's duties. But to the boy, this just meant that Master didn't think him capable. The more Master tried to help, the more inadequate the boy felt. Trips to the dungeon became less and less frequent. The Dungeon had always been a magical place for them. Reviving their spirits. Binding them ever closer. But now it seemed that though they both wanted to, both seemed afraid that for some reason, the magic wouldn't be as great. The fear of disappointment froze them.

Falling deeper and deeper into despair, the boy could hang on no longer. He had always been able to reach inside himself to find some extra small bit of energy to carry him forward. But tonight, no such energy could be found. Nothing was left. With one last, gasping breath, he let go.

He was going to put his leather away. Never wanted to see it again. But something kept him from doing it. Looking at the pieces hanging in the closest, each one with their own special memory, the boy couldn't face boxing them up. The first pair of chaps and vest. Hand-me-downs, given to him by his first leather lover. The man who had introduced him to this wonderful world. They had been the man's previous lover's who had died from AIDS. They had two good years before the boy's lover died also.

The vest that held his club colors. Weighted down with the friendship and run pins he had collected. The title vest that had pushed him into the public eye, eventually leading him to his Master. The chaps Master had reworked to please Himself. The vest with the family symbol. All meant too much to just let go. Perhaps all was not dead. An ember, although ever so small, was still there glowing beneath the ashes.

The bar was beginning to fill, mostly with the leather pretenders and wannabes that usually come early. They want the adventure of coming to a "leather bar" but at a safe time, before the "real" leathermen get there. You can always tell them by the way they poke each other and point at anyone who looks "real". The boy knew those looks well. Master and he used to cause quite a stir when they went to the bar in protocol.

As he made his way to the door, he noticed a new boy standing quietly off to the side. He appeared slightly nervous and shy. A lot like the boy was his first time out alone. The new boy had at least done his homework or had some training. Dressed right, being respectful of those who approached him, but not fooled by the "pretenders" who were approaching first. The few seasoned leathermen were noticing also. The looks were not obvious, but they were there if you knew what to look for. The new boy would do alright.

As he drove home the boy couldn't help thinking about the new boy. Something about him was familiar, though he knew he had never seen him before. Something about the eyes. The way they looked eager, yet nervous. Shy but longing. Something about those eyes.

That night, one boy left, one boy arrived. One died. One was born. But did the boy really die? Looks can be misleading. For as long as there is still even the smallest ember burning, no matter how deeply buried in ash, the fire still lives.

The boy will be back. Stronger than ever. Ready to serve his Master again with more spark and drive than ever before. Sometimes we have to lose what we have to fully appreciate the gift we give. The boy will be back. Perhaps he already is. Something about those eyes.


© Bob Harris, used with permission. This article was originally written for the section of Gloria Brame's website called "Perspectives Of A Male Submissive".



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