A gay story: Garden of the Dead It is high summer late in the afternoon, the air heavy and humid, the world quiet and expectant as the dark boiling clouds fill the sky promising imminent downpour. It has been many months now since I graced your doorstep and today you have let me have a rare treat, an outing of my choice. I have spent many months sequestered within the confines of your home, whilst you have striven to tame my wild ways and earn some cash. I am at times a burden on you I know but at least you are now free of your mortgage and debts, as my dowry saw to that. You were reluctant to take it at first but in doing so you knew that I would become entirely defendant on your mercy, a real slave and truly yours for always.
Still though despite your frequent attempts at times I seem very wild to you indeed, the slightest wrong move on your behalf still elects a violent reaction to your touch, though at times now you can handle me and I appear reasonably placid submitting to your demands for the most part.
You have asked me where I want to go this day, and I have answered the cemetery, you raise an eyebrow at this intrigued. Of all the places I could have chosen this to you seems odd, but you have given me my choice and do not question it in the slightest. As usual prior to our few outings that you have seen fit to take me on I must wear the electric correction collar, and swear to you I will make no attempt at escape. You make me give my word whilst I am on my knees before you, each and every time as you know this is something I cannot revoke once said. You like this trait in me and find it ever useful, at times I wish it was a trait I did not have it is costing me now dearly and makes your work easy for you.
We leave the house together under the cover of the ominous cloud, and you laugh at the absurdity of it all, and my spontaneity, adoring your wild pet and the unusual joys he has to offer. You start your black truck, it shines both in and out you could eat off any of it’s gleaming polished surfaces, not like it was before your slave arrived. The engine purrs, your slave loves nothing more than a perfectly running machine, and you are saving a fortune on car maintenance these days, perhaps your slave is more useful than you thought.
The drive to the cemetery is a quiet one, I do not speak I just look longingly into the distance dreaming of the day when we will live in the country as you have promised. We have journeyed there a few times and I have a heavy heart when ever we must return, and dream incessantly of the open spaces of my desert home land now so very far away.
I like what I have seen though of your vast country, still somehow it seems to me tamer than the land from where I came, and at times I wish for nothing more than to touch it’s red sands, and smell the eucalypts after a heavy rain again. But I know it cannot be, this with you my master is my new life I have made my choice, but still I can privately lament.
The truck stops and we are here, I like the sight that fills my eyes. The cool gray and white monoliths, like jagged teeth filling the horizon. You just watch me stare taking in all the details of the vista before me transfixed, and unmoving. I wait for you to move first as it is only proper, only leaving the truck after you do, and following you just behind. My step ever silent, and once again you realize I am wearing no shoes and you smile at my habits, and my difference.
We enter the cemetery and walk deep within its confines, you letting me lead you where I will. Still I do not say a word to you, I almost seem a world away as my hands tenderly touch the marble communing with death, caressing the angels and cherubs of stone in a way that I have never touched living flesh. You are most intrigued at my attitude, this the sculptor within long dormant. I know where I am heading even though I appear to you to be moving at random, the darkness and shelter of a clump of old cedar and yew trees calling me now, crypts nestled in amongst them in peaceful rest.
The late afternoon sky casts an eerie light, it has a quality all of its own, the kind a photographer waits months for, and is gone in a fleeting moment. The place is all but deserted, it is almost as though we are the only living amongst the dead. Our warmth against their cold, a reminder we will join them in time. I take off my shirt and lie back on the marble slab, you are shaking your head but still you watch me, as I absorb the cold into my skin.
I lay there with my eyes closed for long moments as still as the marble and granite all around, you fidget restlessly but I appear not to notice and you decide to sit beside me, keeping vigil on my meditation.
Without warning you realize I am now close beside you and you are caught off guard, so much so you zap me with the collar. I flinch and regard you closely my dark eyes assessing you, and I appear very tense all of a sudden. You are not sure what you see there, and wonder if this was indeed a good idea in hindsight. There is a loud peal of thunder overhead and we both jump, and the slow heavy droplets begin to fall steaming on the path. That is when you feel my hand quite unexpected brush the side of your face in a caress, the first I have ever given you.
I touch you slowly, the hands of an artist memorizing every nuance, curve and line, everything that makes you, you. Storing you forever in my photographic memory, storing you forever in my heart. The rain falls heavier now, we do not notice here in the garden of death. The two of us so alive at this moment as you return the caress, and I do not flinch away or evade you this time, the first time.
The moment is intense in a way you have found so different to the others, you sense for the first time you have earned my respect and I will give my self to you freely. As the rain falls ever harder you get that way also, my hand slowly straying ever downward as our eyes are locked on one another, the rain soaking us through. My touch on you is like fire on you, you had never believed it to be so good, never in your life had another given you this intense form of pleasure.
You can take the teasing no more and you decide to try your luck, commanding me to drop my jeans in this public place, and assume the position on top of the grave slab for your pleasure. I have never done this freely before and you are unsure if I will comply. Yet surprisingly I do, I let you take your pleasure in me, and what is more I respond to you wildly, the environment and the idea of being in a public place most intimately engaged giving me the ultimate rush. For the first time I am a living bundle of sensation under you, and as you come shuddering in me I squeeze you hard as you shoot your load, and your teeth rake my shoulder drawing blood in your completion of your passion.
For long moments we lay, wet and spent on the cold marble, semi dressed looking up at the tall dark cypresses, contrasted by the stark white stone, and the gray thunderous sky above, the rain making us squint. Though you are wet through inside you are warm, heated by the knowledge you have broken your slave at last, here of all places in the garden of the dead.