Bearing Witness by Lee Benoit

Here is how the story begins:

Men sat in a rough ring in a dark room, waiting for the Master and his boy. They knew the others were there, felt them, but seeing was another matter. Many wouldn’t have known each other, in any event; some were Dominants and submissives, others were artists or connoisseurs. Some of those attending were alone; more sat in pairs, some for the evening, others for life. Their circles didn’t often intersect so intimately. This was a special night, rare and strange.

The room was dark almost everywhere, barely enough light to see their own drinks and food trays. The food was expertly prepared and presented, the wines artisanal, the liquor top shelf, only as expected in this most unusual of homes. There was a trio with one particularly vocal member whose exclamations of delight over the delicate miniature lahmejun --"lemony, nutty meat pies!" --then the gingered melon --"spicy!" --might have been an annoyance in another setting, on another night. Tonight, the amused indulgence of the assembled didn’t allow anything to distract from the purpose of the evening, a purpose that had been merely hinted at in the handwritten invitations each guest had received. Nothing interfered with the building focus that sharpened around a crisp spotlight describing a circle in the middle of the room. The circle was empty but for a stack of richly colored pillows, but it was the center of the guests’ anticipation.

Even the noisy epicure’s voice stilled when a figure entered the circle and sat cross-legged on the largest of the cushions. Anyone else would have looked casual, relaxed, but not the man with short, crisp black curls and a pressed linen tunic over darker linen trousers. He looked inexplicably commanding as he regarded the edge of the lit circle. Surely he couldn’t see the men arrayed beyond, his witnesses, but his sharp, dark eyes gave the impression that he saw every one of them. Saw them and knew them. No one moved, and every breath sounded like it came as the result of a carefully considered decision.

The next wait wasn’t long, but warm drinks cooled and cold drinks warmed during the interval. No one wanted to shatter the air of expectation. The music of an oud, dumbek, and tambourine drifted through the room from a sound system of such quality that the musicians might have sat just outside the visual range of the assembled.

"Patron?"

The soft voice came as if from nowhere, so nearly shocking in the trance atmosphere of the dark room that the collective gasp was audible.

The seated man, the evening’s host, turned his head and spoke. "Jesse, dear one. Come." The host made a graceful gesture toward the remaining cushions and beckoned with a smile.

Into the circle of light stepped a young man, round muscles rolling under oiled skin. He turned toward the circle of witnesses and gave a small bow. He turned toward his Patron, but slowly, so that, as he knelt, the witnesses took in his various adornments: tooled cuffs at his wrists and ankles, a band of gold holding his dark hair off his face, barbells in his dark nipples, and a golden cock pin set with a red gem.

More than one witness sighed with regret when Jesse obeyed, hiding from their eyes the tiny links of chain glittering as they swung between the band under his cock head and the jeweled ball holding the pin’s staff in his hard, dark prick. Another band circled his balls, drawing them down while two more slender chains connected them to the cock pin and pulled them forward. The display was both understated and obscene. Jesse didn’t appear to be wearing a collar.

"You came to me to learn certain things," the one called Patron said to Jesse’s bowed head. "Have you learned them?"

"I have, and more, Patron," said Jesse. There was a tremor in his voice.

"Tell me what things you have learned."

"Discipline, Patron, over myself and my craft. Pride in my work. How to share my art without losing my soul. Sanity, most of all."

Though the words were for Patron alone, they signaled very different meanings to the witnesses depending upon their stations. The artists knew that Jesse was a sculptor and that his Patron was perhaps the best promoter of artists in the region and heard an apprentice declaring his independence, while the practitioners of dominance and submission heard a boy begging his Master's recognition.

Whatever their station, no witness failed to sense that this display, this ritual, was fraught with transformation, with a shift in a very delicately balanced power. The witnesses watched more carefully than ever.

"And you are ready to end our relationship?"

"No, Patron, I am not." Jesse’s voice steadied. "But I am ready for it to change."

The host gave a small, tight nod. "Then change it shall. Present for me."

With a grace the submissives in the room couldn’t help but envy and the Dominants craved, Jesse lowered himself to the cushions. A collective gasp arose from the witnesses as he bent his head and chest to a pillow and spread his thick thighs. There, nestled between them, just behind his plump balls, another barbell pierced the skin of his perineum, as thick around as a birthday candle, capped by golden beads the size of marbles. This was Jesse’s real collar, the one no one but his Patron had seen during the years of their association.

Their host stroked his hand once over Jesse’s hair and stood, walking around his presented body to kneel behind him.

"I pierced your most intimate flesh when we committed to each other, and reduced the gauge every time you hit a milestone in your training or your art. I remove it today to free you from the contract that gave me rights and privileges. But know that I am now and will be your friend, should you ever need me, and that this is your home, whenever you decide to return."

Gently, Tasim unscrewed one of the balls. No one saw his hand shake, so maybe it didn’t, but he did hesitate.

"Patron?" Jesse said, his voice muffled somewhat by the pillow. "It’s all right. I’m ready. I’ll stand on my own from now on, but I’ll always need you. We have a new contract, as you promised we would. The professional one? You’ll represent me? And I’ll always be your friend, too. I’m ready."

The bent man’s voice was resolute, and Tasim nodded once and drew out the heavy barbell. In its place, he clasped a slightly narrower gold ring with a captive bead, perhaps something Jesse had chosen, something his body would shrink to accommodate over time. It made a less dramatic presentation, but if one knew what was happening, as the witnesses now did, it made sense, this new, self-contained adornment.

"Thank you, Patron." Jesse knelt up and turned to face Tasim, who opened his arms and wrapped them around his protégé. They knelt that way for a long time.

"I’ll miss you, Jesse. I’m proud of you."

When the two men separated and turned the witnesses could see that both men were smiling. Their smiles were warm, proud, though each pair of shining eyes carried an ineffable sorrow. It mingled with the sesame and lemon and ginger and wine on the guests’ tongues and more than one of them was sure he’d never forget the taste.

And if their hands were clasped a little too tightly for friends or professional colleagues, no one thought of saying a word.

As Tasim and Jesse finished their ceremony, the light over the circle of pillows gradually dimmed while the lights in the rest of the room gradually brightened to match it. The small collection of witness stood as well, and many quietly applauded a power exchange that had shifted without rancor or injury.

Preston withdrew his arm from where it had rested around Paulo’s shoulders during the ceremony so he could add his own applause to the acclamation. He was surprised to feel Paulo’s hand catch his wrist, stopping his from breaking their contact. He turned away from the sight of Tasim and Jesse sharing what he imagined must be a bittersweet kiss so he could look at Paulo. The stricken look he saw in his sub’s eyes told him they’d be cutting their evening short.

© Lee Benoit

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