Deliverance - Hooch and Matt's Story (21 page)

The expanses of unticked boxes and neat ‘n/a’s on both forms were fairly obvious, but Matt nodded in agreement nonetheless.

Hooch just rolled his eyes in silence.

“In that case, let us go through the form together. Hooch, would you call yourself a dom, or a master, or a sub or a slave?”

“Huh?” Was all Hooch managed.

“And you, Matt?”

“I don’t think we’re any of those,” Matt said warily.

“If you don’t explain what all of that means you’ll never get an answer.” Hooch challenged.

“Of course, my apologies, gentlemen.” Robertson never stopped smiling politely. “A dom is someone, male or female, who enjoys dominating others, male or female. This may or may not include physical domination such as bondage, inflicting of pain, verbal and/or physical humiliation, sexual domination, or a combination of any and all of the above.” Robertson nodded slightly, unfazed by the narrowing of Hooch’s eyes. “A master or mistress is someone who enjoys dominating others, male or female, but in a more intimate and possessive way. They tend to own a male or female as their slave, and the relationship tends to be formalized and often 24/7. Does any of this strike either of you as fitting?”

Hooch’s reply came without hesitation. “No way.” He glanced sideways at Matt.

“No,” Matt was in full agreement, “absolutely not.”

“Well, then,” Robertson still didn’t show any surprise, “perhaps I should explain s and s. A sub enjoys to be dominated with any or all of what a dom does provide. They do not seek a 24/7 formal ownership situation, like a slave usually does. Does any of this strike you as fitting?”

Matt hesitated. “Definitely not a slave situation, but sub…sometimes?” He turned to look at Hooch, not quite sure how to articulate. How could he explain that Hooch could never fit into anyone’s tidy, well-thought-out form, or any neat boxes?

Hooch shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Robertson asked, for the first time showing a little surprise. “May I ask what you would see yourself as?”

“I’m a masochist. Simple as that. Can’t do with all the frills and bullshit.” Hooch frowned, his tension up a notch.

“I’m afraid in this club we do have to have certain classifications, it helps run the establishment smoothly and ensure the safety and discretion of our members.”

“I won’t let you fit me into one of your damned boxes.” Hooch growled.

“Hooch,” Matt placed a hand on Hooch’s arm before it got out of hand. He turned to face Robertson, “I didn’t talk about this on the phone, but we’ve come here even though we’re not interested in ‘the scene’ because we—Hooch—needs a higher level of discretion. He’s a masochist,” Matt repeated, was that the first time he’d said it out loud? “and I can’t give him what he needs, not at the level that he needs. We can’t risk a public club.”

Robertson looked at Matt then Hooch, taking in the hand on Hooch’s arm, and how the latter seemed to calm down, as if holding himself back for the younger man’s sake. “I think I understand.” Robertson nodded before reaching to pour himself a cup of tea out of the china tea pot. “I suggest in this case we forego the forms and have a chat instead. I will have an individually customized file drawn up for you.” Adding a splash of milk to his tea, he thoughtfully stirred it with a finely crafted silver spoon. “We do keep our members’ professions and special requirements regarding their personal context on file, but not computerized, merely on good old fashioned cardboard.” Robertson took a sip. “Under lock and key, of course, in a safe. The reason why, is so that we are aware at all times and no mistakes can be made, while greatest security is guaranteed.” He took another sip. “I take it you are military, Hooch?”

Hooch nodded when he was addressed directly. “Fort Bragg.”

“We have a number of military members, but none based at Fort Bragg at present,” Robertson told them. “I assure you that we are well accustomed to the sensitivities.”

“I’m also gay.” Hooch glanced at Matt and added, “obviously.”

“Ah, yes, I see that on the form.” Robertson pointed to a tick on the top file he’d put onto the table. “Exclusively men.” He had found his gracious smile again. “How are you planning to join the club? Will both of you be visiting us?”

A quickly exchanged glance. “Just Hooch, at this stage,” Matt answered, “this is for him. Unless he wants me there. I’m…” he hesitated, “I’m not really into this sort of thing. Pretty much vanilla.”

Robertson inclined his head, appearing to be deep in thoughts for a moment. “I understand.” If he did or did not was impossible to figure out. “In that case, I assume you will prefer to wear your partner’s collar, Hooch?”

Hooch’s eyes tore open and his upper body snapped forward. “What?”

“Collar?” Matt blinked, hard.

“Oh.” Robertson let out softly. “Did you not read all of the materials that were sent to you at time of application? At the club, we have a simple way of identifying what those who are seeking to be dominated,” he carefully emphasized the word, to make clear he acknowledged that it was meant to stand for the wide range that included Hooch’s masochism, “are looking for. Members who are slaves to other members usually wear collars, in many instances as an everyday adornment to signify the complete ownership. Some subs who come with their partners do not wear them, because their dominant partner will be here to guide and order, so there is no room for error. Slaves hardly ever come here on their own, and if they do, then their owner will have made arrangements beforehand, such as loaning them out to other members, so that the slave is always taken care of. Subs who come on their own and are seeking the possibility of a more formalized or closer relationship with a suitable dom, those won’t be wearing a collar, to signify they are not owned in any way. However, someone such as yourself, Hooch, you are in a partnership, thus you are owned and not seeking. Therefore you should be wearing Matt’s collar, so that it is clear without room for misunderstandings, that you are not seeking any kind of relationship with a dom. Besides, the collars are our ways of indicating what someone who seeks to be dominated is looking for: red for females, blue for males, both colors on collar-flashes if both genders are sought. Any other preferences will be made available to fellow members in an internal file. Such as penetration, or CBT, or flogging, or electro shocks, and so on.”

Hooch was staring at Robertson when he had finished. There was only one word his brain had latched onto. “Owned?”

Matt, less stoic than Hooch, was doing a credible imitation of a goldfish, and couldn’t get so much as a syllable out, and just stared at the two of them mutely.

“You are, aren’t you?” Robertson looked kindly from one to the other of the men sitting opposite to him.

Matt choked, “I…er…I…” he trailed off.

Hooch turned his head and stared at Matt.

“Well, gentlemen?” Robertson smiled, taking a sip of his tea.

Matt closed his open mouth shut with an audible click. “I don’t think so,” he backed away, much as the mental thought of Hooch wearing a collar, and nothing else, was strangely arousing. “But that might be best, yes.” He hid behind his teacup, a slightly comical sight in such a large man.

“We’ll talk about that later.” Hooch’s voice lacked any inflexion. He looked back at Robertson, face neutral but a new set of determination on his face. “Yes. I will wear a collar. No, I am not interested in any kind of relationship with anyone else in any way shape or form. Nor am I interested in any fetish clothing or ritual or anything at all. It’s ridiculous.” He leaned forward and came closer to Robertson’s face than the man very obviously liked. Right into his personal space. “To make this clear, I want pain. I want humiliation. I want extremes. If that means I get to be the attraction on stage so be it. If that means I have to wear a collar with blue, or camo, or polka dots, or any other bullshit, then so be it. No marks ever outside of what my uniform covers. Everything else: I don’t care. As long as I get what I need so I can go back home and be the partner to Matt that he deserves. So, no amateurs and no beginners. I don’t take kindly to anything but the best.” He sat back.

Robertson had lost his polite smile, and his speech as well, it seems. Visibly flustered. This was not how any sub was supposed to behave. But at the back of his mind was the thought of just what an attraction someone like this was going to be for the hardcore doms. He nodded, trying to keep his equilibrium. Fort Bragg. It wasn’t difficult to guess what Hooch might be. He nodded. “I’m sure we can accommodate.” He made a few notes about the uniform. “Do you have any medical issues you haven’t put on the forms?” he asked, “Pre-existing injuries?”

“Fractured pelvis. Healed but might cause trouble.” Hooch looked at Matt. “Anything else?”

Matt gave Hooch an affectionate, if exasperated, look and recited the long list of other ‘minor’ old injuries, the broken bones, the sprains, the other bits and pieces of Hooch’s body that were evidence of a long and hard career.

Robertson was making notes, having found his balance once more, not batting an eyelid at the long list of injuries. Eventually, he put the expensive pen down. “We require monthly STD screening for those of our members who prefer to forego condoms, which are, as you can imagine, most. I trust this meets with your approval?”

Both Hooch and Matt nodded.

“Very well.” Robertson smiled. As odd and unsettling as this Hooch was, Robertson could increasingly see the attraction and potential. His club would undoubtedly profit from this new member. “Is there anything you absolutely do not do?”

Hooch thought for no longer than about a second. “No. Except for shit.”

A scratch of the pen as he picked it up and made a final note. “That’s the most common one,” he said conversationally. “Would you like a tour of the facilities before we come back to finish the administrative details? I imagine you might want to stretch your legs.”

“Why not.” Hooch answered, looking at Matt to see if he agreed.

Matt nodded and stood up, feeling a rush of relief that the interview seemed over, or at least suspended.

They followed Robertson out of interview room and back into the large office, which led to the reception area. A door with a keypad led through to a corridor with several doors leading to the left and the right. Everything was scrupulously clean and gleaming. “We have all sorts of themed rooms. Medical examination rooms, fully stocked from enema kits over speculums and TENS units to a vast variety of needles and syringes; we have a medieval torture chamber with associated dungeon and cages, including suspended ones. The replicas are all made to the highest specifications. We have a salon emulating the sensory impressions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for those preferring the old world charm of ritualized slavery,” at that Hooch almost let out a groan of disbelief, but caught himself and rolled his eyes at Matt instead. “We have a variety of modern rooms and even one specializing in blood play, but our main attraction is what I like to call the theatre.” Robertson opened a set of black double doors that led into a vast room with seating, tables, a mind boggling array of bondage equipment and bondage furniture, steel chains and manacles from walls and ceiling, and in pride of place, at the very centre of the room, a round, raised stage.

Matt had been trying not to gape at the rooms. One thing to have them neatly laid out on bullet points on a one-page factsheet that looked like one from a fancy hotel, quite another to see it all laid out in front of him. He stepped into the ‘theatre’ with a slight sense of trepidation, and turned to look at Hooch. Here, he suspected, was where he’d spend most of his time.

Hooch took only one look at the vast room and its stage, then kept his eyes on Matt. He reached for Matt’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay. I’ve seen enough.” He looked at Robertson, but didn’t step away from Matt. “I can see that the steep fee is warranted. I’d like to set up payment one year in advance. Can this be arranged?”

Robertson blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been quite so taken aback by a new member. He nodded quickly. “Of course.” A pause, “shall we go back to the office to finalize matters?”

“Yes.” Both Hooch and Matt replied at the same time and Hooch added, “as quickly as possible. I’ve had enough of formalities for now.” Whenever he showed a veneer of manners, he seemed to need a dose of bluntness to counteract. They followed Robertson back into the office, where Hooch informed him that he didn’t feel like filling in any more forms and if anyone wanted to know his preferences they just had to try.

The rest of the details were sorted out quickly and efficiently, and Robertson watched them exit through the main doors and to the public car park opposite on the security cameras. He was rarely flummoxed, but they had to be one of the oddest pairs he’d seen in a while. Bozic was certainly the most interesting prospect he’d come across in a long time. Military, he’d bet either high ranking or a very vital job, or both—extreme masochist—and completely under the thumb of his partner without realizing. A partner who didn’t know that he owned Bozic. Obviously substantial financial resources, too. A puzzle indeed. Robertson tidied the notes and put them in a new file, before locking them away in the safe.

Hooch and Matt sat in silence in the truck, until they were out of Raleigh and well down the highway back to Fayetteville.

Hooch set the truck onto cruise control and turned his head towards Matt. “So.”