And I had thought, “They cannot do that to us.” But they did it. When they had shaved the hair from our faces and our legs, they took Tristan and me into the bath chamber together. Beauty was already gone. The Master had taken her away. And Tristan and I knew what was coming. But I wondered if they didn’t delight in tormenting us more than the women. They made us kneel facing each other and made us put our arms around each other, as if they liked the picture of it. As if it wasn’t necessary to separate us for the sake of delicacy. They wouldn’t let our cocks touch. When we tried that, they whipped us with those humiliating little thongs that couldn’t have struck a decent blow on a gnat. All the thongs did was remind me of what it was like to be really beaten. And yet they helped to keep the fires burning, as if holding Tristan wasn’t enough. Over Tristan’s shoulder, I watched the groom lower the brass pipe and insert the end of it into his backside.
