Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  Slave in Training

  by Danny Tyran

  Translated by

  A.B. Gayle and Danny Tyran

  May 2014

  Copyright

  Slave in Training © 2014 DannyTyran

  Publisher: © 2014 Danny Tyran at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical article or reviews.

  ISBN: 978-2-9244-0013-5

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Content

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Bibliography

  “May I be granted the appropriate suffering along the way so my heart is truly awake

  and my liberation and universal compassion complete.”

  Tibetan prayer

  I dedicate this book to my master, Sir P.,

  and to my sister in slavery, d., whose memory remains etched in our hearts.

  Prologue

  Nowadays, no one becomes a slave. But some are born, like me, with chains in their souls. Of course, we can age and die without knowing that we were born for slavery and without ever knowing the yoke nor the enjoyment of subjection to another’s will. We can even believe that we are born to command, that we are a “born leader”. But while our natural inclinations push us in a different direction, we can only become an acceptable leader. Because if we are born for slavery, we will never know true happiness, real contentment, peace of heart and mind that would have been ours if we’d followed our own path, that of sacrifice, self-transcendence, surrender and abnegation.

  There are people who only thrive in submission, others only succeed in domination. Some, rarer, are able to honestly fulfill both roles. I am one of them.

  I experienced slavery for years under two strict but benevolent masters. Then I spent some time relearning freedom, recharging my batteries and going wherever my path would lead me.

  One of the talented masters I had the chance to meet trained me for detecting and screening slaves, and to become a good master and a great trainer.

  So I started looking for my own slaves to train. I wasn’t interested in barflies who believed they were born to serve, just because they were willing to let me take the reins during fucking. What I wanted was someone who shared my taste for challenge, someone who needed a guide, a master.

  I found him. He did not know he was a slave. He feared pain more than anything. But physical pain was nothing compared to what he suffered because of the absurdity of his meaningless existence. I trained him for several months. At the end of his training, I tested, and then sold him.

  Yep. Isn’t that what we usually do with our property: buy and sell it? Sometimes we lend or give it. Some inherit it. It is the same for slaves. So I sold him. I opened a bank account in his name, and deposited half the amount of the sale, keeping the rest to cover my expenses for his training. Oh, it was not lifetime slavery; I only sold him for a few years. When his contract expired, he was free again, with a hundred thousand dollars in his bank account.

  Prior to his years of slavery, he did not even earn twenty thousand dollars a year and spent his meager wage on miscellaneous expenses: housing, food, car, gas, etc. At the end of his slavery, thanks to the recommendations of the slaves’ market financial advisor, the initial deposit from his sale had increased significantly, allowing the emancipated slave a new start in life. Pretty good, eh?

  I had worked hard to train him well. And I succeeded. The buyer of my sub was well-known, influential and a very rich man. He was very pleased with his new purchase. He talked about it to a couple of his acquaintances who were also willing to pay a lot for a devoted slave. I provided them with what they needed by training two new slaves at the same time: a young man and a young woman. After their sale, my reputation as a good trainer increased further and my bank account did too.

  In that way, I continued for years, until I finally decided to treat myself to a trip around the world. During this, I took advantage of the opportunity to see what the slave market had to offer elsewhere. At first, I just relied on visiting public places, usually bars or cafes, looking at potential candidates, and then I chose those most interesting for training. After a few weeks of preparation, I sold them to well-known trainers who continued the process of getting them ready to become good slaves. Or I sold them to masters who preferred good novices to already trained slaves.

  To say that I chose candidates is not entirely accurate. In fact, they came to me like bees go to flowers. I would walk into a BDSM bar, sit at the counter or a table, and soon, they would come to me, one after another to perform their tricks, offering me fresh meat. They would offer me umpteen drinks, perform dances of seduction, kneel at my feet, beg me to raise my scepter and put it on them, if not in them. Their methods of seduction made no difference. Only their sincerity, their desire to serve and to surrender, and their eagerness to please mattered.

  How could I perceive these so valuable qualities in the midst of the superficiality and hustle and bustle of bars? Remember, I myself had been slave, master and trainer. All my life I had lived with this unquenchable desire of self-sacrifice. I knew how to recognize it in them, my beloved children, all of whom I wanted to help. But I had to choose.

  Before I go on, I should stop and explain how I came to believe what I just told you and describe the circumstances of my arrival in the slave market and how I trained to become a slave.

  Chapter 1

  My name is Maximilian Lemay. But everybody calls me Max. I was born in 1957 in a village surrounded by forest in the backwoods of Québec province. It was toward the end of the baby boomer era, before the Beatles and the sexual revolution. Fortunately for me, my parents were more open-minded than the average people of the time.

  The realities of life never seemed as obvious to me as they did to the majority of boys and girls my age. In my mind, I always had a million unanswered questions, and I was more interested in people’s actions rather than their words. The latter were too often at odds with the former.

  When I was six, I had my first sexual experiences, if indeed we can call them so. At least, they were the first that I remember. Other children don’t seem to have these. Not
that I’ve heard, anyway.

  One day, we were playing hide and seek, and I found myself in the lattice-enclosed area under the porch of a house belonging to a man living alone. John, the boy I was hiding with, was wearing old baggy shorts. While we waited for our friend to find us, we began exploring our hiding place. The house’s owner had stored all kinds of old objects there, but nothing grabbed our attention. We crawled around on all fours. As John crawled past me, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any underwear, and was unwittingly exposing his dick. Although he was a year younger, his cock appeared to be much bigger than mine. I was shocked and began to wonder if I was normal.

  Shortly after, in similar circumstances, I made sure to hide with a girl. Her name was Helen. As I could not see her sex, I asked her to show it to me. In exchange, I promised I would show her mine. She didn’t seem interested, so I showed her the loose change I had in my pocket and promised to buy her all the candies she wanted, if she would do what I asked. She agreed on the condition she could pocket all my coins first. I gave them to her reluctantly, wondering if I would get value for my money.

  She then raised her dress and pulled down her panties. I can’t tell you how much I was surprised. Stunned would be a better description. She had nothing! Not really nothing, but she didn’t even have the slightest cock. I bent to get a closer look, but she quickly put her panties back on and dropped her dress.

  I was happy. At least I had a cock! I showed it to her as promised. She didn’t seem in the least surprised and just said, “My brother has a much bigger one.” My manly pride was hurt, but I pretended I didn’t care and got dressed.

  Several weeks later, I was again hiding with a boy behind a shed. Denis was older than me. This time, I just dropped my shorts in front of him and demanded to see his. I wanted to compare it with my little dick, and make sure that I was not a monster, something between a boy and a girl. He refused, calling me a dirty pig and said that I was sick and would go to hell. Then he pushed me to the ground, crushing me with all his weight, and began beating me with a stick that was lying nearby.

  I struggled on my belly to free myself while gritting my teeth to keep from crying. That would have convinced everyone I was only a girl. I felt tears welling in my eyes, but at the same time, my cock was rising too.

  After a few whacks with his stick he threw it down and grabbed a knife, threatening to cut off my dick. For once, it seemed a respectable size, I didn’t want to lose it! I fought with all the fervor of my six years. By a twist of fate, Denis ended up hurting himself with his own knife.

  That night, my father asked me to go with him into what we used as a guest room, an office and a storage room. He told me he had heard about what I had done -- wounding a friend with a knife -- and that was very bad. “I have to punish you for your wickedness,” he asserted, removing his belt. He then ordered me to take off my shorts and bend over the bed. I didn’t know what Denis had told him. All I knew was that I had to prove to my father that I was courageous. I lowered my shorts and bent over the bed while my father wrapped part of his belt around his hand.

  When my father saw the welts marking my ass cheeks and upper thighs, he asked me what they were.

  “Denis struck me,” I replied.

  “So you hurt him with a knife to defend yourself?”

  “No. He hurt himself with his own knife.”

  “How?”

  Without changing position, or looking back, letting him see my zebra-striped ass and legs, I explained, “Denis pinned me to the ground and beat me with a stick. He said he was going to cut my dick with his knife. So I struggled and he fell on his blade.”

  My father immediately dropped his belt and ordered me to get dressed. I was disappointed. Of course, I had been afraid of the beating. I feared pain. But at the same time I wanted to prove to him that his boy was a man.

  He told me to sit on the bed next to him and said I should tell him everything. “This will stay between us men,” he added.

  He had just uttered the magic word. I started off by telling him about the girl who I had asked to take off her panties, because that, I was sure, he would forgive. I then described the incident with John but pretended it had been Denis instead. “When I told him that I had accidentally seen his cock, he got angry and said that I was ill and a damned pig. That’s why Denis began to beat me,” I explained to my father. “His cock was really big, daddy, much bigger than mine.”

  “He’s older than you. It’s normal,” he assured me.

  “No, he’s the same age as me,” I lied.

  “The size of a cock at your age means nothing. When I was your age, I had a smaller dick than yours.”

  “You did?” I stared at my father in amazement.

  “Yes.”

  “And what is it like now?”

  The relative sizes of cocks didn’t mean much to me, since I had never had the opportunity to see how big his had become. My father seemed uncomfortable, not knowing what to answer.

  “Helen didn’t have a cock,” I added.

  “That’s right. Girls don’t have penises; they have a vagina and a uterus.”

  “They have what?” I asked, confused by these new terms.

  My father hesitated, as if he doubted I was old enough to discuss these things. “They have a vagina and a uterus. That’s where babies grow, didn’t you know?”

  “Oh yeah,” I answered as if I had known that all my young life. “I don’t have a vagina, but my dick is very small.”

  “Listen to me, boy. There are big cocks that work poorly or not at all, and small ones that work pretty well. And then, when we age, our dick grows. Sometimes it grows faster than the rest, you understand?”

  My cock had grown very quickly when Denis beat me today, but now it had reverted back to its normal size. Maybe it was trying to grow and someday soon it would stay big. “You mean I may have a big cock one day?” I asked.

  “Maybe. That’s what happened to me.”

  “It did?” I asked with wide eyes that were shining with hope.

  My father studied me intensely, and I looked at the part of him that mattered most. Indeed, there was an impressive bump that I had never noticed before. My father rose to his feet and, more hesitantly than ever, he pulled down his pants.

  I was speechless. Down there was something unimaginable. My father’s cock was pointing straight toward the ceiling. It was shiny and smooth. A vein, resembling a blue tree, wound around his dick. His scrotum hung heavy and huge on his thighs, like a promise of fertility. I had never seen anything so beautiful. And the man who possessed this magnificent instrument was my father! He became a kind of living god to me from that day.

  Some time later, I’m not sure how long, I learned about heredity. They maintain that we inherit the color of eyes, hair and skin of our parents. I again questioned my father who reassured me by saying, “Yes, my boy, that also is hereditary.” If, at my age, my father had a cock smaller than mine, I had every reason to believe that at his age, mine would be bigger than his. If I was not already a man, I would become one in the future.

  From that day on, I undertook activities designed to show my father and everyone that I had balls and something else too. As soon as someone said, “This activity isn’t for everyone, you must have guts to participate...,” I signed on.

  I also started reading heroic novels: stories of knights, crusaders, and warriors. I loved Kipling’s novels: “Kim”, “The Jungle Book”, “Captains Courageous”, “Stalky & Co.” I also devoured the books of the collection “Signe de piste”, where all sorts of adventures happened to boy scouts. The science fiction books that I enjoyed most were ones where ordinary young people were confronted with extraordinary situations, requiring them to find qualities in themselves that they didn’t know they possessed.

  On TV, I watched movies dealing with the training of soldiers. The harsher the drill, the more the film fascinated me, because then I identified with the soldiers and I could believe in their worth.


  One Saturday, when I was about eleven years old, a few boys and girls met at a place that we called the third beach. It was along a narrow, not too tumultuous river, where we enjoyed swimming.

  I challenged Rick, a guy in my class, to swim across a narrow section of the river. Being a stronger swimmer and in better shape, I easily made it to the other side, but Rick almost drowned. While I was still catching my breath, I watched as he disappeared a few seconds under the surface before reappearing. I was just about to dive in and help him, when a man plunged in. After depositing Rick on the river bank and making sure he was unharmed, the man asked us our names.

  The following Monday, my teacher told me to go to the principal’s office and sit on one of the chairs near the door until I got permission to enter. I chose the farthest seat away from the door, as if somehow this might delay the fateful moment, and waited for what felt like centuries. When the door finally opened, a man came out and walked away while a deep voice from inside ordered me to come in.

  When I entered the office, the principal was on the phone - with a friend, judging by the lighthearted tone of the conversation and his cheerful appearance. For the first time, I had a chance to study the man closely. While speaking, he was playing with a wooden ruler. Making it swirl like a spinning top on his desk. He let go, and It made two more turns before clattering to a stop. Then he beckoned me to approach. As he listened to his friend, he scanned me up and down. When his eyes met mine, I looked elsewhere.

  The room wasn’t very big and smelled of polished furniture and tobacco. A window to my right overlooked an alley where I heard screams: the angry voices of adults. That was not reassuring. The principal hung up.

  “Hello, Maximilian,” he greeted me in an affable tone of voice.

  “Hello Sir,” I replied weakly. Nobody ever called me Maximilian. For me, it was just my grandfather’s name. But I didn’t dare tell him.