Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  “I won’t ask you how you are. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else. True?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The thought of lying to him never crossed my mind.

  His hearty laugh at the intensity and haste of my answer made me smile. I immediately thought that he was a nice man and decided that I could trust him. So when he said, “Tell me what happened at the third beach,” I launched into my story, without hesitation, lie or omission. He listened in silence. When his silence continued long after the end of my story, I glanced up from my study of the floor and saw that he was frowning. He looked worried.

  “I didn’t-” I began, willing to explain my motives.

  “Hush. Let me think a bit.” There was no harshness in his voice, no impatience as if he just wanted to give the matter some thought. I felt like crying.

  “How would you feel if he was dead, Max?” the principal asked softly.

  In spite of my nervousness, I noticed the change of first name and wondered how I should answer. “He’s alive,” I said defensively.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “I was going to help, but this man-”

  “Enough, Max,” the principal broke in roughly. “You know you’ve done wrong, don’t you?”

  I became angry. The man was like all the other adults; he just wanted an opportunity to point out a child’s error in order to punish him.

  “It’s not my fault if he can’t swim well,” I almost shouted.

  “Max!” He paused for a second and continued more quietly. “Suppose that this man wasn’t there and you tried to help Rick but he’d struggled. It happens, you know, when you’re drowning. You’re afraid and so you struggle. Let’s assume that he dragged you under water and deprived you of air. What would have you done?”

  “I… I don’t know.” I answered, my mind completely blank.

  “Everybody speaks well of you, Max. I was told that you’re a nice, brave boy, and we can count on you in difficult times. Do you think you have all these qualities?”

  “I… don’t know.” I threw him a miserable look, hurt by his implied doubts.

  “You don’t know?”The principal looked at me, thinking a moment. “Could you be brave enough to answer a simple question with honesty?”

  “A.... Yes, Sir,” I replied hesitantly.

  “Do you think you were right to challenge Rick -- who you knew to be a bad swimmer -- to cross the river?”

  “No, Sir,” I said, looking at the ground again.

  “Good.”

  His use of the word “good” surprised me. I wondered what he could find “good” in what had just been said.

  “Can I ask why you did it?” he continued.

  “I don’t know,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze, unwilling to let him see how bad I felt.

  “Max, please! Your ‘I don’t knows’ get boring after a while, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied with a little smile.

  He sighed, but smiled too. I wanted so much to please him, to tell him everything. “I wanted to save him. I wanted him to just start drowning a little bit, so I could save him,” I said, releasing a breath.

  “Oh, my God!”

  There was something that felt wrong somewhere between my chest and belly. As if a big hole was there. I didn’t want to be hated, or seen as a monster, especially not by him.

  “He could have died, had he resisted your efforts to save him.”

  “He’s alive,” I repeated.

  “Why?”

  I didn’t understand the meaning of his question. “Why what?”

  “Why did you do this? What did you hope to gain?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered again, close to tears. I would have liked to be able to explain myself better, but I could not find the right explanation.

  “You do know,” he said, raising his voice.

  I started to cry. “I just want to be loved. I want to save people. I want to do things that others are frightened to do. Be brave. I want to be a hero. I want ….” I stopped, breathless.

  “Courageous?! What courage is there in risking the lives of people unnecessarily? Look at Amy Graham. You know the girl in fourth grade who is unable to walk. Confined to a wheelchair. She is very brave. It takes courage to live like that, spending all her life in a wheelchair. Have you ever spoken to her?”

  “No.”

  “You should. There’s also Jack Lewis in fifth grade who is learning to dance, ballet. He also has courage.”

  “But he’s just a....”

  “A what, Max? A faggot? But dancing is magic. When we dance, we feel like we are part of the music. We almost believe we could fly. Dance is a demanding exercise that requires coordination, reflexes, and a sense of rhythm. And, in the case of a boy, it also needs a lot of courage. Do you know why, Max?”

  “No.” I didn’t dare to say, I don’t know. I was too confused by what I had just heard to say more.

  “Because of people like you, Max, who call people like him faggots. Because when you dance, even if you’re not gay, everyone assumes you are and say so anyway. You may dance only because you love it, but people won’t stop laughing at you. It’s very hard to keep going when everyone is laughing at you.”

  I had often heard of courage and people who are humble. Thanks to all my reading and challenges; I was well aware of the concept, but nobody had ever told me that you had to be courageous to dance ballet. In fact, I even wondered if the principal would get into trouble if I told everyone what he had said to me. Was he crazy or just brave to talk to me in that way?

  “You know what I think, Max?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “I believe that if you spend your time in meeting all the challenges that come your way, if you participate in every game, the toughest competitions, it is not because you are courageous. Quite the contrary, I think you are very, very afraid. You’re so afraid that nobody cares about you, nobody admires you, nobody loves you, that you’re willing to risk the life of a friend to attract people’s attention. I think, Max, you’re one of the biggest cowards in this school.”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed, trying to absorb and digest what he was saying. “It’s not true!” I shouted.

  “Are you sure, Max?”

  Once again, I was close to tears. Upon entering the principal’s office, my mind had been confused. Seeing him twirl his ruler, I had imagined him hitting the palms of my hands, and I had pictured myself bearing my punishment stoically. Proud beforehand of the courage I’d show and the admiration he could not fail to feel for me. And here I was crying, thinking that perhaps the principal was right, and I was a coward, the worst of all.

  “Get out, Max,” he muttered tiredly. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  I turned and walked toward the door.

  “You know what would be really brave, Max?” he suggested when I was about to leave. “Stop trying to become the star of the school by drawing attention to yourself at any price,” then he added in a kinder tone, “You can go now.”

  He resumed his work, but as I watched him from the doorway, I struggled to find my path between hatred and admiration. When he looked up and stared at me, I said, “Thank you, Sir,” and ran out. Something was obstructing my throat, but I didn’t want to release it, because my scream would have been too loud.

  That evening, I spoke to my father of the girl in a wheelchair and the boy who danced ballet. I told him about the last book of science fiction that I read, in which the aliens were all the same, without any difference, neither in the color of their eyes, their hair or their skin, nor in the shape of their genitals. This book praised differences, and I felt very different from the others that day.

  Dad said that what we look like is not so important. It is what we do and why we do it that count. Then he told me the story of five friends who went into the forest and got lost. Only two made it back home: one with a severe infection in his right leg which had to be amputated and the other survivor was the one who had urged
them all to go into the woods in the first place.

  “You know, Max, this guy thought he was very brave. But he did something stupid, really stupid. And because of him, three of his best friends lost their lives and another is crippled for the rest of his life. What do you think we should do with someone like him?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know if my father knew about Rick, but he never spoke to me about it. He didn’t say what he would do with a guy like the one in his story. And I was not anxious to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Whenever I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror, I saw a handsome young man whose tender eyes lit up sometimes with a wild glow. But my long and curly eyelashes gave my eyes a too vulnerable expression for my taste. A rebellious lock of my wavy and very dark hair kept falling into my aquamarine eyes. But when my nostrils flared like those of a restless horse, everyone understood that little could stop me from doing what I wanted.

  My body was firm. It was the body of a young man who never stopped running, jumping, climbing, and swimming. My misadventure at the third beach had nevertheless been a turning point in my young existence. I no longer tried to be the best in everything I did - the star at all costs. If I did, it was almost by chance, and I tried to divert any attention to the merit of some girl or the courage of another boy, stressing everyone’s tenacity and team work.

  But I kept trying to surpass myself, to go farther in other ways. Otherwise, I had the feeling I was going nowhere.

  In the sauna and showers at school, I checked out the other guys’ bodies. Some were great, others less so. But more than that, I searched their eyes. What I detected there was more important than anything else. They might have the bodies of young Greek gods, but if all I saw in their eyes was as unsubstantial as Olympus’ winds, they had no more effect on me than a light breath of air, and I forgot them fast.

  At that time, I didn’t know if I was gay. The bodies of men disturbed me more than women’s, but the passion of women and their common sense attracted me more.

  At the beginning of my last year of high school, the board hired a new physical education teacher. He was black, very black. His features were fine, and he was over six feet four tall. The whites around his jet black eyes were almost blue. His teeth were alabaster, solid and even. His lips had just enough thickness to be considered sensual. His body was that of an athlete, strong and muscular but not excessively so.

  What struck me most was his haughty bearing. A pagan god. A prince of Africa. I was impressed by so much beauty.

  During the first class, he introduced himself as James Teka. He then asked us to line up and passed in front, like a general inspecting his troops, stopping in front of each person, looking us up and down while we introduced ourselves.

  When he stopped in front of me, I thought, Do something, say something, buddy. The first impression is crucial. Copying his actions, I scanned him from head to toe, deliberately stopping level with his cock. When my gaze returned to his eyes, he was smiling. No more than a tiny twitch of the left corner of his mouth. Then his eyes fixed me with such intensity and determination that I was afraid I’d committed a terrible mistake, the worst in my young life.

  The gossip said that he grew up in the most disreputable ghettos of New York, and had also lived in Boston and Chicago, and that he taught in schools that would make hell look like a kindergarten, and that he was gay. Why had they sent him here of all places, if that was all true?

  When he finished his inspection, he ordered us to do warm-up and stretching exercises in the gym. I chose a spot right in the middle and started the exercises as did everyone else. After a series of push-ups, he asked us to turn over on our back for sit-ups. Like the others, I turned around.

  “Not you, Max. Go on with your push-ups.”

  He spoke almost without an accent. His voice was a baritone flirting with the bass. I turned back onto my stomach and continued with my push-ups while the others began their sit-ups. Then they went on with the usual round of warm-up exercises while I bent and unbent my arms, my body as straight and stiff as my strength and willpower allowed it to be.

  After they had rested a little, he asked them to measure and record their heart rate. Then he ordered them to run around the gym. After five minutes of running, he allowed them to stop and they were again asked to check their heart rates. They repeated the whole exercise after a few minutes’ rest.

  I was still folding and unfolding my trembling arms, but it was becoming more and more painful. About twenty minutes before the lesson was due to finish, my arms began to let me down. It took me a lot of effort to straighten them and not collapse on the ground after. Only a miracle would get me through the next twenty minutes, and I really needed one. I kept trying, but five minutes later, I was at the end of my strength; I could do no more.

  “Something wrong, Max? I don’t remember saying you could stop.” His voice carried from one end of the gym to the other. I thought he had simply forgotten me.

  I didn’t say anything. Breathing hard, I gathered all my strength together and pushed my arms to their maximum extension. When I found myself flat on the floor, immobile and incapable of further effort, a pair of shoes and black, almost hairless ankles appeared a few inches from my head.

  He placed his foot on my back. Resorting to pure pride, I tried to lift my body again, putting everything I had into the effort. But even if his foot hadn’t been pressing down, even if his had been the lightest foot a man his size could have, I couldn’t fully extend my arms.

  Then he pushed harder and kept me on the ground. I struggled, tried to get up, but failed. In the state I was in, the feat was impossible and he knew it. I tried to wriggle myself free and turn over, but didn’t succeed.

  ”Stay there, Max. Face down, nose to the ground, and do not move until I permit it. Understood?”

  When he pushed on my back, I felt I was no more than a beast that the big black hunter had shot. An army of ants was gathering in my groin. Every move I made to free myself had caused friction against my cock, which was now very hard. I suspected he knew that. He probably ordered me to lie face down out of pity. If I got up, my penis would be tenting my shorts. It was humiliating being forced to remain on the ground, but I would have been even more humiliated standing up. The pressure on my back disappeared.

  I remained motionless, so perfectly still that one could believe me dead. I didn’t even allow myself to scratch a finger that was itching like crazy. Apart from the odor of floor polish and rubber sole shoes, I detected the heady scent of musky balls and old sweat. Ceiling lights reflected off the floor and dazzled me. I felt so hot that I thought I could be lying on a beach in Africa.

  The lesson ended. The school day did as well. It was four o’clock. As everyone left the gym, I heard the new teacher farewell them by name. Twenty-seven names to remember and match to faces. Twenty-seven acknowledgements. Then I heard noises as if he was storing away some equipment. Then all I heard was silence. He must have gone, leaving me flat-bellied on the gym floor. What should I do? Wait?

  “Get up.” The order startled me because it sounded so close.

  I stood up and faced him.

  “What were you trying to prove by checking me out like that?”

  “Nothing. I have as much right to size up my teacher as he has to assess his students.”

  He turned his head a little, smiling. Then he faced me again.

  “What were you sizing up exactly? The length of my cock?”

  He could not be more direct. Warmth invaded my chest and rose to my cheeks. I challenged him: looking him straight in the eyes for a long time.

  “Watch out, Max,” he said. “You do not know me. You do not know who I am, what I am or what I’m capable of. I’m afraid of nothing, you hear me. Neither death, nor life. You heard what they say about me? Everything is true. Yet everything is less than the truth. I am the devil.”

  “Yikes! I’m afraid,” I answered back, defiantly.

  But in fact, it was t
rue. I was scared. Not so much of the devil than of my desire to go to hell.

  “Things could go very badly for you if you keep this up.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Do not challenge me, Max.”

  “Why not? Try me, Satan. Take me to hell. I also fear nothing.”

  He gazed at me for a long time. An expression of sadness crossed his beautiful face. I smiled.

  “Get out, Max. I’ve had enough of you for one day.”

  The last man who told me that had changed my life. What would happen with him?

  The following Monday and Thursday, I followed all his instructions to the letter. It was as if nothing had happened, as if I had dreamed of having strived to do push-ups for almost half an hour, dripping sweat on the gym floor. I left the room with all the others after each lesson.

  I began to dream about him. Once I dreamed I was lost in the middle of a wood during a storm. The thunder rumbled. Lightning streaked the sky. The air smelled of wet earth and grass. The typical noises and shouts of the forest surrounded me. I was scared. Like Tarzan in the jungle, he appeared to save me whenever wild beasts, each time more terrible, more fierce than the last, were about to devour me. I woke up sweaty and wet with my cum.

  During his fourth class, I sat in the middle of the gym with the firm intention of staying there without moving at all. If only he would tell me what he expected from me, his creature. He was my god. How could I function without him?

  He said nothing. He did nothing. He let me wait as he saw fit. Some of my classmates laughed at me, asked me what I was waiting there for. I didn’t answer. I refused to grant them the slightest moment of my attention. I kept my eyes trained on every movement of my god.

  When the lesson finished and all the students left, he tidied up a few pieces of equipment, and without a word, without a glance at me, he left the room and probably the school too. I remained where I was. After a while, I fell asleep on the gym floor until morning.