by Danny Tyran
He ordered me to stop, but I didn’t want to! I was fully loaded with adrenaline. While avoiding a few more blows, he ordered me in his firmest voice: “Enough! Calm down now.” By the tone of his voice, I knew the consequences of not taking this order into account. Breathing deeply and slowly, as he had taught me, I little by little regained my normal blood pressure.
“Congratulations, Max. You have guts and a survival instinct. Now for the technique....”
As long as the hot weather still allowed it, he hosed me with icy water after our exercises in his backyard. After commanding me to clasp my hands behind my neck, he ordered me to present first one side and then the other. He didn’t hesitate to hose me right in the face or on my cock and balls, leaving me breathless. Thereafter, when the fall made the temperature outside too cold, we showered inside separately. Then, often, he asked me to give him one of the massages that I studied. Again, he corrected me, guiding my hands, rectifying my gestures to ensure I gave him maximum relief.
One night, without giving me any reason, he decided to take my physical measurements. He recorded the size of my head, neck, chest, waist, arms, thighs, wrists, ankles and even fingers, paying special attention to the little finger of my left hand. He also measured the width of my shoulders and the length of my arms, my legs, the distance between my crotch and my waist, and between it and my neck and my feet. The touch of his hands on each part of my body kindled my desire.
A few months before, I had measured a piece of furniture to make sure it would fit in the space I had reserved for it in my room. I didn’t know what my master intended to do with my measurements, but in moments of optimism, I thought maybe he wanted to know if I would be able to occupy the space he reserved for me in his life. In my rare moments of discouragement, I figured they would be used to build a carrier for me to be delivered to my new master, or to prepare my burial clothes and my coffin.
He also asked me to make an appointment with a doctor to get vaccinated against tetanus and bring him proof of my perfect health. I told the doctor that it was required for employment with a new company that had just commenced operations in the nearby city. Everybody talked a lot about this company, a subsidiary of a large American firm. I told the doctor that my new employer was keen to ensure they didn’t hire drug-addicts, or people who might be infected by sexually transferred diseases, so, in addition to other more common tests such as taking my blood pressure and heart rate at rest and during exercise, I needed the blood tests to be as complete as possible. My master was willing to meet the costs of his requests, if there were any. But there had been none; everything was covered by the public health insurance.
My parents learned that I had seen our family doctor and asked me if I was sick. I told them no, but “prevention is better than cure”. The doctor confirmed to them that I was fine, and he had only undertaken a routine check-up for a job interview. My mother insisted on knowing who might require these tests. I repeated the lie I had told the doctor and said that it was the new company. My mother didn’t seem surprised by the unusual nature of these requirements. I told them I had an interview but didn’t get the job.
“These Americans!” she exclaimed. “They want to know everything about us and control us in our own country. Soon, they’ll try to do the same in our bedrooms.”
Given the way I lived with my master, who had recently immigrated from the United States, and taking into account everything he had learned about me, this comment from my mother made me smile. Indeed, a few days earlier, he had asked me to describe my fantasies and my sexuality. It was not through voyeurism, but because, as always, he felt it was important to know me better and to be able one day to use this knowledge to improve my sexuality like everything else.
He also expanded on these fantasies by placing them in a variety of contexts or with different partners. “Imagine that happening in groups,” he told me. Or, “And if you performed it in a public place?” And, “Would it be very different if a woman treated you the same way?” “And what if the guy was an Asian? A Native American? If he was very old? Ugly? Crippled?”
Then he portrayed other scenes to me, varied and far different from my own fantasies, trying to measure my open-mindedness and the degree of arousal that these situations inspired in me. It was easy to know if I was speaking the truth and how this or that possibility kindled my lust, he only needed to observe my cock’s rigidity or flaccidity.
I went out regularly with friends on Friday nights, but I had to get to my master’s early the next day. So I rarely stayed out late and, more often than not, I went home alone. But on several occasions, I still went to a guy’s or a gal’s place. While there, I had the opportunity to discover how little consideration they gave to the pleasure of their buddies. Under the covers, I managed to deceive them without much trouble as long as I made them come.
To discover what I knew about erotic art, my master asked me a few times to tell him in detail my most recent sexual encounters. He wanted to know the methods I used to pleasure a man or a woman, trying to determine whether I varied my technique according to the temperament, mood or preferences of my partners. Of course, in this as in many other things, he found fault. He especially criticized me for not paying enough attention to the preferences and reactions of my lovers, and finding too little pleasure in their sexual satisfaction. “Be more attentive to their fantasies and their desires. Question them if need be. And when you caress them, imagine how they feel and abandon yourself in their pleasure. Let it go to your head like a strong wine.”
Although he questioned and also advised me as methodically on these subjects as on any other topic, he rarely touched my sex. On occasion, during the discussion, he might feel it in a brief and almost carefree gesture, or sometimes, his mind elsewhere, he might twist a lock of my hair around his fingers. Two or three times, he gave my cockhead a flick, only to indicate the end of our meeting or point out my arousal, just before getting up to see me out.
The longest physical contact occurred the night I told him that I had come without his permission and the girl’s pleasure hadn’t triggered it. He picked up a horsehair glove and ordered me to sit between his legs. As I answered his questions about one of my recent readings, after working back the foreskin, he rubbed my balls and cock. Despite the unpleasant chafing caused by this treatment, any resistance, even the slightest muscle tension, was severely reprimanded and caused an extended duration of my punishment.
After that, he allowed me to read a few erotic collections of poetry and novels. I wasn’t sure if they were meant to be learning tools, rewards for my efforts to improve in this area or punishments for my stubborn inability to ejaculate only at the sight of others’ pleasure.
Sometimes, either out of pity or to reward my worthwhile efforts to become a good slave, he allowed me to masturbate and ejaculate in front of him, and for him. I wanted to offer him my sperm as one would provide the nectar to a god. But, as I was not used to showcasing my pleasure, the first time I had to do this, I found it incredibly difficult to get hard. He finally grew tired of waiting. “You have three minutes to come, Max. If you can’t do it by then, I may not allow you to come for some time. The clock is ticking. Now, go!”
Just the idea of this timing was enough to stiffen my dick a little more. When, after a minute, he began counting down aloud, my cock began to vibrate. Soon, it was beating the air to the rhythm of his count. Just before zero, my cum gushed with great hot jets that flew through the air, wetting the carpet in front of me, leaving me dazed and moaning with pleasure.
Aside from learning and practicing all these novelties, I had to keep preparing his meals, but I had to vary them so as to improve my new culinary skills. It was not always such a great success, but I was apparently not doing too badly, because he continued to offer me new and always more sophisticated cookbooks. It was the same for alcoholic beverages. He lent me a book called “Become a Bartender in Ten Lessons”. Of course, this book, by a former barman, gave recipes for
popular cocktails and other drinks, but also told anecdotal stories about his life in the most posh bars in New York and Paris, which gave me a more human and amusing vision of world leaders.
Several months passed in this fashion, proceeding from one lesson to another, one exercise to the next, from reading to reading. With every passing day, I appreciated more fully the wide extent of my master’s culture and merit, and the true value of the training he lavished on me. The better I knew him, the easier it became to believe that he had been a slave. He always understood too well what I felt while undergoing each hardship that he imposed on me. Often he even anticipated my reactions. But more importantly, he always found a way to help me continue my journey on a less traveled path, which is slavery.
Chapter 7
Toward the end of winter, a new student came to join our class. He was blond, tall and handsome with unusual dark blue eyes. In many areas, he performed better than me.
During his first physical education class with our group, my master asked him to tell us where he came from and a little about himself. We learned that his name was Maurice Renaud, but his friends just called him Mo. He was born in France, and his family had emigrated to Canada four years ago. He loved all sports, especially “the football, that you call ‘soccer.’” He pronounced the word as “sock-air,” which made us all smile or laugh. Nevertheless, his accent wasn’t too “France-French.”
My teacher evaluated him as he had done for us during our initial lesson. Then, seeing that Mo was coping well, he asked him for a little more effort, to try harder and then more again.
Mo loved challenges. It seemed that our teacher couldn’t ask too much of him. Even minor cleaning chores that were set some days amused him. He performed them smiling and even laughing. He joked about the perfect cleanliness of the equipment that our teacher had asked him to clean again, but he still performed his task with good grace. I can’t deny that when he smiled, we all found him likable and wanted him to like us.
In the second physical education class, our teacher asked Mo to wipe the surface of the floor right in front of his feet, forcing Mo to kneel before him. Mo obeyed. While working, he even looked up and offered a small ambiguous smile to our teacher.
That was on a Thursday. In theory, I should have gone to my master’s place afterward, but just as we were about to leave, he indicated that Mo should stay and said to me: “Go home, Max. We’ll meet another day.” He didn’t specify which day. I gazed at him silently for a few seconds before glancing at Mo. Then I picked up my bag and went home for the first time at four o’clock on Thursday in months.
I felt abandoned, rejected. I no longer knew how to occupy myself on a Thursday night. I didn’t want to mistrust my master, so I decided to wait as patiently as possible for “another day”.
The next evening, my teacher called me to tell me he gave me leave this Saturday, and I was temporarily allowed to ejaculate whenever I wanted to. I didn’t know how to respond, so I remained silent.
“Are you okay, Max?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’ll tell you when you can come back. For now, it’s impossible. Understand?”
I hesitated again. I wanted to ask him about Mo, saying a slave doesn’t take time off; I didn’t want his special permission to fuck normally. Making sure that no one would hear me, I said, “I’m your obedient slave, Master.”
“Good, Max. Very good. Bye.”
He hung up. Tears flooded into my eyes and my heart turned into mush. I wanted to call him back to beg him to let me come to his place, but I knew it would be useless.
He had once said to me, “Beg me to stop, to be less demanding, have mercy on you, and I will just treat you harsher. You must accept my authority as it is, Max. You have no other choice save to forget me.”
What could I do, except wait for him to invite me to his house again?
In the following class, my master began subjecting Mo to the same terrible treatment and constant demands that he had done for me. Meanwhile, he treated me as if I was anyone or no one.
More than ever, I endeavored to try my hardest. It was no longer time to draw his attention to myself in any shape or form. Sulking, sitting in the middle of the gym, or offering him anything less than my best would not go down well. I was convinced of that fact. That would not help me any more than begging for his attention would. So, I continued to work hard, without ever receiving a single comment even when I performed better than usual or outdid everyone, or even if I failed miserably. I had become the invisible man.
Several times, I saw them leaving together in his Jaguar and heading off in the direction of his house. My master didn’t even acknowledge the farewell that I gave him whenever I saw him going home.
I continued to work hard in all my other subjects, spending my now free Thursday evenings and Saturdays revising my lessons and doing my homework. I kept practicing everything my master had taught me. I wanted to keep in shape for the day he would take me back. I cooked meals for my parents, who couldn’t believe my talent. On a couple of occasions, I even practiced my massaging technique on my mother’s tense shoulders and neck.
A few Saturday nights, I went to parties organized by friends. Sometimes, I went back home with a girl or a guy. When we made love, I fantasized I was in the arms of my master and concentrated on giving them all the pleasure they could dream of, but in truth, it was my master that I was offering that pleasure to. I discovered that I could climax more often even without physical stimulations. But I was cheating, because usually when that happened, it was my master that I was making love to in my thoughts.
Three times, I went for a walk in the woods behind his house, stopping near an open window and listening, my heart beating, to my master’s favorite music. But after meeting him and Mo once, running along a trail, I stopped going. I had just wanted to rekindle memories of what I had experienced there, remember the voice of my master when he commanded me, and get a whiff of the fragrances of his universe, like an animal sniffing his master’s clothes to catch his smell. But I didn’t want to look as though I was spying on them.
So I continued my physical and mental training. I practiced relaxation and meditation. I read several books he had lent me. I borrowed new cookbooks and English textbooks from the library. I recorded my English speaking and then I listened to the result, comparing my pronunciation with those of my speech tapes. I also started to document the story of my encounters with James Teka.
As the weeks passed, and spring approached, I wondered if my master would ever ask me to go to his place again. Perhaps Mo was better than me in every way. I felt miserable.
On Tuesday evenings, Master gave volunteer time for students who wanted to make up for their poor performance in the classroom or for those who wanted to become even better than they were. With my stomach full of butterflies, I decided to attend.
When I arrived, I saw that Mo was there. I almost left, but I said to myself, “You’re not here for him or against him. You came here to improve your skills.” So I kept repeating the routines I was having difficulty with. After a monumental mishap during an exercise on the pommel horse, I found myself lying flat on the mat, stunned. Then my master’s legs appeared like two ebony columns, standing beside me.
He asked, “What are you doing here, Max?”
I stood up. “Just practicing the exercises that I am not managing well, Sir.
“You’ve never been in here on Tuesday nights before.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. He looked at me intently as I fought with all my strength to hold back the tears I felt coming. While staring at him straight in the eyes, I thought, Ask me anything you want, Master. I will obey. I hoped that his ability to read my thoughts hadn’t left.
He called Mo over and ordered him to do the exercise that I had missed. While he executed it to perfection, my master explained how my performance had differed from Mo’s, why he was doing it so well, and I, so badly. Then he asked me to repeat it agai
n. This time, I focused with an intensity that I didn’t know I was capable of, visualizing myself in Mo’s shoes, copying movement for movement what he’d just done.
Apart from a slight hesitation on landing, my performance was as perfect as his had been. My master came over and gave me one of his little smirks. His proximity, his smell, the deep voice that he used to address me directly for the first time in months, his velvety dark brown eyes focused on me, and now that smile, all overwhelmed me. I almost suffocated. I’d have thrown myself at his feet at that moment, in front of everyone, without worrying about the possible reaction of surprise and mockery of all my peers. I didn’t know what to do, so tirelessly, I simply repeated the same exercise, striving to execute it perfectly every time.
Before leaving, I wanted to thank my master for his help, but he was talking to several youths. I decided not to bother him.
The following classes proceeded in much the same way, but one afternoon, Mo came to sit at my table while I was eating in the cafeteria. I greeted him and wondered why he had decided to talk to me. He didn’t seem to know where to start.
“My master...,” he began then hesitated before continuing, “Mr. Teka never stops telling me how good you are and comparing me to you. It’s always ‘Max’ this and ‘Max’ that. I am beginning to think I can’t do anything as well as you, except for maybe a few exercises on the pommel horse.”
I didn’t make a comment. I couldn’t. I had a knot in my throat that was so tight I couldn’t utter a single sound. And I certainly didn’t want to say anything to Mo that could be interpreted as criticism of my master.
“I know that sometimes you went to his place with him before I came here.”
“Yes.”
“Is it... Did he train you? I mean....” He blushed.
“Yes. He trained me. And I know very well what you mean.”
“I was wondering why you don’t see him anymore. Is it because you thought he was going too far?”