Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  “But... Isn’t it illegal?”

  “Not as long as I am not caught,” my master replied with a wicked smile.

  “He isn’t bound. So he either agrees with it or have you drugged him?”

  My master laughed at this assumption. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Then the young woman gave me a very confused look. I smiled at her.

  “Are you... you...” she stammered.

  “To answer your question, I’m neither stupid nor drugged. I haven’t been hypnotized or brainwashed. And I totally agree with what he is doing.”

  “But you... you... Why?”

  “Because I am, I’ve always been and will always be a slave. I was born like that and I’ll probably die like that. The only real life for me is complete and utter servitude.”

  Gabrielle paused in the midst of taking a bite, her fork poised between her mouth and her plate. Juices from a piece of meat dripped onto her fingers. Her gaze flicked back and forth between my master and me several times. Finally, having been force to admit the existence of people like us, but without managing to understand the concept, she stood up. “I think it’s better that I leave.”

  “Why, Gabrielle? Why are you running away?”

  “I am not running away!” she almost screamed in a high-pitched voice. Possibly realizing the contradiction between her words and her passionate reaction, she regained control. “I forgot... I had an appointment,” she lied, contemplating the gravy dripping onto her soiled fingers, which I’d have gladly licked.

  “Yes, of course. An appointment with cowardice. What you’ve seen and heard here are troubling you more than you want to admit. You’re surprised by a reaction that doesn’t match what you think you should feel in such cases.” My master’s eyes settled at the level of the young woman’s cunt.

  Gabrielle blushed, but stood motionless. She seemed to be searching for a response without finding anything.

  “You’re free to go, as Max is free to, also. Max, could you escort our young friend to the door. Goodbye, Gabrielle. See you soon.”

  It would be an understatement to say that Gabrielle was quick to leave us. Nevertheless, after her departure, my master told me that in his view, if we weren’t moving to another town soon, we’d see her again.

  In anticipation of the scheduled arrival of Saturday’s visitor, on Thursday morning I asked my master if I could go shopping. I wanted to start preparing some of the meals that we would be eating on both Friday and Saturday, but lacked some of the ingredients. My master didn’t ask me what I was preparing. He had already stipulated every meal of the week until Friday evening. He just advised me not prepare anything too complex for that night because, according to him, our visitor would probably go out to eat on arrival. For dinner on Saturday, he said that he trusted me.

  I also wanted to buy flowers and more vases for them. My master had two nice ones that could be used for this purpose, but they weren’t enough to decorate the entire house.

  “Flowers?”

  “Yes, Sir. Flowers.”

  “It’s a lovely idea, Max. I’m sure Kathy will enjoy that.”

  It was the first time I had heard the name of our visitor. He gave me the car keys and the particulars of the bank account he had opened in my name. I appreciated the fact that, before leaving, he didn’t issue any reminders on how I should take the corners. So I swore to myself to pay special attention to it.

  I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, put on my old sneakers and left. In town, I withdrew enough money from the bank to pay for everything I needed, and possibly have some over for another time. I spent longer at the grocery store than I anticipated, searching for a hard to find item and was hurrying out, worried that my master would think I was spending a lot of time buying so little, when I saw my parents at the end of the aisle near the check out. They almost never went shopping together and were even less likely to be shopping on Thursday. Trust the treachery of fate to put them both in my path during my first outing.

  I approached them. My father looked at me quizzically, like someone wondering if he had seen this young man somewhere but wasn’t sure where. He was reluctant to stare too closely at the strange man I had become. Then the truth slapped him in the face. His expression hovered between joy at seeing me and discomfort at my appearance. My mother had been slower to recognize me. But when she realized who I was, tears came to her eyes. “Oh my God, Max! What did he do to you?”

  “It is only hair, mom. It’s already growing back.”

  “But your eye?”

  “An accident, Dad.”

  “An accident?”

  “Yes, Mom. I swear on your head,” I responded, tapping the top of her head with my right hand.

  She gave a miserable little smile that hurt my heart.

  “You mean that he didn’t even once voluntarily hurt you?”

  “Dad! You know very well what to expect.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come home, Max?”

  “Mom!”

  Would it be like this every time I saw them? Having to undergo questioning and pleas for my return? “I won’t, Mom. Ever. I’ll visit you from time to time, but I don’t live with you anymore.” I tried to put all the conviction I could muster into the statement.

  “You mean we won’t see you more than a few days a year?”

  “Dad, I must go now. I have frozen products that are melting.”

  “Don’t run away! You might as well speak to us a bit. Let the stupid frozen products melt. We’ll pay for them and for their replacements.” My father pulled at my T-shirt. “What is written on it?” Then he read aloud what he saw: “Command and I’ll obey.” He looked appalled. “Lord! It is an invitation to every exploiter on the planet.”

  “You think exploiters need an invitation to act, Dad?”

  “No. Precisely. All the more reason not to inviting them.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

  My mother took a bag of malted milk candies from her basket and transferred it into mine. When I was younger, I used to love those treats. I looked at her with a smile. “Thanks, Mom.” I didn’t know if my master would allow me to keep them, but if giving them to me gave her comfort, why should I refuse?

  When I got home, my master asked what took me so long. I explained about meeting my parents and told him that I felt a little sorry for having to be so firm about the impossibility of ever returning to their house.

  “You did the right thing, Max. They must understand that your family life together has come to an end.”

  I agreed with him, but I couldn’t stop myself from remembering my father’s face when he recognized me and that of my mother as she put the bag of candies in my cart. What can parents feel when they see their only son in the state I was in? Maybe they’d have been less worried seeing me go to war.

  That evening, Gabrielle returned, saying that she had only come back for her tattoo, “nothing more”. This was what alerted me to the fact that my master knew the art of tattooing and had everything needed for it. Gabrielle had known, God knew how. She asked him if he would be willing and able to tattoo her design on the front of her left shoulder.

  My master had agreed to the tattoo, free of charge, if done in one sitting. He told Gabrielle he didn’t know how long we’d be staying in this village, which would make it difficult to complete the “work” over several stages.

  She agreed with his conditions. It turned out that that had been the reason she had come on Tuesday. As my master had predicted, she was back. But she had made sure upon her arrival that the “big bad wolf” wouldn’t sink his sharp teeth into Little Red Riding Hood and devour her.

  My master invited her to sit in the living room, but Gabrielle refused. “No! I’m only here for my t...”

  “Tattoo,” my master finished along with her. He seemed to be enjoying Gabrielle’s embarrassment. “As you wish, Gabrielle. Follow me. Max, you should come too. That way, you can s
erve as my assistant, and I’ll introduce you to the technique at the same time. This could be helpful for you one day.”

  I wasn’t sorry to accompany them. The presence of the beautiful Gabrielle made me a little nervous. Or maybe jealous?

  We went into the basement together. I was eager to see Gabrielle’s expression when she caught sight of the hooks, chains and everything else. She turned her head in all directions, wide-eyed and with the fixed expression of someone who doesn’t believe what she was seeing. For a second, I thought she would flee once again.

  My master instructed me to cover the table with a plastic tablecloth and told me where to find it. While I did that, he asked the young woman to expose the part of the body to tattoo. Gabrielle stared at him as if wondering whether she should take such a risk.

  “Do you want this tattoo or not?”

  She removed her shirt with a smooth movement and placed it on the bench.

  “Lie down on the table, head in that direction,” he ordered the young woman.

  More hesitation.

  “Look, Gabrielle, if you no longer want the tattoo, you only have to go away. I won’t prevent you from leaving.” Whereupon my master headed toward the stairs.

  She leaned back against the table, supported herself with both hands and climbed onto it effortlessly. “Please, I... I will do what you tell me.”

  “Are you sure, Gabrielle?” he asked with a sneer and a penetrating gaze.

  Gabrielle blushed, but didn’t reply. He asked to see her drawing and where she wanted it tattooed exactly. Her design would end up covering a significant part of her chest, between the right breast and shoulder. The illustration pictured a phoenix with multicolored plumage surrounded by red, orange and yellow flames. My master showed her similar illustrations from an extensive collection of transparent stencils, decal sheets, and see-through papers, pointing out that she could choose one or even a combination of them. Each seemed more original than the last and less gaudy than the drawing the young woman supplied, but she preferred her own.

  “Remove the right strap of your bra.”

  Gabrielle took off her strap, arranging her bra to hide the tip of her breast. I adjusted the light to illuminate the chosen shoulder as well as possible. Meanwhile, my master washed his hands and disinfected the area to be tattooed. Then he picked up his equipment and began sketching with a surgeon’s pencil, marking the skin with gentian violet. Once he finished the sketch, he held up a mirror to allow Gabrielle to see it. After she gave her consent, he began tattooing.

  As he worked, he explained what he was doing and why. He had several tube shaped bottles containing sterilized needles, vials of hypoallergenic and non-toxic inks in the various shades of the rainbow, plus two machines, one for the outline and the other for filling. The first machine could take between one and five needles to allow a more or less fine line. With the second, it was possible to use between four and twenty-one needles at the same time, depending on the size of the pattern to color. I was fascinated by the meticulous work of my master, in whom, I daily discovered new talents.

  After a little more than half an hour, Gabrielle began to shake and show obvious signs of pain.

  “You must remain still. If you don’t stop moving, I can’t guarantee the quality of my work.”

  “Can’t we stop for a break?” she asked.

  “No. I have to go out later. I don’t have time for breaks. So, do we continue or will you leave with a partial tattoo?”

  “All I want is a few minutes of respite.”

  “Your skin is over sensitized by the constant tapping over the last half hour. You will need more than a short break to allow your sensitivity to return to normal.”

  “Couldn’t I drink a little alcohol, anything to help me cope?”

  “No. Alcohol thins the blood and prevents it from clotting normally.”

  “What about aspirin?”

  “Aspirin is worse than alcohol. No, no alcohol, no aspirin.”

  “I assume I can go to the toilet if I want to?” The tone of Gabrielle’s voice became increasingly aggressive, as if she believed that all my master’s refusals had no other purpose than to make it more difficult for her.

  “Max, show her the dungeon,” he ordered with a smirk.

  “The what?” she asked.

  “You want to go to the toilet room? Max, will show you where it is.”

  Gabrielle followed me at a distance. I assumed she was making sure I wasn’t playing a trick on her. When I showed her the bowl in what my master had called the “dungeon,” she frowned and went back to him. “I don’t want to go in there,” she protested indignantly.

  “As you wish,” my master said. “So, do I continue your tattoo or will you go back to your cherished parents?”

  “Bastard!”

  Later, I would discover the horrors that her mother and her stepfather had inflicted on Gabrielle throughout her childhood and part of her adolescence. She had had enough and now lived more often with a group of friends than with her family.

  “What a way to talk to a man who offered you a free tattoo. I think we’ll stop. I’ve had enough. You’ll have to find someone else to finish the job.”

  Gabrielle gazed at my master with the air of someone who didn’t know whether to flee, to apologize for her disrespectful comment or to add insult to injury. Finally, she muttered, “Okay. Excuse me. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  “Well, Max, do you think she’s sincere?”

  “I’m not sure, Sir.”

  “Me neither, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Gabrielle, consider this to be your last chance and the final insult that I’ll accept. Do you want to go to the bathroom or not?”

  Gabrielle turned her head toward the dungeon and thought it best to wait. She resumed her position on the table and the tattooing resumed. Twenty minutes later, she raised her hands to grip my master’s arms.

  “Remove your hands, Gabrielle,” he ordered.

  She made a mewing sound, but withdrew her hands. Fifteen minutes later, she couldn’t stand it any longer and, to avoid lifting her hands, she placed them under her back.

  “No. Your shoulder is too tight in that position. The orientation of the drawing and the tension of the skin aren’t the same. That will distort the picture if I continue. Rest your arms beside your body.”

  “I can’t,” Gabrielle moaned.

  “Max, hold her right arm down.”

  I gently placed Gabrielle’s hand in its original position, holding her arm firmly, but without exerting too much pressure. Meanwhile, Gabrielle let me maneuver her without resistance. My master resumed his work. Gabrielle soon started to gasp and cry.

  “Try to control your breathing and think of something else, something nice,” I suggested.

  “I can’t. Those needles are driving me crazy.”

  “Of course, you can,” my master assured her. “You underestimate yourself, Gabrielle. What you feel right now can’t even really be called pain. It’s rather uncomfortable, I admit, but it could be a lot worse. And you know that very well, don’t you?”

  “It’s clear that you have never been stung like this for more than an hour,” she muttered resentfully.

  “I have tattoos,” he assured her.” The person who made them had very little concern for my physical and mental comfort at the time.”

  My master paused to give the young woman time to think about what he had said, and then he continued his work, saying, “Max knows better than you what pain means. He can give you good advice. Listen to him.”

  Despite her doubts, Gabrielle tried to control her breathing. I saw in her eyes that she was trying to focus on something other than pain, without much success. “How did you two meet?” she finally asked breathlessly.

  “Tell her, Max.”

  I gave her a short account of our first encounter. Gabrielle even managed to smile when I told her how I had dared to eye my future master’s cock, up and down.

 
“As you see, it’s not me who made the first move. Max pushed my choice a little.”

  “But I still don’t understand. Why do you want to become a slave so much?” she asked.

  “As I said on your last visit, it’s not that I want to become a slave. I am and always have been one. By living here, I only want to blossom, to follow my vocation.”

  “A vocation, slavery!?”

  “Why not? Why do we aspire to become entrepreneurs or chiefs of state, and not servants or slaves? If our path is going in one direction and we go in the other, won’t we be leading lives that don’t fulfill our needs?”

  “But how can you be so sure that slavery is your... vocation?”

  “Are we ever quite sure of anything? I think slavery suits me better than anything else, that’s all. Maybe one day I’ll see things differently, but today I think I’m where I must be.”

  “And you, when and where did you learn all you’re trying to teach him? I don’t think there’s a PhD in ‘slave training’.”

  My master burst out laughing. “No, and that’s a shame. I am just conveying to him what I was taught when I was myself a slave.”

  “But how long has it been in existence, this slave market?”

  “Since the dawn of time. The essential difference between the old and the new version is that people like me who are involved in this market don’t force anyone to become a slave.”

  While we were talking, my master managed to complete his work. When Gabrielle sat up, she was a little dizzy, so I helped her off the table.

  “It will take a few days for everything to heal properly before judging the outcome.”

  My master told Gabrielle that she shouldn’t swim for a while and avoid prolonged tanning sessions. He also gave her some advice on caring for her tattoo. Gabrielle thanked my master and left. I’d have liked to ask her what she thought of what we said about slavery, but I didn’t have the opportunity. Later, I spoke of this regret with my master.

  “The data is too freshly received. We must give her time to think about it.”

  Every night, my master continued to visit me. The third night, he came into my room three times. His fingers were more and more invasive, penetrating deeper into my body, expanding my opening to prepare for the future intrusion of his cock. Sometimes, he would rub my prostate lightly until I gasped. He would also brush my scrotum with just the tip of his fingers until I shuddered. Sometimes, he massaged my testicles gently or grabbed and squeezed them while stroking my cock. Whenever I tensed up, he ordered me to relax. I tried to obey to the best of my ability. He attacked my nipples too with more determination and ferocity, scratching, pinching, twisting and stretching them so much that sometimes I wanted to tell him to stop, that I was feeling more pain than pleasure. But he wasn’t required to give me pleasure. The obligation to please was mine.