by Danny Tyran
Pain filled me as I improved my posture, raising my buttocks and arms a little. My legs were cramping. My back, neck, and arms, which were helping me keep my balance, were on fire.
“It is fine to adjust your stance, but it would be preferable if you didn’t expect me to comment on its need for improvement before correcting it. And it would be even better if you were taking care not to release it. How much longer do you think you can hold it?”
I had no idea. Prior to his comment, I would have said ten minutes. Now, I didn’t dare to make a prediction.
“My comments and my question are not related. If you think you are unable to stand it for another five minutes, you must tell me. You have to learn how to assess your own abilities and inabilities with honesty and humility.”
“Maybe another fifteen minutes, Sir.”
“Okay. We’ll see how you cope in the meantime. Are there acts that you’re afraid of doing, actions that you would never commit, either because they seem immoral to you, humiliating, too difficult or for any other reason?”
I thought for a while. It was so hard to focus on my past, on difficulties of any kind while maintaining such an unnatural position.
“Would you kill?” he prompted.
Without even a moment’s reflection, I cried out: “No!” My heart rate as well as my breathing accelerated immediately.
“Relax, Max. Do not let your fear overwhelm you. Try to control your breath.”
I tried to do what he said without much success. How could I not wonder about the reasons for such a question?
“I’m just trying to know your limits, your strengths and your weaknesses, the things that could push you forward or paralyze you in the future. I want to find your indestructible and insurmountable walls.”
I had already said I did not have any. He smiled gently, and then continued, “If your life or those of your kin depended on it, would you kill?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“I don’t want to hear ‘I don’t knows’ tonight,” he said curtly.
“I have never been in such an extreme situation. How could I know if I’d have the guts or madness to kill?”
“That shortcoming can be remedied.”
I stifled an exclamation of horror, and gazed at him, open-mouthed and speechless. He suddenly looked really terrible, sitting there, arms crossed over his muscular chest, his pitch-black eyes as dark and ardent as burning tar focused solely on me.
“Would you kill in those circumstances?” he repeated.
“Yes! Yes, I would.” It was suddenly very clear. The hardness of his eyes had instilled a fear in me that the well-being and even the lives of my parents and my friends could be threatened. He had managed by his attitude to allow me to reach a very primal, very animal portion of my brain, a place where the rule is “kill, if you don’t want to get killed.”
For some time, he continued to question me about my dislikes, my fears, and my shames. My legs were shaking so much, it felt like I was squatting in an old moving train. After a few minutes, I nearly lost my balance. He checked his watch and made me kneel.
“You held for ten minutes longer than you predicted. I believe with a little more courage, you could last for another ten minutes. You’ve done well”.
I still was not sitting, but I was relieved. I had no doubt that I would be forced to practice this exercise again and promised myself that, in the future, I would exert myself to the best of my abilities in order to satisfy him in every way. For now, my belly gurgled. Not being in the habit of skipping meals, I was really hungry. But he continued to ask me questions for a good half hour before declaring he was hungry and ordered me to prepare something to eat. He allowed me to go to the bathroom first and drink a glass of water, but I was not permitted to prepare a meal for myself or eat.
I drooled profusely while I prepared his omelet, the only thing I cooked quite well. I also started the coffeepot and put two slices of bread in the toaster.
When I arrived in the dining room with his tray, my master was sitting at the table reading a book and taking notes. He pushed away his papers and lifted his book higher so I could set his place. Without taking his eyes from the page he was reading, he said, “One sugar, no milk.”
He continued to read while I returned to the kitchen to butter his toast. I brought his toast to him with a table-napkin. Now that I had finished my task, I didn’t know what to do. What position should I take? Should I kneel again? I hoped not, it had been a struggle to get up when he ordered me to prepare his meal. A few minutes later, he looked at me and asked, “Why are you just standing there? What are you waiting for?”
The smell of food had made my saliva too plentiful. I swallowed it down. I didn’t know what he expected of me.
“So?”
“I don’t know what you want, Master.”
“I want my slave to be more attentive to his Master’s needs, like any good slave must be.”
I looked at the table. He had not finished his omelet, but he had very little coffee. I went back into the kitchen, returned with the coffeepot and served him again. He stared at me the whole time. I felt like a bug on a microscope slide.
“So?”
“Master?” I begged with my eyes for his help.
“Why should I make it easy for you? It is up to the slave to make the effort, Max.”
I felt the sweat begin to flow under my armpits. If he continued for a long time with his “Sos”, I’d throw myself at his feet, just to get a clue. But I would probably only manage to get kicked in the ass.
“First, Max, if you must remain standing beside the table, at least do it correctly.”
I spread my legs and joined my hands behind my back, cursing myself for not having thought of that by myself. If this table service training was putting me under stress, my cock didn’t seem to be sharing the same opinion; it began to rise.
“As you can see, I have finished my toast, and you didn’t bring me any sugar for my second cup of coffee.”
Where was my brain when I scanned the table, searching for what was missing? I ran to prepare more toast. I didn’t know if he would want two or only one, but I didn’t take any risks, preparing two slices. On my return, I went to put sugar in his coffee, but he had already finished drinking it. He told me that his omelet was now cold and laughed at my crestfallen expression.
“You are permitted to speak at any time, as long as it is to inquire about my needs or ask for details about how to perform a task that I have assigned you. You can also thank me or beg forgiveness for a mistake. Don’t forget, however, that the best thanks and the most sincere expression of regret are to be irreproachable next time. Regardless of what I just said, I will also allow you to speak if you have the conviction that something must be said. However, I advise you not to abuse your right to speak, if you don’t want to lose it.”
“Would you like me to warm your omelet, S... Master?”
“‘Sir’ is especially appropriate when we are in public, surrounded by strangers. Here, I won’t punish you if you call me ‘Sir,’ but I prefer that you call me ‘Master.’ To answer your question, no, don’t reheat it. Eat it yourself, if you want.”
“Do you need anything else, Master?”
“Yes. A glass of scotch on ice. The bar is in the living room. While you’re there, put on some music.”
“What would you like to hear?”
“Some blues. Your choice.”
I didn’t know if I should have mentioned that my knowledge of blues was rudimentary. But I went to prepare his drink and put a record by Lightnin’ Hopkins on the turntable only because “blues” was clearly indicated on the album cover, which was entitled Goin’ Away. Exactly what I wanted to do: go away somewhere with my master for the rest of my life.
When I handed him his glass, he complimented me on my excellent choice of music, adding, “I haven’t listened to that record for some time.”
“May I tell you something, Sir?”
“About what?”
“About this choice, assuming you will want me to choose music for you in the future.”
“What do you need to say about that?”
I told him about my almost total ignorance of blues and jazz and gave him the reasons for my selection.
“It’s good that you told me. We will have to improve your musical knowledge.”
I cleared the table. Once in the kitchen, I began to quickly eat the rest of the cooled omelet. There was a table and chairs here too, but I didn’t dare to sit down. He screamed out my name. I ran to him, and he glared at me.
He asked, “So?”
His glass was still half full. The music hadn’t stopped. I didn’t know what to do for him.
“What do you want, Sir?”
“Did I not say that a slave should be attentive to the needs and desires of his Master?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You went into the kitchen and stayed there. What were you doing?”
“I... I ate the omelet standing at the counter, Master.”
He smiled his wry smile.
“You ate ‘standing at the counter,’ really?”
He said it in a way that made me blush.
“You could have eaten here on the floor. Then you would have been nearby to respond to a possible request. Or you could have left the kitchen door open so you could see me. You could have even come back in here in the middle of your meal and checked if I wanted something. But you were locked up in the kitchen, and your only concern was filling your belly. Present your ass.”
I settled down in the correct position for the umpteenth time that evening. He stood up and ordered me: “Spread your buttocks with your hands.”
I hesitated. He hit my ass with the flat of his hand several times. The pain seemed as intense as that caused by the belt. But maybe I was sensitized by his previous beatings. Or maybe, along with memories of helplessness and shame, that more intimate contact awakened in me other sensations, and that made this spanking harder to bear. He picked up a spoon that I must have forgotten to clear from the table and slid the black mother-of-pearl handle down my back. Then he slowly tracked the cleft of my buttocks with its heavy handle. He didn’t stop before my anus this time. Several times, he slid the handle from one end of my cleft to the other. My ass clamped involuntarily, and I had to unclamp it, shuddering each time the tip passed over my asshole.
“This small hole appears to be very nervous. Try and relax a little.”
My cock was no longer pointing at the ground. Once again, he slid the spoon handle along my slit and over my anus. Then he pressed it gently inside and ordered me to go back into the kitchen, place the rest of the dishes in the dishwasher and come back to continue our discussion.
“Do not drop the spoon. I want it in the same place when you get back. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied, my face red and burning. I followed his orders, tightening my buttocks as I walked into the kitchen. This time, I left the door separating the kitchen from the dining room wide open. I rinsed the dishes and was placing them in the dishwasher when I heard him call me again. I tried to return to him as quickly as possible without dropping the spoon, but it fell onto the floor halfway. I leaned over to reinsert it. Having to make these obscene gestures in front of him, while he watched me so intently, was more humiliating than anything I had experienced before. I was very hot. My cock stood up more.
“Come on, hurry up!”
I came to him, all sweaty. I couldn’t find the courage to look him in the face.
“If you have to look down, do it out of respect or humility, but not because of cowardice. Look at me.”
I obeyed.
“Not very easy, is it?”
“No, Sir,” I replied in a voice choked by sobs that I managed to hold in my throat.
“I know, Max, I know.”
His voice was sympathetic, almost caressing. I wanted to say “thank you”.
“You want something else, Sir?”
He shook the ice in his glass. He had no more alcohol.
“It’s not enough to leave the door ajar.”
I wanted to tell him that I would keep an eye on him in future, but I wasn’t allowed to speak in my own defense. I took the glass from him.
“The same thing,” he said. “And this side of the album has finished, you can put the other one on now.”
I brought him a glass two-thirds full of his amber brew.
“Would you do the same thing for me in front of friends?” he asked.
The “same thing”? What did he mean? Prepare a meal? Serve them at the table? Do it naked? Or else...
Once again, my confusion must have shown on my face. “All this, Max. Everything. Better, I hope.”
I started to look away, but remembered that I wasn’t allowed to do that, so I turned my gaze back toward him and adopted the stance he had designated as the standby position: legs apart, hands clasped behind my back.
“So, what is your answer?”
Despite myself, I still avoided his gaze. Then, using all my will, I looked into his eyes. “I’ll do anything you say, Master.”
“That was not a purely theoretical question, Max. You understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” I almost whispered my reply.
“Louder, Max, I can hardly hear you.”
I repeated my answer at a more normal level.
“Finish your duties so we can proceed with our discussion as soon as possible.”
I went back into the kitchen, but glanced into the dining room every ten seconds. Just before my task was complete, he crooked his finger, beckoning for me to approach. The spoon had become very slippery and kept falling out, so I had to reinsert it every five steps. But I still obeyed his order as quickly as I could. Once before him, I adopted the standby position.
“I want a cigar. There is a full box, a lighter and a cigar cutter on the bar in the living-room.”
When I returned, he showed me how to cut his cigar with the cigar cutter and asked me to light it for him. He quickly sucked a few puffs, and then asked me to put everything back on the bar. By the time I made it back into the kitchen, the spoon had fallen out about ten times. While I was carrying the box and cigar cutters, it was particularly difficult to put the spoon back in me.
I finished placing the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher. As it was quite full, I ran it and returned to my master’s side. He told me that I had done well to start the dishwasher.
“Now go to the bathroom and remove the spoon.”
He followed me and wet a cloth, coating it with soap. Once that was done, he ordered me to remove the spoon and place it in the sink, then I was told to lean forward. When I had done so, he proceeded to wash my anus meticulously.
“Relax, Max, I’m not going to hurt you. Loosen up a little.”
He might be doing it gently, but it still embarrassed me. I felt like a shitty toddler who had to get cleaned by his father.
“Now get up and clean the spoon. You can store it in your bag. I’m giving it to you as a reminder,” he said, giving me a roguish smile. Then he returned to the living-room.
I hurriedly followed his directions, so that he wouldn’t be alone for too long. When I arrived back in the room, he was rekindling the fire. He ordered me to join him and explained the steps needed to light a fire. Following his instructions, I performed them one after the other.
First came the brushwood through which I inserted pieces of paper. Next, bigger twigs and finally one or two logs, depending on how long I wanted the fire to last. Then I lit the pieces of paper. He told me how to adjust the air supply and exhaust if necessary. He showed me the fender, the grate, the poker, the broom, the shovel, and the pliers, explaining all their purposes to ensure that I used them properly. After pushing a log so that the fire had well established flames, he returned to his chair. I went across to him, and he ordered me to kneel.
Once again, he began to question me, but this time about what I lov
ed: my inclinations, my culinary or clothing preferences, my dreams and aspirations, all my desires. I had already said that I preferred men to women, but without going into details of what attracted me to them, what stimulated my interest or what awakened my senses. Then I started talking to him about my libido. I was on my knees for about two hours. The previous hours of squatting had left their mark. I ached everywhere, but especially my knees and thighs, and I felt as if something was stabbing my low back. Without realizing it, I started rocking back and forth, and from side to side.
“Stop moving. And straighten your posture. If you don’t want to repeat the squatting position, you better demonstrate a little more discipline”.
His harsh tone of voice made it clear that all my accumulated fatigue was not a good enough reason to slacken my posture. I knelt more upright and struggled to remain motionless. Despite the pain, what I just told him had awakened my dick.
“You prefer men? What is it about them that attracts you the most?”
I gave him an answer that mainly consisted of physical characteristics.
“Aren’t you interested in their personality and their ideas?”
“Yes, but I am only interested in older men’s views.” I blushed for the umpteenth time that evening.
“Why? Do younger men have no attractions other than physical in your eyes?”
“Most of them are so... insignificant. They know nothing but think they know everything. They want it all, yet they are only prepared to do little or nothing to get it. They believe that everything is owed to them, even happiness… especially happiness.” My answer made him laugh. I smiled to see him throw his head back and laugh heartily.
“And older men are not like that?”
“Some, yes, but life has taught many of them that they have to earn everything and happiness has a price.”
“What did you like about me when you saw me on the first day?”
“Everything.”
“Be a little more explicit. Give me some details.”
“I had the feeling that I was in the presence of a god incarnate. The perfection of your body. Your eyes so black and bright at the same time. Your expression, that can be very hard or so kind. Your voice, which fluctuates from warm baritone to deep bass, and is sometimes a little hoarse. The self-confidence and authority that emanate from you. And then I heard all the gossip about you.”
