by Danny Tyran
“What gossip?” he asked curiously.
I related what I had heard about his time in New York, Chicago and Boston, where he had taught in various schools, and of his homosexuality.
“I was born in Africa and spent the first seven years of my life there. When my parents died in a car accident, an uncle living in New York took me under his wing. He had three sons and wasn’t very rich. Even at that age, I wondered why he wanted one more mouth to feed. I learned much later that my parents had left me a small fortune which I was going to inherit when I reached the age of majority. My uncle had hoped to be able to move the deadline forward which would allow him and his sons to gain a part of my fortune. He didn’t succeed and made me pay dearly for that fact. I had not only to earn my sustenance, but also that of his sons. I was only able to attend school sporadically, when someone from Social Services checked up on my frequent absences. He and his sons beat me for anything and nothing. If I complained, it was even worse. One day, a police officer found me unconscious on the kitchen floor. I hadn’t eaten for days and was covered in bruises and infected wounds. At the age of ten, they sent me to a State boarding school. This school wasn’t much better than my uncle’s house. We were beaten there too. Some of the children had even been raped. But the violence was less wanton. The food was unpalatable, but at least I could eat. And I had time to study and become strong. Most of all, I wanted to survive. I gained a scholarship and went to Cornell University in New York to learn psychology, sports education and gain a basic knowledge of medicine.”
He was silent for a time, as his thoughts probably wandered in the past. Although I’d have liked to know more, I let him daydream about the bad old days and better times.
“And... I’m bisexual,” he eventually continued. “Women interest me more than men. One of my masters said, ‘Slaves don’t choose, we choose for them. They must be able to give happiness to men or women, young or old, beautiful or ugly.’ And the gossips were right, Max. About the cities I lived in and the schools where I taught, everything is true. In the beginning, they were the only schools where I could find a permanent full-time job. I wanted to gain experience, so I could dedicate myself to the cause of youth.”
My posture had loosened a little, so I straightened it. The muscles in my legs, buttocks, back and even my belly hurt again. Flames spread from my back to my neck. I would have enjoyed the discussion so much more if he had given me permission to sit down with a drink in my hand.
“And women? You told me that you like them too,” he added, finally.
“They also attract me, Master. But for me this is not so much a sexual attraction.”
I told him what I liked in them, how I loved talking to them and how they liked to confide in me.
“And if you had a Mistress instead of a Master?”
I imagined what it would be like to serve a mistress for years. I pictured her strong and lively as a wellspring. I saw long hair flowing in the wind and imagined myself walking respectfully three steps behind her. I liked this picture, so I smiled. My Master nodded. From my expression, he could tell that the gender of my master didn’t matter that much. As long as they were true Masters in their heart, I would be happy to serve.
“This Saturday, bring me your last two grade sheets and your class schedule. In the meantime, I forbid you to ejaculate. You can masturbate if you want, or even make love as long as you stop before ejaculation. This will help you attach more importance to your partner’s pleasure than your own. This is something you have to learn anyway, so you might as well get a head start on your training. But if you cum, even while sleeping, I want to know. The only time you will be allowed and even encouraged to ejaculate is when you manage to do so just at the mere sight of your partner’s pleasure. But it must not be the result of a physical stimulation or even one of your usual fantasies. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master.”
Avoiding wet dreams might be a problem, but my refusal to cum might be a bigger one. I wasn’t sure my fuck buddies would understand it. And would the sight of the pleasure of another person ever be enough to trigger my ejaculation?
My master then ordered me to get dressed. It was eleven o’clock by the time he drove me back home. During the ride, I asked him if I was allowed to speak. “Only if it is really necessary,” he replied.
“I just want to thank you for everything: for taking care of me, helping me understand myself better and for training me.”
“Are you sure you are thanking me for everything, Max?”
I made an effort to breathe slowly and deeply to prevent my cheeks and ears growing red and hot again.
“Yes, Master. I think I have far too much pride for a slave and that...”
I swallowed my saliva and took the time needed to find the courage to continue. He was driving, but occasionally he turned his head in my direction. Our eyes met.
“Even the spoon was needed. I will try not to be too proud of myself and act more simply… humbly,” I added.
He reached over and gave my fingers a gentle press. “You worked hard tonight, kid. I’m proud of you.”
I felt a gust of relief and happiness lifting me. I was about to thank him again, but he stopped me.
“Hush! Don’t forget that you’re still not allowed to talk to me freely. Unless you want us to stop in some dark corner so I can punish you...” He accompanied his words with a teasing smile. But he had just prevented me from earning another punishment. I thanked him in my thoughts. When he stopped and made his farewells, I replied with a hand salute.
My mother saw me coming and asked who the man was who drove me home.
“A friend of Robert’s family,” I lied again.
Fortunately, she didn’t investigate further.
Chapter 6
Several months passed, during which I continued to attend my school lessons, my master’s sports classes and visit him every Thursday night and all day Saturday.
During his classes, my master was very demanding toward everyone, especially me, not forgiving my slightest mistakes. He forced me to repeat over and over again exercises that I got wrong or that I was not doing well enough for his taste. More than once, he criticized what he called my “individuality” during team sports. So, one day before his arrival, Francis, one of my classmates, questioned me in front of our whole group. “Why do you let him treat you like that? He is always after you, yelling at you for nothing.”
“He is only trying to help me improve myself. That’s what I want.”
“Okay then, as long as you love being treated like a pile of crap....”
Most of the others were listening too. Several agreed with him.
“You can’t understand someone like him. He doesn’t just give his lectures and then go home. He really wants to help us.”
“Ah! So we can’t understand because we aren’t smart enough. Not as smart as you, right?”
Upon entering the gym, my master overheard the last comment.
During our previous meetings at his house, he had repeatedly criticized my tendency to look down on my classmates, as if what I was experiencing with him gave me, in my view, a special value that I didn’t recognize in them. “You’re the lowest of the low, Max, the servant of servants. To be a true slave, you have to be humble, willing to help everyone and serve whenever possible. Pride has no place in the heart of any slave worthy of the name.”
To help me get rid of that pride, he had taught me a simple exercise. Firstly, I had to rock my hips back and forth three times in an exaggerated manner, stopping the movement for a few seconds at each extremity in order to jut my cock out on the way forward and thrust my ass out on the way back. Then I had to walk in a circle for twenty paces, vigorously shaking my buttocks every step. At the completion of this primitive “ballet” I had to repeat the hip-rocking movement.
Although I was alone with him when he taught me this dance, I started crying, ashamed by the gross indecency of the exercise he demanded. Whenever I roc
ked my hips, I felt like an animal copulating in slow motion. And when I shook my buttocks, I felt like a turkey fanning its tail plumage. This parade might appeal to a female turkey, but certainly not to seduce a woman.
From then on, whenever my master thought I was showing contempt, vanity or too much pride, he would order me to: “Dance!” Then I had to stop what I was doing and perform the exercise.
That day, while we were still at school, he asked me, “Do I treat you like a piece of shit, Max?”
I hastened to reply: “Sir, I was explaining to him that you just wanted to help me.”
“Help you in what?”
“To improve myself, Sir.”
“Improve in what?”
“In everything, Sir.” I was wary of where this discussion was leading.
“Give me some examples.”
I referred back to the last exercise where I had made a mistake and mentioned how he had taught me to improve my performance.
“So I only help you on the physical level. Did I teach you anything else?”
I didn’t know how I could answer without revealing our meetings at his place or without giving a long, complex explanation.
“Come here, Max.”
My heart and mind filled with fear as I approached him.
“Turn around, remove your shirt and dance for them.”
I knew only too well what dance he expected of me. When I looked at him, appalled by the cruel requirement, sweat started dripping down the middle of my back and under my armpits.
As I didn’t move, he insisted. “Max. You know you have only two possible choices: all or nothing. I gave you an order. Obey, now.”
Of course, I knew I could put an end to it by saying that this had already gone too far. I could fall back on conventional prejudices, and ask to see a psychologist to help me “clarify my feelings.” But the more I stared at my master, and the more I studied the beautiful face and gorgeous body of this man who had told me that he had experienced everything he asked of me, the more I wanted to go through with it too.
I took off my t-shirt, relieved I could at least keep my shorts on. Then I turned to my classmates. Closing my eyes, I tried to empty my mind and relax as my master had taught me. I don’t know where I found the strength to start moving my hips back and forth; stopping the time needed between each movement to display my burgeoning cock, squeezed tight inside my shorts, then thrusting out my ass. After swaying back and forth three times, I started walking, twisting my hips so vigorously that even without an ounce of fat, all my body shook.
I heard laughter, incredulous comments, and a shocked female voice almost begging me to stop, but I continued. Until the end.
“Look at them all in the eyes now, Max.”
I opened my eyes and first gazed lovingly at my master, who gave me a little nod of approval. My dick was as hard as it had ever been. Fortunately, my tight jean shorts constrained it enough. Then I looked at them, all the students of a class that I was no longer really part of, since I was a slave among free people. Despite the disgust that I read in some eyes and on some faces, I now felt, more than ever, affection for each of them. I was hoping for a little comprehension, but knew that few of them would ever really understand, not from lack of intelligence, but because I belonged to a group of people for whom they had no reference point, no valid evaluation criteria.
That day marked a turning point in my relationship with my classmates. From then on, nobody wanted to do better than me, and I was only trying to challenge my own limits. When time came to form teams for work or a game, some looked at me like I had the plague. I suffered a lot and discussed the problem with my master.
“You’re different from them, Max. That difference frightens a lot of people. Many of your classmates will not come spontaneously to you anymore. It is up to you to go to them now. If they reject you, approach them again, trying harder next time or do it differently. Whether they like you or not is irrelevant. What matters is that you act toward them as you should, that you do for them what is necessary and not blame them for disliking you.”
I had always presented a false self-image to others. This ordeal unmasked me. Now that they knew the real me, I was free to be myself. I didn’t have to try to save face. Mind you, I didn’t start shouting from the rooftops “I am a slave”, but I was more often allowed to act in accordance with my nature. “To serve” became my motto. Hence I suffered when my help was rejected.
“Why are you suffering, Max? Because you don’t have the opportunity to serve or because you feel rejected by them?” My Master asked me the question one evening when I complained about their rebuffs.
“Both, Master.”
“They have the right to refuse your help. They’re free people and you’re a slave. They have rights. You have none, except the possibility of rejecting your slavery. But as long as you submit yourself to it, you have to accept the decisions they make for you.”
Actually, the situation at the school was not as bad as I had expected. Some people, who had never given me the slightest attention before, began to talk to me, attracted by a difference that they considered “original”. Some approached me as they would an exotic and possibly dangerous animal. They were enthusiastic about the concept of the risk they thought they were taking.
I knew that others felt pity for me. As if the little tribal dance had been imposed on me against my will, under threat. I did everything I could to convince them that I was not a victim, I had always been and continued to be free to choose what I wanted to do with my life, at least as much as they did.
An essay set by Miss Réjean, our French teacher, helped me clarify the situation a little more. We had to write a few pages on the theme: “My place in the world.” I suspected my master, who was dating her and had known her for some time, had something to do with her choice of topic. Or God was on my side.
Anyway, I presented a paper entitled: “No Heaven without Hell.” I explained that I really found happiness in challenges, obstacles to overcome, tests to pass. To make it clear that there was no need for me to climb the highest mountains, I gave some examples in everyday life: the challenge could be in a gym, walking around in a strange dance, or in a classroom, trying to regain a lost friendship.
At the end of my reading, the class fell silent. I knew that at least the will of some to lodge a complaint against my master to the school principal had been lessened. But many already suspected that there was an “unconventional” relationship between my master and me. Some people had certainly seen me leaving with him several times. And, despite the fact that my master wasn’t driving me to the door of my home anymore, but dropping me off a few blocks away, I was afraid that my parents would discover the truth and forbid my meetings with him. Or worse, someone might attempt to harm us.
I wanted to continue going to his place so I could strive to fulfill each of his requirements, and thus learn more about myself, about him and about whatever he wanted to teach me. Each of our meetings was precious and special. There was always something unusual and exciting that happened, or at least something that stirred my interest.
Each time, he lent me books on philosophy, history, sociology, popular sciences, psychology, English language, cooking, massaging, music and more. When I saw him again, he asked me about all these subjects, and how they influenced my daily life.
He started talking to me more and more often in English and asked me to answer in the same language, correcting all my mistakes. He also gave me lessons on elocution, verb tenses and agreement with subjects, syntax, and so on.
One day, he decided to show me how to defend myself. He knew several forms of martial arts which he used alternately as needed. His goal was not to make me a professional fighter, but to teach me how to protect my future masters and myself if necessary.
For our first session, he took me to an open and flat area of his backyard and ordered me to hit him. Not daring to make a serious attempt to strike him, I extended an arm, with a clenched fist,
in a mock punch. Before I had time to say “phew!” I found myself flat on the ground. Then he began to kick me around. Even though his kicks weren’t vicious, they were no less effective and painful. “I think I asked you to hit me, so hit me,” he ordered again, while helping me up.
I really tried to hit him this time, with no more success than before. His kicks became stronger and faster. I scrambled to my feet through sheer self-preservation, and tried again to strike him. It didn’t mattered where and how; I just wanted to hurt him. But he gave me no chance of success.
Whenever I ended up on the ground, I felt an increasing desire to fight back and give him harder blows like he was giving me. Then, I successfully hit him on his arm and in his stomach. The successful blows didn’t seem to bother him in the least. I was furious. I wanted to at least not hit the dirt so fast, and avoid as long as possible the thrashing I got when I fell. And if I did nothing but put my arms in front of me to protect myself, he insulted me, calling me a wimp. He challenged me, “When are you gonna start crying, baby girl? Defend yourself. Attack me!”
He wanted to know what I was made of, whether I was a natural fighter or not. By the time bruises covered me from head to toe, I came to understand that I shouldn’t expect any respite or mercy from him. I then channeled all my rage, all my repressed anger into the fight. My old hatreds resurfaced, and I transferred them to the black face before me, finally managing to knock my opponent down. He froze in surprise for a moment, giving me the opportunity to land some strong kicks. Then he started to laugh. That made me even more furious. I tried to kick him in the face, but he grabbed my foot and threw me away from him. Once again I hit the ground. Only a big spring lodged in my behind would have made me jump faster to my feet.
