by Danny Tyran
He replied, “I don’t even know where I’ll be living, or even if I’m going to continue teaching. I’m not doing this out of financial necessity. As you know, at the age of majority, I took possession of my inheritance. As well as that, the sale of previous slaves further enriched me. With good investments and a bit of caution, I’ll never have to work again. But I like to teach. And, as you know, if I didn’t, I’d never have met you. But I don’t want to prevent you from joining the college of your choice, and I can’t suggest one to you, because I don’t know where I will be going.”
“But you have to live somewhere until you make a decision.” I was anxious. Would one of his own personal laws on what was right and wrong push him to refuse me the right to see him even after the end of the school year? Now that I had found my way and my guide; I didn’t want to be parted from them.
“How far away is your birthday?”
“Eighteen days, Sir.”
“That means I have eighteen days to think.”
“Master, since my courses will end in a few days, can’t I come to your place again? Given that I won’t be one of the students of this school anymore, your commitment not to receive me at home will also end.”
“I thought your parents forbade you to see me outside school.”
“Yes, but I might be able to convince them to let me see you for at least a few hours each week. If they refuse, I could introduce you to them. If you talk to them, they’ll understand that you don’t want to harm me.”
“I doubt it, Max. But nothing prevents us from trying. If we fail, I will give you a new set of exercises, other readings, experiments that you can perform at home. You can produce a daily report of your successes and failures, as well as of your thoughts. When we meet again, I’ll read your report and discuss it with you.”
That idea appealed to me a lot. I needed his presence, his deep voice, his stern gaze on me. I wanted to feel his grip on me.
So I talked to my parents, who asked me what, exactly, did I intend to do with ‘that chap.’ “Now that your classes are finished, you should have no need to do anything with him,” my mother commented dryly.
“It’s just the opposite. He taught me many things while I was at his house.”
“What?” she asked, impatiently.
“English. He is fluently bilingual. Also cooking, relaxation and meditation, philosophy, psychology and sociology. He taught me many physical strengthening exercises, as well as balance, mastery of body and mind. He even taught me self-defense techniques. And those are just a few examples.”
My father asked in a strained voice, “Are you sure it wasn’t him who was learning how to control your body and your mind?”
What could I say to that? Yes, Dad, that is what he wants, but I want it more than he does.
“Why don’t I introduce him to you? You’ll see that he isn’t the monster you seem to believe him to be.”
“Who cares if he tells us that he’ll do you no harm? Why should we believe him?” My mother persisted.
“Why would you not believe him? Mo has admitted to lying about the rape, but despite that, you continue to think him guilty. You’ve condemned him without giving him a chance to defend himself. That is so unfair!” I became more and more upset. I held it against them that they thought so badly of my master. But more than that, I held it against them for refusing him the chance to justify himself in their eyes.
“Maurice isn’t the only one who lied. You kept lying to us every time you went to his place. Why didn’t you tell us, if all you were doing was learning English?”
I knew I wouldn’t convince my mother by the power of reason. The only person who might succeed in convincing her would be my master. Not so much because of his power of conviction, but by the calm assurance of his presence, by the honesty of his words. My mother was like me, she understood actions more than words. But I still tried to explain the reason for my lies. “I lied to you because I knew you wouldn’t understand my desire to see him, and you’d forbid me to meet him.”
“Why would he give all this tuition for free? From the goodness of his heart? He must hope to get something in return.”
“Certainly not money, because he’s already wealthy. He doesn’t need poor people like us to pay for something he loves doing.”
“And where has he found all this money?” she insisted.
“He didn’t find or steal it. He inherited it.”
“I find that doubtful.”
“Mommyyyyyy!” Her stubbornness and my father’s silence exasperated me.
“We’ll think about it, Max,” my father concluded.
As I didn’t want a long period of reflection, the next day, I pressed the point again.
“Okay, Max, we’ll talk to him. Invite him over for dinner on Saturday night.”
“Thank you!”
My mother scowled, and my father seemed little more enthusiastic, but at least it was a step in the right direction.
I invited my master, and he arrived at five o’clock, as requested, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an expensive bottle of wine in the other. I opened the door, and he greeted me. Then I made the introductions. He offered his gifts to my parents, who of course said it was not necessary, and he, that it was his pleasure.
My father used to have a glass of wine every evening without offering one to me. As they sat in the living room, I told him he could also pour me one because I would soon be eighteen, and I had already drunk wine elsewhere.
“Becoming an adult is not a reason to start gaining bad habits. And would you care to inform me exactly where you drank alcohol? Was it you, Mr. Teka, who offered him wine?” My mother’s question wasn’t very subtle.
“Mom! Please, don’t start making accusations.”
“Let her speak, Max. Your mother has the right to know the truth.”
Oh no! I thought. Who knew how my mother would react if he decided to disclose everything that had happened while I was with him.
“Your son came to my place every Thursday and Saturday for several weeks. I left him free to tell you what happened or not. I think he was afraid that you would forbid him to come home with me, so he lied. But I never offered him alcohol or drugs.”
“You knew he was lying to us and yet you did nothing to prevent it. Do you think that is worthy of you as his teacher?” My father asked in turn.
“Do you always tell the whole truth, without omission, to your family, Mr. Lemay? Do you always think it wrong to lie to them? Would you be prepared, at this moment, to disclose everything you’re still hiding from them? Max is almost an adult. I think he is old enough to assess what matters most to him: tell you the whole truth and miss out on a rewarding experience, or hide and make the most of what I can offer to him.”
“How could you know that we’d refuse to let you see him?”
“I didn’t know, but Max was convinced enough to hide our meetings from you. Would you have let him come home to my place, Mrs. Lemay?”
“Why would I let him go with a stranger who is said to have grown...” My mother broke off when she realized her mistake. She had implicitly admitted to being influenced by gossips and that they were still influencing her.
“Who is said to have grown up and lived in the worst places? What else? What have you heard?” My master was remarkably calm, his tone of voice, serene.
“Those sorts of things are just gossip, they don’t matter,” my father cut in.
“If your wife believes it, it’s important, Mr. Lemay.”
The silence settled. My master did nothing to break it. He only looked at my mother pensively.
“The only thing I know is that we know nothing about you. You could hurt him, or have a bad influence on him,” she finally muttered.
“Or a good one. Why focus on the bad side of things? He came to me for weeks and, apart from the fact that he lied to you, did you have anything else to complain about? Did his behavior seem odd to you? Were his exam results weaker?”
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“No. Nothing like that happened, on the contrary, but that doesn’t mean we should grant you our trust,” my father added.
“What can we say or do to make you trust him then? Why have I invited him here if nothing will change your opinion of him or your decision?” My questions grew more heated in spite of myself. Their behavior toward my master revolted me and everyone was certainly aware of that fact.
“Max, please, stay out of it. Let us speak,” my father ordered.
“I’m allowed to give my opinion too. Especially, when you don’t want to understand....”
“Max!” Exclaimed my mother. “You shouldn’t talk to us like that.” Then, turning to my master, she asked, “What have you got to say about your influence now?”
“He has nothing to do with my reaction,” I yelled, rising to my feet. “It’s you who make me sick because you treat me like a baby and him as a monster.”
“Max…” my master interjected.
I turned to him.
“Sit down and apologize to your parents for your impatience and your rudeness.”
I was tempted to answer back, but the serious expression on his face stopped me. I realized that my irritation and my reproaches were far from helping us. I sat down, took two or three deep breaths, then I turned to my parents and asked them to forgive me. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you this way. I know you care for me, that’s why you’re afraid to let me go to his place. I... I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, son. So, Jeanne, what do you say of his influence now?” My father was smiling. But my mother just got up to finish preparing the meal.
Throughout dinner, my father and my master discussed news headlines and other major issues. I realized, perhaps for the first time, how little my father knew about almost everything. Despite this, my master always managed to emphasize the truth and common sense contained in my father’s weak arguments. My mother, who usually advocated her views, passionately, just listened. I watched everyone, asking a question from time to time, to which either my father or my master replied.
At the end of the meal, my mother asked us whether we’d like tea and coffee.
“If you still believe that Max shouldn’t come to my house, Mrs. Lemay, he won’t come. It’s as simple as that,” my master assured her gently.
So my mother took the plunge. “There are other things I’ve heard and not spoken about. Those are the things that scare me most.”
My master waited to hear what she was about to say. She hesitated, as if she was ashamed to repeat slanders.
“First, they say you’re gay.” She waited for confirmation or rebuttal of her words.
But none came. My master smiled. “Do you think homosexuality is a contagious disease or that gays entice all the nice boys who cross their path?”
“No, but sometimes they fall in love with young men.”
“Yes. So what? I’m not in love with Max, Ms. Lemay. Our relationship is one of master and... student.”
His hesitation gave me the shivers.
“Don’t you mean, master and slave?” my father interjected.
My master stared at my father, who, I found out later, was voicing my mother’s deepest concern. Then he turned to my mother, who didn’t dare look into his eyes or at anybody. Finally, he turned to me. His gaze was penetrating, disturbing. “Can I ask what you heard about it?” he finally uttered.
“So, it’s true,” my father said.
“What is true, Mr. Lemay?”
“We were told that you’re a... ‘professional sadist’ who... ‘tame’ young women and men, and even sell them to other people like you.”
My master gave a painful smile, the smile of someone who was used to people misunderstanding. “What do you think, Max? Do your father’s statements sound like what you know about me?”
“Claiming that’s true would be like comparing Christ’s crucifixion with a sadomasochistic scene. It’s nothing like that that! The way you put it is a gross distortion of reality.”
My father seemed curious, “Distortion of reality? What is the reality, then, my boy?”
“He doesn’t tame me, he trains me. If he punishes me, it’s because I sometimes make mistakes, and that is necessary.”
“You punish him?!” My mother exclaimed in horror. “What did he do to you? What has he made you into?”
“Nothing that I couldn’t bear. Nothing, but what I already was.”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing but what I already was’? What were you?” she asked me, almost in tears.
“I’m bisexual. Men attract me as much as women, maybe more. I’ve known forever.”
“Get out of here!” she screamed, turning toward my master.
My master then looked at my father, who confirmed: “It’s better that you leave.”
There was nothing more that we could do for the moment. I knew it. My master knew it, so he left.
My father wanted to speak to me about the matter, to know more about it, but my mother, I believe, had already heard more than she was able to cope with. They argued about the preferable moment to discuss it: now or later. Meanwhile, I left the table. I felt suffocated in their house. I went outside to get some fresh air.
Chapter 10
I couldn’t stop thinking about my master and the way my parents had driven him from their home, a place I thought until that day to be mine too. I could still see the expression of suffering that had flooded his beautiful face. Suffering which, however, should be familiar to him. It seemed to me that I had nothing in common with them: my father or my mother. My sole parent now was my master.
Saturday morning, after completing the physical and mental exercises he’d set for me weeks ago and which I obstinately continued to do, I set off walking in the direction of his house, my new home. I didn’t know how I’d be greeted, or even if he still wanted me. But I couldn’t wait any longer. My mind was the needle of a compass, and he was the magnetic pole. I just couldn’t stay away from him unless forced to do so.
When he opened his front door, he gazed at me for a long time with his eyes still sad. Then, without even greeting me, he headed toward the living room. I entered the house, undressed and followed him. When I arrived in the dining room, I couldn’t see him anywhere. I searched through all the rooms on the ground floor, looking for him. I finally found him leaning against the doorframe of the stairs leading to the basement, waiting for me. He turned and began to go downstairs.
I had never set foot in this part of the house. Without a word, he led me around the main room of the basement. I followed a few steps behind. He showed me the rings on the walls, pulleys and chains hanging from the ceiling, a decorative frame that could be turned into a human size cross, a large padded table where a tall man could be stretched out and bound, arms and legs spread, a large empty chest that looked a bit like a coffin, an object that resembled both a trestle and a pommel horse with its wide, padded bench, but with clamps for hands and feet on the base of two sides. There were many other terrible items which I couldn’t imagine a use for.
Passing in front of a large closet, he opened all the doors wide and, one after the other, all its drawers. Inside, on shelves, hooks or in the drawers, was a collection of paraphernalia that torturers from the Middle Ages would have been proud of: floggers, whips and canes of all kinds, rods, riding crops, knives, needles and other cutting or piercings objects, gags, blindfolds, masks, bags made of rubber, canvas and leather, coatings and harnesses, individual clips or some interconnected by chains, fasteners of all sizes made from leather and other natural fibers. There was an assortment of nylon, metal and plastic handcuffs and chains, narrow and wide collars with or without rings at the front or the back, leashes to attach to these necklaces’ rings, surgical, horsehair and leather studded gloves, soft and stiff brushes, wigs and women’s clothing, but in sizes to suit males. Alongside this was a variety of feathers, half a drawer full of boxes containing tablets, suppositories, capsules, liquid substances and colored fat t
hat could be used as lubricants or for other mysterious utilities. Other drawers contained a collection of phallus, plugs and dildos, condoms of various brands, materials and sources, an assortment of electrical appliances, and much more!
We then went into a small room that had as much appeal as a big cage or a jail cell with its narrow and hard cot, its walls bare except for some rings and chains, its small sink with a single faucetfrom which, probably, only cold water would flowits plastic tumbler and bowl, and finally, its toilet without a lid.
I was stunned. I could not only picture myself bound to the bare walls of the dungeon, but actually nailed to one of them, and left there for days. Completely forgotten. My head was spinning, but my cock hadn’t ceased growing throughout this disturbing but quiet tour. My state of arousal couldn’t have gone unnoticed.
“Your parents said I was a ‘professional sadist’. What do you think now, Max?”
I was speechless. I couldn’t find an answer.
“You’re free to go, as you always have been,” he added.
“Look at me, Sir. Do I look like a free man? How could I still live at my parents’ place? I don’t feel at home there anymore. It’s as if I had just discovered that I am the son of extraterrestrials. I have nothing in common with them, or very little. Even if I go away now, I’ll have night after night of terrible and delicious nightmares in which you use all your instruments of torture on me. I’ll wake up sweaty and hard like a horse, and I’ll have only one desire, to come back here as soon and fast as possible.”
“All these things don’t scare you?”
“I’m scared to death, Sir. I never imagined that one person could have all this.” I made a sweeping gesture, encompassing his entire basement.
In doing so, I noticed more devices that I hadn’t seen initially, because I’d been so overwhelmed by what he was showing me.
He pointed to a wooden chair at the foot of which was a pair of metal boots resembling sabatons of a knight’s armor. I noticed that there were three handles on the right hand side of the left shoe and three more on the left side of the right shoe: one on the calf, the second just above the ankle and one on the side of the foot.
