by Danny Tyran
“Sit down, and place your feet in there.”
“Can I ask you a question, Sir?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Am I being punished for having offended you?”
He only smiled, a grim smile, but he didn’t reply. I obeyed. He then tightened the boots, using the handles, first one at feet height, then the ankles and finally the calves. He waited for a few minutes, assessing my reaction.
I was uncomfortable at first, as one often is in shoes that are a size too small. He kept turning the handles, always starting from the foot and ending with the calf of each leg. After each adjustment, he waited for a while, gauging me. I gazed back at this man who was physically almost too perfect, as he leaned in close to me, working to tighten the vises squeezing my legs and feet, and an irresistible desire to stroke him overpowered me. I reached out and touched his hair. He didn’t look up, not even a single glance at me, remaining silent, but I felt his shivers.
After three turns of the handles, my hands started to shake against the arms of the chair. Pressing them more tightly than he was strangling my legs, I winced in pain. Inadvertently, I leaned slightly forward in a futile attempt to escape. Since I was not bound to the chair, I could have done it. But did I really want to?
“No, Max, lean against the backrest and loosen your hands.”
Seminal fluid dripped slowly from my piss slit. I tried to straighten up, and relax, knowing full well that the more I fought against the pain, and the more I allowed fear to dominate my mind, the more I’d suffer.
Once more, he gradually tightened the vices that the shoes had become. I stared back through tears welling up in my eyes in spite of myself.
“Don’t ask for mercy, Max. Don’t beg me, not even with your eyes. While what you are undergoing now seems terrible, you can definitely imagine that I don’t lack either the tools or the imagination to impose upon you much worse still. You must submit yourself, not only in acts, but in thought, or leave.”
I stayed. I wasn’t going to give up so quickly, so easily. He wanted to test me? Very well. I’d show him what I was capable of. He tightened the vices again, and I gazed at him as he kept watching me. Through the haze of my suffering, I saw him surrounded by a halo of light, much like the god of a new religion, my religion. He walked away and came back with a mask fitted with a rubber tube.
“Open your mouth.”
He inserted the oral part of the mask into my mouth and then wrapped it around my head, fastening the edges at the back. I could still see, but hardly breathe. I started to choke. Even though I knew that the tube in my mouth was open to the outside, whenever I breathed in, the walls of the tube stuck together, and I choked a little more.
While gasping for breath, I gazed desperately at my master who was watching me, without a word, without a gesture to help me. For a moment, I thought I was going to die in his basement.
“Try to calm down and take smaller breaths. Otherwise, you are drawing in the air so strongly that the tube closes whenever you inhale.”
He watched me try to catch my breath.
“Easy. That’s it. You can do it.”
I eventually succeeded. But breathing with such small aspirations was challenging. The pain in my feet distorted my breathing, and I had to regulate my puffs closely to avoid running short of air. It required such a huge degree of self-control that I wasn’t sure I could cope much longer.
My cock had softened. My master started tracing a fingernail along its entire length, first in one direction and then the other, focusing on the most tender, most sensitive part of my glans. When I found myself unable to breathe again because of the panting caused by my pleasure, he stopped.
He departed suddenly and went upstairs. Soon, the sound of Bob Dylan singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” came through the basement speakers. My master finally returned with a drink and a book. He settled comfortably in a chair facing in my direction and began to read while sipping alcohol, red rum perhaps, or scotch. In my situation, the nature of his drink was the least of my worries.
How long was he going to force me to sit there while he quietly read? He began to read aloud to me. It was a treaty on eroticism which I didn’t recognize the author or the title of. The poetic nature of the text would certainly have exalted my desire if I hadn’t been in such an uncomfortable situation. In fact, some passages excited me despite my suffering, or perhaps because of it.
Sometimes he would ask me a question which I could answer with an affirmative or negative nod. Often, he raised his eyes, checking out the degree of my suffering and the state of my arousal.
Why am I like this? I wondered. Why do I always have to complicate everything? Why can’t I be content with being dearly loved by a handsome young man or a nice young woman? What am I doing here with this man?
But these questions and doubts didn’t last long because the answers wouldn’t change what I was or how I felt. So I remained seated, without attempting to remove my mask, or releasing the clamps on my feet. Instead, I tried to distance myself from my pain, keeping my mind away from my body. After all, my feet and the rest of my body didn’t belong to me. “My” and “mine” were just practical adjectives to describe those parts of my body, but that didn’t imply real ownership. In fact, they now belonged to my master. Why and how should they suffer? How could I be in pain because of them?
I felt my master slapping me, bringing me back to earth. Did I pass out?
“It’s good to keep your mind away from your suffering, but be careful not to go too far. You lack experience for that. You might well not find your way back home, boy.”
He resumed his seat and continued reading. Now I understood why he was reading aloud and asking me all those questions. His voice would be my anchor. He wanted to keep me from getting lost in this other world where I avoided pain. The music also kept me here. He knew how much I responded to it.
After that, I don’t know how much time passed, he finally came up to me and slowly began to turn the handles in reverse, starting with the legs and ending with the feet. The blood flowing back into my limbs inflicted worse pain than the tight shoes were still causing. I started to moan while suffocating because of my mask.
“No, Max. You have done well so far, don’t start that.”
I was so relieved to finally be unbound that I began to lose all the control that I had mustered to maintain throughout my ordeal. What I found most difficult was the never ending persistence to continue this fight. To neither give up nor waver, but to strive over and over again to hold on.
He went searching for something in his cabinet of torture devices and came back to tie it around my neck. It was a dog collar which he placed so its metal spikes were on the inside, pressing into my flesh. Then he attached a leash and began to walk toward the stairs.
He moved neither quickly nor slowly. His measured step was steady, normal. I followed as best as I could, the pain in my legs and feet reviving and torturing me more and more. Whenever the leash tightened because of my inability to follow, he yanked the chain, forcing me to move forward. Tethered together, we went out into the woods at the back of his house. Virtually no one ever went there. He led me on a journey that we had covered many times. But on those occasions, my legs hadn’t been half crushed.
When we arrived at the area where the wood on each side of the trail was covered with brambles, I almost wished that I could go in there. Scratches from brambles would help me forget the pain in my legs. But we went back to the house.
Along the way, the flow of blood in my legs was returning back to normal. But when we reached the basement and my master said, “I’m not finished with you yet, Max,” I felt sobs rise in my throat. Hadn’t I suffered enough for one day? He beckoned me to a spot where he could tie my hands to the ceiling and attach my feet to the floor. Even as tears and sweat moistened the inside of my mask, I spread my legs and presented my wrists to allow him to tie them more easily.
“You belong to me, Max. If it
pleases me to continue torturing you for hours and even days, that is my absolute right. Isn’t it?”
I nodded in a sign of absolute and unconditional consent. He started rummaging through his closet and returned with, it seemed like, a thousand clips of all kinds. He attached them to all parts of my body: my sides, my chest, the parts of my neck that the mask didn’t cover, the inside and outside of my thighs, both sides of my arms, ending with my nipples and my genitals, my cock first, then, finally, my balls.
I just wished I could remove my mask, in order to breathe more naturally. But it wasn’t in his plans. He wanted to force me to keep my mind in check again, to venture farther into my world of interior freedom, without getting lost. He wanted my total abdication, the surrender of my whole being. Do you love me a little, James? Does my fate mean anything to you? The idea of his possible indifference toward me was more unbearable than the worst torture.
He went upstairs again. When he came back, I couldn’t tell what music was playing, if any. I, too, had left. That was my inner music that I was listening to. He slapped me again.
“Max... Max!”
Why should I come back to this hell? I was so happy in my paradise interspersed with sounds, images, smells of the past and present, feelings that existed only for me and memories of experiences that I had never lived. I felt him whipping me. Violently. Clips fell to the ground with each of his strikes. I came back to myself, to him, to this world. He stood in front of me and took off my mask.
“Max. Answer me.”
What should I answer? I didn’t remember hearing a question. “Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Ah, Max! You scared me. I am begging you, stay with me.”
“Yes, Sir,” I repeated.
The music sounded so strange. Was someone singing or was it just the sound of one of these new musical instruments?
“Who am I, Max?”
Oh! It was a trick question. “The god Pan,” I replied.
“Max, please, this isn’t the time for jokes.”
“I’m not kidding. You are my god. The god who encompasses everything, my whole world.”
“Max. What is my name?”
“James Teka, Master,” I finally answered. “Don’t you remember?”
I saw relief replace concern on his noble face. If he had been white, I would have said he had regained his healthy color. But he had become as black as a moonless night. He was worried about me. So he wasn’t totally indifferent toward me. That was all that mattered.
He replaced the mask on my face, resumed his seat and picked up his book, but he didn’t read to me. He tried to read for himself, but his reading obviously wasn’t progressing. He turned the pages at an extremely slow pace.
I imagined him naked in the jungle. I heard the screeches of monkeys and the songs of birds that may not exist, and I saw him live under a blazing sun, surrounded by lush greenery, a beautiful, untamed and indomitable animal, amidst all this savagery.
He left quickly to go to the ground floor. When he came back, somebody was screaming through the speaker, I didn’t know what he was screeching, something about the New York jungle. I remembered that my master probably knew that jungle better. The one without trees.
I didn’t know how long I had been stretched between floor and ceiling covered with clothespins, alligator clips, and many other kinds of clamps, when he finally decided to release me! He started by removing the clamps on my testicles, allowing time for the blood to flow before moving elsewhere. I stifled my screams. It was worse there than anywhere else, and he surely knew it, because he waited a long time for my pain to decrease. Then he removed the butterfly clips that pinched my tits. Again, waiting patiently for my suffering to ease. Next he removed all the other clamps one by one, from the most sensitive parts of my body first. Finally, he removed my mask and, at last, I could breathe in large gulps of air.
When he untied me, he supported me, then lifted and carried me to his room on the first floor, where he laid me on a thin mattress on the floor next to his bed. At the foot of the bed of my master, like a dog, I thought with a happy smile. He knelt between my legs and started to massage my whole body. This massage was a mixture of pleasure and pain. His hands on me revived my cock as well as rekindled the pain of all the small bites from the clamps.
When he stopped and stood up, despite my exhaustion, I somehow found the strength to get on my knees, legs apart and hands behind my back before him. “Thank you, Master, for this lesson.”
I leaned over and kissed his feet. With his assistance, I laid down on my mattress again and immediately fell into a deep sleep. I woke up with the smell of appetizing meals he prepared. A clock on the nightstand informed me that it was six o’clock in the evening. Had I slept or had I been tortured that long? I may never know.
I got up and did my usual squatting exercises, which made me realize that I’d probably be suffering for several days because of today’s experience, then I went to join him. On the couch in the living-room lay a suit in my size with a linen shirt and a black tie with pretty, delicate rust and gold patterns. At the foot of the couch, there were brand new black shoes and socks to match the clothing. When my master saw me, he said, “Go take a shower and put on the suit and shoes.”
When I was ready, I went to join him in the dining room. The table was set for two, with his finest cutlery and candles. My plate and his contained caviar and crackers. He used his hand to gesture where to sit: on the seat facing his at the table. I could have cried with happiness. “You can talk to me freely, Maximilian,” he allowed me ceremoniously.
“Are we celebrating something, Master?”
“Your graduation. And you have just been officially admitted to my very special school,” he said, rewarding me with a mischievous smile.
“School?”
“The school of slavery. I told you that I’d test you before accepting to officially train you. I tested you more than once, for example when I demanded that you ‘dance’ in front of your classmates and when I forced you to stay away from me while I was taking care of Maurice. But the most important part of this test, you’ve experienced each time you came here, but particularly today. Of course, I’ve already been through the basics. You had to be able to serve your future master as a good servant, but also perform more personal services, such as massages. I haven’t taught you how to satisfy your future master’s sexual needs, because you were legally too young, but I will soon remedy that.”
We toasted my new “official” status of slave in training and started to eat, discussing the near future. My master wanted to live in one of Montreal’s or Toronto’s suburbs. He suggested that I put my name down in both places so that I could continue my education in psychology and physical education. He would take care of my education expenses and all that’d be necessary for me. For my part, I would agree to be his good and faithful slave. What he offered me was too much like what I’d have chosen for myself, so I happily accepted it all. But even if he had suggested that I become an ornithologist in Amazonia, I’d have accepted. I’d have even been willing to study bird life in the rainforest with him.
The sun slowly began to wane in the sky, and I felt wonderful, despite the constant twinge in my legs and feet as well as the bursts of pain I kindled elsewhere whenever I moved in my seat.
~.~.~
The doorbell rang. My master frowned as he wasn’t expecting anyone. It was my father. My master asked him to enter and share a coffee with us.
On receiving his agreement, he left to prepare coffee, leaving me alone with my father, who sat at the table, to my left.
He started by asking, “What are you doing here, Max? And where did those clothes come from?”
“We are celebrating my graduation.” I answered one of his questions.
“Your mother and I would have also liked to celebrate with you.”
“Why tonight, specifically?” I asked, feeling strangely distant from my father’s concerns.
“We were very worrie
d.”
“As you can see, I’m fine.”
Whereupon my master came back, with the dessert in his hands. He placed it on the table beside him and offered a slice to my father, who replied, “No, thanks.” Dad turned to me and said, “You should come home, boy.”
“I’ll go home when my master orders me to, not before.”
“You’re not a slave, no one has the right to possess or sell slaves in this country.”
“Nobody has the right to force a human being to live as a slave if he doesn’t want to be. But I aspire to be one.”
“Max...”
“Dad, why don’t you go back home now? Don’t worry. I’ll finish my meal, and if my master allows me, I’ll return to your home again later.”
“ ‘My home’? But it is yours too, Max.”
“No. Not anymore. Never again. See you later, Dad.”
He cast a glance at me, his eyes full of confusion inspired by the coldness of my attitude toward him. Then he looked at my master, who invited him again to stay for coffee and dessert. But he refused and left.
After that, I feared the arrival of the police. I didn’t know what my father said to my mother to stop her from coming to get me, but I was able to finish my meal in peace with my master. We spoke about all the equipment he had in the basement.
“I have accumulated all this over the years, buying bits here and parts there. Many of these items were given to me by former masters and former slaves, others by friends or acquaintances in the slave market. I haven’t bought and prepared all this just for you,” he concluded with a smile.
We talked again of the future. I wondered about the need to continue my education now. “You could finish my training and sell me. Then if I wanted to, the money from the sale would allow me to continue my education, or to do something else.”
“Are you in such a hurry to leave me, Max?”
“No! You know I’m not. But I find it unfair that you have to pay for everything for several years while I’m just your part-time slave.”
