Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  A child? I hadn’t fled. I was still sitting on the bench and struggling against my phobia, and he called me “a child”? I opened my eyes. I didn’t immediately understand what I was seeing. I jumped as I saw a giant caterpillar in my master’s right hand. Then I understood. It was one of his huge white feathers that I had seen in his closet when I first visited his basement. Yes, he was right. I had acted like a child. If I had opened my eyes earlier, I’d have saved myself half of this torture. But I let my fear rule me. I raised my hand to my forehead.

  “You have a headache, haven’t you?”

  He was right, as always. Perhaps the collapse of nervous tension was the cause of the equally sudden headache. My master came up to me and helped me get off the bench. He smiled to see me falter. “Do you think you’ll be able to clean up your vomit and store that away on your own?” he asked, pointing to the feather.

  I nodded and took his feather. My first steps unaided were a feat of balance. If I’d been walking on a wire, I couldn’t have been more unsteady.

  “Will you be able to manage, all by yourself?” my master asked, laughing.

  “A little bit... goes a long way, as my mother would say.”

  “Bless her.”

  “Amen!” I answered with a big smile.

  While I tidied up and returned to the bench, he brought me a cloth and a bowl full of soapy water. Kneeling at his feet, I cleaned everything then I rinsed and stored away my cleaning instruments.

  As we left the underground room, my master walked behind me to counter any possible fall. My steps were already more confident, but I still had a headache. My master went into the bathroom and came back with two aspirin tablets and a glass of water.

  “Thank you. You’re a true father to me,” I commented with a smile. Realizing my forgetfulness, I knelt and thanked him for the lesson I had received in the basement. Then I leaned over and kissed his feet. My headache hit harder while I had my head almost touching the floor.

  “You ought to have thanked me downstairs, Max. I’m amazed you didn’t think of it while you were kneeling down near your mess. But you did a good job, so I’ll forgive the delay. It’s also great to take things with a laugh. But be careful not to go too far and disrespect me with your irony. I don’t blame you for what you just said, but I am warning you to avoid future trouble. Now come and look at my slave in the mirror.”

  We stood in front of his mirror wall where I had already admired myself while leather-covered yesterday. I was unrecognizable. I looked like a novice in a new religious order.

  Then he told me that I could let my hair grow, except for the beard, and when it had all returned to its previous length, I should, in theory, have become a “presentable” slave. In other words, I’d be ready for my sale.

  “When I believe you’re worthy to be truly considered a slave, you will have to undergo a trial administered by twenty members of our community: people who know the slave market, who were slaves themselves or masters, and are recognized as outstanding members of the whole community. Next, you’ll have to present me a gift that will show everyone that you have acquired the right to cross the threshold leading to a real slave life. Then I’ll give you the insignia of your rank among my slaves.”

  He also explained to me that during this first week, I was to wear no clothes, except when I went out shopping or on other errands, or to be his driver. On those occasions, I would wear jeans or whatever the situation required. From now on, I should keep my slave livery and moccasins stored in the hall closet, so I could answer the door fast enough, attired in presentable clothing. The following week, he’d decide whether I could wear clothes when I was at home. In this case, I’d wear a jockstrap, one of my slave outfits and moccasins.

  “I’m hungry now,” he said. “Go and cook our meal. You will eat yours here on the ground. There is a tray with folding legs in one of the kitchen cabinets. You can use it to carry my lunch, and then place yours on it and use it as your personal table.”

  “Do you want something before I prepare your meal, Master?”

  “Very good, Max. It’s always better to ask about my needs before beginning a task that will take some time. You can turn on the radio. No need to change the station. And bring me the newspaper. You’ll find it in the hall.”

  I turned on the radio and brought his newspaper. “Do you have a preference for breakfast?”

  “On the kitchen table, you’ll find a list of meals that I expect to eat this week. Follow these instructions for breakfast in the following weeks. As for other meals, you’re free to choose. My only requisites relate to the variety and quality of food. I don’t want to put on weight just because I have my own cook, so don’t cook meals that are too fatty or high in calories.”

  His list provided guidance on the kind of food he expected to eat, but no details on the composition of the meals themselves. That would be my choice. His list covered the entire week until Friday. Maybe he wanted to see me improvise on Saturday and Sunday.

  I made the same breakfast for both of us. It was easier than cooking two different meals. I had already become used to leaving the door ajar and regularly monitoring him in case he needed something. I had enough time to prepare everything while he was reading.

  When I entered the dining room to set the table and serve his meal, he raised his newspaper out of the way.

  “Should I have left you more time to finish your newspaper, Master?”

  “When I ordered you to cook our breakfast, I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to read everything. I’ll finish it this evening, like I usually do. But you were right to ask.”

  I went back to get other things he needed, then made one last trip to collect my own meal. I sat far enough away from the table to see above it in case he needed something.

  “Did you get back to sleep after my visit last night?” he asked, before starting to eat.

  I blushed. Just mentioning this issue was enough to wake up my cock. “After the first, yes, but not after the second, Master.”

  “Why?”

  “I... I was so disturbed by what I had recently experienced and all that awaits me. And I... I ejaculated, Master.”

  He didn’t make any comment, so I looked up. His eyes were fixed on me with a reptilian stare. I swallowed hard. My mouthful went down the wrong way, making me cough. I took a sip of juice to help the food go down.

  “We’ll talk about this error tonight. Every night after dinner, we’ll review the past twenty-four hours. We’ll work out what needs to change to help you avoid making the same mistakes and what we’ll use to enhance your skills. If there are errors for which you haven’t yet received a punishment, this will be the time and place to receive it.” He then explained to me that usually the first instance of an error would cost me a warning alone. If I repeated the same error, besides getting my punishment, I should suggest a way to avoid further recurrence. The next time would just result in a punishment, unless there was proof of my complete inability to avoid the same error. Then, together, we would look for a way to overcome or circumvent the obstacle. It all seemed sensible at the time, but I didn’t know then all the things I would have to learn in the following weeks and what an incredible amount of information I’d have to remember.

  My master followed me throughout the day, whip hanging from his belt, ready to use. He pointed out the necessary tasks to perform, explaining in great detail how I must fulfill them, checking all the time to make sure I understood his explanations.

  I understood well, but there was always a part of the job I couldn’t do as he expected or that I just forgot. He then asked me what was wrong, why I couldn’t do it properly. Once I had told him, he found a new way to explain the procedure, taking into account the cause of my failure. Then he ordered me to do it again. If I was still wrong, he punished me without too much force at first, but every recurrence resulted in a more severe penalty.

  Of course, sometimes I accomplished my task efficiently. He immediately congratulated m
e with the same zeal he had criticized me before. But my successes were far rarer than my failures.

  At seven o’clock each evening, after I finished clearing the leftovers from the table and stacking the dishwasher, he asked me to sit down in front of him. We talked about my day. It was hard to describe what I’d experienced without moaning about my disappointments and not finding a million excuses for all my mistakes. Yet he didn’t appreciate these moans or my excuses.

  He gave me several ideas for ways to avoid my most monumental blunders. He also drew my attention to my most obvious achievements.

  He then gave me a diary in which my timetable until Saturday was already entered. All my days started at five o’clock in the morning and ended at ten o’clock in the evening. An hour before my bedtime was scheduled to be spent reading. I noticed a visitor was now expected Friday evening and would stay all day Saturday. My master assured me that he would usually inform me in advance of any change to the routine. This agenda was a means of noting visits, outings and so on, but he asked me to see if I could memorize my schedule for the current week. He would allow me to refer to my notes if needed, but he wanted me to take every opportunity to exercise my memory, because in the future, I would be doing as much as possible without my reminders.

  Before going to bed, I tried for nearly twenty minutes to store my daily program in my head, without success. I decided to try again in the morning when my mind was clearer. I changed the sheets I had stained with my sperm the previous evening and lay down. Almost immediately, I started crying. Both my body and spirit had been bruised as a result of my numerous failures and my dubious successes. However, I didn’t inwardly criticize my master because he had acted as he should. The situation could have been much worse if he had never uttered a single word of encouragement and left me to find solutions to my problems all by myself. He could have also punished me much harder than he had done. I was grateful for his help. If I was crying, it was more at the extent of my inefficiency and because of sheer exhaustion. I was sure I’d never get this right; I’d never be able to remember everything and complete all my duties suitably.

  I fell asleep with my face covered in tears, too exhausted to even continue crying. In the middle of the night, like before, I woke up feeling his presence. He put his hand on my pecs and started caressing my nipples until they were erect. Then he began to pinch, stretch and scrape them with the tip of his nail, more and more cruelly. It didn’t take me long before I was gasping. I felt the blood tingle in my dick. He rested two fingers on the middle of the shaft and stroked between glans and balls, without touching one or the other. I tensed my legs to lift my buttock, offering my cock.

  “You still don’t deserve it, Max. And I have to make sure you won’t repeat last night’s mistake.”

  He left the room. Once again denying me my relief. Despite this, I went back to sleep almost immediately. I dreamed that he brutally raped me. I woke up right on the verge of cumming only to discover that he had returned and his middle finger was massaging the edge of my anus, stroking around the hole, without actually penetrating it. I pushed away the covering sheet that was brushing against my cock for fear of repeating the error I had made last night. I spread my legs out wider, to let him in. I wanted to beg him to stop, and at the same time, plead with him to continue. I couldn’t make my mind up as to which I wanted the most. After a few minutes, he walked away, leaving me alone with my uncertainty and my cock on fire.

  Chapter 14

  The week continued at the same pace as it began. There were times when I was almost ready to give up and others when I thought I knew everything there was to know. I was wrong in both cases.

  At sunrise, I began my preparations for the day. Then at six o’clock, I had to wake my master. The first time I went into his room to accomplish this task, I knelt beside his bed. He was lying on his side with his back to me. I touched the back of his neck.

  Unaccustomed to his new alarm clock, he turned suddenly and flung out his arm. His elbow connected with my eye. In less than two seconds, he was sitting up, his mouth burbling out apologies for his clumsiness and his hand searching out my face.

  “It’s nothing, Sir. I shouldn’t have been kneeling so close to you.”

  “How can you wake me up without approaching me? I don’t want you shaking bells.”

  “I could use one of your feathers.”

  He gave me a searching but still sleepy look. “Are you trying to take revenge?” he asked, smiling.

  “Never, Sir.” I placed my left hand on my heart and raised my right in parody of taking an oath.

  He let out a short grunt, as if questioning my sincerity. “No. I prefer your hand on me,” he added with an ambiguous smile. “Fear not. I’ll soon get used to your morning presence. But for now, I think you’ll have a big bruise.”

  I thought, One more injury or one less. So far, no bruising had marked my face. Except for the test he had inflicted on me with the metallic boots, when my master punished me, every part of my body had suffered apart from my extremities. Perhaps he had, consciously or not, sought to maintain my normal appearance, to a certain extent. Dressed in shirt and trousers, no one could tell what he had inflicted on me.

  The following morning, I knelt a little farther away from the bed, touching his shoulder with my fingertips, arms extended. But he awoke smoothly thereafter.

  All week, he walked around with his whip hanging from his belt, using it regularly, but less than during the first two days. As he followed me, he would set new tasks and then check if I had performed them the way he wanted, congratulating me if this was the case. Otherwise, he would explain again if they were new or punish me and ask me what I could do to correct my mistakes.

  Whenever he demanded my help, I gave it to him, even with the most intimate activities. During bath or shower time, I helped him to wash and then wiped him down. I even had to go with him to the toilet on several occasions. The first time, I stayed standing beside him, not understanding what he wanted from me, and waiting for instructions. He sat down and asked me to wipe his ass afterward. Another day, he began to pee. Then, without stopping, he turned in my direction and began to spray me with urine. When I felt the hot stream hit my arm, I recoiled instinctively.

  “No. Approach and kneel.” He continued to piss on me while I knelt. He finished by spraying my face. The corner of his mouth tilted up in one of his mischievous smiles. “So what do you think of your new shower?”

  “It almost felt like you are baptizing me.”

  He laughed. “Good analogy. Because you have just been born into a new life, it is appropriate for you to be baptized. Clean it all up now,” he ordered, pointing to the urine covered tiles.

  I got up to get the mop.

  “No. Use your tongue.”

  I checked to see if he was joking. But his expression was as cold as the wet tile. I bent and started to lick. And retched.

  “If you vomit, you will need to clean up your mess in the same way. Everything that comes from your master must be precious to you. This is the nectar of which you must learn to quench your thirst.”

  He was right. Why should I rejoice at the idea of getting his cum and feel disgusted by his urine? Both of them sprang from the most intimate parts of my god. But even knowing that the floor was spic-and-span because I cleaned it regularly, I’d rather collect this nectar from its source.

  After giving me orders like these, he studied my reactions to assess my pleasure to serve, even in those circumstances.

  That day, using the tip of his foot, he forced me to raise my head. When he saw that my face, although wet with urine, was lit up by a huge smile, he smiled too, and then he let me finish my cleaning.

  He made a few out of town phone calls during that first week, seeking information on houses for sale around Montreal or Toronto. He also asked friends and acquaintances for help checking up on houses and the condition of the property, or to obtain an assessment of the real value of a building. He also called all
kinds of people for reasons that he didn’t see fit to explain to me. These people called him back a few hours later or the next day. Sometimes he went out by himself, without telling me where he was going or who he would be meeting. He just informed me of the probable time of his return. And when he arrived, he checked the work I had done in the meantime.

  On Tuesday night, he arrived home for dinner accompanied by a young woman in her twenties. She had long, brown curly hair, light gray eyes and sensual lips. Of medium height, she had small breasts and a tiny waist but quite wide hips. The fact that her mini-skirt showed me the outlines of her buttocks looked promising. Her legs were muscular like a walker’s or a swimmer’s and had a nice curve. She was really cute and seemed shy. Her name was Gabrielle Angers.

  I didn’t know why she was visiting. My master hadn’t notified me that there would be someone coming for dinner, so I had only cooked for two people. I gave her my meal, being content to eat a BLT sandwich.

  She kept looking at my coming and going. Obviously, she didn’t know what to think of my shaved head, my too perfect nudity, the ring on my finger, so alike the other ring adorning my pendant. She seemed even more puzzled by the welts all over my body. While eating and talking, my master kept his eyes on her, watching his guest while she examined me.

  As usual, I sat on the floor near the table and placed my plate between my legs. At appropriate moments, I asked them if they wanted this, or would like a little of that, ensuring they had all they needed.

  “He doesn’t sit at the table with us?” she asked my master, as if I was dumb or too stupid to understand the question.

  “No. Slaves don’t sit at my table.”

  “Slaves? So you were serious when you told me you had slaves?”

  “Absolutely. Max is a slave in training. When I judge him ready, I’ll sell him.”

  “Sell? Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. I get thousands of dollars for the slaves I sell. It’s even likely that Max’s sale will bring more than a hundred and fifty thousand.”