by Danny Tyran
Chapter 17
The day we mutinied, our master ended up locking Gabrielle in his dungeon, a long chain linking her to one of the walls. He provided her with a plentiful supply of dehydrated food packs, the sort used in the army. The cell had a sink with cold water and a toilet bowl. We had no reason to go in there: she had everything necessary for her survival except our attention and affection. Our master forbade me to approach that part of the basement on my own, and said I must not attempt to communicate with her in any way or even glance in her direction if she tried to attract my attention while I did the laundry.
During the days that followed, I understood that when our master beat me for her mistakes, Gaby must have felt an intense desire to help me and a terrible sense of powerlessness. However, I still obeyed our master. But sometimes, when I heard Gaby weep bitterly in her cell, I wanted to go and hug her, comfort her as I had done before. My little sister’s love had become so precious to me; I was afraid of losing her affection. Master had created this fondness, had encouraged it, and now he was forcing me to ignore it.
I also had my share of trials during this period. On some occasions, my master took me into the basement to test me. He wanted me to completely lose my phobia of caterpillars and centipedes. Those visits were not the same now that Gaby was there too. It was impossible to feel sorry for myself while she was suffering from isolation in the next room.
I think our master understood that Gaby’s trials had that effect on me. That’s why he made the most of the situation. As for Gaby, perhaps she too learned to divert her mind from her own suffering. In any case, I never heard her crying while our master tested me there. For my part, I was worried whether she was coping okay. Was she unconscious? If anything bad happened to her, would we know soon enough to be able to help her?
One day, when we went to the basement, my master began to mark my flesh in his own way. It was not a tattoo, even if it started out the same way: reproducing on my skin a pattern depicted on a tracing paper already prepared for this occasion. Then, he cut into my flesh with a ripper and spread colored powder into the slit. Having done that, he selected one of those horrid creatures--caterpillars or centipedes. Trapping the animal alive in the wound before closing around it with a suture. He continued, cutting my skin, sprinkling in dyes and hideous beasts, wrapping my flesh around them, until he finished his work. It hurt, but I gritted my teeth to prevent my moans.
I wondered what these tiny prisoners would feed on before dying in their flesh coffin. I felt them move under my skin and imagined the bugs digging tunnels toward my guts, even into my heart. I wondered if they would lay eggs under my skin, millions of eggs that would soon hatch to give birth to lots of squirming and voracious centipedes. And if they died, would their decomposing bodies lead to infection? I fed my irrational fears with rational theories.
Despite my pain and fear, my thoughts kept going around in a circle: I thought of Gaby and her sufferings, locked up alone as she was and knowing that I was in pain a few steps away from her. It was only by struggling to avoid worsening her situation that I was able to endure everything in silence. I threw her mental messages of love.
My master saw me continually turning my attention to the dungeon door and gave me one of his special smiles of compassion. “I know what you’re thinking, Max, and that’s good, that’s really good.”
When we returned to the first floor, despite all my tiredness caused by my nervous tension and suffering, my master fucked me almost savagely. First, he crawled on the bed and, indicating his buttock, he ordered, “Wash this little hole. Prepare and lubricate it well. You’ll be entering it soon.”
It wasn’t the first time he had asked me to lick his anus, but I had never penetrated him before. I was confused, anxious, and excited at the same time by that idea. Pulling apart his beautiful round black moons, I buried my nose in their crease and slipped it down. Near his damp hole, I inhaled his enthralling odor. Then, with a ravenous desire, so intense that it almost frightened me, I sniffed, licked, sucked, and pushed my tongue into his depths, seeking and drinking his juices. I was caught in a frenzy of possession, I wanted as much of him in me as possible; I wanted him to lose his mind out of pleasure. I wanted him under my control.
My flame probably fueled his. When he thought he was sufficiently lubricated, he ordered me to lie down and impaled himself on my stiff and throbbing cock. His move was so impetuous that he almost dropped onto me, sinking my dick to the balls.
“Pull your legs together, Max.” Whenever he glided down on my cock, his buttocks hurt my balls, which were resting on my closed thighs. I tensed and winced in pain. But I had learned to think of him first, about his pleasure rather than my pain. I reached for one of his tits and wrapped my other hand around his dick. He touched my chest’s newly sewn flesh where I still felt millipedes wriggling in the wounds. Our hands went back and forth in time with his buttocks’ up and down rhythm. His ejaculation was like a great geyser of cum, rising up high before falling on my face, my chest and my stomach, finally on my hand. He then removed my cock from his chute’s hot and sweet moistness. Taking no interest in my pleasure, he lay down beside me and began spreading his cum on my chest, rubbing this strange panacea into my ritualistic wounds, which burned even more. He whispered tenderly: “Will you ejaculate for me now?”
I focused on my cock. The idea of coming “for him” excited me enormously, but not enough. I couldn’t ejaculate immediately.
“You must come, Max. You do not have the right to make me wait for your pleasure or make me have to work to make you ejaculate. Go on. Come now!” He watched me struggle with my lust, dredging out my wildest erotic thoughts, picturing on the screen of my mind my most evocative fantasies, to give me the final push over the cliff edge. While inflicting a stinging slap on one of my inner thighs, my master demanded fiercely: “Are you going to come or not? What are you waiting for?”
Each word, each of his exhortations to come, sent electric shocks through my dick, which was beating the air wildly as if in search of his hand, or a physical contact that it didn’t get.
“Maaax!” The way he pronounced my name through clenched teeth, stretching the vowel, promised nothing good. While reciting “Come! Do you hear me? Immediately! Are you going to obey me?” He beat his mantra out on the tender and increasingly hot flesh of my inner thigh. Blood flowed not only to this place, but also elsewhere; my cock was incredibly hard and seminal fluid dripped in profusion. I raised my buttocks off the mattress, arching my groin up as high as possible in a last ditch effort to ejaculate. My master reached out just above my rod, as if to do magical passes. My orgasm was so sudden that I was dazed with pleasure as I wet his hand.
During the days that followed, we packed all our belongings in order to move to a recently renovated but century-old house, situated near the river and a wooded area in Pointe-aux-Trembles on Montreal Island.
I went to the post office to redirect our mail. On two consecutive days, I received letters responding to my requests for admission at Cégep Marie-Victorin in Montreal and at the University of Toronto. I was accepted at both locations. I confirmed that I would study at Cégep.
Before we left, I phoned my parents for the first time since living with James. I was surprised that neither of them had phoned or visited me, at least on my mother’s part. Maybe they were away on vacation somewhere in a remote corner of Quebec Province or in the United States, as they did every summer. But they were at home.
We didn’t have much to talk about, apart from our mutual health issues. I told them that we were about to move. My father told me that they had to go to Montreal in two or three weeks and that he would visit me. I asked him to call before coming. He replied: “I feel like I’m trying to make an appointment with the Prime Minister.” He also told me he had insisted that mom promise not to harass me, and made her wait for my calls. That’s why they hadn’t called sooner. When I spoke to my mother, for once, she didn’t torment me with her desire to see
me return to live with them. Maybe she’d finally come to terms with the fact I had left home for good.
After insertion into my flesh, the millipedes didn’t move for more than a few minutes. Some of the sensations that followed were probably imaginary, because the slightest tickle on my stomach or elsewhere brought to mind all sorts of horrors and the fears that accompanied them. I tried to chase those awful thoughts away by keeping myself occupied in my work and in my efforts to please my master.
After a few days, I noticed that my wounds had healed very well. I felt relieved and began to forget my fears about the breeding and migration of the centipedes inside me. Raised scars had formed, but my master said this was intentional; it was to give relief to the drawing he’d made. He promised me that soon, he would remove the stitches. Now, I began to distinguish more clearly the pattern shown. It was an angel ready to take off. Its open wings, face, arms and sex were stretched skyward. It seemed to me that this drawing, although beautiful, would be better suited to Gabrielle than to me.
Gaby was still alone in her cell. Her silence worried me more and more. I asked our master if I could go and check if she was okay.
“She’s neither dead nor ill. Fear nothing. She has been meditating about her life—past and future--and what she is going to do with it from now on. It’s a good response to her situation.”
“How do you know? I’ve never seen you go in to check on her.”
“Do you still doubt me, Max?”
“I fear for her physical and mental health, that’s all.”
“Go and prepare the meal before I get angry.”
That night, I had to do a final load of laundry before we unplugged all the appliances, I cautiously approached the dungeon’s door. Gaby was lying curled up on the couch with her back facing me. If she breathed, her breathing was so low and so slow that I didn’t perceive it. I was tempting to whisper her name, but I didn’t dare. She hadn’t even heard me approach. It seemed to me that in her place, I would have been so eager to be released that I’d be alert for any noise. Her immobility didn’t seem normal to me. I was even more worried for her than before.
When I returned upstairs, my master noticed my apprehensive expression. “You approached her cell, didn’t you?”
“She is not moving. She’s barely breathing. She looks dead. Master, I’m really afraid that she’s not faring well.”
“Max, you must learn to have more faith in your masters. I’m going to punish you for disobeying me.”
I didn’t care. I had already received the worst punishment I could get. I started to cry. My master knew I was not crying because of the promised punishment. He ordered me to approach and kneel before him.
“You have a good heart and care for others, Max. This is one of your best qualities, and I don’t want to restrict it or push you to give it up. I know that what’s happening to Gaby hurts you almost more than it hurts her. But you must believe me when I say she’s doing well. She’s experiencing a phase of introspection. In her situation, it’s normal and healthy. She’ll be fine. Otherwise, I’d remove her from the dungeon before things went awry. I want her to be fine more than you do, Max.”
While he was speaking, I studied my master’s drawn face, his sad eyes and his tense body. I understood that he was affected by this as much as I was, except he hadn’t talked about it to avoid increasing my discomfort. “I don’t have the right to interrupt Gaby’s contemplation too early,” he added. “I must wait, no matter how anxious I feel.”
“Thank you, Master. I’m ready to receive my punishment. I know I deserve it.”
He accompanied me to the toilet where he ordered me to pee and then he gave me an enema. He decided one would suffice. Afterward, we returned to the living-room. The trunk-coffin was there, as well as the majority of items from the basement that had been brought upstairs and packed ready for our move. We intended to fill the trunk with the few remaining smaller items. But for now, it was empty. “Wait here while I get something from the dungeon,” he said.
When he returned, he ordered: “Clasp your hands behind your back.” I obeyed and he tied my wrists together. Then he did the same with my ankles. After which he blindfolded me. “Open your mouth.” He inserted a leather gag and tied the straps around my neck. Then he picked me up and placed me inside the trunk.
It wasn’t long enough, so I was forced to curl up to fit, my position reminding me of Gaby on her bunk. Finally, my master closed the lid.
For some reason, I don’t know why, the chest’s leather and wood smell comforted me. I felt good, like being in a cocoon or in a womb. I started to think about my childhood, everything that had occurred in my life so far, and what I’d become. I then realized the effect of isolation and silence on my mind was like imprisonment had affected Gabrielle. No doubt our master had already experienced such isolation. That’s why he knew what response it generated. I regretted having expressed my lack of confidence in him. It must have increased his stress. I, who wanted Gaby’s and my master’s happiness, had contributed nothing to the first and maybe hurt the second with my anxiety.
My master let me spend the night in my container, where, despite its narrowness, I slept like a baby. The next morning, I felt my coffin being moved. I tried to wriggle around so I could open the lid, without success. The limited space allowed me only minimal movements. Besides, the lid seemed locked. What was happening? Were the movers carrying me like any other personal belongings? Did they know that I was inside? My gag prevented me from screaming. Was I about to be transported to the new house in a box? But what if they were thieves? Or maybe my master was moving the trunk to transfer me who knew where or why.
I then thought of graves. I moved around as much as possible in the hope of attracting attention or to see if I could push off the lid, using my feet. Because of my blindfold, I couldn’t see what I was doing, and the trunk was probably designed to protect the contents from impact, and this prevented any effective movement.
The relocation continued. Then suddenly, I felt as if I was falling. Either my bearers had dropped the trunk, or they had thrown it into a hole! For a few minutes, I completely lost control over my mind. I was terrified. I wanted to be out of there. Now! I struggled with all my might to try to free myself from my bonds. I should have known that they’d be too strong and too tight, designed to withstand such force. Bondage was part of the basic training of any slave owner, right?
That’s when I heard the dull sound, a “thump thump” that no one can confuse with anything else. They were throwing earth on the trunk! My heart started beating so fast I thought I was having an attack. I felt my heart pulse rhythmically throughout my whole body. I was so stunned that my black headband became a night sky studded with shooting stars.
At that moment, my training over the last month took hold. Calm descended over me, sudden, rational, cold, like a wave of hard-core logic seizing my mind.
I avoided thinking about all images of horror. I had to regain my normal breathing and heartbeat, so I inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply to reduce the speeding pulse of my heart.
Then I tried to remove my blindfold, to see if there was a possibility of freeing myself. I rubbed my head against the walls of the chest with patience and persistence until it hurt, but the band obstinately refused to move. I needed a degree of roughness, something to provide friction, but the inner walls of the chest near my head were perfectly smooth.
Finally, I tried more methodically to untie my wrists and ankles. But the obvious ineffectiveness of my efforts only increased my sense of confinement and fatality. I felt I was about to suffocate. Maybe my desperate struggle to improve my lot had diminished my air supply.
What could I do but wait for my release? My helplessness threw me into despair. Had I traveled this painful road to end up buried alive? The thump thump stopped. How long would I be able to breathe? A few minutes, probably less, even by reducing and slowing down my breathing.
Gabrielle had already experienced several
situations where she found herself alone in a confined space, not able to breathe deeply. That’s why any form of isolation frightened her. I understood her better now. But her imprisonment in a dungeon seemed enviable compared to my current situation.
I didn’t know if by trying to breathe slowly and taking short puffs, I fell asleep, or if I lost consciousness, but I woke up in my master’s car, more lying than sitting on the seat next to him. He was driving. Gabrielle was not with us. “Where are we going? Where is Gabrielle?”
My master gave a little chuckle. “To our new home. In our old residence.”
It was quite like him to respond this short way: answer to the first question, period, answer to the second question, period.
“But, Master, is Gaby still imprisoned?”
“Yes and no. She never really has been, given that by banging or pushing hard on her cell door, it opens, locked or not.”
“But she didn’t know that!”
“If she really wants to leave, she’ll be able to. So far, she hasn’t tried to get out nor asked to be freed. But I guess when she understands that we are gone, she will try to find a way to escape.”
“But she’ll feel forsaken by us and think that we are indifferent to her.”
“Probably.”
“But...”
“Enough of these ‘buts,’ Max.”
“Master, you can’t do that to her! What if it doesn’t occur to her to push the door...”
“You think her more stupid than she is, Max. Moreover, she has enough dehydrated food to last for a few weeks. And I asked a friend to check from time to time and make sure she was okay.”
I couldn’t believe we had abandoned Gaby in her cell. Even with all the best arguments in the world, I could not accept it.
“Max, Gabrielle needs to discover that she doesn’t need anyone to overcome her difficulties, and that we must sometimes rely on ourselves to succeed. In the past, whenever she was stuck somewhere, kept prisoner, intentionally or not, there was always someone to release her. She believes that if a miracle doesn’t happen, if someone doesn’t help her to live, she will die. This time, she has to find her own way out of her predicament. Do you understand?”
