by Danny Tyran
Jean understood the situation between me and my master quickly, almost too quickly. He rarely asked me to help him. But every time he asked me to do something, I couldn’t obey him. It was as if he knew, as if he had guessed exactly where my limits were, and he was sticking to the end zone. I was scared of him. But at the same time, I was more eager to please him than I’d probably ever be for Jerry.
On the first night, he asked me to help him lift a piece of furniture and place it in a different position to give him a clearer view out the window. When my end of the cabinet slipped from my grasp, he asked my master if he could punish me.
My master sized him up, then said Jean could do it whenever he wanted to, but only in his presence, and he had to stop if my master told him to.
I believe my master was insightful enough to have understood what sort of man he was dealing with.
Now he had permission, Jean told me to get ready to receive my punishment.
I adopted the posture, presenting him with my bare ass, just as I would have done for my master.
Jean removed his belt and began to strap me. His way of doing it was confusing: the force behind his strokes was uneven and the blows swooped down at irregular intervals in unpredictable places. I was panting before the tenth stroke.
I turned to face my master, and I was surprised to see him smiling. That scared me. This tacit complicity between my master and a total stranger, even grimmer than him, troubled me. But I couldn’t help but feel the warmth that swept through my belly into my dick, heating it up as much as my ass, each time Jean hit me. What would I become in the midst of these three men, each as authoritarian as the next, and yet so different?
Chapter 19
My master decided that Jerry would work from eight in the morning until eight in the evening and Jean would be on duty during the rest of the time.
In the morning, when Jean was gone, I told my master how much the latter man worried me.
“You are right to fear him. I think he is capable of enormous deceit and many excesses.”
“Then why have you employed him?”
“If Gabrielle’s death is due to the people I think responsible, we may need someone who is not afraid to go beyond certain limits. You see, Max, the scum we are dealing with are not afraid of anything. They believe themselves invulnerable, because they have a great deal of power on their side.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about Satan and the forces of evil.”
“Yes, almost. On the other hand, it’s not normal for a slave to lead a cushy life and have it easy. You fear him? Good. During the coming days, I intend to shake up your comfy little world in every conceivable way, both mentally and physically. If Jean helps me without even being aware he is, that suits me fine. And I expect you to serve him as well as you do me. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir. But what if he goes too far?”
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you both, Max.”
I thought of Gaby’s death, and his inability to prevent that.
He stared at me for a long time. “I understand that you may have some doubts now. But I assure you that one violent death in my life is enough. Even too many. I’m going to ensure that such a tragedy never happens again.”
We continued installing and adding the final touches to the house. The rooms had already been painted with colors chosen by my master, but some details remained to be fine tuned: decoration, blinds and curtains fitting, and so on. I also had to clean the pool and grounds around the house, mow the lawn, and trim the hedges. Employees of the telephone company came to connect us to the rest of the world.
On a few occasions, I had to go out shopping for everything we needed. Often, Jerry took the opportunity to ask me to buy tobacco or snacks. He was as bad as a squirrel, nibbling nuts all day and leaving the shells and residue all over the floor. I suspected he was doing it deliberately. Getting a kick out of seeing me run after him with a broom and dustpan to pick up his crumbs, he would gaze at me over his shoulder with a mocking smile.
Whenever he sat in the kitchen to clean one of his weapons, I slipped under the table to give him some pleasure. He tried to concentrate as much as he could, but eventually the intensity of his excitement forced him to stop. Then he would lean back in his chair, throw his head back and wait for the rush of his orgasm, which I often tried to delay as long as possible. But when he had enough of my delaying game, he put his hand on the nape of my neck and sank his cock deep in my throat. He sometimes kept it there so long that I thought I was going to choke. When I had to grab hold of his seat to keep me from trying to get free, his excitement grew even more intense.
Sometimes, I made him pay for his teasing by nibbling the head of his dick. I even bit it one day. He beat me with such frenzy, that I thought he would never stop. When I was moaning in pain, and he was beginning to pant, he pulled himself together and stopped. Then I knelt at his feet and when I regained my composure, I wiped my wet face--coated as much with sweat as tears--and raised my eyes to his. Giving him my most sensual smile, I thanked him for the lesson he had taught me. He looked confused. This man, whom nothing ever disturbed, could not meet my gaze for the rest of that day.
I was pleased with myself. If my masters were testing my limits, why shouldn’t I test theirs? Wasn’t it my duty to find out how far I could go with them and discover ways to give them more pleasure?
From then on, I often visited the border between nibbling and biting. Each time, his whole body tensed as much with fear as with pleasure. His sexual release was always stronger at these times, but he was ashamed of his masochistic tendencies. He dared not speak a word to me or even look at me for hours afterward.
Sometimes, he let me clean his weapon. I had watched him many times, and it was simple enough. There was always another loaded handgun available in case he needed it. While I worked, he would sometimes slide the nuzzle against my face, neck and back. I shivered with a mixture of abhorrence and pleasure.
At other times, he stood behind me and watched me work, questioning me about my reasons for wanting to live this way. While speaking, he massaged my shoulders, and at times harried them by pressing his fingers deep into my flesh, right under the collarbone.
I tried to speed up my work to put an end to this little ordeal, but Jerry knew how to do it so he almost paralyzed my arms and hands. When my master came into the kitchen and saw me squirming in pain, he ordered me to stop fidgeting, keep my back straight and finish my task immediately.
Some nights, I woke up and felt a presence in my room. Turning my head to see if it was my master, I saw a slim figure in the dark. I knew it was Jean, the guard. Sometimes, he remained near the door for several minutes, doing nothing but staring at me; then he would walk away. Other times, he woke me up by hitting me hard for no reason. The first time his blows woke me, my reaction was to protect myself and try to escape.
“Go back to your bed. Lie flat on your belly, like you were when you woke up. Immediately!” he barked.
He didn’t stop hitting me until I was sobbing and hiccupping. Then he went back to his nightly round. From then on, I slept with one eye open. Whenever someone entered my room, I woke with a start, fearing his visit and his blows.
Once, he beat me so hard that I was inconsolable. On hearing someone enter my room, I thought it was Jean returning and tensed, ready to receive new blows. When my master sat on my bed, I recognized him and snuggled against him, still crying, resting my head on his thigh. He caressed my neck affectionately, without saying a word.
I tried to open his pants with my teeth, checking first to see if he was agreeable. He smiled, so I undid the button, opened the zipper and pulled on one of the sides of his pants. Releasing his cock, I began to suck it with all the ardor of an unhappy and hungry child suckling the breast of his mother. And I got the same appeasement.
“You need too much encouragement, reassurance and affection, Max,” he said after coming.
He was right. Earlier that day, after finishing
his dinner, he had pointed out that the main dish was a little too greasy. He brought me his empty plate to show me the streaks of fat adhering to it. Having gone to a lot of trouble to prepare an excellent meal, I was hurt by this rebuke. He had come back for seconds after all, so I really thought he loved it and expected some praise if anything.
His criticism had reached right into my heart. When he saw my vexed face, he ordered me to present my buttocks, gave me a few firm strokes with his hand and told me I had to learn how to accept criticism because his comments were only to further my improvement. “I liked this dish, Max. You know that. I took two helpings, which is unusual for me. Is that not enough praise for you? I hope you will prepare this dish again soon, to give me another chance to eat it, but next time, choose a slightly leaner meat or cook in less butter or oil.”
He reminded me that perhaps my next masters would not be very generous with their compliments. I needed to learn to recognize their satisfaction by their reactions rather than by flattering words.
Tonight, he reminded me of the same lesson. “During your test of subjection, I will be present for everything they inflict on you, and witness all that will be required of you. But I will do so without intervention, without a single word of encouragement. And perhaps you will be bought by a master who has many slaves. You will be the newest of them, lost in the anonymity of their number. If you cannot find within yourself the strength and motivation to continue, you won’t be able to carry on. Therefore, I must prepare you for everything. I shall not come to comfort you anymore, Max. It’s likely that I will even add to your misery and further your suffering. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. I know you want to help me, strengthen me. I understand, Sir. Thank you for your explanation.”
My master promised that he would make me experience a broad sample of what awaited me on my official enslavement day. He kept his word. During the days that followed, he demanded everything of me and inflicted all sorts of chastisement. Anyway, that’s what it seemed to me.
I was given no time to relax. At five o’clock in the morning, I was up and he would not let me go to bed before eleven o’clock, half dead from exhaustion. I was allowed to bathe or shower but only with cold water. Jean would sometimes wash me with a large, rough brush, which he used vigorously all over my body, not missing a single spot. Then I had to work hard to perform tasks absurd enough to destroy motivation. My master and guards invented strange games with changing rules that I had to adapt to immediately. They forced me to work for them at breakneck speed, often giving contradictory orders at the same time. Or they ordered me to do the impossible, like walking on the ceiling, and waited to see what I would do to try to obey them. Throughout the day, they pursued me, whip in hand, and beat me to keep searching for a solution, and abide by their rules, following all their instructions and trying to do everything better and faster.
Woe was me if I didn’t satisfy them. If I disobeyed one of them, the other would punish me mercilessly. I was forced to receive enema after enema and had to retain them longer than it seemed humanly possible. They did things like suspending me upside down from a tree branch and covering me with honey to attract flies, bees and wasps. They left me naked in the middle of a field of thorns to be potentially discovered at any time by passers-by or worse still, policemen. Once, they tied and blindfolded me at night in the middle of a forest, and on a few occasions, made me stand on one foot for hours, and more. I didn’t think they ever left me completely alone, but as I often couldn’t see them, I couldn’t be sure.
Even at mealtimes I wasn’t allowed to relax. First, they denied me any food for several days while they ordered me to prepare their meals and ate while laughing at my greedy eyes. When they allowed me to eat again, they had fun combining their leftovers: beef mixed with custard and drowned in salt, eggs flooded in mustard, pepper and jam, or other more exotic concoctions. They served this “food” in a bowl on the floor, and I had to eat on all fours, without using my hands. The first time they showed me a green and lumpy hodgepodge they called “your meal”, after taking a bite, I threw up in the bowl. My master stirred the food and vomit together and fed me with a spoon, forcing me to swallow everything.
Sometimes, he allowed only dried foods that he hydrated too much or not enough and then they poured the mixture through a funnel they thrust into the back of my throat. Jerry came up with the idea of feeding me baby cereal. He put it in a feeding-bottle with a modified teat and forced me to suck it while on my knees with my hands clasped behind my back. He kept the teat just out of reach of my mouth, forcing me to stretch my neck up to try to catch it, or he suddenly plunged it into my throat, gagging me.
My master set a precise schedule to relieve my bladder and bowels: ten, two, six and ten. I couldn’t go to the toilet at any other time, even though I still had to get up at five a.m.
Even in these circumstances, Jerry found ways to have fun. He accompanied me to the toilet and stood behind me, holding my cock as if it were his own, expecting me to pee without a problem. When I finally managed to release my urine, he would order me to “stop” and “go”. Chastising me if I allowed a single drop to escape once he told me to stop. Even defecating was done according to his commands. If I made him wait a moment when he commanded me to continue, he would say, “Maybe when you’re desperate enough to piss or shit, you will obey me faster.”
Jean accompanied me there too, but his technique was more vicious. Every time I tried to empty my bladder or bowels, he pushed me, hit me, pinched me and took my balls in his hands, squeezing and releasing them rhythmically. If I stopped in the middle of my urination or defecation, he taunted me, saying, “Okay, seeing you’re finished, you can go back to work.” Once he scolded me, “You’re wasting my time and yours as well. Time you’re spending here is time you’re not devoting to your masters. You don’t have the right to deprive them of yourself, steal from them even a few minutes. Come on, hurry up. Faster than that!” When the time came to go to the toilet, he stood behind me, massaging my full and painful bladder, saying, “You can wait a few more hours, can’t you?” And I had no choice but to reply, “Yes, sir,” as he had forbidden me to contradict him.
I had to wear more mortifying and painful paraphernalia: rings with weights to keep my scrotum as stretched as possible, clips to squeeze my testicles or my nipples as tight as possible, a leather strap to firmly constrict my penis and prevent ejaculation, tight clothes made of horsehair that constantly rubbed my flesh and my many wounds. Even worse were clothes made of rubber in which I sweated so profusely that I was afraid of becoming dehydrated. I also had to wear shoes filled with sharp pebbles that pricked my feet, a band wrapped too tightly around my head or a mask allowing me only small whiffs of air. Every now and then, an oversized dildo was inserted, expanding my anus and intestinal walls, a metal cilice with inwardly pointing spikes was wrapped around my waist, or they made me wear a leather collar with the sharp studs pressing into my flesh. The list went on and on.
Whenever I dropped to the ground after several hours of strenuous exercises and various sufferings, gasping, unable to move, they delighted in penetrating me, one after the other, or one told me to suck his cock while the other shoved his dick or his fist into me. None of this was done for my own pleasure.
The first time Jean decided to fist me, even though my master had forced him to heavily lubricate his hand and my anus, I was in so much pain I thought I would die. The only reason my master gave Jean for using all this lubrication was: “We don’t want to risk damaging the goods too much.”
Jean had obeyed, growling his displeasure, but he took his revenge for his frustration during his night shift. He seemed to find a special and unhealthy pleasure in surprising me in the middle of my sleep. I regularly woke up in the middle of some devious hell he had recreated on purpose for me.
One night, I was brutally awoken as he dragged me out of bed by pulling my hair. When he discovered my hair wasn’t long enough for the purpose, and h
e couldn’t grip me properly, he looped a leather collar around my throat attached to a leash which he used to drag me to the basement. On the descent, my knees banged hard against the steps of the staircase. I grabbed frantically at the strap as often as I could to avoid being strangled but had to let go every now and then to steady myself on the steps to avoid tumbling down them. Once we got close to the cabinet, he dropped the lead on the floor and opened the doors and drawers. “Choose three instruments of different types which frighten you the most.”
With tears streaming down my face, I stood in front of the cabinet and examined the collection of objects straight out of a horror movie. I lifted a trembling hand to indicate a whip with strips interspersed with what looked like nails. The knout resembled nothing more than a bundle of leather barbed wires. Even though the nails weren’t as sharp as they seemed, I knew that they risked to draw blood. Then I reached out to a huge and bumpy dildo that seemed covered with spiny pustules. But a part of me refused to take any further part in my own torment, and I shook my head in desperate denial.
“You can say ‘no’ all you want,” Jean muttered darkly. “No matter what, I’m going to come down on your ass. I checked up on James. He is sleeping like a log. You have no hope of being rescued by him.”
My master had told me that he would be watchful and careful. He promised! I glanced upward, pleading silently to my absent god.
“He abandoned you, huh? There’s just you and me here. Either you run away, or you do what I say. If you stay, I promise you will go through hell. So do we continue? If so, you still need to choose one more instrument.”
My hands were shaking so badly that when I reached out to the contraption of electrodes and control box, I dropped several of those terrible toys.
