Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  My father put a little more effort into his task.

  Finally, Jean had enough. “Into the shower,” he ordered.

  We used the guests’ bathroom. As I had only been entitled to icy showers lately, I just turned on the cold water.

  “You first,” Jean ordered, pointing to my father. He turned to me, “Brush him. And put a little vigour into it, or I’ll take care of that myself and I’ll spare him nothing, believe me.”

  My father went under the icy shower spray. Surprised by the coldness of the jet, he recoiled.

  Jean barked, “Stay in the jet!”

  When my father resumed his position under the spray, I brushed him, as Jean instructed me to, without neglecting his cock. My father winced, but he would have winced much more if Jean had brushed him.

  When I finished, Jean ordered me to get under the spray and gave the brush to my father, ordering him to do the same.

  My father started working on my back without putting much force into his strokes and trying to avoid my wounds.

  Jean pushed him, saying, “Are you mocking me?”

  “Come on, Dad. Do as he said. I’m used to it. It’s nothing.”

  Dad started putting more firmness into his strokes. But when he reached my cock, he stopped. Cleaning his son’s dick as a child was acceptable in his eyes, but at my age, he didn’t dare. Jean hit him and ordered him to continue.

  “I’d prefer you to do it, Dad.”

  Jean laughed out loud and hit my father again. Dad went back to work, obviously uncomfortable with the task.

  Jean insisted, “Better than that.”

  My father threw the brush on the floor.

  Jean ordered, “Present!”

  Dad answered, “No!”

  “If that’s the way you want it, I’m going to hit Max and then I’ll brush him hard and make him repeat, ‘Thanks, Dad’. Come on,” he gestured toward me. “Come out of there and present your beautiful little white ass.”

  I obeyed. But my father tried to place his body between us. Jean pushed him brutally away. Dad fell over, and Jean began to hit me with the back of the brush, using all his strength. The surprise made me groan and straighten up a little. My father scrambled to his knees beside us, imploring Jean to pardon him for his disobedience and interference, and begging me to forgive him for making things worse for me.

  “I have nothing... to forgive you... Dad. You do... your best... I know.”

  After hitting me six times, Jean handed the brush to my father and ordered him to continue. Father stood up, but didn’t hit me.

  “Dad, I repeat, it’s better you than him. Go ahead, please, otherwise it’ll get worse. Do you remember that time I fell hard off my bike? I lied to you. I went racing in the woods and riding up and down the hill, despite your ban. Punish me, Daddy, like you would have done then if you’d known the truth.”

  My father began to beat me. He didn’t hit as hard as Jean. Far from it. But, no doubt, the memory of my disobedience, my lies and the countless abrasions and scratches due to all my escapades convinced him that I deserved some good strokes.

  After a dozen blows, Jean told me to get into the shower and ordered my father to brush me. This time, my father obeyed. He scrubbed me almost as hard as I did him.

  When Jean finally decided that it was enough, he ordered us to get out and wipe each other. I went first to show my father how indifferent I could be while wiping his ass and cock. When it was his turn, Dad wiped me everywhere, but still avoided my dick. I feared a renewal of Jean’s wrath, but then my father took his courage in hand and dried me completely. While he was wiping my cock, I stared at the wall behind him. I wanted to give him the impression that I was not in the least interested by the process, hoping to make things easier for him.

  When we finished, Jean ordered my father to kneel before me. My father obeyed without knowing why. Then Jean told him to give me a blowjob. My father looked at Jean incredulously. How could he expect a father to do that?

  I heard muffled footsteps in the hallway, then my master said, “What’s going on?” He was barefoot and wearing a bathrobe. His eyes still puffy from sleep. Seeing him sleepy like that, I’d have liked to walk him back to his bed and help him fall asleep again. Jean told him, without hesitation or any embarrassment, what he had just demanded of my father.

  “Didn’t I tell you that you had to consult me before demanding anything from Michel?”

  “It’s just a simple blowjob, it won’t hurt him.”

  “I think, Jean, that your contract just ended. I’ll send you your last paycheck in the mail. Goodbye!”

  “But, Sir, don’t get angry. I’ll leave in peace, if that’s what you want, but...”

  “I can give you a last chance, Jean. You have one alternative. You know what you have to do to convince me of your good faith. Are you ready to do it?”

  “Sir, do I really need to do this?”

  “You choose, Jean. Either that or you leave.”

  I’d have liked to know what it was, because Jean seemed distraught. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to see him so nervous. He started talking, haggling and finally stammering pleas. Our master simply shook his head. Jean began to say it was unfair, acting like a child deprived of his favorite toy. But my master fixed him with eyes as icy as the shower water and ordered him to choose and do it fast.

  “I... I cannot.”

  “Then go. Now!”

  Jean was sweating, trying to make up his mind, but seemed unable to decide.

  Despite my mixed emotions where Jean was concerned, I was glad to see him turn on his toes and leave. I did never find out what my master expected of him, but Jean hadn’t been able to muster the strength to accept his conditions. He quit.

  Our master accompanied my father and I to the gym and forced us to do a long series of exercises. He fetched the bamboo rod and beat out a rhythm, tapping the devices we had to use or pounding our skin if we became slack. Then he ordered us to go outside and race against each other. I had to wait thirty seconds after my father’s start.Whoever lost would receive a bare handed spanking on his ass while draped over our master’s knees. From my perspective, it was more a reward than a punishment, but I didn’t cheat. I won three times, despite my handicap of a few seconds delay.

  Our master sat on his deckchair, timing us. He patted his lap to tell my father to collect his punishment. My father settled his stomach on top of our master’s thighs, and spread his legs when ordered. Then our master began to spank him. Hard, very hard. But every three or four slaps, he stopped and caressed Dad’s back, waist, buttocks and thighs all the way up to his crotch. He administered a good thirty blows this way. I could hear my father’s gasps. But when he got up, I saw he had stained our master’s robe. And it wasn’t only with sweat.

  Our master then told us to go inside, ordering me to prepare breakfast for three and instructing my father to help him bathe. This would be a new test for Dad, but it should be easier than the shower, especially after what he had just endured. He must also have helped our master to get dressed, because when they arrived in the dining room, our master was wearing blue jeans, black work boots and white open-collar shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows. My father? He was erect. I remembered the first time I saw him like that, when I was a kid.

  Noticing my eyes focused on his hard dick, Dad blushed and looked away.

  Our master went to work in his office whilst we went back to our slave tasks. My father didn’t dare look up at me and remained silent.

  “Come on, Dad, don’t tell me you’re going to sulk until your departure. I know how you feel. You didn’t expect to react like that and you’re a little confused.”

  “A little, you say? I don’t know who I am or what I am anymore.”

  “You’re still the same man. But you found out you’re more complex than you thought and that things are not all black and white like in cowboy movies.”

  “You think I am stupid, don’t you!”

  “No.
I think your knowledge of the subject was only intellectual. Now it’s mixed with emotions and sensations. Your understanding is more complete, more real.”

  “I don’t know how I could imagine all these years that I was... that I wasn’t...”

  “Straight? Gay? You haven’t changed. I think we all have a little of everything in us, but most people refuse to admit it, because we have been brainwashed with strict concepts about the division of sexes, what is moral and what is immoral. You are no different from everyone else. You lived an ordinary life like most people, without wondering whether the grass was just as green and healthy elsewhere. You were content with what you had, so why look for something else? If it had not been for me, you would probably never have understood, because you wouldn’t have had the opportunity.”

  “I don’t know, Max. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to go back to my former life and act as if nothing occurred.”

  My father was so upset that he had tears in his eyes. I hugged him tenderly, as if our roles were reversed and he was the son in my arms.

  “Give yourself a few days to take it all in. You’re too hard on yourself. You want to assimilate everything at once and expect everything will, as if by magic, fall into place. It isn’t easy. But you’re smart. I know you’ll get there eventually.”

  “Thank you, Sonny, for trying to encourage me.”

  “Okay, we better go back to our chores.”

  I forced him to work hard all morning to prevent him torturing himself with everything he had experienced.

  In the end, we prepared lunch for four, as my mother called, saying she was in the neighborhood and would like to have lunch with us if we didn’t mind. Everybody agreed.

  Our master gave us permission to put some clothes on. While we did, I told Dad how much I loved him and I enjoyed these few hours with him. He took me in his arms, less embarrassed to do it now that we were no longer naked. He told me that I was an exceptional son. I think he could not have picked a better adjective.

  By the time my mother rang the doorbell, the table was beautifully set. Our master was in the living room, reading his newspaper. My father answered the door and showed mom into the living-room. She sat on the couch. I sat on the floor, and my father stood, unsure of his rightful place. He looked at our master, seeking his guidance.

  “You are the only one who can choose your true place, Michel,” our master responded.

  “I don’t know, Ma...” Thereupon he bowed his head and waited.

  Our master solved his dilemma for him, rising to his feet. “Let’s go eat!” he suggested.

  We all went into the dining room. My master drew out a chair for my mother, and I did the same for my father to spare him a new quandary. I threw him a teasing smile. He smiled back and sat down.

  While serving everyone, I heard my mother ask, “So how did it go?” My father’s face turned crimson and he stayed silent.

  Our master answered, “Your husband had an experience that I would call... fulfilling. I’d suggest he tell you everything, omitting nothing, when you return home. Do you agree, Michel?”

  “Yes, I’d better speak to her, Mas... Sir.”

  “I see that you call my husband by his first name, but he still calls you ‘sir’.”

  My master just smiled. Then he questioned my mother about what she had done yesterday and whether she had missed her husband. The meal went without a hitch, accompanied by everyone’s harmless chatter.

  I didn’t discover whether my father shared his little adventure “in every detail” with mom, as our master had suggested. I just know that their marriage went downhill from then on. My mother found it difficult to accept all the upheavals that had arisen in such a short time in her life.

  Chapter 22

  My master hired a new bodyguard for the night patrols before my departure. Samuel was blond, burly with a military buzz cut. He was twenty-three years old and blushed every time he saw me walk around, naked or even half-naked.

  My master had stated in his absence that he had chosen Sam because he was a “natural slave”, but the young man didn’t know that. Even though Samuel was embarrassed by what he witnessed at his new place of employment, my master didn’t believe he would create trouble for us. I’d never seen Samuel naked, but I knew that he was very well endowed. Several times a day he became very excited by what happened in our house and an impressive bulge appeared just above his crotch. This bulge sometimes reached his waist.

  When he sat at the table or in the living-room with my master, I kneeled before him, offering him my services, but he always stammered a refusal, his cheeks immediately blushing a dark red. Just my presence at his side seemed to terrorize him. He was a little more comfortable in my master’s presence, but only because Master went easy on him. As soon as he did something wrong and my master hardened his voice a little, Sam cringed. I even thought I saw him in tears once. He couldn’t be more different from Jean if he tried.

  During the final week before what I still consider the most important and terrible ordeal of my life, my master was quite merciful to me. The hardest part was enduring the frequent visits of the many guests who came to see my master after they learned of his presence on the Island. I had to serve everyone at once. Any complaint from a visitor resulted in a punishment given either by the unsatisfied visitor or by my master, and sometimes by both. But as this didn’t happen often, I coped pretty well. My master welcomed the arrival of these visitors more for my benefit than for himself. It was an opportunity to prepare for what awaited me and to devote myself body and soul to one or several people at once in every imaginable way.

  Some guests were potential buyers, coming before the sale to take a look at the ‘goods,’ that is to say me. In those circumstances, my master demanded perfect discipline and total submission. He sometimes asked me to play a game invented by one of the guests or do my ‘special dance’ for them. In each case I tried to perform as well as an actor at an audition. But on two occasions, my master wasn’t quite satisfied with my ‘performance’ and ordered me, in a deep voice full of threats, to present my buttocks.

  The guest would then rise, withdraw his belt or take a whip proffered by my master, and beat me. At first, they were a little hesitant, then they hit with more vigor. But I think, to some extent, my punishment itself was part of the show. I accepted my discipline with good grace and as much control as possible. The ‘show’ ended with a blow-job given to the visitor by my caring and eager self as a way of thanking them. One of the guests had been a female, but she didn’t claim any services of such a special nature.

  My master told me, after their departure, that most of the time these people who came to window shop didn’t buy. They were just taking advantage of their only opportunity to get for a few hours the services of a slave they could never afford.

  “But why do you let them come then? Why go through all this rigmarole?”

  “Because it helps you get used to the idea of being an article for sale. Soon, you’ll have to really show off and perform for potential buyers. These visitors give you an opportunity to prepare for that event, to grow accustomed to scrutiny, suffer their searching looks, hear their crude and humiliating comments, listen these people speak about you with as much indifference to your feelings as they would if you were just a slab of meat on a butcher’s tray.”

  It wasn’t the only method my master used to prepare me for what was to come. He always made sure that we ate well, but for the event, he devised a special diet that was more like an athletes’ before an important competition, a high-carbohydrate diet.

  A photographer also came to take several pictures of me in different poses. The best were printed in several copies to promote my sale. If wealthy people living far away wanted to see James’ ‘new one’ without having to come in person, my master posted them one or more photos, according to the degree of interest he attached to them as potential buyers.

  He had also assembled a photographic montage of all the people
who would be there on the big day. Under each photo, I could read the guest’s name and age, specific physical or intellectual characteristics, food and musical preferences, recreational activities, etc. A short CV related to the Slave Market gave other details: their trainer’s name and reputation, the number of years lived in slavery and spent spotting, training and owning one or more slaves, the average price of the slaves they bought or sold, and so on. Further information on other work experiences was given. I also learned their sexual preferences: favorite partner’s gender, favorite toys and sexual games, sex positions, and so on. The album included facts about recent events which could be mentioned to enrich the conversation. All these resumes were incredibly comprehensive, packed so full of personal characteristics, it was amazing. I was stunned. How could my master know so much about all these people!?

  Of course, I had to commit everything to memory. My master left me time to study every night. Then he quizzed me. When I was wrong, he made me pay big for each answer he had to provide. During the day, the album followed me about the house. Whenever a question came to my mind about one of the guests and I wasn’t sure of the answer, I checked in the album. If the answer wasn’t there, I questioned my master, who gave me the answer or not, depending on whether it was strictly confidential or related to what I’d have to do.

  Sometimes it was my master who questioned me in the middle of one of my daily activities about a potential buyer. The question could be quite simple. For example, he might ask me the first and last names of someone in one of the pictures. Or the question could be much more complex and the answer might as well not be in the album. Once he asked me about how I felt now that I knew all that about them. He then commented on my answers and corrected my perceptions and judgments.

  Some of the potential buyers fascinated me, either because I found them very attractive, or because of all their knowledge or real-life experiences. One of them even fueled my fantasies during the day and my dreams at night. It was one of my master’s old friends. His hair was lush, curly and tawny. It seemed to shimmer in the sun. His eyes were shining bronze. He had an almost feline appearance. The photo showed him wearing skin-tight black leather pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The shirt collar was open to the third button, providing glimpses of a chest lightly covered with glossy reddish-brown hair. He rode a motorcycle that looked like a classic. His broad smile seemed to suggest he was on the verge of laughing. He looked so alive! Whenever I looked at the photos in the album, I always lingered on his.