by Danny Tyran
With vicious strokes of the cane, Helena forced me to stand in front of a full length mirror where I could see myself from wig to shoes. Wow! I just needed a little makeup to complete the illusion.
“You know there are slave owners who emasculate young males like yourself and turn them into a female of fantasy. Lately, surgeons have even been able to create mock vaginas for them. And by taking female hormones, slaves no longer need this trick.” She pointed at my fake breasts and added, “Electrolysis to remove all their body hair, skillful makeup and the transformation is complete. Don’t you think you’d make a pretty girl?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Of course, once transformed, we have to find them a job suited to their new gender. Thus many are forced into prostitution. They fuck with heaps of paunchy old slobs and half drunken men who treat them like the whores they have become.”
Bile surged into my throat and mouth. I felt sick again. I stared into the mirror and through my tears, I saw, like in a fog in the distance behind me, my master in his chair, sitting in silence. He looked as unhappy as I did. I went to him. Knelt at his feet and placed my hands on his thighs. I needed to feel him, to touch him. He gazed at my hands or at his thighs, or he just stared down blankly.
“Master, I am yours. If you want to turn me into a woman and a whore, do it. If you want to take my life, take it. I don’t care what she says. I still believe in you. I belong to you more than ever.”
As I broke into tears, I could feel my master’s whole body quivering under my hands. He still remained silent, but eventually he gazed up at my face, and I saw tears begin to flow down his cheeks. Oh my God, how I loved him at that moment! I pressed closer, resting my head on his thighs, as he stroked my face.
I realized that Helena had approached us only when she began to administer several lashes. Through clenched teeth, she ordered me to my feet and go upstairs. “It’s always the same, I try to open their eyes and they don’t want to see anything.”
My master finally broke his silence, saying, “Johnny, will you follow Max and Helena? The others are not to participate in the test except by looking at him. Understood, Helena?”
She glared at my master. Her evil look spoke volumes about her feelings toward him. Then we went to join the other guests.
The steps were hellish to climb and, coming up behind me, Helena didn’t spare her rod.
She walked me around the living-room several times. Most of the guests smiled or cheered as we passed. Some whistled. Despite myself, I kept thinking about what Helena had hinted about them.
Louis insisted that I looked much better like that. “You make a pretty little whore,” he assured me, adding that he wanted to put lipstick on my lips and asked if someone was willing to lend him a tube.
“You can look, but you can’t touch,” Johnny reminded him.
“Come on, Johnny. It’s just lipstick. It won’t do him any harm.”
“No, Louis. Nothing will be done by any of you out of turn. You had your go. If you wanted to put makeup or lipstick on him, you should have done it then.”
Helena wanted us to go outside, but Johnny dismissed her request.
Samuel, the guard, could scarcely lay his eyes on me. When he finally looked my way, I threw him a wicked smile and blew a kiss with my fingertips, which were still painful where the blood had coagulated. He blushed so fiercely that one would have thought that all his blood had migrated upward, particularly in his cheeks and ears. Mind you, he chose this time to make his rounds, even though he wasn’t officially responsible for our security during the day-shift.
During every lap of the room, Helena made me walk over the exact spot where Gabrielle’s pool of blood had lain. Was it only by chance that she kept bringing me to this exact spot, or had she known what she was doing? If she did know, didn’t that suggest the killer had told her what had happened? That could mean she must have been the one who hired him. If so, no doubt she was trying to make me lose my nerve.
But each time, I asked Gaby to help me see things more clearly and give my energy and courage a boost. And the more often we returned there, the less I believed that it was just a coincidence, and the more I doubted Helena’s slanderous words.
Each circuit restored a little more faith in my master and the will to finish my trial and succeed.
On our return to the basement, I took so long going down that Helena managed to give me a good thirty strokes before we arrived. I almost fell three times. Fortunately, most of her strokes landed on my clothes, and, thanks to Helena’s age, the blows weren’t very painful.
“So what did you decide?” she asked me once we reached my master.
“I know that my master is innocent and his friend, Mr. Lynch, too. I will continue, ma’am.”
“Poor young fool! Too bad. Well, you can’t say that you weren’t warned.”
I knelt before her and tried to kiss her feet, but she moved before I had time to thank her and left without a wave, a nod or a word to anyone. I was happy that her turn was over. What she did to me was much worse than what Louis had inflicted. He hurt my body, but she hurt my heart, my mind, my soul. And she had offended my master and Johnny.
“Strip, Max, remove your outfit and put it all in the box,” my master ordered.
“She...”
“No, Max. I can’t speak about Helena, nor comment on what she said. I don’t have the right to talk about the tests or the participants during your trial. Don’t think about her for now. Just try to finish this ordeal. We’ll discuss all this soon.”
~.~.~
After that, my trial continued the same way. Some demanded my participation in games of their invention, others didn’t. Some were cruel with their whip or cane, others less so. Some didn’t use any implements; they merely questioned me and used their hands, sometimes in a vicious way. Some tried to convince me of the stupidity of my endeavor. Some made me cum, others forbade me to do so, while doing everything in their power to make me hard, but most didn’t care at all about my pleasure. Either they questioned me to evaluate my knowledge and ideas in every imaginable field, or my erudition left them indifferent. Two of them did nothing but question me.
One of them was a small bespectacled man named Vincent. He claimed that everyone despised him because of his ugliness, but he surpassed all those idiots in intelligence. He peppered me with an endless series of questions. And if I didn’t respond fast enough, he used his whip, once, and once only, and then went on to the next question, laughing at my disappointed expression. My attempts to keep pace and answer intelligently amused him a lot.
After he finished speaking, on a sudden impulse, I went over and gave him a long passionate kiss on the mouth. He struggled at first, but I held on tight. When I released him, his thick glasses were askew and it was he who was now speechless. He straightened his glasses with the back of his hand and tried to speak, but he only succeeded in stammering a few unintelligible words. I smiled and started to approach him again. He stepped back, his feet tripping over the carpet where two chairs had been placed ready for such questioning. I had to steady him to prevent him from falling. As his testing session was over, I knelt and thanked him. I wasn’t sure I had been right to do so, but, for some obscure reason, I was convinced that he had been longing for such a fiery kiss.
Instead of testing me, another participant, Marc, had a discussion with my master about Don’s intervention and his role in the fake armed robbery. Thus I learned that it had been Helena’s idea. But who else could it have come from? Before we started, she had managed to convince the majority of participants of the relevance of such a test. My master had had no other choice but to agree. However, to avoid the worst, he had compromised by getting to choose who would play the role of the attacker.
Marc thought that if things had gone wrong, Helena would have taken advantage of the fact; especially if it had convinced me to give up. She knew my master’s state of mind. My failure could end his career within their community.
That was what she wanted. Or, at least, she could discredit him in the eyes of others. And perhaps she would manage to put a stop to their efforts to prove her involvement in Gabrielle’s murder and to stop all investigation regarding her lover, Louis, for the murder of his own slaves.
I was happy to hear someone I didn’t know expose such strong feelings toward Helena. That helped increase my faith in my master and remove doubts stirred by Helena’s treacherous innuendos.
I was three quarters of the way through my ordeal when Johnny asked for a short break. He had the right to claim for two intermissions. The first had been after Louis’ session, to allow the doctor to treat my hands. This time, I was so exhausted, Johnny had to tilt my chin to draw my attention to his presence. I was drained physically and mentally. I didn’t even have enough energy to cry. I stood, wobbling, waiting for the next session, wondering how I was managing to stand upright. My mind was drifting further and further away from this cursed basement.
“Okay, kid, are you holding up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, Max. I want to hear a full sentence with subject, verb and object. I’ll leave the choice of words to you,” he added, smiling.
“I’m so tired, Sir. I can’t believe that you hope to see me continue. I can’t stand anymore.”
“If your master’s life was really in danger, if he was harmed and you had to flee with him, find him a place to shelter and protect him from his attackers, would you find the strength to continue?”
I gazed over at my master, who seemed as drained as I was. It wasn’t hard to imagine Johnny’s scenario. Everything I felt for my master rushed back in a great wave of love that invaded my mind and submerged everything else. “Yes, Sir. It wouldn’t be easy, but I think I could do it.”
“Good.” Then he leaned over as if to kiss me and whispered in my ear, “That is exactly what you’re doing, Max. You’re saving his life.” He kissed my cheek, then straightened. Was my master in such a dire state? I studied him closely. I wanted to throw myself at his feet and tell him how much I loved him. But I had to express my love through actions rather than words.
“Are you ready to proceed, Max?” he asked, with a stern look.
“Yes, Master.”
To stop now would have been silly; only three participants remained: two men and a woman. Another thirty minutes of torture and this part of the test would be over. Perhaps my master would use his right to test me too; maybe he would let me rest. And then there would be the gift. I preferred not to dwell on the subject. The more I mulled over what I still had to do, the more I felt the rest of my energy evaporate. How could anyone ask so much of someone?
The following participant was a thirty-year-old man who had recently arrived in this scene. His name was Raynald. But everyone just called him Ray. He had a slave who assisted him with his trainer’s tasks. Ray had never been a slave himself. But my master told me he had such a difficult childhood and adolescence, that everyone figured he knew at least as much as they did about suffering and how to control someone else’s life as well as his own. Moreover, he soon proved he had talent and, before long, was considered one of the best trainers in North America. That is why my master had invited him. Most of our guests also had an excellent reputation in this community.
He began by asking my master, “How is the novice doing?”
“He is looking forward to the end and so am I.”
The young man nodded as if he understood. But to what extent someone who had never been tested like this could understand?
Seeing my doubtful expression, Ray asked bluntly, “What do you think, Max?”
I told him my uncertainties about his understanding or rather about his possible lack of comprehension. He gave me a bleak smile.
“There is an implied criticism there, don’t you think? You wonder if I am where I should be, if I’m up to what is expected of me.”
“Sir, I don’t know you. But I know everybody says a lot of good things about you and your work. I have no reason to doubt you.”
“But you think I don’t know what four consecutive hours of suffering feels like. Is that it?”
The tone of his voice wasn’t aggressive, or even hurt. He was calm and even smiling that sort of canny smile an Asian martial arts master would have in response to the disbelief of a street fighter about his ability to defend himself.
As I didn’t answer, he reached out, placed his hand on my nape and pulled me against him. Close. Almost molding his body against mine. His scratchy bristles grazed my cheek. The warmth of his breath in my ear gave me delicious chills. He whispered, “I’ll give you a very hard time. You’re gonna sing a lament for me intermingled with groans, tears and cries.”
If anything, the threat of his dark promises contributed to my cock’s arousal. It was crazy. I was completely exhausted and a stranger telling me he would make me suffer was getting me hard! But something in him excited me, triumphed over my fears. He seemed quite sure of himself and in perfect control of the situation.
As he extracted what he needed from the cabinet, his movements were a combination of flexibility and self-control. He came back with a tube on which I could see a picture of flames. He showed my master something he had brought with him. It was a backscratcher with a handle that appeared to be made of ivory. The scraper itself was shaped like a tiny hand with curved fingers. This part seemed to be made of sterling silver. And he would be leaving me this beautiful object! Without asking a single question or uttering another word, he waited for my trainer’s consent to continue. Economy of gestures. Economy of words. That is what characterized him.
He opened his tube adorned with flames and spread some of the contents on my nipples, cock and balls. I could see the words: “Hot as hell!” written in the middle of the flames. After telling me to bend over, he inserted the metal tube into my anus until three-quarters of it was buried in my ass and squeezed the end, emptying the rest of the contents inside. Then he removed the empty tube and threw it into the box left there for this purpose. Next, he headed toward the German horse, which had shackles attached to each side at its base. Tapping the cushion with the backscratcher, he indicated that I should approach.
I did.
“Place your lower back on it.”
I climbed up and got installed, legs and arms outstretched, without waiting for his order. I knew my back would soon ache in this position, but as almost everyone until now had hit my rear, I was grateful for the opportunity to present the opposite side.
“Should I bind you, Max? If you rebel against me or struggle against my blows, I promise that any attempt to change your position in the slightest will worsen your situation. If you don’t believe you can continue for ten minutes without chains, it would be better for you to tell me now.”
I considered my options. I was certain of one thing: this man would have no pity on me. He told me he would give me a hard time and I didn’t doubt it at all. I was tired, even exhausted, but I liked this man. I felt I was in the hands of a master possessing a mysterious knowledge, a secret technique. I wanted to impress him. I refused the ties.
“Is your choice dictated by your pride? If it is, I can assure you that pride will be of little assistance to you when I start making use of these two instruments.”
I watched him detach a bull’s pizzle whip from a hook on his belt. Other than the knout, it was perhaps the whip that scared me the most. As for the scraper, I didn’t know what he wanted to do with it, but I never doubted his imagination. Hellfire was already setting my groin, anus, rectum and tits ablaze. Would I have to go through all the torments of hell now? I explained to him what my motivations were. He gave a sad little laugh.
“If you want to impress me, Max, use your common sense. So, what is your final decision?”
I kept silent, stretching my fingers to grab hold of the handcuffs without putting them on. I sought a better foundation for my feet. But the surface of the horse was too smooth.
Ray understood what
I was doing, and helped me put my hands and feet in the shackles, without locking them. Then he started hitting me. Oh my God! Why hadn’t I agreed to be imprisoned in the shackles? After the first strokes, I raised a hand in a gesture of instinctive self-defense. His response was to give me three particularly vicious blows as punishment for having moved. Then he continued to strike with a regular, almost military rhythm. He began with the lower part of my body. My thighs, calves and even my feet got their fair share of his attention. He proceeded methodically, each blow a few centimeters lower than the last. First my right leg, then my left.
I could predict where each one of his whiplashes would strike and when. That was the most terrible aspect of his technique. Knowing when and where the whip would hit my flesh, made me tense before the arrival of each stroke as my whole being sought to move in a futile effort to protect the body part to be struck.
I had to exercise control over myself. This constant struggle against my own self-preservation was mentally exhausting. My bowed back ached, especially as I was pressing on recent injuries. As soon as I moved, even so slightly that I was sure he wouldn’t notice, his blows redoubled in violence and speed, not leaving me a moment to catch my breath. And now, instead of returning to its former pace and previous intensity after having punished me for my move, he kept this accelerated rhythm and his strokes remained as powerful.
My intestines already hurt because of our previous guests’ deeds. One of the participants even gave me a horrible enema. He had filled me with an awful lot of water and forced me to walk while the water was still in my belly. I had to clench my buttocks together with my hands to ensure I didn’t lose everything on the basement floor. When it came time to go to the bathroom, I had to get down on all fours and crawl or I’d have spilled everything on the ground before getting there. Others had inserted all sorts of objects into me: dildos, beads, a vibrator... And now, the infernal paste Ray had liberally applied was burning me, inside and out. I’d have given anything for an icy cold shower and another enema.
