Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN - a serial novel by Travis Creel

BOOK TWO: A WHOLE NEW LIFE

CHAPTER THIRTY: MEET YOUR MASTER

Previously: As the Bottoms are auctioned off to various buyers, the Royal Family and the Russians meet to divvy up the eight virgin Tops. Dmitri and Yuri, in order to avoid a Russian getting saddled with the unmanageable South Carolina, had secretly renegotiated with the Prince Regent, allowing the Family the first two picks – if they take the last. The Family uses those picks on Illinois and Nevada, whom Boris and Sergei had targeted for themselves. Irate, the two retaliate against Dmitri and Yuri by depriving them of their own top choices, North Dakota and Wyoming.

As the Tops fearfully await separation, Alex has a distressing final conversation with Matti – who is furious with him about his refusal to admit that that he is gay and that his love for Matti is more than just friendship. They have no time to reconcile before they are taken away, one by one. Matti doesn't even look back at Alex as he departs; Rhody sheds tears.

In restraints, Alex is led down a hallway by none other than Latronius, who taunts him and vows to yet have his way with him. He is thrown into a room and lies naked on the cement floor. He does not know where he is going – but we do. He does not know where Matti is going – and we don't either.

ALEX: SATURDAY, JUNE 18, VERY LATE EVENING – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Two weeks ago – almost to the hour, if you accounted for the time difference – I boarded the ship with the odd – and wickedly prophetic – name, Fundamental Experience. [Author's Note: earlier it was noted that fundament' is another word for anus',]

I was full of joy: I had won $25,000, I was going on a world cruise, I was going to have fun participating in this contest, I had two suitcases full of clothes and I was going to spend all summer with Matti.

Two days later, it all changed. There was no $25,000. There was no world cruise. There was no contest. And all my clothing was taken away, even what I was wearing.

And now I've lost Matti. I was a slave, the property of . . . whom? I kept thinking about those Arabs probing and measuring me. I hoped it wasn't one of them.

I lay there, contemplating another night on a cold cement floor - only this time, without Matti's chest for a pillow or Rhody's body as a blanket. I could have worked my way into a sitting or standing position, but what was the point? The room was pitch black, I was alone, my arms were handcuffed behind my back, my legs were shackled and my mouth was taped shut. I was helpless. I just lay there, in despair.

Maybe an hour later the door opened and a bright light filled the room. I looked up to see the assistant Ramses barking orders to two maroons – Joey and Rumeal. Thankfully, not Latronius.

• The boss says to prepare you for transport.

The boss. If I were going to the Arabs, he wouldn't say the boss', he'd say His Majesty'. I must be going to Russia. A good thing – I think. Another good thing: They'll have to give me clothes. We'll have to fly there, and it's not like I could board an airline stark naked.

Every cloud has a silver lining. I haven't worn clothing in twelve days.

The two maroons grabbed me under my armpits and hauled me out of the room. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. Into another room.

My silver lining turned into a cumulonimbus in a hurry.

In front of me was a trunk, standing on end, the lid open. Large enough to hold a man - at least, a little man like me.

I looked at Ramses. He nodded.

• Yes, you're going in there. But don't worry. It's pressurized, we pump air into it, and it will be warm enough to keep you comfortable. You won't die. We've put too much effort into procuring you to risk losing you on a flight.

If not for the tape over my mouth, I would have pointed out that there are easier ways to transport me. Like putting me in Row 16. Ramses, you could sit on one side and I'd even let fucking Latronius sit on the other. What's the risk in that, do you think I could escape?

He was reading my thoughts.

• I mean, it's not like we could take you with us in the cabin. If you were around other passengers you'd have to wear clothes. And you can't wear clothes. You're a slave. Slaves are naked.

Then he injected me with something and the world very quickly went fuzzy.

ALEX: SUNDAY, JUNE 19 – SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SOMALIA AND RUSSIA

I woke up. Where am I? I'm lying flat on my back in a dark space. No – it wasn't a dark space. Or it might be – but there was something on my head. A hood. I mustn't be in a dark space or why would I need the hood?

Groggy. Brain not really functioning.

I raised my head and felt a bump. Ouch. Shit. That meant . . .

I couldn't move my arms, for some reason, but kicked a bit with my legs. They moved a few inches before hitting solidness. Fear confirmed. I was in the trunk. I was in the trunk and I couldn't move! Panic set in. Scenes from movies of people buried alive cycled through my brain. Was I to die in here, very slowly?

Okay, calm down, Alex. Use your brain. I was a slave, Ramses had said. If so, I had to BE a slave, not a corpse in a trunk. Ramses had said to prepare me for transport. This was just the transport. With an entirely superfluous hood over my head – which was whatever the shit-equivalent of gilding the lily was.

I could feel air – warm air – blowing all around me, and I had no trouble breathing. Okay, Ramses had said that, and he was keeping his word. I was on my back, no longer in handcuffs, only – I still couldn't move my arms. Ah – there was rope around me – I could feel it now, brain starting to work. It wrapped around my abdomen, tying arms to sides. Another pointless restraint.

There was nothing to do but wait and try to still the internal screaming. And think about anything other than being trapped inside a trunk.

My brain went to Matti. Not a reassuring subject. I would never see him again – unless. Unless. There was an unless' in this, wasn't there. It was a small unless', but there WAS an `unless'. I had to seize it.

Unless one of the other Russians had him, and those Russians got together from time to time and brought their slaves with them. It was possible. Those Russians seemed pretty tight with each other, maybe –

But what if he was with the Arabs? Then all was lost. An internal dialogue played in my head.

• Will they geld him? Isn't that what Arabs do, geld their slaves? They gelded Del.

• To intimidate us. Mission accomplished. They won't need to castrate anyone else.

• Maybe they need guards to protect their wives – guards who can't engage in any hanky-panky.

• Come on, Alex, that's so Arabian Nights, not to mention bigoted. Besides, if they wanted guards, would they pick guys so small?

• Good point.

• And the way they groped us yesterday, it didn't seem like wives were exactly a priority. They're gay and they're going to fuck him – but not geld him.

• Probably.

• Probably.

In search of better thoughts, my mind passed back to the hours we had spent in the van, and Ohio's silky Johnny Mathis baritone crooning Simon and Garfunkel's most beautiful song. (Ohio – where are you now, I wondered.) And how we all joined in and how much comfort we – oh, so momentarily – found in our communal singing.

WHEN YOU'RE DOWN AND OUT . .

I started to sing. It didn't help, it only made things worse. I WAS down and out, and there was no bridge over the troubled water I was heading for. I needed Matti to ease my mind and he wasn't there. And never would be again.

I switched, absurdly, to "Feelin' Groovy". I wasn't feeling groovy at all, but it was the first thing that popped into my head, being a more joyous Simon and Garfunkel song. And somehow you can't sing that song without it putting a smile on your face – even if your face is encased in a hood.

I went through my repertoire of Simon and Garfunkel, avoiding "The Sounds of Silence" as being entirely too relevant – darkness was not my old friend – and moved on to other songs from fifty years ago. For some reason I was more attuned to music of that era than I was to the popular music of my own.

JEREMIAH WAS A BULLFROG . . .

TWENTY-FIVE-OR-SIX TO FOUR . . .

ROLLIN'... ROLLIN'... ROLLIN ON THE RIVER.

I sang for – who knows, an hour? And then I felt a shift, undefinable, but a subtle difference. We were going to land soon.

I felt such relief when I felt the trunk being lifted and forgave the luggage handlers for the rough way they dropped the trunk onto the luggage cart – they couldn't know there was a man inside. Some minutes later I was loaded into some type of vehicle and driven for maybe half an hour, then unloaded and carried into what I was guessing was the Russian's house.

The trunk was opened, and I was lifted out of it by more than one set of hands. I couldn't see a thing, of course, with the hood still firmly affixed around my head.

A hand grabbed my arm and walked me up the stairs.

I heard Joey's voice.

• On the floor. Prostrate yourself.

This was going to be tricky with my arms wrapped to my sides but I managed it, falling first to my knees and then pitching myself forward until I fell flat on my chest. Fortunately, the room was carpeted and my landing was soft.

Now what? I was face down, naked, in an upstairs room with plush carpeting.

A bedroom?

Shit.

Joey removed the hood. I opened my eyes slowly – the light hurt at first - and my fears were confirmed. I was in a large bedroom, an enormous four-poster bed three feet away from where I was lying. The bedspread and carpeting were white, and there was spectacular mahogany furniture – a dresser, a desk, a bookcase – all around the room. A door, slightly ajar, led into what I was probably a bathroom. Closets on one side. A television mounted on the wall across from the bed. A computer on the desk. And that enormous bed, big enough for three.

Joey left. I was alone in the room but tied. I was afraid to move and so didn't. I heard water running and a moment later saw Rumeal emerge from the bathroom. He ignored me and walked out. Nothing for a few minutes. Then more footsteps, approaching.

I felt a pants leg by my ribs and then a booted foot was planted squarely on my ass, like a hunter posing with his trophy kill by putting his foot on it.

• I am Dmitri.

I searched through my memory bank of voices. Not John, not Thomas. Either Peter or Richard. I felt certain this was Richard.

• I am telling so when you hear `Dmitri' you know who it mean. You will not use name. You only call me Master. Is clear?

• Yes.

The foot pressed down on my ass, hard.

• `Yes, master.'

Oh, shit. Was it really going to be like that?

• (obediently) Yes, master.

• Your name no longer Wisconsin. Is not Alex either. Perhaps in time I give you name. Right now your name is Boy. Yes?

A boot in the ribs.

• (Sigh.) Yes, master.

• You have much to learn to be good slave. First thing you must learn – you are slave.

Duh. I rolled my eyes. I think I knew that, dude.

I don't know how, but he must have seen me roll my eyes. He kicked me in the ribs again.

• Get up.

• Yes, master.

Easier said than done, when your arms are tied to your sides. Try it sometime. When I finally achieved verticality, I got slapped for my efforts.

WTF? He told me to get up, I got up. I said, "Yes, master" like a good little boy. Why the fuck did he hit me?

• What is name?

• Dmitri, master.

• (Slap!) What YOUR name?

Well maybe if you'd learn to speak English, you could make it clear who you were talking about. But at least I knew how to answer this one.

• My name is `boy', master.

• That is correct. What is your job?

• I am a slave, master.

• What is being slave means?

Uh-oh.

• When I say you slave, you roll eyes like I say stupid thing. So you know all about being slave?

• No, master.

• What you think it means being slave?

• It means I belong to you.

• And?

• And . . . you own me.

• (Another slap) Do not repeat yourself. You are not stupid boy. If you belong to me then I own you. Is definition. What are responsibility of slave?

Oh, shit. Whatever I say is going to be wrong.

• I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know. I need to learn. I want to learn. I want to be a good slave, master.

There, was that obsequious enough? I was terrified.

He walked around me slowly, not touching me, making a full circuit. I took the opportunity to assess him in return. Of course, I had seen him on the ship, many times. But I hadn't paid close attention. This man was going to become the most important person in my life. Unfortunately.

He was handsome, about forty, well-built without the muscularity of Rhody or Wyoming or Kansas. (Where were they now?) A strong face. Black hair, blue eyes, about six foot one, 180 pounds. Wearing a blue long-sleeved dress shirt and gray trousers. No tie. Expensive shoes. And he positively oozed masculinity. Had I not known better, I would have said `heterosexual masculinity'. Little Big Man had taught me otherwise.

• Being slave very simple. Is only one rule. Rule is this: Obey. Is all you need to know. What I say, you obey. You obey immediately, completely, to best of ability. Is clear, boy?

• Yes, master.

• Now, I going to give you two permanent order. These are order every master give to slave. First one I think you know already: You not allow to wearing clothing.

I nodded. Nearly two weeks of continuous nudity, including a plane ride in a trunk, had made that one evident.

• Never. You never again wearing clothing.

Well, never is a long time. I'm twenty years old, you're going to keep me naked when you're dead and I'm in my seventies?

• Second order. You may speak only in three situation: One. I ask direct question. Two. I order you speak. Three. I give you permission speak. Before you confused when you get up and I slap you. Is because you say `Yes, master' but I not ask question. When I give order, you not respond, you just do. Is clear?

• Yes, master.

• If I give order and is not clear – you do anyway. You not ask What this means?' or How I do?' Slave do not ask question. Slave simply do. If you do wrong, you will have punish, but you will learn how to do right. Now, is anything you wish to ask me?

What? Well, yeah, I've got like a bazillion questions.

• Yes, master.

• Good. Slave should have curious. What you going to ask me?

I thought a moment. I wanted to ask about Matti but then a spate of rationality hit me and I settled upon the safest answer.

• Nothing, master. Slaves do not ask questions.

He cupped my chin approvingly.

• I knew you smart boy. But don't let that go to head. Slave must not have ego. Slave must not have proud. Slave must always remember he is worthless piece of shit. Slave must always remember he is slave. Is clear?

• I hope so, master.

• We find out. What is most important duty of slave?

• To obey his master.

Another slap. Fuck! What was wrong with my answer, anyway? He just spent two minutes drilling that into me, I thought it was perfect.

• That is slave duty all time. What is MOST IMPORTANT duty of slave?

If I didn't say the right thing, there would be another slap. I searched my brain and came up with . . .

• (utterly guessing) Whatever is most important to his master at that moment.

Ouch! The left side of my face must be the color of a strawberry with all these slaps.

• That general answer. I want specific.

Okay, admit defeat.

• I'm sorry, master. I do not know. I am only a humble slave. Please teach me.

After the slap (goddammit!) there was the vestige of a smile. What was the meaning of that smile? Was it "This is fun, I love slapping this boy?" Or was it, "I'm pleased at how hard he's trying, but have to slap him anyway?" Or something else entirely?

The smile vanished, replaced by one of the hardest looks I have ever seen in a man. He grabbed my jaw and squeezed it as if trying to crush my skull. He had my attention.

• You make request of master. `Please teach' is request. Slave do not make request. Is clear?

• (not really) Yes, master.

It sounded more like `Yush, mush-her', but it's tough to be articulate when your jaw is in a vise.

• Tonight you will have punish so you learn from mistake. That how I teach. Slave do not decide what he need to know. Master decide for him. Let me ask question different way. What is GOAL of slave? Take time, think. Give good answer.

Give good answer. Thanks a lot, no pressure or anything. At the moment, the goal of this slave was to keep from getting slapped, but I knew that answer would have the exact opposite result. Would "I don't know, Master" satisfy him? It was my fallback but it wasn't `good answer'. Come on, Alex, think like a slave, think like a slave.

His face was starting to show impatience and I knew my time was running out. Okay, here goes.

• I believe the goal of a slave should be to always please his master.

No slap. A nod, instead.

• That is correct. And what is most important way slave can please master?

Oh, shit, a follow-up question. Don't even try, Alex. Punt.

• I do not know, master.

• I think you do.

And his hand moved down to his crotch, where I could see the solid outline of an engorged penis. He squeezed his cock for emphasis.

Oh, please don't make me say it.

He didn't.

• Slave most important duty is to surrender body for master use.

I was about to say "Yes, master," but caught myself. Not a question, not a demand to speak.

I nodded.

• Boy, why do you think you remain Top throughout voyage?

• Master, I was lucky.

• Why do you think any of you remain Top throughout voyage?

• Master, it is not my place to imagine what was in your mind.

Of course, in order to even say that, I had to imagine what was in his mind – what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear me say how worthless I was and so I fed him that.

I think he was pleased with that answer, although he tried not to show it.

• Is because master having right to take virginity of slave. I have wait two weeks for this moment. I did not know it would be you, but I knew it would be worth wait. . . . Wait over. Undress me.

And then we had sex.

FLASHFORWARD – MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7, LATE AFTERNOON – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• That all you say? `And then we had sex'?

• That's what happened.

• Most important day in your life and you end there?

• There's another sentence you didn't read.

• "Later that night he had me punished."

• Which you did.

• Alex, what I tell you? I tell you write about moment that produce emotion. Are you say you have no emotion first time you fucked?

• . . .

• Well?

• Of course it produced emotion. I just . . . don't want to write about the sex.

• You have plenty of sex on ship and you write about.

• I was doing the fucking.

• You don't want to write about being fucked.

• That is correct.

• Alexei, in future writings, I am order you to talk about sex.

• . . .

• Is clear? You understand?

• You want me to describe every time we had sex?

• Not every time. Important time. First time is most important time.

• Was it important to you? Or was it, you know, just one more anus to shtup among so many?

• (slap)

• I thought when we were talking about my writing I could speak freely. Evidently not.

• (slap) I also said are limits. I not allow disrespectful.

• Of course, I will be punished for this later.

• Yes, you will. To answer question, it was important to me. First time master dominate slave always important. Now, you going to computer and you write about rest of day. Right now.

• Yes, master.

• Is one more thing. You capitalize word Master'. And word Man' when it mean anyone who is not slave. Is clear?

• Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.

DMITRI: SUNDAY, 19 JUNE – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

After the slave draft was over, we had to wait until 5:30 Sunday morning to catch a flight out from Mogadishu. We all flew together to Istanbul, accompanied by a pair of enforcers each.

At Istanbul, we split into two groups, Yuri and I continuing on to St. Petersburg while Boris and Sergei headed to Moscow, where they lived. I was hoping the divisions which had surfaced yesterday would heal quickly. Sergei and Boris had snatched Wyoming and North Dakota, respectively, out from underneath Yuri and me, in retaliation for us having brokered the deal that resulted in the Family taking Nevada and Illinois. And all four of us were stinging a bit from the conflict.

I have mentioned that we considered Idaho to possess the finest ass of all the Bottoms. Among the Tops, I would have bestowed that honor on North Dakota. And now Boris has him instead of me. But Wisconsin is scarcely a consolation prize – I'd lusted after him from the moment he gave that sexy smile in his state contest. And he, like North Dakota, was blond.

At the very least, he HAD to be better than Jackson.

We arrived in early afternoon and I flashed my credentials to speed through immigration; the customs officials had been paid not to inspect the trunks coming off the plane. Sasha, Oleg, and Pyotr were there to meet me. I left Sasha and Oleg to assist Joey and Rumeal in managing transfer of my belongings (including Wisconsin) to the estate while Pyotr drove me home.

Home is a half hour west of St. Petersburg. I have about eighty acres of land, a modest holding. The house is not modest, unless you compare it with the Winter Palace, which is only a few miles away. Like the Winter Palace, it has a view of the Gulf of Finland. The house has more rooms than I know what to do with, unless I have a large number of guests.

I arrived home first and was able to watch as the trunk was delivered and opened. Wisconsin – Alexei now – looked most enticing as he was lifted out of the trunk all trussed up. Pity I couldn't see his face to observe his reaction. As per my instructions, the two enforcers grabbed him roughly and rushed him up the stairs to my bedroom.

I allowed him some time to take stock and then entered the bedroom. He was lying face down, as I wished, his vulnerable ass about to be conquered. I staked my claim by putting my foot on it – the traditional way of claiming ownership – and introduced myself.

Alexei has already recounted this conversation, but I will give you my perspective on it.

The initial conversation after a slave is domiciled in the master's home is critical. The relationship must be established firmly and completely. And it is critical in evaluating the slave – how will he react? How will he adjust?

Of my previous slaves, the only ones who would make a fair benchmark to measure Alexei against are the three involuntary slaves for whom I was their first master. Klaus, who pre-dated Little Big Man, was a good slave. B.J. was satisfactory. Jackson failed miserably.

I knew from the moment I planted my foot on his ass that Jackson was not going to work out. From the way he glared at me, I knew that if I freed his mouth he was going to get himself into worse trouble, so I kept him taped up while I laid down the law. But he wasn't having any of it and I realized I'd have to do more than slap him, and let Joey pound home a few points. A bloody face and bruising do not add to the aesthetic experience of deflowering a virgin, but it was necessary in Jackson's case.

Alex, like B.J., was brighter than that. He realized quickly what his place was and was desperate to feed me answers that would please me. Of course, his motivation was merely to avoid being slapped, but as time went on his answers got better. He wanted to learn to be a good slave out of sheer survival instinct. That was as much as I could reasonably expect on the first day.

Of course I got hard. Just slapping the boy made me stiffen – part of my reason for doing that, though hardly the primary one. I saw him register the tent in my trousers. He knew what was about to transpire: the moment I had been waiting two weeks for – and that he had been dreading for nearly that long.

• Undress me.

The boy looked distressed. His hands were tied to his sides. He had only two resources – his feet and his mouth. With his arms tied, he'd never maintain the balance necessary to use his toes to unbutton my shirt. He'd have to use his mouth.

Since he describes this in his amended version of his first day, I won't. It was, to say the least, amusing.

After I freed his arms, I ordered him to the bathroom, where Rumeal had prepared an enema bag, and told him to clean himself out. He froze for half a second. I raised my hand threateningly and he trotted off before he suffered another slap.

When he returned, I inspected him, saw he was clean, and ordered him onto the bed.

• On your hands and knees. I'm going to fuck you doggy style.

He looked at me with a look that mixed absolute desolation with abject horror. I climbed onto the bed behind him in preparation for the mount. But first, the decision. To lube or not to lube.

In most situations, a top should be gentle with a virgin, use a generous amount of lubrication, and go slow. No matter how much lube is used, unless he has been itching for this his whole life, the initial penetration will not be pleasant.

This, however, was a Master-slave relationship, and the Master must assert his dominance in no uncertain terms. The slave must get no sense that the Master cares about him, and must experience utter powerlessness. Many argue (Sergei and the Prince Regent among them) that for the initial penetration the slave should be fucked dry, without even saliva. I find that counterproductive – not only does it make it harder to gain entry, but if the rectum bleeds too much he may need recovery time before the next fucking. I don't intend to let grass grow under his feet before he is reused.

So I used just enough lube to make entry feasible without excess damage. I greased him up with my finger – he tightened but didn't react overly – he had been fingered repeatedly by the Royal Family just yesterday.

Then it came time to press my cockhead against his virgin hole.

"Get ready boy," I said and then, before he could, I pushed in with all my might.

And I rode the boy hard. He was a good fuck. As good as B.J. Better than Jackson.

ALEX: SUNDAY, JUNE 19, LATE AFTERNOON – SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA

(as amended under Master's orders):

• Undress me.

Sure. Would you like to untie me first? In case you haven't noticed, my arms are tied to my sides.

Shit, you're not going to, are you. Okay, I get it, this is a test. This is one of those situations where I need to ask you something and then get punished for asking. So I can't ask you. And I can't not obey. So I have no choice but to . . .

. . . lean forward and grasp the nearest shirt button with my mouth. I had to tug on the cloth to widen the hole and then somehow push the button through it with my tongue. It took me about eight tries but finally I forced it through. The shirt was all wet with my saliva. There were going to be consequences for THAT, too, I'll bet.

I worked on a second button. Pressing my head against his chest I became aware of his scent. He didn't smell as nice as Matti – it was completely different – but it was a sweet smell, a good smell. At least, I thought, if I was going to be smelling him a lot, I wouldn't mind that part of it.

I started to develop a technique and worked my way down to his waist, where I had to pull the shirt out from his trousers in order to get to the bottom button. Finally, he was open in the middle, and I moved my head over to his left shoulder to pull his sleeve down his arm. I grasped hold of the shirt just by the collar, smelling his manly neck, and pulled on it. Eventually I worked the material down his arm and – damn, his sleeves were buttoned. I got them undone, and the shirt slid from his left arm.

The right arm was easier – I started with the buttons and then it practically fell off him, leaving him bare-chested. It was a strong chest, not as developed as Rhody's or Wyoming's, but he clearly worked out – his pectoral muscles were solid and covered with a moderate, not thick, amount of hair. The rest of his torso was flat; he had the sort of body that in some men would develop middle-age spread, but he was only at the verge of middle age and I suspected he would never spread.

He sat on the edge of the bed and said: "Shoes."

I got down on my knees – again, not smoothly with my tied arms. His bed was high enough that his shoes did not touch the floor and so, after unlacing them with my teeth, I was able to nudge them off him by pushing with my chin – I did not want to risk putting any tooth marks on thousand-dollar shoes.

Socks were a piece of cake and then he stood. Well, here goes. Tug on the belt to pull it out of the buckle, then loosen it. The trousers had a clasp not a button, which was tricky but I got it. A tug on the zipper and down it went. The trousers virtually fell off him, and all that remained was the one piece of clothing I desperately wanted to avoid.

I raised my mouth to his waistband only to be rebuked.

• Not there.

Sigh. I lowered my mouth to his thigh and tugged along the bottom of his shorts.

• Not there. You know where I want.

His cock was hard as a rock, forming a firm ridge that went northwest from his balls to near his waist.

As if there was any doubt, he grabbed my head and placed it on top of his rigid member.

• There.

My mouth was firmly pressed against his erection. I tried to grab just the cloth but he would have none of it.

• Put mouth around. Do not bite but feel. It will be in mouth often, you should get acquaint. Take two minute and explore cock through fabric.

I did. His masculine scent penetrated his shorts and, again, I found it not unpleasant. I felt like I was biting into a hot dog – only gumming it because I was careful with my teeth. But then, I've had Latronius' monster in my throat, and this wasn't nearly so bad. Humiliating but not bad.

Wait – he said two minutes. I allowed twenty seconds for those thoughts and then counted down from one hundred as I moved my mouth up and down the length of his shaft – which was considerable.

When I got down to zero, I grabbed hold and tugged. His shorts were form-fitting boxer-briefs and it took some effort, particularly since he insisted I keep my mouth by his cock until it was completely uncovered and springing out at me like the arm in a Nazi salute.

Once the mission was accomplished and he was as naked as I was, he untied my arms and threw the binding rope into a corner.

• In future, when you undress me, you may use hands. Put clothes in hamper in bathroom. Is enema bag Rumeal make for you. Clean out.

Oh, God. This was it. Enema bag. Was I ready? Could I bear going through what I had put New Mexico through? Was I mentally prepared to be raped? Would I –

Oh, shit, he's raised his hand to slap me. That was stupid, allowing my mind to wander. I dived to the floor, picked up his clothing, and dashed to the bathroom, escaping the sixth (eighth?) slap of the day.

The bathroom was luxurious – and huge. There were not one, but two toilets, two bidets, two sinks, two bathtubs and two shower stalls – one big enough for four people.

The fixtures were not identical. In each case one of them was set a few inches lower, was smaller, and plainer. The larger fixtures would have been suitable for Versailles. Everything was marble or gold. In contrast to the ones on the Fundamental Experience, I was certain these were real marble and real gold. The smaller fixtures would have been suitable for my dorm: porcelain or stainless steel.

It was obvious. One for the Master, one for the slave.

And hanging over the curtain rod of the smaller, plainer bathtub was an enema bag, filled to the gills, with the hose hanging down. I grabbed the business end of it, inserted it gently into my anus, and flicked the valve releasing the water. I allowed the warm water to fill my guts, then, after it did its work, I expelled the contents of my bowels into the smaller, plainer, slave toilet. Just to be sure, I filled it up partway and did it a second time. Clear.

I returned. He bent me over and stuck a finger, then two, into my anus.

• Good, you clean. Now get up on bed. Hands and knees. I fuck you doggy style.

No hesitation now. It's going to happen. Just get it over with and don't piss him off further.

I scrambled up onto that huge bed and bent over, spreading my legs to give better access to my hole, which I figured he would like.

A finger went inside. Then two. They were wet, moist. He was lubing me. And then I felt something that was not his finger pressing against my anus.

• Get ready, boy.

Those were his words but before I could mentally steel myself a pain invaded my rectum like none I had ever felt before.

I screamed, as much in surprise as in agony. His response was to laugh.

• Is only third of way. You tight, boy. I like tight.

A third? It felt like a baseball bat crammed up my ass. My nerve endings were sending pulses all through my body and then –

He pushed again. O-god-o-god-o-god-o-god.

And again.

• Now I'm in, boy. All nine inches.

Nine inches. Felt like nineteen.

He withdrew and I tensed for what I knew was going to happen next. He rammed me, and again I yelled – less loudly this time but it still hurt.

• Now we have fun.

And he began to fuck seriously. One a second, two a second, three a second, I didn't know, I just knew it hurt like hell and I felt like the worthless piece of shit he had told me I was.

I thought back to New Mexico telling me it wasn't that bad, and to Maine saying something similar to Rhody. They were lying, they were trying to be nice to make us feel better. Or maybe they'd accepted they were gay and that part of them was enjoying it.

I wasn't gay, and I wasn't enjoying it.

All of a sudden he stopped and I felt him pull out. And then – in a moment of agony – he popped the head of his ravaging organ past my sphincter on its way out.

I collapsed onto the bed, gasping in relief that the anal assault had ended.

But it hadn't.

• You think it over, boy? I still hard like steel. We going back in.

And he penetrated me once again – it wasn't as bad the second time but it still hurt. And then he continued to pump away at my helpless ass – fortunately for not too long before he suddenly grabbed me hard by the shoulders and rocked me with everything he had. And then he fell on top of me as he shot his sperm into my bowels. And positively crowed:

• You been bred, boy!

And so I had been. There was nothing to say to that, so it was just as well that I wasn't allowed to speak.

FLASHFORWARD: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7, late evening – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• Is improve.

• You don't like it.

• Is okay. But you not describe rest of day.

• I'm sorry. That took a lot out of me. It was all I could do.

• You continue tomorrow.

• If I must.

• Is no if' for slave, you know this. Only must'.

• Yes, Master, I know. I apologize. It's just – this is hard.

• I know is hard. Is why I demand. Only strong boy can do this.

• You think I'm a strong boy?

• You are strong boy. But you not good slave yet. You do not accept.

• I accept.

• On surface maybe. Brain accept. But not inside. Heart not accept.

• . . . Heart . . .

• Alexei, what? You go somewhere else.

• I'm sorry, Master.

• Do you even understand why we having these conversation?

• I know that it's controversial to have an honest conversation with your slave.

• You learn this at IAMSO convention, yes? [Author's Note: this reference will be explained later.]

• Yes.

• Now I tell you why I do. I have decision to make in few months. About future. I want to give you chance.

• . . . Wow.

• Wow – what means `wow'?

• Wow, as in `wow that was scary'. You made a decision about Jackson –

• Forget Jackson. Is about you, Alexei. You obey. You are good fuck. I want keep. But you must belong to me every part of you, not just ass and mouth.

• Let's compromise. I'll give you my left nipple.

• You make joke? We talking about future and you make joke?

• It's what Matti would do.

• Explain.

• It was in my writing.

• Sometime it more important say than write.

• Okay. It was the first week on the boat, on Friday. The last day of Round Two – you know, when we had all the sex stations. And he and I both had been penalized for fucking the same guy twice. There were only two sex periods left and we needed points but we were both shut out in the first one and we thought all was lost. It was a desperate time. And Matti made a joke. I was annoyed and said how can you make a joke at a time like this? And he said that's exactly when you need to make a joke.

• . . . Is not time to make joke.

• This isn't a desperate time?

• No, Alexei. Is not . . . yet. Is time for you to make adjust.

• Adjust. That's all I've been doing since I've gotten here.

• Is true. All new slaves make adjust, to survive. We looking for more than survive, Alexei. We looking for peace and contentment. Yours and mine. If you don't find yours, I don't find mine. If I don't find mine, is definite you don't find yours, I make sure of that.

• . . . I understand, Master.

• See that you do.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHPTER 31 - THIS IS YOUR LIFE, BOY]