Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THIS IS YOUR LIFE, BOY

Previously: Alex is sealed inside a trunk and shipped to his new home in Russia. Upon arrival, he is greeted by Dmitri, his new master, who slaps him with every unsatisfactory answer to his questions. He tells Alex that a slave has one simple rule: Obey. But Alex realizes that there are many corollaries to that rule that he must learn gradually. Dmitri tells him two up front: he must remain nude at all times and he may never ask a question or speak without permission.

Alex's account of his initial day, written in November, simply ends with the statement "And then we had sex." Dmitri forces him to write about his deflowering, which he does. And Dmitri provides his own account of taking Alex's cherry. After they discuss what Alex has written, Dmitri reminds Alex that he has a decision to make about his future and that Alex must belong to him in entirety, `not just mouth and ass', if he wants to be retained.

FLASHFORWARD: Tuesday, November 8 – St. Petersburg, Russia

• I read rest of first day. Is quite reveal. But is one thing ring false.

• What is that, Master?

• Exactly – Master. You call me `Master' in your document.

• That is your name, Master.

• Is how you think of me now, of course. But on first day, when you look at me, is that word you use in mind?

• . . . No, Master.

• What was?

• . . . Do you want a repeatable version?

• Another joke. Is good thing this conversation `off record' – but I remind you, are limits. Be careful.

• Sorry, Master.

• Now, when you were sit in corner and look at me, what name you attach me, in mind?

• `Richard'. Because that was your name on the ship. I'm sorry, Master, I know it's disrespectful, and you told me never to use your name but –

• Is allow, Alexei. You answer my question honest. Honest is essential. You not have punish for that. In fact, I put it into what you write.

ALEX: SUNDAY, JUNE 19 – SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA

After `Richard' fucked me, we showered, separately (thank god). There were thick, luxurious towels for him, thin ones for me. I dried myself off wondering what to do next. He thought I shouldn't be wondering.

• Towels. Hamper. Is obvious. You should know to do.

Oh, fucketyshit. I should know to do? I thought I was only supposed to do what I was told. Make up your goddammed mind.

Maybe this was his way of teaching me. Next time I would know. After showers, put his towel (and mine) in the hamper without him telling me to do that.

You just have to be smart, Alex. Pick up on patterns. There is only one rule, he said: obey. But that rule had a thousand subsections and it was going to take me a while to sort them all out. You've only been here a couple of hours.

I followed him back into the bedroom. He pointed toward a corner, near where he had tossed the rope that had bound my arms earlier. It was still there, and I wondered if I was supposed to do something with it, like put it in a waste basket or a drawer or something.

But he simply said, "Corner. Sit." I went to the corner and sat quietly while he picked up a phone, called someone, and spoke Russian.

I did nothing for half an hour, which made it easily the best half-hour of my slavehood so far. `Richard' was at his computer, ignoring me.

I was reminded of that definition of war, which went something like "long periods of boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror". I think that was what being a slave was going to be like.

The door opened. In walked a Man carrying a tray.

I went from stimulus deprivation to stimulus overload in a second.

First thought: I had assumed that, after Joey and Rumeal had left, Richard' and I were alone in the house. There was no reason to assume that, but it seemed like Richard' was the only person who existed in the whole world. And here was this Man I'd never seen before.

Second thought: Food? Was that food? I realized I was hungry – being fucked had fooled my body otherwise but the moment I saw the tray my stomach started to growl. And then reality set in – if this was food, it probably wasn't for me.

Third thought: There was something about this Man that . . . bothered me. He triggered some kind of reaction, I didn't know what it was. I stared at him as he engaged with `Richard'. He was about five ten, stocky, with dark hair a whisker longer than a buzz cut, a leathery face that was somehow handsome without being actually handsome – a walking advertisement for masculinity. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He wore tight-fitting jeans and a muscle shirt which showed every muscle and the fact that his chest was full of hair.

I realized, after a moment, that he was not unlike an older, taller version of Rhody.

Rhody. Where the hell was Rhody now?

`Richard' spoke to the Man in Russian and the Man, to my astonishment, carried the tray into the bathroom and came back without it.

A few more words were spoken and the Man approached me. Omigod. My period of boredom was being interrupted by a moment of – was this sheer terror? Certainly alarm bells were ringing loudly and my pulse was racing with fear, but it wasn't exactly the same kind of fear as when `Richard' had ordered me up onto the bed. I did not think this Man was going to fuck me. There was something else going on, something complex, something I didn't understand.

He reached down, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to my feet. I looked at his hands – they were rough hands, hands that had done hard work, not someone who spent his hours in an office. They were the hands of a construction worker, a longshoreman, a gardener – was that who he was, the gardener?

He spun me around and pulled my arms behind my back and swiftly tied my wrists together so quickly I was trussed before I scarcely realized it. And then he left.

`Richard' had approached while this was going on.

• Food for you. I eat downstairs. Tonight you eat in bathroom. Then wait in corner.

He did not ask "Is clear?" but just turned and left, closing the door behind him.

You eat in bathroom. And you've just tied my hands. Sure, piece of cake.

I went into the bathroom where the tray was sitting on the floor. I was able to lift the cover easily enough with my teeth, revealing a large bowl of soup and a roll. The soup smelled delicious – it had plenty of meat and vegetables and was quite hearty. This was going to be awkward and humiliating (which was the point, of course) but I was hungry.

I realized that the best position was actually to lie prone rather than kneeling and so I stretched out on the cavernous bathroom's marble floor and sank my face into the bowl, slurping up the flavorful broth and greedily devouring the meat and vegetables. There was the potential to make a mess, but I was conscious of that and made sure no soup spilled over the sides. The roll was easy enough to manage.

Somewhat to my surprise, there was enough food there to satisfy me. I had had visions of thin gruel and starvation but I guess he wanted to keep his slave in good shape, or at least I hoped so.

I reached the bottom of the bowl and lapped up every last bit of liquid I could and licked up every bit of crumb, trying to render the tray as close to `clean' as I could. My face was far from clean, of course – he wouldn't like that. So I wriggled over to the bathtub (the small one, of course), managed to turn the knob with my mouth and stuck my face underneath the running water until I was convinced it was clean. Checked in the mirror – yes, I was good.

I didn't know what to do with the tray, so I left it on the floor, but moved it over against a wall with my feet so that he wouldn't stumble over it if he came into the bathroom.

And then I went back to my corner. I stood, rather than sat, it being more comfortable with my wrists tied behind me. I occupied the waiting time by letting tunes run through my head – no way I was going to actually sing and risk him walking in on me like that. Naturally, songs about corners popped into my head: "Corner of the Sky" from Pippin, "In My Own Little Corner" from Cinderella and that classic from the Four Lads, "Standing on the Corner, Watching All the Girls Go By."

I hadn't seen any girls in a long, long time, not since – wait, was it only fifteen days ago that I left home? Not fifteen months?

`Richard' came back, examined me carefully, checking to see that I had washed myself after eating. I think I passed the test, though he gave no sign of approval. Instead he ignored me, went back to his desk and worked with his computer until something buzzed and he picked up a phone. He said two or three words, the first of which was "Da", came over, and untied me.

He headed toward the doorway. I did not move a hair.

Apparently, I should have. He spoke sharply:

• When I leave room, you follow. Always, unless otherwise.

Always, unless otherwise. Well, that was sure helpful. I followed him out of the room, staying a respectful distance behind. We emerged into an entrance hall so spectacular it could have been in Gone with the Wind. The arching, slowly spiraling staircase was itself worth the price of admission. This was truly a mansion.

He headed down the stairs and I followed, suddenly conscious of my nudity. I had not worn a stitch of clothing for nearly two weeks now, but it is one thing when you are one of fifty-two naked guys on a boat in the middle of the ocean and quite another when you are nude in a millionaire's mansion and literally everyone else is dressed.

I say `everyone else' because when we reached the hallway, there were eight men standing there, arrayed like the servants in Downton Abbey awaiting the king.

Well, I wasn't the king. They weren't awaiting `Richard', either – obviously, this was his home and they were used to seeing him. So, unlikely as it may seem, this reception had been arranged for . . . me?

Richard' pushed me forward to stand by his side. He spoke to the assembled staff in Russian, occasionally gesturing over to me. I heard only one word in English and that was the word boy'.

I think he was telling them my name.

I looked them over as unobtrusively as I could. The Man on the left was wearing a suit. Two others were wearing casual wear – knit shirts and khakis, like office workers on Casual Friday. Another was all in white and wore a chef's hat – no doubt who he was. The others had uniforms of some sort, except for the Man on the far right – who was the one who had brought my dinner.

When `Richard' had finished, he turned and addressed me.

• Men you see are my staff. You are meet them for your information, not because you worthy of introduce. In order you do job, you must know who is who.

He gestured toward the suit and the Casual Friday dudes.

• Business staff first. Sasha chief assistant. Oleg and Ilya report him. They manage finance, business dealing. They not live here but sometime they stay overnight. Other Men are household staff. Paid servant.

He walked over and pointed them out one at a time.

• Pyotr is chauffeur. He sometime bodyguard, also he control security gate – he buzz in visitor car. You work for him little bit – wash car, polish, what he need.

Pyotr looked twenty-five, about six-one, with the chiseled good looks of an Armie Hammer or Chris Hemsworth, and a five-o'-clock shadow that I suspected was perpetual.

• Ivan is housekeeper. In western home, housekeeper woman, yes? But no woman here. You never see woman. Pyotr never let them through gate. Ivan in charge of keeping place clean and laundry. You work for Ivan also.

Ivan was fortyish, not so tall, not so good-looking, not as in-shape as Pyotr, just average-looking.

• Henri is cook. French make best cook. You work in kitchen every day and you serve all meals under his in charge.

Henri looked like a French cook. Fiftyish, only a couple of inches taller than me, pudgy.

• Grigory is gardener. You work outside with him.

Grigory was tall enough for a professional basketball team. Not huge in build, but lanky. And – did I mention he was tall? Slavic features, prominent nose, bit of an unkempt beard.

I was trying to wrap my mind around this. I was working for Pyotr, and I was working for Ivan, and I was working for Henri, and I was working for Grigory – but I was `Richard's slave.

Was he planning to clone me?

• Ruslan you meet already. He has several duty. Is handyman, he fix and repair anything need fix and repair if cannot be done by slave. He admit visitor at door if you not available. He also help Grigory in garden and serve at dinner party if too many guest for just slave serve. Ruslan only servant you not work for, unless he find job for you. Then maybe he borrow.

• Upstairs, I complete work schedule, which I e-mail to staff.

He then followed with some Russian which made me wonder what he was telling them that I couldn't hear. Then, to my surprise, he explained it:

• I tell them this mostly same schedule as previous boy, but I make slight adjust. What is word, Oleg?

• (taller of the two Casual Friday dudes) Tweak?

• Da, `tweak'. I tweak schedule little bit.

Tweak' hadn't been what caught my ear. It was previous boy'. I had a predecessor!

If I had a predecessor – where was he now? That question applied to so many people – Matti, Rhody, Nodak, Noisy and now this mysterious previous boy. Where were they now?

My mind was whirling at a time when it couldn't afford to be. `Richard' was continuing, and I had to pay attention.

• Here is schedule for weekday. 6:00 you wake up.

I will? Magically? I hope to God there's an alarm clock.

• 6:15 you go to kitchen. You assist Henri make breakfast.

• 7:00 you wake Master and wash and dress.

• 7:30 you serve breakfast and 8:00 you wash dish. After wash dish, you have few minutes eat.

• 8:30 you report to Ivan, do housework.

• 11:30 you report to Henri. You assist make lunch.

• 12:30 you serve lunch. After lunch you wash dish, have few minutes eat, then report bathroom to clean out.

• 2:00 you report different person each day – Monday is Pyotr, Tuesday is Henri, Wednesday is Ivan, Thursday is Grigory, Friday is Ruslan.

Wait – didn't you just say I would NOT be working for Ruslan?

• On Tuesday when Henri release you, you go to Grigory. Same on Friday when Ruslan release you. You go straight to Grigory, no time rest.

• 4:30 you report to me. In bedroom unless I am otherwise.

• 5:30 you report to Henri to assist make dinner.

• 7:00 you serve dinner and then wash dish and eat.

• 8:30 you report to playroom.

Playroom? Didn't like the sound of that.

• 9:00 you report to my bedroom and clean out. You there rest of night.

My mind was reeling. They were going to work me to the bone and – but he wasn't done.

• You bright boy, but I not expect you memorize from hear once. I have store on computer which you will be allow when you go upstairs. Tomorrow, you must know schedule and follow without remind. Are clocks in every room. Is your responsible to report for duty on time. If you are single minute late, I will know.

• You notice most time with staff, not Master. When you with staff, remember you are slave. Order from staff is like order from Master – you obey. Do not hesitate, do not ask question, do not roll eye. If you disobey staff, they tell me and you have punish. If you speak without permission, you have punish. When speaking is allow, you call them Sir'. Anyone allow to wearing clothes is Sir'. Except me, I am `Master'. Is clear?

• Yes, Master.

• (one of the Casual Fridays) Got that, boy?

The younger, shorter one. If that was his idea of a test, he must think I'm a dolt.

• Yes, Sir.

`Richard' continued.

• Their authority over you include – within limit – use of body.

What? Oh, shit. You're kidding me.

• Servant, business staff all have access to mouth on weekday. Whenever want.

I picked out the key words: All. Mouth. Whenever want. Latronius, I don't think you gave me enough lessons. [Author's Note: in Ch. 26, the `maroon' Latronius gave Alex a lesson in cocksucking.]

• Now, about ass. Only servant allow fuck ass on weekday. One each day, in afternoon. On weekend is good news.

I can use some. My mind is reeling.

• On Saturday, schedule modify. You work meal with Henri as usual. You work Grigory in morning if weather good, otherwise, Ivan. Afternoon, you with me. But I not fuck you, no one fuck you in afternoon. I not fuck you bedtime either.

It sounded like Saturday was going to be my favorite day.

• On Sunday, staff have day off. Henri make food day before. You spend day with me. I fuck you in evening but only once. That is good news. Here is best news. Saturday night is party.

. . . And?

• Sometime I invite guest. Most time not. This week party for staff only. Everyone here, they all come. And guess who is guest of honor?

I nearly shit in the pants I wasn't wearing. I knew what that meant, and it wasn't everyone sipping wine, noshing on hors d'oeuvres, and raising toasts to me while singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow".

`Richard' addressed the staff further, in Russian, and headed toward the stairs. I followed him – always, unless – only to have him shake his head. This, I guess, was Unless.

• You stay. Obey what is tell you.

DMITRI: I don't know which surprised him more – the revelation of the Saturday night parties or the fact that I left him alone in the entrance hall.

It was time to administer discipline. You would have expected that I would do that myself, and on occasion I do, but mostly I don't. And I wanted to establish that precedent immediately.

In the olden days, misbehaving young princes had a so-called whipping boy – a boy who would suffer the whippings for him, because the royal backside was too distinguished to be marked or bruised with whatever they beat boys' bums with back then.

I had my own whipping boy – only mine administered the whippings, instead of receiving them. And he was no boy.

ALEX: Did I have a world left? If so, it fell apart right then – psychologically a worse minute than when he had ordered me up on the bed to surrender my asshole to his uncaring cock. I at least had known that was coming.

The first blow was the worst – Saturday night parties – and I was to be the guest of honor. I thought about the Wednesday lunch orgy and Iowa being sodomized four times in a row inches away from me and then tossed aside like yesterday's food scraps. There would be nine Men at that party and they would all have their way with me, there was no doubt about that.

I was reeling from that revelation when the second surprise hit me. He walked away leaving me in the company of these Men, with the simple instruction, "Obey what is tell you."

Were they going to have me now – all eight of them? Surely not – `Richard' had told me to clean myself out at 9:00 which had to mean he was going to plunder me again with his prodigious phallus.

It was only 8:00. They weren't going to rape me before I –

• Come with me, boy.

I looked up. Who had said it? I wasn't sure. It was a Russian voice, not the Frenchman Henri, and it came from the right side of the line – Ivan or Grigory or –

Ruslan. I could tell by the way he looked at me expectantly that it was he who had spoken. This chiseled piece of beef in the muscle shirt bore through me with his eyes.

I was about to answer "Yes, Sir," then caught myself and walked over toward him.

DMITRI: To any independent observer, Ruslan would appear to be the least important member of the household staff – a handyman, jack of all trades, used here and there, filling in for others, like a utility player on a baseball team. Without the title of Head Housekeeper, Chef, Chauffeur, Gardener, just Also-on-Staff. But the others knew how valuable he was. He was also the instrument through which discipline was administered. His physical presence was imposing enough when fully dressed. Undressed? His cock was longer than mine and fifty percent thicker.

Alexei would not feel his cock tonight. But he would see it. It was in the IAMSO guidelines: "In the administration of discipline or punishment, the member of the slaveowner (or his designee) shall be unencumbered by clothing so that it may be allowed its full expression, and should be displayed prominently to the slave."

ALEX: I heard some of the servants snicker as Ruslan, this compact mountain of a Man, led me away. We passed down a hallway, passing a library and a conference room, and descended a staircase.

There was a door at the foot of the stairs. He grabbed the knob and pushed the door open.

• This is playroom.

The playroom. It was on my schedule. Every night, 8:30. Only I wouldn't have called it a playroom. I would have called it a dungeon.

There was a variety of equipment, all of it astonishing to me. There was an X-shaped cross, like the one St. Andrew was crucified on. There were padded benches over which one could be bent to be spanked – or fucked. There were pommel horses. There was a pair of stocks in a rectangular recess with mirrored walls facing each other. There were two slings. There were chains dangling from the ceiling with handcuffs attached. There were tables with holes in the middle to put your junk through.

And a variety of accessories – whips, canes, paddles, straps, harnesses, spreaders, hoods, dildoes and various other restraints. I didn't have time to take it all in.

He led me over to a rectangular hinged frame – two vertical strips along the outside with cross-pieces at the top, bottom, and middle – the shape of a domino, or a mousetrap without the trap. The middle piece was hinged so that the angle between the top and bottom halves could be adjusted. At the moment the piece was angled at about 75 degrees.

He positioned me against the frame. The hinged crossbar hit me at the belly-button. There were straps attached to the four corners of the frame. He lifted my left foot and secured it with a strap.

• Grab hold of top straps. Or I lift you and you won't like that.

I grabbed hold of the top straps. After I did so, he fixed my right ankle to the frame. Then he grabbed my left wrist, pulled it tight, and affixed it to the top of the frame. It was exactly the right distance – the frame was designed for a man of my height, I realized. Soon I was spread-eagled against the frame. Although I couldn't move, more straps were coming, around my thighs and my biceps, pulling me more into an X-shape. My head, torso, and junk were all exposed and vulnerable.

I knew I was going to be struck, but I wasn't sure where or with what.

But there was a pause and I heard quiet noises behind me, a soft thump followed by some even softer plops and a tiny jingle – like a belt buckle hitting the floor as jeans were shed. Which was exactly what it was.

I heard him approach from behind and then his hand grabbed my left buttock, and he swatted it gently with his palm.

• Very nice. I going to enjoy this.

As if to prove his point, he walked in front of me to show me just how happy he was. He had stripped and his cock was standing at attention.

Until now, the largest cock I had ever seen belonged to Latronius. Latronius was impressive, but my God, this was mammoth. It was long, yes, but it was the thickness of the thing that was terrifying, almost like a baguette had been attached to his body.

And what a body. I had told you before that I could appreciate the beauty of the male form in works of art like sculptures. Ruslan in the nude, memorialized by a master sculptor, could have become as famous as Rodin's Thinker, Myron's Discus Thrower, or Michelangelo's David – if they'd been hairy. But David in comparison was scrawny. The work of art that came to mind was the Farnese Hercules – only Hercules' member was not erect and was, in comparison, minuscule.

• I see you like.

He grasped my cock, which had developed a slight tumescence – but far from an erection, mind you, it wasn't like that. Of course when he touched it, it was stimulated further and started to pop to life. Genitals do that when sensitized.

• You want this.

I wanted to deny it but knew I had to keep my mouth shut. He reached under and tickled my balls and I was helpless – my cock surged upward and soon was nearly as stiff as his own.

• Well, sorry to disappoint, but you don't get my cock tonight.

He walked behind me, then returned with a long prison strap.

• Instead, you get this. Your Master say to go easy – is your first day.

He adjusted the hinge, bending my torso forward so that my ass presented a more favorable angle, and he ran his fingers over my protruding rump.

• Nice. Very nice. It look even nicer with some color on it.

I heard the smack before I felt it. But then I felt it and my ass was on fire. My buttocks were screaming and

Whack! The strap was planted across my buttocks a second time. This was getting off easy?

Whack!

He moved up behind me and rubbed his hands over my burning rump. My erection had disappeared in a hurry, all I could feel now was pain.

Whack!

Whack!

I could hold it no longer and a sound emitted from my mouth somewhere between a grunt and a moan.

My mind reverted to the spanking contest on the ship – when Matti and I had to paddle the buttocks of half a dozen Bottoms as hard as we could, and they had to keep quiet. How did they do it? We were –

Whack!

Aaarrghhh! Okay, I was loud. That one had caught me off guard, there was no

Whack!

point in trying to hold it in, just try not to

Whack!

say words but my grunts are

Whack!

starting to turn into screams until he said

• Almost done. Just one more. So let's make it a good one.

MEGA-WHACK!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! I had never felt anything so fierce in my life. I just let it out long and hard, breathing in desperate gasps, trying to stay sane.

• That was discipline. Now we have punishment.

Oh, no, I can't take more of this! I must have whimpered because he smiled and patted me on the cheek – the cheek on my face.

• Boss say you spoke out of turn this afternoon.

What? I said "Yes, Master" when he ordered me to get up – I was being punished for THAT? I looked at this magnificent beast with something approaching hatred.

• Don't worry, boy. Your ass red enough for tonight. No more strap.

He moved to the frame an adjusted it so that I was all aligned and nearly vertical.

And he showed me a cat-o-nine tails, or a flogger, or whatever you want to call it, but it had more than nine tails and they looked heavy.

• Just ten of these on back.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

These were easier to take. I managed to keep most of my noise inside and it seemed to go faster. I breathed a sigh of relief.

• And ten for thighs.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

Omigod, these were worse. Not as bad as the strap on my butt but I didn't realize how sensitive my thighs were.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

• And one more – let's see if we can make this one a bit special.

Oh, no, please not –

AAAAAAAGGGGH! SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITFUCK!

The bastard had swung it up, between my thighs and struck me squarely on my hanging balls and the tip of my cock.

And then I heard him laugh.

• That was because I like you.

He walked around in front of me and I could see pre-cum oozing from his erection, dripping onto the floor.

• You going to be fun to work on. Much more fun than Jackson.

Jackson? Who the hell was Jackson? He must have been my predecessor. And he was short – like me – which is why the frame fit so perfectly.

My predecessor was small, with an American name. I had no proof, but somehow I knew: This wasn't the only time they had run Little Big Man. They'd done it before. And Jackson was part of it.

Was part of it.

Was.

What happened to him? And what will happen to me?

DMITRI: In my bedroom I have a live feed from the playroom and so I watched this whole delightful episode as it played out. Ruslan, of course, had lied. I had not told him to go easy because it was his first day. Ruslan had gone at him with full force. You have to test a slave early and I was pleased – he held up well under the big man's assaults, keeping the noise to a minimum until the final swats.

From Ruslan's words I got the impression that Alexei had been stimulated when presented with Ruslan's prodigious phallus – unfortunately, the camera angle was designed to give me a prime view of the boy's delectable rump and so I missed any phallic exhibition.

Ruslan was one happy camper, that was for sure. I'm sure he would have speared him on the spot had it been allowed. This pleased me, too. I wanted to keep Ruslan happy. I had plans for him, eventually.

ALEX: After Ruslan dressed, he was still rock-hard; I could see the outline of his penis clearly through his jeans. I expected him to return me to `Richard' – or at least to the foyer – but he simply announced,

• Is almost nine.

Nine. I was supposed to be in Richard's bedroom at 9:00 – or more accurately, his bathroom, so that I could clean myself out' for Buttfucking Alex II – The Sequel. First the inside of my ass, then the outside, now the inside again. And I had been here barely five hours.

I walked back to the entrance hall, somehow expecting to see the staff still there, lined up, awaiting my return.

It was empty.

I looked longingly at the front door. There was no one between it and me. I could make a dash for it, like South Carolina diving over the ship's railing

With just as much success. I'd never get past the gate. Pyotr would spot me or an alarm would go off or Dobermans would chew me to death; even if I somehow got over the gate, I was naked and helpless and what if whoever found me brought me right back here? I'd be facing something that would make what I'd just gone through look like a birthday party with balloons and a three-layer cake. He might even take my balls.

No, as tempting as it was, I had to keep my head. This was a test – they were presenting me with temptation, I had to refuse it. I wasn't South Carolina. I had to be a good slave. I had to please him. This was not going to be a happy time but I had to make it as good as possible.

Two minutes to nine. I scrambled up the stairs, finding the door closed. Do I knock or just enter? In Downton Abbey the servants just entered.

I knocked.

• Da.

He sounded annoyed, and wasn't even bothering with English.

He was at his computer and paid me no attention. I took that as satisfaction and headed for the bathroom. The enema bag was still empty from this afternoon, so I filled it, inserted the nozzle into my anus, and let the warm water flow into me.

After I was clean, I re-entered the bedroom. He was lying on top of his bed, reading a book. Naked. Apparently I would not have to undress him tonight, with my teeth or otherwise.

He paid me no attention, so I sat in the corner and waited.

And waited. Finally, after about an hour, he put down his book and said,

• Bring lubricant.

Bring lubricant. Which was . . . where?

I looked around the room and saw nothing that looked like lubricant. If it was in a drawer somewhere he couldn't expect me to find it. It must be –

He jerked his head an inch or so to the right – in the direction of the bathroom. Right. Just what I was guessing, but I was afraid to leave the room without his approval.

I looked through the medicine cabinet and the drawers of the vanity. What did lubricant look like? I wasn't gay, how was I to know. Obviously a liquid or gel of some sort. There were some jars, one that looked like Vaseline, was that it? All the labels were in fucking Cyrillic.

I grabbed everything plausible and carried them back to him. He picked out one, a cylindrical bottle with a pump, and I gestured as if I was going to return the rejects to the bathroom – I wasn't sure if I should.

• (sharply) Is that question?

Shit. I can't even ask questions with body language?

• (as humbly as I could) No, Master.

• Just do. If wrong, I correct.

I restrained myself from saying `Yes, Master', which had earned me the extra flogging, and returned the rejects to where I found them. Meanwhile he was stroking himself, getting hard, and I steeled myself for what was to come.

Still lying on his back on the bed, he pumped some lubricant into his palm and lathered it over his cock. Then he handed the bottle to me. I assumed I was to return it to the bathroom, but he barked the word "Inside" to me and I stopped.

Inside. Ah - inside myself. I pumped some gel onto my finger, bent over, reached between my legs and awkwardly inserted it into my anus. I took a second dose – I wanted as much lube up there as possible.

• (brusquely) Is enough.

I put the cap back on and faced him.

• In nightstand drawer is condom. Get.

I scrambled to the nightstand, pulled out one of a dozen little packets and opened it. This was a surprise – he had not been wearing one in the afternoon when he had bred me.

Was this to protect me against a disease he had? In which case this afternoon had been dangerous for me. Or –

• Put on.

I took the condom and approached his erect penis but he slapped my hand away.

• No. You wear.

What?? He wanted me to wear a condom? Did he actually want ME to fuck HIM? Maybe I was not to be exclusively used as a catcher – I could pitch sometimes. After all, I had been a Top on the boat – maybe that was my training for this part of the job.

I could hardly believe my luck. One thing I had discovered on the boat was that I actually enjoyed fucking ass, even male ass.

• Order is to obey immediate. You want more punish?

A question. Answer him.

• No, Master.

Shit, I'd allowed my mind to think instead of just doing.

I manipulated my cock until it was tumescent enough to fit the condom over, and worked it on. While I was doing so, he rose and walked to a cabinet which held a variety of linens, blankets and pillows. He pulled out a pillow and threw it on the center of the bed.

He pointed to it.

• Face down.

Wait, this was confusing. If I was to fuck him, why would –

• Not want stain on pillow if you have accident.

Oh, shit. I was getting fucked again. I climbed onto the bed, and spread myself over the pillow, raising my ass for his easier access.

He was worried I was going to shoot my load while he fucked me? Or even soil his precious pillow with my pre-cum? I mean, like THAT was going to happen . . .

• Ass nice color. Ruslan do good job.

Three cheers for Ruslan. Hurt like hell but Master is happy. Hoofuckingray.

And then he climbed on top of me, pushed himself into me, and I was fucked for the second time in my life, both within the last six hours.

He was no gentler this time than he was before, shoving his entire length in in as little time as he could muster. And then he pounded me for a good twenty minutes, the inside of my ass replacing the outside of my ass as the sorest part of my body. I grunted with every thrust, as from time to time he spoke to himself in Russian. I imagined he was saying things like "Take that, bitch" or "Now you understand who is Master".

When it was over, we each showered. As I headed back to my corner, Master – by now that was his name in my head – opened the nightstand drawer and selected a device the size of a button. Or a hearing aid. I hadn't noticed it when I opened the nightstand but then I was just focused on finding the condoms.

He handed it to me.

• Alarm clock.

One small worry alleviated. I had been wondering how the hell I was supposed to be able to get up at six in the morning and do my duties when one of those duties was to wake him at seven.

I pushed it into my right ear, where it fit comfortably and I decided I could sleep with that inserted.

• Schedule on computer. Memorize. Do not touch.

I went beyond his bed for the first time. This was the side of the room that contained his desk with the computer, his bookshelves, his dresser, his closets, a couple of armchairs, and shelves full of knick-knacks that were probably expensive works of art.

On my way, I noticed a doggy bed – a huge one, large enough for a Great Dane – on the floor by his bed.

He saw me notice it.

• Where you sleep.

I drank it in. On the plus side, I wouldn't be sharing his bed, within easy reach if the mood struck him for Buttfucking Alex III – Night Attack. On the downside, it was a doggy bed on the floor.

I evaluated it. Yes, it was large enough for me to curl up inside, I supposed. And the edges of it, while only a few inches thick, could serve as a sort of pillow. It would be far more comfortable than the way I had spent the previous night – locked inside a trunk. It was also preferable to the cold cement floor of the room in Mogadishu – although that space had had its compensations: Matti's smooth chest as my pillow, with Rhody's hard form warming me from behind.

And Matti's kiss. It was mostly to please him, but it was a moment of true intimacy born out of – well, let's call it affection.

Enough of that, Alex. Matti is gone, gone forever. Even Rhody is gone forever. Your life now is Master, and Ivan and Henri and Grigory and Pyotr. And Ruslan. And unless you want another session with Ruslan you better fucking memorize this schedule.

Master had turned on the television, which I was able to tune out – I could normally tune out noise, but it was especially easy when it was in a language you didn't understand.

The schedule was on the computer screen, in chart form – days across the top, times down the side. I wished I had Matti's structured, mathematical mind, but I could memorize things if I repeated them to myself often enough. All the weekdays were the same except for the afternoons. So I just had to memorize tomorrow's schedule, and then the 2:00 – 4:30 slot for each day.

It worked best if I said things out loud but that would clearly have been verboten – I settled for "saying" the schedule silently to myself, hoping that Master wouldn't consider my moving lips as a transgression. Then I closed my eyes and recited it to myself over and over and over until it was so ingrained I could set it to music. I just hoped I could still sing that tune in the morning.

The TV clicked off. The clock on the computer read 11:59.

• Turn off lights.

I spied the control switch near the door, and flicked it. There was still enough light to see by in the room, not a lot but a little. There couldn't possibly be light outside at midnight; there must be a security light or something. Whatever.

Master had pulled the covers over himself, covering his nakedness. His eyes were closed. I dropped to the floor and curled up inside my "doggy bed", wishing I had a blanket or at least a sheet to cover myself.

The first day of my slavery was over. But I had only been a slave for about eight hours. Tomorrow it would be twenty-four.

It took me a while to fall asleep.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A SLAVE]