Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

BOOK THREE: THERE'LL BE SOME CHANGES MADE

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: PRACTICUM

Previously: Dmitri wants Ruslan to take a leading role in running the upcoming "Little Big Man Europe". But first, Ruslan must become a member of IAMSO, the International Association of Male Slave Owners. To do so, Ruslan must pass a test on IAMSO policies and best practices, and complete a `practicum', experiencing forty-eight hours in the role of a slave. Dmitri arranges for him to serve his practicum at an IAMSO training facility on a Greek island. Dmitri writes to his old mentor, Nikolai, and asking him for his help in deciding Alexei's future disposition. Nikolai arrives the following week (December 5), filling in for Ruslan while he was serving his practicum.

At a `private party' at Yuri's home (December 17), Ruslan tells Nurbek that he has an idea for how they could obtain Alexei and Rodion (Rhody), respectively, as their personal slaves – an idea he got after serving his practicum – which he served not in Greece but at the Royal Palace.

Dmitri has explained that, to understand Alexei's story, Ruslan must take over the narration for aspects that neither Dmitri nor Alexei witnessed in person. We rewind to a point two days after Dmitri's e-mail to Nikolai but before Ruslan's departure for his practicum.

DMITRI: Friday, 2 December – St. Petersburg, Russia

You might think that a Master is always cool, calm and collected, having total control, but that's not the case. You just can't show your stress to slaves. This week has been incredibly stressful.

First, Sasha comes to me with the news that a million euros are missing from the LBM Europe account. We call in Tcherepnin and Bobrovsky from the FSB and discover the embezzlement took place at my very own computer while I was away. Alexei saw Grigory at my computer on the night in question; Grigory was arrested and I had to hire a new gardener. Tcherepnin thinks we can recover the funds, though it will take a while. If it is not done by next summer, I may have to subsidize it myself. I can sustain the temporary loss of a million euros, but it's not something I would ever choose to do.

Arranging Ruslan's IAMSO membership, while a pleasant task, is also a lot of work. But I need him to be part of LBM Europe. He's off to Greece for his practicum next week.

Then there's the Alexei conundrum: keep him or sell him? It's gnawing on my brain. I am glad that Nikolai is coming and will be grateful for his counsel.

I hardly needed another issue to deal with, but today I got one in the form of a phone call. A polite voice on the other end said, in English:

• Sir, am I speaking with Dmitri Malenkov?

• . . . Yes.

My answer is cautious, wheels spinning in my head. I use three surnames – my true name, one I use for my legitimate' businesses, and Malenkov, which I use only within IAMSO. Ergo, this is someone in the slave-owning circle. But no slaveowner would address me as Sir' in that deferential way. So I must be speaking to a slave, on behalf of his owner.

But who do I know who would have a slave call me rather than do it himself?

• Sir, my Master the Prince Regent would like to speak with you.

Ah, that's who. But it was a stunner. The Prince and I have a solid working relationship but we don't exchange social calls. This must be business. But it's not remotely close to the time of year when we talk LBM business. What's up?

• Dmitri.

• Your Majesty, what a pleasant surprise.

• Surprise, no doubt, but I'm not sure it's pleasant.

• Is there a problem?

• Your slave.

• . . . I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but how can my slave be a problem for you?

• I want you to send it here.

The Prince Regent didn't use masculine pronouns when referring to slaves. Alexei was an `it'.

• I turned you down in September, what makes you think Alexei's available now?

• Is it?

• No. Not at the moment. I'm keeping an open mind.

• Sounds like it's negotiable. Actually, Dmitri, I wasn't asking to purchase your boy – though I am still very interested in acquiring it if your mind is truly open. Here's what I AM asking - I want you to lend it to me for a few days.

• Lend him to you? I don't understand.

• One or more of our slaves has committed a crime, but we're not sure who is responsible. Our traditional efforts to resolve this have not been successful. Not to sound overly dramatic, but I need an undercover agent.

• Excuse me?

• We know our slaves converse when they are alone. I think we could get the truth from a slave who talks to other slaves. But our slaves won't pass on the information directly to us. They claim ignorance – I know some are lying but we have no proof. Your boy, Andrei –

• Alexei.

• Ah, yes, Alexei, Andrei is that delectable flutist I enjoyed dangling over the rotunda. Alexei strikes me as exceptionally honest. As it exhibited in that trial when you were here.

• He will not lie.

If you overlook his refusal to admit that he was gay.

• And it has some charm.

• Not that he gets much opportunity to use it now.

• I'll give him the opportunity. I want you to send it here so it can go undercover and find out what's going on. Alexei will want to please you, and won't want an unfavorable report from me, so I think it'll tell me what it learns.

• He will, if asked. Do you have a specific suspect?

• Yes, which is why this is a sensitive issue: my son Abdullah's slave.

• . . . Your Majesty, isn't Abdullah's slave Minnesota, the diver?

• It is.

• Then there is a problem.

• Which is?

• Alexei has an attachment to that boy.

• What? How could it possibly? You were here when they had the diving contest. Abdullah's boy humiliated it.

• They knew each other before the contest. They are good friends, Your Majesty. VERY good friends. Your son's boy may have been trying to hide that from you at the swimming pool. Alexei won't be able to assess the situation objectively, even if he tries, and if Abdullah's boy is implicated, Alexei may try to suppress it. He doesn't tell lies, but he is good at answering questions narrowly and omitting information. Besides, I'll be honest – I do not want to give up my boy for even a few days.

• So you are refusing my request?

• I think your request is inadvisable and won't produce results. However . . .

• However?

• I just thought of something. I am sponsoring one of my servants for IAMSO membership and coincidentally was preparing to send him to Greece for his practicum next week. What if, instead, he served it with you? He could pose as a slave and there would be no question of his not giving you a full report.

• Who is this servant?

• His name is Ruslan. He's large – he'd have to pose as a trusty – but there's another advantage to you. You have many slaves who are local, do you not?

• Yes, of course, especially the kitchen and garden slaves.

• Ruslan's mother was Egyptian. He knows Arabic. He could talk to slaves who don't speak English.

• . . . Dmitri?

• Yes, Your Majesty?

• When can he get here?

• Would Monday be soon enough?

I'll let Ruslan take over the story from here – again, with Oleg translating into smooth English.

RUSLAN: I should have said no. I should have insisted on going to Greece, where I at least would undergo the same practicum as most new IAMSO members. But when your boss offers you the chance of a lifetime – a cost-free slave and a dacha of your own – you don't quibble over terms. Besides, he said, I speak Arabic. Well, I understand more than I can speak, but as a `slave' I wouldn't be speaking much anyway, would I.

When he saw my discomfort, he quoted Nietzsche:

• `That which does not kill me makes me stronger.'

• Was Nietzsche a slave in a palace full of eunuchs?

• Relax, Ruslan – only a few are castrated. You won't join their number – if you behave, of course. (Wry smile.)

As if that was reassuring. I was so disturbed by the prospect of serving my practicum in a palace full of randy Arabs – who wouldn't know I was only posing as a slave – that I needed a way to release all my anger. Fortunately, it was Friday, which was Fuck Day for me. I pounded Alexei like I'd rarely pounded him before. God, it felt good, but Alexei noticed that I was being unusually aggressive. He didn't say anything – of course, he couldn't – but his guttural reactions and body language told me he was confused about why I was being so violent on this particular day.

I was thinking about the possibility that someone might soon be that violent with me. At least Alexei was used to being fucked.

MONDAY, 5 DECEMBER, SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDDLE EAST

It was a private jet, which I'd boarded early this morning – and occupied only by the two pilots, myself, and my escort, a fiftyish American named Bill Tompkins. He gave me his life story as we flew. He was an employee of a company, wholly owned by the Royal Family, that coordinated the movement of slaves. One of the few outsiders – short of IAMSO members – who knew that the Royal Family even owned slaves.

• They give us lie detector tests every week. If I ever spilled the beans about their slaveholdings, they'd have my balls off in thirty seconds. I'm not young or pretty enough to be a slave, so I'd wind up in one of their prisons for the rest of my life. Or worse – they have the death penalty there. So I keep my mouth shut – and they pay me well.

• That's fine as long as you work for them. But if you leave?

• I can't leave.

• What about when you retire? How can they control you forever?

• Oh, they have a place for retirees. I'll have to live there – no choice. But I've seen it – it's nice. Everything you need. Even staffed with slaves to cook and clean – and fulfill all your other needs, if you know what I mean.

A sound emanated from Tompkins' phone. He turned to me and smiled:

• Okay, buddy, time to get naked.

• What?

• We're going to land in less than an hour. You need to strip.

• Here on the plane?

Tompkins looked at me as if I was crazy.

• You ever see a slave with clothes on? You've got to be buck naked when we get off this plane or everybody on that landing field will know you're a fake.

• Why so early? We've got almost an hour.

• We've got to shave you, too.

I sighed, and undressed. He looked me over, appraising me with his eyes.

• Sorry about all that chest hair. That's gotta come off. So does your bush, I hope you know that.

I nodded and lay down on the table, face up. He ran the razor over my skin, and it made me feel twice as naked to be deprived of my fur. He scraped my abdomen clean with a straight razor, then I flipped while he scraped off what hair I had behind me – including, to my shame, around my anus.

But I had to admit – my cock looked even bigger without my pubes.

By the time he had finished, the pilot was announcing our descent. I strapped myself in for landing and sat nervously awaiting what would happen next.

Handcuffs happened next, behind my back, and he escorted me nude off the plane in the midst of blazing heat. I suppose being nude kept me a bit cooler.

I was met by two tall men in Arab dress, both in their forties or fifties and well-built. One had a full beard and an angular face, the other was more handsome, with a five-o'-clock shadow. They exchanged greetings in Arabic with Tompkins, unaware that I understood them.

• (Beardy) This the new trusty? The Russian?

• (Tompkins) Yep. He goes straight to the Prince Regent.

• (Five-o-clock Shadow) Wonder what he did to earn that privilege.

• (Tompkins) Well, look at that cock on him. I expect the Prince wants to use that to keep some of his boys in line.

• (Beardy, looking skeptical) Maybe. But that won't be the first part of him His Majesty puts to use.

The three of them shared a laugh. I looked uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable. They saw me look uncomfortable and shared a laugh about that, too.

Tompkins returned to the plane, leaving me in the hands of the two Arabs. Alone, naked, handcuffed, in a foreign country, regarded as a worthless slave. Dmitri, what have you done to me?

Twenty minutes and several insults later, I arrived at the Royal Palace, which was unlike any building I had ever seen. It was magnificent, a white marble structure several stories high, topped by what appeared to be an open dome with four nearly connecting arches, solid white (probably marble) with some kind of ornamentation at the end.

They directed the driver to `the private entrance' and we drove around to the back of the palace. I could see naked slaves working in the gardens, which, in this heat, must have taken a lot of watering to keep green. They gave us no notice as I was unloaded and led inside an unprepossessing door which led directly to an elevator with only one button. Beardy pressed it and moments later it opened directly into what I presumed was the Prince Regent's living quarters.

It was as lavish as any palatial living room you saw in the movies. The furniture was all gold-trimmed, with satin upholstery, polished wood cabinets and tables, paintings on the walls that I was guessing were originals by artists well-known enough to hang in the Heritage – one that looked like Monet, one that looked like Rubens – at least to my uneducated eye.

One of the walls was glass. We were just above roof level, thus affording a splendid view of the arches angling over the dome. From this vantage point, I could see that the decorations ornamenting the end of the arches were a pair of life-sized marble statues of nude males, one lovingly embracing the other from behind. But then – did I see one of the heads move slightly? No, impossible. Just my imagination.

The room's other occupants consisted of four men, in elaborate robes, and three slaves, in standard slave attire (nothing). It was easy to pick out the Prince Regent. One of the slaves was my size, the other two small enough to be LBM alumni – both looked Western: one white, one Black.

Beardy and Five-o'-clock Shadow discreetly withdrew. The others, ignoring me for the time being, were conversing heatedly in Arabic – about me.

• (the tallest of the clothed men) I do not understand, brother, why you took on a trusty with so little experience.

• (Prince Regent) It came highly recommended, Khalid. There were others bidding for its services.

• (a third man) But its owner was not even in IAMSO.

• (PR) I am aware of that, Mustafa. I have it on approval – it can be returned if it doesn't work out. Or I can sell it and perhaps turn a profit.

So these were the Prince Regent's brothers – Khalid, Mustafa, and – through inference – Rashid. Dmitri had given me a little lowdown about them. He had had a difficult negotiation with them over the slave selection – Khalid and Mustafa had been responsible for all the trouble. I could see there was still some tension between them and the Prince Regent.

• (Khalid) But look at it. It doesn't even know how to present itself when it enters a room of its superiors.

Oh, shit. Distracted by the circumstances, I had forgotten one of the basics of slave behavior. I should have immediately dropped to the floor and displayed my ass. For a micro-second I started to correct that, but caught myself in time. I couldn't let them know I understood Arabic.

The argument went on for another minute or two before the P.R. put an end to it by saying that regardless, I was here and he needed to question me. On his direction, the small Black slave retrieved a file from his office. The P.R. opened it and addressed me:

• This is the file I received from your former master. Your name has been Marat?

Dmitri had told me to maintain whatever façade was presented. Apparently my name was Marat.

• Yes, sir.

The brothers looked shocked. The P.R. turned toward the large slave and made a small head movement. The slave – a trusty, obviously – walked over and slapped me, hard.

• (P.R., sharply) The proper response is, `Yes, Your Majesty'.

Where was my head? Another rookie mistake. I almost mumbled `Yes, Your Majesty' in response, then realized it would have been yet another error – not a question, not an order, keep your mouth shut, Ruslan. I was developing a quick appreciation of Alexei's learning process.

• It says here you were responsible for overseeing and disciplining five slaves owned by a businessman in Omsk who had a small factory. Is that correct?

• Yes, Your Majesty.

• Since your master was not a member of IAMSO, I need to know what protocols he observed. Did he keep you nude at all times?

• (Hmmm. Decision time.) No, Your Majesty.

Gasps from the brothers.

• But the other slaves – they were nude at all times?

• No, Your Majesty. The factory and his shop were open to the public, so he kept us all clothed during business hours. After the shop was closed, he made us strip, Your Majesty.

• I see. No wonder he wasn't a member of IAMSO. And were you fucked daily?

Oh, dear. If they inspected me, they would see that I hadn't been.

• No, Your Majesty.

• Deplorable. Did he at least fuck his other slaves?

• He took one of them to bed each night, Your Majesty. I was responsible for fucking two of the others each day.

• That's only three. What about the other two?

• They – had the day off, so to speak, Your Majesty.

• (Khalid) Outrageous and irresponsible! The man should be horsewhipped. And you bought a slave from this man?

• (P.R., ignoring him) So he didn't fuck you, but instead used you as a stud?

• Yes, Your Majesty.

• At least you have the tool for it. But there will be none of that here, initially. Trusties only are giving fucking privileges after one year. If I keep you, you will be given discipline responsibilities in two weeks. But you will be fucked daily like any other slave. Is your ass virgin, boy?

• (blushing) Yes, Your Majesty.

Grins all around.

• That status is about to change. In this household, good slaves get saliva as a lubricant. Are you a good slave?

No rookie mistake here: I recognize a trap question when I hear it. Fortunately, I've observed Alexei dealing with situations like this and knew how he'd respond.

• That is not for me to judge, Your Majesty.

• (Mustafa) Well, at least its former master taught it something.

• (P.R.) Your name is no longer Marat. It is Boy'. We call all of our slaves Boy'. If we need to distinguish you from other boys, we will use your number. Your number is 4397. Next week it will be tattooed on your chest and on your back.

• (Khalid, protesting) Next week? It should be immediate. This is not the protocol –

• Khalid, I told you I procured this slave on approval. I haven't decided if I will keep it. It'll be harder to sell with our mark on its body.

• (Khalid) On the contrary, it would become more valuable – a slave worthy of the Royal Family – it would have prestige.

• (Rashid, laughing) A slave – with prestige, brother? What does it say if it has our mark – but we sell it? That it was a reject, not good enough for us. That makes it damaged goods. I'm with our brother on this one.

Ah, the youngest brother speaks. And he aligns himself with the Prince Regent – sensing a dynamic of two brothers against two brothers.

The P.R. apparently considered this discussion over. He turned to the trusty who had slapped me.

• Get this boy prepped and bring it to the Fuck Room.

He had a special room just for fucking? It's good to be royalty, I guess. And off I went to the bathroom. The trusty – quite a handsome fellow – administered the enema without speaking a word.

I have witnessed many an enema but had never been subjected to one myself. It was humiliating – but oddly pleasant, especially at the moment of release. I felt purged, clean; it gave me strength for what was to come.

Minutes later, I was lying on my back on a slab in a room equipped with several pieces of furniture suitable for fucking slaves. The P.R. and his brothers were waiting for me – stripped to the buff and erect. The trusty and the small white slave were also there, patiently stationed in the corners. Mustafa and Rashid took hold of my feet, pushed them back over my chest near my ear and then spread them wide, exposing my hole to the max. The P.R. then directed the two slaves to spit in my hole – apparently the Royal Saliva was too good for the likes of me.

I felt the Royal Cock hovering at my anus and looked up at the face of the man who was about to invade me. He smiled and gave me a surreptitious wink, as if to acknowledge that what was about to happen was for my own good, and then pain reverberated throughout my body as his sword penetrated my inner sanctum. I moaned in astonishment, evoking chortles from the P.R.'s brothers, amused (and engorged) spectators, and let the pain flow through me.

After the initial wave passed through me and he drove into me deeper, the pain became my friend. I was a man, after all – a man who can withstand pain, and this was a good pain, a masculine pain. As his member scraped and tested the sides of my rectum, it invoked within me nothing less than pride. I was taking his manhood, and I was taking it with all my dignity intact. It was a strange, unexpected reaction. I did not feel diminished, like a lowly slave. I did not feel humiliated. I felt empowered, strong, invincible. You can ravish my ass, I thought, but you cannot conquer me. I will take everything you can give but you will not diminish me.

The Prince pumped away at my guts – his grunts twinned with mine and we gained some kind of synchronicity. I did not grow hard – it was not pleasurable from a sexual standpoint – but psychologically I knew I was emerging from this in triumph. The Prince, looking directly into my face, may have seen this – his face grew darker and discouraging. He was warning me to be more humble, I realized, to be more fearful. I forced my expression to be weaker, as if I felt truly being ravished against my will. Which, of course, I was, but the expression of pride I felt at the experience was so unexpected it was hard for me to suppress it.

By the time his cock had shared its semen with my bowels, I was projecting agony that I did not feel. I knew that I was expressing the right attitude by the rude comments coming from the brothers – which they presumed I did not understand. They congratulated the Prince on the satisfactory deflowering of a virgin. Rashid complimented me on how well I had taken it – which prompted Khalid to remark,

• That is so like you, Rashid. Always thinking about slaves – who the fuck cares how well the boy takes it. It's here to get fucked, and that's all that matters.

Speaking of which, Khalid was the next to have a go.

• (in English) Flip it onto its stomach. No slave deserves to see my face while I'm fucking it.

This seemed to be a subtle dig at the PR, who had given me full view of his handsome mug while reaming my insides, and tucked this away for future reference. There was clearly no love lost between these two.

Khalid took me from behind – his thrusts were brutal, forceful, well-timed, prompting more spontaneous grunts than his brother had, but he shot his load rather quickly and it was on to the next brother, Mustafa, who was less skilled as a cocksman. Then Rashid, who was almost an afterthought so far as my ass was concerned. He positioned me face up, like the P.R. I half-wondered if there was a message in that.

Rashid had been the brother forced to accept the unacceptable `South Carolina'. Dmitri was anxious to see if, after being saddled with such a potentially rebellious slave, the Family held any residual hostility toward LBM. The P.R. had been solicitous in his approach to Dmitri when requesting my services, so it seemed as if there were no lingering hard feelings. But when Dmitri had visited in September, Rashid had replaced South Carolina.

The P.R. summoned the small white slave from his corner to clean me up, and dismissed him. The trusty, I noticed, was hard as a rock watching me get fucked. And I had to admit that this trusty turned me on – surprising, as I am not usually so attracted to males my own size; I prefer them smaller, like Alexei.

• (Mustafa, getting dressed) When can we have a crack at his mouth?

• (P.R.) Tonight. I think his ass has had enough for now, but of course his mouth is still virgin. And we'll show him a little discipline, as well.

The latter remark produced a cruel smile from Khalid. The P.R. surreptitiously glanced in my direction with a reassuring look, as if to say, `but not as much as Khalid would like, perhaps'.

The P.R. left the room. Knowing the protocols, I followed him into his office, which was efficient and modern – in contrast to both the sterility of the Fuck Room and the sumptuousness of the rest of his apartment. It could have passed for a lawyer's office.

He sat down behind a desk and gestured me to sit down in a plain chair opposite him.

• You are off to a mixed start, Ruslan. You took your fuckings well – but failed to observe proper protocols in the presence of my brothers – not displaying yourself was a major gaffe.

• Yes it was, Your Majesty. I nearly corrected that when I heard Khalid criticize me – but then he would know I could understand Arabic.

• I want you to spend time with him and Mustafa while you are here. They like to chat while fucking slaves. Perhaps you can learn something. I do not suspect them of being behind the `incident', but there is some ill feeling between us and I do not trust them completely.

• I do not know anything about this so-called incident. Or what I am really here to do. Dmitri said it was best if I heard it from you.

• You are here for two reasons, Ruslan. Let us not dismiss your practicum – that is first. Your forty-eight hours began the moment you descended from the plane, but you will serve them before I allow you the freedom to do my investigation.

Damn. I was hoping I could spend some of those forty-eight hours under the protection of the P.R. as I did whatever it was I was to do.

• I should not even be talking with you, Ruslan. Consequently, I am taking you off the clock for the duration of this conversation and your practicum will be extended by the length of time we spend off the record.

Shit.

• I will briefly explain the situation. An attempt has been made to assassinate my son Abdullah by poisoning his food. Fortunately, he recovered. I need you to discover who is responsible.

• Surely you have investigated this matter yourself, Your Majesty.

• Of course we have. The principal suspect, naturally, is Abdullah's slave. We interrogated it quite . . . extensively. The boy didn't crack. There are dozens of slaves in the kitchen who could have done it – we cannot torture them all. We did, of course, question them, but they were not forthcoming. Honesty from slaves, regrettably, is not something we can rely on when they are protecting one of their own.

• Are you certain it is a slave?

• You think it was one of my brothers?

• Perhaps they have designs on the line of succession?

• I have four sons, Ruslan, who are ahead of them in line. They'd have to murder them all. And me.

• One of your other sons?

• Jamal is sixteen, adores Abdullah, and displays no ambitions toward the throne. Malik is only thirteen; he has less moral clarity than his brothers, which I hope he will grow out of, but he bears them no enmity. Osman is only nine, and lives in a separate wing of the palace. No, I'm certain it's a slave. That's where you come in. Slaves will talk to other slaves. You need to get the truth from the kitchen slaves and from Abdullah's boy. Khalid and Mustafa are convinced the boy is guilty; Abdullah swears he is innocent. But the boy's trial is coming up next month and my brothers are determined to give him an unfavorable outcome.

• They want him gelded.

• They want him on the dome.

• The dome?

• You didn't notice the view out my window? The four slaves mounted over the rotunda?

• Then it was not my imagination. I thought I saw one of those statues' heads move.

• Those are not statues, Ruslan. Those are slaves. Failed slaves. Once you are on the dome, there is no way back. The only way off the dome is termination of service.

By this, I did not think he meant that the slave would be sold. I was aware of IAMSO options for terminating a slave's tenure [cf. Ch. 37]. I had not expected to ever be confronted with the most severe form of that.

• Abdullah is beside himself with anguish. I fear he has fallen in love with his boy – something a Master should never do. I will need to wean him from that – but if I allow his boy to go on the dome, he will never forgive me.

Before I had a chance to respond, he looked quickly at his phone, and entered something.

• I think it's time you went back on the clock. You are now, once again, a slave, so far as you are concerned. Take your position in the corner.

After a boring hour or so standing quietly in the corner – boredom was fine, as it ate up one of my forty-eight hours without further pain or humiliation – the Black slave appeared. It was approaching seven o'clock. The P.R. glanced at the clock on the wall, stood up, and left the room. I followed him, several feet behind, along with the Black slave. The P.R. passed through the main room with the glass `wall', where I got another glance at the white bodies on the arches simulating statues, and saw more head movement and a couple of fingers wiggling.

We entered a dining room. In addition to the P.R. and his brothers, there was a handsome young man of eighteen or nineteen and two younger teenagers. I presumed that these were Abdullah, Jamal and Malik. The youngest boy was not in evidence. I later learned that he would join his father's table only after puberty.

There was silverware on the table but no plates. I assumed I was to help set the table but, without direction, remained in the room with the Prince Regent. His lack of reprimand confirmed that I had made the right choice. A minute later the two small slaves appeared with dishes of food – one a roast on a platter, the other a bowl of potatoes. They waited patiently for . . . something. What was preventing them from setting the food on the table?

The Prince Regent gestured to me and pointed to the table.

Confused, I approached the table, being careful not touch any of the seated guests. The P.R. jerked his thumb upwards.

Up? What did that mean?

I could only find one possible interpretation and it was absurd, but I climbed up onto the table. The Family smiled their approval, not at all surprised at this ridiculous behavior; I must have done the right thing. The P.R. gestured me to crawl down the length of the table toward him – he, of course, was sitting at its head. When I was within reach, he extended his hand, palm downward, and pushed it against the table.

Lie flat? I did so, stretching my legs out and letting my chest touch the mahogany table. Hands grabbed my arms and pressed them against my sides. I was blindfolded. Fabulous – now I had no idea what was going on. Then I felt hands – evidently the Prince Regent's – pulling on my head and sliding me toward him until my head dangled over the table's edge.

I had noticed before that the table's height was lower than I expected it to be – in spite of the fact that neither the P.R. nor his brothers were on the short side. I soon discovered why, as a hand grabbed my jaw and forced it downward. Into my mouth went – you guessed it – the Prince Regent's cock. He pushed on my head gently, up and down, as I struggled to get used to the sensation of a man's penis on my tongue, an experience I had never had before. His brothers all found this amusing. The youngest boy, Malik – identifiable by the youth in his voice – was giving a play-by-play commentary like at a football match, greatly entertained by the bobbing of my head.

In the midst of this, I felt something hot on my upper back. Hot and hard and – metal? About the size of – no, it couldn't be. The meat platter? A moment later another hot round object hit the small of my back. The potatoes. I was on the table – and I was the table, it appeared.

A minute later, more dishes were added, placed on my legs. Something with a funnel-like point was inserted into my ass – and then my buttocks were warm. I could only guess that a special piece of serving ware had been designed to balance on a slave's buttocks after insertion into his hole. But I had little time for such thoughts – the prince was keeping my head oscillating on his cock while I had to keep my body still – I was in for it if one of the plates slid off my body, spilling the food.

Meanwhile, the men were serving themselves and chatting away, actually complimenting me on how well I was multi-tasking. One of them (Rashid, no doubt) mentioned that he had never seen a new slave this adept at being a living table while simultaneously giving head. He added, to one or more of the boys:

• Your father doesn't usually have them suck cock while he's doing this. Most slaves have trouble keeping the food balanced.

• (P.R.) I have to put this one to the test. I want Khalid to know that it's worth buying.

This evoked laughter – I was guessing not from Khalid.

I felt a hand under my chin – the Prince Regent was getting close and was helping himself to orgasm faster than I could produce it with my oral skills (such as they were, or weren't) alone. Then he seized my head and held it firmly in place while he shot his seed into my mouth. It was salty and slimy, but nothing that made me want to vomit. He pushed my head up and replaced his cock with a cloth gag that felt like he had fashioned it from a napkin. The meal continued without incident.

After dinner, leftovers were scraped onto a plate and deposited on the floor for me to eat with my hands cuffed behind my back. Then the Prince Regent summoned a slave to wash my face and stamp my forehead with his `seal', which would establish his ownership of me until I was tattooed (which, of course, I would never be.) At five minutes to nine, the P.R. summoned the trusty and instructed him to take me to "Punishment Room C". The trusty said nothing but waited for me to follow him out of the prince's quarters.

Once in the hallway, he turned to me immediately: "You speak English."

I looked around quickly, startled. I had never heard a slave initiate a conversation, other than Jackson before he learned better. Would he get in trouble? Would he get ME in trouble? But it was a question, and he seemed to have been given some kind of charge of me, so I had better answer.

• Yes. Also Russian and Arabic, though I don't think they know about the Arabic.

• (smiling) That could come in handy if you can keep it quiet. (Looking around) If you see any royals, shut your mouth immediately. They know we talk to each other, but we can't be seen talking, got it?

• Got it.

• I'm to show you the ropes about being a trusty here. So don't fuck up or I'll get something like what you're getting tonight. Don't worry – it's just a welcoming ceremony. All trusties go through it when they first arrive.

I had detected some sort of brogue in his accent – I was not expert at analyzing accents of foreigners speaking English – but was guessing he was from the British Isles, and not English. And he was – I had to confess – hot. He was reading (part of) my mind:

• I'm Irish. The only trusty from Europe, and the oldest and most senior trusty. My name is Declan.

• I was told slaves were all named `Boy'.

• Yes, to them I'm Boy' – 3914' when necessary. But I'll always be Declan to my friends. I hope you'll be one – we're bunking together.

Oh?

He grinned, as we headed into an elevator, where he pressed a button marked -3, three floors below ground level.

• That's the discipline floor. (Looking at the seal on my forehead) Why didn't they tat you?

• I'm not sure how long I'll be here. I'm only here on approval, and supposedly there's an offer on the table to buy me, besides.

Declan cast a quick eye over my body.

• I think he'll keep you – with that cock, I would. Although the boys won't be happy taking that thing up their bums.

• (smiling) They weren't happy in my previous job.

The elevator stopped, and Declan turned sober.

• Good luck. I'll pick you up when it's over.

He walked me as far as a big iron door that spoke of something foreboding beyond it. He pushed it over and gestured me inside.

Where there were ten naked men. Ten. The Prince Regent was not among them, but his three brothers were. I had no idea who the other seven were, nor would I ever find out.

I would, however, taste all of their cocks. By the fifth or sixth one, I was getting the hang of it, but they were reluctant to let me work on them and preferred just to rape my mouth. This was not about me pleasuring them, this was about them dominating me. I understood that, having been on the other side of this cock-to-mouth interchange more times than I could count.

After the marathon suck-off, I was suspended by my ankles for a flogging. The Prince Regent had promised I wouldn't be marked, and so I wasn't. The intensity with which the whips slashed my back and my ass didn't compare to what I delivered to Alexei on an average night. A man of my strength and endurance could tolerate this easily. I grunted a couple of times just for show.

A dildo went up my ass – a good-sized one, which caused me great discomfort, while they tied up my balls and flogged them. And put them in a vise and squeezed them. And then zapped them with electricity. I had tit clamps, I had clothespins, I had close encounters with fire, and then they stuck a funnel in my mouth and pissed in it.

For all that, my spirit was not broken. I knew what to expect and I took it with dignity – although I didn't let that show. I let them think I was suffering. I don't want to imply that I felt no pain – particularly when they tortured my balls – but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I thought: if this is the worst you can do, bring it on. Of course, it surely WASN'T the worst they could do. There were 42 hours left in my practicum, after all – maybe more, if I didn't solve the mystery of Abdullah's poisoning.

After all ten spit in my face as the final insult, Declan – who had slipped into the room without my noticing – was waiting for me. His forehead was now decorated with a circular sticker about an inch in diameter with a bar code on it. He saw me looking at it and pre-empted my question.

• My verification.

Which told me nothing. He continued:

• While you were getting your ass flogged, I was getting fucked. Even trusties must do it every day, you know. There are plenty of minor relatives who don't have their own personal slaves. If no one has taken you during the day, you go to a special Fuck Room on the second floor where there are generally plenty of volunteers willing to punch your ticket. If you can't find one, you have to spend fifteen minutes on a fucking machine. The dildos on them are larger than most of the humans in this place, and they fuck harder and faster. So you want to get done for real – fortunately, trusties have priority for a human cock over common slaves. I've only been on the machines twice.

• Once you've been fucked, you get this sticker. You won't be admitted to the dormitory without it. If you try to get in without one, they'll send you back for an hour on a fucking machine, so no one ever tries it. Fortunately for you, your seal will satisfy the requirement.

• Tomorrow I'll take you on the grand tour. But it's late and we'll be wakened at six. I'll take you straight to the dormitory – well, as straight as I can.

A mysterious statement, that. We entered the slave elevator and he pressed the floor -1. I had not noticed this before, but the floor numbers skipped from -3 to -1, bypassing -2. I asked about that.

• The slave quarters are on level negative two, but to get there we have to go to negative one and take a different elevator.

This made little sense to me. Why not just go straight to -2?

• Every night we have to take this path to get to the dormitories. They want us to walk through the Hall of Shame.

• The Hall of Shame?

• You'll see for yourself. It's a reminder of what happens to bad slaves.

And there it was. There was a scanner mounted on the wall at head height – well, head height for shorter slaves. Declan pressed his forehead against it, and it beeped green. He gestured for me to do the same, and it read the seal on my forehead and beeped green. Deciding that there were no more of us, an automated male voice intoned, "Two for admission," and the door slid open.

The Hall was enormous – larger than would seem possible underneath such a building. Perhaps, I thought, the underground floors were literally under the ground, as well as under the palace.

But it was not the size of the Hall that got my attention. It was what it contained. Like a library, it had rows of internal walls separating the space into a series of corridors. But instead of books, each wall was adorned with dozens of human heads.

• Standards are strict here, and you have to live up to them or this is where you'll wind up.

As we approached, a light flashed on one of the ends of the partitions.

• Aisle five. Each night we have to pass through here on our way to our beds. And we're routed through specific aisles – sometimes randomly, sometimes to make sure we pass people we knew, as an object lesson.

As I approached, I could see the heads in greater detail, and was horrified to see that each head had a penis sticking out of its mouth.

• I'll spare you the details of the execution – if you stick around, you'll see one for yourself soon enough.

• You have to go through this place every night?

• Every night.

• And when you leave in the morning?

• Ah, no, fortunately. They want to put you in a good frame of mind to start the day, so they route you through the Hall of Pride – that's also on this floor but not accessible now. That's to commemorate good slaves, what we all aspire to.

While it was nice that they recognized good slaves, in the moment I was more absorbed with the bad ones – row after row of shaved male heads, two and three of them aligned vertically, each with an erect penis protruding from his mouth and a little name plate with a slave number and what I was guessing was his execution date.

They don't even get their name on their plaque, I thought – just their number.

And then I saw a head for which the number was superfluous. Because I knew the slave's name.

It was Jackson.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR - OF PRINCES AND SLAVES]