Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE FINAL COMPETITION

Previously: Fearing a repeat of the orgiastic assault on the Bottoms that had ruined their lunch, Alex and Matti go to dinner. Which seems to go normally until the maroons suddenly order some of the Bottoms to blow the Tops. When an unknown man in Arab dress appears, Rhody utters a few words of astonishment, which results in his being punished – he is forced to pull Maine, his favorite Bottom, across a greased floor by his balls, then fuck him and watch him fucked by others, including Alex. The maroons are turned loose and the lunchtime orgy has an encore. The Arab is the `Prince Regent', head of a royal family that is the Russians' major client. Through the power of the purse, he has pressured the Russians into altering their original plans for Round Five – which the Tops don't know yet.

ALEX: WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15, EVENING – INDIAN OCEAN

• So who do you think this guy is?

• The boss. The Real Boss. The Russians are just fronting for him.

• So they've been lying to us about taking us to Russia?

• Not necessarily. They only said some of us were going to Russia. That's probably how this Arab guy is paying them. Give them each one of us.

• Matti, I'm scared. What he did to Rhody – and Maine, poor Maine. I mean, all Rhody did was ask who the guy was.

• They aren't fucking around, Cheesehead. If I were in a better mood, I'd make a joke about that phraseology. But I'm not. I'm scared, too.

That produced a pit in my stomach. I counted on Matti to cheer me up – his breezy humor could lighten a load in a dark situation. It was always grounded in reality – he was no Pollyanna – but he knew that there was no point in despairing over what couldn't be changed, so you might as well find light where you could.

Remember that old line about the light at the end of the tunnel being an oncoming truck? A truck might have been a relief – it would put an end to it. We were approaching the end of the tunnel and there was no light at all. We would emerge into a pitch-black night, a night that involved slavery. And worst of all, Matti and I would be separated.

Matti was thinking the same thing.

• I'm not scared about tonight. I'm scared about losing you. I'm scared about losing US.

• That could happen tonight. The odds get worse with every round.

• What bothers me is why this Arab showed up NOW.

• Clearly he got on when we stopped – Comoros, if I'm right.

• Yes, but why?

• Intimidation.

• Maybe. But we were intimidated anyway. What happened at lunch was a planned escalation – and that was before he got on. No, I think it's to do with the competition tonight.

• How so?

• Something has changed. Yesterday we were in the groups with the tablecloths and they kept showing that insane video over and over. But today no tablecloths, no video – and this guy appears. Can't be a coincidence. They changed the competition because of him.

• And that answers your question, why now. He wants to witness the competition.

• Yes, but why THIS competition? Why not the others? There's something special about this competition. Something different.

• But what?

• That, my Cheesehead friend, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

A loud buzzer sounded at 9:00, followed by a message on the monitor: ALL TOPS REPORT TO THE GYMNASIUM. So this is it. Matti and I hugged each other, took a deep breath, and headed up the stairs, butterflies break-dancing in our stomachs, not sure of what we'd find.

We found the Russians, their assistants, the maroons, the Arab, some other guy in a suit who must've come with the Arab – and three mysterious shapes covered by drop cloths. They were maybe seven feet high and a yard or so across, thin, rectangular in shape. It looked like some kind of frame, covered over. Whatever this competition was, it was clear that these – things – were involved.

It appeared the Arab was running the show, for it was he who addressed us.

• Tonight, four of you will be demoted. But I have some good news – when you eventually disembark, you will all be virgins.

Matti and I looked at each other. He just contradicted himself. I began to look for loopholes. Obviously, we were not virgins in the literal sense – in the last ten days alone we'd all had a lot of sex. So he must have meant that our asses would remain virgin. But then, what did demotion mean – cocksucking? Or something else?

It turned out to be something else.

• I see you are confused. How can I lose my status as a Top while keeping my virginity? Clearly it means you must lose something else.

And with that, he drew back the cloth draped over one of the mysterious shapes.

I gasped. It was a guillotine. Only the opening was far too small for a head to fit into.

[Author's Note: the remainder of this chapter will establish the mechanism for gelding four of the Tops, which will occur in the next chapter. After that, there will be no further on-page castrations in the book. If you wish to bypass this episode, wait for Chapter 25, after which this will all be over. Other than Alex and Matti - whose fates were planned - all others were left up to chance. Make no assumptions.]

DMITRI: WEDNESDAY, 15 JUNE, LATE AFTERNOON (hours earlier) – OFF THE COAST OF TANZANIA

We attempted to persuade the Prince Regent to let us determine the Tops who would surrender their testicles. He refused. He said that Allah would decide; an element of randomness must be in play. We asked him to explain. He said, "Let me show you my machines."

We followed him to the gymnasium where his three guillotines were set up. Each was equipped with a bench, on which the subject would sit. At its front edge was the stockpiece, the block of wood into which the balls would be inserted. On inspection, it proved to be some kind of tough plastic that looked like wood from a distance. Only the balls would go through the hole – the penis would be kept behind the stockpiece, out of harm's way. The stockpiece was ten inches long, pushing the thighs far enough apart that they would not be injured. The hovering blade was only six inches wide, but heavy and sharp enough to slice through the amplest of scrota.

• (Boris) I do not understand. Why do you need three machines? And might they not bleed to death when castrated in this fashion?

The Prince Regent only smiled.

• The wound will be cauterized immediately – why do you think I brought my doctor? We have used these machines many times in my country – we far prefer it to surgical removal. Watching the ball sac drop into a little bowl underneath is not only stimulating for the master's cock, it chastens other slaves who might have the impulse to misbehave. We make sure that any slave punished in this fashion has an audience of his peers, as an object lesson. As for your other question, why are there three machines? For a little suspense, of course.

• (Boris) So the subjects won't know which of them gets the chop.

• Exactly. And neither will you.

• (Sergei) You said the ones we favor would have better odds.

• And so they shall. But it will still be out of your control. And out of mine.

ALEX: WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15, EVENING – INDIAN OCEAN

• Three of you at a time will go into these machines. In one of them – only one – will this result.

The Arab inserted a carrot into the slot and pressed a button on the side of the frame. The blade fell all the way to the base of the contraption. Half of the carrot fell to the floor. The twelve of us shuddered in unison.

• Relax a bit. Your cock isn't going into this hole. Just your balls.

The machines were painted red, white, and blue, respectively. Those colors again. Russian colors? Or were the colors somehow related back to the tablecloths at which we were seated yesterday? No matter. The color didn't matter. The blade did.

• You won't know which blade will fall. And neither will your Russian friends. The odds are not the same for the three machines – but your Russian friends will know what they are.

DMITRI: We did. Or, to be more accurate, Sergei calculated them. The Prince had told us that, once the boys were selected, we could assign them to their respective machines. By knowing the odds, I could put North Dakota into the machine with the lowest probability of activating. Of course, Yuri had the same intention with Wyoming, and Boris with Mississippi, and Sergei with South Dakota.

Knowing our fondness for random selection, the Prince had shown us his own variation on that theme – a sack with fifteen colored balls - seven red, five blue, and three white. He would draw out one of the balls – which he would not show to us – and set that machine to drop the castrating blade. The other two machines would have safe settings.

That seemed obvious – as long as only one of our four personal favorites was in a given round, we would put him into the white machine, where he would only have a 20% chance of becoming an instant eunuch.

But then the Prince dropped in the twist. He would draw out a second ball, and switch the settings of the two machines that didn't have that color. Run that by me again? If the second ball was red, he would switch the blue and white machine settings; if it was blue, he would switch the red and white machine settings – you get the idea. Depending on which color had been selected initially, he could be changing the machine that got the castrating blade – or not. So while the white machine looked the safest at first, that could change after the second ball was selected.

Sergei got out his tablet and crunched out a series of numbers involving three, five, and seven. Two minutes later had the answer.

• (Sergei) The blue machine is the safest. There's only a 29.5% chance that it has the falling blade. The white machine is actually the most likely to have it – 36.2%.

• (Yuri) What? That's impossible. There are only three white balls in the pouch.

• (Sergei) Yes, which means that the white machine is likely to get switched with one of the other machines. And that other machine could be the bad one.

• (Boris) What about the red machine?

• (Sergei) Almost as bad – 34.3%

• This is not good. We're going to lose one of our top boys. Maybe two.

• (Sergei) And maybe none. Think optimistically.

• (Boris) I already lost Iowa. I can't lose Mississippi, too.

ALEX: The Arab picked up an opaque cylinder which, he showed us, contained those damn ping-pong balls with our names on it. He presented it to DeJuan Brooks, who blindly selected out three balls. And yes, the irony of using balls as the selection method occurred to us all.

• (Arab) Who are the lucky boys?

• (Brooks, examining the ping-pong balls one by one) Delaware. South Carolina. (A dramatic pause.) And Rhode Island.

Two of my friends. Including the one who had professed love for me that very day.

The Arab turned to the Russians.

• You have two minutes to decide who goes where.

DMITRI: This was not good. We wanted our four favorites – Wyoming, Mississippi, and the two Dakotas – to be in separate groups. But none were initially chosen, which meant that two of them would later have to compete against each other.

We huddled. South Carolina was only Boris' third pick, an easy choice for the white machine. Rhode Island and Delaware were the second picks of Yuri and Sergei, respectively. As Yuri only had two left of his `type', we gave Rhode Island the slightly better odds.

We called DeJuan over and told him what we had decided. Delaware would go into the red guillotine, South Carolina white, Rhode Island blue.

ALEX: I could barely watch as maroons grabbed the three potential victims and fitted them into the guillotines. As promised, their cocks did not protrude through the holes, but their balls did.

Rhody was looking at me, his eyes pleading for me to acknowledge him. I smiled at him. If things went wrong, I would never again educe an erection from him. In a way – and only one way – he was lucky: Whatever happened, it would soon be over. The last group, having to wait, would suffer the most anxiety.

I moved my thumb surreptitiously to an upward position, hoping I didn't draw the attention of the nutcase Arab who had gone full Nazi on Rhody at dinner.

All three guys were fighting tears – Del unsuccessfully.

The Arab was enjoying this.

• All three guillotines can be set to geld its occupant. Only one will. Which one? The one whose settings I change. This one.

DeJuan presented him with a little pouch. The Arab reached into it and drew out something – or apparently did so. His hand was in a fist when he removed it, and it was impossible to see what, if anything, it held.

He turned away, and then moved behind the red machine and turned a knob. Del was in the red guillotine. A look of panic crossed his face and I could see him fighting the impulse to cry out. Poor Del! But then the Arab went to the white guillotine and turned a knob on it, as well. South Carolina, who had looked relieved, suddenly didn't look relieved anymore. And then he turned a knob on Rhody's blue guillotine.

• We have to have a little suspense. If I only turned one knob, what fun would that be?

You have a perverted sense of the word fun. I looked at the Russians. They looked nervous themselves, as the Arab had said they also didn't know which was the castrating guillotine. Odd; they've always embraced randomness before. Did they really care which of us become eunuchs? They seemed to.

South Carolina had closed his eyes and scrunched up his handsome black face, as if to brace himself for the shock, or perhaps just to block out any outside stimuli altogether. Del's face was a picture of panic; I think he could have accepted being raped, but not this. And then I looked at Rhody. Unlike the others, his face was impassive. I couldn't read what he was thinking. His balls had already endured one excruciating assault this evening; he almost looked like he was ready to give them up. He was looking straight ahead, deliberately not looking at me or anyone else. But his eyes were open; he looked ready to accept whatever fate befell him.

The Arab picked up a second bag and stuck his fist into it. He withdrew it and showed us his empty hand, like a magician demonstrating "nothing up my sleeve". Okay, so he'd dropped the ball into the bag, big deal. He was just dragging things out and making the poor guys suffer.

• Allah will determine which of you is destined to serve out his life as a eunuch. Yes, I said `will determine'. It is not determined yet.

Huh?

• I am going to switch the settings for two of the machines.

He reached back into the pouch with the colored balls and pulled out a second one. This one he showed to everyone: It was red. Del's eyes widened, but the Arab went to the other two machines and adjusted the knobs on the side of their frames.

• One more thing we must do.

He snapped his fingers and the man in the suit, whom he introduced as his doctor, appeared with three transparent salad bowls, which he placed on the floor beneath the victims' feet.

• We can't have your balls spilling on the floor, now, can we?

I had thought many times over the last ten days of how much I hated the Russians for their arbitrary cruelty. The Russians seemed like Mother Teresa in comparison to this guy.

He then stepped over to Del and patted him on the cheek. Del swerved his head to avoid the patronizing gesture but failed. The Arab addressed him:

• Will it be you? My hand seems wet. Tears, boy? Tears are for cowards. Perhaps you don't deserve to keep those balls.

He moved on to South Carolina, who opened his eyes when he realized the Arab was standing in front of him.

• Ah, you're willing to look at me now, are you, boy?

He reached down and patted the black scrotum protruding through the hole in the stockpiece.

• A nice set of balls you have. They would look even nicer in that bowl on the floor. Perhaps they'll land there.

He went to Rhody and traced a finger over his chest.

• Good strong pecs. A eunuch with muscles is very appealing to many a master. And these balls have been through a lot already this evening, haven't they. Maybe they've given you enough grief already. Would you like to say `good riddance'? You may get that chance.

I was trying to imagine what was going on in Rhody's head. He was a sweet guy, an emotional guy, a guy with a conscience. I wondered if the Arab's words were resonating with him. Maybe Rhody was ready to surrender his balls as penance for actions he wasn't responsible for, but nonetheless felt terrible about. I knew that his mind was being tortured at the moment – but not an iota of it was showing on his face.

Del looked like a man prepared to sob like a small child. South Carolina looked like a man prepared to fight – but couldn't. And Rhody looked like a man prepared to die.

• I am the only person in the room who knows the identity of the next eunuch. Not even my friends with the funny accents know.

I assumed he was referring to the Russians; the Arab's English was almost accent-free. He turned to address the three bound prisoners directly.

• You will hear a beep two seconds before the blade falls. So that you can have a moment to say goodbye before they're gone forever. (Smile.)

And then we waited. And waited.

And then we heard a beep. Rhody's mouth opened slightly, as if to draw in breath. And then he watched the blade flash by his face as it rushed toward his testicles.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - IRREVERSIBLE LOSSES]