Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: WHAT, NOW?

Previously: Reeling from the devastating castrations of four of their fellow Tops, the remaining eight try to bond with each other for support. But one, South Carolina, decides to rebel and jumps overboard. He is recaptured, but his audacious leap jeopardizes the Russians' plan to have the Prince accept him as one of the four virgin Tops the Royal Family will take as slaves.

After all the excitement has calmed down, Alex and Matti have a serious talk; Alex tells Matti that he had `meant it' when he had told Matti he loved him while Matti was in the guillotine, but he's not sure what loving him means. Knowing that their time together is limited, Matti wants to consummate their relationship physically. With two or more days before the ship could arrive at the Arabian peninsula, their expected destination, Alex resists and asks for time to think about it.

ALEX: THURSDAY, JUNE 16, EVENING – INDIAN OCEAN

Looking at this months later, I should have known. There were clues:

1. Where had the Bottoms been all day? They were nowhere to be seen, anywhere, anytime. On Wednesday, they had been openly and frequently violated, made a spectacle of, humiliated. It seemed like the Russians were raising the stakes exponentially to get them to accept their fate – which we all now agreed was to become a sex slave. And we expected more of that on Thursday.

2. Why were we Tops left alone? Wednesday night was the `final' competition, so I expected to spend a lot of time fucking Bottoms between then and journey's end. But no. Celibate Thursday – and Friday and Saturday?

3. Why were we locked in our cabins after dinner? Following South Carolina's escapade yesterday, they had just closed off the corridor to restrict our movements, not kept us in our individual rooms. And yet tonight we were confined to our cabins.

About eight o'clock my door opened. Were they letting us out? Could I go visit Matti?

No such luck. It was Latronius, in a good mood.

• Hello, bitch.

• What are you doing here? You can't touch me – I'm a Top. Competition's over, I won. You don't get to fuck me.

• (unperturbed) No, not yet.

• What do you mean, not yet?

• (removing his shirt) True, I can't fuck you while you're on this ship. That doesn't mean that I can't touch you. (sliding down his pants) And it doesn't mean I can't fuck you AFTER you leave this ship.

• I'm a Top, Latronius.

• On the ship you're a Top. What do you think happens after we land? They're going to let you go home to mommy and daddy?

My mommy disappeared when I was six and my daddy and I weren't speaking, but I didn't bother to let him know that. Besides, he had a point.

• No. Everyone thinks we'll be sold as slaves.

• Is that what YOU think?

• Yeah. Is it true?

• I'm not allowed to answer that. I'm just looking forward to fucking you when we get off this boat.

• You think they'll let you?

I didn't think Latronius would have enough power to make that decision for himself. He'd been trash-talking me for days and had never gotten anything more than a hand job that stopped short of ejaculation. He had limits. He wasn't in charge. I doubted that would change once we got off this boat.

• People owe me. I have friends. Meanwhile, I can touch you. I can touch you all over. Now open your goddamn mouth.

I stared at him.

• They'll check out your ass, yeah, they'll know you're not a virgin if I widen your nice tight hole, but your mouth? Even if I bruise your throat, they won't inspect that.

• I'll tell them.

• (laughing) Didn't you see what happens when you boys speak out of turn? You're not going to say a goddamn word. And they won't believe you if you did.

• They could swab my mouth. They'd find your DNA.

• When are they going to do that? When are you even going to have access to them? You're locked in, boy, in case you haven't noticed. You're not going anywhere. Now open your fucking mouth – and if I feel teeth, I'll knock them out. Don't worry – I'll have a story for how that happened.

• Including why you were here in the first place?

He slapped me hard in the face – which meant he didn't have an answer to that question.

• Now get down on your knees and open up, bitch!

He was right about one thing – if I reported him, it was far more likely that I'd be punished than he would. And what would it gain me? I couldn't undo what had already happened.

I did what he told me to do.

• Good boy.

His mammoth sausage sprung to life – god, it was huge. Nine inches, surely, and thick.

• You're going to like this.

I didn't. I started to gag immediately. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn't painful. At least, not until he suddenly thrust his stiff rod to the back of my throat, poking my uvula hard.

I screamed. He laughed, and then pulled out.

• You see, bitch, I can make it hurt if I want to. But be nice to me and I won't.

I nodded in concession, and, about to gag, held up my hand. He pulled his dick out of my mouth and said,

• You think when you're a slave anyone's going to do this?

• So we ARE going to be slaves.

• I was speaking hypothetically.

• No, you weren't.

• (Shrug.)

• But no, they probably won't be that nice. (after he started to go back in) Tmmmh mh.

• (pulling out) What's that, boy?

• Teach me. If you want a good blow job, help me give you one.

• (smiling) You are a smart boy. But you're going to have to learn by doing, boy. Every man is different; you've got to learn what he likes. Some men just want to fuck your mouth, in which case you just have to take it. But if he wants a good blow job, and you want to please him, you've got to pay attention to how he responds. A good way to start is just by kissing him, up and down the cock, kiss his balls, all around. . . Yeah, like that. Now lick my cock, slowly. . . . Yeah, baby that feels good. Now, flick your tongue on the frenulum – you know what the frenulum is?

• The tip, like on the underside.

• Oh, yeah, do that again, I like that. The frenulum is the most sensitive spot. My dick likes that – obviously. Warm him up, lick his shaft, and then when you're both ready, take it into your mouth. . . . Good. Now, you have to practice breathing. Let it sit there; get used to the feel of my cock on your tongue. And breathe. Your hot breath feels good, and now I'm going to move it in a little further – get used to it – and start sucking. . . . And we're going to go in and out. Slowly is good, take your time. Make sure you've got saliva, that's what makes it work, so if you need more saliva, take a break. Pull out – if he'll let you – use the time to gather more spit, but don't stop paying attention to him, just pay attention differently. Lick his balls or let your hands work his shaft with just his tip in your mouth – give him a variety of experiences. . . . that's the way. Now when I'm back in – whoa, teeth. Don't let your teeth touch his cock if you can help it. Try wrapping your lips around your teeth like a shield. . . . There you go, much better. And use your tongue – I know, not much room with a big cock like mine, but tongue is good, breath is good, hands are good, keep lubricated, and keep up a good rhythm. Now I'm going to stop talking and let you do your job.

There was a lot to absorb but he gave me encouragement along the way. I got better at breathing as we went on and his huge dong slid in and out of my mouth. I was figuring out that I could avoid gagging if I breathed the right way – and if I didn't think about gagging.

• Oh, yeah, baby, I'm close now.

I knew he was going to gush a stream into my mouth and I instinctively started to pull away. He grabbed my head and held on to it.

• (suddenly less coach, more bully) No, you don't, bitch. You're going to swallow every ounce of this.

He held my head steady and I felt his cock explode. Seeming oceans of gism shot out of his dick, filling my mouth with the white viscous liquid that was his manly output. It was warm and gooey and slightly sour, but . . . didn't taste bad. I thought it would be disgusting, but it wasn't.

I gulped and swallowed it down as he drew his huge black cock from between my lips.

• Now lick it clean. And do it with enthusiasm, like you love cock. Eventually, you WILL love cock. If you don't already, which I suspect you secretly do.

I wrapped my tongue along his musky shaft and licked. And licked, and licked, as he started to grow hard again. He noted my reaction to that, and grinned.

• That's all right, boy, I'm done for the evening. You did good for your first time. You might develop into a half-decent cocksucker with a little practice.

I didn't know how to react to that, but mumbled, "Thanks."

He held my chin in his palm, and pulled up on it slightly, forcing me to look into his big brown eyes, which seemed less frightening than they had in days past.

• Did you like it, bitch? Did you like sucking my dick?

I had to think for a minute before responding.

• I didn't hate it.

DID I like feeling that big piece of meat in my mouth? Surely not. But I remembered Ohio conveying a sense of pride after hosting Tupu's massive cock four times – "I took it like a man". I had to admit I was proud of bringing Latronius to orgasm, without being so lousy at it that I pissed him off.

I was astonished at what I said next.

• Latronius?

• Yes, boy?

• Could you give me another lesson tomorrow?

He grinned and started dressing.

• We'll see, boy. We'll see.

That was less affirmative than I expected. Which should have been clue number 4.

FLASHFORWARD: FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 4 – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• I read about blow job you give Latronius. First one you give.

• . . .

• You like.

• I didn't say that.

• You ask to do again.

• That was just . . . pragmatism.

• Prag . . .? Word I don't know.

• Pragmatism? It means being practical. Planning ahead. Logical. Like that.

• Explain.

• I knew I would probably have to do it again sometime. And I'd be better off if I didn't suck at it. So to speak.

• That was all?

• That was all.

• Not what I think. From what you write.

• . . . I was trying to please you.

• No. If you trying to please me, you say many nice thing about me in story. You don't. You write story honest, like I tell you. When you write about blow job, you express proud. You express some like, yes?

• . . . Maybe.

• Maybe. Maybe you think yes, I like manshaft in mouth. Maybe you think yes I am gay.

• Was that in my writing?

• No.

• Well, then.

ALEX: THURSDAY, JUNE 16, EVENING – INDIAN OCEAN

Latronius finished dressing and left. I wished I could dress and leave as well. I had been ten days without clothes; when I was around the others nudity felt natural. When I was around anyone with clothes, I felt diminished. It was a symbol of our status. You are what you wear – nothing.

I started to read the Agatha Christie I had picked up in the rec room. An hour later my door slid open again. I registered the maroon uniform, the dark skin, the hulking body, and for a moment I thought it was Latronius coming back for a second helping. Instead, it was Rumeal, the first maroon to see me naked, when he extracted me from my room and hauled me up to the gymnasium on D-Day.

Maybe my second lesson was with a second tutor?

• (warily) Did Latronius send you?

In response I got my face slapped.

• Did you speak without permission? Don't you know the rules, boy?

• Apologies, sir. I was startled and forgot myself.

• No excuse. Remember your place, boy.

• (as obsequious as possible) Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

Silver lining department: If he was this much of a stickler for the rules, he wouldn't violate them by thrusting his cock into my mouth. So why was he here?

He poured a glass of water and handed it to me, along with a pill.

• Take this.

Why? What is it? I was screaming to ask, but knew I would only get another slap in the face for my efforts. I tried to convey my thoughts through the confused look on my face, and even scratched my head in a gesture of obvious wonder.

He didn't bite.

• Now, boy!

Matti would have made a joke about it being a cyanide capsule, and about ten percent of me wondered if it was. I swallowed it and washed it down.

• Good boy.

Latronius said that, too. What am I, a puppy?

And then he left. Five minutes later, the lights went out. They usually turned off the lights pretty late, but always after a five-minute warning on the monitor, so we could stop whatever we were doing and get into bed. This time, nothing. No warning. Immediate darkness.

Another clue that I didn't pick up on (number 5). I just thought, "That's weird. Early tonight." There was a full moon, and it shone brightly on the ocean's surface. I closed the drapes to ensure darkness, and lay in bed, certain I wouldn't fall asleep.

I fell asleep. Fast.

ALEX: FRIDAY, JUNE 17, MORNING – SOMEPLACE

I woke after what felt like a long sleep. Through a crack in the drapes, I could tell it was light outside, but no idea what time it was. But something was off. It took me a moment to realize what it was: we weren't moving.

I bolted upright and pulled the drapes. We were about forty feet from another ship! A huge freighter had pulled alongside us. It wasn't moving either. This could only mean one thing:

We were in port.

Disconnect alert. We had stopped twice before, and they had prevented us from seeing out – or anyone outside from seeing naked men waving desperately for rescue. But now we could just look out unimpeded?

The big freighter blocked my view of anything beyond it. It was taller than the Fundamental Experience and I couldn't see high enough to spot any human activity. Maybe that was why they hadn't secured the drapes, but how could they have known that freighter would be there?

Where the fuck WERE we? We couldn't possibly have reached the Arabian Peninsula – not even Aden, the nearest reasonable access point, and – with all the turmoil in Yemen – not someplace I'd expect to land. This must still be Africa. But where? Zanzibar? Mombasa? Surely we were further north than that. Logically we should be up to Somalia by now, but that would be as crazy as Yemen. Maybe the hunt for South Carolina had slowed us more than I realized, and this was Mombasa. But it didn't make sense.

A message on the monitor: BREAKFAST IS IN YOUR ROOM. MAKE YOURSELF COFFEE.

There was a tray on the table under the mirror. I must have been really out, or the maroon who delivered it was super-quiet.

I got up and tested the palm pad. Nope. I shrugged, set the coffee pot going, did the trio of morning "sh's" (shit, shower, shave), went back to the main room, poured a cup of coffee and nearly dropped it when the mirror showed me something I had somehow failed to notice in the bathroom:

My headband was gone.

The headband that had been affixed to my forehead for the last two weeks, which had survived all the showers and dips in the pool and everything else, had vanished overnight.

How had that happened without my knowledge? I must have really been out – and that pill must have been really powerful.

Something was going on. Something big.

But nothing went on, not for another hour or two.

Then the door opened, revealing a maroon. Not a good sign. But it was Nelson, who was sometimes approachable. Despite the reprimand from Rumeal last night, I had to risk it.

• What's going on, Nelson?

• Time to get off the ship.

• What, now? Here?

• Get going.

He grabbed my arm, not in a gentle way, and started to pull me into the hallway.

• Wait! You can't take us off the ship like this. We're naked!

• Oh, we hadn't thought of that.

He said that in a perfectly reasonable voice, until I realized he was being sarcastic. He saw my reaction and added:

• Do you really think we're going to take you off the ship in broad daylight with your junk swinging freely for all to see?

• No.

• Well, then relax. (Shifting to aggressive guard mode) Hands behind your back!

I stared at him and complied. He walked behind me and I soon felt handcuffs snap around my wrists. Moments later, there were shackles around my ankles.

• Let's go.

• But –

• Keep your mouth shut and get into the hallway. Like I said – relax. They aren't stupid.

Okay, that was some comfort: They would clothe us before disembarking. But we couldn't dress over the cuffs and shackles. Unless they weren't going to give us actual clothes – maybe they'd simply drape us with a poncho or something.

We stepped into the hallway. A few feet away, Wyoming stood, naked and in chains, the maroon José at his side. Wyoming, looking more worried than I had ever seen him before, gave me an "omigod we're in deep shit" look. Noisy and Nodak were in the process of being shackled; a moment later I saw Matti being led out of his room by Robinson. Soon, all eight of us were there, lined up alphabetically – I was next to last in line, between South Carolina (looking none the worse for wear, I noted) and Wyoming.

They marched us down the steps to the main deck, where the Bottoms and Eunuchs were gathered, handcuffed and shackled like we were. The entire crew seemed to be there, positioned between us and the exit ramp. If anyone was watching from the dock, our naked bodies would have been hidden by the clothed bodies of our captors.

Even from behind all these men, I could see the city beyond. There were a few tall buildings in the distance, but the city looked on the shabby side, from what I could see. Was Mombasa this run down?

As we stood there waiting for we-weren't-sure-what, maroons brought out the last of us, the newly-gelded Tops. South Carolina, in front of me, reacted with anger when he saw his friend Mississippi with nothing but skin beneath his penis; I put my hand on his elbow to try to steady him. I felt him shudder and take a deep breath, fighting to keep his emotions under control. Del looked despondent, not meeting anyone's eyes. All four looked in good shape physically, but obviously fearful. Well, I was fearful as well.

I heard an engine, as if a vehicle had pulled up by the dock. And then there was some kind of movement around the exit ramp. I was too far in the back, I couldn't tell what was going on.

A moment later, I couldn't tell ANYTHING that was going on. We were blindfolded.

That wasn't the part of me that needed covering.

A voice nearby said, "Stay put. Don't move until you are told."

I wasn't about to – not `til I got some clothing, or a poncho, or at least a towel wrapped around my waist.

Then there was noise. Cheers. Jeers. Catcalls. Whistles. Dozens of voices, all male, robustly voicing approval of something.

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I heard a voice – Wyoming - whisper in my ear:

• They're taking us off naked!

• How can they do that? This is broad daylight.

• (authoritarian voice) Quiet! One more word and you'll be in for a whipping.

I held my tongue.

The cheering died down and it got quieter for a couple of minutes and then it started up again. A hand pushed on my back and I was propelled forward, stumbling, bouncing occasionally into whoever was in front of me now. I wanted it to be Matti. I wanted to be near him, so that when the blindfold came off there he would be. But I had no idea where Matti was. Or Rhody or Noisy or anyone else.

• (the authoritarian voice – Joey?) Stop.

We stopped. There was more cheering and whistling and two or three minutes more of waiting. We were moved forward again, until I felt a chain hit my waist. We were up against it, literally and figuratively. And we were still naked. If I was up against the chain, then all those on the ground below could see my junk.

I heard the chain fall to the deck with a clink and a hand grabbed my elbow.

• (authoritarian voice – yes, surely Joey) Okay, boys, your turn. You'll be descending a ramp, so watch your footing.

• (voice from below, calling out) And now, our virgins!

A massive, lusty cheer filled my ears. How many spectators were there, anyway?

The hand at my elbow guided me forward and down the ramp. A huge cheer, the biggest yet, erupted followed by applause. Jesus, there must have been over a hundred men there.

It was at that moment when I lost all hope of rescue. All hope whatsoever.

We were being led off in chains, stark naked, in broad daylight. And there was no one to help us, no one to leap up and say, "No, this is wrong." No one who cared. In fact, the opposite – we were surrounded by men cheering on our abductors!

Where were the authorities? Either paid off, incompetent, or complicit in all this. The Russians must have known that they could parade us around stark naked in broad daylight with no repercussions whatsoever – they had planned for it.

This had to be a very corrupt place. This had to be Somalia. This had to be Mogadishu.

We were doomed.

DMITRI: This was my second favorite moment of the entire experience. (My very favorite was when they saw their clothing being dumped into the ocean and realized that Little Big Man was not real.)

Watching them descend the ramp, naked, not even under the cover of night – a visual aphrodisiac. You could see it on their faces. Each, individually, had the same thought: We are never getting out of here.

I could only imagine that the moment of disembarkation was their last vestige of hope. We would be taking risks, sneaking them off the ship like smuggled contraband, dodging the authorities, risking exposure. Maybe they could somehow break free and make a run for it. They'd be clothed, of course, easy to hide among the populace, especially if they were dark-skinned.

That scenario was blown sky-high when we walked them down the ramp in the nude on a bright sunny day. And they heard the boisterous crowd – mostly dock workers paid to make noise, but including some who would later bid for their services. Even with blindfolds on, the despair was written all over their faces.

It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for them.

Nah. Just kidding. It made me hard.

ALEX: We reached the bottom of the ramp, voices jeering at me from just a few feet away in some local language. Something hit me in the chest with a splat – a water balloon or, more likely, a tomato.

• (Maroon at my elbow) Hey, watch it! . . . You nearly hit me with that!

My protector.

To my relief, I was released from the handcuffs. Instinctively, I reached to remove the blindfold – and couldn't. It didn't budge.

My `protector' laughed.

• Super glue. We're going to keep you in the dark a bit longer.

The shackles came off and strong arms lifted me up at least two whole feet. My foot found a surface, and I was pushed forward – against a mass of bodies.

I tried to step back and found nothing to step onto but air. Soon another body pushed against mine, spinning me around. I heard an `oomph': Wyoming? After him, more, forcing me further back. It didn't seem like there was room for us. I didn't understand where we were, but we were crunched together so tightly I could scarcely breathe.

Doors slammed shut. We were in some kind of vehicle. They were going to transport us somewhere. We were squeezed in like sardines, our naked bodies pressed against each other with nowhere to maneuver.

I heard the engine start up and we started to move.

It was pitch black, particularly with the blindfolds on. The Somali air had been probably 95 degrees – that's 35 for you Celsius folks. In other words, hot.

We couldn't move. We could scarcely breathe. We were pressed against each other so tightly we were practically fused together. It was hotter than blazes. And with all of our body heat, and the CO2 we would exhale, it would be a death chamber if were in there for very long.

Whoever picked out this van had really fucked up.

DMITRI:

• Great job on the van.

• (Abdul) Thanks. I remember that last year the van was too big. They had room to move around.

• (Sergei) Well, they won't be able to move in this one. It's perfect.

• (Yuri) But what about air? Won't they use it up rather quickly?

• (Abdul) We're pumping in oxygen. And some cool air so they don't expire from heat exhaustion. They can last hours in there. Hours.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: AFTERNOON DELIGHT, AFTERNOON DESPAIR]