Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A SLAVE

Previously: After losing his cherry, Alex is taken downstairs where he is introduced to Dmitri's staff – three business assistants and five servants who maintain the household. Alex is given a schedule of his duties which centers mainly on cleaning, cooking and gardening, reporting to the servants who will supervise him. In addition, he is informed that the servants will also be using him sexually – one fucking him every weekday afternoon – and that there will be parties on Saturday nights at which Alex will be the `guest of honor'.

Alex is then taken to the `playroom', where Ruslan, the husky handyman, gives him a good thrashing, clearly under Dmitri's orders. After being fucked a second time by Dmitri, Alex spends the night on the floor next to Dmitri's bed, without a sheet or pillow.

Early in the story, Alex revealed that he had accidentally killed his brother Adam while driving drunk.

ALEX: MONDAY, JUNE 20, EARLY MORNING – SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA

I had that dream again. Or almost. The dream I had two weeks ago after I had raped New Mexico.

I was again walking in the wood and heard a voice cry out. "Help me, help me." This time I recognized the voice as my brother Adam and I called out, "Adam, I'm coming, I'll help you."

I reached the clearing and there he was, naked, fixed into stocks and being fucked by someone I couldn't see. He screamed with every thrust but when I looked into his eyes suddenly it wasn't Adam anymore, it was Matti. And it was Rhody who was raping him. "Matti," I cried, "hang on!" And I headed toward him but something reached around my waist and grabbed hold of me. "Oh no, you don't!" a voice said. Ruslan. And he dragged me toward a second pair of stocks that hadn't been there a moment ago and they grew closer and closer until he lifted the headpiece and –

I woke up in a panic, bolting upright as if terrified for my life and gasping for air. Light was shining through the window. I checked the clock – 4:15. Could that possibly be right?

I'd only been asleep maybe three hours if that. I lay back down, assuming the fetal position in which I had slept, and tried to go back to sleep. The dream was bothering me. I was conflating Adam, who I had killed, with Matti, whom I hadn't – but I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt as if I was responsible for Matti's fate. And wherever he was, he had surely been raped by now as well. Was he here in Russia? Or was he with that Arab prince? I would have thought the former was the better fate, but after yesterday I could no longer be sure. And why was it Rhody who was fucking him? Rhody was a kind person; why did he pop up in my dream as a rapist? Was it a manifestation of my `betrayal' of Matti by also being attracted to Rhody? The dream just made me realize how much I missed both of them – and I had given little thought to either of them since my slavery began in earnest – barely twelve hours ago.

I did get back to sleep and it seemed like seconds later when a voice in my ear said, "Wake up, you worthless piece of shit!" Master's voice. Great – even my alarm clock was humiliating me. But the clock said it was indeed 6:00 and I was due in the kitchen in fifteen minutes.

The little (slave) sink had everything I needed – toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream and razor – before I stepped into the shower. A thought occurred to me and I reached out of the shower and grabbed the razor off the top of the sink. I used it to scrape the stubble that passed for my pubes. It was starting to grow back after they had scraped me clean before the inspection on Saturday, and I had to guess he wanted me to stay that way. I put it into that mysterious category of "Things You're Supposed to Know to Do without Being Told". And crossed my fingers.

Twelve after. Better get moving. I left the room stealthily – Master was still sleeping soundly – and scampered down the stairs, realizing along the way that I had no idea where the kitchen was. In Downton Abbey it was in the basement, but this was Russia not England and the basement contained the dungeon – er, playroom. I couldn't imagine the kitchen being down there as well. So I tried the other wing.

Sure enough, there was the dining room which, when I entered, contained a door which led into the kitchen.

Six-fourteen. Made it.

And standing in front of me was Henri, all in white, wearing his chef's hat even now. Of all the staff, Henri was the least physically attractive. He was only about three inches taller than me, pushing fifty, and on the chubby side.

• (almost exuberantly) Bon jour, garçon. But I expect you prefer English, don't you, boy?

Was that a rhetorical question? Decided not to gamble.

• Yes, Sir.

• Present yourself.

I stared at him. I was standing right in front of him, three feet away – he could see every inch of me.

He smiled – the first smile I had seen since arriving in this benighted place.

• You haven't been taught that yet, non?

• No, Sir.

• When a slave enters a room with others present, he must offer himself for their inspection. Turn around, hands and knees, push your head to the floor, keep your derriere up, and spread your feet far apart so they can see your hole. This is called `display position'.

"Y-" I started to say, then caught myself. No speaking in response to orders. I did what he said.

• Good lad. You've got a nice rosy rump, I see. Ruslan said you took it well.

I did? Didn't seem like it to me.

• We're all very happy to see you, you know. Oh, you can get up now. We've been without a boy for a couple of months. Had to make do with what we could pick up at the local clubs. Easy for a stud like Ruslan or Pyotr, not so easy for an old fatty like me. But at least St. Petersburg has gay clubs – thank goodness this isn't Chelyabinsk.

Ah, so we were in St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg was well to the north. No wonder it got light so early. We were almost at the summer solstice.

• Now come over here and say hello.

Huh?

• Hello, Sir.

He chuckled.

• Not to me, silly. To my beet.

Huh?

• My cock. `Bite' is French for cock.

He unzipped himself and let his penis out. Compared to Master's – and definitely compared to Ruslan's – it was tiny.

I got down on my knees and took it into my mouth, caressing it with my tongue as it slowly stiffened. Then, just as suddenly, he backed off.

• Sadly, we don't have time for more than that now. We'll get better acquainted later. Right now we have work to do. Can you cook?

• Not really, Sir.

• Ce n'est pas rien. You wouldn't be frying eggs anyway – can't risk the splatter and of course you're not permitted an apron. Can you make coffee?

• Yes, Sir – at least, I can use an American coffeemaker if I know the proper proportions.

• Très bon.

He gave me the quantities, and I fulfilled my first household duty – making coffee. The rest of the time I mostly fetched things for him, with one moment of culinary bliss when he had me chop mushrooms before he sautéed them. I was struck by the ease with which he trusted me with a knife – assessing that I was smart enough not to use it to assault him in a pointless attempt to escape. Perhaps he knew that I had been presented the opportunity to dash out the front door unseen last night – and had passed up on it.

My other big job was to set the table – for six. He told me where all the dishes were and then left me alone in the dining room. A few minutes later he came by to inspect my work, made a few corrections, but in a teaching mode, not that of a drill sergeant. I wished that Henri could be my Master instead of `Richard'. He seemed actually nice.

I saw the clock inch closer to seven o'clock and looked at it in alarm.

• Yes, yes, go on. You needn't ask. Three minutes to seven, you may leave. Go wake your Master.

Was this going to be my life – waiting to the last minute and then dashing to the next assignment, fearful that I'd be late and punished for it?

As it turned out, it took less than a minute to reach the bedroom. Master was still asleep and I had to figure out how to wake him. `Master, it's time to wake up' was not a good idea: that was speaking to him directly. Could I touch his shoulder? Seemed iffy. Then I saw the remote control.

The television. Perfect.

I watched the seconds count down and precisely at seven I clicked on the TV. A news program came on.

He stirred, woke up, looked at me, and said four words.

• Put that down, boy.

From his tone of voice, I hadn't picked the best option.

• Do not touch my belongs without permission.

Okay . . . I can't speak, I can't touch your belongings, I daren't touch you, what was I supposed to do, jump up and down until the vibrations from the floor jarred you awake?

• You wake Master with kiss. Do now

And I'd been afraid to even touch his shoulder.

My thoughts immediately went to Matti, the only man I had ever kissed. It was mostly to please him, but it brought us closer together. Even the last time, lying on that cold floor in Mogadishu, knowing we were about to be sold into slavery – even that was a pleasant memory. Now threatened by replacing it with kissing this Man. Whom I did not want to be close to.

I approached him and leaned over. As my face got to within three feet of his, it was slapped.

• Not there! Slave NEVER touch Master's face! Is clear?

• Yes, Master.

What was not clear was what I was supposed to do instead.

He lifted the sheets and bedspread, revealing his nude body.

• Kiss.

Ah. Now I understood. I leaned over and lowered my lips to the organ that only yesterday had twice been shoved up my ass. I planted a brief kiss on it.

• Balls also.

I bent down again and kissed each of his sizeable testicles.

• Master is not yet awake. Repeat.

Well, his mouth sure was awake. But obviously that was not his criterion for being awake. I reached down to his musky groin and kissed the tip of his cock, the most sensitive part most likely to respond to my ministrations.

• Lick.

As I was due back in the kitchen at 7:30, I was hoping this wasn't going to turn into a complete blow job. But my mouth found his shaft, finding his aroma not at all unpleasant, and licked it in long strokes like a cat licking its fur. His sizeable member sprung to life until it was pointed to the ceiling. Once it was erect, he snapped his fingers and motioned me away.

• That is how slave wake Master.

He padded off to the bathroom and I, remembering his dictum, followed. He wrapped the thick "Master towel" around his waist, brushed his teeth, and then tossed me the towel as he stepped into the shower. When he emerged, I dried him – which involved rubbing every part of his body, including his junk and his ass, but at least his erection had subsided during the shower. I tossed the towel into the hamper and stood silently while he shaved without covering himself.

The act of shaving himself complete, he turned his attention to me.

• Raise arms.

He inspected my pits, making sure they were smooth, and then lowered his hands to my abdomen, rubbing his hands over where my pubes had been.

He nodded. I could tell he was pleased. For half a moment, I thought he was going to verbalize his approval, but of course not.

• Present.

Thanks to Henri, I knew what this meant. I dropped to the floor, spread my legs, and bent over, face to the floor, pushing my ass up. I felt his hands on my ass and then in my crack. Then he reached between my legs and fingered my testicles.

• You shave crack? You shave balls?

Oh, good grief.

• No, Master.

I mean, they were thoroughly scraped less than forty-eight hours ago. And I thought it was pretty damn brilliant of me to think of shaving my pubes.

• Entire body. Every day. Is clear?

• Yes, Master.

He patted me on the butt – which I interpreted as approval - and remained in that humiliating position until he left the bathroom. I rose and followed him. He headed over to his dresser and closet and specified the clothing I was to extract for him: black boxer-briefs, black socks, black trousers, black dress shoes, and a white dress shirt. All of them with expensive labels, mostly Italian. No jacket, no tie, but otherwise he looked ready for a business meeting. Naturally, I had to dress him, including stuffing his genitals into those form-fitting boxer-briefs, but at least I didn't have to do it with my mouth.

And then it was time to report back to Henri to serve breakfast.

MONDAY, JUNE 20, AFTERNOON – ENTRANCE HALL

I'm skipping forward because I can't tell you every detail of this day, even though I remember much of it. I remember almost every moment I spent scrubbing floors under Ivan's aegis, and can tell you what was served for lunch, with me in the role of nude waiter. But in describing the week, I think I should frame it in terms of my encounters with the staff – arguably the most surprising aspect of my new life. I knew I'd have to kowtow to a dictatorial Master. I had not anticipated being subordinate to eight other Men as well.

Men like Pyotr, the chauffeur. I was to report to him at 2:00, presumably at the garage. My schedule required me to clean myself out after lunch. I knew what that meant: Master would not be the only one fucking me today.

And so a few minutes before two I found myself in the entrance hall, wondering how to get to the garage. There was no one there to ask – not that I could ask – so I headed toward the front door. I'd have to figure it out when I got outside.

• Halt!

Not Master's voice, from behind. I halted nonetheless, ten feet from the exit.

The voice belonged to the shorter, younger Casual Friday dude, Ilya. He was about twenty-four, with curly blond hair and deep, penetrating blue eyes, medium height, slim and fit. A handsome face. I could easily envision him in a fraternity in an Ivy League college, moving on to Wall Street – a go-getter, aggressive in his self-interest, yet surrounded by friends and popular with girls – except I knew that in this household, girls were not on anyone's agenda.

• Present.

Bless you, Henri, for teaching me this. I adopted the `present' position, dropping to hands and knees, pressing my head to the floor like a Muslim in prayer, and spreading my legs – definitely not like a Muslim in prayer.

• Well, I see you've learned something.

He spoke nearly flawless English. He slapped me on the rump and told me to get up and face him. When I did, I noticed something else about Ilya – there was a sizeable bulge in his trousers.

• On your knees, boy!

`Boy'. He was maybe five years older than me, and he was calling me boy. But then, that was my name, wasn't it?

• Can you give a decent blowjob?

Oh, god, please not now. I'm supposed to be in the garage in four minutes. Then I remembered he had asked me a question.

• I doubt it, Sir. I don't have much experience.

• Much? So you have given blowjobs?

• One, Sir.

• Where was this?

• On the ship, Sir.

Enough with this questioning, get on with this. I'm going to be late as it is.

He saw me glancing at the clock.

• Have an appointment?

• Yes, Sir.

• At two o'clock?

• Yes, Sir.

• (nodding; it made sense to him) With Pyotr or Grigory?

• Yes, Sir. Pyotr, Sir.

• It had better be, or you have no reason to be heading for that door. Actually, you have no reason anyway – it's why I stopped you. That door is for Men only. Not slaves.

Get it? Slaves were not Men. Terrific. And if not through the door, how the hell was I supposed to get to the garage?

• You don't know where the slave exit is, do you?

Slave exit?

• No, Sir.

He studied me for a moment – a long moment – then took pity on me.

• I'll show you.

I followed him down the same hallway I had traversed last night, and into, of all places, the library. I scarcely had time to soak in how beautiful the room was with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were eighteen feet tall. In the corner was a spiral staircase that led into a space below.

His mission done, Ilya turned and left me alone. An eye on the clock – 1:58 – and I scrambled down the stairs, hoping that when I reached the bottom, it would be obvious where the garage was.

It wasn't. It wasn't even obvious where the exit was.

At the base of the stairs, I encountered an archway leading directly into a dark space, lit only by whatever ambient light had followed me down from the library. I could see only a few feet. Was this really the slave exit, or had Ilya pulled a fast one on me? I didn't have time to contemplate that.

But when I stepped through the doorway, suddenly I could see. And what I could see was a tunnel.

The tunnel had concrete floors, unpainted walls, and low ceilings that anyone taller than me would have to stoop for. It was so narrow that if two people met, one of them would have to back up. Dim track lighting provided just enough light for me to navigate my way. They must have been activated by motion sensors when I passed through the doorway. Unfortunately, it was not a short tunnel.

Worse, after I had traveled about fifty yards, a second corridor opened up to my right. Shit. Do I follow it or continue straight ahead? I decided to go straight ahead and started to run, as by now it was surely two o'clock. The tunnel angled to the left and finally I saw another staircase. I clambered up it, two steps at a time and emerged –

In a greenhouse. The towering form of Grigory, who was tending to some plants, took one look at me, smiled in a way that amused him but not me, and said simply, "Other way."

I dashed back down the stairs and ran at full speed back to the T, took the other branch, which was even longer. It took a turn as well and there was another fifty feet or so before there was another stairwell.

This time I emerged in the garage. Pyotr glanced at his watch and said, "Ty opozdal."

At least, that is what he might have said. Ty opozdal' is – according to the internet – how you say You're late' in Russian.

Then he might have said, `Voz mi ikh i nachini myt rolly", which is an internet translation of "Take these and start washing the Rolls". Because he handed me a bucket and a sponge and pointed outside the garage where a Rolls-Royce was standing in the sun.

Pyotr, I was in the process of discovering, spoke no English.

In a classical sense, Pyotr was the handsomest man on the premises. He was about six-one, securely built, with a face one could easily envision as the male lead in a romantic comedy – solid cheekbones, strong mouth, sturdy chin, clean-shaven, intense dark brown eyes, perfectly groomed brown hair which threatened to reach his ears but didn't. He was not in his livery like yesterday, but wearing a gray uniform, like a mechanic might wear. He was about Master's height – I was hoping that what was in his pants would be smaller. I knew I would soon find out.

But first I was going to wash cars. He grabbed a bottle and squirted it into my bucket and pointed to a hose while gibbering to me in Russian. I got the idea. I filled the bucket with water, watching the suds accumulate, inserted the sponge and started to work.

It was a nice day, temperature in the low eighties, sunny. The sun felt good on my bare skin. I remembered sun-bathing in the nude on the ship with Matti and how we had once used it to study other guys' asses and try to match them against ass-shots they had shown us in a contest. It seems almost quaint now. If this was my job for the afternoon it was more pleasant than scrubbing floors, which Ivan had me doing this morning. And washing cars was something I had experience with, it being a common enough chore for an American teenager.

Master had three cars – a Rolls, a Bentley, and a Maserati. After washing the Bentley, I had to wax the Rolls, then wash the Maserati then wax the Bentley. Meanwhile, Pyotr was working at his computer in an office adjoining the garage. Maybe he was ordering supplies or managing accounts. Maybe he was watching porn, who knew?

Just as I finished waxing the Bentley, I heard my name, "Boy!" That he could say in English.

I went to him and saw that his office was full of monitors with camera views of the entire estate. A large monitor showed the front gate – I remembered he was also in charge of security – but there were multiple shots of the grounds and various places within the household. One was even placed in the greenhouse, where Grigory no longer was. I wondered if Pyotr had seen me pop up there and knew why I was five minutes late.

The main thing that caught my attention, however, was the fact that Pyotr had taken off all his clothing. I looked immediately at the item of concern, which at the moment was hanging freely over a pair of heavy balls. It looked to be of average size, but the question was what it would look like erect.

He said something that sounded like "polkadot". A single word, an order, barked.

I remembered what I should do when I entered a room and so I reversed direction and dropped to all fours, head to the floor and legs spread wide.

"Da," I heard him say, along with some other words. Then he felt my ass and rubbed the inside of my cheeks, touching my hole but not invading it. He slapped my rump. When I didn't move, he slapped it again and said something like "Stawvay." I had no idea what that meant – was it an insult, was it an instruction?

By the way he grabbed my chest and yanked upwards, I determined that it was an instruction to revert to a standing position.

By now, something else was in a standing position. When you're about to be raped, nothing about the sight of an erect penis is comforting, but at least it was slightly smaller than Master's.

Then he said something that sounded like `idiot'. It was accompanied by a push, so I started to walk. He led me out into the sunlight, then grabbed my arm and pushed me in front of the hood of the Maserati.

Then he said something that, from the force on my back I interpreted that as `bend over'.

He left me there, bent over the hood while he went into the garage to fetch something. Whatever it was involved a long spout which was inserted up my ass, then something was released and I felt it moving up and down my shit-chute with relative ease. Apparently, this was his means of lubrication.

To my surprise – and gratitude – he put on a condom. He gently pushed my legs apart with his feet; not satisfied with the spread, I felt him grabbing my thighs and positioning my legs where he wanted them.

Then, to my surprise, he leaned over and kissed the back of my neck. As he did so, I felt his hardness against my about-to-be-penetrated butt. His cockhead nuzzled my hole as he murmured something in my ear. Almost like a lover, not a rapist.

And then he raped me. His eight inches pushed past my sphincter, spearing me with the full length of his manhood.

He said something in a gentle tone of voice and pushed partway in. He spoke to me – his voice had a question mark in it – and I imagined him asking me if I was okay. I thought back to the first time I had had gay sex – when I raped New Mexico – and how I went slowly, checking on his progress as I pushed myself into him – and wondered if Pyotr was doing the same thing. I'd never know, unless somehow I learned to speak Russian, but his tone of voice was calm – he didn't seem to be taunting me as he fucked, as I had seen so many maroons do as they raped the Bottoms on the ship.

He kept up the patter as he fucked me – although he was gentler than Master, it still hurt, and I began to grunt involuntarily with every thrust of his cock. A couple of times he stopped and planted kisses on my back, confusing the hell out of me. We aren't lovers, Pyotr! You are fucking me against my will.

And then he began driving again, and his dialogue became more animated and more aggressive. I imagined it to be the Russian equivalent of "Oh, yeah, baby!" but I didn't know. He could have been reciting the Gettysburg address for all I knew.

His tone became harder as his thrusts became harder, and I heard him use the word suka' repeatedly, as well as boy' – which, of course, was simply him repeating my name.

I felt him slow down from time to time – and he pulled out completely a couple of times, forcing me to repeat the pain of him forcing himself past my sphincter. I thought back to Latronius in the shower – how when he got near orgasm, he would have me slow down so that he could hold back and prolong the experience.

• Pyotr!

Suddenly, there was a voice. My head, pressed to the hood, was turned the wrong way to see who possessed it. It didn't sound like Master.

Pyotr pulled himself out of me. He spoke something angrily, confirming in my mind that it wasn't Master – surely he wouldn't react that way to his boss.

Words were exchanged. I have no idea what they were talking about. I kept hearing the other Man use the word mineta', and Pyotr replying nyet'. They were clearly having an argument about this mineta', whatever that was. Eventually I heard Pyotr say Grigory', and things escalated to the point I thought it might get physical.

Then I felt a finger in my ass – Grigory's – and he slapped me hard and said the word `pizda'.

Then I heard him walk away and Pyotr resumed fucking me, muttering to me as if apologizing for Grigory – at least that's what I was imagining.

He paced himself but finally pushed himself into me further and faster and I knew he was on the verge of shooting his load. Which wasn't into me, but into his condom.

When he finally withdrew, he ripped off the condom but then squeezed its contents into a broad, low-rimmed cup. He handed it to me. He said something in Russian that I didn't quite hear.

Regardless, I think I knew what that meant but was hoping I was wrong.

He gestured.

I was not wrong. He was ordering me to drink it.

I did. He took the cup, inspected it, and handed it back to me. Not good enough, evidently. I licked up his remaining semen from the cup, and inspected it myself, trying to remove every visible speck of gism.

He looked at it, nodded, smiled, and surprised me by kissing me on the cheek. Then he handed me the wax.

Oh, yes, the Maserati hadn't been waxed yet. I went back to work.

MONDAY, JUNE 20, LATE AFTERNOON – MASTER'S BEDROOM

• Do you enjoy visit with Pyotr?

Talk about a loaded question. I took a while trying to figure out the `correct' answer.

• I ask you question, boy.

• I think he was pleased with me, Master.

• (slap) I did not ask if he enjoy. Pyotr always enjoy. Do you enjoy?

• (shorter pause; fingers crossed) No, Master.

• Is good. Slave must be honest. Never lie, even to please Master. Is clear?

• Yes, Master.

• Do you understand what he say?

• No, Master. Sometimes I think I could guess.

• You must learn Russian. Few words. Do you remember anything he say?

• Something that sounded like `polkadot'. I think he wanted me to present.

• Yes. Pokazat. Mean `display yourself'. What else?

• I heard Grigory say mineta'. And pizda'.

• Grigory? Grigory was there?

• Yes, Master, he . . . came by.

• Mineta' mean blow job'. Probably Grigory want. Did he get?

• No, Master. Pyotr was . . . in me at the time.

• Ha! Pyotr was in your pizda'. Pizda' mean `cunt'. Boy cunt is asshole. Pyotr tell me you are late. Is true?

• Yes, Master.

• Why late?

• I didn't know how to get to the garage, Master. Also I was detained.

• `Detained'? What this means?

• I was stopped, Master. On my way, someone . . . talked to me.

• Who is?

• Ilya, Master.

• Go shower. And wash inside – is motor oil up your ass.

No wonder Pyotr wore a condom. He didn't want motor oil on his cock.

When I returned from the bathroom, I was surprised to find the Master was no longer alone. Ilya was with him. The conversation that followed was in English, clearly for my benefit.

• Ilya, Boy say he late to Pyotr because you stop him. Do you stop him?

• Yes, boss, I did.

• Why you stop him?

• He was about to use the front door.

• (to me) Boy, is true?

• Yes, Master.

• I informed him he would have to use the Slave Exit. I don't think he knew that. I showed him the Slave Exit through the library.

• Was after two when you leave him?

• No, it was 1:58. I checked.

• (to me) Is true, Boy?

• Yes, Master.

• Then is no excuse. Ilya, tell Ruslan ten extra stroke. Was that only reason you stop Boy?

• I also wanted a blow job, but he said he had an appointment at 2:00.

• He tell you this to avoid blow job?

• No, I noticed the time and I asked him if he had an appointment.

• Is good. If he say this without ask is very bad. Is require more punish. So you get blow job later?

• No, I've been busy in the office.

• Boy available now.

Ilya grinned, stripped off his shirt and dropped his trousers. He stood there wearing only his undershorts, shoes and socks. I knelt before him.

I pulled his shorts off and he presented his tumescent uncut cock for me to suck. It was bigger than my own, but, given my height, most men's were. It was smaller than Pyotr's.

I licked him to a full erection and then took the tip into my mouth. I tried to remember what Latronius had taught me, softly blowing as I wrapped my tongue around his member. After a couple of minutes, Ilya put his hand on the back of my head and pushed it forward, forcing his cock deeper into my mouth and beginning the rhythmic motion that forced me to bob up and down on his dick.

I tried to remember to breathe through my nose. Fortunately I did not have a strong gag reflex and was able to accommodate him without gagging until he forced his cock into my throat.

Panicking, I gagged and pulled away and Master said something to Ilya that sounded like an instruction. When he re-entered my mouth, he was gentler and let me suck him off at my own pace. I felt Ilya tense and emitted a sigh and I knew he was getting close to shooting his load – which wouldn't be the first I had swallowed today, even if the first had been emptied from a condom. Ilya increased his vocalizations until he came, filling my mouth with the milky white liquid whose taste I knew I would be experiencing often.

"Clean it," came the instruction from Master and I did so, washing every inch of his cock with my tongue and lips.

Ilya said something to Master and Master said, "Da."

I think I must have done okay, for a beginner.

MONDAY, JUNE 20, EVENING – PLAYROOM

Ruslan explained to me my transgressions as I was tied to the frame.

• Five on back with flogger because you spill drop of coffee onto tablecloth when serving Sasha breakfast. Five on thighs with flogger because Ivan find spot in servants' bathroom that you miss. Ten on ass because you late reporting to Pyotr. Five on ass with cane for discipline. This is favorite part of my day.

He was in front of me, as naked as I was, and his pleasure was physically obvious.

He stroked it.

• I cannot wait to shove this up your ass.

I could not look away from it. It was so thick I thought there was no way it would ever get in.

And yet I knew he would find a way. My mind circulated through my schedule – Friday. Not until Friday would that cock enter me. Unless –

• Of course, I could have your mouth whenever I want during week. But I not crazy for blow job.

He passed behind me and pressed his body against mine, his erection protruding between my legs so that when I looked down I could see it. His torso was against my back, his abs against my ass, his limbs against my limbs. His head touched mine, the bristle of his five-o'-clock shadow roughly brushing my face.

He whispered in my ear.

• But I LOVE fucking.

His scent was so powerful. I took a moment to drink it in. It was a nice smell, yet somehow a familiar one. My mind involuntarily flashed back to a moment on the boat when I felt a body pressed against mine and an arm wrapped around my chest. And then I realized – he smelled like Rhody.

When Rhody had expressed his feelings for me and touched me in that physical way, I had responded. To my horror I got hard. And the same thing was happening now. When I looked down, I saw two erections.

Ruslan took notice. He reached around me and grabbed my cock, gently stroking it.

• I think you want me inside you.

No I didn't, truly I didn't.

• Friday. You will feel me inside you on Friday. Are you looking forward to that?

• (not that monster sausage, thank you) No, Sir.

• Your cock says otherwise.

My cock didn't have a brain. I couldn't explain that. There was something in Ruslan that it responded to. Who understood how physiology worked anyway – I wasn't a biology major. On the ship they had insisted that we had been chosen because deep down some part of us was gay. Maybe . . . maybe it was true, some small part of me. Maybe ten percent of me. And that ten percent was responding to Ruslan. He just happened to have the right combination of chemicals that set off my pheromones. Or whatever.

But I wasn't gay. It was just Ruslan.

• So why you think you don't want to be fucked by Ruslan?

An easier question I have never been asked in my life.

• It will hurt.

• It will hurt, Sir.

• It will hurt, Sir.

• Yes, it will. But you will love it anyway. But now – it's time to make other parts of you hurt. And your failure to address me properly has just earned you three strokes directly on your balls.

He was true to his word – he made other parts of me hurt. The strokes on my back were not that bad, the ones on my thighs made me wince. The ten with the strap on my ass made me gasp. The five with the cane on my ass made me grunt loudly. And the three on my balls made me scream.

It took care of my erection in a hurry.

MONDAY, JUNE 20, LATE EVENING – MASTER'S BEDROOM

It was the end of the day. Master had just fucked me, in a style similar to Pyotr – he bent me over the side of the bed and took me standing up. After breeding me, to my surprise, Master decided to have a talk.

• Do you enjoy session with Ruslan?

• No, Master.

• He say you do.

Not a question – I don't have to answer that.

• He say you get hard.

Shit – don't make me explain that

• Is good sign.

Yeah, well you notice it didn't happen with you.

• He explain to you why you punish?

• Yes, Master.

• You do well.

Yeah, then why do I have marks all over my body?

• You should see Jackson after first day.

Him again. Jackson. My predecessor. Who isn't here now. Was I supposed to be pleased that I had outperformed him? Or was this a veiled threat that if I wasn't a good boy things could be worse?

• You get ten strokes with strap for late to Pyotr. Ilya say you have enough time. Why you late to Pyotr?

• I got lost, Master. I tried to get there on time – I ran – but I got lost. I took the wrong turn.

• You took wrong turn because you not know way, yes?

• Yes, Master.

• Pyotr know this. Is camera in tunnel and he watch on monitor.

And yet he reported me anyway? That fucking sonuvabitch. And him acting like he liked me.

• And yet you punish for late. Do you think this fair?

• (`Slave must be honest. Never lie, even to please Master.') No, Master.

• And you have five strokes for discipline. Every night you will get five strokes for discipline. Discipline is remind slave of place, even if nothing to punish. Do you think this fair?

• No, Master.

• Is honest answer, yes?

• Yes, Master.

• Good. You obey, you do not tell Master lie to please. But why you give this answer? To avoid punish. Master say not to lie, you not lie – is good. You avoid punish for disobey. Is what slave must do to avoid punish. But not proper answer for good slave.

WTF?

• Good slave answer, "Is not my place to say what is fair. Is for Master to decide what is fair." Good slave accept life not fair for slave. Fair not – how you say – concept apply to slave. Good slave accept that – more than accept, he believe in heart. Good slave only purpose in life is to serve Master and is only thing bring him pleasure.

Yeah, like that's ever going to happen.

• Jackson not good slave. Jackson not here anymore. You become good slave or you not be here anymore either. Do you understand?

• . . . I . . . understand, Master. And also I don't understand.

• Is only first day. I not expect you understand. But – in future – you must understand. And you must become good slave. In here. (And he thumped his heart). For now, I am please. You have good first day.

A good first day. I had worked my ass off, sucked a dick, got fucked in the ass twice, got flogged mercilessly by a man with the thickest dick I had ever seen in my life who longs to plunge it into me, got punished for things that were not my fault – sure, a great day.

And now, as I write this, it is four months later. And I am still not a good slave. I have been obedient, yes. But slavery is not in my heart. I still believe in the concept of fairness.

And life has not been fair to me.

And it has not been fair to Matti.

I thought of Matti – wherever he was – as I cried myself to sleep that night.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - GETTING TO KNOW YOU]