Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: LIVE FROM ST. PETERSBURG, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!

Previously: In November, Alex writes his account of his first workweek as a slave back in June, during which he gets to know each of the members of Dmitri's household, and they get to know him – intimately. He is fucked twice a day, disciplined nightly, and must give blowjobs on demand. He is bothered in particular by his physical reaction in the presence of Ruslan, the beefy handyman who conducts most of the discipline sessions. Alex ends his account on Friday, the day before Saturday, when a party is to be thrown at which he is the `guest of honor.' Dmitri admonishes him for not writing about the party, but agrees to let him write only his reaction afterwards – as long as he reads a description of the party written by Dmitri.

FLASHFORWARD: FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11 – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• So, Alexei, you ready to read about party?

• Not really, Master.

• Does not matter. You read. Then I read what you write this afternoon.

DMITRI: SATURDAY, 25 JUNE, EVENING – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

I could have simply ordered the boy to report to the Playroom. He would have obeyed, and he knows what will happen there. He is scared, which is good.

Instead, I surprised him by having the entire staff appear in my bedroom, stripped and erect. Ruslan and Pyotr grabbed him by his arms and legs and carried him off to the playroom. Oleg, who grew up in America, whistled a tune which sounded familiar but I did not recognize it. As you know, Oleg translates and edits these notes, since my English is regretfully imperfect. I have given him permission to insert the fact that he was whistling We're Off to See the Wizard, from The Wizard of Oz, something he knew the slave would recognize and would not find comforting.

Of course the boy did not struggle. He is too smart for that.

In the playroom we secured him to the St. Andrew's cross, facing out, as we sat in a group to outline the evening's activities (in Russian, of course, to increase his anxiety level). We have held enough parties that we have created names for some of our games. Three events were on tap tonight: Full Frontal Flogging, CSP, and Two Minute Drill.

Mounted on the St. Andrew's Cross, the boy was perfectly set up for Full Frontal Flogging.

Counting me, there were nine of us. Each of my employees gave him five strokes – hard. The first twenty went on his chest. The next twenty went on his thighs. Then it was my turn – I gave him ten across his abdomen, and then ten directly on the balls, using a single-tail, swinging up from below. Of course, with his cock failing to be erect, it was hanging down in the way and caught a lot of the pain.

He didn't like that but suffered it in relative silence. Good boy.

The next activity, CSP, stood for Circle Spank Plus. It's a bit of a misnomer. We couldn't sit in a circle, because the angles were all wrong for the "Plus" part. We set up the chairs in an arc, somewhere between a straight line and a semi-circle. I sat on the far right; the order of the others was determined randomly, by drawing names out of a hat.

Ruslan and Grigory lifted the bitch by his armpits and hauled him over to me. I imagine he thought he was going to sit on my erect member. No, boy, we'll deal with the INSIDE of your ass later.

Instead he was deposited face down on my lap, my eager cock nudging his belly as his weight forced it downward without it losing any of its rigidity. Meanwhile, Ivan, to my left, was stroking his erect cock, priming it for its eventual orgasm. Ivan was seated just close enough so that while the bitch's ass was properly positioned for intense swats from my powerful right hand, his head was positioned directly above Ivan's cock. Which he would suck while I reddened his beautiful behind. While the slave was doing so, Pyotr, to Ivan's left, was stimulating his erect member. We required thirty hand-strokes at a minimum, enough to provide stimulation but not ejaculation.

In accordance with the rules of the game, I had to stop after twenty swats – ten hard smacks slowly administered to each buttock. Then I passed him on to Ivan, who gave him twenty more while the boy ministered to Pyotr's cock. And so he went down the line, from Pyotr to Sasha to Grigory to Ruslan to Henri to Oleg, with Ilya seated on the far left. The goal for the boy was to bring the Man close to orgasm – and the goal for the Man was to avoid having one.

When Oleg had finished spanking the slave (who was fellating Ilya), a chair was placed on my right so that the chain could be completed – Ilya spanking the boy while he sucked my cock.

The slave foolishly thought he was finished, but only Round One was. For Round Two, a small butt plug was shoved up his ass. And we began again, the boy over my knee and servicing Ivan's cock.

In Round Two we used a hand brush instead of our bare hands, took more time between swats, and sometimes rubbed our hands over those curvaceous contours that are the most important part of any slave's body. Both of his buttocks were a rich crimson now, and I knew the slave's ass was on fire. Going slow also increased sucking time, which was important, because the goal of the game was for someone to ALMOST come. If he actually came, he'd lose sex privileges for two weeks – an unthinkable forfeit. Thus anyone nearing the threshold was obliged to pull the slave's mouth off his cock and end the game – our loads, after all, were reserved for the slave's ass.

If necessary, CSP could continue onto Round Three but it rarely did. Unsurprisingly, it was Henri who called it to a halt – he had not had release since Tuesday, and probably had prepared many a meal with a tent in his trousers, being around a nude slave with an eminently fuckable posterior.

Speaking of which – it was time to give that eminently fuckable posterior some eminent fucking.

We secured him on the St. Andrew's Cross while we took a few minutes to relax, have a beer, and deflate. The boy looked pretty deflated himself. Grigory tossed half of a beer onto him, giving us all a good laugh. When we untied the slave, we made him lick it up off the floor.

Then it was off to the sling, his first, for Two Minute Drill – an American football term I picked up while in the States. We pushed his legs far over his torso before attaching them to the chains overhead. Everyone had to wear a condom – a rule of the game, as proof of orgasm was required – if all our gism was mixed up together in his ass, who could prove anything? We didn't have one of those DNA gadgets we'd used on the ship.

Again, order was determined randomly, with two exceptions. Henri, as the `winner' of CSP, would go last. He had been the closest to losing his load and thus might be the first to come. And I would go first; I wasn't part of the competition, as it was inconceivable that I would pay a forfeit for losing.

Each man got two minutes to fuck the slave. Anyone who came in the first round was automatically the loser, so no one ever did. After that, the game continued until every player had lost his load up the lad's cunt. The last man to breed the bitch once was the loser. The winner was the first to breed him twice.

What were the stakes? The winner gained an extra fuck of the boy in the coming week – if the loser was a servant, the winner would steal his weekday afternoon fuck; if it was a business staff member, the winner would fuck the boy on Saturday afternoon, and the loser would be disinvited to that night's party. So far as my employees were concerned, these were high stakes – they loved their fucking opportunities.

I lubed up the boy's cunt. His face was full of worry, which made me smile.

• Oh yes, boy, it's exactly what you're thinking. All of us are going to fuck that pretty little ass of yours, and I'll do it twice. So open up, bitch, because you're getting fucked ten times.

And into his tender bottom I plunged my 22 centimeters. He'd been with us less than a week but he was learning how to make it easier on himself. I got in quickly and started fucking him hard as the others crowded around. I don't know which distressed him more – the sensation of my cock up his ass or the glee with which the eight men surrounding him watched me pulverize his guts.

When the timer sounded and I pulled out, I saw his lips move. He was talking to himself, wisely without making a sound. I asked Oleg what he said because I cannot read lips in English.

• (Oleg) He said, "One down, nine to go".

Everyone laughed. The foolish boy thought that was one of his ten fucks. He was thinking each of us would have a go and then Master would do him a second time and that would be it. He didn't realize "getting fucked" didn't count until orgasm was achieved.

The men drew cards to see who was next: Ruslan. The slave's eyes widened as he saw the handyman's drainpipe-thick cock approach him, a grin on his face – Ruslan's, that is. The timer started and despite the boy's attempts to relax, it took Ruslan half of his two minutes just to get inside. He complained about that.

• (Ruslan) You shouldn't start the timer until I start fucking.

• (Ivan) What the hell, Ruslan. You didn't want to come yet anyway.

• (Ruslan) Yes, but I want to get some good fucking in.

Ilya entered the boy more easily.

• (Ilya) Finally, a chance to fuck this bitch. His mouth was tasty, but I want some ass!

A declaration accompanied by lusty cheers.

Ilya is as enthusiastic about his work as he is about sex. He's been with me less than two years but is quite adept at financial matters and a whiz with the computer; he's who I rely on when something goes wrong with my hardware. He has the arrogance of youth, which will bode well for him in business. He is getting good training from Sasha, but there is an impatient streak in him, and I can imagine him leaving in a year or two for a higher-paying job. He probably would have left already if not for the fringe benefits of his current position. One of which he was deeply inside.

Ilya was followed by Sasha, my right-hand man. Sasha's name is actually Aleksandr. Ironically, Alexander was the slave's name back in America. Sasha manages my finances and helps me coordinate Little Big Man. `He also has legal training, so can draft documents of all types. Sasha is thirty-five, five years younger than me, and has been with me since Slava's final year. (Slava was my first slave, before Little Big Man was even dreamed of.) Although I don't, I've been told that women find Sasha attractive. What would these women think, I wonder, if they saw his jet-black pubic hair brushing against the ass of a blond youth in a sling as he thrust in and out of the boy's helpless bowels?

Pyotr was next, his face as eager as his cock. Pyotr fucked the slave with relish, talking to him all the time, calling him cunt and bitch. I had taught the slave these words so I knew he would understand them.

Ilya might not have known that and began shouting encouragement in English. Soon it became a chant that they all shouted together: "Fuck the bitch! Fuck the bitch!"

Grigory was next to fuck the bitch. As monstrous as Ruslan's cock was in its girth, Grigory's was as monstrous in its length – a full 30 centimeters. He was grateful when the gardener's two minutes were up.

Oleg followed. Oleg was, after Grigory, the tallest man in the room, but not as well-endowed. He's twenty-eight, sandy hair, blue eyes. And excellent at communications, which is why I have tasked him with translating my narrative into readable English. Instead of writing to a regional director of one of my companies, Sasha will simply tell him what he wants to say, and Oleg will draft a memorandum, or a set of instructions, or smooth over a legal document that Sasha has drafted. The two of them make a good pair and I hope they stick with me for several more years.

"Fuck the bitch! Fuck the bitch!" continued throughout Oleg's two minutes.

Next was Ivan, my housekeeper. Ivan is almost militant in the way he treats the slave, demanding perfection in everything he does. He's incredibly organized and the house is always sparkling. He's in his early forties, with a broad Slavic face and thinning brown hair. About five-ten, in decent shape but may not stay that way; he enjoys Henri's cooking a bit too much for his own good.

Henri, the oldest and least-well-hung of my staff, followed. He was overweight and had lost most of his hair. But he had the fabled virility of the French and fucked the boy with relish. What he lacked in size he made up in enthusiasm and "Fuck the bitch!" encouraged him. As he had nearly come while being sucked earlier, he looked on the verge of it now but made sure he stopped short.

And then I took my seconds, announcing "And now Round Two" – in English – before sinking my dagger into the boy's rectal sheath.

I saw his distress. Round Two? Wasn't this his tenth fuck? No, bitch, you haven't been fucked even once yet by the rules of this game.

Ruslan followed and then Ilya, Sasha, Pyotr, Grigory, Oleg, Ivan and Henri took their second go-rounds. Pyotr was the first to come, becoming increasingly vocal as he pumped faster and faster, knowing he was about to shoot. He kept one eye on the timer as it was starting to run out but with a triumphant shout he suddenly stopped and a look of ecstasy fell over his face as we all knew he was filling his condom with his sperm.

He pulled out of the slave and peeled off his condom. In a surprise (to the boy), the contents of the condom were dumped into his mouth. Pyotr made sure to squeeze it thoroughly so that every possible drop of his man-juice was deposited onto the boy's tongue.

It took until Round Seven to produce the winner – the second fucking naturally taking longer than the first. Once again it was Pyotr who raised his arms in triumph as his third leg gushed fluid into his condom.

The game was now over, but, as a reminder of who was boss, I took over from Pyotr and barebacked the bitch until I had my second orgasm.

Pyotr was jubilant – he had earned a second fuck in the coming week – at the expense of Grigory, of whom I knew he was not fond.

We left the bitch overnight in the sling after inserting a small butt plug.

FLASHFORWARD – FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11, LATE EVENING – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• So, Alexei?

• I don't know what you want me to say.

• What is reaction when you read my writings?

• . . .

• I ask you question.

• To be honest, Master? Resentful.

• What you resent? I describe, is all.

• You can't use my name? I'm the slave', the boy', `the bitch'. As if I am just an object and not a person.

• You are both. Object who is also person.

• Is there a difference to you?

• (slap) You must like being punish, Alexei. You take liberty. You must be honest, yes, but you ask question without permitting and that is not respectful question. Tonight Ruslan give you twenty strokes with cane with dildo up ass. . . But I explain what is difference. You cannot command loyalty from object.

• . . .

• Respond to that.

• . . . I would have to ask a question, Master.

• I allow.

• Have I not been loyal to you?

• You have been obedient. Is not same. You have other reaction to my writings?

• It made me feel so . . . worthless.

• Is good. You should feel worthless. You are worthless. And when you embrace being worthless, you will have worth.

• I'm sorry, Master, that doesn't make sense. It's what we call a contradiction.

• No, Alex. Is not contradiction. Is what you call – Oleg teach me this word – is what you call `paradox'.

ALEX: SUNDAY, JUNE 26, EARLY MORNING – PLAYROOM

If you overlooked the fact that I was spread-eagled, my arms and legs still in restraints, the sling was actually comfortable. It was like being in a hammock, if you were handcuffed into the hammock.

Unlikely as it seemed, I fell asleep. A combination of physical exhaustion and emotional exhaustion – I guess my body knew I needed to sleep, and my mind wanted escape from reality so greatly that it conceded to my body and let it happen.

When I awakened, it was pitch black in the windowless playroom. In the total darkness, I had no idea what time it was. I only knew my ass was sore and that it still felt full. Then I remembered they had stuck something into it before leaving me here. It didn't feel huge – Henri-sized, not Ruslan-sized. But I could feel it.

Nine condoms full of sperm had been emptied into my mouth and Master shot his load in me twice. I lost track of how many penetrations had been required to produce that - fifty? Was this to happen every Saturday night, or was this a special `welcoming party' designed to break down my resistance? If so, it succeeded: consider my resistance broken.

Last night I had become a plaything, an object of derision. "Fuck the bitch! Fuck the bitch!" reverberated through my head. I had visions of marauding soldiers sweeping through conquered villages, raping every woman they could find in front of their husbands. I was like those women, carted off to the playroom to be raped, my welfare immaterial, to the accompaniment of Oleg whistling "We're Off to See the Wizard" – doubtless he thought it was funny. It was that casual indifference to my fate and my humanity that hurt the most deeply. I was just an object to be fucked, ridiculed, and abandoned.

"Fuck the bitch! Fuck the bitch!" They fucked the bitch, all right. All nine of them.

The irony was overwhelming. Matti and I had spent so much time and so much energy struggling to remain Tops while we were on the ship. To avoid the ignominy of being fucked, and to keep from being separated. And for what? I'd been fucked more often in the last week than I would have been on the ship. And now Matti and I were separated permanently.

Suddenly, there was a click and my legs were freed. Apparently there was a timer on those cuffs. I guess it was my alarm clock, as I had no "wake up, you worthless piece of shit" in my ear to jolt me into consciousness. I didn't need it the audio reminder – I did feel like a worthless piece of shit after how they had used me last night.

At least now I could get out of the sling. I dropped my legs over the side and quickly slid off the sling. Mistake. My legs were so stiff that just bending my knees hurt. Before I knew it, my legs collapsed underneath me and I tumbled unceremoniously onto the cold, hard floor. My arms were slow to react to break the fall and I landed with a hard thump. It felt like every bone in my body was aching. Not to mention my asshole.

I took a full thirty seconds to catch my breath and test my muscles before I even attempted rising to my feet. I could walk, but stiffly. My legs, having been forced wide apart for hours, didn't want to meet and I walked bow-legged, in pain, across the room toward the exit. There was no light in the room at all so I fumbled my way from memory to where the door was, bumping into the St. Andrew's cross on the way. I had forgotten that was there.

What time was it anyway? I reached the door and to my relief it opened. There was just enough light to make out the staircase. I ascended the stairs in a slow, stiff crawl and pushed through the door into the corridor on the north wing.

I could see. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. So the sun was up – which only told me it was past about three in the morning, when the sun rose at this time of year in this ridiculous northern latitude. I entered the corridor, proceeding at a snail's pace as my aching muscles and stiff joints tried to remember how to function. And with every step I was reminded of what my asshole had endured.

There was a clock. 8:25. Shit – I was late. After the pain of last night, I was in for more punishment. Being this late was unforgivable, even with the excuse of no alarm clock. I would have to skip my morning ablutions – I didn't want to climb the stairs at that moment anyway – and hobbled painfully to the other wing and into the kitchen and Henri.

Only no Henri.

And then I remembered. It was Sunday; I didn't have to wake Master until 9. And the staff had the day off. I only needed to make breakfast for Master, and Henri had left me directions: nothing cooked except for a soft-boiled egg. And coffee, of course. Otherwise, just juice, a Danish, and yogurt. That I could do.

I started the water boiling and set up the coffee-maker. Master would be particular about his egg so I timed it carefully. But I wouldn't be serving breakfast for nearly an hour so I left the egg in some water hot enough to keep it warm but not so hot that it would cook further. I put the Danish on a plate, poured the juice into a glass and dumped the yogurt into a shallow bowl, then put the latter two items back into the fridge to keep them cold.

I checked the clock. Thirteen minutes to nine. I had time.

I mounted the stairs gingerly, feeling every step in my ass and my aching muscles. When I reached Master's bedroom I saw I had seven minutes. I took two of those minutes for a quick shower with the plug still inside – I was afraid to remove it on my own – and dried myself. Five minutes was enough time to shave my face but not my body. Without proper time to clean my teeth, I squirted some toothpaste into my mouth to create the impression that I had and then saw it was thirty seconds until seven.

At the precise moment, I lifted the sheet covering Master's body and kissed his cock and balls. He stirred and his penis, apparently not having enough activity last night, reacted. I felt his large hand against the back of my head and he pushed me down over his cock. "Suck," he commanded.

I guess he wasn't worried about being late to breakfast.

I did my duty, his sizeable member swelling as I bobbed up and down on it – even a week had made me a better cocksucker. The feel of a Man's manhood filling my oral cavity was something I was getting used to. And not minding that much, as long as I could breathe and control my gag reflex.

He shot into my mouth and I swallowed it. After licking his cock to make sure it was clean, he sat up and ordered me to present.

I knelt down, forearms and face to the floor, spreading my legs wide, more awkwardly than I would have thought possible. He climbed out of bed and pulled the plug from my ass, then made me stand while he inspected me for body hair. My pubes were not as smooth as he had hoped – a day's growth having occurred without me shaving them off this morning.

• You not shave. Fifteen strokes with strap.

Yeah, well, like I had time? But I knew by now not to expect fairness or consideration of circumstances such as having been in a sling in the playroom all night and having not been awakened in time for me to get everything done. You're damn lucky I managed to wake you on time and get a shower in and brush my teeth (well, sorta) before I kissed your cock this morning. So yes, thank you for the fifteen strokes that I don't deserve.

He then presented the plug that had been in my ass.

• Clean it.

I rose to take it into the bathroom. A powerful blow stopped me and knocked me back to the floor.

• I not tell you to move, boy. I tell you to clean it. Use mouth.

And this was to be my easiest day.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE – THE DOORBELL RINGS.]