Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER SEVENTY: JAVIER

Previously: Dmitri warns Alexei (devastated by Matti's sale) that if his performance doesn't improve, he will sell him at the LBM auction in Mogadishu. He informs Alexei that Matti is also to be auctioned off the same day, but Dmitri will ask that his purchaser be someone safe'. Alexei makes an effort to be a good slave in his two remaining weeks in St. Petersburg and then is transported to the Little Big Man ship, where his job is to monitor conversations among the contestants from the Control Room (where he can also observe all of the activities of the contest').

Alexei is stunned to discover that the President of IAMSO, Jaakko Koivisto, has joined the cruise as a director, along with his slave Javier. Javier is rebellious and chastises Alexei and Rhody for obeying their Masters even when they didn't have to. He is disrespectful to his master (whom he calls `Jaakko') and bitter. After hiding himself under his desk, he finally reveals one reason for his bitterness: his genitalia have been entirely removed. Rhody is interested in hearing his story; Alexei is not, but later realizes that it was important in the context of future events.

ALEXEI: SATURDAY, JUNE 3, MORNING – ATLANTIC OCEAN

Javier told us his story – the events that led to his slavery and subsequent nullification – in a conversation between him and Rhody and me, but it will be clearer if I just present it as if he was writing it himself.

JAVIER'S STORY

I grew up in a lower-middle-class suburb of Santiago, Chile. My father ran a butcher shop. My mother did laundry for some of the neighborhood women who didn't have washing machines. I had three older brothers. I was the youngest and the runt of the litter. My brothers were all tall and athletic – what you in America would call `jocks'.

From an early age, I knew I was not like them. I would never have attached the word `gay' to it when I was nine years old, but I knew I was somehow different. I didn't understand my brothers' attraction to girls or their alpha-male posturing. They were not scholars, which was fine with my father, who didn't really respect education. I, on the other hand, buried myself in books and my teachers encouraged me at every level. My mother was proud of how well I was doing in school, but my father was worried because I showed no interest in sports.

When I was twelve, he forced me to participate in some football programs. There were no changing facilities at the field, so we dressed and showered at home. I was small, but I was quick and could dart in and out between players. I became good. I got attention and when I was fifteen, I was asked to join the school team. It was there that I discovered the side-benefits of football – the locker room and communal showers. The sight of my teammates in the nude was so thrilling, I had to be careful to avoid an erection.

I wasn't always successful. When the coach caught me ogling a teammate, he booted me from the team. I didn't tell anyone but eventually my father found out. He asked me if I was a maric"n and when I didn't deny it, he said I was no son of his and tossed me out. I spent the night on the street and the next day began searching for a job.

I saw a Help Wanted' sign in a bar/restaurant and went in. The first person I saw was the bartender, who took my breath away. His name was Ernesto and he looked like a Greek god. When I asked about the job, he asked if I was twenty-one. I said yes'. He laughed and said, Liar'. He took me for a brief interview with the manager who said I'd only be a busboy, I didn't have to be twenty-one, let's give it a shot. I was so happy and Ernesto was grinning and I thought, Is he gay? Does he like me?'

I slept out on the street again that night and when I came in for work the next day, Ernesto noticed that I was wearing the same clothes. I told him that I was sleeping rough and didn't have any other clothes – maybe I could get some from my mother while my father was at work, but I had no place to keep them. He was a kind man and said I could stay with him until I earned enough money for my own place. Which at busboy wages would take a while and wouldn't be anyplace nice.

I went home with him and he gave me a pair of pajamas to wear while he washed my clothes, which were starting to smell; I slept on the couch. The next morning I went home and picked up as many clothes as I could carry and took them back to Ernesto's. That night, Ernesto sat down with me as I was preparing for bed.

• You know, that sofa isn't that comfortable.

• It's okay.

• You seemed a little stiff in the morning.

• Well, yeah. I didn't sleep that well, but I'm just grateful to have someplace.

• My bed is way more comfortable. It's a king, so there's plenty of room for both of us.

I didn't realize at the time that he was seducing me. But the thought of sleeping a foot or so away from that handsome man – well . . . I followed him into the bedroom. He stripped off and climbed into bed completely nude. I began looking around for the pajamas and he laughed.

• Why wear pajamas, chico? I never wear them. Most men don't.

• You gave me a pair of yours.

• I keep a pair in case my mother comes for a visit. They're too big for you anyway. Sleep in the buff – it's far more comfortable. And it's warmer in here than on the couch.

I took off my clothes and climbed in next to him. It didn't take long for me to get hard, and it didn't take long for him to notice. You can imagine what happened next.

We became lovers. We lived happily together for about three months when, for the first time, he left on a Saturday night and didn't come home. He dressed in a hyper-masculine way, leather jacket and boots. The next Saturday it happened again and then again the third week. I had been quite patient about it at first, but I was starting to get jealous. He was obviously seeing someone else – who?

I had noticed a cute young guy with blond hair who had started to come into the bar. Ernesto seemed to talk to him a lot. Well, that's a bartender's job, but this looked a lot like flirting. Was he Ernesto's new boyfriend? He was European and dressed nicely, while I was a lower-middle-class mestizo. Maybe Ernesto wanted an upgrade.

On a Thursday, the blond came in again but with a guy who made Ernesto look effeminate in comparison. He oozed masculinity through every pore, from his six-o'clock shadow to his muscular thighs and cowboy boots. He wore a leather vest, open in the front, showing off his powerful chest. I was in awe.

The man came up to the bar and ordered a scotch and a Cuello Negro, chatting with Ernesto while I was busing tables. A couple of times, though, I saw him cast an eye in my direction. He returned to his booth without his drinks. Ernesto handed me the tray and told me to deliver them, something that wasn't in my job description. The guy accepted them and said

• Here's a little something for you.

He held out a 500 peso coin which he dropped in my hand – only he missed. It fell on the floor. I bent over to pick it up and felt his hand slap my rump in a friendly way. I turned red, and felt a surge in my pants. I was starting to grow but I didn't want him to see it.

• Sorry about that. Clumsy. Here, I'll make it up to you.

And dropped another 500 peso coin . . . onto the floor. This time he put his hand on my right butt cheek and squeezed it firmly. My cock was definitely hardening and sliding down toward my thigh.

• Nice ass, boy.

• Thank you, sir.

• Hmm, am I noticing you liked that?

I was too embarrassed to answer, made some excuse and hurried back to the bar. Ernesto was grinning ear to ear.

• Maximiliano likes you, chico. Would you like to play with him?

Would I! My eyes lit up and Ernesto just smiled.

• We'll see what we can do.

That Saturday night, Ernesto again donned his leather jacket and instructed me to wear only a T-shirt, a jockstrap and the tightest pair of shorts I owned, in addition to my sneakers. It was January, the height of summer, and so minimal clothing was not going to be cold.

• Which T-shirt?

• Something form-fitting. It doesn't really matter. It's not going to stay on for very long.

It didn't. And, you might imagine, this was my introduction to bdsm. I had my introduction to hot wax that night, as well as being tied up and flogged to the shade of a freshly-cut ripe watermelon.

This became a pattern – I would pile onto the back of Ernesto's motorcycle and we would go downtown to Maximiliano's place. Maximiliano was well off. He had an entire floor of an apartment building, on a high floor with views of the city. The furnishings were lavish, and one whole room was reserved to be a sort of dungeon, with a sling, benches, and a St. Andrew's cross.

I was not alone. The young blond boy (whose name was Heinrich, being one of those Chileans of German descent) served as a second bottom; Ernesto played mostly with Heinrich and Maximiliano with me.

After the fifth week, when our revels were over, I started to get dressed for the return journey, when Maximiliano said:

• Stop.

• What?

• You're not going back.

• I don't understand.

• We're trading boys. Heinrich is going to live with Ernesto. You're going to live with me. He'll send over your things tomorrow.

• You and Ernesto decided to trade boys. We don't have any say in this?

• Of course you do. You are free to leave. But if you do, you're on your own. You won't have a job, you won't have money, and Ernesto will donate your clothes to charity. But if you stay . . .

• Yes?

• You'll have everything you need, including my cock up your ass. Don't deny it, you find me sexy as hell and love it when I fuck you.

• I'm not denying it.

• I own two restaurants and a bar. The bar is a gay bar. You'll work there. You won't get a salary but you have free room and board and if you're a good boy I'll give you presents from time to time.

• You're not going to pay me? What if I want to go out and do something? I won't have any money.

• Ask me. If you're a good little slave, I'll get you want you want – tickets to a concert, a dinner out, whatever.

• Did you just say `slave'?

• You're not familiar with dom/sub relationships, are you? I'll tell you what to do, and you'll do it, that's all there is to it. You'll be my live-in houseboy, except I won't be paying you in cash. I'll be paying you in room, board, and dick.

• I don't like the word `slave'.

• It's a bdsm thing, don't freak out over it. Here – if you're a good boy, I'll give you Sunday afternoons off and 50,000 pesos to spend. Tell me what you'd like to do and we'll do it together tomorrow. Being a slave is a mental thing – it's not like I physically own you or anything.

• I guess that doesn't sound so bad.

• You'll have certain household duties – cleaning, laundry, cooking. You probably can't cook, so I'll have someone teach you. In the evenings, you'll work in one of my bars. At home, you'll dress simply but in clothing of your own choice. When I enter the apartment, you will strip. I don't want to see you here with clothes on. That's effective now.

• Can I say good-bye to Ernesto?

• No. You need to break the tie. One other thing – you must call me Master Maximiliano. If you are going to be my slave, then I am your master. Now I think I have another load within me this evening. Get down on your knees, boy.

And so I became Master Maximiliano's slave – though not in the same sense as you and I are now. I could have walked out at any time. I should have. 50,000 pesos is not a lot of money, but I could have survived on it for a couple of days - long enough to find another job somewhere, and maybe I could have stolen more from him. I had opportunities to take money from the till at the bar, I could have done it.

But that bar was my doom. I had to work bare-chested with a collar and a harness and leather chaps with my ass exposed. Patrons would give me tips by shoving them between my cheeks. They would slap me on the rump, they would squeeze my cock. The more I let them do that, the bigger the tips they would give. But I had to hand over all of my tip money to Master Maximiliano anyway.

One day a Brazilian businessman came into the bar on a week-long trip to Santiago. He came into the bar every night. I could feel his eye on me, even from across the room, and when I was tending to his table he would slap me on the ass. On the third night, he told me to bend over so he could stick a finger in my hole. I refused. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. He held it up to my ear, and I heard Master Maximiliano's voice:

• He's a valued customer. Do what the man says.

So I bent over and he fingered me, and the next night he told me to go into the dark room with him. I asked Master Maximiliano if that wasn't going too far. He looked at me sharply.

• I told you to do what the man says. Was that not clear?

So I went to the dark room and sucked him off. The following night he fucked me. And on the sixth night – a Saturday – he flogged me after fucking me.

The bar closed at four a.m. that night, and Master Maximiliano was there to close up and take me home. I went into a back room to change back into my street clothes. When I emerged, the bar was deserted except for two people: Maximiliano and the Brazilian.

Then came the moment that doomed me for all eternity. Five simple words.

• I've sold you to him.

What? What do you mean, you've sold me to him? I'm not your property, it's just a role-play thing that worked out to our mutual convenience.

• You belong to Master Braulio now. This is real slavery, Javi, not the pretend kind you and I have been enjoying. We signed a contract, he paid me, he officially owns you, effective the moment you arrive at his home in São Paolo. The only reason it's not now is only so you can wear clothes on the flight.

I didn't understand that at the time.

• His plane leaves in four hours. You will be handcuffed for the flight. Master Braulio will carry identification as a member of Law Enforcement, and you will appear to be a fugitive from justice. An injection will temporarily disable your vocal cords, so that you will not be able to speak. Once you arrive at Master Braulio's home, you will strip and you will remain in the nude permanently.

• Permanently'? What does that mean, permanently'?

• It means permanently. For the rest of your life.

And I felt two powerful arms grab me from behind – Braulio's – and Maximiliano got out a syringe and injected something into my neck. I heard a rustle and my wrists were clapped into handcuffs. The last words I ever heard Maximiliano speak were:

• I'm a Beta tester, chico. I try out potential slaves for new owners. I told you I own two restaurants – I don't. Just this bar. My real income comes from finding new slaves and selling them. Heinrich wasn't good enough, so I gave him to Ernesto. You I advertised, and Master Braulio came here to take you for a test drive. You passed. And now you're going to earn me a bundle. Thank you. You're a great fuck, by the way. Master Braulio's going to enjoy you.

`Master Braulio' didn't enjoy me, except maybe when he was in my ass. I sure didn't enjoy him. For Braulio was a member of IAMSO, with all the regulation that entailed, and I just couldn't accept it – the discipline, the meticulous insistence on perfect obedience – the slightest fault punished, the 24/7 nudity – it made me enraged.

It might have been different had Braulio been an attractive man. Ernesto was a hunk, Maximiliano the centerfold of Gods Weekly, both of them made my heart pulse like I had tachycardia. But Braulio was ugly, flabby, with a pitiful dick, and body odor that no amount of bathing would cure. In short, he was physically repulsive. And so my natural rebellion kicked in, and as my eighteenth birthday approached, I began to find ways of undermining him. I thought about stealing some of his clothes and escaping, but he had a smart house' that invoked certain security measures when he left the house. I couldn't get out of any of the doors or windows. The phones were disabled. If escape was impossible, I'd rebel in smaller ways – pissing in his orange juice, stealing food, drinking his alcohol, accidentally' ruining a shirt by leaving the iron on for too long.

Braulio had had enough. When he bought me in June, I had just turned eighteen – eligible for IAMSO markets. So in September – this past September – he took me to the IAMSO convention to sell me. He obscured my bad behavior, knowing that if he was honest, no one would pay a penny for me. He didn't care about the money – he was one of the richest men in Brazil – but he wanted to get rid of me and didn't have the guts to, as the expression goes, dispatch' me. His marketing strategy was to bill me as a great fuck'. To prove it, he held two open houses where the house that was open was my ass. Fourteen men tried me out, and most agreed that I was, indeed, a great fuck.

One of those men was Jaakko Koivisto. I hadn't seen any of the convention events, so I had no idea who Jaakko Koivisto was. To me he was just some white guy. I heard him tell Braulio that he liked to vary the ethnicity of his slaves, and this year he was looking for one from southeast Asia, and one from Latin America, preferably mestizo. He bought me as well as an Indonesian named Bakti.

Bakti was hot to look at, but a little arrogant – he was more experienced at being a slave than I was, and said his name meant `obedient boy' like he was proud of it. I didn't trust Bakti, but I might have to. Because my ultimate goal was to escape, and it might be easier if I had a fellow slave to conspire with.

As it turned out, I would have to make my escape plans alone. We flew to Jaakko's main estate deep in the woods, 300 kilometers north of Helsinki. Jaakko explained that only one of us would live there, as his `principal boy'. The other would be at his summer home, which had a skeletal staff; Jaakko would spend most of his time at his main estate, except for the summer and some weekends. I listened to all this silently (of course) with an intentionally quizzical look on my face. For I had already formulated the germ of a plan.

With a smaller staff and Jaakko rarely there, the summer home would be easier to escape from. I needed to make sure Bakti was the `principal boy'.

Jaakko had not bought me sight unseen – or ass unfucked – but he had bought me sound unheard. He had neither spoken to me nor heard me speak. So, I thought, time for a little game. He started reviewing the rules of slavehood. When he'd ask us a question, I would respond, Qué?' or No comprendo.'

He grew tired of this, and snarled:

• Don't you speak English, boy?

• No, señor. No soy inglese. Soy chileano.

• (getting smart) No habla inglés?

• (looking startled) Creíste que hablaba inglés?

• You better not be playing with me, boy. And you don't use `tu' with your Master.

He then said something in Finnish to one of his underlings, who returned five minutes later and spoke to Jaakko in Finnish – I heard the word `Braulio'.

My new master spat in my face, a reaction so mild it amused me.

• Master Braulio says you speak fluent English, and have from the age of six.

• (smile) That's right, Jaakky baby.

A fury descended over his face and he punched me squarely in the jaw, loosening a tooth that later came out.

• You call me Master and nothing else. Juho – teach this boy a lesson.

Juho was the disciplinarian at his main estate. He taught me a lesson all right – I had the bruises to prove it. But I achieved my objective – I was put into a helicopter and flown to the summer estate. It was silly of them to blindfold me – as if I could recognize the geography well enough from the air to know where I was. I reasoned that they must have blindfolded me to prevent me seeing a nearby town that I could escape to.

My second involuntary slavery, at least, was better than my first – at first. It was late September, pleasant weather, and Jaakko would come down for long weekends. As you learned last night, Lexi, he has quite a jackhammer approach to fucking. But I endured the nightly fucks and the periodic gangbangs and Saturday night bdsm parties. I put up with servants ordering me to do ridiculous things. For nearly a month, I played the good slave, all the while evaluating various escape scenarios.

Jaakko kept two horses in a stable. In addition to mucking out their stalls, one of my duties was to help exercise them. Every day, Jesper, the stablemaster/handyman/disciplinarian and I would exercise the horses (named Rope and Handcuffs – how sick is that?). We rode sometimes for a couple of miles without reaching the edge of the property. But the thought went through my head: Horse = Transportation.

I discovered that Rope could jump over fallen limbs. I knew there must be a fence somewhere at the edge of the property – maybe Rope could jump over that as well. I had my cover story if I met anyone: It was a school prank – friends had put me naked on a horse and told me I was impersonating "Lord Godiva".

The final straw for me was when, at a Saturday night party, Jaakko introduced what he called the choking game'. It is just what it sounds like. They would choke me to the point where I was nearly unconscious – and I would get hard. The same kind of effect kids into auto-asphyxiation are seeking. Jaakko showed them exactly where to press and what kind of pressure. He would tell them three more seconds and he'd be dead'. They would edge me and then bring me down and then do it all over again. Every time I thought I was going to die. They loved the game, and Jaakko did too. He repeated it the next weekend.

I chose a day in early November during a relative warm spell, warm enough for me to be outdoors comfortably in the nighttime. There was a digital code you had to enter in order to gain access to the stables, but I had watched Jesper carefully and learned the combination. I stayed awake until I was confident everyone would be asleep, then waited another half-hour before I slowly, carefully, got up. I could be as quiet as a mouse when I wanted to – and I knew where the creaks in the stairs were and avoided them. I managed to get outside. There were dogs, but they knew my scent and came over to greet me rather than bark. I made my way to the stable, undid the lock, opened the door –

And an alarm sounded. I didn't know that there were two combinations to the lock – one for daytime and one for after the horses were locked in for the night. I only knew the daytime one. Security lights went on, flooding the area. Within seconds, the door to the house opened and Jesper came pouring out. I found out later that when I had left the house, Jesper had been alerted to the presence of a `security breach' – only in this case, someone breaking out instead of breaking in. It didn't take long for Jesper, Pekka and Oliver to hunt me down.

The next day, Jaakko flew in with a surgeon and had my testicles removed. I was chastened by the castration – for a few months. As indignity after indignity was heaped on me – including seeing my testicles stuffed and mounted on the wall over the mantle, and repeated instances of the `choking game' – I was even more determined to escape.

But I needed a better plan. The stables were now out of the question. But I had to take advantage of the geography. And there I was, staring at the sea. It would be too cold in winter, but if I could hang on until April or May . . .

The sea was maybe 400 meters from the house. I could watch the sun set over it, so I knew that the estate was on the west coast of Finland. All I needed to do was to find a time when no one was watching me too carefully, sprint for the sea, and then swim down the coast. I didn't know how far the property extended, but I could swim for a couple of miles, surely. Then I'd find a house I could break into to get some clothes; if I was lucky I'd find the nearby town they didn't want me to see from the air. Jaakko might have the local police under his thumb, so my best plan was to steal some money and take a bus as far away as I could. It was risky, but I was desperate.

I was also foolish. I was working in the gardens and saw Pekka head into the shed to get something. This was my moment – I made a mad dash for the ocean. As I reached it, I looked back and saw Pekka staring in my direction. Okay, so he spotted me. But I was almost there and I dashed into the sea and swam out, trying to get far enough from shore that I could swim parallel to the coast and wouldn't be easily spotted from land. But there were swirling currents and it was more difficult than I thought.

And they had a boat.

Three days later, Jaakko arrived and had my cock amputated. An inch at a time, cauterizing each wound so I wouldn't bleed to death – and so that I would endure more pain. From that moment until I arrived here, I was given a daily injection in my throat to keep me from speaking. Which is one of the reasons why I didn't talk to you much the first day. And one of the reasons I disobey silly orders if I can get away with it. Silly orders like turning in guys who say their real names. And why I have little respect for those who do.

ALEXEI: Well, that explained a lot. Javier was jealous of us. We had made the right decisions and he had made the wrong ones. And he had paid the price – multiple times – rather than just accepting reality and making the best of it.

Rhody, naturally, was more sympathetic than I was, but I pretended like his story was one of misfortune rather than bad judgment.

DMITRI: SATURDAY, 3 JUNE, EARLY AFTERNOON – ATLANTIC OCEAN

• I was going to keep Rodion, but seeing this crop of boys is giving me second thoughts.

• Who do you like, Yuri?

• California. Also Indiana and New York. You've got to like Alaska, he's a blond and has about the sexiest butt out there.

• Yes, Alaska does make my cock itch. As do others. It's just the question of Alexei. Jaakko thinks we should both replace our slaves. He makes a lot of sense. You make a lot of sense. But Alexei . . . I just don't know. I'm fond of him, Yuri.

• Maybe too fond?

• That's what Jaakko thinks. Maybe he's right. If Alaska or Connecticut gets through to the final eight Tops, I should take him and sell Alexei.

• Likewise, if California or Indiana gets through, I'll keep him. Maybe New York as well – I love the way he overpowered South Carolina.

• So the moral of the story is – ask me a week from now. We'll see who's still a virgin.

TUESDAY, 6 JUNE, AFTERNOON – ATLANTIC OCEAN

The 6th of June. Historically, D-Day. A year ago, Alexei had described June 6 as `the day the roof fell in': he learned the truth about Little Big Man and how his life had been changed forever.

My life did not change forever on this 6th of June. But it was a very bad day. I should have been reveling in the pleasures of Day Two of Round Two, watching the boys try to identify each other's asses and succeeding or failing in their advancement toward preserving their current status.

Instead, I was distracted by a phone call from Sasha.

• Boss.

• Sasha, what is it? Did something happen?

• Yes, something terrible. Henri had a stroke.

• What? How – is he - ?

• It wasn't fatal. But he can't speak yet and part of his left side is paralyzed. They think he'll recover, regain his speech and movement. But it may take months or years, and even then he might not be able to cook.

• Oh, my God, poor Henri.

• He's at the best hospital in St. Petersburg. But his family wants him sent home to France.

• He's not close to his family.

• They're still his family, Dmitri. They have the right. And they think the hospitals are better there.

• They're probably right.

• . . . Sasha?

• Yes, Boss?

• This sounds like the wrong thing to ask, but – how are you doing for food?

• Bobrovsky has been filling in.

• Bobrovsky?

• Oleg remembered him bragging that he could cook. Turns out he can. Quite well. Not exactly Henri, but I'm surprised at how good he is.

• Okay, well that's good to know. Keep me posted, Sasha.

• Will do, Boss.

FRIDAY, 9 JUNE, LATE MORNING – BATA, EQUATORIAL GUINEA

We had one major success and one major failure in the slave auction here in Bata. The success was that we rid ourselves of the latest in a series of disappointing entrants from the state of South Carolina, who was purchased by a regional governor from Nigeria.

The failure came with the Eunuchs. We normally sell half of our eight Eunuchs here; the other half go to the Royal Family. But this year we had a ninth on board – Jaakko's boy Javier. Jaakko had originally intended to trade him in for a new model at the IAMSO convention in September, but he grew so disgusted that he decided he could not wait that long – the boy had to be sold now. We told Patrick that we would offer up five eunuchs rather than the usual four, and he was delighted. But when we got to the auction and Javier was presented to the group, Patrick rushed to the stage.

• No nullos! We cannot sell nullos.

It turned out he had a legal permit which allowed him to traffic in merchandise `including live animals which must be presented intact or, to prevent unwanted procreation, with testicles removed. However, all other body parts, including tusks, horns, tails, or male members must be present in any livestock sold.'

Obviously, this provision was intended to permit the sale of African wildlife, but its ambiguous wording would allow humans to qualify as `animals'. Which meant that our slaves could be gelded but not nullified. Abdul, in the past, had refused to auction off eunuchs – and had no need to, since the Royal Family had always taken the four we didn't sell in Bata. But we could never ask the Family to take on Jaakko's failed slave. So Jaakko would have to find another buyer somewhere or hold onto him until September.

ALEXEI: FRIDAY, JUNE 9, AFTERNOON – OFF THE COAST OF GABON

The mid-voyage auction was held in the gymnasium at 9:30 this morning, when we were anchored at Equatorial Guinea. Rhody and I were `allowed' to watch it. Javier was not with us, and we soon found out why: He was offered up for sale! Except there was some kind of foofaraw and he was quickly taken off the market. I didn't understand why.

We pulled out of port at a little after noon and headed south. Javier re-joined us in the Control Room and charged into conversation immediately.

• (Javier) That bastard! Do you know what he tried to do?

• (Rhody) We saw.

• Are you upset?

• (Javier) Am I upset? Am I upset?!

• You said your Master was going to sell you. Weren't you expecting that?

• (Javier) In Mogadishu, yes. But they were going to auction me off like a – like a . . .

• Slave?

• (Javier) That's not right. They can't do that. Auction off people to the highest bidder. And most of the buyers were Black Africans. I'm not going to be a slave to a Black man, I'll tell you that.

Memo to Javier: Slaves can't choose their Masters. And racism isn't attractive, dude.

• How do you think it works in Mogadishu?

• (Javier) You're kidding. They put you on an auction block? I thought . . . well, you know, a private transaction. Like how Maximiliano sold me to Braulio, or Braulio sold me to Jaakko.

• Not how it works for Bottoms, dude. They're put on the block and sold to the highest bidder.

• (Rhody) Yeah, but the Royal Family buys the eunuchs.

• (Javier) Oh, no. I've heard about them. They cut off your head if they don't like you. That's not happening. They're not buying me.

• (Rhody) Dude, you don't have a lot of control over that.

• Like none.

• (Javier) That's what you think.

• We think that because it's true.

• (Rhody) It will be easier if you just accept it, Javier.

• (Javier) Never! You wimps may have given up, but I never will.

• Javier, what the fuck can you do?

• (Javier) If I can't escape slavery, I can at least make him pay for his crimes.

• Koivisto?

• (Javier) Who else? He's the most evil man on earth, and I will get my revenge.

• And how are you going to do that, exactly?

• (Javier) Watch me.

That, I guess, was our warning.

DMITRI: SATURDAY, 10 JUNE, LATE MORNING – OFF THE COAST OF NAMIBIA

I remembered all too well the conference call we had had last year with Abdul, in which he surprised us with changes that the Royal Family had insisted on – including the replacement of our carefully-planned Round Five with a castration game, which wound up ruining Boris' and Sergei's plans to take Mississippi and South Dakota home as their personal slaves. It caused such a ruckus that this year, I thought I'd contact Abdul a bit early. We didn't want to get caught off guard again.

• Dmitri, nice to see you again. Is it just you?

• I didn't think it was necessary to involve the others yet, assuming there are no surprises like last year. There aren't, are there?

• It depends upon what would surprise you.

• Is the Prince Regent coming on board?

• The Prince Regent? No.

• That's a relief.

• Khalid, yes.

• That's worse.

• You'll pick him up at Mamoudzou on Monday. And he'll be bringing the guillotines.

• Shit. They're messing with our Round Five again?

• I think they want this change to be permanent.

• The only reason they needed extra eunuchs last year was because they had three young princes coming of age and they give them a eunuch as a first slave. The only seventeen-year-old this year would have been Jamal, but as you know –

• Yes, poor Jamal. So tragic. Imagine the grief the Prince Regent must have felt, losing his two eldest sons in a car accident. Burnt beyond recognition, they say.

• They say.

• Anyway, they don't need extra eunuchs. Khalid just wants to watch the boys' anxiety and their reaction when their balls drop off.

• He's a true sadist.

• He'd take that as a compliment.

• So they don't need extra eunuchs, but they're going to take extra ones anyway?

• No. They've, ah, well, I've decided I can sell eunuchs this year.

• I thought it was against your principles.

• Let me just say principles are somewhat flexible when profit is involved.

• Would you accept a nullo?

• I don't see why not.

• Excellent. That solves a problem. Jaakko's slave is a nullo, but Patrick wouldn't take him for some stupid legal reason.

• As a matter of fact, I can take all the Eunuchs this year. The palace says that they had low attrition rates last year and don't need replacements – which I interpret as `they can create some more if necessary'. So I'll have a separate auction for the eunuchs. I've put the word out, and the market is ripe. A number of buyers will show up now just for the eight eunuchs.

• Nine, with Jaakko's.

• Yes, and knowing that a personal slave of Jaakko Koivisto will be one of the offerings will bring in a lot of buyers. Is he a good slave?

• He's a terrible slave. But a good fuck.

• Well, we won't share that first part. I gather he did something to warrant the nullification.

• Tried to escape. Twice.

• I'll steer him toward buyers who'll keep him chained up. Or get rid of him quickly.

• As long as you sell him, Jaakko will be happy. Doesn't matter where.

There was another matter weighing on my mind. Alexei had been a good slave since coming on board. With the voyage coming to an end, he deserved to know where he stood.

ALEXEI: SATURDAY, JUNE 10, AFTERNOON – OFF THE COAST OF NAMIBIA

It's hard to concentrate. Master pulled me away from my duties to have a talk. Well, not an exchange, he did all the talking. It was a terrible talk.

He informed me that he had come to a preliminary decision about my future: At this stage of the `competition', there were sixteen Tops – half of whom would remain for the final divvying up with the Royal Family. He had his eye on three boys – Alaska, Connecticut, and Louisiana. If two out of that group made it to the final eight, he would sell me and keep whichever of them the Royal Family didn't take. If only Alaska or Connecticut survived the two remaining rounds, he would attempt to pre-negotiate for him with the Royal Family, and if he liked his chances, would sell me and keep the new boy. Otherwise, he would keep me and sell whoever he wound up with.

I needed my Finnish Calculation Wizard to tell me what the odds were, but it didn't look good. And it put me in the odd position of rooting for Alaska and Connecticut to lose at Rock Paper Scissors tonight, in order to avoid having to root for them to lose Round Five - whatever Round Five would be this year. Last year, according to Wyoming, we were SUPPOSED to have voted, as a group, as to which of three tables with color-coded tablecloths would lose their virginity. Instead, the Prince Regent came on board with his castration machines, a memory which revives horrific images in my brain. I hope, come tomorrow, I see some color-coded tablecloths.

SUNDAY, JUNE 11, MORNING – OFF THE COAST OF SOUTH AFRICA

A gloomy morning. Cloudy skies, cloudy future. Alaska, Connecticut, and Louisiana all survived Rock Paper Scissors. If two of them got past Round Five, Master was going to sell me.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

And there were no color-coded tablecloths. I hoped that didn't mean what I thought it meant. But at least the Prince Regent wasn't on board. Yet.

DMITRI: An excellent morning. Alaska, Connecticut, and Louisiana all came through Rock Paper Scissors unscathed. Connecticut went down to a mano-a-mano with California, but emerged victorious.

That disappointed Yuri, who lusted for California. The loss was pushing him toward retaining Rodion, but Jaakko was lobbying for him to turn over his slave no matter what. And Yuri's next two picks, Indiana and New York, were still Tops.

Sergei was more than satisfied. Four Tops remained who fit his type', an amalgam of mixed interests he called exotics' – two redheads, a Latino and a Chinese-American.

And Jaakko was happy that his number one target, Missouri, had easily emerged triumphant. His second choice, New Mexico, was also among the twelve remaining Tops.

Overall, a good night. Not so much for the four new Bottoms, who each took nine cocks up their asses. But that was good entertainment – and good training for their future.

ALEXEI: MONDAY, JUNE 12, EARLY AFTERNOON – INDIAN OCEAN

I knew what was going to happen at lunch. It was a repeat of the horrible Wednesday last year, when the maroons had decided to terrorize us by randomly raping Bottoms in the Dining Room. It turned my stomach to see the unsuspecting Bottoms yanked out of their seats, sodomized repeatedly, and tossed around like salmon at the Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle - only without being caught.

After lunch, I heard the announcement ordering all the contestants to their cabins and felt the ship slowing. I found a monitor that had a view of the horizon and saw that we were indeed approaching land – which I had the sinking feeling was the Comoros, where the Prince Regent boarded the boat last year. I mentioned this to Rhody, and he nodded. Javier seemed distracted, his mind somewhere else. There were clocks ticking in his brain, but I had no inkling why.

We pulled into port, hoping against hope that I would not see the Prince Regent boarding the boat. I got my wish, and wish I hadn't. Not the Prince Regent – Khalid! And he brought with him the three mysterious boxes which were no longer mysterious to me, but brought back hordes of memories. The guillotine blade hurtling down toward Rhody's balls, only to land on the stockpiece as some kind of cruel joke. Poor Del screaming as he was transformed into a eunuch. The feeling in my own balls as the device simulated my castration, only to watch South Dakota's testicles drop to the floor instead. And most of all, Matti, undergoing the same mock castration, looking at me and mouthing "I love you, Cheesehead."

"I love you, Cheesehead" was burned into my brain.

Dammit, I was crying. Oh, Matti, if only Abdullah had never learned to drive. . . .

I watched on various monitors as a reception committee greeted Khalid (as if they were glad to see him), and accompanied him and the boxes into the gymnasium, and headed up to the bridge deck. A moment later, they all entered the Control Room. Khalid, new to the ship, was getting the grand tour.

On the boat, with so many Men popping in and out of the Control Room, we were exempted from the display protocol, except when alone with our Masters. But Prince Khalid wouldn't be aware of the exemption, so I (astutely, I thought) got out of my chair, dropped to the floor, and presented my ass. Rhody, quick to pick up on the signal, did likewise. Javier stayed put.

Khalid barked a laugh.

• Praise Allah. What do my eyes behold! One sweet little slave who wants to live at the palace. Who wants my brother's cock – and mine – up its ass. I've just been talking with your Master, boy. He's willing to sell you if he can have another boy named Alaska. I think that's a deal my brother will make. He wants your ass, boy. Don't be fooled by your little victory in St. Petersburg. My brother tends to get what he wants.

Why couldn't Alaska have lost at Rock Paper Scissors? Now I had to hope he loses the guillotine game. Not a comfortable ethical position.

• My brother has two fuckboys, one white and one Black. You can replace the white one. By the way, we still plan to geld you – I guess we'll have to geld the Black boy as well, to keep things symmetrical.

I noticed that Master stayed silent throughout all this. In St. Petersburg he had been strong, confrontational, not allowing Khalid to get away with shit. Now he seemed complacent, conciliatory. No not so fast, Khalid'. Not even a lot of things can change between now and Wednesday'.

Khalid turned his attention to Rhody.

• Yuri, this is your boy.

• Yes, Your Highness. Rodion.

• Ah, yes, you give them names. So quaint. Well, boy, I quite enjoyed fucking you at Dmitri's little party in January. I might just buy you for myself. Yuri, I'll take it for a ride later – agreed?

• . . . It might be arranged, Your Highness.

Yuri seemed none too enthusiastic about the prospect.

• And Jaakko, is this your slave?

• Yes, Your Highness.

• I thought your boy was Indonesian.

• He is. This is my second boy, the one I keep at my summer estate.

• What's it doing in its chair?

• Ask it.

• What are you doing in your chair, boy?

• (Javier) Listening to conversations.

• `Listening to conversations, Your Highness.'

• (Javier) Yeah, that's what I said.

• (after slapping Javier) Why aren't you on the floor like the others?

• (Javier, shrugging) They told us the display protocol was waived. You want me to say `Your Highness' with that? Sure, why not. The display protocol was waived, Your Highness.

• (Koivisto) The protocol was waived for us and the enforcers. Not for distinguished visitors.

• (Javier) Oh, is he distinguished? I didn't know. Are all Highnesses distinguished?

• (Khalid, after another slap) I hope you are not intending to sell this boy to the Royal Family.

• (Koivisto) Certainly not.

• (Khalid) Its behavior in the last two minutes would cost this boy its balls at the palace.

• (Koivisto) Javier, get up.

Javier rose from his chair, glaring at Khalid.

• (Khalid) Ah, I see. It has already, and then some. You should terminate it.

• (Koivisto) That will be for its new Master to decide.

• (Master) Abdul will sell him on the open market.

• (Khalid) Is this boy going to display or not?

• (Javier) Oops, sorry, Your Highness. It slipped my mind.

And he got down on all fours and presented his ass. Which Khalid promptly kicked.

• (Khalid) I will speak to Abdul. I will make sure he gets sold to the right kind of owner. One who will enjoy ending his contract. Slowly.

The next fifteen minutes were spent explaining the various facets of the Control Room to Khalid, and how he could watch the festivities remotely, as well as access data for any of the Tops or Bottoms he chose. He spent some time ogling the nude photos displayed on the Profiles wall.

Satisfied, Khalid decided it was time to leave, and tour the rest of the ship. The three of us slaves stood, Rhody and I returning to our chairs and donning our headphones when vaguely I heard Javier call out:

• Master?

I don't know what startled me most, Javier suddenly speaking or his properly calling Koivisto Master' instead of Jaakko'.

Koivisto had no such quandary.

• Boy! Who do you think you are? You do not speak unless you are required to. That is Day One of Slave Training. Hour One. Minute One.

By this time, the other Men had left the room and Koivisto was alone with the three of us. Javier, to my surprise, seemed almost obsequious.

• I'm sorry, Master, but there's something I need to show you. Can you come here for a moment?

There was something genuine and sincere in Javier's manner. I would normally have expected Koivisto to ignore him and leave, but I think he picked up on the same change in tone that I had noticed.

• Thank you, Master. See that? Over there?

I felt, rather than saw, Javier move to a position directly behind Koivisto.

• Do you see it, Master? There, on that wall?

• What are you talking about, boy? I don't see anything unusu–

He never finished the sentence. There was a rush of energy and before I knew it, Javier had charged Koivisto and had his hands around his throat. And was squeezing for all he was worth.

• You taught me how to do this, you fucking asshole. You were teaching your friends, but you also were teaching me. I know exactly what to do.

Koivisto started gasping for air. I looked at Rhody, in shock. He looked at me. It was not part of our job to get involved, but . . .

We bolted out of our seats. I could see from the side that Koivisto was turning purple.

• Are you getting hard, Jaakky? Just a few seconds more and you'll be dead –

was the last thing Javier said before we tackled him – and Koivisto. The pair fell forward, luckily avoiding hitting a desk and landing prostrate on the floor, Javier's hands still firmly grasping Koivisto's throat.

Rhody was strong and seized the slave's hands, while I managed to grab hold of his legs. Between us, we managed to pull Javier off his Master's body. Koivisto had passed out – or was it worse than that?

• Alexei, he's not breathing!

Javier was still struggling against the two of us.

• Hold him down, Rhody!

We pushed the naked slave further from his Master and Rhody fell on top of him, pressing down on his shoulders as the rebel continued to fight. I crawled over to Koivisto, rolled him onto his back, and began applying mouth-to-mouth, a skill I had learned in life-guard training at the local pool.

After a few puffs, I saw movement in his chest, and kept pumping oxygen into his lungs. A moment later, Joey, the head maroon, burst into the room, apparently having heard noise coming from the Control Room. He saw me bent over Koivisto.

• (Joey) What do you think you're doing, boy?

• (Rhody) He's saving his life! Help him! . . . Sir.

The distraction caused Rhody to loosen his grip on Javier, and the rebel broke free and made a dash for the door. By this time, others had come running and Javier ran straight into the massive maroon Tupu, who could have picked him up with one arm. Instead, he picked him up with two, and plunked him in a corner, hard, and stood over him to make sure he wasn't going anywhere.

Joey, meanwhile, had realized that I was actually helping Koivisto, not kissing him, as the Finn began gasping for air and regaining his senses. Joey and I helped him to a sitting position.

• Sir, may I get him some water?

Yeah, I was breaking protocols by speaking out of turn.

• Yes. Go, boy.

There was a bathroom attached to the Control Room. I found a cup, filled it with water, and handed it to Joey, who began slowly administering it to the stricken IAMSO President.

By this time, Master and the other Men had come into the room, including Prince Khalid.

• (Master) What the hell happened here?

• (Koivisto, rasping and gasping between every sentence) My boy . . . attacked me. . . . Strangled . . . These two . . . saved my life.

• (Master) That what happened, Joey?

• (Joey) Seems like. I came in and Yuri's boy was holding that one down while your boy was – well, at first I thought he was kissing President Koivisto, but he was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

• (Master) Alexei?

• Master, he wasn't breathing. I meant no disrespect by touching his lips. And – I'm sorry, Master, I spoke without permission.

• (Joey) He asked if he could get some water for the President. I said yes. I don't think he should be punished for that.

• (Khalid) Soft.

But he was smiling when he said that. And then Prince Khalid turned to me.

• So, 4399 – or will you be 4400? Well done. Maybe I'll let you keep your balls after all.

A shiver ran through me with his calling me by a slave number.

His glance, once reflective, turned hard.

• Maybe.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE - WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THE SLAVES?]