Slave in Training

Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

Translated by A.B. Gayle and Danny Tyran

May 2014

Copyright

Slave in Training © 2014 DannyTyran Edition License Notes This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical article or reviews. ISBN: 978-2-9244-0013-5 All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Other books by Danny Tyran Esclave à l'entraînement, Éditions Textes gais, Septembre 2012 Conseil de discipline, Éditions Textes gais, Septembre 2012 L'Enlèvement, Éditions du Tyran, Novembre 2012 Obsession, Éditions Le Divin Abricot, March 2013 Ève et Adam, Éditions Le Divin Abricot, July 2013 L'Envol, une découverte du BDSM, Éditions Dominique Leroy, July 2013 Bonne fille, in: À corps et à cris, Éditions Dominique Leroy, August 2013 BDSM Illimité, Éditions Textes gais, February 2014

Table of Content Copyright Bibliography Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Epilogue

“May I be granted the appropriate suffering along the way so my heart is truly awake and my liberation and universal compassion complete.”

Tibetan prayer

I dedicate this book to my master, Sir P., and to my sister in slavery, d., whose memory remains etched in our hearts.

Prologue Nowadays, no one becomes a slave. But some are born, like me, with chains in their souls. Of course, we can age and die without knowing that we were born for slavery and without ever knowing the yoke nor the enjoyment of subjection to another’s will. We can even believe that we are born to command, that we are a “born leader”. But while our natural inclinations push us in a different direction, we can only become an acceptable leader. Because if we are born for slavery, we will never know true happiness, real contentment, peace of heart and mind that would have been ours if we’d followed our own path, that of sacrifice, self-transcendence, surrender and abnegation. There are people who only thrive in submission, others only succeed in domination. Some, rarer, are able to honestly fulfill both roles. I am one of them. I experienced slavery for years under two strict but benevolent masters. Then I spent some time relearning freedom, recharging my batteries and going wherever my path would lead me. One of the talented masters I had the chance to meet trained me for detecting and screening slaves, and to become a good master and a great trainer. So I started looking for my own slaves to train. I wasn’t interested in barflies who believed they were born to serve, just because they were willing to let me take the reins during fucking. What I wanted was someone who shared my taste for challenge, someone who needed a guide, a master. I found him. He did not know he was a slave. He feared pain more than anything. But physical pain was nothing compared to what he suffered because of the absurdity of his meaningless existence. I trained him for several months. At the end of his training, I tested, and then sold him. Yep. Isn’t that what we usually do with our property: buy and sell it? Sometimes we lend or give it. Some inherit it. It is the same for slaves. So I sold him. I opened a bank account in his name, and deposited half the amount of the sale, keeping the rest to cover my expenses for his training. Oh, it was not lifetime slavery; I only sold him for a few years. When his contract expired, he was free again, with a hundred thousand dollars in his bank account. Prior to his years of slavery, he did not even earn twenty thousand dollars a year and spent his meager wage on miscellaneous expenses: housing, food, car, gas, etc. At the end of his slavery, thanks to the recommendations of the slaves’ market financial advisor, the initial deposit from his sale had increased significantly, allowing the emancipated slave a new start in life. Pretty good, eh? I had worked hard to train him well. And I succeeded. The buyer of my sub was well-known, influential and a very rich man. He was very pleased with his new purchase. He talked about

it to a couple of his acquaintances who were also willing to pay a lot for a devoted slave. I provided them with what they needed by training two new slaves at the same time: a young man and a young woman. After their sale, my reputation as a good trainer increased further and my bank account did too. In that way, I continued for years, until I finally decided to treat myself to a trip around the world. During this, I took advantage of the opportunity to see what the slave market had to offer elsewhere. At first, I just relied on visiting public places, usually bars or cafes, looking at potential candidates, and then I chose those most interesting for training. After a few weeks of preparation, I sold them to well-known trainers who continued the process of getting them ready to become good slaves. Or I sold them to masters who preferred good novices to already trained slaves. To say that I chose candidates is not entirely accurate. In fact, they came to me like bees go to flowers. I would walk into a BDSM bar, sit at the counter or a table, and soon, they would come to me, one after another to perform their tricks, offering me fresh meat. They would offer me umpteen drinks, perform dances of seduction, kneel at my feet, beg me to raise my scepter and put it on them, if not in them. Their methods of seduction made no difference. Only their sincerity, their desire to serve and to surrender, and their eagerness to please mattered. How could I perceive these so valuable qualities in the midst of the superficiality and hustle and bustle of bars? Remember, I myself had been slave, master and trainer. All my life I had lived with this unquenchable desire of self-sacrifice. I knew how to recognize it in them, my beloved children, all of whom I wanted to help. But I had to choose. Before I go on, I should stop and explain how I came to believe what I just told you and describe the circumstances of my arrival in the slave market and how I trained to become a slave.

Chapter 1 My name is Maximilian Lemay. But everybody calls me Max. I was born in 1957 in a village surrounded by forest in the backwoods of Québec province. It was toward the end of the baby boomer era, before the Beatles and the sexual revolution. Fortunately for me, my parents were more open-minded than the average people of the time. The realities of life never seemed as obvious to me as they did to the majority of boys and girls my age. In my mind, I always had a million unanswered questions, and I was more interested in people’s actions rather than their words. The latter were too often at odds with the former. When I was six, I had my first sexual experiences, if indeed we can call them so. At least, they were the first that I remember. Other children don’t seem to have these. Not that I’ve heard, anyway. One day, we were playing hide and seek, and I found myself in the lattice-enclosed area under the porch of a house belonging to a man living alone. John, the boy I was hiding with, was wearing old baggy shorts. While we waited for our friend to find us, we began exploring our hiding place. The house’s owner had stored all kinds of old objects there, but nothing grabbed our attention. We crawled around on all fours. As John crawled past me, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any underwear, and was unwittingly exposing his dick. Although he was a year younger, his cock appeared to be much bigger than mine. I was shocked and began to wonder if I was normal. Shortly after, in similar circumstances, I made sure to hide with a girl. Her name was Helen. As I could not see her sex, I asked her to show it to me. In exchange, I promised I would show her mine. She didn’t seem interested, so I showed her the loose change I had in my pocket and promised to buy her all the candies she wanted, if she would do what I asked. She agreed on the condition she could pocket all my coins first. I gave them to her reluctantly, wondering if I would get value for my money. She then raised her dress and pulled down her panties. I can’t tell you how much I was surprised. Stunned would be a better description. She had nothing! Not really nothing, but she didn’t even have the slightest cock. I bent to get a closer look, but she quickly put her panties back on and dropped her dress. I was happy. At least I had a cock! I showed it to her as promised. She didn’t seem in the least surprised and just said, “My brother has a much bigger one.” My manly pride was hurt, but I pretended I didn’t care and got dressed. Several weeks later, I was again hiding with a boy behind a shed. Denis was older than me. This time, I just dropped my shorts in front of him and demanded to see his. I wanted to compare it with my little dick, and make sure that I was not a monster, something between a boy and a girl. He refused, calling me a dirty pig and said that I was sick and would go to

hell. Then he pushed me to the ground, crushing me with all his weight, and began beating me with a stick that was lying nearby. I struggled on my belly to free myself while gritting my teeth to keep from crying. That would have convinced everyone I was only a girl. I felt tears welling in my eyes, but at the same time, my cock was rising too. After a few whacks with his stick he threw it down and grabbed a knife, threatening to cut off my dick. For once, it seemed a respectable size, I didn’t want to lose it! I fought with all the fervor of my six years. By a twist of fate, Denis ended up hurting himself with his own knife. That night, my father asked me to go with him into what we used as a guest room, an office and a storage room. He told me he had heard about what I had done -- wounding a friend with a knife -- and that was very bad. “I have to punish you for your wickedness,” he asserted, removing his belt. He then ordered me to take off my shorts and bend over the bed. I didn’t know what Denis had told him. All I knew was that I had to prove to my father that I was courageous. I lowered my shorts and bent over the bed while my father wrapped part of his belt around his hand. When my father saw the welts marking my ass cheeks and upper thighs, he asked me what they were. “Denis struck me,” I replied. “So you hurt him with a knife to defend yourself?” “No. He hurt himself with his own knife.” “How?” Without changing position, or looking back, letting him see my zebra-striped ass and legs, I explained, “Denis pinned me to the ground and beat me with a stick. He said he was going to cut my dick with his knife. So I struggled and he fell on his blade.” My father immediately dropped his belt and ordered me to get dressed. I was disappointed. Of course, I had been afraid of the beating. I feared pain. But at the same time I wanted to prove to him that his boy was a man. He told me to sit on the bed next to him and said I should tell him everything. “This will stay between us men,” he added. He had just uttered the magic word. I started off by telling him about the girl who I had asked to take off her panties, because that, I was sure, he would forgive. I then described the incident with John but pretended it had been Denis instead. “When I told him that I had accidentally seen his cock, he got angry and said that I was ill and a damned pig. That’s why

Denis began to beat me,” I explained to my father. “His cock was really big, daddy, much bigger than mine.” “He’s older than you. It’s normal,” he assured me. “No, he’s the same age as me,” I lied. “The size of a cock at your age means nothing. When I was your age, I had a smaller dick than yours.” “You did?” I stared at my father in amazement. “Yes.” “And what is it like now?” The relative sizes of cocks didn’t mean much to me, since I had never had the opportunity to see how big his had become. My father seemed uncomfortable, not knowing what to answer. “Helen didn’t have a cock,” I added. “That’s right. Girls don’t have penises; they have a vagina and a uterus.” “They have what?” I asked, confused by these new terms. My father hesitated, as if he doubted I was old enough to discuss these things. “They have a vagina and a uterus. That’s where babies grow, didn’t you know?” “Oh yeah,” I answered as if I had known that all my young life. “I don’t have a vagina, but my dick is very small.” “Listen to me, boy. There are big cocks that work poorly or not at all, and small ones that work pretty well. And then, when we age, our dick grows. Sometimes it grows faster than the rest, you understand?” My cock had grown very quickly when Denis beat me today, but now it had reverted back to its normal size. Maybe it was trying to grow and someday soon it would stay big. “You mean I may have a big cock one day?” I asked. “Maybe. That’s what happened to me.” “It did?” I asked with wide eyes that were shining with hope. My father studied me intensely, and I looked at the part of him that mattered most. Indeed, there was an impressive bump that I had never noticed before. My father rose to his feet and, more hesitantly than ever, he pulled down his pants. I was speechless. Down there was something unimaginable. My father’s cock was pointing straight toward the ceiling. It was shiny and smooth. A vein, resembling a blue tree, wound

around his dick. His scrotum hung heavy and huge on his thighs, like a promise of fertility. I had never seen anything so beautiful. And the man who possessed this magnificent instrument was my father! He became a kind of living god to me from that day. Some time later, I’m not sure how long, I learned about heredity. They maintain that we inherit the color of eyes, hair and skin of our parents. I again questioned my father who reassured me by saying, “Yes, my boy, that also is hereditary.” If, at my age, my father had a cock smaller than mine, I had every reason to believe that at his age, mine would be bigger than his. If I was not already a man, I would become one in the future. From that day on, I undertook activities designed to show my father and everyone that I had balls and something else too. As soon as someone said, “This activity isn’t for everyone, you must have guts to participate...,” I signed on. I also started reading heroic novels: stories of knights, crusaders, and warriors. I loved Kipling’s novels: “Kim”, “The Jungle Book”, “Captains Courageous”, “Stalky & Co.” I also devoured the books of the collection “Signe de piste”, where all sorts of adventures happened to boy scouts. The science fiction books that I enjoyed most were ones where ordinary young people were confronted with extraordinary situations, requiring them to find qualities in themselves that they didn’t know they possessed. On TV, I watched movies dealing with the training of soldiers. The harsher the drill, the more the film fascinated me, because then I identified with the soldiers and I could believe in their worth. One Saturday, when I was about eleven years old, a few boys and girls met at a place that we called the third beach. It was along a narrow, not too tumultuous river, where we enjoyed swimming. I challenged Rick, a guy in my class, to swim across a narrow section of the river. Being a stronger swimmer and in better shape, I easily made it to the other side, but Rick almost drowned. While I was still catching my breath, I watched as he disappeared a few seconds under the surface before reappearing. I was just about to dive in and help him, when a man plunged in. After depositing Rick on the river bank and making sure he was unharmed, the man asked us our names. The following Monday, my teacher told me to go to the principal’s office and sit on one of the chairs near the door until I got permission to enter. I chose the farthest seat away from the door, as if somehow this might delay the fateful moment, and waited for what felt like centuries. When the door finally opened, a man came out and walked away while a deep voice from inside ordered me to come in. When I entered the office, the principal was on the phone - with a friend, judging by the lighthearted tone of the conversation and his cheerful appearance. For the first time, I had a chance to study the man closely. While speaking, he was playing with a wooden ruler. Making it swirl like a spinning top on his desk. He let go, and It made two more turns before

clattering to a stop. Then he beckoned me to approach. As he listened to his friend, he scanned me up and down. When his eyes met mine, I looked elsewhere. The room wasn’t very big and smelled of polished furniture and tobacco. A window to my right overlooked an alley where I heard screams: the angry voices of adults. That was not reassuring. The principal hung up. “Hello, Maximilian,” he greeted me in an affable tone of voice. “Hello Sir,” I replied weakly. Nobody ever called me Maximilian. For me, it was just my grandfather’s name. But I didn’t dare tell him. “I won’t ask you how you are. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else. True?” “Yes, Sir.” The thought of lying to him never crossed my mind. His hearty laugh at the intensity and haste of my answer made me smile. I immediately thought that he was a nice man and decided that I could trust him. So when he said, “Tell me what happened at the third beach,” I launched into my story, without hesitation, lie or omission. He listened in silence. When his silence continued long after the end of my story, I glanced up from my study of the floor and saw that he was frowning. He looked worried. “I didn’t-” I began, willing to explain my motives. “Hush. Let me think a bit.” There was no harshness in his voice, no impatience as if he just wanted to give the matter some thought. I felt like crying. “How would you feel if he was dead, Max?” the principal asked softly. In spite of my nervousness, I noticed the change of first name and wondered how I should answer. “He’s alive,” I said defensively. “No thanks to you.” “I was going to help, but this man-” “Enough, Max,” the principal broke in roughly. “You know you’ve done wrong, don’t you?” I became angry. The man was like all the other adults; he just wanted an opportunity to point out a child’s error in order to punish him. “It’s not my fault if he can’t swim well,” I almost shouted. “Max!” He paused for a second and continued more quietly. “Suppose that this man wasn’t there and you tried to help Rick but he’d struggled. It happens, you know, when you’re drowning. You’re afraid and so you struggle. Let’s assume that he dragged you under water and deprived you of air. What would have you done?” “I… I don’t know.” I answered, my mind completely blank.

“Everybody speaks well of you, Max. I was told that you’re a nice, brave boy, and we can count on you in difficult times. Do you think you have all these qualities?” “I… don’t know.” I threw him a miserable look, hurt by his implied doubts. “You don’t know?”The principal looked at me, thinking a moment. “Could you be brave enough to answer a simple question with honesty?” “A.... Yes, Sir,” I replied hesitantly. “Do you think you were right to challenge Rick -- who you knew to be a bad swimmer -- to cross the river?” “No, Sir,” I said, looking at the ground again. “Good.” His use of the word “good” surprised me. I wondered what he could find “good” in what had just been said. “Can I ask why you did it?” he continued. “I don’t know,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze, unwilling to let him see how bad I felt. “Max, please! Your ‘I don’t knows’ get boring after a while, don’t they?” “I don’t know,” I replied with a little smile. He sighed, but smiled too. I wanted so much to please him, to tell him everything. “I wanted to save him. I wanted him to just start drowning a little bit, so I could save him,” I said, releasing a breath. “Oh, my God!” There was something that felt wrong somewhere between my chest and belly. As if a big hole was there. I didn’t want to be hated, or seen as a monster, especially not by him. “He could have died, had he resisted your efforts to save him.” “He’s alive,” I repeated. “Why?” I didn’t understand the meaning of his question. “Why what?” “Why did you do this? What did you hope to gain?” “I don’t know,” I answered again, close to tears. I would have liked to be able to explain myself better, but I could not find the right explanation.

“You do know,” he said, raising his voice. I started to cry. “I just want to be loved. I want to save people. I want to do things that others are frightened to do. Be brave. I want to be a hero. I want ….” I stopped, breathless. “Courageous?! What courage is there in risking the lives of people unnecessarily? Look at Amy Graham. You know the girl in fourth grade who is unable to walk. Confined to a wheelchair. She is very brave. It takes courage to live like that, spending all her life in a wheelchair. Have you ever spoken to her?” “No.” “You should. There’s also Jack Lewis in fifth grade who is learning to dance, ballet. He also has courage.” “But he’s just a....” “A what, Max? A faggot? But dancing is magic. When we dance, we feel like we are part of the music. We almost believe we could fly. Dance is a demanding exercise that requires coordination, reflexes, and a sense of rhythm. And, in the case of a boy, it also needs a lot of courage. Do you know why, Max?” “No.” I didn’t dare to say, I don’t know. I was too confused by what I had just heard to say more. “Because of people like you, Max, who call people like him faggots. Because when you dance, even if you’re not gay, everyone assumes you are and say so anyway. You may dance only because you love it, but people won’t stop laughing at you. It’s very hard to keep going when everyone is laughing at you.” I had often heard of courage and people who are humble. Thanks to all my reading and challenges; I was well aware of the concept, but nobody had ever told me that you had to be courageous to dance ballet. In fact, I even wondered if the principal would get into trouble if I told everyone what he had said to me. Was he crazy or just brave to talk to me in that way? “You know what I think, Max?” “No, Sir.” “I believe that if you spend your time in meeting all the challenges that come your way, if you participate in every game, the toughest competitions, it is not because you are courageous. Quite the contrary, I think you are very, very afraid. You’re so afraid that nobody cares about you, nobody admires you, nobody loves you, that you’re willing to risk the life of a friend to attract people’s attention. I think, Max, you’re one of the biggest cowards in this school.” I stared at him, open-mouthed, trying to absorb and digest what he was saying. “It’s not true!” I shouted.

“Are you sure, Max?” Once again, I was close to tears. Upon entering the principal’s office, my mind had been confused. Seeing him twirl his ruler, I had imagined him hitting the palms of my hands, and I had pictured myself bearing my punishment stoically. Proud beforehand of the courage I’d show and the admiration he could not fail to feel for me. And here I was crying, thinking that perhaps the principal was right, and I was a coward, the worst of all. “Get out, Max,” he muttered tiredly. “I’ve had enough of you.” I turned and walked toward the door. “You know what would be really brave, Max?” he suggested when I was about to leave. “Stop trying to become the star of the school by drawing attention to yourself at any price,” then he added in a kinder tone, “You can go now.” He resumed his work, but as I watched him from the doorway, I struggled to find my path between hatred and admiration. When he looked up and stared at me, I said, “Thank you, Sir,” and ran out. Something was obstructing my throat, but I didn’t want to release it, because my scream would have been too loud. That evening, I spoke to my father of the girl in a wheelchair and the boy who danced ballet. I told him about the last book of science fiction that I read, in which the aliens were all the same, without any difference, neither in the color of their eyes, their hair or their skin, nor in the shape of their genitals. This book praised differences, and I felt very different from the others that day. Dad said that what we look like is not so important. It is what we do and why we do it that count. Then he told me the story of five friends who went into the forest and got lost. Only two made it back home: one with a severe infection in his right leg which had to be amputated and the other survivor was the one who had urged them all to go into the woods in the first place. “You know, Max, this guy thought he was very brave. But he did something stupid, really stupid. And because of him, three of his best friends lost their lives and another is crippled for the rest of his life. What do you think we should do with someone like him?” I shrugged. I didn’t know if my father knew about Rick, but he never spoke to me about it. He didn’t say what he would do with a guy like the one in his story. And I was not anxious to find out.

Chapter 2 Whenever I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror, I saw a handsome young man whose tender eyes lit up sometimes with a wild glow. But my long and curly eyelashes gave my eyes a too vulnerable expression for my taste. A rebellious lock of my wavy and very dark hair kept falling into my aquamarine eyes. But when my nostrils flared like those of a restless horse, everyone understood that little could stop me from doing what I wanted. My body was firm. It was the body of a young man who never stopped running, jumping, climbing, and swimming. My misadventure at the third beach had nevertheless been a turning point in my young existence. I no longer tried to be the best in everything I did - the star at all costs. If I did, it was almost by chance, and I tried to divert any attention to the merit of some girl or the courage of another boy, stressing everyone’s tenacity and team work. But I kept trying to surpass myself, to go farther in other ways. Otherwise, I had the feeling I was going nowhere. In the sauna and showers at school, I checked out the other guys’ bodies. Some were great, others less so. But more than that, I searched their eyes. What I detected there was more important than anything else. They might have the bodies of young Greek gods, but if all I saw in their eyes was as unsubstantial as Olympus’ winds, they had no more effect on me than a light breath of air, and I forgot them fast. At that time, I didn’t know if I was gay. The bodies of men disturbed me more than women’s, but the passion of women and their common sense attracted me more. At the beginning of my last year of high school, the board hired a new physical education teacher. He was black, very black. His features were fine, and he was over six feet four tall. The whites around his jet black eyes were almost blue. His teeth were alabaster, solid and even. His lips had just enough thickness to be considered sensual. His body was that of an athlete, strong and muscular but not excessively so. What struck me most was his haughty bearing. A pagan god. A prince of Africa. I was impressed by so much beauty. During the first class, he introduced himself as James Teka. He then asked us to line up and passed in front, like a general inspecting his troops, stopping in front of each person, looking us up and down while we introduced ourselves. When he stopped in front of me, I thought, Do something, say something, buddy. The first impression is crucial. Copying his actions, I scanned him from head to toe, deliberately stopping level with his cock. When my gaze returned to his eyes, he was smiling. No more than a tiny twitch of the left corner of his mouth. Then his eyes fixed me with such intensity

and determination that I was afraid I’d committed a terrible mistake, the worst in my young life. The gossip said that he grew up in the most disreputable ghettos of New York, and had also lived in Boston and Chicago, and that he taught in schools that would make hell look like a kindergarten, and that he was gay. Why had they sent him here of all places, if that was all true? When he finished his inspection, he ordered us to do warm-up and stretching exercises in the gym. I chose a spot right in the middle and started the exercises as did everyone else. After a series of push-ups, he asked us to turn over on our back for sit-ups. Like the others, I turned around. “Not you, Max. Go on with your push-ups.” He spoke almost without an accent. His voice was a baritone flirting with the bass. I turned back onto my stomach and continued with my push-ups while the others began their situps. Then they went on with the usual round of warm-up exercises while I bent and unbent my arms, my body as straight and stiff as my strength and willpower allowed it to be. After they had rested a little, he asked them to measure and record their heart rate. Then he ordered them to run around the gym. After five minutes of running, he allowed them to stop and they were again asked to check their heart rates. They repeated the whole exercise after a few minutes’ rest. I was still folding and unfolding my trembling arms, but it was becoming more and more painful. About twenty minutes before the lesson was due to finish, my arms began to let me down. It took me a lot of effort to straighten them and not collapse on the ground after. Only a miracle would get me through the next twenty minutes, and I really needed one. I kept trying, but five minutes later, I was at the end of my strength; I could do no more. “Something wrong, Max? I don’t remember saying you could stop.” His voice carried from one end of the gym to the other. I thought he had simply forgotten me. I didn’t say anything. Breathing hard, I gathered all my strength together and pushed my arms to their maximum extension. When I found myself flat on the floor, immobile and incapable of further effort, a pair of shoes and black, almost hairless ankles appeared a few inches from my head. He placed his foot on my back. Resorting to pure pride, I tried to lift my body again, putting everything I had into the effort. But even if his foot hadn’t been pressing down, even if his had been the lightest foot a man his size could have, I couldn’t fully extend my arms. Then he pushed harder and kept me on the ground. I struggled, tried to get up, but failed. In the state I was in, the feat was impossible and he knew it. I tried to wriggle myself free and turn over, but didn’t succeed.

”Stay there, Max. Face down, nose to the ground, and do not move until I permit it. Understood?” When he pushed on my back, I felt I was no more than a beast that the big black hunter had shot. An army of ants was gathering in my groin. Every move I made to free myself had caused friction against my cock, which was now very hard. I suspected he knew that. He probably ordered me to lie face down out of pity. If I got up, my penis would be tenting my shorts. It was humiliating being forced to remain on the ground, but I would have been even more humiliated standing up. The pressure on my back disappeared. I remained motionless, so perfectly still that one could believe me dead. I didn’t even allow myself to scratch a finger that was itching like crazy. Apart from the odor of floor polish and rubber sole shoes, I detected the heady scent of musky balls and old sweat. Ceiling lights reflected off the floor and dazzled me. I felt so hot that I thought I could be lying on a beach in Africa. The lesson ended. The school day did as well. It was four o’clock. As everyone left the gym, I heard the new teacher farewell them by name. Twenty-seven names to remember and match to faces. Twenty-seven acknowledgements. Then I heard noises as if he was storing away some equipment. Then all I heard was silence. He must have gone, leaving me flatbellied on the gym floor. What should I do? Wait? “Get up.” The order startled me because it sounded so close. I stood up and faced him. “What were you trying to prove by checking me out like that?” “Nothing. I have as much right to size up my teacher as he has to assess his students.” He turned his head a little, smiling. Then he faced me again. “What were you sizing up exactly? The length of my cock?” He could not be more direct. Warmth invaded my chest and rose to my cheeks. I challenged him: looking him straight in the eyes for a long time. “Watch out, Max,” he said. “You do not know me. You do not know who I am, what I am or what I’m capable of. I’m afraid of nothing, you hear me. Neither death, nor life. You heard what they say about me? Everything is true. Yet everything is less than the truth. I am the devil.” “Yikes! I’m afraid,” I answered back, defiantly. But in fact, it was true. I was scared. Not so much of the devil than of my desire to go to hell. “Things could go very badly for you if you keep this up.”

“I don’t care.” “That’s what you think.” “It’s the truth.” “Do not challenge me, Max.” “Why not? Try me, Satan. Take me to hell. I also fear nothing.” He gazed at me for a long time. An expression of sadness crossed his beautiful face. I smiled. “Get out, Max. I’ve had enough of you for one day.” The last man who told me that had changed my life. What would happen with him?