From the street, it looked to be an old-fashioned kind of shop with a polished brass knob at the front door. The front window showed dark curtains and the sign above the door said ‘Bespoke.’ Inside the door was a small, marble-floored lobby with coat racks and tall, bright, enameled cans for umbrellas and walking sticks.
During business hours, Mr. Pryor met all callers to the shop as he did on this afternoon with a respectful bow. “Welcome Mr. Martin. We are delighted to see you again.” Mr. Pryor stepped forward in a familiar way completely ignoring the man’s bodyguard and said, “Let me help you with that.” He got the hat and scarf from Martin and then took his coat.
Mr. Pryor looked confidentially at Mr. Martin and asked as discreetly as possible, cutting his eyes toward the bodyguard, “Will that be staying?”
Mr. Martin looked to his bodyguard and made just the slightest motion with his head toward the door. The bodyguard exited without a word.
Mr. Pryor disposed of Mr. Martin’s things on hooks and hangers and then as if by an act of magic, opened a door with no handle. On the other side of the door, Martin was greeted warmly by River, the owner’s number one and chief facilitator, who led him down the hall and said, “I’m so glad to see you again Mr. Martin. I can’t wait to show you what we have.”
That made Martin smile. He couldn’t wait to see what River would show him. Martin had been scheduled already several times to be here but only now had found time to get to the basic job of inventory update and the maintenance slaveries always require. Martin was here on behalf of his master and was plenipotentiary -- that is to say, he was acting on his master’s behalf, so, with his master’s authority and purse.
River knocked at a door and opened it at the same time, ushering in Mr. Martin. The man at the desk came out from behind and went straight to Martin and grasping his right hand in both of his.,“Raff!” he exclaimed, “So good to see you.”
“Ed!” Martin replied. “It’s good to see you too. It’s always fun whenever I come to see you.” Martin was shown to a circle of club chairs with a low table in the center where the three of them made themselves comfortable amid small talk. A whisper of someone in black drifted in and put down a bottle of whisky, glasses, ice, and disappeared like smoke. Each settled back as Ed began to discuss what was on offer.
“I’ve put together a catalog of six. I think you’ll find something interesting here.” River handed Martin a stack of folders. “We have in stock two Fletcher House releases, an Octagon, we’ll talk about the deal with that one if you’re interested, one formerly from Nikki’s house, one..., you’ll find this one unusual, one from Still Moon House, and one from the rodeo circuit.”
Martin looked up from an open folder in his lap and said quietly, “Tell me about the one from Still Moon House.”
Ed looked to his laptop. “Born twenty years, five months ago in Hong Kong. The mother was Chinese, the father may have been Norwegian. It was put to work in a brothel when it was five and although it was taught indifferently, it picked up everything and learned quickly. It can speak Cantonese, Mandarin, and English. It can perform an adequate tea ceremony and is skilled in Kinbaku. It is well mannered and sweet, ever ready and strikingly beautiful.”
“Learned quickly, you say...” mused Martin. “We’ll come back to this one. Why has Fletcher House released two of its slaves to you?”
Ed looked over to River. “Slaves F-612 and F-627,” River began. “For the first one, I think they had a replacement at the time and just cycled it out. 21 years old last month, pics on the inside cover of your folder. It comes with some damage, although it’s easy enough to fix. The damage was to the right tibia; it’s healed now but the muscles need some rehab. This is reflected in the price. 612 will be about half the price of a fully mastered Fletcher House slave; this may be the best bargain in the catalog.”
River hit the page down button and continued, “F-627. No damage per se. It has perfect conformation from its toes to its hair, obedient to a fault, absolutely beautiful overall, but scatterbrained and frightened. Would need further training.” River looked up from his screen to judge Martin’s interest in this one. “It and F-612 come with a complete report card and all papers, and can be purchased separately or as a pair.”
“The two were in fact refined and polished by Fletcher House,” Ed broke in, “but they actually come from a recent side project for Fletcher-branded sales. They’re trained by Ganny-Meade for the first two years, so they still present with some of that arrogant self-possession Ganny-Meade slaves are known for. It’s not really so hard to beat it out of them if you find that attitude unsuitable, especially 627 -- wouldn’t need that much beating.”
“And the Octagon slave?” Martin asked.
“Well Raff, to put the matter bluntly, and you’ll hear this elsewhere, Octagon didn’t feel the boy was trainable.” Ed gazed off somewhere above Martin’s head, remembering the details. “Obviously, I disagree. But it would have to be to the right master, one interested in the whole process, not just flash-in-the-pan theatrics.” Ed paused absently for a moment, as though lost somewhere and then continued his narrative as though it had all been a dream. “Absolutely splendid physique and beautiful skin, harvested for last year’s games, that is, almost two years ago. It had a year of Octagon training for the sole purpose of winning ribbons as a yearling entry in the Harvest Games and it didn’t get a single win.
“Now, maybe that’s just bad luck, but the boy was trained by Octagon, so...” Ed looked to River for confirmation.
“Oh yeah,” said River. “I remember the shouting.” He took his cue from Ed, skipped over the business of the Harvest Games failure and went with the pitch, looking at his laptop. “This item is a diamond in the rough and will work for the master who wants to put in the time and effort. It’s already technically certified proficient across the yearling skill set. It’s passed all the technical requirements. It will make a fine, strong house slave -- quiet, reserved, educable, useful anywhere. And, ”he added as an afterthought, “it comes with a patrician toe, a long cock, a fabulous bum, and a winning smile with beautiful teeth.”
Martin sat as though deep in thought. He knew all this. Well, not the part about the long cock and beautiful teeth. He knew about L’Affaire de Jeux as he called it, about a terrific blowup at the Games after a slave’s third failure in a row. Its final effort of the day brought it close to a fourth place finish. That’s as good as it got. For the punters with large bets, such repeated, decisive losses were so unexpected that explanations were required, and having no facts to hand, a lot of nonsense followed.
That the slave was a CIA plant is ridiculous on its face; that it was suborned by a competing house has been debunked, thoroughly. That it had been drugged simply cannot be true for all the reasons the Fletcher House panel established. Martin had followed the investigations from a distance and had made inquiries of his own on behalf of his master. For Martin the reason was as obvious as it was alluring, the boy had not been properly broken. And that was the real scandal Octagon House tried to bury. That alone made the boy interesting to Martin.
Martin also knew that there had been a bust up among the training staff at Octagon and a lot of things had been said, but the upshot was that the slave would be sent to the knackers. Now, that seemed harsh, but it wouldn’t have been a complete waste of an Octagon asset, since the knackers pay well for such specimens. But clearly the boy hadn’t been the star of a snuff film because it was apparently today, here in the shop. Somebody must have seen an even greater value in the slave than stardom would grant. And had that somebody been Ed himself, or someone in between? He wondered what Ed’s margin was.
Martin thumbed through another file and paused at the slave’s picture. “This is the one Nikki owned?” he asked, holding up the picture to Ed. “Nikki’s got a reputation for driving his slaves until they break, either mentally or physically, whichever comes first. What broken thing has he left with you to sell?” he asked smiling.
“Oh, you’ll like this,” Ed said, looking over to River. “Tell him the story.”
“Nikolai Volkov,” River began, “met Radu at a diplomatic reception in Vienna when he was still in his minority. The boy is a genuine boyar, that is, a member of the Romanian aristocracy -- rich, cultured, educated, superior. Nikki was instantly taken with Radu. He chatted him up at dinner and poured champagne into him all night until he agreed to ride defensive back on his polo team the next day. By all accounts, even hung over, Radu did not disgrace himself. Before they were through celebrating their win at dinner, Nikki was over the moon infatuated with him.
“Once Radu turned 18, he and Nikki were often seen together in different parts of the world. They were an item in certain circles in Paris and Berlin. The file includes magazine photos of Radu at celebrity events and Hollywood parties. He was certainly one of the beautiful people.
“Nikki and Radu were happy lovers; each in his own way loved the other and together they were happy. And as often happens in the course of such happiness, the beloved took on another lover. Now, I don’t know exactly how Nikki took that, or what conversation they had when he found out, but the result was that Nikki sold Radu cheaply to a sea captain who kept him chained up for the pleasure of his crew. That went on for almost a year until a Malaysian Doctor bought him and got him repaired. The skin grafts show of course and the dentistry is basic but doesn’t show. The scars on its back are a testament to its toughness and it wears them proudly. All of that and the medical records are in the file.
“The good doctor kept the slave for two years and a month, giving it consistent and firm training and making gentler use of it than its previous owner -- and then the doctor died. The slave is today in very good physical condition and has demonstrated an aptitude for training. This is a consignment deal with the executor of the estate.”
Martin poured himself some whisky and looked up at River. “You say it rode defensive back for Nikki’s polo team at 17. Hmmm. Wow.” Martin sat back savoring a swallow of a very lovely bourbon. “Tell me about the rodeo circuit rider.”
Ed nodded his head. “Yeah, the stream is just starting to come into the market now. Private clubs circulate wild-caughts through their network and retire them to the market after five years. I have a retiree that might be useful to you.
“One of the keepers here,” Ed continued, “encountered the boy a couple years ago on the circuit. It’s performance was clearly memorable. At the time, he’d called it ‘Smooth’ and remembered the kid right away when he saw it come in through the sally port.” Ed looked down at his laptop and continued. “24 years and one month old. It was a smooth operator even before it was caught and put on the circuit. It began its training as a soldier at 17, then five years slaving on the circuit among brokers and traders, bankers and lawyers, politicians and judges. It has a high network audit rating -- that’s in the file -- and an overall circuit satisfaction rating of nine plus. This one was a money maker.”
“Do go on,” said Martin.
“I put this one in the mix for you Raphael, because I know you. And as a seller of flesh, it’s my business to know what you will like about this one. This one hates being a slave, hates it very much. But it is a slave. And it knows two things at once: It knows and cherishes that hatred in the bone; and it knows that its best life is being the best at what it is -- being the very best slave it can be. This is not just survival, but a matter of pride. This is a slave that will hate you and serve you with equal fervor.”
Martin thought about that for a minute. “I’d think the rodeo circuit would be kind of rough training for what I suppose would be largely passive service, being bound to a fuck bench and ridden rough year after year. How much experience does it have at active service? Does it know at all the art of seduction? Can it make a dry martini? Would it know what to do if its cock were wanted?”
“Ahh. This one is an exceptional bottom, asserted Ed, “and need not be bound up or tied down to be at its best. But you’ll find it’s capable of a refined and measured style of topping. It’s best with the elderly and was much in demand for private sessions.” Ed poured whisky into his own glass and then reached across the table and poured some into Martin’s and River’s too.
“The boy was legendary,” Ed continued, “and there were always those club members throughout the network who wanted its cock. The story spread quickly along the circuit that this slave had an extraordinary ability to return the elderly to their days of juvenescent virility, and with an admittedly much smaller number of younger men, the boy demonstrated remarkable versatility and stamina.”
“Is it quiet or does it talk?” asked Martin.
“Oh aye,” Ed assured him. “It’s no kind of monk to be quiet about finding God, but lay down the law and it’ll be quiet as a mouse for as long as you like.”
“Is it presentable? Can it wait table? Can it manage the clothes and serving of the master’s guests?” Martin looked to Ed, who looked to River.
“This one...,” River said, “um... no. This one is more of a specialist in the un-presentable. But it is quick on the uptake and could be made useful in that way with proper training. But I think its current value is its specialty -- it can make old men hard. And old or young, men tend to find the boy likeable.”
Martin shuffled through his stack of files for a minute. “Still Moon. Capable tea ceremony. Polyglot. Beautiful. Let’s take a look at that. And Octagon as well,” said Martin. “And yes, Ed. You pique my interest in this one. There might be something delicious and subtle here that still needs taming. Having failed at ribbons as you say, so spectacularly, I will like to see what force of resistance may still abide. It may be fearless? That would be fun.” Martin thought for a moment and then added, “And can you have a video camera for full-frame face shot on the Octagon boy?”
River answered right away, “Of course.”
Martin picked up another file and leafed through it for a while, reading and looking at pictures. “And Ed,” he mused, “I’m generally skeptical, but I also know you’re right about almost everything, so I’ll look at the rodeo cowboy too. I like its record; it works pretty much every day and works hard.” Martin set down three of the files on the floor and said, “That’s all I’ve got time for today.”
“Oh ho!” exclaimed Ed. “And not the aristocrat who was turned into a slave? Oh Raff! This is so delicious. Do you not even want to taste it?”
Martin smiled and said, “Maybe under different circumstances. Too much of the Frog Prince there. And I’m delighted just to contemplate one of Master’s friends or clients recognizing the boy.”
River disappeared through a side door while Martin and Ed traded gossip and shaggy dog stories. After a while, Ed said, “I think River will be ready for us now. Leave your glass, there’s another in the gallery.”
The two of them left by the same side door River had gone through and found themselves at the end of a long wide gallery lit by a row of windows atop high walls. Set up for inspection were three slaves who each stood with spreader bars at their ankles and wrist cuffs fastened to a tall steel post behind.
Martin walked straight up to Still Moon and put his nose right up under the slave’s ear, then traced down its neck and up under its chin, breathing in the scent of the boy through the hodgepodge of jail smells, unsuitable food, old leather collars, and cheap soap. He squeezed one nipple, hard, and watched the boy close its eyes and smile slowly. He kept it up, rolling each nipple between his thumb and forefinger until its cock came up long and hard, leaking precum.
Martin squeezed a little pool of precum out of its cock onto his palm and brought it to his nose, slowly inhaling its warm fragrance, then licked it up, smiling as he continued his inspection. This one, the half Chinese, half Swede, skin as smooth as silk and not white not yellow but a golden brown. How prettily the skin shows over the brachioradialis rising from the wrist cuff toward the elbow, hard, tight, intentionally developed for its beautiful effect.
Martin was methodical and thorough; he examined each of the slaves from top to toenails, spending time to confirm that all three had working cocks and ball sacks of a sort favored by his master. He checked the skin everywhere, minutely and found some nasty lash scars on Octagon’s back, not old but dressed and tended well, still a little pink, not easy to see away from the light, but obvious to one who could read such welts with his fingers as a blind man reads braille.
“This, right here,” Martin pointed out, pushing his hand in between the pole and the boy’s back, then drawing his fingers over the left scapula. “Feel this. This was laid on in anger beyond mere punishment. These were vicious blows, maybe a steel cable.”
Ed sought to put the best light on a used product with a defect, “They’re nicely fixed, and there are only these few.”
Martin looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hmm,” he mused. “Perhaps it was something personal.” In fact, he saw the scars as a plus -- there was a certain badass quality to them. Martin briefly wondered what the scars on the Frog Prince looked like. He slowly drew his fingernail down the boy’s spine, across its hole and taint, then circling his thumb and forefinger around the scrotum, pulled back, compressing and stretching a whole handful. “Oh yes,” he thought. “No doubt, the boy has balls.”
He turned his attention to Still Moon and asked, “Can you handle a straight razor?” The boy looked down at Martin’s shoes and nodded yes. Martin looked to River and asked him, “Would you get us a straight razor please, and all necessary accoutrement?”
“Certainly” River said, and disappeared.
“And would you release this one?” Martin asked Ed, indicating Still Moon. Ed raised his hand above his head in a quick motion and just as quickly someone was at the boy’s ankles and wrists unlinking the cuffs. The boy was standing at parade rest when River pushed in a cart with all the appurtenance of a barber shop -- and a basin of hot water.
Martin picked up the straight razor from the cart and flicked it open as he walked over to the boy from Still Moon House. He held out the razor and said, indicating the boy from Octagon House with a movement of his head, “Shave its cock and balls. Leave the happy trail alone.” Still Moon took the razor, put his hands together, looked at the middle button of Martin’s vest and bowed in compliance.
It was becoming ever more obvious that Octagon, in its private thoughts, was not entirely at peace with how events were unfolding. Even all its training couldn’t keep the unease off its face. Its eyes said, “Who the fuck are you and what do you know about straight razors?” Martin would later delight in studying the video of its face, especially just as it realizes what’s about to happen. It’s a slave and it knows that there is no protest that will help it. Martin wants to see what leaks out around the edges. Right now, he’ll leave the barbering to Still Moon while he takes a closer look at the rodeo rider.
This one, Martin thought, will do well in any world. A perfect example of classical Greek beauty. Sun-browned skin smooth and covered here and there in light down reflecting sunlight. Its curly hair and innocent boyish look invited an instant confidence and a promise of fun that may involve some mischief. Its eyes were bright and friendly, not at all ill-at-ease. Its teeth were white like brand new, its nipples were defined and poked straight out. They would be perfect for all manner of clamps. Martin rubbed his thumb on one of them, then pinched it, just to watch its face, see how sensitive it is. Its cock was pendulous and uncut, its balls were two ripe cherries in a bag.
Per Martin’s request, River moved Cowboy away from the pole, clipped the wrist cuffs together behind and clipped a cable to the back of the neck collar. The cable slowly notched up toward the rafters one click at a time until the boy’s heels were pulled up off the floor and its throat, despite the rough press of the leather collar, could still get air, even if that required a job of work. This was a slave put in harness and pulled on. Martin wanted to see it work.
Its first job was to find the spot directly under the cable pulley where there might be even a little slack, but movement was awkward and imprecise with the spreader bar on its ankles. This was a struggle, and twice when the slave maneuvered to gain the least slack in the cable, Martin ratcheted the cable up one more click. This took some minutes, and while the slave kept to its training, showing little of the effort it took to keep breathing, nevertheless, it was now on its toes and starting to sweat.
After just a short time, the skin glowed, almost uniformly from brow to calves and then the pecs took on a reflecting shine in the streaks of sunlight. Soon beads of sweat trickled down the temples and soon after, down the face. The first drops to fall came off the chin and fell on pecs and abs and slowly ran together in streams and pools forming in its sixpack.
The pain in its calves was beginning to show, first in the eyes, then the set of the mouth. Not fear exactly, but maybe something like worry animated the boy’s face now. It was trading breathing for putting its heels on the floor. It saved up its breath for each stretch against its throat. It was methodical, not panicked.
Martin ran his hand once up and down its torso, feeling the sweat, and spoke quietly into its ear, “Get hard boy and start leaking precum. I want to see a stream of precum that goes all the way to the floor. As quick as you do that, I’ll have you on your hands and knees where you can breathe all you like.” Martin turned the ratchet one more click; the boy’s heels rose another fraction of an inch. The boy grunted as Martin walked off, returning his attention to Still Moon.
Octagon meanwhile had nothing to do but stand and take whatever was coming from a straight razor in the hands of a complete stranger of unknown ability dangerously scraping away at its cock and balls. As the video would show, there was no time when the slave was entirely confident of its fate. Even now, sweat covered its forehead and the corner of its mouth quivered sometimes. Its eyes alternated between staring blankly ahead at nothing and anxiously trying to see sunlight glint off the blade. It seemed to give the boy no pleasure that the shaving soap and all the handling and pulling on its junk had got it hard and leaking.
Still Moon gathered up the slave’s testicles in one hand and squeezed them hard into a tight ball for the straight razor blade. Octagon gasped but quickly recovered its show of stoic composure. It was beyond counting the number of times someone had handled its junk, sometimes roughly, sometimes methodically and painfully, but this was yet new territory and new fear and the slave was working to control the possibility of panic.
Martin watched the slave’s face intently now; he liked how the slave was working, how it sussed out its situation and how it responded. There was intelligence behind the eyes -- aye, and personality too. Surely that made the boy dangerous. But then, a Ferrari was dangerous and that didn’t stop the cognoscenti from buying them. And deep down, Martin had already decided he would buy this one.
Among Martin’s many responsibilities as Master’s Number One was management of six slave stalls maintained for the master’s daily needs; currently four were occupied. Still Moon and Cowboy could complete the service gang, Martin mused, but Octagon would be his own vanity project for the time being, used for special projects and advanced training. Master will be very pleased. He can play with this one for a week at a time and not disturb the regularity of the household.
Still Moon finished up its task, rubbed witch hazel over the slave’s shaved skin, patted its balls, then stood at parade rest beside the finished work ready for inspection. Cowboy, strung up by its neck, was still able to keep its heels far enough off the floor to keep breathing and was now sweating profusely. Martin was impressed. The boy had done what it had been told to do. It had put up a magnificent boner that stood just above straight out, heavy and thick and streaming precum in rhythmic globs urged out by what must have been a very well-developed kegel muscle. Indeed, precum streamed in a thick viscous string from its cock to a puddle on the floor. Martin rubbed its stomach with his hand and said, “Very good boy. Very good.” He released the hands and the neck cable and then held on under the arm pits to ease the boy down as it sank to its knees and then onto its hands, breathing freely and deeply.
River came over to Martin with a fresh drink. The two of them watched Cowboy recover its regular breathing. River looked down at the puddle of precum and whistled. “That is epic!” he exclaimed, dragging his finger through it. Even now, on all fours, precum drooled from the boy’s still swollen cock.
After watching for a while, Martin took a long pull from his drink, set the glass down and then helped the slave to stand up. Assistants quickly removed its spreader bar. “OK,” he said, “time to get back to work.” He brought the boy over to Octagon and said directly into Cowboy’s ear, “You will show this slave everything you know about cocksucking. Drive it mad. Do not let it cum. I will tell you when to stop.” The boy took this in, then nodded assent and got to work.
With the grace common to athletes, Cowboy put its knees to the floor and its butt on its heels, lips and tongue seeking the tip of Octagon’s glans, so gently, so tentatively at first. And even so, the tongue’s first probe brought a quiet gasp from Octagon, eyes shut, head bent back.
Of all the unlikely things that surpass imagination, this was more unlikely than that. The Octagon slave had never in its life been so blissfully tormented by any man, nor so expertly or devotedly. Surely that was its job, to tantalize and satisfy men, not to taste what was in practice forbidden to slaves. When they’d taken its cage off after morning meal -- a curious thing in itself -- it had provoked anxiety more than relief. Nor had the slave touched itself. At all. Down there. Even though its cock had got fully hard as soon as the cage came off. It knew well enough to leave its cock to handlers and masters and their friends and assigns.
With little effort, Cowboy had got the Octagon slave hard once more and then started lightly licking that very spot on the underside of the glans where it meets the shaft. This had the effect of fulfilling the master’s instruction to drive the boy mad. It seemed to be working. Precum was now running in a continuous stream onto Cowboy’s face; the cocksucker moved its mouth to take in the glans and suck down a mouthful of that clear sweet honey. If this were to work right, they would both be driven mad. Martin smiled as he watched the slaves work.
The Cowboy was good; and every minute, every second of how good it was would be studied in the video. Not that it would show Cowboy’s style or technique. No, the video would show only the effect, it would show only the subject’s face, the one true monitor of internal operations. This slave was trained not to reveal its thoughts or reactions, its pain or its bliss. This is deep-down training, and Octagon believed in its training and its strength of will. The video would show what Martin could see for himself: Its hold on itself was slipping.
Time had passed, Octagon was sweating, beads turned to rills and ran down its pecs, its inner thighs quivered from over exertion, still held apart by a separator bar at its ankles. Its head was pressed back against the pole, rolling from side to side, eyes closed, drool on the chin. Using its hands and its tongue, Cowboy had stuffed the boy’s balls entirely into its mouth and was for a while quietly munching away -- until the slave brought its teeth into play. This broke what was left of Octagon’s reserve, producing an audible moan and a string of throat sounds: “Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Haaaaa...” Cowboy disgorged the ball sack in a manner guaranteed to hurt and then plunged Octagon’s swollen cock deep into its throat, slamming its lips into the slave’s pubis, thus reversing its cries to “Aaaaah, Ah, Ah, Ah...” and forcing its hips into uncontrolled, spasmodic thrusts.
Martin laid his hand on Cowboy’s shoulder and said, “Go stand against the wall.” Without looking up, the boy let Octagon’s cockhead slide out of its throat and into its mouth where it was given a final squeeze goodbye. Octagon’s glutes continued to dance, its hips and abs in frantic flex and release, legs, arms, toes, everywhere. The slave was clearly rattled. It had been pulled back from someplace sweet and sacred that murmured promises of delights and ecstasies yet unknown.
Martin came up beside the boy and brushed its cheek with his palm, smoothed its hair, kissed its forehead, gently stroked the side of its face and spoke to it soothingly. “Breathe boy... That’s fine. We can’t have you forgetting your place, hmm? Pleasure is for the master, I needn’t remind you. By and by, you will learn much about bringing pleasure to your master. There is a wide field ahead of us.”
Still Moon watched Martin come over to where it stood at parade rest then stared straight ahead as Martin slowly ran his hand from its neck collar down to its junk, Martin savored the feel of the skin covering its pecs and its smooth washboard abs. Now apart from the others, he spoke quietly to the slave. “Kinbaku?” Martin asked.
As before, when asked a direct question, Still Moon looked down at Martin’s chest, but this time hesitated for a noticeable moment before nodding its head in assent, meaning yes, it knew the basics of Japanese rope bondage, but claimed no expertise. “Alright then,” Martin turned and called across the gallery to River, “Will you take down the Octagonian please and remove its wrist cuffs and spreader bar?”
Turning his attention back to Still Moon, Martin put his thumb and forefinger under the boy’s chin gently pushing it up so he could get a good look at its profile. Age had not yet touched its perfect skin. The eyes were blue and bright and without squint creases at the lateral canthus, there was still some rouge on its high cheekbones, just stunning. Martin wondered idly what its thin chiseled lips would look like snarling; had those lips ever? Just now, they were still, like the rest of the slave.
Martin walked over to an equipment rack and took down various coils of red, hemp rope which he brought back and handed to the slave. The two of them walked over to Octagon who was standing at ease rubbing its wrists and loosening its shoulders. Martin clipped a cable to its neck collar and pulled it just tight enough to make the slave stand straight up but still keep its heels on the floor.
Still Moon stood next to Martin, the two of them quietly looking at Octagon for a long moment. “It’s not quiet,” Martin observed, “All the time, it wiggles and moves as though to some music it can hear far away. I will like to see it quiet for a while. Let’s keep it simple, hmm? Show me Takatekote with matanawa. Make it good and snug at the crotch so its cock is locked straight out and hard.” That brought a thin smile to the slave’s face, as though this was work it would enjoy.
The Takate Kote is a classic three-rope, full-chest harness that secures the hands at the middle of the lower back, forearms parallel to the floor. Matanawa acts as an anchor to the lower part of the harness, preventing it from riding upward. The anchor can be sprung in various styles through the crotch securing the cock and balls. Still Moon got right to work with the first rope beginning with the wrists in a single-column tie, twice around the wrists, twice around the top of the chest.
Ed and River came over to observe more closely Martin’s test drive. River motioned for someone to come secure Cowboy’s collar to a post so it could watch too. The camera operator repositioned the camera on Octagon’s face and which, now centered and full frame, showed clearly that the slave was entirely new to this experience of late Edo period police work. The harness was originally designed to put a criminal suspect completely under the control of a single police officer. Variations have arisen over time, but the basic design remains, simple and effective.
Still Moon took up the second rope, the lower wrap that sets the compression. Martin was quietly impressed. The boy had the tension right, got the cinch in place, tied the half moon correctly and set the canoe keys in the traditional manner, wrapping just the bottom chest rope. The third rope is sometimes called the backpack. It compresses the shoulders and offers spring points across the chest for additional harness elements.
Octagon remained impassive throughout. The look on its face said: just another day at the office, this too shall pass. And that lasted until the crotch anchor was wrapped ‘round its junk and pulled tight. There was a sudden intake of breath and the slave’s eyes got wide and looked to the ceiling. Martin would have someone edit a video compilation of Octagon’s Agony. Was the boy fearless? What was that just at the corner of its mouth, the darting of the eyes? Was that uncertainty expressed as twitches and sighs or was it alarm? Nothing overtly said, “I don’t like this.” Not yet, but Martin could read signs, and he was watching for them.
Still Moon stood at parade rest beside his finished work. Ed and River examined Octagon closely. River pulled its butt cheeks apart, exclaiming, “Look at how this knot -- it looks like a monkey’s fist -- sits right in its arse. That’s beautiful.” Its root was squeezed as tight as Still Moon thought proper, and that was tight enough to make Octagon’s prodigious cock stand straight out at maximum pneumatic inflation, its balls like two golf balls proudly beneath.
Martin slowly ratcheted up Octagon’s neck cable until the slave’s heels came off the floor. “You’ve done well,” Martin said to Still Moon. “Now go ahead and take the compressor off its root.” The slave untied and unwound the rope around its junk and then returned to its place. Now unrestricted, the reserve of precum flowed out the hole, down the underside of the glans and then straight to the floor in a thick, viscous string.
Martin bent down to draw his fingers through the puddle, then applied his fingertips to Octagon’s nipples, first one, then the other, then both at once, his thumb and forefinger slowly, gently teasing and pinching. It made the boy’s abdominals jerk repeatedly and its hips thrust unconsciously. Small groans struggled out.
Again Martin covered his fingertips with the slave’s precum then explored its anus, slowly pushing his finger in, testing its tightness and responsiveness, testing what other parts of the slave moved as he moved his finger around inside. Martin dispensed more precum into his palm directly from the slave’s cock then massaged and squeezed its balls sometimes teasingly, sometimes yet tighter than the rope wrapped around them. And since he’d expected fright or confusion to show on the slave’s face, he put both hands to work on its balls and squeezed and massaged more forcefully still. And still the slave’s face showed the patience of Job, eyes closed, mostly focused on breathing regularly and trying to relieve the cramping in its calves which were too much in use right now.
“Have you a shock rod by any chance?” Martin asked River. Of course he did, and produced one in short order.
“This one goes to eleven,” River confided to Martin as he turned the power level to maximum.
Martin smiled appreciatively as he accepted the rod, but put the dial back down to half before applying it to Octagon’s balls. Purple light jumped from the tip of the rod to the hard-squeezed flesh and all at once the boy jumped and barked and danced. “Oh that’s not right,” Martin growled. “Where’s your training?” Martin turned the shock rod up one notch and continued in a milder tone. “You know better than that. Let’s try that again.”
Martin shoved the slave’s ankles a little farther apart than is strictly comfortable -- parade rest would have them closer together. The top edge of the neck collar pulled upward right at the jaw line and the flat rawhide surface just impinged on the wind pipe, forcing the slave onto its toes. There will be a nagging, intense pain high up between the shoulders where the bindings keep the muscles from finding relief. The boy is good. Its face does not complain, its eyes do not look for release, its subtle shifting to displace the pain is small, fluid, and practiced.
Octagon set itself, ready to try again. Martin touched the rod in quick succession to each of the slave’s nipples, then a second time for a longer blast. All the muscles across the slave’s chest went tight and showed as ropes shaking under load. The teeth clamped shut, veins in the neck bulged and the muscles in the thighs quivered as the knees flapped like butterfly wings, but no sound emerged.
Martin held the rod where the slave could see it as he turned the power level up one more notch then set the end of the rod to play around the slave’s balls and along its taint. This produced exactly the result Martin had hoped for. The slave bucked. Saliva spilled from its mouth. The back arched and its arms strained against the bindings, shaking. The knees bent and straightened over and over. The collar dug into its throat and its eyes bulged from their sockets. But the slave made no sound.
This went on for what seemed to the boy like a long time with only small breaks between repeated sallies with the electric shocker until finally Martin exclaimed, “Oh, that’s very good.” He turned to Ed and said, “I believe I can make something of this one,” he said, now turning to the slave -- “It will learn to squirm and to endure the application of pain. Good suggestion Ed! I’ll take the other two as well. This one, though,” he said, indicating Octagon by patting it on the face, “I will call it Suffer. Master will name the other two.”
River was already counting his commission as he went directly to a figure standing in the shadows and said quietly, “Bring a bottle of the good stuff -- and ice.” Returning to Martin he said with a wave of his hand toward the slaves, “Would you like to make further use...?”
“Indeed! Would you have them undressed entirely please and then bring them over here?”
Club chairs and side tables were drawn into place, drinks set down. The three sat comfortably as handlers disencumbered the slaves of their various restraints. Ed raised his glass to Martin and said, “You’ve chosen well.” The three drank to that.
Handlers brought the slaves over to stand before them. “You three,” Martin ordered. “Face me, stand each of you a foot apart. Cover your junk with your hands and look nervous.” And then Martin turned his attention to the business of procurement, logistics, and negotiation, and the three slaves became as it were, wallpaper. “For all your skill and expertise and for all that your discerning eye can see, Still Moon may be even better for my purposes than you know. So I’ll not quibble over the price of that one. The cowboy is overvalued. Straight up. After five years on the rodeo circuit, no one cares about wild caught anymore, and jeepers Ed, when was the last time it saw sunlight?”
Ed was quick to respond with compliments and sly digs, and this went on until they were both nearly exhausted and the bottle completely empty. And so, in the end the payment terms were agreed, papers were signed, the details for delivery were sorted out.
At no point in the bargaining was Ed deceived by Martin’s apparent indifference to the Octagon slave. This one interested Martin -- and not as a business proposition. This seemed personal. And this was Ed’s genius. He too saw the signs behind the slave’s eyes, the resistance behind the compliance, the quiet rage under the smooth obedience. Ed knew what Martin wanted personally: he wanted to close cupboard doors left ajar, turn off lights in empty rooms, extinguish that last trace of resistance in any slave under his authority. The perfect slave was, among other things, enthusiastic. Resistance of any kind was the enemy of enthusiasm, thus the enemy of perfection.
Martin’s job, his passion and skill was to provide Master with perfect slaves; where slaves are less than perfect, Martin’s work is to make them perfect. And applying the force needed for that and the friction produced by it is very much the fun part of any day for Martin. The Octagon reject, or Suffer as it’s now called, presents a particular challenge -- it isn’t fully broken, thus, far from perfect. And this is the job Martin wants. Ed saw that, or rather, understood that Martin would find the slave irresistible.
Suffer has a smooth and well-defined muscular physique; the slave is beautiful and intelligent and still has several years of first-line service left in it. Were it thoroughly compliant, it would price well above its class. But Martin wasn’t just shopping the discount rack. He wanted an amusement, a challenge. His house staff were fine for training Still Moon and Cowboy; this one he’d want to deal with personally. And first in his program was to extinguish that last dim flame of resistance so the slave could devote itself to Union House entirely.
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Maybe I can find enough sources to warrant a sketch on how Martin has got on with his project. I have heard that Martin suffered one false start, but Martin is as intrepid as he would have his slaves be. I did see one of Suffer’s training recitals earlier this year and was impressed with the boy’s technical accomplishments. We’ll see.
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