June 3, 1995 My Slave Pyotr Jon It was late afternoon, and slanting sunbeams revealed the dancing motes of dust in my private apartments when I returned from the Field of War. Although I was exhausted, and caked with sweat and powdery soil from the drills, I was more than satisfied with my men, who had performed magnificently, marching in perfect step for hours beneath the blazing sun without the slightest loss of precision or relaxation of posture. Expressionless, with heads high and shoulders back, they had endured the sweaty hours of full dress drill in flawless form. It is a high honor to command such men. It pleased me to imagine them, by now laughing and cavorting with one another nude in the barracks pools, with the same sun that washed the granite walls of my chambers gilding their superb bodies. Play they should; they had earned it. Now the day's work was done, although my lengthening shadow announced that several hours of daylight remained for relaxation before the torches would be lighted for the evening's diversions. Stepping carelessly out of my sopping tunic, I clapped for my slave to prepare the bath. Pyotr approached the bathing chamber soundlessly, his bare feet silent upon the slate paving stones. He too had stripped, for after exercises I always bathe in the larger bathing pool, in which he joins me, the better to massage away my accumulated dirt and tension. He carried flasks of precious cleansing oils, essences of sandalwood and mint, which he poured into the steaming water of the bath. I got in wearily and lay back against the sloping stone, then Pyotr stepped in, which caused the foaming water to rise above my nipples. Sitting partly submerged on the first step of the bath, he solemnly began the cleansing massage, taking first one foot and then the other into his lap and carefully pinching and rubbing between each toe before moving on to the arches. I felt his cock and balls rest trustfully below my heel. The rhythmic motions caused the water to lap agreeably against the broad contours of my chest, where my hair rose and subsided like seaweed at a rocky shore. Slowly Pyotr proceeded to my calves, his expert hands kneading them leisurely and thoroughly. Contentedly I regarded Pyotr at his labor. His strong hands were milky white against my tawny skin, for a chamber slave rarely leaves the domestic regions of the palace, even in summer. The contrast was heightened by his hairless forearms, which gleamed wetly against the blond fur of my legs. Unlike we Zahrrdonns, who are tall, blond, well-haired and rangy, Pyotr was a perfect Ushdi -- compact and pale, with thick and glossy black hair on his head, groin (up to his navel), and underarms, all of which I require him to crop, though not severely, but rather in the more relaxed manner of the third-year cadets. Elsewhere he is smooth or shaven, except for brows that feather in a straight line over his eyes, long black eye lashes, and a dusting of black pepper on his chin. His white skin is as fine as a woman's; roses appear to bloom perpetually beneath his cheeks, and his veins show pale blue against his flexing biceps. His eyes are also blue, but dark almost to blackness, with glints of lapis. They were hooded as he concentrated on his work. All a man really needs is a good horse and a good slave, I reflected with satisfaction, as Pyotr worked the cleansing oils thoroughly into my inner thighs. I spread my legs to give him good access. It was a pleasure to watch him work, the well-knit muscles of his arms tensing, his back arched, the remainder of his elegant form at rest. Pyotr has the supple build of a superbly bred pony, as well he might, for in truth, Pyotr's blood is no less noble than my own. I well remember the day I got him. He was but a child when my nation defeated Pyotr's at the bloody battle of Urlensk. He saw his father and noble uncles put to the sword that day, and his mother the queen throw herself over the ramparts. His sisters were taken wailing to be wenches in our breeding stables, his dashing brother Prince Vlad was castrated to be my lady sister's eunuch. I took little Pyotr to be my personal slave. As befitted his sex and rank, he shed no tears, and I decided that he should have a mattress with sheets, instead of the customary straw, to sleep on at the foot of my bed, and, instead of a slave's wooden spoon, I gave him metal utensils with which to eat, as befitted his royal origins. The gesture won me Pyotr's fierce and undying loyalty. Ever since he has helped me dress and bathe, and he always sleeps at the bottom of my bed. Pyotr has long since learned to ignore the sounds that issue from it when I entertain there, as I do frequently. I rolled over to give Pyotr access to my buttocks, clasping my hands comfortably around the stone support at my neck. His practiced fingers pinched and rolled the knotted muscles, pulling them away from each other the better to work each cheek separately. He ran his thumb in broad circles around the sensitive ring of muscle at my asshole, slowly drawing the day's accumulated tension away from it. He worked the tender flesh slowly and rhythmically, for he knows I enjoy that part. At length he proceeded to my lower back, pushing his accomplished fingers into the bones of my spine, causing me to groan with satisfaction. Pyotr grew up in my service, and in due course he had become my sex slave, for we Zahrrdonns develop our renowned sexual self control through long hours of practice with our slaves. Because the slave follows his master's most minute instructions, applying the precise degree of friction or pressure at command, the master learns with time to maintain himself at the brink of orgasm for as long as he chooses, delaying climax until the desired moment. In this, as in all matters, we Zahrrdonns master the unruly bestial side of nature, and comport ourselves with true manly control. Thus no Zahrrdonn wife receives less than forty minutes of pleasure from her husband, and (unlike women among lesser breeds incapable of restraint) experiences the pinnacle of pleasure many times before receiving the final tribute from her husband's loins. Indeed, she who consents to become the mistress of a Zahrrdonn may expect well over an hour of bliss in exchange for her virtue. Yet a well-trained Zahrrdonn can finish in a mere twenty strokes when called to do his duty on the wenches in the breeding stables. In this manner my thoughts drifted to the evenings diversions, particularly the selection of a bed mate, or mates, for the night. A certain young viscount in the middle ranks had recently caused his wife to communicate to me that I would be a welcome guest in their bedchamber. I pondered his motives. He might desire me quite simply for my own attractions -- my tall and beefy body, with its broad shoulders,narrow hips, and protuberant buttocks still draws admiring glances from men and women alike, and having seen me at the barrack pools, he would have had occasion to admire the exceptionally thick and long instrument dangling between my legs. I suspected, however, from a certain chilly glint behind his eagle grey eyes, that considerations of political advancement played at least a part in the invitation. Still, mixed motives need never detract from good sport, and can even add to an eager courtier's performance. I rather liked the idea of plowing him up his arrogantly firm and hairy Zahrrdonn butt, while the wife lay moaning beneath his thrusts, -- or perhaps riding her myself, sinking my cockstaff deep into her cunt on the front-stroke, while my lusty hole enjoyed his prancing dickpole on the back. Or maybe he would prefer lapping and wriggling his tongue up the pink and wrinkled opening that Pyotr had just now so expertly and pleasurably cleansed, while I stimulated the viscountess's twat to juiciness with my own exploring lips. An attractive possibility. But a shy young officer, recently new at court, was another enticing line of pursuit. A slender stripling with ash-blond hair and luminous eyes, he was the best looking of several of his cohorts whose glances left no doubt as to their willingness be of sexual service. I sometimes caught him looking me over hungrily, as though by studying me he could replace his youthful clumsiness with my seasoned manhood. I knew from past experience how eagerly his kind delights to suckle on their commander's cock. Their downy cheeks hollow and their eyes brim with tears as they struggle to swallow the engorged meattube to its thick and hairy base. How thoroughly they tongue the head and shaft, how earnestly they bobble their heads up and down, desperate to taste, to eat, the milky load -- as though they think they can swallow some of my virility with my cum. Sometimes, if I for too long allow only one of the new courtiers to service me in preference of the others, jealous fights erupt, so it is best to take them each in turn, in the interest of unit cohesion. Also, I have learned that the most beautiful manling is not always the best at play, and relatively plain young men (I say relatively, for none of the truly homely appear at court) often display astonishing talents in bed. One thing I knew -- I would not be called upon to service my lady wife that night. She would be entertaining her ruddy young cousin in her bedchamber. I made a mental note to remind her to restrain her groans of pleasure, which were unseemly in a Zahrrdonn woman in any case, and particularly tasteless when her husband is in another room. I rolled over on my back again so Pyotr could massage my chest. My deliberations had caused my cock to swell to its full dimensions, so that the broad dome-shaped head stuck up above the bath water like an island in a placid sea. Gradually it submerged again as Pyotr's practiced fingers skillfully drew all tension from my muscles. He rubbed the cleansing oils across my broad flat chest muscles and into the brown nubby nipples, which hardened and stood up under his touch, before carefully working every trace of grime from around my collarbone, and washing the pungent mansmell from underneath my arms. His eyes were focused on my sternum as he worked, for of course no slave ever allows his gaze to rise higher than his master's shoulders. Aside from an occasional splashing noise, Pyotr worked silently, kneading first the right shoulder, then the left. As he worked nearer to my head his warm smell mingled agreeably with the scented oils. When he had finished I rose, shook the water from my body, and padded dripping to the rinsing bath. Pyotr knelt beside it. "Will that be all, your grace,?" he asked, as I lowered myself into the cooler, lime-scented water of the rinse. Mentally I calculated the time I would require to dress for dinner, and glanced over at his beautifully molded, symmetrical naked form. Behind him the setting sun cast a glory of golden light around his limbs, and made his ears glow pink. Pyotr had grown to strapping manhood, as perfect in his way as the Zahrrdonn youth that I commanded on the Field of War by day, and dallied with by night. They should even now be practicing their sexual control exercises on their slaves, learning to master their too eager bodies, so that they should be suitable for serious pleasure. "No," I answered, "I think not, prepare yourself for contact drills." Although I have long since achieved perfect self-mastery in that department, I still find that an hour of sex exercise surpasses a nap for calming the body and centering the spirit before an evening's festivities, where our Zahrrdonn etiquette requires a refinement of self control surpassing even that displayed by my men at drill. I dried in the warm breeze as Pyotr lay freshly laundered cotton mats upon the sturdy sex table. Lying down on them I felt clean and refreshed, my sleepy cock resting comfortably in its springy pubic nest. Pyotr leaned over the table and began the routine, taking my flaccid cock into his mouth, sucking it gently while it grew and stiffened until it lodged against the back of his throat. As always, it amazed me that the tube of flesh, so large compared to his delicate proportions, did not cause him to gag. Somehow he is always able to take the entire member into his mouth, past his tonsils, and down his throat, so that his nose rests lightly against my belly, before pulling back slowly to swirl his tongue around the bulbous head. He repeated this drill as carefully and earnestly as he had bathed me, until he had satisfied himself that he had made my cock as hard and full as possible. Then he rose to fetch the proper lubricants for the serious business of the sexual exercise ahead. From a small wooden cabinet he lifted a jar of thick jellied oil, tinctured with cinnamon, that we use because of its superior staying power, and a vial of liquid oil of honeysuckle, prized for its incomparable slickness. Pyotr applied the jell to my bulging cock, twisting it into the head as though he were slowly unscrewing a bottle cap, and then applying it with long easy strokes downward to the shaft, as though stroking the throat of a cat. He poured a few drops of the precious oil of honeysuckle over my shining, fully taught and pulsing instrument, before reaching down delicately with a dollop of jellied oil to prepare his anus for my use. He worked the viscous lubricant around his little rosy pucker and deep into his rectum, greasing all sides with an ample coating. I always enjoy the care with which Pyotr prepares himself to be penetrated. He worked first one, then a second, and finally three slick fingers in and out of himself several times, making a squishy sucking sound, before mounting the table to begin. He squatted over my groin and slowly lowered his wrinkled pink door bud onto my rigid staff, spreading wide and taking me inch by inch into his warm belly. As I watched my cock disappear into him, I wondered that his body, as cool and firm as polished marble on the outside, should contain such a moist, hot, yielding furnace within. Pyotr frowned slightly, but with a look more of concentration than discomfort. He stopped when he had taken my cock completely into his butt, but without allowing himself to actually sit on my lap, so that I should not bear his weight in an unseemly manner. "Begin with forty classics," I ordered, and Pyotr obediently lifted himself to the point where only the flared head of my cock remained inside his chute, and then returned to base, so that my pubic bush grazed his downy cheeks. My cock sent little thrills of pleasure at the familiar frictive movement of his fuck tunnel's warm and moist massage. His haunches raised and lowered in a steady, easy stride, each time raising his globes to the point that his sphincter grasped the corona of my cock before settling back to within a hair of the base. Pyotr's mouth silently formed the number of the repetition; very rarely had I known him to miscount, and I had long since stopped following closely. The steady rubdown on my cock began to kindle the sexual fires within me, much as the rubbing of two sticks will lead to heat, then flame. "Twenty head clasps," I commanded, and Pyotr lifted to a position where only the knob of my cockhead was wedged inside his distended aperture. He clasped and released the prodding helmet with his boyhole muscle (all wrinkles smoothed away by the intruder) as instructed, teasing the sensitive spot just below the flare of the head. "Twenty-five halfers, double time" -- without missing a beat Pyotr began gliding his roseate hole up and down the top four inches of my cock in rapid motion, pulling at the tender meat with a gentle clasp. His anal rosebud puckered out on the upstroke, and raked deliciously against my sensitive flesh on the return. Only the pearly luster of light perspiration across Pyotr's chest revealed any exertion. His dick -- not large like mine, but, like the rest of him, perfectly formed -- ratcheted itself to full erection. A droplet of seminal fluid appeared at the slit facing me, which, I knew, in time would lengthen until it dropped down to my belly, leaving a strand like a spider's web. The tantalizing stimulation in my cock and heavy balls grew from a tickle to an ever more demanding itch. The first critical moment was approaching. "Freeze" I barked, and all motion stopped while I fought back the first urge to come, always the most difficult to master. The insistent need to ejaculate was rising rapidly in my lap like boiling milk about to overflow its pot. I felt my own roiling milky substance foaming up, demanding to surge up and out through my dicktube in spasming squirts. Restraining the reflex was like resisting a sneeze, and in the early days of my sexual training, sessions were all too often cut short by my inability to disarm the ejaculatory trigger. Even in stillness, my straining cock seemed to transmit the heat of Pyotr's rectum directly to my nuts and inner gonads, like a pole conducting lightning to the earth. Powerful stabs of lust fueled the pending explosion in my balls, and all my powers of self-mastery were required to defuse the bomb. Gradually the dire need subsided into a pleasant sexual ache. "Resume, thirty classics, slow," I told him when the crisis had passed. Slowly Pyotr lowered himself down into the hair surrounding the brawny base of my sapling. And so it went, for the next twenty minutes or so. As the session progressed the emission from Pyotr's dick grew cloudier and more copious, as the continuous stimulation of his prostate caused him to produce more semen than his balls could store. It drooled steadily from his dickslit to a puddle in my pubic thatch. Pyotr's easy stamina, as well as his muscular thighs, bore silent witness to his long hours of calisthenics while I drill on the Field of War. Although sweat began to trickle past the pale pink nipples hugging the outer corners of his breasts, Pyotr showed no signs of strain. Only late in our sessions would he occasionally support himself with his hands on the table, his eyes cast demurely to the floor. "Nipples," I commanded. Pyotr's thumbs flicked rapidly back and forth over my thick, protuberant nubs. By this point in the workout the challenge was more often to maintain peak arousal, and sometimes I have him recite one of our great erotic ballads while he screws himself on my shaft. Pyotr can recite flawlessly, and even add amusing verses of his own, as he switches at command from classics squats to head clasps and back at the instructed rhythm. That day however I was content to simply relax and vary the routine only minimally, as his silky warm inner flesh slid easily up and down my blood-gorged cock, maintaining a full but manageable level of stimulation. I stared at the vaulted ceiling, totally centered in monitoring the enjoyable bodily sensations, emptying my mind of all thought. Gradually I became aware that Pyotr's strokes had lost their customary perfect rhythm, and that a marked irregularity had crept into his squats. Turning my head, I saw to my inexpressible horror that he was staring directly into my eyes, his blue black irises shining like sapphires cabochons. "How dare you look me in the eyes!" I spat. "You know that it is death for a slave to meet his master's glance!" "I dare because I love you," he replied, simply. My blood froze at the disgusting filthy word, so incongruous upon his nobly formed lips. "I love you" he repeated. Revolted as I was, the obscenity seemed to waken some fearsome animal that lay dormant within me. "I love you, he said again, as though pleading for something. The hideous word hung smuttily in the limpid air. Although of course I knew what it meant, I had never before with my own ears heard the lewd expression. Then I went berserk. Seething, I flipped him so that he lay pinioned helplessly beneath me, his knees drawn up, legs resting on my shoulders. "I have always loved you ... I love you with all my heart ... I love you ... I love you," he babbled grotesquely. He continued to look me directly in the eyes, maddeningly, compounding the revolting exhibitionism of his nasty words. The gross indecencies acted on me like an electric goad, unleashing hidden torrents of pent-up lust. Lashed by his words, I fucked him madly, stabbing my cock deep into his bowels again and again, as a stream of horrid filth poured from his lips: "I love you ... I love you ... I adore you ... oh, master, I love you ... I LOVE you ... I LOVE you ... I LOVE you" Furiously I plowed deep into him, distending his bowels. I fucked like one demented, sometimes sinking deep into his gut, other times entering at an angle and poking brutally into the walls of his rectum. Over and over in rapid violent thrusts I plunged my cock into the innermost depths. I tried to hurt him. But he seemed to crave it, mashing his ass forward to meet my mighty strokes, grinding his hungry mancunt onto the truncheon, all the while speaking the most vile, damnable and shameless tendernesses. The juices were churning in my balls like a witch's caldron as I reared backed and slammed down into him over and over again. My throbbing cock pounded his tender inner flesh in crazy jagged strokes. He gripped my butt and pulled me in even harder and deeper, while I plunged forward with all my strength, as if I could skewer the hideous beast in him that was speaking the obscene phrases. "Oh, master, I love you ... I LOVE you ...I LOVE you ... I LOVE you .... I LOVE you ..." I bit hard into the rubbery sinews of his neck, chewing them. Covered his mouth with my own, I mashed his lips, and licked his tongue, his teeth, his gums. Sweat streamed from my armpits. The lining of his rectum seemed to clutch at my cock like a living thing. Never had I sunk so far beneath manly composure. Even now my face burns as I remember how we fucked like rabid animals, panting, grunting, and all the while he screamed obscenities: "I love you ... I love you ... I love you" All semblance of restraint had shattered; we were less than beasts. I forgot the carefully tended fire in my nuts, so intent was I upon Pyotr, and what I doing to him. As I lunged my cock up him murderously the dam broke. Our fierce rutting had fired the sexual trigger, and my come-stuffed balls spewed forth their thick load in shuddering spasms of agonizing pleasure. I neither could nor tried to hold back as I shot jet upon jet of semen into him. Pyotr, heaving beneath me, spurted scalding ribbons of sperm over and over that hit first my cheek, then my neck. The rest of his spunk lodged with decreasing violence in the hair of my chest. Afterwards I collapsed on him shuddering with exhaustion, my cock still lodged inside him, twitching. Pyotr lay panting beneath me like a wounded stag. I realized I had never seen him come before, never considered whether he brought himself off after I left him, what he thought about if he did. I pulled out of him with a plop and got up. After wiping himself Pyotr bathed me again, eyes decently lowered, as if nothing appalling had transpired. I hear him now, making quiet splashing noises in the bath, for it is a slave's prerogative to bathe himself in his master's dirty water. Surely he knows this bath must be his last. For how can I let him live, after this shocking incident? And yet something in me would spare him, for is there not a fine and beautiful recklessness in his audacity? But such a thought must be suppressed -- he must die. I shall leave my silver dagger out when I go down to dinner; as a king's child he will know what he must do with it. For were I to let him live, how could I be certain that the night would never come when, having drunken too freely of the royal kvass, I should utterly forget myself, and taking him in my arms, kiss him on his noble lips, and whisper to him the unutterable words that, yes, I love him too?