For Master David Schachter and slave danny
“It’s time to give you some position training, boy,” Master said suddenly, during the second day of my trial period as his slave. “You know what that is?”
“No, Sir,” I said softly, momentarily glancing up at his face, then quickly lowering my eyes back to his well-packed crotch. Kneeling between his legs on the oriental rug in front of the leather club chair in his study, my hands crossed behind my back, I was so close to him that the khaki of his uniform trousers grazed my sides every time I inhaled. His long legs were stretched out behind me, and I could have stroked his gleaming police boots with my hands, but of course I didn’t dare. My leather-harnessed cock throbbed, and I felt as if I could happily stay like that forever.
“To my mind,” Master began, as if launching into a lecture to one of his classes in political history, “few things are more effective in teaching a slave his place in life than training him to assume various useful or pleasing positions on command. Besides the value of the positions themselves, such instant, automatic obedience in a relatively minor matter conditions the slave to respond similarly in the rest of his existence, helping him to become an extension of his master’s will.
“There are many different ways to kneel, for instance. The way you’re kneeling now — sitting back on your heels, your hands crossed behind you, your head respectfully dropped down — with a few slight corrections of form, that’s what I call Slave Position No. 2c. Which implies that there are at least Positions Nos. 1, 2a, and 2b as well. In fact, there are a couple of dozen positions for you to learn. Are you ready to start, boy?”
“Yes, Sir!” I said with enthusiasm.
“The positions will be easier to learn if they’re presented in the proper order,” he said. “Stand up.”
I leapt to my feet and stood before him. I wore no clothing and, for the moment, no restraints but my collar, a thick band of black leather padlocked at the back of my neck, and the cockring/ball-stretcher harness. To avoid looking at Master I aimed my eyes straight ahead, and once again I crossed my hands behind my back.
“You already grasp certain essentials,” he said approvingly. “You know that unless they are in use, a slave’s hands should be kept out of the way, and you know better than to look me in the eye without permission. I prefer you to keep your eyes down” (I immediately dropped them), “not aimed over my head, but we’ll come back to that. Your instincts are good, but because you have no structure to follow, you have to think too much about what you’re doing. The point of position training is to help you respond properly without thinking, automatically. I expect you’ll like it better that way, too. You want to be well trained, don’t you, boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” I told him sincerely. “Whatever pleases you, Master, pleases me as well.”
“Damned right it would please me,” he snapped. “You’ve seen that I like precision and discipline in all things, and sloppy posture in a slave is something I will not tolerate. Got that, boy?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Back up two steps,” he ordered, pulling his feet back so I wouldn’t trip over them. “Move your legs apart . . . a little more . . . that’s right. Now, remember, whenever you stand or kneel, unless you have orders to the contrary, keep your legs just that far apart, the width of your shoulders. That will let your balls hang free, so you can feel the air all around them, feel how unprotected and vulnerable they are. Do you understand, slave?” he asked as he reached forward and grabbed my balls in his hand, squeezing them slightly.
“Yes, Master,” I said, fighting to stifle a groan. I stared at the floor between my legs, trying to memorize the exact distance they spanned.
“Good.” He released me and sat back in his chair. “Now, as I said, there are a couple of dozen slave positions you’ll learn in time, but I don’t want to overtax you at the start. We’ll begin with just a few basic positions and some variations on them.” He pulled his legs back and got up from his chair. He picked up the springy black riding crop laying ready on the table beside his chair and came over to me. During the rest of the lesson, he frequently touched me with the crop for emphasis, applying it more forcefully for correction.
“Your legs are all right,” he said once he’d inspected me all around, “straight but not locked. Your arms, though, should be crossed exactly at the wrists — no higher or lower — and held precisely in the small of your back — above your butt, not resting on it. . . . Yes, like that, but keep your back straight — no need to bend it yet. That’s right — no, keep your elbows straight out, not held in toward your ribs. . . . Yes, that’s good.” Once he was satisfied with my posture from the neck down, he stepped to my side and touched his crop to the back of my head. I slowly bent it forward just until I no longer felt the light, steady pressure. My eyes had already been cast down, but lowering my head made it easier to keep them there.
“Good boy, you learn fast. That’s very promising.” I almost lost my composure when he rewarded me by affectionately knuckling my close-cropped scalp and drawing his hand down over my face. When his palm reached my lips I parted them and licked greedily (he’d said earlier that I could kiss or lick his hand without special permission whenever he offered it). He inserted three fingers into my mouth and let me suck on them for a few seconds. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said as he pulled his hand away and wiped it on my hair.
When my eyes focused again, I saw my cock sticking out from my shaved pubes like a flagpole. Master chuckled when he noticed it, too, and teased the purple head with his fingers until I was hissing between my teeth, struggling not to come. I was forbidden to touch it myself, of course, or to come without permission, but he liked seeing me erect — he said it was useful feedback as well as a sign that I appreciated being his slave.
Letting my cock alone finally, he resumed lecturing in the same even, professorial tone as before: “Many slaves think they are being respectful if they stare over the master’s head, but I don’t like it. Maybe if you’re waiting at table at a formal dinner, but at any other time I want your eyes down. If I’m seated while you’re standing, just focus on the floor between your feet. Understand?” As he was now standing directly in front of me, I found myself staring at his boots, and I couldn’t resist licking my lips.
“Yes, Sir! Understood, Sir,” I said when I could get my mind off thoughts of licking those boots again. Master noticed my preoccupation, of course — he seems to notice everything — but he only chuckled again. After all, he said one of the reasons he chose me was that I’m a real bootpig.
“All right, boy, pay attention! Right now you’re in Slave Position No. 1a. Standing up, back straight, head bowed halfway, eyes down, arms crossed in the small of the back, feet apart. Anything unclear? Do you think you can remember it?”
“Yes, Sir. No, Sir, nothing unclear, Sir. Slave Position No. 1a, Sir: Standing, back straight, head bowed halfway, eyes down, arms crossed in the small of the back, feet apart.”
“And if I tell you, ‘No. 1a’ or ‘Position 1a’ or anything else along those lines, no matter what else you’re doing or where you are, you’ll instantly assume this position. Understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good. Now, without changing the position of your arms, feet, back, or head, bend your knees until you’re kneeling on the floor.” I did as he commanded, slowly and a little stiffly, bending first one leg and then the other — I was afraid of losing my balance.
“That is Slave Position No. 2a,” Master said. “It’s a simple variation on No. 1a — head bowed, eyes down, knees apart on the floor, back straight, arms crossed behind you as before. Now go back to No. 1a and then to this one again until you can move gracefully between them.”
I stood up, corrected my posture until it was exactly like before, and knelt down again, a little more smoothly than before.
“Again.”
I repeated the transition once more, each time getting more accustomed to kneeling without moving my arms, head, or torso.
“Yes, you’ve got it now,” Master said. “Very good.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Instantly, the crop traced a line of fire across my chest and I stifled a gasp.
“You had no call to speak, boy,” his voice snapped. “You know you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question or invite you to speak.” I hung my head lower, shame bringing fire to my cheeks to match the weal across my chest. “You may thank me for the reminder,” he said in a gentler tone.
“Thank you, Master, for reminding me,” I whispered.
“What was that, slave?”
“Master,” I said in a firm, loud voice, “thank you for reminding me, Sir, not to speak without permission.” The feeling of shame seemed to leave me along with the words.
“That’s right. And you’re a good boy for not muddying it up with apologies and promises to do better. I know you’re going to do better. That’s why I’m taking the trouble to train you.” Once again his hand gently caressed my face, and I pressed my lips to his palm, kissing it and purring softly at the kindness.
“That’s my good boy,” he said as he took his hand away. “Now, do you remember what this position you’re in is called, boy?”
“Yes, Sir. Slave Position No. 2a, Sir.”
“Good. And you can probably guess what it’s good for, too.” Teasingly, he moved closer until my face was right up against his crotch, the bulge of his half-hard dick only his pants’ thickness from my lips. “Lick,” he ordered.
I stuck out my tongue and slathered his khaki-covered cock, straining to feel every vein and ridge along its length, sniffing for his masculine aroma through the weave of the fabric. It palpably grew under my tongue, becoming harder and longer as I licked. But instead of letting me free it from its prison and worship it directly, Master pulled back.
“Later, boy. This is only Position No. 2a, and you have several more to learn today.” I swayed in frustration and reluctantly closed my mouth.
“What a greedy slave boy I have,” he said in an amused tone. “Can’t get enough of your Master’s cock, can you? That’s good, boy, it’s good that you’re hooked on my dick, but you’re not here just for sex, you know. You need to know how to serve me in other ways as well.
“So listen up, boy. Slave Position No. 2c is exactly the same as No. 2a except that you bend at your hips and sit back on your heels. Go ahead, boy, do it.” I did as instructed, but with my knees so far apart I found I had to pull my heels several inches closer in order to sit on them, as well as to curl my toes under them to avoid cramping. Once I did that, however, I was quite comfortable. I wondered what had happened to Position No. 2b.
“Slave Position No. 2c is a rest position, boy. I’ll use it as a reward or to give you a break from more strenuous positions. Now that you know, don’t ever presume to take this position without orders. If I just tell you to kneel, without specifying the position, assume Position No. 2a. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.” Despite the slight effort to hold my arms in place, the position was otherwise very relaxed; even holding my torso erect took essentially no work. The silence following my response to his question lengthened, as if Master wanted me to appreciate how desirable Position No. 2c was — and how hard I would have to work to earn it.
“I’ll bet you can guess what Position No. 3a is,” he said finally, “but don’t say anything, just assume it.” After a moment’s thought, I leaned my head and torso forward until my forehead was resting on the rug.
“Very good! That’s my smart slave boy! Now, tell me what the criteria are for Slave Position No. 3a.”
“Sir,” I said, turning my head slightly so that my words weren’t lost in the rug, “a slave in Position No. 3a is on his knees with his legs spread, his arms crossed at the wrists in the small of his back, elbows straight out, his back as straight as possible, and his forehead touching the floor.”
“Is that all? Besides the humbleness of it being good for your soul, what else does this position accomplish?”
“Sir, it presents my ass for your easy use.”
“You bet it does, boy,” he said and playfully smacked my naked buns, hard, but with his hand, not that wicked crop. “Besides keeping your head down, in this position you keep your ass as high as possible, legs spread so your cock and balls hang loose. Or, in your case,” and I could almost hear the grin in his voice, “so that your hard cock is flat against your belly and your balls are pulled up under it.” He tapped my balls lightly with the crop. “Now, quickly, Position No. 1a.”
“Sir . . .” I began, but the crop landed smartly across my ass.
“Don’t tell me,” he roared, “show me!”
I scrambled to my feet and got back into the first position he’d taught me. My stiff cock wasn’t quite flat against my belly but pointed upward at an angle. My balls felt so swollen they ached.
“And now No. 2a.” I was on my knees in moments. “No. 3a.” My forehead hit the rug. “No. 2c.” Back up on my knees, my ass on my heels. “No. 3a.” Down again. “No. 1a.” On my feet again. I was panting from the swiftness of the changes.
“All right,” Master said at last, “I think you have those four positions down rather well for now. You’ll be getting plenty of practice in any case. The next three positions are very, very similar. In fact, the *only* difference is in the position of your hands and arms. Clasp your hands behind your head. . . . That’s right, now pull your elbows back. Suck your stomach in. . . . Yes, you’ve got it. Eyes down! Does that hurt?”
“It’s a little strenuous, Sir,” I admitted, staring at his crotch rather than at his boots.
“It’s supposed to be,” he said, chuckling slightly. “This position is the slave equivalent of a Marine brace. I won’t expect you to hold it for long, but it’s very good for showing off my property — like your pecs and abs.” He snapped the tip of the crop precisely against each body part as he named it, and at each stinging snap I gritted my teeth to mute my groan. “Your nipples . . . left, right . . . your traps and delts . . . biceps and triceps . . . lats and gluts . . . your asshole, cock, and balls — all mine now, aren’t they, boy?”
“Yes, Master! This slave’s body is all yours, Sir!” The accumulated pain of his “demonstration” had my heart racing and sweat beading on my forehead and chest. But my cock was rock-hard.
“See that you remember it. This position is also a good one for giving you some pain, whether as punishment or just for fun. You’re wide open, front and back, to whatever I want to do to you. How’s that make you feel, boy?”
“Master, it feels good being vulnerable to you. Your slave is glad, Sir, that you enjoy using and punishing his body.”
“That’s what I like to hear, boy. Now, what do you think this position is called?”
“Sir, I believe this must be Slave Position No. 1b.”
“So it is. And No. 2b is the same thing, but on your knees. Assume it!” I levered myself down to the floor as quickly but carefully as possible, trying to keep my elbows from moving.
“Sound off, boy.”
“Sir! Your slave is now in Slave Position No. 2b, Sir!”
“Looking good, boy. And judging from your cock, which is dripping on my rug, you’re enjoying this. Aren’t you, boy?”
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
“Yes what, boy? Be explicit. What are you enjoying?”
“Master, your slave enjoys being trained to assume positions that please you, Sir.”
“I’m so glad,” he said dryly. “Now assume Slave Position No. 3b, head on the floor, ass high.” I leaned forward, making a particular effort to elevate my ass.
“Very nice,” he said, running his hands over my ass and up and down my crack. I heard him spit just as the gob of saliva landed near my hole. He wet one finger and rubbed it over my hole until it opened wide enough for him to slide in. It was all I could do not to cry out as he worked two and then three fingers into me, and I was very glad he’d had me clean myself out only a couple of hours earlier.
He kept his fingers in place, too, when he ordered me to snap into Position No. 2b and then No. 1b again, though it caused him to crouch down for the former and leap up along with me for the latter. Just as with the first set of positions, he kept me jumping back and forth, but this time I had the added stimulus — and impediment — of his hand on and in my ass.
After a while Master stopped calling out the position numbers and just cued me to switch to the next one up or down by a slight pressure of his fingers in my ass in that direction, using spoken letters only to indicate the desired variation (a, b, or c). If I was too slow in response, he would press harder, and you can bet I hauled my ass to give him no excuse to use more force. Nonetheless, my prostate got a good workout along with my muscles, and my cock, harder than before if possible, seemed to lead the way as I bounced between standing at attention and kowtowing with my face on the floor and my ass high in the air.
Finally, I was allowed to rest — in Slave Position 1a, sans fingers up my ass — and catch my breath. Master wasn’t even breathing hard, or at least not so as I could notice, though he’d been moving as fast as I was. Would his face be pleased or stern, I wondered, if I stole a glance at him now? When he spoke, his voice seemed pleased, and he gave me his hand (still fragrant from my ass, though not visibly soiled) to lick clean.
“Well, I think you’ve learned these first lessons well, boy. I’m proud of you. Just see you don’t forget them when your slave mind is focused on other matters, like cleaning my boots or bringing me a drink or tidying the house. No matter what you’re doing, boy, an order to assume a specific position takes precedence. Got that?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Good. We’ll have other practice sessions, but the best practice is simply regular use — and you can be sure I intend to use you to the full. That’s what you want, isn’t it, boy? That’s what you signed on for?”
“Yes, Master, what this slave needs is to be trained strictly and used hard. That’s what I came here for, Sir. Permission to add something, Sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Only to thank you, Sir, for your discipline and training.”
“You’re welcome, boy. And just to show you what you’d be in for if you’d fucked up this lesson instead of sailing through it so well, I’ll teach you one more position. Begin with No. 1b.”
I quickly moved my hands from behind my back to behind my head, bracing them there and pulling in my gut as I’d learned Master expected.
“Without moving anything else,” he ordered, “bend your knees until you’re crouching — but don’t kneel all the way. . . . Slowly, don’t want you to lose your balance. . . . That’s right, stop there.” My ass hadn’t quite touched the back of my thighs when he called stop. I swayed a bit as I found my balance, and my leg muscles were already protesting the strain.
“That’s Slave Position No. 1c, boy. It’s for punishment. Even if I don’t do another thing to you, after a few minutes like that you’ll be ready to beg for relief. Of course, if it’s a real punishment, you’ll have to hold yourself there, just like that, for a long time — 15 minutes, half an hour, maybe more. Think about it. Remember it next time you’re tempted to do something you know you shouldn’t.”
I was in fair condition, as my success with the preceding training proved, but this was bad. Just the strain on my legs would have been rough enough, but keeping my elbows extended intensified the stress to the intolerable. I couldn’t imagine 15 minutes of this, let alone half an hour. Time dragged as I held Position No. 1c, my calf and thigh muscles shrieking in pain, wondering how long Master would think adequate for a warning demonstration.
“That’s enough,” he said after three to five agonizing minutes. “No. 2c.”
Ah! The blessed rest position! I slumped to my knees, lowered my ass to my heels, and brought my arms down behind me. I should have thanked Master for the relief, but I didn’t trust myself to speak. I just knelt there and breathed slowly until my pulse returned to normal. My cock filled out again as I watched his boots walk past me back over to his chair.
We sat and knelt in silence for several minutes. And then he spoke: “Time out, boy. Relax. You still have your collar on, but I want you to speak freely and candidly. Look at me.” I raised my eyes to his handsome face, whose most prominent feature just then was a grin threatening to break into all-out laughter. “Now,” he said, “are you still sure you want to be my slave?”
“Why not, Sir?” I said with a grin of my own. “This is a lot more fun than working out at the gym!”
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