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?