The Initiation of P.B.500

"An S/M classic..." John Patrick, HOT PAGES

"A startling debut novel. The book is great, nasty fun." XTRA!

The Ultimate Test

from The Initiation of P.B.500 by Kyle Stone

Micah strode along the silent corridor like a warrior going into battle. He was a warrior, he reminded himself, although the Commander's guards would see only a naked slave. A painted harlot bought and paid for by an alien chief. Under the long blond hair held in place by a blue band, his back bore the scars of his master's whip. Proud scars. But they could never understand. The bright lights along the wall flashed against the gold nipple rings he wore and the chain that connected them. Between his legs winked the ruby red tear drop, his master's special mark, suspended from its ring in his scrotum.

Micah wondered if these young soldiers standing guard on either side of the Commander's oak door had been on the Base long enough to remember when he was an officer here. That was before Commander Harlon Williams arrived, the man his master had given him to for the night.

Micah paused in front of the solders. "I have orders to see the Commander."

"Show me."

"Verbal orders."

"Not good enough, buddy." The guard grinned. His hand moved to touch Micah's well developed pectorals, but he stopped himself.

"The Commander expects me," Micah said calmly. "If I don't report to him, there will be trouble."

The soldiers looked at each other. "What harm can he do?" the other one said. "He sure isn't packing any weapons, other than what we can see," he added with a smirk. "And that doesn't look too lethal."

Micah flushed at the insult but said nothing. The taller one shrugged and stepped aside to let him pass. Micah knocked and went inside.

Commander Harlon Williams was tall, with thinning silver hair and broad shoulders. He was wearing a wine red dressing gown. He smiled broadly at Micah as he came towards him holding out his hand. "Sub-Captain Micah Starion! My aide filled me in on your story. We'll help in any way we can."

Micah shook his hand politely. "Thank you for the welcome, sir. But my name is Chento, now. My master sent me to you for the night."

There was a sudden deep silence in the room. Harlon turned and went back to the comfortable arm chair by the artificial fire and sat down heavily. "I don't understand," he said. "Didn't you talk to Royal about your escape?"

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid he doesn't understand my choice of a new life."

"That's hardly surprising," murmured the Commander. He ran a tired hand over his face. "Look, Starion, you have a fine record with Terrafleet Corps, and can look forward to a bright future. Why do you want to throw this all away to live as a slave? With these ... barbarians?"

"I have made my decision, sir."

Harlon sighed. "There's a robe in the cupboard. Would you mind putting it on?"

"I will do whatever you order." Micah retrieved the robe and put it on.

"There. That's better. Sit down, sit down." Harlon looked relieved that Micah was clothed, at least partially. "You know, Starion, I'm very concerned. I've heard so much about you from your lover, I feel I know you."

Micah was watching him intently, the way he did Attlad, his master, watching for signals, signs, changes of expression. "Royal is no longer my lover, sir," Micah said softly. "He never really knew me."

"Perhaps not." Harlon steepled his fingers. "I sometimes wonder if it's possible for one person to really know another. In a way, I envy your Attlad. He doesn't have to know you, only himself and his own desires."

"On the surface, that's true," Micah said. "But the bond between master and slave is very complex. A master must know his slave thoroughly for the relationship to work on all levels. That's the reason for the tests a Personal Bodyslave must go through with the Kudites. And you forget, sir, that I made the final choice. I went back to Attlad of my own free will."

"You didn't choose to be here."

"I chose to want what my master wants. Therefore, I did choose to be here."

Harlon laughed, throwing back his head in real amusement. "You're a tonic," he said. "In this job, there isn't much to laugh about."

"I can help you forget." Micah got to his feet and went and knelt between the man's knees. He laid his hands on the Commander's hard narrow thighs. "You're very tense."

"It comes with the territory."

"I'll get you a drink." Micah went to the sideboard and poured a glass of the heady elixir he found there. He brought the bottle back with him and handed the glass to Harlon. "Tell me about your job. There must be some good points."

"You don't really want to hear that," Harlon said, but he began to talk. Soon he had veered away from problems at the Base and on to personal things, haltingly at first, then picking up speed, like a man who hasn't had anyone to talk to for a long time.

As the Commander talked, Micah kept refilling the glass, and all the time, he knelt between the older man's knees, his complete attention focused on him. Harlon was beginning to relax. After a while, Micah ran one hand up under the robe.

"Wait." Harlon went to the door and locked it. "If you're going to stay, I don't want anyone walking in on us." He sat down again, his knees spread casually, almost inviting Micah's hands. "So, you are my slave for the night."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's see if I can think of a better use for you than pouring me wine. Go over to that chest of drawers and open the second drawer on the right." Micah did as he was told and looked down at the black lace and gauze inside. He felt an unpleasant jolt in the pit on his stomach. "Take out a pair of panties and put them on," Harlon went on. "Then put on the full length black lace peignoir beside it."

Micah studied the lace bikinis intently and at last, forced himself to step into them. They were tight. It was hard to stuff his cock inside and the lacy string at the back cut into the crack of his ass, rubbing against his anus as he moved. It was the most erotic thing he had ever had on.

"Now the bra," Harlon said.

The cups of the black lace bra were full, padded with a substance that moved under the hand. When Micah finally got it on, the effect was alarming. He glanced at Harlon.

"You're doing fine. The garter belt, next."

Micah withdrew another piece of black lace from the drawer, with long black garters dangling from it. It hung low on his hips, leaving a wide band of bare bronzed skin before the lace of the bikinis began. His blond pubic hair curled defiantly over the scalloped edging. Without being told, he took a pair of black nylon stockings out of the drawer and sat down on the chair to put them on.

Micah felt the hot flush in his cheeks as he struggled with the stockings under Harlon's constant gaze. He had lost all control of the situation which five minutes earlier he had felt so confident about guiding. Now, his anxiety was rising, and with it, fear. Micah had no clear idea what was expected from him now, and it frightened him in a way his master's most painful demands never had.

When he had finally fastened the stockings, he stood up and struggled awkwardly into the peignoir. It had long full sleeves and a voluminous skirt and it tied around the waist with a sash. It felt very odd where it touched his skin and brushed against his nylon-covered legs. He was very aware that it was practically transparent.

The Commander was coming towards him, smiling, but Micah no longer trusted the smile. Harlon looked into the drawer and pulled out a sting of pearls which he hung around Micah's neck.

"Beautiful," he said softly. "Now, the heels." He opened another drawer and displayed a long row of high heeled shoes in varying large sizes. They were all black, shiny and dangerous- looking. "Something there will fit."

After a few tries, Micah found a pair he could get into, but walking in them was torture. His toes were crushed together, his balance was thrown off by the high heels, his ankles wobbled painfully. He was like a child learning to walk all over again. Micah wasn't used to feeling awkward. He blushed furiously as Harlon laughed at his efforts. Anger churned in his stomach.

"You must learn grace, my dear," Harlon said, taking a silver wand from the drawer. "But first, sit down and let's fix your hair a bit. It's far too wild."

Micah sat down on the bench in front of the mirror, and Harlon rubbed cream into his hair and brushed it around his fingers into a semblance of ringlets. Then he pinned a ribbon around it so that the blue head band was completely covered. The ribbon was tied in a bow on one side and the ends hung down over one ear, tickling his cheek.

"Put on the lipstick," Harlon said, "and then you will be ready for your lessons."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, daddy."

"Yes, daddy." Chilled, Micah picked up the lipstick, opened it, outlined his lips. The face that looked back, frightened him. He would not have thought it possible to eradicate his masculinity to this extent. It was still there, but muted, blurred. He was a Warrior. He had endured great pain and suffering for his master. But could he subdue his own macho pride? His hand shook as he put down the lipstick.

When he was ready, Harlon ordered him to practice walking. He opened all the doors of the apartment, revealing a long stretch from the front sitting room, down a hall past his private office, the bathroom and onto the bedroom beyond.

"Walk right to the windows, then turn and come back. And swing your hips, there's a good girl. Keep your head up. Be graceful."

Micah felt anything but graceful as he tried to follow Harlon's commands. He felt like the caricature of a hooker in some ancient movie. He would just master the hip swinging, when his ankle would turn, throwing him off. When he recovered and concentrated on balancing in the killer shoes, he would forget to swing his hips.

Harlon announced that he was not pleased. "You have one more chance," he said. And Micah set off on the long walk again. But again he turned his ankle, wincing with the pain. Twice.

"You are recalcitrant," Harlon remarked. He picked up a leather belt from the chair. "Hold out your hands."

Micah did what he was told and gritted his teeth as the leather stung his hands. Harlon concentrated on one, then the other, until they were both red and sore. "Do it again," he commanded.

Micah turned and walked away. He tried to remember the women he knew, but they would never move their asses the way he was being forced to. Forget reality, he told himself. This is Harlon's fantasy. Give him what he wants.

But it was hard to understand what, exactly, the man did want. Once Micah was able to walk without stumbling, and was beginning to feel a little more confident, Harlon made him move faster.

"That's enough strolling," he said. "Now I want speed."

To make sure he got it, Harlon moved along behind him, urging him forward first with words, then with electric jolts from the silver wand. Micah's calves were aching by now, his feet hurt and both ankles were sore from the twisting he had given them. Then, he tripped on the long skirt.

When he got back to his feet, Harlon sat down on the bed. "You will be punished for that," he said. "Bend over my knee and pull your dress up."

Micah obeyed. Shame almost overcame him as he knelt and tried to pull up the skirt and bend over the Commander's knee at the same time. It was so awkward. Harlon let him struggle until he was in place, then pulled the black lace up until if covered his head, exposing his buttocks and the black lace and the garters.

Micah tensed for the pain. Nothing happened. "Sweet little ass," murmured Harlon, and he began to caress it with a feather. Micah jerked. The feather trailed along the crack of his ass, between his legs. He could feel it caress his balls though the flimsy nylon. He jerked again, unable to control the reaction of his muscles. "You will learn grace. You will learn control," Harlon said. Then he touched one buttock with the silver wand and a shock went through Micah, contorting his body so that it jumped almost off Harlon's knees.

The Commander laughed. "Enough playing," he said. Then he paused for a moment to pick up a long ruler that was lying on the table. He began to beat Micah's buttocks, swinging his arm high to get more force to the blows. It went on and on. Try as he might, Micah couldn't keep back the tears. It wasn't the pain so much as the humiliation. At last he sobbed openly. That seemed to satisfy the Commander.

"Stand up. I want to check your control."

When Micah stood before him, tearful, red faced and shaking, Harlon opened the lace skirt and told Micah to hold it back so he could see his crotch. He touched the feather to the black lace covering Micah's cock. Standing with his legs apart in the high heeled shoes, his buttocks swollen and burning, Micah twitched reflexively. His cock began to stiffen at last under the constant teasing, thrusting its way out past the lace. Harlon pulled down the panties, releasing it and continued the torment, stroking with the feather up and down, on top, underneath. Micah began to shake uncontrollably.

"Sir, I can't ..."

"Yes, you can." He withdrew the feather for a moment, then started again. Micah thrust his hips forward, trying to gain some release from the insubstantial feather which was withdrawn every time he was close to achieving orgasm. At last, Harlon seemed to tire of the game. He picked up a glass from the table, held it over the head of Micah's penis and ordered him to come. As Harlon touched his cock, Micah involuntarily obeyed, the spasm almost making him lose his balance. Harlon laughed.

"Now, let's see if you have learned anything."

Micah tucked his cock back in place and readjusted the dress. Once again he paraded up and down in front of Harlon, swinging his hips, shortening his stride, trying to walk with one foot in front of the other. He was improving, but pain was now shooting up through his calves and thighs. Every step stretched the elastic of the garters across his sore buttocks and his feet, cramped in the narrow shoes, were giving him real agony.

At last, Harlon announced that it was time to go to bed. To his dismay, Micah discovered he was expected to sleep in full regalia. At least he could get out of the shoes! He had never felt such blessed relief as when he took off the accursed things and lay back in the bed.

Harlon lay down beside him. He was naked, his body hard and muscular, in spite of the grey hair and the ropy blue veins in his legs. He took Micah in his arms, caressed his long ringlets, kissed the lipstick off his mouth. He lay on top of the tall, athletic slave, pressing himself against the black lace that covered the bulging crotch. Micah closed his eyes.

"Look at me, dammit!"

"Yes, sir." At once, he opened his eyes again, watching beads of perspiration form on the Commander's forehead.

Harlon was panting as he lay between Micah's raised knees, pumping his pale old man's cock against Micah's hard stomach until finally he came. With a sigh, the Commander laid his head on the soft lace of the black bra that cut cruelly into Micah's rib cage, and fell asleep, a satisfied smile on his face.

Micah clenched his teeth and thought of his master, the hard dark man who demanded so much of him, who owned him body and soul. Time and time again Micah had demonstrated that he would do anything for Attlad. Surely this was the ultimate test? This evening when he had been forced to go so much against his own nature? What he would do next, was nothing, compared to this.

Micah slid out from under the Commander and got out of bed. Quickly he peeled off the lace and tulle and frilly nylon, until his magnificent body was naked again. He reached up and pulled off the hair-ribbon. Carefully, he undid the narrow blue band that held back his long hair. In his knowing hands, the simple adornment changed into a thin strand of metal. Strong. Dangerous.

Harlon lay on his back, now, his cheek smudged with Micah's lipstick, his mouth slightly open. Without hesitation, Micah plunged the makeshift dagger through the Commander's heart.

In thirty seconds he was dead. No blood. No struggle.

Micah smiled with satisfaction and wiped his weapon on a handful of black lace. Then he snapped the blue metal back into a circle around his head. Once again he was a warrior. And a perfect slave who had done his master's bidding.


This story appears in a slightly different version as part of the novel THE INITIATION OF P.B.500 by Kyle Stone and was first published in Torso Magazine in '93.