The Good Slave
Authors: Franklin Sellers
Chapter 4: Behold the Attestant
Chapter 7: The Compassion Visit
THE GOOD SLAVE
by
Franklin Sellers
Also by Franklin Sellers
SUPERHERO
This novella is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Franklin Sellers
All rights reserved. This novella or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests or other information,
email the author with “THE GOOD SLAVE” in the subject line at:
ASIN: B014OM53N8
Cover Art Copyright © 2015 by Simon Randell
THE GOOD SLAVE
BY
FRANKLIN SELLERS
This novella is dedicated to my friends
SKG
&
S
IMES
for their undying support
In memory of
A
YAZ
M
ARHONI
&
M
AHMOUD
A
SGARI
Chapter One
The New Master
The naked little slave’s knees were beginning to ache against the hard, cold floor.
He was soaking wet from head to toe.
And freezing.
He’d wrapped his thin arms around his skinny body in a futile attempt to keep from shivering, but it was pointless.
Blood still seeped very slowly down from his nose, parting the piss and spit on his upper lip before it dripped into his mouth, acrid and metallic and sickening.
But the boy didn’t swallow the foul mixture; he couldn’t if ordered to.
Instead he let it pool on his tongue until it flowed out over his swollen lip and dribbled down his chin before spilling onto the white marble tiles below.
There it mixed with urine and turned a pale umber that grew darker with each new drop.
The soft and heavenly lyrics of
Nearer, My God, to Thee
bounced gently off the gray marble walls from speakers near the ceiling.
A half hour earlier, the burly guards now standing motionless in the corners of the room had ordered the little slave to strip before they proceeded to slap him, laugh at him, piss on his head and in his face, spit on him, and angrily scream that he was a worthless piece of shit.
After draining their bladders they’d ordered him to drop to his knees, open his mouth, and stay put like that until their master—for they were also slaves—arrived.
Phoebus (that was the little slave’s name) wondered if the guards were glowering at him right now.
He didn’t dare look up to see.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound
, he repeated to himself over and over in his head as he had been taught to do as far back as he could remember.
There was a short squeak from the doorknob and suddenly a wave of cold air hit him from behind.
A frigid tingle wormed its way up his back.
When it reached the nape of his neck he cringed, involuntarily recoiling his shoulders and head to squash the sensation.
His scrotum contracted and his tiny testicles slunk up inside his body.
The little slave never felt more mortified than when his new master stared at his nakedness with that hellish cold fire in his eyes—and he could feel that icy hot gaze lapping at his flesh at this very moment.
The bathroom door had a heavy wooden frame and a loose pane of frosted glass that ran its length and rattled with an unsettling loudness whenever it was closed.
His new master’s fat bare feet slapped against the wet floor as he approached.
The little slave grimaced as the old lubbard walked past him so close that the plush white towel wrapped around the old man’s fat gut brushed against his arm.
Master sat down in a white wicker chair a few feet in front of Phoebus, the wickerwork straining audibly under the weight.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound
.
The old man took a cigarette from a pack sitting on top of a small round table next to the chair.
The table had three spindly metal legs that came together midway on their journey to the floor before splaying back out again.
It reminded Phoebus of a little white-sand hourglass that sat on a windowsill in the kitchen of his old master’s house.
Master lit the cigarette with an expensive-looking metal lighter that produced a miniature blowtorch
instead of the usual flickering flame.
A few puffs to stoke the tobacco before inhaling deeply, then satisfaction spreading across his face.
He closed his eyes and smiled for a moment before exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling and sinking into a comfortable slouch, his legs crossed at his fat pink ankles just under the little slave’s nose.
He let his doughy arms fall lazily over the sides of the chair, the cigarette clutched between the tips of his thumb and middle finger.
The smoke leisurely drifted up and around his meaty hand and wrist without a care in the world.
The little slave didn’t want to see the old man’s fat, sagging breasts resting on top of his round belly, all of it covered in a thick mat of graying hair.
“Phoebus,” Master said before spitting out a speck of tobacco stuck between his teeth.
His voice was clear and direct, noncommittal—neither friendly nor hostile.
“Do you know the difference between a good slave and a bad slave?”
Phoebus didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
He was too afraid to speak or even nod his head.
His old master, Josef Messinjure—the master whose last name he’d had as far back as he could remember until his new master had bought him—had always told him he was a good slave, very well behaved.
Yet here he always seemed to be in trouble; the obvious answers to his new master’s questions always escaped him.
Master Josef would chuckle at the little slave’s naïveté and then patiently explain the correct answers.
But this new master was mean.
His
usual response was a stinging slap across the face, sometimes so hard it knocked the Phoebus to the floor.
“Stupid fucking slave,” he’d mutter as he yanked the boy back up by a fistful of curly blond hair.
Phoebus’ stomach tensed as the hymnal echoed around him.
He was beginning to feel sick.
Taking too long to answer, or not answering at all, could be worse than a wrong answer, so it was best to guess.
But nothing was coming to him.
And then—
“A
good
slave accepts his bondage as his destiny and fate as ordained by God,” Master said, not a hint of anger in his tone.
The little slave closed his eyes with relief.
“A
bad
slave, on the other hand,” the old man continued, “rebels against his natural condition.
Rebellion always leads to misery and unhappiness, Phoebus, as your former master learned.”
The old man snorted out a derisive chuckle, took another drag on the cigarette and lazily blew out another cloud of fluffy white smoke.
Chapter Two
In the Courtroom
Phoebus was bored.
Bored, bored, bored.
Ever since the beginning of the trial he had mindlessly swung his legs back and forth with ease, but today the tips of his black leather shoes were scraping against the shiny hardwood floor and throwing off his rhythm in disrupting his daydream about the last time he and Stephen played hide-and-seek.
Stephen, Master Josef’s young son and only child, had found the little slave squeezed between the stone wall that was the back of the house and the vine-entwined latticework inches from it.
Phoebus took off out the other end of the lattice, screaming and laughing at the same time.
He leapt over the wide flowerbed bordering the edge of the patio and took off across the expansive lawn.
But Stephen was several years older than the little slave, with longer legs that needed only half a minute of zigzag sprinting to catch up with the smaller boy, grab him around the waist and spin him to the ground.
Phoebus squealed as his master’s son rolled him onto his back and pinned him to the ground, sitting on his belly and locking his thin wrists together over his head with a single hand.
Both boys were panting.
Stephen leaned over and his six-inch-long blond bangs swept across the little slave’s face.
Phoebus let loose screams and giggles of delight.
“Stop!” he begged.
“Stop what?” Stephen asked.
He sat up straight, all phony dumbfoundment.
“This?!” He bowed back down and brushed his hair back and forth, brushing the little slave’s face.
“Stop!” Phoebus was laughing uncontrollably.
“What?” Stephen feigned ignorance, though his tone dripped with sarcasm.
“That doesn’t tickle, does it, Phoebus?”
“No!” Phoebus screamed defiantly.
“It doesn’t tickle at
all
!”
“Liar!” Stephen declared.
“Thy ticklishness has revealed itself!”
Now he was mocking his minister father.
“No it hasn’t!”
“Yes it has!”
“No!
I said no!
You must be hearing things!
You’re getting old, you old woman!”
“What?!?” Stephen shouted with bug-eyed surprise.
“You dare insult
my
manhood?!?”
“I take it back!” Phoebus yelled in return.
“You’re
not
an old woman!
You’re an
ugly
old woman!”
“WHAT?!?” Stephen screamed and Phoebus squealed in triumph.
“How
dare
you insult me, you insolent little
worm
!”
Without letting go of the little slave’s wrists, he pulled up Phoebus’ shirt to expose his skinny pale belly.
“Get
off
of me!” Phoebus arched his back in a pathetic effort to buck off his master’s much larger son.
“You fat old ugly woman!”
“I think it’s time,” Stephen said in a low, menacing tone as he splayed the fingers of his free hand and began wriggling them about, “for a
ticklefest
!”
“NO!” Phoebus screamed, frantically writhing to break free.
But it was no use—Stephen was just too heavy and strong.
“Please!
Please!
I’m sorry, Stephen!
I’m sorry!
You’re not an old woman!
You’re not a fat pig!
And you’re really not
that
ugly!”
“Oh my God!
Will you never learn!”
Phoebus was used to his master’s son taking the Lord’s name in vain, something the little slave would never dare do.
In his head he begged the Lord to forgive Stephen and prayed Master Josef hadn’t heard him from inside the house.
“Now you deserve an extra-long, extra-excruciating tickle-a-
thon
!”
