First Experience

A Story of Aschaven
by John Dee

When my period of office came to an end, and I was weary with the responsibilities of civic life, it was my good fortune to learn about Aschaven from a colleague who, I had just discovered, had been a member of the Brethren for several years. He had recently purchased several boy-slaves for his own private use, and was keeping them at his estate in the midlands. He invited me and a number of other friends to the house one weekend, and it was then that I came to realise the full strength of our privilege, the extent of our supremacy over the weaker beings under our rule. Later I was to visit Aschaven and witness for myself the wonders that are worked there. But let me begin by describing that first encounter — that momentous revelation.

I was the first to arrive at the house. A young orderly, very smartly
dressed in his unifom, showed me into the drawing room, which like the
rest of the building, creaked with age. The floor was bare wood, thickly
stained and polished, with a heavily woven rug spread out in front of the
fireplace. Round it, forming a kind of miniature arena, stood a leather
sofa and three enormous armchairs, like sentinels watching the logs crack
and spit across the brass fender. The fire threw out patches of heat but
did little to overcome the network of draughts that seemed to come at you
from all angles.

I helped myself to some cold meat and cheese from the sideboard, poured
myself a glass of Madeira, and went over to the sofa. Standing about
three feet away, his back to the wall, one side of his body lit by the
fire, was a young boy. I judged him to be about seventeen or eighteen
years old. He was very handsome, and beautifully proportioned, standing
stiffly to attention, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him and his hands
held close to his sides. He was completely naked. A small insignia was
burnt into the skin on his right breast, and on the left was a serial
number. His hair was closely cropped and his body was shaved smooth.
There was a mixture of resignation and despair in his eyes.

This was my first sight of a slave. My friend had told me a great deal
about the practice of slavery and slave ownership, so I was more or less
prepared for the experience. Nonetheless, I felt a rush of excitement as
I sat opposite the boy, quietly picking at the food on my plate. He was
(or seemed to me, in the thrill of the moment) incredibly beautiful. His
body was modelled and shaped to perfection. No excess weight, or loose
flesh. Only tight muscles and translucent skin that glowed in the
flickering light. His balls were large and hung low. He seemed not to
have a blemish on him. It amazed me that such a boy could have been
searched out and enslaved. All slaves could not be as good looking as
this boy.

I was still the only person in the room, and I was able to watch the boy
for some minutes. He hardly moved a muscle, only the odd swaying motion
or involuntary shudder. No doubt he was feeling the draught. Goodness
knows how long he had been standing there. He was far enough away from
the fire not to feel its heat. In all the time I sat there, his eyes
never budged from their fixed focus, far away on the other side of the
room. It was as though he were entranced. He couldn’t have ignored me,
but he managed to avoid my gaze the whole time.

I decided to take a closer look. I was hesitant at first, acutely aware
of what he might be thinking, what he might be expecting of me. Then
suddenly I became conscious of a much greater truth. It came so
naturally to me, with such ease and simplicity, that I could not doubt
for one second its logic and justification. He was there for my use. He
was my friend’s property and as such was at my disposal. From that
moment on I understood what it was to be a Master. I felt secure and
enriched.

I could almost feel the space between his nakedness and me. I reached
out and touched the brands on his chest. They were smooth, and his skin
was soft. It quivered slightly under my hand. As I trailed my fingers
across his breast, he drew himself up and tightened the muscles in his
neck and shoulders, pulling in his stomach and gripping his thighs. I
felt a tremendous surge of power as he responded to my touch in this way
– without question, without comment, without altering his blank gaze.

I felt the fullness of the muscles surrounding his chest and torso. My
own prick swelled as his sprang out and brushed against my trouser leg.
I reached down and stroked the contours of his thighs and buttocks.
Everything was there for me to touch and feel. I took hold of his balls,
like soft pebbles in my palm. I twisted them and squeezed them. I
pulled his cock, first gently, and then as it grew big in my hand, with
increasing roughness. I was in full control of him, now. As I worked
his hard and heavy cock, I pressed my left hand against his stomach and
studied the shift and movement of his muscles. He gave himself fully to
the pressure of my movement. I knew that I could do anything I wanted
with him. His whole body expanded under my manipulation. His mouth
tightened and his face was shot with pain and suppressed emotion. I
gripped him tight, digging my fingers deeply into his young, colt-like
flesh, I may even have bent down and kissed it — I was so overcome and
absorbed with the beauty of it.

At that point the other guests began to arrive and, rather reluctantly, I
left the boy standing by the fireside. But I had no doubt now that this
was going to be a most interesting weekend.

Copyright John Dee 2005
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