Revenge under a lucky star

---Disclaimer: Stygus has informed me that nobody owns him anymore, not even me.
I'm german. I tried very hard to polish my english, but maybe sometimes the wording and grammar is a little off. Kindly tell me, cause I want to improve.
First fiction ever to show the world.---

Prologue

It was late at night when Cohn, the one and only love of my life, took his last laboured breath in this world. He had stopped talking the day before and spent his last hours in a fever haze, to weak to move. I had been by his side the whole time. Arcanus, the overseer of our honoured lord Copius' household, had been so kind to exempt me from my duties these days, which was a sign of how much even he had grown fond of Cohn. After the household slowed down, the family tucked in their respective beds, he had come himself and took his seat beside me.
I noticed the lack of inhale much sooner than Arcanus, since I had concentrated the whole day just on that. I pressed his hand to my lips and sent a prayer to Cohn's gods, to grant him the afterlife of rapture he deserved. After a while, Arcanus softly cleared his throat.
"Wake with him until tomorrow, Stygus..."
Until tomorrow, when someone - not me! - would strip him naked, load him on a cart, to be brought to the cremation facilities, to be burned without ceremony, without any indication he had been here, in this household, but for the memories of those who had known him.
"Did he find replacement yet?"
Arcanus ignored my insolent tone. Despite his strict dealings, he respected me too much for beating the crap out of me at a time like this.
"Yesterday."
The last two days two emotions had commanded my self; grieve and hate. For the rest of my life, I vowed, these would be the only feelings allowed to me, as the fuel to the revenge that was forming in my head.


Chapter 1


I was born a slave, and, according to my mother, under a lucky star. She first began to talk like that when I turned eight summers, or to be more specific when my first master, the honourable Gaius Crachus, became aware of my cute little butt. Since his wife preferred to live piously, i.e. separated from him, nobody objected when he chose me as his next plaything. He even restrained himself from fucking me up my virgin ass for a whole fortnight. By that time I had learned to pleasure him with hand, mouth, foot and any other part of my body he fancied that day. But soon it wasn't enough, and so, one day, he turned me on my belly, put the grease into me and on his cock, and fucked me until I bled, all the while alternating between "I'm sorry" and "It's all your fault, you make me do this," while I clenched my teeth, relaxed my butt-muscles, and held on to the bed sheets. Afterwards he was worried that he 'might' had hurt me, and closed me into his arms, like a doll, which of course I endured the same way as everything else, like a good little slave toy.

Where is the fortune in this story, you ask? Actually, there was plenty. First of all, my masters fucking equipment. Neither before nor after have I ever seen such a sorry excuse for a dick. I never measured it, of course, but by guess he would not reach four inches aroused, and I could easily encompass him with my thumb and index finger. I don't have to elaborate of the obvious advantages this fact brought for me. Even in my (rapidly dwindling) innocence I wondered if there was a connection between his shortcoming and my age.
Then there was my mother, who had no illusion about life or my master and had begun to instruct and prepare me for my service between the sheets the day the honourable Gaius had begun to drool while watching me polishing his fathers bronze in the entrance hall. I do not understand other people's creators who whine and cry about their children's precious innocence. The no-nonsense attitude of my mother saved my life. She showed me all there was to know about satisfying my master, she accustomed me to anal play. Oh for the gods sake, stop your hypocrisy right now! She was practical. She could either loose her child, or let it be used. I would thank her every day kissing her feet, if I knew where she was or if she was still alive.
Thirdly, since my age in regard to my job description was truly - ahem - let's say debatable, I served my master, but no one else. For four years, I let him fuck me up my ass, down my throat and even between my legs when he managed to hurt me too much (most of the time with his fingernails. Did I mention that he could be astonishingly clumsy?), and I thanked him politely and pretended to play with my ball (not balls) afterwards. I learned to gracefully accept almost all bodily fluids in my mouth and stomach without puking.
Shortly after my twelfth birthday, he became aware of another rosebud in his garden, nine-year old Thessel. I will spare you the sad story of my successor and just say that if I had not been grateful for my mother's determination before, the experience to watch the decline of that boy would have certainly awoken the deepest worship for her wisdom.
In the meantime I was placed under my fathers care. He was a groom, and since the staff responsible for the animals did not enter the aristocrat's wings, I was out of the way for the time being. I loved horses, and in the short time we had together, my father tried to teach me everything he knew. Since I hadn't been allowed to the stables for four years to not affront my master's nose, it was also a rare opportunity to spend time with my father. Somehow I sensed it would be limited enough.
He was much simpler than my mother. Still, for a time there had been love enough for me to be born. Why it ended, they never told me. But both spoke in respect of the other.
For a couple of weeks, I waited for the command to resume my duties in my master's bed. Thessel wasted away every day.
The noble lord Gaius surprised me, though. One day I was chained, stripped, brought to the slave-market and sold without ceremony or a chance to embrace my parents a last time.
He always had been a fucking pervert.

Chapter 2

I was lucky. Only two days after I was given in commission to a skilled trader, I was sold again. The trader, whose name I never knew, was kind enough to instruct me on how I should present myself; eyes downcast, submissive, shy but smiling when talked to, preferably blushing when inspected, a bit hesitant but of course never really disobedient.
I contemplated informing him that I had been playing this role a third of my life, but dropped the thought. I acted my part, he did the negotiations, I changed owners, and there was that.

My second master. I have to admit, the next year I sometimes doubted my mothers words. He introduced me to the - for him - very satisfying world of bonds and pain. He loved for me to beg, in full obeisance, for everything. Depending on his moods it ranged from stopping the whipping to giving me water. He lapped up my tears, and then made me spill new ones. He really got off on suffocating me with his cock. Preferably when I knelt between his thighs, choker, handcuffs and shackles chained so tightly together behind me that I had to arch backwards, presenting my small, flaccid cock for him to pull at his leisure. I truly was glad when I came out of the torture chamber for some time to serve his guests.
Still, if one would try and stay on the positive side: He never broke bones, he did not mutilate me, and there were times when all he wanted was a fuck. And at the end of my first year, I turned accident into opportunity.

Ironically, it happened outside his little cabinet of horrors. Despite my experiences in the last five years, sometimes my mouth was still faster than my brain. The exact details are erased from my memory, but afterwards I was informed that he had ordered me to suck his cock in the hallway, and I had asked with my sweetest smile if maybe he had misspoken, since I was sure it was his turn (all I say is, that his sponsor in the senate was due any minute). In my defence I'd like to mention that the day before he had introduced me to his newest toy, a particularly heavy and narrow set of ball cuffs that he closed too tight, in the process nearly gelding me.
My cocky (!) remark earned me a proper slap in the face, which in itself was nothing new. The unforeseen consequence, however, was that I bumped into a pedestal on which a rather heavy plaster statue lost it's equilibrium and decided to break into pieces on my head.
When I came by, I was disoriented for a moment. I lay in a slave cell, nobody in sight. Somebody had taken care of me, as my head was bandaged, but apparently when it became clear that I would neither wake nor die in minutes my immediate well being had been skipped down the priority list. I had the headache of my life, but was contented to wait for the next person who would either nurse me or transport me to my master for my due punishment.
The idea that suddenly popped up in my head had the impact of the plaster statue.
When the master slave of the house came to check on me, I feigned sleep. I was able to prolong my apparent unconsciousness for another day. When I "awoke", I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what had happened, just complained about headaches and fuzzy sight. The healer declared that my head injury had left me addle-brained, and that the state could be permanent and I could still die within days. Therefore the master did not summon me for a fortnight. When it became clear that I neither improved nor deteriorated, he wanted to play with me again.

I think the performance I gave over the next week was the most challenging of my entire life. Although I had drawn my inspiration from a half-wit in my old masters household who had awoken that way after falling down the stairs, I had to improvise during the torture. It had been a risk, in hindsight, that my noble master would get more turned on when the smallest manipulation triggered extensive screams, crying and begging. Do you know how many times you can say "please" before the word looses it's meaning? I don't; I lost count every time. The icing of the cake was, so to say, to imitate the gag reflex. Gods, it was so satisfying to spit out his filthy seed. It was worth the scars his whip left from the repeated punishments. In the end, my fortune favoured me again. He was so bored with me that he moved on to worthier prey.

Why he didn't sell me then, I don't know. Maybe there was some last shred of morale or conscience left in his twisted, withered soul. They found me a place in the stables, where I excelled, partly because nobody expected much from me anymore. I managed to get my hair shorn off on account of lice, and that helped in being invisible to the aristrocrats that infrequently came to inspect or ride one horse or the other. I shaved my head after that. Nobody cared. Maybe they thought the hair had fallen out. Morons.
While my life was in no way perfect, it was far less painful. To play the idiot was tiresome, but when I contemplated to confide in one of my unlucky fellows, I just had to picture myself on the rack, and an intelligent conversation suddenly seemed amazingly less appealing.
Excuse me when my story seems incomplete at times, but I was a slave, after all. When I was sold again at age seventeen, nobody provided me with a reason, and the witless may ask in their innocence, but receive no answer the same as any slave. In the kitchen there had been talk about a marriage for the master's son; maybe they needed space for new slaves. For me it made no difference. I found myself on display again on the slave block, considerably older, balder and consequently worth much less.