InsaneJournal

Title:  Green Broke (for now)

Genre: Adventure drama yaoi

Rating: NC-17 (no one under 18)

Summary: Michael and Lisa Sedor along with their nineteen-year-old son Christopher travel the world studying the last primitive cultures. These field anthropologists get more of an insider's view than they wanted when they become part of a nomadic tribe in Turkey. Chris becomes the slave of the royal family for a cruel tradition, and it is his humiliating task to porter the Prince. The Prince falls for Chris, but can he overcome the boy's hatred for him and can he protect him from the rest of his family?

FYI: Of course the people cannot speak English, just assume I translated it. King Ibram ll in Turkey really did exist and he used young men and women to ride on the backs of - although no purpose for this was given, so we made one up.  Midilli just means pony

Warnings:  Angst, abuse, bond, D/S, H/C ponying, N/C, tort

Word Count= approx 30,000

King Ibram lived his life most devotedly, it was said. It was also said that in his youth he had sullied himself with primitive, godless heathen whores not of his village. Beholding his sins, Allah went unto him and told him he would go childless, or if he did have children they would be enslaved in lands alien to them. The King, in his misery at the news, remained celibate, despite the fact that he took for himself a proper wife. He wished for redemption, and so to earn back his favor with God, he did not allow his feet to touch the soiled ground, nor his hands to touch any woman and he watched the heavens for sacred signs. He prayed for the curse upon him and his progeny to be lifted. On his thirty-five birthday, he was honored for his sacrifice and released to bear children as heirs, and so was the King forgiven and blessed by God Most High

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 * * *The Lottery* * *

Your failure was decided in your head

before you even tried

a funeral was held for all your dreams

before you let them die

So break me

And shut me down

Everything you say means nothing

You take back

The sweetest lies

 Everything you say means nothing now

And there's no medicine that could ever make you feel alive

 You'll never feel alive

And there's no remedy or therapy to replace what's inside

So tell me what's inside

I can't help but think that this is all just such a waste

Watch the pain and anger in your eyes as it's slowly erased

You let me down

Don't you want to feel alive

Lyrics of 'Break me' by Kiros (except the last line) and used without permission. I thank them kindly in advance for not minding. I make no money from it.

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They were field anthropologists seeking out the most obscure of the tribes left on earth.

The Sedors, Michael and Lisa, with their son Christopher had been to two countries in 

South America, after which they had spent a year in Madagascar and they were now in Anatolia, Turkey where they had sought a group who called themselves, roughly translated, the followers of the curse of King Ibram.

What they found was a small nomadic village of about a thousand that raised and trained some of the finest horses in the country. They lived in the most inhospitable climate, with hot, dry summers and long, snow-filled winters.

These people traveled down from the Taurus Mountains to winter where it was not as cold in the foothills. Their village was cut off from the rest of the world during this season. The Sedors had arrived at a very special time, one that only came around once in a lifetime.

When an elder son of the Chieftain was a year from the age of the curse, a drawing was held. All in the village with male children over the age of sixteen and under the age of twenty-six were expected to participate in the

search for the next Sacred keeper for the prince and his family.

Michael Sedor was encouraged by the village elders to put Christopher's name in as a show of respect. Michael asked Lisa, he told her what he had been told. Which was, that their son could never be chosen, for he was not of their blood, nor of their religion and besides, he was much too finely built, but it would be an honorable

gesture to offer. She could see no reason to object, and so their son was tokenly offered.

What no one knew was that the young prince Tayyar had seen Christopher and liked what he saw. He'd informed his father, and although it was believed the candidate and back up were chosen at random from the most qualified, the Chieftain was swayed by his son's interest.

The Chieftain, Berk, knew very well that the Americans might possible resist, and that they would have to be forced to serve, or be sacrificed. Once offered, a refusal would be an unforgivable insult and a sin upon God. However, he was also well aware of the difference between honey and lemons.

Christopher, with no knowledge of his inclusion in the goings on, watched with interest until the time came for the announcement of whom had been chosen. There were eleven boys and men lined up, all aware of what their fate for the next decade could be. Nothing less than slavery, and although it was an honor to be chosen, they all looked nervous.

When the Chieftain said Christopher's name, the budding young scientist just stared in disbelief. Too shocked to respond, he stood and listened as it was explained to him that he had to be conditioned and must go through the cleansing ritual. He would be bound until the prince's thirtieth-five birthday to keep the heir sacred. It meant that it was his responsibility, when the Prince was outside his home, not to allow his feet to touch the ground - in other words - Chris was to carry him. Christopher Sedor now belonged to the prince, body and soul.

Michael and Lisa at first tried politely to refuse, but Michael was offered something hard to resist. Especially when the gruesome alternative was explained to him, and he knew they were serious. Chieftain Berk was a generous man, however, and he gave Michael much for his cooperation. A harem to do with as he pleased, and an amount of gold that would see his life and research for as long as he lived, as well as an honored position within the tribe.

While rationalizing it as an occupational hazard, Michael gave consent. Better his son be a slave, than all three of them die. Lisa tried to object, but she was silenced with threats of punishment, that to be enforced with the business end of a whip. Since her son was chosen, she was now under chieftain rule as well, and forbidden to speak or do anything but what her husband decreed. It was suggested that she could be trained as her son would be, to serve as is proper for woman, and to serve the royal family as well.

So began the brutal, humiliating training of mother and son. Christopher was given the name Kyro by the

prince, the name of one of the founding herd sires of their prize horses, befitting his new status amongst them. The training was to be done quite slowly, for it took time to strengthen the proper muscles, and it was still a year before the prince needed him.

Christopher was not content to submit to this training, not content to be forced to be a slave, not happy in the least with the turn of events. Calm at first, he didn't balk. He had complete faith in his parent's ability to come up with a diplomatic reason to drag him back out of their clutches. He thought he just needed to be patient. He was completely stunned to find that not only did his father agree to his servitude, but his mother was enslaved as well.

Anger burned in Chris when he discovered that his father had included him in the ritual, but mostly he seethed at the prince who had subjected him to this, despite he not being one of them.

Now, the prince would not be allowed to see Chris again until his age of curse of twenty-two. Chris would be nineteen by then. They would have never met face to face. But Christopher would grow to hate him anyway.

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* * * The Training Year * * *

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Christopher fought them with every ounce of energy he had. He screamed at them, bit them, cursed

them and kicked them. It was allowed, tolerated, for the first few days.

On the fourth day, a new trainer was brought in. Polat was his name. He had never been used for this purpose before, he was a simple farmer, close to fifty years old, but he was massively built, strong and calm and it was believed that was what Chris needed.

"Now, little son, little sacred, you must make yourself ready," Polat had simply said in way of introduction. "You cannot do that by fighting. You have two very important things to learn and the first is your place. You must accept the honor, not tantrum as a spoiled child of two. You must teach your body to strengthen for what it must do. Your back and your arms have muscles that must be conditioned."

"This is ridiculous! You can't-" Chris started to protest again.

Polat cut the boy off with a sharp, powerful blow to the chest with his ham-sized fist. It knocked the air out of him completely and prevented any speaking, while he struggled to wheeze his breath back, sure his ribs were cracked.

"I am told that you and your parents all requested to join our village, and agreed to accept its laws and customs. You were not forced to be here, you asked to be, and now I must insist you live up to that oath you swore. No more talking, sacred. You must listen only. See the table over here? It was built especially for you, by your size it was made. It is there you will spend much time for the next year. Now, I am going to take you to it and tie you in place. You will go with me without trouble."

Chris was still barely able to breathe, much less fight. Subdued for the moment, he went where Polat told him to. A collar was fastened around his neck, and locked on. He was then tied to the post driven deep into the ground, to the point of complete immobility. He was stuck standing on his hands and knees, and beneath him was the small table, it fit about six inches under his belly.

"You are not to allow your body to touch the bench if possible, that is the point of it," Polat told him. "Your body will naturally sink with added weight, but if you sink too much, you will be squeezed uncomfortably. Now, I am much too heavy to train your muscles, I will call in the one to start you off. But don't anger me or you will find

yourself without air again."

Christopher just nodded, eyeing the big man warily. Polat seemed satisfied and smiled at him before leaving. Chris had barely recovered enough to speak when Polat reentered with another man beside him. This man was younger, early to mid-thirties the boy guessed, and very muscular and trim. He wore no shirt, only the loose off white garb pants worn by the horse trainers and house servants that accentuated his dark-tanned skin. He looked at Chris appraisingly.

"I see I have my work cut out for me, between you and your mother," the man said, his hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised good-naturedly.

"My mother?" Chris choked. "You're making her do this?"

"She is your back-up," he stated in his soft voice. "My name is Al-Ghawrî. Yes, she must learn this also in case you fall ill. She is lovely, your mother. Much as you are, sacred. I see why the prince has chosen you, although it would be helpful if you both were sturdier. Ah, but we can make you stronger."

The trainer went to Chris's side and began to run hands all over his body. Chris tried to push him away, but his eyes stole up at Polat who had come closer and was now standing there staring down at him, the threat in his gaze evident. Chris sighed and submitted, and he closed his eyes with disgust as Al-Ghawrî rubbed and poked and prodded him.

"You must get used to being touched. If you relax, you might find it even enjoyable," Al said soothingly.

"It's not enjoyable being pawed. I am not a dog who rolls over to have his stomach scratched, but that's how you're treating me and I think you're all bastards for it," Chris said miserably, thinking of this man's hands doing this to his mother. The trainer leaned over his back. "I will ignore that. This time. We have been more than patient with you, but we won't be forever. Now, brace your arms. I want to see how you tolerate my

weight."

Chris just shook his head, more frightened than angry. Slowly, the man straddled the boy and lowered himself down onto his back, feeling the muscles tense to hold him. He nodded his approval. He stroked Chris's hair while he sat there, his knees drawn up tight against the straining sides.

"Such soft hair, sacred...and such a lovely sable color."

This was all too much, being spoken to with such condescension. Chris felt rage, but controlled it, and then felt tears of frustration roll down his cheeks. He was in the middle on nowhere, with a man sitting on his back petting him and another standing over him who could break him in half with his bare hands, waiting for one wrong move. He had a collar around his neck, and thirteen years of servitude staring him in the face, his life was ruined.

Back home, his friends were free and fornicating and drinking and sunning on beaches, preparing for college and playing video games. It almost didn't seem real.

But it was real. Chris suddenly wished more than anything to just go home and learn from a safer distance. He had once laughed with his friends about being cannibal stew meat. He had never ever considered being some idiot prince's mount. It was starting to seem funny, and the boy was sure then that he was hysterical, as he shuddered a laugh with tears still wet on his face. He would surely go mad before this was over.

"It's all right," the man sitting on him said softly. "It won't be so bad, you'll be well cared for."

Starting to feel panicked and knowing the consequences, Chris tried desperately to remain calm, and found that Al-Ghawrî's touch was actually rather soothing after a while to his frayed nerves. He relaxed under the man's hand a little too much. One of his arms buckled, and he felt a pull in his back as the collar tightened. He righted himself to keep from choking, but the man did not get off him, just shifted up further.

"It hurts..." Chris whined as he locked his elbows again. "Why can't this prince guy get himself a horse or donkey or something?"

"He needs you, son. Now brace up. It's only been a couple minutes. You should be able to hold me for another ten."

It was only with painful effort that he held the man that long. He was shaking and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He thought he was about to collapse when Al-Ghawrî finally got up.

"Very good," he said to Chris. "Now is your cleansing. Most of the villagers will be by today and tomorrow. They will sit upon your back for only five, maybe ten minutes. They will bless you, pray to give you strength, and thank you. You will fast during this time, and you will not be freed for any reason. If you have any needs, Polat will handle them. When the time is over, you will bathe and your training will begin."

"What?" the boy turned his head sharply. Villagers? Sit on? Fast- not eat... not drink? 

Al-Ghawrî didn't answer, he just smiled and said good-bye. Polat nodded to him. Chris turned his face away.

Polat remained to keep his eye on Chris as soon after, the villagers filed in, one by one. Even the youngest children were brought. The very old and infirm were lifted onto him. Over and over and over, one got up from his back and another sat down. They hugged him and blessed him while he leaned his shoulder to the pole and concentrated on keeping his back and arms straight. Some were careful and gentle, while others flopped down onto him as if he were merely furniture. Some were so heavy he couldn't hold them, and he ended up crushed to the table while they blessed him. They thanked him, petted him and a couple even wept into his hair. Chris just kept his eyes closed and did his best to stay upright.

Even Polat came to him and sat atop him and for some reason, despite his fatigue and the pain he was in by then, Chris struggled mightily to hold him. With gritted teeth, he braced the huge man while he tottered and leaned, arms trembling, but he managed not to touch the table and was able to look his nemesis in the eyes afterward.

Polat, however, just beamed at him proudly, as one would a pet who's learned a new trick rather fast, taking even this small measure of pride away from him.

When night fell Polat lit the tent with candles, even as the crowd thinned. Chris was so exhausted that at the first real lull in activity he sprawled on the table and was sleeping in minutes. Unfortunately, although the ritual let up during the night, it never stopped completely and he was awoken dozens of times to someone's body resting on his, along with the same words whispered into his ear. The same prayers said maddeningly over him. Chris gave much thought to escape, but each time he thought of leaving his mother behind, his resolve weakened. He was sure she would never consider leaving without him. If only somehow he could speak with her.

The second day was a boring, painful repeat of the first, only Chris could barely hold anyone anymore. He was crushed to the table repeatedly. Polat had taken to whacking his legs and sides with a stick to make him struggle up, and he tried to comply, he was too tired for any real anger. His ribs hurt with every breath he took, his back felt like it was on fire, and his shoulders stabbed with pain... yet Polat refused to allow him rest as he remained standing close, ready to punish any deviant behavior.

It ended at shortly after sundown that day, with the last of the thousand odd villagers, and Chris did not doubt that he had felt every single one of them. When Polat announced that it was finished, Christopher collapsed.

Al was summoned; he went immediately to Chris and unfastened him. The boy was all but crying in pain, way past exhaustion, and he melted into the trainer's strong arms. He turned his head and cried against the man's neck.

"I can't, Al, I can't do this," he whispered. "I'm not strong enough. I'll go crazy, for sure."

"There, there," Al-Ghawrî crooned to him. "You did well and it's all over. You're cleansed. It will be much easier from here, and you'll gain strength, trust me. For now, I'll take care of you."

To Chris's surprise, the trainer picked him right up completely and carried him to the water trough outside near the corrals and slipped the clothes off him, talking softly all the while. Together they sat in the warm water, and at first Chris tried to drink it, gagging, but parched by thirst.

"No, no... hold on. I'll pump some fresh."

Cool water was cupped to his mouth from Al's hand and he sucked at it gratefully, greedily. It took awhile to

slack his thirst this way, and yet there was something... just, right about it. The trainer's voice, his patience, his gentleness, Chris needed all this and he did feel cleansed. Like the leaving of one life for another. He was too worn out to care, presently. Too confused and too sore, his movements felt in slow motion. The pain was eased by the warmth of the water and by the body holding him. His cramping muscles relaxed and he allowed the man to wash him, his head lolled back against Al's shoulder submissively. 

For a short time, tears ran from his eyes, his emotions were so raw. Al-Ghawrî just held him once he was clean, and his expert hands began working on Chris's strained muscles until the water began to cool in the darkness. But he was aware that the pain had melted away under the gentle massaging. Chris grew sleepy, and he snuggled closer to the man as he chilled.

He was barely aware of being lifted from the trough and carried again. The blankets were warm, the bed soft that he was laid upon. He murmured his thanks.

Not sure how much time had passed, Chris roused one last time as warm gruel, sweet and honeyed was spooned to his lips and he ate some of it, along with sipping some warm goat's milk, but mostly he just wanted rest and escape from feeling anything. With Al's hands stroking his hair soothingly, Chris drifted back into healing sleep, unconscious until near noon of the next day.

Christopher woke up, feeling broken. His whole body ached, his joints and muscles had stiffened and protested too much moving. He was thirsty and starving as well. Again, the trainer was sent for and he brought juice and a good meal, while stroking and massaging him again. Chris just smiled gratefully, the touch so gentle and the relief from pain it brought so welcome.

"Is it over?" he asked the man.

"Some of it is. It's time now you gained strength."

Chris sighed in despair as the man beckoned him to the pole and he eyed him fearfully.

"Don't worry," Al-Ghawrî told him. "You're doing the right thing, cooperating will keep your family safe."

And so Chris' training began. Under supervision and restraint day and night, he was not given a chance to escape, yet, that was all he thought about. His life was boring at best, painful at worst as weeks became months. He lived tied at that pole with weight on his back on and off all day, children at first and then small adults sat on him hour after long monotonous hour, until it became easy and the weight increased. Slowly, over many weeks and months his back and arm muscles were strengthened and his spine grew more flexible. It was extremely comfortable for whoever sat on him. More than just that, though. Al-Ghawrî found it to be strangely arousing, and he was hard put not to grind the erection it caused against the boy's yielding back.

The only time Chris was free of the pole and the weight was when he was with the trainer. He was given frequent baths, rub downs and massages. His eyes lit up every time he saw the man, they had slowly built up a deep friendship.  Al-Ghawrî took him out for walks, not as a slave, but walking together side by side. He told the boy stories and often sat with him long into the night when he was troubled or sore, singing to him old folk songs or simply stroking him. Once in a while, the trainer grew tired and lay down beside his charge, luxuriating in the feel of the boy's body beside him. Chris would snuggle to him and be unaware of the effect it had on him.

Chris didn't belong to him, and Al knew better than to touch him but chastely. Chris' mother, however, did belong to him. He was content with her, but it was Chris he wished was his.