Best of Breed

BEST OF BREED

by Bill Smith

[Feedback from readers makes the time and effort involved in posting worthwhile. Please send me some comments about this work or others I have written. They are always appreciated. Send to anonymous4371@juno.com. Thanks. Bill Smith] ____________________________________________________________________________

I was produced at the Winfield Breeding Farm down in Mississippi about 43 or 44 years ago the best I can reckon out of one of the stock broods he kept around for just that purpose. I never did know exactly which one she was because we were promptly put in the nursery with some other wenches serving as wet nurses for the little whelps and Master Winfield must of had over a hundred of those broods around at any given time, all of them kept constantly pregnant. They all looked more or less alike to me and not one of us, nor any of them, seemed to know who whelped who. I suppose after birthing anywhere from a dozen up to 25 little pups, you sort of lose interest anyway.

Master Winfield must have known, though, because when we were sold off one by one over the years, he could always read out of his "Studbook" to prospective buyers who the stud and brood was in back of us. Everyone complimented him at the sales barns on keeping such good records, but none of it meant much to those getting sold. We were much more interested in who was buying us and for what purpose by then.

The stud part was easy. Aristotle had been around for ages and some said he was into his mid-30s by now and it was believable with the gray hairs beginning to show in his fine head of hair with just a hint of curl to it. You didn't see many slaves live long enough to have gray hair, so it was a real novelty back on the farm. Master Winfield claimed Aristotle had sired over 1300 new stock at his farm, but he had already studded 512 new stock even by the time I was born. That's why my name was just "512." Master Winfield didn't bother giving us elaborate names like Aristotle had. He said it wasn't worth the bother and just labeled us by our order of birth. Whoever bought us could name us whatever they wanted he always claimed. Until then, we just had a number to answer to.

According to legend in the slave pens back at the farm, Aristotle had been bought by Master Winfield when he was 15 or 16, just after he had filled out and already was being admired because of his splendid physique, his full musculature, his unusually handsome good looks, and his huge sexual "equipment" as the sales barns listed it. He was, full grown, about 6'4", 230 pounds of solid muscle, a bright yellowy brown color denoting he was at least a mulatto, but more likely quadroon. That quadroon speculation was reinforced by his fine brown hair with just a hint of curl to it, his brilliant blue eyes, his practically hairless body (even his face was so smooth he never had to shave), his thin lips and high cheekbones, his thin straight nose, and his baby smooth skin with a hint of pink to it. But there was enough African blood in him to account for his gigantic prick, his randy disposition (he was always hard it seemed), and his suburb physique that was a turn on to any woman (and most men) that laid eyes on him when he was stripped down. Since Master Winfield had bought him, at least, he had done nothing but stud, eat, sleep and do enough other work to keep him in top shape and "get his balls fully recharged" as Master Winfield called it.

All of us young slaves knew we were products of his seed and admired him from afar as we saw him being led to the rutting shed two or three times a day or being stripped down for inspection by one of the many visitors to the breeding farm. Master Winfield loved showing the stud off and didn't hesitate to exhibit him to dealers dropping by to look at stock coming up for auction in the next few months, friends and relatives dropping by on a visit to the farm, but also at occasional county fairs, the rare shopping trips to the nearby town, and even the annual church bazaar hosted by Master Winfield right there on the farm. During those inspections, we would see Aristotle remove that old pair of tattered shorts his master had given him years ago, spread his legs wide apart, put his muscular arms in back of his neck so his full torso would be displayed, and, with a signal from his master, thrust his pelvis out so his well-used sex organs could be easily handled if so desired.

The dealers in those days were mainly small independent businesses. But a few, even then, were franchisees of huge international conglomerates that offered buyers a huge variety of slaves as well as almost all related services, e.g., specialized training; restraints and control devices such as a vast variety of whips, shock collars, and electric prods; pharmaceuticals such as vitamins, vaccines, veterinary supplies, mood control and sex stimulation agents; slave feed in wholesale lots; slave clothing; and slave identification devices, such as branding, body tags, and tattooing equipment. Although most dealers were still men, there were more and more women in the business who, like the men, offered both genders for the market. Women had taken the lead in offering body adornments on the slaves they sold and, even now, usually offered the best 'decorated' slaves if style was your thing, e.g., fancy tit and ear rings as well as decorative GPS collars were featured on both female and male sales, while males often additionally had nose rings and genitals bands fitted for added appeal.

Master Winfield, like almost all breeders, wasn't bothered by showing Aristotle stark nude to his female friends and relatives, nor at the county fairs or church picnics attended by more women than men. Such prudery had passed centuries ago as far as slaves were concerned in that slaves by now were viewed just like any other animal. The old fashioned notion of offending someone by displaying a slave nude seemed almost quaint by modern standards, although, occasionally, you noticed a few of the teen age girls and boys, not used to the markets, twittering and simpering a little when an especially well-hung stud or a particularly buxom wench was being displayed in the buff. But I never saw one close their eyes, walk away from the scene, or do anything but get a good eye full. To do so would be like telling their friends they weren't all grown up yet. Especially if the stud was sporting a big hard-on, as he often was when displayed in public like this when he saw both female and male onlookers staring with great interest at his manhood.

Many of the men on those occasions felt obliged to heft the slave's balls as if to weigh their contents and stroke the slave's shaft a bit to test "response," usually with comments designed to tell those around them they were good at "evaluating a stud" as if this were something they did routinely. Outside of the dealers who probably did do this on a daily basis, for the others it was pure fantasy - most of them could never afford anything half as good as Aristotle if they were into breeding slaves. Aristotle was used to this and never flinched when his balls were roughly handled or his huge penis stroked to a full erection once again. He was proud of his body and enjoyed the envious looks people often gave him when they fondled his sex.

He knew, along with his owner and the rest of us slaves, most of them couldn't afford any slave worth displaying, let alone something like him. Most of their own stock weren't worth enough to do anything but keep them hidden back in the slave quarters and figure out how to get the maximum amount of work out of broken down, cheap stock. With this crowd, a lot of the talk was about just that: the best types of whips on the market, characteristics of the best overseers, and how old a slave could get before he wasn't worth his feed.

"I always use a 3" strap when a property gets lazy," we slaves heard as we gathered in the background around the showing of the magnificent stud. Most, like the speaker we had just heard, were into threats and punishments that they found useful: "I cut rations when they slow down - that usually gets them thinking twice about why God put them on this earth;" "I've found touching them up with a hot branding iron puts the fear of God in them;" "Putting a ring through their dick so they can't pleasure themselves gets them horny enough to put a little more energy into their work, especially for those I'd let fuck around a bit or use their hand for a little relief;" "Me, I use a 12-strand lash on the bastards - you don't know how hard a slave can work until you use that heavy on them." But a few took a different approach: "I throw the bucks a wench when they go over their quota - works pretty well generally as long as you don't overdo it;" "When they work extra hard, I make sure they get a piece of salt pork that night - they love getting to eat a piece of meat once in a while;" "The wenches will work their head off if you promise them they can take their pick out of the good looking studs that night - that slave blood runs hot all the time, I'll wager."

Aristotle's seed must have been mighty powerful. You could tell all of us had his blood in us, no matter which of the broods had actually birthed us. If you looked real close, we all looked somewhat alike, more so than you would expect from just being half-brothers, especially if there were, as Master Winfield claimed, over 1300 of us now. I suppose that was because the broods were all picked carefully too: big, sturdy, good looking, smooth skinned, and lusty-like with their big titties and their ability to become quickly aroused, something Master Winfield always tested with his probing fingers before he bought them when they were of mature breeding age, as young as 14 and as old as 17 for the late bloomers. Aristotle's seed was might potent too. If Master Winfield had it timed right, most broods "caught" on one or two tries so Aristotle "wasn't fucking around for nothing," as his owner put it. In fact, if a brood was put to Aristotle "in season" and didn't take after 10 tries spread over a few months (usually three or four a "season"), Master Winfield took her to market and traded her in on a more promising wench. He wasn't about to feed livestock that couldn't produce, he always announced within good hearing of all the stock on hand.

The farm did produce some likely looking stock. We were all light-skinned, big and sturdy, muscled out well with proper exercise, had nice smooth skin, little to no body hair, and most people looking us over generally commented on how good looking we were, both male and female. The females were big tittied the minute they filled out and generally had real fine hair and light colored eyes, a very desirable quality in stock bringing top prices in today's markets. The males were very well built with big shoulders and pecs, relatively small well muscled waists, and invariably, it seemed, were very heavy hung, as the dealers called our massive sexual organs. Both the males and females had high cheekbones, thin lips, straight noses, bright eyes, long curly eyelashes, and creamy smooth complexions even when we got fully mature and a lot of ordinary slave stock turned sort of coarse looking. The farm's output ranged from the pure white looking like Swedes to the light browns looking like Polynesians to the dark browns of North Africa and Asia to the coal blacks of Central Africa. One thing we all had in common: good looks and magnificent bodies.

Master Winfield made no bones about the crop he was raising. "Slaves - biddable and likely-looking," was the way he described his product. "Others are raising cotton, tobacco, rice, sorghum, pigs, you name it - I raise human livestock. Always a demand, easy to grow, and most profitable if you have the patience for it. Takes a while to harvest a crop - 14 to 15 years at best - usually up to 18 years or so to sell at the best price - but if you have the capital to wait that long for a healthy return, there's no better crop. They're be a lot more breeding farms around if people just had the capital to do it, but most don't. They buy their cotton seed on loan and sweat it out until they can get some cash in at the end of the summer and pay their loans back. Even then, they're totally dependent on the whims of the cotton market with all its ups and downs. But human livestock - price doesn't vary that much from one year to another, other than it has a tendency to always go up a little each year - the demand is always a little more than what can be marketed, it seems. And those that complain about the cost of keeping all those hungry mouths around year after year - hell, my crop grows their own feed, even builds their own shelter. No cost to me at all. All it takes is a lot of capital for an exceptional stud and all those broods, writing off the costs of losing a few to diseases and accidents, and a hell of a lot of patience waiting for a return on your investment. Not too many have that unusual combination," he used to gloat.

We in the pens knew that Master Winfield was thinking about a replacement for Aristotle eventually when he started to lose his ardor or his seed started running out. In fact, he had held a few potential studs back from the market just in case and was testing these 18 and 19 year olds on a few of the broods already to make sure their seed was as eager as Aristotle's and they could get it up without any hesitation when they were put on display for handling or actually taken down to the rutting shed. When one of them got picked as the farm's main stud, the others would probably be marketed as proven studs to other farms "coming to their senses" and going into slave breeding or sold as "practiced studs" to some rich widows and single ladies looking for a "boy" who understood exactly why he had been purchased and would consistently bring his new mistress such bodily pleasures they would never give him up.

Aristotle himself was already promised to a new owner when the time came. Mr. Winfield had given first option to a young technocrat millionaire in Silicon Valley who had the means to afford such luxuries and who liked to take his pleasure with very good looking older "boys" who were accustomed to having owners use their bodies for whatever they wanted. Mr. Winfield could care less about the sexual preferences of the potential buyer, never gave a thought as to what Aristotle might think about pleasuring a male owner, and thought the standing offer of "as much as a likely-looking, heavy hung 18-year-old would bring on the market" was something only a fool would turn down.

Aristotle's sale took place the same day I was sold, along with the 102 others coming of age that year at the breeding farm and slaves 455 and 460, both older but being held in reserve to possibly replace Aristotle. But now that honor had gone to 451, a 19-year-old who was truly exceptional and had been renamed Socrates to honor the father he was replacing in the rutting shed.

Aristotle left with his new young master, an executive dressed in the latest fashion, who proudly clamped his own copper "slave" collar around the middle aged slave's neck complete with the name "Aristotle" engraved in the 3" high collar which forced Aristotle's head up at all times. Such a collar was the latest fashion in California for a rich executive's slave. The former stud's ragged old shorts were replaced with a pair of fine light brown wool trousers tailored to be skin tight and showing off every aspect of the quadroon's huge genitals and beautifully rounded bubble butt. Other than a couple of large copper ear rings drilled through the slave's ear lobes permanently, the costume was complete. That way, his upper torso, his beautifully rounded pecs, his well defined abs, and his massive shoulders were fully exposed at all times for the world to appreciate. His new owner snapped a leash to his fancy copper collar and led his latest purchase off into the plush insides of his showy Bentley limousine, chauffeured by a beautifully liveried copper colored slave whose hide exactly matched the paint on the limousine. It was hard to tell whether the slave had been purchased to match the car or the car had been painted to match the slave. Probably the former since slaves were certainly more plentiful to choose from than Bentley limousines. Judging from the skin tight livery of the chauffeur that revealed and highlighted every aspect of the slave's sexuality, it could be assumed the slave's duties involved considerably more than driving the car. At least, that was the message the costume seemed designed to convey.

As the Bentley glided away almost soundlessly, Master Winfield commented he didn't think Aristotle would have those fancy pants of his on for long. In fact, Master Winfield opined with a sly look on his face, "that old stud slave's going to be one getting fucked from now on, not the other way around" he laughed.

The rest of us sold that day weren't given anything to cover our nakedness, including slaves 455 and 460, who were going to be marketed as potential breeding studs. There were 104 of us in that lot. Master Winfield had shackled us together, put us in big cage trucks (separated by male and female stock so no unscheduled breedings could take place) designed just for the transportation of slaves and other livestock, and, before the sun went down, we were pulling into one of the huge corporate international slave selling facilities, 'Slave Depot,' that Master Winfield had done business with for years. In fact, he recent years, he had bought a sizeable number of common shares of the publically held corporation's stock in preparation for his eventual retirement. "Can't go wrong investing in the slave industry," he often said. "Demands always growing and the supply is there if its managed right." Obviously, with his own investments, he thought 'Slave Depot' was managing it right.

Once inside the huge warehouse, filled with numerous cages, large cells, a display area, and a much plusher area for the venue itself, we were unloaded, unshackled now that we were safely inside the facility's stockade, and herded into the shower room with some pleasant smelling shower gel to wash and shave our bodies thoroughly, and even some palm oil to rub into our skin until it glistened. After that, we were given our fill of some fresh cool water and good nourishing vegetable stew, along with a few pieces of rather stale cornbread in some shoulder-high feeding troughs located nearby, a real treat since we were used to measured slave chow, always bland and tasteless, and room-temperature water in the traditional dishes on the floor. Since we hadn't been fed or watered since before starting out, most of us were ravenously hungry and completely dried out and took to the feeding and watering eagerly. Next we were sorted into various cells around the perimeter of the building, 10 of a given sex into each cage with the two slightly older potential studs placed into small separate "inspection" cages, tightly confining and open on all sides.

Early the next morning, we Winfield slaves along with quite a few others, were again shaved, showered and fed and led into a large "classroom" where we were allowed to sit down on some plank benches before an "instructor" cracked a long bullwhip over our head to get our rapt attention.

"You slaves just in off of the breeding farms," the instructor started out, "are usually so pampered and spoiled you don't know squat about what's going on in the real world. So it's my job to get you caught up on what's going on and what you can expect once we get you sold off." He coiled his huge whip and seemingly studied us for a while before continuing with a scowl on his face as if what he was looking at disgusted him.

"First off, let's talk about labels. Your new owners will most likely be renaming you in that using a number like they do back on the breeding farms isn't too romantic. So most likely you'll be getting a new label to respond to. So when you do, you listen up and make sure you remember it and perk up when that new label is called. It'll be a slave name, of course, in that the law says slaves can't have names the same as free persons, so most of them are from Greek mythology, old Roman names, or 'function' names where you're named for what you do or some special feature. That way, slaves are differentiated from free persons by their names as well as their collars, their owner's marks, their nakedness, and, if they have a few clothes, their unique costumes. Felix and Fido are popular slave names as are Rufus, Servus. Olympus, Hercules, Achilles, and Septimus. But some of you good looking boys will get names describing a valued body characteristic or a description of what you do primarily. Examples here are labels like Phallus, Vulva, Clitoris, Shaft, Big Balls, Fuckboy, or Pleasure. Some athletic slaves get labels like Lightening, Charger, Racer, and Rock. Whatever it is, you're privileged to have a name at all - most of the draft slaves they never bother to name since they work in chain gangs, so you memorize it and respond to it every time you hear it called. I'm assuming, of course, you aren't sold off as a draft slave in which case you can disregard all this talk about having a new label," he chuckled at his own wit.

"Second, this will probably surprise you, but a lot of slaves being marketed here aren't bred for market like you animals. Oh, most slaves nowadays are produced just like you were, but some aren't. We get them from the state and federal courts. They were free persons before they screwed up and set themselves up to be enslaved - drug addiction, petty crimes, theft, assault - that sort of stuff that society won't put up with anymore. Then there are the war prisoners we buy up from one war or another all over the world where the victors can make a pretty penny by selling them off to the slave dealers. There's a lot of slaves being marketed now from the Cameroons and Sierra Leone from that source, for example. And, of course, we always have the self-sales and even parental sales from third world countries hit by famine and other natural disasters. That's where a person sells himself into slavery rather than starve to death or where the parents sell their children to get some money to buy food for the rest of their family. The market's being flooded currently with these kinds of slaves bought up in Chad, Niger, Rwanda and the Sudan.

"You bred slaves have two huge advantages as far as buyers are concerned. That's why you bring the best prices. First off, you're a hell of a lot better looking and your bodies are a lot better. That's because the breeders control the genetic backgrounds of you guys so you just have better genes in you. Second, you don't have to be broken to slavery. You've been a slave since the day you were produced. You've never been free and never will be. But those not having your advantages have a big adjustment when they find themselves property all of a sudden under the total control of others - a piece of livestock, really, instead of a person. That, unfortunately, takes a lot of the whip, a lot of the electric prods, a lot of hunger and thirst, and a lot of getting fucked before it sinks into their stupid heads that never again will they be deciding what they will do or that nobody gives a damn what they think or feel about something and that their body is just a piece of meat for the use of others. You already know that, but they have to learn all that from scratch. We lose a few in breaking them to their new reality, but that's inevitable, I suppose. Some just get whipped to death, some starve themselves to death, and some are so obstinate the trainers get tired of them and just sell them off to the slave processors, which I was getting to anyway. And some, of course, weren't worth much to start with, so why bother training them? But the vast bulk of them get broken eventually, and you won't notice much difference in the way they act one way or the other from any other slave by the time they're marketed."

"Third, as most of your know by now, it's a slave obligation to earn their keep. When they can't do that anymore, they're processed in that their owner can still get a little something out of their body even then. If they've got some good functioning organs in them that can be harvested like their eyes, their kidneys, their lungs, their hearts, and a few other things which can be used to patch up free persons willing to pay, they may be processed even though they are still earning their keep so to speak. In fact, some parts can be harvested without effecting you too much. You can all see with just one eye, you can still keep going with one kidney, for instance, and your owners may decide to sell you off piece by piece so to speak. But the rest of it requires a total processing and when it happens sort of depends on what your body parts are worth. But for most of you, you serve your master until you can't anymore to the degree he demands and then you're sold off one last time - to a rendering plant where they salvage your remaining good teeth for dentures, your hair for stuffing mattresses, your skin for making all those wallets, purses, briefcases and luggage pieces that are so fashionable currently, your ground up bones for fertilizer, and the rest of you for chicken feed. It's good to know you can profit your master even when you're gone and your rendering value adds to your sales price even today. But if behooves you to put this final stage off as long as possible. That's why most slaves put everything they have into serving their masters faithfully and tirelessly just as long as their body is still breathing. Such enterprise on your part is good for your master as well as good for you," he glared as the truth of his statement was so self-evident. "It's a good end for a slave - always useful and, as we tell the buyers out there, always a good investment."

With that last encouraging statement, he cracked his whip dangerously right over our heads once again and stomped out of the room whereupon we were ordered back to our pens for final preparation and positioning within the warehouse for the upcoming "inspection time."

Word must have got out fast of our arrival, because within hours, potential buyers began streaming into the warehouse to have a look at us. One by one, we would be called out as a buyer expressed some interest in one slave or another, and, after displaying our body as we had been taught with our legs spread, our hands behind our heads, and with our pelvis thrust out appropriately for examination, we were pawed, caressed, stroked, and fondled until not one of us males hadn't shot our seed at least once or twice, our nipples were sore and swollen, our balls ached from being weighted and squeezed over and over, and our jaws ached from having our mouths forced open over and over. The females were no better off - maybe worse - as their nipples were erect and their juices running the entire time as they too were carefully prodded and poked, obviously being examined for either their child-bearing potential after being put to a stud slave or as a pleasurable bed mate for their new owner or even as a pure draft slave.

By 9 o'clock, the dealer closed the warehouse, turned out the bright lights illuminating our bodies, and allowed us to settle down in the straw covering the cell's floor and get some rest. Early the next morning, we were aroused with the sound of whips cracking over our heads, told to wash ourselves thoroughly once again (including taking a series of enemas before hitting the showers), then ordered to slick our now spotlessly clean holes with some KY jelly they provided (the females had to put it up both their holes), and then given palm oil to give our hairless bodies that finishing touch. The females up for sale were even given a touch of rouge to put on their titties and lips to brighten them up a bit.

After that, the doors were opened promptly at 9 in the morning, and many more buyers swarmed in to look us over, even little kids with their fathers and mothers, some middle aged single women with lust in their eyes, some obviously rich young boys and girls (probably sons of upper class professionals and businessmen) just beginning to reach adulthood, some small town slave dealers looking to restock their own local holdings, and some decrepit old retirees who most likely had nothing else to do but take advantage of this free opportunity to handle and stroke some mighty fine looking slave flesh.

This time, they weren't allowed to stroke us until we shot off, however, in that the auction was scheduled for 11 that morning and they wanted us able to show hard and dripping when we were on the block being bid upon. We all knew that's the way stock sold best and expected nothing less. Nevertheless, the stroking and pawing got tiresome, especially when we were told to look perky and interested at all times and, of course, even though we weren't brought to the point of shooting off, we were still hard and dripping most of the time due to all the stimulation our bodies received from practically everyone attending the big event. Fathers were showing their young children the "proper" way to examine slaves, including being shown how to wrap their tiny hands around our huge organs and try to pump us a bit and, almost comically, having to take both their hands to heft our balls to "weigh them" as their parents insisted. The women

in attendance, even the teen age girls, not only seemed to enjoy ball squeezing but playing with our nipples until they were erect and swollen. The adolescent males mainly hovered around the female stock, inserting their fingers well up their vaginas until the vulva swelled and a gasp was heard from the wench being examined while their other hand was usually "milking a tittie" until the wench grimaced in pain. But some young rakes, like the one who had purchased Aristotle, seemed more interested in the male stock. They inserted their fingers well up our backsides after ordering us to bend over and grabbing our ankles for their convenience in ascertaining our "tightness." As soon as this was done, they turned us around and stroked our shafts with a firm grip until our natural juices were all over their hands and we were just short of shooting off.

The two potential studs in separate "inspection cages" seemed to have the worst time of it, though. There were long lines of potential buyers beside each cage, waiting their turn to feel the goods being offered for the sole purpose of making more slaves. By the time the two hour inspection period was over, their dicks were chafed with a little bit of blood from all the handling; their balls were ballooned from over-handling; and their tits were raw and swollen from all the squeezing and handling they had received. Unlike us, however, their holes had been left pretty well alone, so I guess there were some advantages to being sold as a stud.

At 11 o'clock sharp, we were all put back into our holding cages and the "venue" as it was politely called, began. One by one we were brought forth onto a small stage, mounted a sales block so all could easily see the merchandise being offered, told to slowly turn on the block until all parts of our body had been properly displayed, and then told to assume a full display position on the block while the auctioneer extolled our various features, including, of course, our erect organs "ready for any use a master or mistress desires," our "full to overflowing" balls, our "tits just begging to be handled," and, turning us around once again and ordering us to bend over fully with our legs wide apart so our hole was fully exposed, "a nice tight hole all ready to satisfy even the most discriminating buyer." The women being offered varied only in that a whip handle was stuck up their cunt as well as their open ass hole to show "how much they enjoy a good fucking," and their bellies were rubbed to demonstrate how easily it would be to "breed a nice profit out of this wench, year after year, especially if put to a good-looking stud."

With 104 properties up for sale, the venue lasted for over four hours despite the fast pace of getting one slave after another up on the block, taking the bids, and then getting them hustled away to a holding pen with their new owner's name marked with a felt tip pen on their front and back so everyone got exactly what they had successfully bid on.

By 3 o'clock the auction ended, most of the unsuccessful bidders quickly left, and soon only the 104 sold goods and their new owners were left. Payment was made, ownership papers drawn up and witnessed, we were all placed back in shackles and a temporary plastic collar placed around our neck with our new owner's name written on it, and by 5 o'clock we were again fed (this time with slave chow) and watered and then released to our new owners. Those not able to pay cash were still signing mortgage papers with the bank agents conveniently stationed at the venue, trying to forget the high interest rates being charged for the privilege of owning us now, rather than later. What repeatedly surprised Mr. Winfield was the large number of buyers wealthy enough to simply charge us to their credit cards, obviously with a very high limit. Banks made a lot of money out of the slave industry and supported it every way they knew how, including financing some big research projects in improving the breed both through genetic manipulations, controlled breeding, and new and improved training programs. Even the insurance policies offered on human chattel were mainly backed up by huge financial institutions, who, like the banks, were quite willing to make all they could off of human livestock when the opportunity provided itself. That's why, according to Mr. Winfield, slavery would last as long as those companies stayed in business - in other words, forever, so he himself wasn't worried about ever losing his retirement stake invested in 'Slave Depot.'. Besides, what would society do without slavery? How would do all the work no one else wanted to do? What would you do with social malcontents and ne'er-do-well's? What would people do to satisfy their sexual needs?

I still hadn't been picked up when the two studs, 455 and 460, were being led off by their new owners. One, 455, had been leashed by his collar and then led over to a fancy new van specially outfitted for slave transit which would whisk him to his new home, a breeding farm, I overheard, some 20 miles south of Jackson where a good 30 broods "could hardly wait to get their hands on you, stud. I'm counting on you to make some new little slaves for me real fast, boy, and just as good looking as you," I heard as the new owner fondled the slave's sex organs to another full erection as he motioned for him to squeeze into a small cage on the van's floor. The owner was obviously pleased with his new purchase.

The other one, 460, was shackled to a jet-back handler, himself a slave of course, on a huge open bed truck while his new owner got inside the truck's cab with the slave driver.

"Master, you want this buck covered while we drive through town," the handler slave asked before starting out, obviously a little worried at the stir the handsome boy might create - a strange request in view of his own total nakedness atop the truck.

"Naw, Moses," the master answered. "Everyone knows where he's going anyway and half the town already knows by now I bought me a new stud today. Might as well give them a chance to see where their next batch of slaves is coming from," he laughed. "But mine you, Moses, that doesn't mean you can play with the new stud going home. You keep your hands off him. I want him fresh and ready to go the minute we get home, not all drained by the likes of you."

"Yes, master. I was just wondering, master. I'll keep my hands of this off this pretty new boy. This slave boy will be all fresh and ready to stud the minute we get home, master," the handler answered as he snapped a whip over the recently purchased slave to assert his authority and the truck's driver took that as a signal to take off.

"Come on, boy, I haven't got all day," a total stranger said to me as she carefully looked me over. "I live just a few blocks from here, so we can just walk it, if they will get those shackles off of you so you walk properly and git rid of that cheap old plastic slave collar they've clamped around your neck. You won't be running off anywhere while I'm looking after you anyway," she said with full conviction. "It's obvious to anyone with half a wit that you're a slave, collar or not, especially without any clothes on, your body marked "SOLD" along with your auction number and my name with that felt tip pen and hung like you are," she laughed.

I hadn't been able to see just who had bought me in the confusion of the auction. Before me stood a middle aged woman neither fat nor thin and rather plain in appearance. She was dressed in black with a high neck collar and serviceable shoes with her hair drawn back in a severe bun. In her right hand she carried my ownership papers and the bill of sale for her recent purchase. In her left hand, she gripped a short-handled whip with 5 strands of 18" raw leather fastened into the bone handle, carved to simulate a very large male organ fully erect if you really studied it. The whip, widely used, was generally referred to as just a "slave whip" and was used frequently but lightly to keep slaves alert and well motivated, for serious discipline when applied hard and vigorously, and, when the handle was buried deep in a slave's butt, to remind a slave of his proper station in life.

"Mistress, you want to take me out on the street naked?" I pleaded with my eyes glued to the ground in proper slave attitude.

"Dealer," she shouted, "give this boy a pair of pants so he won't offend anyone with his big erection. I'm walking him home. He won't need that cheap plastic collar anymore, either. You can keep that for the next sale."

"Ma'am, thanks for the collar. I can use it on the next batch like you say. I can give you a pair of these disposable paper jocks we have on hand that will cover him for the trip home," he answered as he quickly produced an almost transparent woven paper jock strap which barely covered my genitals and left my ass totally exposed.

"He won't need that when I get him home," the woman chuckled without embarrassment as the dealer removed the heavy collar, undid my leg shackles and I quickly slid the tiny disposable jock on. "I'll have some suits made up for him that will show him off properly just as soon as we settle in so he can accompany me outside."

"Mrs. Harmon, if he doesn't work out like you plan, you bring this boy back and we'll exchange him for one that better suits you," the dealer said kindly.

"I appreciate that, sir. As you know, I had this new slave titled in my son's name. He's my son's surprise birthday present as soon as I get him presentable and teach him a few things about what my son would expect in a personal servant."

"Well, as the auctioneer warned you, Mrs. Harmon, this slave boy is straight from a breeding farm and is relatively unpolished. For all I know, Mrs. Harmon, he may not even be housebroken yet, probably picks his nose, and, worse yet, may fart every time he feels like it. You can see the way he's wiggling around with that tiny little jock strap on him he's not used to wearing clothes."

"He'll learn how to behave himself in polite society right quick under my tuition," the woman replied sternly as she tapped the mean looking whip in her hand for emphasis.

The paper jock strap was about two sizes too small and, once I had it on, it displayed my sex more than when I was butt naked. I wasn't sure exactly why, but somehow I felt kind of embarrassed being led down the street like this by a woman snapping a whip in her hand periodically, me a full grown buck twice her size. I suppose it was because all I had known up to now was Winfield's Breeding Farm where the only women around were broods and young girls being raised for market, slaves like me.

Within minutes, we reached my new owner's big house there in Jackson where she led me in the back kitchen entrance.

"Shuck out of that stupid little jock strap, slaveboy. It's so damn tight you can't even walk right," she announced as if it were my fault, "and your big dick is already tearing right through it. You won't need any clothes for a while anyway. You won't be going on in public until we get you properly trained," she added menacingly as she ran her hand up and down the whip handle in the same fashion I had been stroked so often back at the auction house. "This whip handle looks a lot like what's between your legs, slave," she added with a chuckle. "My son's going to like that, I'll wager."

The next three weeks neither of us ever left that house. I was kept naked the entire time, even though the two old house slaves she owned - a butler with white hair and severe arthritis and a cook even older who had swollen feet - were clothed in a tattered old hand-me-down suit and a ragged old dress that once belonged to her mistress.

"Um, um....." the white cook with fading red hair said when she first looked me over. "You're a pretty one for the eyes."

"You the mistress' new bed buck?" the stooped old butler asked as he stared between my legs. "Years ago, that my job, but I'm no good at that anymore," the light brown slave said with a sigh.

"You got that right, nigger," the cook quickly interjected. "I try and try to get some pleasure with him, but no matter how much I try, it just won't get up anymore," the cook added. "I'd take you on, but the mistress probably watching her pretty boy like a hawk."

"You wouldn't know what to do with something like that if you had it," the butler scoffed. "You'd probably just die on the spot if he covered your old bones," he chuckled.

"If I did, I'd be in slave heaven, Balls," the cook reared back her head and laughed deeply. "Yes siree, slave heaven. That boy's about as pretty as slaveboys get, Balls, don't you think?"

"Got to agree with you there, Pussy. He's so pretty if I were twenty years younger, I wouldn't mind bedding him down myself."

"More like 40 years, Balls, and even then, as I recall, it was the old master, Mistress Harmon's father, plowing your rear end every night, not the other way around."

"I didn't say what I'd be doing in that new boy's bed, Pussy," Balls chortled with no embarrassment at all in how he had been used in his youth by a long dead master.

The jocular kitchen chatter about the use of my body was in sharp contrast to a series of "instructions" issued by my new mistress somewhat later in the day. Already I understood I was to wear the fine new clothes a tailor had already measured me for whenever I left the house and that they were to be carefully aired, then folded and stored the minute I returned to the house where I was to kept nude normally "so I can enjoy looking at your pretty body." I was assigned plenty of work around the house - scrubbing and polishing floors, lifting supplies, etc. - as well as a good hour of hard exercises a day to keep my body in "pristine shape." I was to never bite my fingernails but keep them carefully trimmed, keep my pubic and ass hairs carefully shaved, my head hair and eyelashes neatly cut so the curl showed, and wash my body each morning and again before supper so I never "smelled musky" and I was to keep my "hide" oiled so it was "baby smooth" and "gleamed like a prize horse." I was to never belch or pass gas when around others, never scratch myself no matter how much I itched, and certainly was never to "play with any part of your body" unless my owner ordered me to do so "no matter how horny you get. That body's mine now, not yours, so it's for my use, not yours." When appearing before any free person, I was to stand submissively with my feet apart and my head bowed with my eyes "a little ahead of your feet, boy." If someone wanted to feel any part of my body, I was not to object in any way but, on the contrary, cooperate to make it "easier for them to feel you up, boy," and making sure I thanked them for inspecting me just as soon as they had finished. I was to address all free persons with a polite "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" whenever appropriate and I was never to talk other than answering a direct question or acknowledging a command. My current mistress was to be answered with a quiet "Yes, mistress" whenever appropriate and her son, my actual owner, was to always be addressed as 'Master.' If I had to shit or piss outside the normal time allotted before breakfast and before going to bed, I had to ask specific permission to do so and then only inside the slave maintenance room located at the back of the house. But it was made clear I better not make a habit of asking such permission - it was better to just hold it in until it was the regular time rather than "make a nuisance of yourself, slave. You study all those ugly scars on Ball's back to see what happens when an animal can't learn to control himself," she warned.

"Getting you housebroken and halfway civilized is only part of your training, boy. Any slave has to be trained that way, of course, when they're nothing but a farm animal to start with," she said pointedly, referring to my origins at the breeding farm I suppose. "The real training is developing what you were bred for, slaveboy. You know what that is, boy?"

"To be sold at market, mistress?" I ventured since Master Winfield always claimed that's why we had been produced.

"Well, that's a start," she laughed. "That's what all slaves are about. But's what's special about the products of Winfield Breeding Farms, slave boy ?" she asked.

"Master Winfield always said we were specially bred to be appealing so we'd get top dollar at market," I answered with my eyes carefully aimed at the ground in front of me.

"And what makes you 'appealing' as you put it, slave?" she pushed further, enjoying the tension apparent in my body from the stern questioning.

"Mistress, we're pretty in the face, generally, and most of us bright skinned and powerfully built, mistress," I struggled to answer her. "We've got fine hair on our heads and smooth bodies, mistress."

"And what else, slave boy?" she begin tapping the slave whip held in one hand onto the fist of her other hand as I broke out in a sweat all over my body.

"We're heavy hung compared to most slaves, mistress," I ventured.

"Damn right you are, boy. That's a good part of that 'appeal' you mentioned. Why else do you think boys like you cost outlandish prices in today's markets?"

"We're all trimmed nice and neat, mistress," I ventured rather desperately referring to the fact all Winfield male products were circumcised at birth. I felt my own trimmed organ start to stiffen now that the conversation seemed to be about that part of me.

"See, even talking about it gets you all excited," she said proudly. "That's why you bring top dollar in the venues. Buyers like boys like that and intend to put it to some use. That's why I bought you," she announced as she reached forward and boldly began stroking my dick until it was fully erect. "I bought you because I knew my son would enjoy using a body like this and because I would too from time to time."

"Yes, mistress," was the only response I could think of.

With that, I was led to her bedroom and began my first 'lesson' in how to pleasure my new mistress. She told me how to undress her bit by bit, massage and stroke her ugly blotchy old body until she was properly stimulated, and then had me mount her while she held that whip of her's in her right hand, frequently rubbing it over my back and butt as I followed her exact instructions in sucking her tits, stroking her sagging old clitoris, and, finally, entering her while she barked out orders on how deep I was to go, how fast to pump, when to withdraw, and, always, admonitions about 'controlling myself' so I didn't "selfishly debilitate" myself until she was "fully pleasured." She smelled old and moldy as her body responded and I couldn't help notice the gray pallor on the parts of her body not flushed in arousal. After pumping her endlessly, it seemed, she finally stiffened and gasped loudly as she reached her first orgasm. This was followed, over the next half hour of exhausting effort on my part, with three others before she ordered my sweat-drenched body off of her and down to the slave maintenance area to wash up without a trace of emotion, let alone any comments on my efforts to please her the best I could.

"You smell like a rutting horse," she announced as I hoisted off her ugly body and, still fully erect and dripping of course since she forbade me to ever have relief myself, hastened to the slave's maintenance area to wash.

These 'lessons' continued over the next two weeks until she thought I had mastered the necessary skills to satisfy a mistress which now included oral stimulations of her smelly old sex as well as just humping her on command. Each time I was more frustrated than before, not only due to her aged unattractive body, but mainly because she rarely let me gain any relief myself, even after I had satisfied her fully. After a while, though, when she went to dismiss me, satisfied herself, I generally just shot anyway in total frustration, whereupon she would loudly admonish me for being "nothing but a animal" but was too carried away and exhausted at that moment to punish me for my transgression.

Nevertheless, I wasn't fed that night, the usual punishment for almost any mistake, real or imagined. It was almost standard policy to withhold food from slaves rather frequently. One, it kept them nice and trim without an ounce of fat on them anywhere. Second, it reminded them each and every day they were totally dependent on whoever owned them to even stay alive. It was a powerful lesson and most slaves were chronically hungry but not malnourished to the point where their beautiful bodies were effected. Slaves were generally were kept on that fine line between a hungry total obedience and the magnificent bodies their owners were proud to display.

A couple of times, I wondered what it would be like if I'd been anything but a slave and could "pleasure" who I wanted to, but the thought was fleeting - I'd only known slaves like myself and they certainly were put to tasks much more arduous than this. It was better to have my back all scratched from her fingernails when she got all excited than torn to a bloody pulp by a bull whip like I'd seen done to some field hands when they weren't working hard enough to suit their overseers. I reminded myself old Aristotle was led down to that rutting shed back at the breeding farm several times a day and had no choice as to whom he was to service each time. I'd never heard that he complained despite the fact he always had a leash attached to his collar while he humped away and had his balls squeezed to make sure he'd emptied them before he could dismount from the wench put beneath him.

After all, slaves did what their masters wanted. Why else would there be slaves and masters? That was the way the world was - great civilizations, Master Winfield always said, had always been and always would be slave societies. Masters made everything work right and took care of those who depended on them for food and shelter, the slaves. In exchange, slaves offered what their bodies could produce for those who owned them like any other livestock, whether it be new slaves, hard work, or the pleasures inherent in use of their bodies. Master Winfield always claimed "slaves were put on this earth to do their master's bidding - that's why they're only happy when they make their masters and mistresses happy - it's in their slave blood." I'd never heard anyone, slaves or free persons disagree with that.

After that, Mistress Harmon's 'lessons' were expanded to being trained for her son's pleasure. At first, this training consisted of stroking me to a full erection, then having me bend over a chair and open my ass for a full insertion of the whip handle which had been covered with KY cream for its new usage. Once inserted to its full 12 inches, she would pump the handle back and forth, raking it across that part inside of me she called the "prostate gland" half the time and "a slave's joy button" the other half of the time until I heaved and bucked and screamed out as I shot huge loads onto the chair beneath me. At first, the pain was unbearable as that big thick whip handle was screwed into my hole and I felt like I was going to be split in half if she didn't let up, but, within a few days, I loosened up and it wasn't quite so painful although my asshole was mighty sore most of the time. By the end of the second week of this type of training, however, I felt no pain anymore and actually enjoyed the chance to shoot off on a regular basis.

"You're almost ready for my son, slave boy," she said proudly as once again I was heaving and bucking as she fucked me with that big whip handle. "But, just to make sure, I'm having 'Slave Depot' where I bought you send over one of its trainers."

I had no idea of what she was talking about as I again went into the final stages of another pending orgasm as she pumped that old whip handle deeper and deeper into me. But the next morning I found out. A huge coal-black slave, dressed in an old pair of trousers held up by a rope and wearing nothing else except a thick iron collar locked around his neck and a big iron nose ring soldered in the membrane between his nostrils, knocked on the back door and, after gaining entry, asked my mistress if she had a slave boy who "needed some breaking in."

Leading the black slave into the sitting room where I was standing at the time, she pointed to me, saying, "He's been fucked plenty with this," pointing to the large whip handle in her hand, "but he needs to be opened up properly by the real thing before I give him to my son as a birthday gift."

"Yes 'um," the huge black said as he quickly removed his threadbare trousers, revealing a monstrous semi-erect shaft atop a huge set of balls. "My master uses me to break in a lot of slave boys headed for discriminating gentlemen looking for a good bed buck. This buck mighty fine looking, mistress," he added as he licked his lips in appreciation studying my naked body. "This slaveboy about as good looking as bucks get, mistress," he added as his organ reached a full erection just looking at me.

"You want his mouth and ass hole trained, mistress, or just his ass hole? Owners vary in their preferences, mistresses," he explained.

"My son appreciates both pleasures, slave," she answered.

"Yes, um. You want me to take the slave boy privately or would you enjoy watching your slave being trained, mistress?" the black slave asked politely as if it made no difference one way or the other to him. "Most hiring me out from 'Slave Depot' likes to watch," he added, letting my mistress know it wouldn't bother him if she did. My feelings in the matter weren't a consideration, it seemed, to either one of them.

"I'll watch," my mistress laughed. "Maybe I can learn something." With that she adjusted herself comfortably in a nearby chair where the line of vision would be unobstructed to the new training.

The black ordered me to my hands and knees with my legs spread well apart to "open up my hole" and, after lubricating me thoroughly with a specially thick KY jelly, unceremoniously ravished me over the next hour without ceasing. Finally, when I was close to passing out and had even started to bleed a little despite all the lubricant, he arched his back, bellowed like a bull, and deposited such a load deep into my rectum that I actually felt it impacting inside me. As soon as he withdrew, I was instructed to use my mouth to "clean him thoroughly," an act my mistress seemed to particularly take delight in.

"When did they fit you with that nose ring?" my mistress asked the black slave as he rested. "It's attractive on a big stud like you," she added as she reached over and tugged on it a bit as the black smiled submissively.

"When I was all growed up, mistress, I was a bit too feisty for my owner at that time. He got so disgusted with me, he had the blacksmith ring me one day and, mistress, soon as it healed up proper, he led me around with a leash hooked to that ring to give me a proper attitude. He said I was just an animal anyway, so I might as well look like one and if a bull can be controlled with a good nose ring fitted in them, then I could too. My master was right about that, mistress. After being led around by this big ring in my nose, I soon learned to respect those over me a lot more and they've never had one bit of trouble with this nigger slave since then, especially after they told me if I didn't settle down they were going to cut me."

"Well, it does make you look like a animal all right - a mighty controlled animal, I might add," my mistress chuckled as she flicked the black's nose ring back and forth. "It's not a bad idea for all the bucks no matter how they're colored - sort of remind them they'll all just animals every time they start getting uppity. But, if you belonged to me, I'd be hard put to cut off what you've got between your legs. Oh, I know it'd calm you down, but it would be a shame to just throw something like that in the bin to the tanners. I understand that tanned slave balls are quite popular for making credit card wallets currently - one of my friends bought one just the other day."

"Yes 'um, mistress. I'd take a nose ring any day compared to getting cut," the black slave said sincerely. "I'm grateful to get to keep my balls, mistress, even though I confess I sure hated that nose ring at first."

"Well, it's not what slave's want that matters, is it, black boy? It's what good for them that matters, isn't it?" Mrs. Harmon replied sagaciously.

"Yes, mistress," the black replied as Mrs. Harmon finally stopped playing with the huge ring in his nose. "My nose ring is mighty instructive, mistress."

Next, as soon as he seemed to have recovered a bit, I was ordered to kneel before him and take his organ, fully erect again, into my throat and "suck like a starving calf on its mother's tit and don't you ever let me feel your teeth or I'll knock you silly and your new master might have your teeth pulled out. You hear me, boy?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Well, get that mouth wide open to swallow this big black dick, boy."

I opened my mouth wide and without hesitation he entered by mouth with the first six inches of his incredibly thick shaft. This involved, on my part, a great deal of gagging, choking, gasping and coughing. Finally he lost patience, pulled all the way out, slapped my face until I thought I would pass out, and then reinserted the entire length all the way down my throat until I couldn't breathe and began bucking in desperation as he firmly held my head in place.

"The new bucks always think they're going to die for lack of air when I first do this, mistress," he explained, "but they never do. Their throat muscles loosen up so they can breathe around my shaft before they pass out, usually. If not, we'll try it again when he comes around. Once they learn to swallow a big one without gagging, they're all ready for some serious pleasuring of their master," he explained. "Just a matter of learning to stop fighting it," he chuckled as my eyes rolled back in my head and I did pass out that first time.

But he was unrelenting, and by the third invasion down my throat, I did manage to take him, and on the fifth time, he shot off down my throat and I was unable to do anything but swallow the full load. He gave me a short rest before the sixth time, where again he shot down my throat with little trouble and no resistance on my part. I was far too exhausted to fight anything at that point.

"He's far from reaching his potential, mistress, but he's ready for your son to teach him the fine points to his own liking," the black slave explained to my mistress who had certainly enjoyed the little show that day. "At least he's been broken in properly," he said as he reached for his trousers still on the floor.

"You want me for anything else, mistress?" he asked, almost hopeful. "Any other slaves around here needing some instruction, or perhaps you'll like some good pleasuring," he suggested. "I'm good for a mistress' pleasuring when I've been drained like this - can last all day long."

To my amazement, the black slave seemed totally sincere in eliciting some more business for his owner and viewed his role in it as something all slaves did to earn their keep. Perhaps that was the most important lesson that huge black slave taught me that day. A slave did whatever was necessary to "earn their keep" and that was, of course, defined by their owner. The slave him or herself had no input into that aspects of their lives. In fact, slaves weren't supposed to think at all, other than how to better please their masters or mistresses as far as I could ascertain. Master Winfield had told us that many times, but I never really understood it up until now.

The very next day, I was ordered to my mistress' bed again. Crawling over her ugly old body I was soon pumping away into her while her scrawny hands clawed my back in pure ecstacy while I thought of my sire day after day being led down to that old rutting shed to do his duty. Life wasn't so different for his offspring, I reckoned, other than most of the women he was put to were considerably younger and prettier than my mistress. Besides, as far as I knew, he never had to service any masters until, of course, he was sold to that young owner who apparently only liked to bed down older studs where, if I understood Master Winfield correctly, that's all he would be doing from now on. I wondered if Aristotle was hungry all the time back when he was studding like I usually was or if they fed him more since he was studding so heavily.

Master Clarkson Harmon, Mistress Harmon's son, was tickled pink when I was first presented to him on his birthday by his beloved mother, completely stripped down for the occasion. Within minutes after the presentation, he had me in his bed trying me out and later I heard him tell his mother what a great gift I was.

The black trainer my mistress had hired to "break me in" for her son had sort of overdone it, although I suppose it's good to break a new slave in good and proper while you're doing it to prepare him for whatever his fate might be. My actual master, Clarkson Harmon, was rather puny by comparison with the venerable black stud put to me originally. Although he liked both oral and anal service from his "bed buck" as I was labeled, his puny little 4" prick was barely felt when he fucked me after being rammed by the black trainer and the same with offering him my mouth for a good draining. Besides that, he was only good, apparently, for one round and so I was quickly dismissed after a mere 15 minutes or so each morning when he awoke. No wonder

masters had so few babies if he was any example and little wonder mistresses always seemed interested in what a lusty buck they could easily buy had to offer. With so little sexual pleasure in their lives outside of what they could buy, I could see where they took a strong interest in the latest offerings at the frequent slave auctions. My experience to date with free persons had made me mighty glad I had some slave blood in me.

Over the next few months, my master overcame his shyness in showing his birthday gift off to his friends and I found myself frequently taken on little trips to their homes dressed in my handsome new wool trousers and some new black leather shoes he purchased for me. Usually, those visits ended up with a thorough inspection of my whole body followed often by a request to "try your new boy out, Clarkson" and my experience with free persons steadily increased, both in and out of bed.

None of his friends were particularly appealing outside of the fact they were at least young and vigorous and themselves varied in skin tones from pure white to dark brown, but few seemed to have the stamina and endurance commonplace among my sire mates back on the breeding farm. Nor were any of them particularly good looking, what with their pasty complexions often with some blemishes, their scrawny builds, and some with hairy bodies. A few ran to fat, but most were skinny made even worse by their lack of muscle development. Clarkson Harmon was one of the few with an indulgent mother who had provided her son with his own personal buck. Most of the others had to make do with their father's worn out wenches, a male or female house staff who wouldn't be missed temporarily, or sneak out to their parent's slave quarters at night in an attempt to find a likely wench or buck they could take to the fields or orchards for their pleasure if they didn't want to do it right in front of the other slaves there in the smelly, dirty slave quarters. It was little wonder they were always coming over to Master Harmon's looking for an invitation to use me if he hadn't taken me to their house often enough. One good thing was that sometimes, if they were really pleased with me, some of them would slip me an apple or a little sweet, especially if I sucked them off to their complete satisfaction. Master Clarkson caught one of them slipping me an apple once, though, and really admonished that particular friend.

"How dare you spoil my property?" he demanded as he knocked the apple out of my mouth. "Don't you know anything about proper slave management. Slaves are fed only when their master allows. Otherwise you end up with a spoiled lap dog always sniffing around you for some scrap."

It was his mother, Mrs. Harmon, who first brought up the topic of turning me into a genuine "fancy." She claimed having a "fancy" or "appreciato" as they were called in Italy was the latest fad in Rome and, as she pointed out, Italy tended to always set the style these days when it came to slaves.

"Fancies," she explained, were carefully selected for their looks and appeal. They were slaves that others would envy if they could afford them and they were slaves that everyone "found easy on the eye." Most "fancies" were being bred regularly in that their bloodlines were considered too good to be wasted. In fact, she exuded, most of the prestigious slave dealers now had separate inspection cells to hold their selection of these highly prized slaves where only those able to afford these quality goods were allowed in. Viewing and then buying the most select 'fancies' was often by invitation only. They were seldom auctioned off, but sold privately after an exclusive viewing and even, if many cases, a trial use overnight in the prospective buyer's own home. They were usually paraded around Rome and other major world cities in either immaculate expensive suits which would shame all but the richest in the city or, in contrast, dressed in some outrageous costume that made them look like a true possession, but also greatly emphasized their sexual attributes as if to flaunt their main usage for their lucky owner. "Fancies" (or "appreciatos"), she lectured, were either male or female, but the majority were male in most cities currently, and were so popular the main dealers were finding them hard to keep in stock despite their very high prices. It was those prices, as outrageous as their costumes, that restricted them to the very wealthy, and made them as much symbols of real wealth as anything else, differentiating them clearly from just a mere "bed buck" or "valet" or "body slave" or the other titles used to describe the personal slaves of the merely rich or those new to their fortunes.

"We should take him up to Memphis one of these days, now that he's been properly trained for a gentleman's use, dress him up like they do in Rome, and sell him to some dealer specializing in 'fancies' there. I bet by now even Memphis is sporting a few dealers for the new fashion," she ventured.

"But why, momma?" my master whined. "My friends love using my birthday present as much as I do and," he giggled, "I'm getting more and more friends every day."

"All that experience will only add to the boy's value," his mother counseled. "The fact is, son, we need to take advantage of the market while we can and I tell you this boy would be prime material up at Memphis just as soon as they learn about the fashion for these 'fancies' now."

"But I like fucking him, momma, and I'm as deserving of having a fancy-boy as anybody in New Orleans or Memphis or Rome, even. There's nothing wrong with me making a fashion statement with the boy myself, mamma," he pouted. "Besides, I'm partial to the high yellers like you know, mamma, and this slave boy is nicely shaded - not too niggery and not too white."

"Truth is, son, I'm not made of money. This poor old widow has to watch her purse and if we can make a decent profit on the boy, it behooves us to do so before he's all worn out and won't have the resale value of an old mule. Those friends of yours, son, will just plum wear him out over time. Fucking a slave around the clock like you're doing just tuckers them out, no matter how well trained and sturdy they are. Besides, we can buy you a replacement for a fraction of what this boy will bring on the block if he's marketed right. There's nothing wrong with you having a boy just reaching his manhood or one just a little past his peak - costs a lot less and you'd hardly notice the different in bed - let alone your friends. All you do is plug his ass or his mouth anyway. Most any slave boy will do for that. It's the looking extra pretty that I'm talking about. Hell, you never look at their face anyway you're so busy fucking them. "

"But mamma, I do look at his face. At least, enough to know he's a mighty fine looking nigger even though my friends all claim he's so good looking because of all that white blood in him. They all want a toned up nigger as soon as they afford one - at least a mulatto - although these mixed bloods are getting mighty expensive lately. My friend Jacob McWhitfield told me the other day he saw a good looking mustee up for sale down at the slave pens over on the east side of town where he was priced tens times higher than a pure black nigger about the same age, build, and hung about the same. Of course Jacob said that mustee was so non-niggery he had sandy hair and light blue eyes and, if he hadn't been fitted with a big iron collar around his neck and if he hadn't been hung as big as the best of the niggers and if he had some clothes on him instead of being butt naked, he looked a little like me. But TEN times as much! Having a slave like that would tell the world you had some real money, wouldn't it, mamma?"

"I don't know why Mr. McWhitfield's so interested in mustee slaves. He's about half white-half black himself, so it looks like he would be attracted to slaves his own coloring rather than some bleached out mustee. But what am I going to do with you, son? You're talking about trading up and I'm talking about selling off the quality stock we have. Son, I'm telling you loud and clear we can't afford the slaves we've got on hand - we've got to take advantage of a good market for well-hung yellow-skinned slaves right now - and replace that big-pricked 'yeller' of yours with a older, darker, but just as serviceable bed buck you can fuck to death for all I care. I'm sure as hell not buying you any damn slave costing ten times as much as other slaves - that's just a pipe dream, so get that out of your head right now. If what your friend Jacob says is true, all the more reason to sell that quadroon I gave you while he's still holding his value. Isn't that something, though. A white nigger selling for ten times what a real nigger cost! Ever wonder what you'd bring up on the auction block?" she laughed as she saw her son turn beet red in embarrassment at being compared to a piece of livestock, especially by his own mother. "At least you'd be bringing in some money for a change instead of always costing me," she added, once again reminding him she was his sole support.

I knew by now who made all the decisions in this family and wasn't too surprised when Mistress Harmon showed up with a new surprise present for her son Clarkson - a well hung, nicely built 'boy' who she claimed was "only 33 years old" but looked considerably older when you got up close, was about as black as slaves got these days, and who was completely acclimated to being a master's sexual plaything, having done nothing much of anything else since he had first come of age. He had nice facial features, sparkling eyes, and a ready smile, which, along with his muscular trim build, his big circumcised dick which was nicely shaped, and a compliant attitude toward the use of his body assured him bringing a decent price with a new owner every time he was put up for sale. The black slave still took pride in the fact others desired his body and was proud he was still worth as much as his auction price indicated.

The day of his arrival I was "retired" from being Master Clarkson's bed buck, forbidden to empty my balls by any means, and put into a rigorous exercise program to get my body in top shape "for the Memphis markets." Clarkson was told in no uncertain terms he was to leave me alone "no matter how horny you get and that goes for your friends too. You've got that new black boy to fill your needs now and he's plenty good enough for those leaching so-called friends of yours too."

"But momma," my master whined, "I told you I like a high yeller boy and so do all my friends. Black bed bucks are a dime a dozen."

"It's that or nothing, Clarkson, and I doubt that your friends are going to turn a free ride down, no matter how black it is. I know this might be hurtful to you, but I think the only reason they hang around, son, is for a free piece of ass, not your charming company. I notice they're all too poor or too cheap to buy a slave for themselves - they just mooch off of the likes of you."

"But momma, they're the only friends I've got. You want me to have no friends at all?" my master continued to whine.

"In my opinion, it's better to have nobody than those miserable leeches. Now stop your whining or I'll take this new buck back to the pens and you'll be left with nothing to fuck but your right hand," she scowled.

With that he shut up and, hooking a leash to the black's collar, led him off to show to his friends even then up in his quarters. Within 15 minutes, I heard the familiar banging of the bed frame against the floor along with a lot of gasps and moans as my master and his friends obviously were trying out the new black slave.

Later in the day, when my master and his friends had been totally satiated and had left the house to visit a bar, I got to talk to the new black slave down in the slave maintenance room where he was cleaning himself out and greasing up his hole once again in preparation for their return.

"I heard my master's friends say you're going to get your ass sold up in Memphis," the black started the conversation pleasantly. "You'll bring a good price, boy, as light as you are," he added.

"Mistress Harmon, the old lady that bought you for her son, plans to sell me as a 'fancy,' whatever that is," I replied. "She's saying all the rich masters want a light-skinned buck to show off in public. According to her, we're called 'fancies' because we're so select-like and because we cost so much. It tells everyone how rich they are when they show us off."

"She's right," the black slave said. "We black niggers are dirt cheap right now because there's so many of us - no matter how pretty we are, we're lucky to get anyone to feed us properly and put a roof over our head. Me, I've been one lucky nigger - a pretty face on me, a muscular body and a nice big dick cut to their liking. I've had one master after another wanting a good boy for their pleasure. The only trouble is, slave boy, I'm getting a little old and my dick's all worn out - I can hardly get it up anymore no matter how much it's handled and my hole's so stretched now that my masters complain I'm too loose to grip them properly when they're fucking me. That's why, I suppose, that old lady got me so cheap. She was the one pointing out my faults to the dealer and he couldn't argue with her much so finally she got me about as cheap as a decent nigger sells for these days unless they're real old and ugly. Of course," he added with a note of pride, "I still sold for a hell of a lot more than some ugly old field hand or a beat-up athlete slave."

"I can see where you'd bring a good price," I responded honestly, "but that other stuff you were talking about -is that what the masters mean when they say a boy is 'all fucked out'?" I asked.

"Suppose so," the black slave said, looking a little embarrassed. "Ain't my fault, though."

I laughed at his last comment. "No, ain't your fault is right. I know damn few slaves running around asking to be fucked all the time unless there's a whip over their head."

"You got that right, boy," the black smiled. "A whip or threatening not to feed you," he added, reflecting obviously on his own experiences. "With me, it's been both, so after a while you just do what they say without hesitating. I suppose you're the same?" he asked. "Pretty boys like you generally end up being somebody's fuck boy."

"Yup," I replied smiling, "except I'm a lot younger and my prick's still easy to arouse and my hole is still sort of tight."

"I've seen some of those 'fancy' boys the mistress was talking about. Ran across two of them back in the holding pens before I got sold to the mistress," the black volunteered. "Both of them just there for safekeeping until being shipped down to some special dealer in New Orleans, they said. One of them colored about the same as you - real bright - and the other one looked pure white. Blue eyes, light brown hair real fine and without a bit of curl, not too much body hair to be shaved off judging from the stubble around his manhood and real thin lips and a straight nose. But you know he told me he had a little nigger blood in him. He had been born to an octoroon mother and sired by her white master which made him one-sixteenth black by his reckoning - just enough black blood to make him sexy, he claimed, although he may of just said that to make me feel more comfortable around him. They had him fitted with the biggest slave collar I've ever seen and he was branded big on the butt and on his chest with a big "S" so everyone would know he was a slave. Must of been some confusion down the line somewhere."

"For industrial and domestic slaves, seem's like there's more white slaves now than blacks or Orientals, but blacks still dominate the draft and athlete slave market."

"Well, that white boy told me he got top price at market because of his color, his good build, his handsome good looks and his nice equipment. Never been sold to be anything but a "house servant," which in his case meant waiting a master's table, helping his master dress, and keeping the master's rooms neat and tidy during the day and pleasuring his master at night and in between. Never had a master who didn't fuck him steady, he said, in both holes. And he said he had more woman owners than men over the years. Mistresses worst than the masters, he claimed. He said they fucked him so much he was always glad when he got sold off to a master when they tired of him. Only good thing about a mistress, he claimed, was they were so fickle they got bored with your body real quick and the next thing you knew you had been traded in on something else to amuse them. He said a lot of boys like him most often bought for the brothels. But he'd been lucky and, so far, no one had bought him for that."

"Not much different than you or me," I noted, "except he's apparently bringing a higher price at auction."

"You're right, slave boy. But he told me something else that might interest you," the black boy continued as he began putting a nice coating of oil all over his glistening body making sure every bit of the cum that had dried on his legs after dribbling out of his ass from being fucked all afternoon had been washed away.

"What's that?" I asked with great interest.

"The reason he had those big slave brands on him," the black said excitedly.

"So? A lot of slaves are being branded these days by one owner or another to mark their property."

"Not this one. He wasn't branded originally for the same reason they used a lash on him instead of a bullwhip."

"I've never had the bullwhip on me," I answered. "Always used the lash. Didn't want to scar my body up - said it would hurt my resale value."

"Same with me in that I was always marketed as a bed buck and no one wants a bed buck all scarred up. Been lashed plenty, though."

"Yeah, so much I passed out plenty of times," I added. "So other than the scarring, I don't know what difference it made. A good lashing makes me wish I had died first but, I admit, after that, I do exactly what the masters want, no matter what."

"Same here, but back to that white fancy. They didn't want any marks on his body since he was being sold as a 'sex slave,' but they branded him anyway knowing full well it would lower his value. Want to know why, slave boy?" he taunted me.

"Why?" I asked.

"He had run away when he was about 20 or so and they had taken his collar off overnight to have a new one installed the next day. He was buck naked of course, but he stole some clothes put out to dry overnight and by morning had himself fancied up to look exactly like a master, shoes and everything, and was smart enough to wear a shirt and jacket with a high collar so it would hide the pure white skin where his collar had stopped the sun. He already talked like a freeman because he was one once, being brought up free, unlike us bred slaves. He was from South Africa and the prisons there had sold him to an agent of Slave Depot when he was just 16. He told me it took 14 months of heavy training here at Slave Depot to finally break him to slavery and it was shortly after he started his training that he ran away. Like most prisoners in his country, he couldn't read or write much but got himself a paying job as a bouncer in a bar with a brothel upstairs because he was big and muscular. Doesn't take any reading and writing for that job, he said, and he got paid good wages. Rented himself a nice little room and ate any damn thing he wanted and fucked all the girls upstairs in that brothel anytime he felt like it. Was getting along real well until the bar owner got suspicious after catching him talking about being a prisoner in South Africa with the slave girls used as whores upstairs. Now how many prisoners do you know that aren't made into slaves? Besides that, he'd heard the whores talking about how well hung he was and he knew prisoners didn't sell well to the slavers unless they were very well hung generally. Within a week, that bartender saw a runaway notice with a decent reward for a good looking slave that was pure white in appearance that was real heavy hung. The picture on the notice was him all right. That night, when he was asleep, he had the slave police come in and shackle him and claimed the reward. When he was returned back here to Slave Depot, he was branded on both sides "so no one would mistake him for a free man ever again" with that big "S" he had on him and a huge heavy collar was soldered on him that no one could ever get off without a metal saw. Furthermore, from then on, they kept him butt naked all the time to make sure those brand marks would be visible to everyone looking at him."

By this time the black slave was putting another application of oil on his prick which had chafed earlier in the day from all the stroking it had received.

"You mean he wasn't a slave for a whole year after he'd been made a slave?" I said in amazement. "He was living like a freeman even though he was really a slave?"

"Not only that, he was able to save quite a bit of money from his wages. Another year or so, he said, he would have had enough to buy a nice looking black boy or one of those cheap Latinos for himself, or, if that was too expensive, a nice looking wench to pleasure him whenever he wanted."

"A slave owning a slave himself?" I laughed. "Now that would be something!"

"Since you're not branded yet, you might be able to pass yourself off as a free man if you could cover your slave collar somehow," he ventured. "Ever thought of something like that?"

"You mean running away from a master?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes," the black slave responded bluntly. "Me, I'll always be a slave because I've got permanent ownership marks all over this black body. But you've got possibilities with that unmarked hide of yours."

"But I'm a slave," I answered. "Born a slave and always will be."

"May be," the black answered. "But give it some thought. You're going to be shipped up to Memphis to be sold as a fancy. Just might be the perfect opportunity to duck away some night, cover your body with some decent clothes that hide that collar around your neck and head north."

"Why north?" I asked.

"You stupid in the head or what?" the black slave responded as he spread his legs and again put a dollop of grease up his chute and then begin shaving his groin as some new hairs were sprouting there.

"You go north far enough and they don't have slaves at all I hear. Someplace called Canada doesn't hold with having human livestock. You're looked down on because you were once a slave and only get the worst jobs they tell me, but nobody owns you and you can fuck who you want or no one at all if you so please. Best of all for boys like us, no one can fuck you if you don't want."

"You just making that up, black boy?" I shot back. "No place like that I reckon in my lifetime."

"No, I've heard a lot of talk in the pens about being up North. Some runaways have been there but were unlucky enough to get kidnaped by illegal bounty hunters hired by places like Slave Depot. Those hunters shot them full of drugs and when they came to, they found they had been secretly shipped back to the United States and turned into property again overnight."

"Are you telling me if I run away in Memphis and get myself to this Canada place I could be free as long as I watch out for being kidnapped and then brought back here to be sold again?"

"That's right, slave. You'll always be property here, but up North no one owns you. It ain't heaven, they say, and you're still hungry a lot, and it's cold a lot, but you're not a slave at least and no one is taking you to their bed day in and day out like around here."

"You may be right, but it still hard to believe. Maybe that's just some slaves with fanciful imaginations making all that up," I replied.

"I'm telling you what that white slave told me although he never made it up North, but I've talked to others in the pens who have actually been up there in Canada, but, like I said, had been kidnaped by the bounty hunters and returned to their owners. They said for each one of them caught by the bounty hunters up there in Canada there were 20 others who never got caught. Some of them got so far away in Canada the bounty hunters would never find them, no matter how much they are paid."

"Are tou telling me if you gets your ass all the way to this Canada place you can be free forever and no one can make you a slave again as long as you're not caught by the bounty hunters?" I asked disbelieving.

"Believe me or not, slave boy. Me, I believe it. And you, as free of ownership marks as your body is - you could probably pass yourself off as a respectable free man if you dressed yourself just like them and got rid of your slave collar and didn't act all slavey-like when you were around them."

"Like what?" I asked.

"You know, not saying 'yes, master' or 'yes, mistress' to everything, looking the others straight in the eye instead of always looking down at the ground, and withdrawing a little when someone touches your body instead of just allowing it - that sort of stuff."

"You think I could pass for a free man despite the fact I'm 100% slave blooded?" I asked. "Bred to be a slave, you know."

"Some of those free men aren't so smart. Strip them down, put a heavy collar on them and a few whip marks on their backs and they'd act just like any slave would be my guess once they realized where the food was coming from and who had the whip in their hand now. There's a lot of slaves not born into it like us and they end up making just as good a slave as you and me after some decent training."

That conversation gnawed at me the whole trip to Memphis. Mistress Harmon and I went by train to the big city, her in the regular coaches and me in the slave car in the back no different than the railcars they used to haul cattle and pigs except we were hobbled as well as locked in by chains connecting manacles locked around each ankle. We were shipped naked to mark who we were as well as make us easy to clean since the open air car for livestock dirtied our bodies plenty by the time we got there. Periodically, a station slave would fill our water barrel where we had to scoop a drink out by hand and threw us a few pieces of slave chow. One stop was particularly long as the diesel engine refueled. It was then the station slaves assigned to clean the train and its contents, including us, took advantage of the time delay and singled out some of us better looking boys and a few of the pretty young women slaves and, with a whip in hand, took their pleasure with us until I, along with all the others, had a sore hole. There wasn't much we could do to prevent it, shackled and all, and they weren't hesitant to use the whip if we didn't instantly cooperate with them. Even though I bent over promptly and opened my hole the minute I understood what they were after, I still ended up with a rash of red whip marks on my back.

Fortunately, there were only two stops long enough to allow that sort of thing, and on one of those stops, the owners decided to check their property so the station slaves there didn't get any relief as they had planned. By the time we finally got to Memphis, the whip marks were gone and all the cum had oozed out of my ass so I appeared to Mistress Harmon no different than when I had started other than we all tired, needed a good shave all over as well as a good flushing, and needed our body oiled to get back our sheen.

Most of the human livestock was promptly marched from the depot to a slave pen not more than a block away, still naked and dirty. But Mistress Harmon and another master hired a delivery van and took me and another fine looking slave woman to a place advertising "Fancies, Thoroughbred Racing Horses, and Mules." There, after a bit of spirited negotiation, Mistress Harmon stuffed a bank credit slip in her purse with a look of great satisfaction. She then turned to me, grabbed my prick firmly, and coldly told me to "mind your new master, slave" as her parting remark. Even though she had bedded me down often enough, it was clear she viewed me as nothing more than a handsome animal at her disposal.

The slave pens right next to the horse stalls were waiting for us and we were promptly douched, shaved, washed, and oiled. It was the first time I had been douched in front of women slaves, but I was too tired to care although I got a raging hard-on just looking at them getting the same treatment. Both of us were then locked up in one of the two huge cages - one for men and one for women - with the admonition not to "jerk off, or fool around with anyone else in the cage. We want you all fresh and ready for the buyers tomorrow - no emptying of your balls, boys, or you'll get whipped until you're raw meat."

The next morning, I along with all my cage mates were again submitted to another round of cleansing just like I'd had upon my arrival the night before. We were then chained by our collars to rings about six feet apart in a long brick wall obviously designed to display slaves up for sale. We also had a bracelet locked around one ankle which was attached to a very short chain attached to a link placed in the concrete floor of the display hall. Hence, we could only move enough to display all parts of our body, including turning around and bending over for a potential owner's inspection of our asshole and hanging balls. Male slaves were on one side; females on the other. Just looking at all that female flesh kept me, and most of the others, in a constant state of at least semi-erection and I saw some of the females dripping with their nipples erect as they looked us over. Once in place, a slave handler came by and fondled us until we were fully erect while a handler on the other side stimulated the wenches's clitoris until they too were fully aroused with their cunt lips swollen and red. As soon as they had finished, the doors opened and scores of specially invited and richly dressed onlookers entered the place, mainly with pencil and pad in hand to mark down the numbers over each stand if they were interested along with any notes they made after examining our bodies.

It was a very long morning. By noon, when the last of the 'guests' had left, my prick was chafed from being stroked so much, my balls ached from being squeezed and weighed so many times, my nipples were red and swollen from all the pinching and squeezing they had received, and my hole had been opened by every finger in the place, it seemed, along with numerous leather dildos of all sizes and shapes provided to "test our response," and even, at one point, a huge glass artificial phallus one of the 'guests' had brought with him. The unusual dildo drew a lot of attention from the other 'guests' (who all seemed to know one another) and their conversation with the dildo's owner revealed he had found it on a recent trip to China. As luck would have it, that dildo's owner choose to demonstrate it using me along with several others chained to the wall that day. That glass monster was so big that, even lubricated as well as I was with gobs of KY jelly, I thought it was going to split me in half and I couldn't stop myself from moaning with the first few inches to screaming in agony eventually as it was rammed all the way in the first time. I saw some of my blood on it when it was finally withdrawn after I had been submitted to a good long pumping with the monster and the screaming had subsided to mere groans of painful submission. One of the slaves up for sale that day, a handsome young Latino boy, actually passed out when that man inserted the Chinese novelty up his butt, much to the amusement of the other potential buyers witnessing the event. Since no one was allowed to play with the slaves until they shot off, we were about insane with need by this time, having been kept stimulated for four hours straight with no relief.

We were then again douched, washed, and oiled and given a small helping of slave chow before being placed in a line according to number to await our brief time on the auction block scheduled for three o'clock, still totally naked. I wondered why we had to stand in line so long for an auction that wasn't to start for a good two hours yet.

I was soon to find out. Promptly at 12:45 the doors opened again and a much smaller number of "select" buyers were allowed in who were given the privilege of buying us before a public auction at a fixed price. This allowed them to get exactly what they wanted if they were willing to pay on the spot; it allowed the sellers to get a guaranteed good price if auction prices were low that day for one reason or another.

Again, we were carefully examined, sore as we were, and I, along with about 23 other males and about 15 females were pulled out of the line by the time the auction started. We had been purchased outright and, if the paperwork on us could be processed fast enough, we would be gone with our new owner by the time the auction was well underway. There was some confusion as the sales receipts were filled out, ownership papers notarized, and bank drafts and credit cards changed hands. Some slaves were being mortgaged on the spot, with banks actually owning them until the purchase loan was paid off. Sales collars were removed to be replaced with a collar of the owner's choosing (if they wanted the slave collared at all), our ankle shackles were removed, and we were issued disposable 'slave wraparounds' that covered our lower torso if our new owner's didn't wanted us totally naked on the trip to our new home."

When my collar was removed and the shackles removed from my foot, I remembered my talk with the black slave about the place called Canada where masters couldn't fuck you just because they wanted to because they owned your body. I wondered if the man who had forced that huge glass dildo up my rear was the one that had bought me and, if so, if he intended to amuse himself watching my agony as he pumped me with the horrid instrument or if the women who squeezed my balls until I gasped in pain and then, looking pleased, squeezed and rubbed my nipples until they had swollen to three times their normal size before she seemed satisfied was my new owner. Or perhaps the young man with pimples all over his pasty white face who had stroked me until I moaned in agony before turning me around and pumping me with three fingers stuck up my ass as far as he could get them despite my groans of pain. I again surveyed the confusion around me and decided I was going to make a dash for it, naked as I was, the first chance I got.

That chance never occurred. My new owner appeared, ownership papers in hand, and ordered me to don the slave garment for a quick trip to his home, just a mile or so away along the riverfront. To my immediate relief, he was not the master with the glass dildo who had entertained the guests so well earlier in the day at my expense. He placed a rope noose around my still uncollared neck and hitched it to the side of his fancy rickshaw, pulled by a handsome Mexican slave dressed in nothing but his collar and a full leather harness with a built-in genital ring that displayed his muscled body and his sexual organs beautifully. My new owner reminded me that I would need to keep up or be dragged by my neck down the road. Fortunately, the rickshaw went no faster than I could run, of course, although I was panting after about half a mile. I thought about pulling the noose off my neck and taking off, but my new owner kept a constant eye on me and it turned out the noose wasn't easily loosened, especially when you're running full speed.

I arrived at his townhouse breathless and the good looking slave pulling the rickshaw now unhooked me from the rickshaw itself and then opened the door for his master while holding my tow rope with his other hand. The Mexican slave then led me like a prize cow to a rear door which led directly to the slave quarters showing me a tiny, airless vacant cell which he said would be mine from now on.

"You'll be locked up every night until we can be sure of you," he counseled as he took me immediately to the slave's bathing area and indicated that I should shuck the tiny wraparound and clean myself once again while he told me "what's what" at my new home.

As soon as I was naked again, he took my shaft in hand and stroked it a bit until I was erect once again. "Um, Um... I can see why Master Fulton bought you. He likes his bucks well hung and pretty in the face. That's why he bought me," he laughed as he reached down and hefted his now erect sex organs to illustrate his point. He was huge in that area and, when I looked the rest of him over again, I could see he had a magnificently built body that matched the size of his sex organs. He was about as handsome as slaves get in my opinion and had a beautiful pinkish brown complexion that was flawless. He informed me he was the steward of the house in charge of all the other slaves although, he pointed out firmly, he was a slave property himself.

"First off, all the bucks in this house are here mainly to pleasure Master Fulton and his friends, including me. We're all mighty fine looking and well hung so you aren't anything special - every slave in this house is just as good looking as you are, boy," he said as he continued stroking me, "and just as big down here where it counts," he added as he gripped my shaft strongly before releasing me.

"Every slave in the house is a buck, even those doing the cooking and laundry, and every single one of us was bought to be a pretty piece of slave meat for the master to show off as well as pleasure him in bed with whatever he fancies. Of course, we do all the work necessary to keep the mansion spic and span. This place is so big and fancy, there's barely enough of us to keep up with all the work so we're busy day and night so to speak," he laughed at his own little joke. "Master Fulton is very demanding as to keeping everything spotless and in its place so we all get a lot of exercise just doing our chores - some days you're going to be just plain tuckered out, especially if his friends come over for a little entertaining. In addition, we do a good hour of special exercises each morning to keep our bodies just as attractive to our master as they can be. I'll be supervising those exercises and I'm not afraid to use the whip if you don't put your all into it because if I don't," he smiled, "I get whipped even harder by the master and that's not going to happen. He says it's his slaves' duty to keep their bodies appealing for their owner and I can't find any argument with that - remember we're his property, after all. When we're in the house, we're generally kept the same way you are now - butt naked. Master Fulton likes nothing better than viewing a well built handsome buck in 'all his glory' as he calls it. That means, boy, you're going to have to learn how to keep your prick hard most of the time when he's viewing us, no matter how you might feel about it that day. It's hard to do at first, but you'll learn like the rest of us. Master Fulton lets us use our hands to stimulate ourselves when it's necessary to show hard, but after a while, you'll find it comes naturally. As you've probably discovered already, slave boys tend to show hard when they know they're being viewed, especially if they haven't been drained recently. But if you don't show hard when he wants, you're going to feel the whip until you do - believe me, you'll learn fast enough after you feel that special snake skin whip of his wrap itself around your body a few times. Hurts like fire, it does," the Mexican slave said pointedly wincing a little at the remembrance of his last whipping.

"Most days, he likes to show us off around town in that he's mighty proud of his slave property. That's when we get in our special 'fancy' outfits and accompany him to the parks, shopping, downtown, sporting events, and to his social clubs. Each one of us has a special outfit designed to show off our bodies one way or another. Most of the outfits make you feel more naked than you are right now without a stitch of clothes on. And some of them make you feel more like a pet dog than a slave, but, of course, we don't have any say in how we're dressed one way or another. Some of us, me included, have several outfits depending on the occasion. For example, I have one outfit you see me in right now - this full body harness that's so tight I can hardy move in it, but master thanks it shows off my physique and manhood right well. The straps are hot as hell up against my hide but nobody seems to care about that because the master says it shows me off better when its wet with my sweat anyway. Like I said, I'm more naked in this get up than if I didn't have anything on, but that's the whole purpose of the outfit I suppose. Another outfit he puts me in sometimes is a just a pair of bright yellow silk shorts with practically no legs and cut so low they wouldn't stay on if they weren't so tight stretched across my sex and ass. Shows my manhood off better he claims that if I were butt naked like around the house, but, like this harness outfit, I know I feel more naked with that thing on than if there wasn't a stitch on me. And sometimes he decks me out in what he calls an "Arab outfit," whatever that is, where I wear a pair of thin pants made out of a loose net you can see right through and a little vest of the same net material that just covers the top of my shoulders. Some of the other boys around here are put into outfits made out of a gold like material, some are of a bright colored velvet, and a lot of them are silk and that see through net stuff. But I tell you one thing, all of them barely cover anything and most of them are so tight no one has to guess how heavy hung you are or how big your balls or your nipples are. Speaking of which, some of the boys with nice big tits are ringed there to show them off, some of the boys with balls that hang too low are fitted with big metal bands down there to make their manhood stick out more like I've got welded around my balls. And a few of them sport big gold or copper nose rings. All of us, you included as soon as the metal smith gets here, will have a nice new 3" gold plated collar with the master's crest on it along with a "reward for return" notice soldiered around your neck. After that's installed, you're forced to hold your handsome face up where everyone can see it all the time and everyone will know who you belong to. Of course, you'll have to learn to keep your eyes down in front of your betters even though your head is forced upwards. Takes some getting used to at first. Master Fulton hasn't told me how he wants you fitted yet other than the collar. He'll probably tit ring you to highlight your muscular chest and those nice thick tits of yours, but I don't know whether he'll want you banded or not down there. Seems to me your balls are pretty snug to your body already so your manhood sticks out of its own accord pretty well. Never know, though, he may want you banded anyway. Claims its good for a slave, but he's never banded a few of his other slaves yet. Course, I'm fitted with these two big gold ear rings as well as my gold nose ring to highlight my face as well as this big gold ring forcing my sex out for everyone to see easily. That's quite a bit of gold on just one slave if you think about it. If they ringed my tits in gold, that metal would be worth more than my body if it isn't already," he laughed at the idea. "Our master, he got's endless money, it seems, and so, if he wants me ringed in gold, I'm going to be ringed in gold - it's as simple as that. Besides, he gets it back when he sells me - they always take all the gold off before they take you to trade you in, no matter how much it hurts."

"Are you what they call a 'fancy' slave?" I asked.

"Damn right I'm a 'fancy,' boy. I'm about as 'fancy' as they get, especially with all this gold fastened on me. You're a 'fancy' too, boy. You were bought at the 'fancy' market along with the prize horses and mules and you cost enough that everyone knows whoever can afford you has lots and lots of money. You're bought not only to bed down for an owner's pleasure but to show off. And, if we're lucky, they'll breed us just like those thoroughbred horses you saw down at the market. We're too fancy to let our seed just go to waste, boy."

"Mistress Harmon said she was going to sell me as a 'fancy' and make a lot of money off of me. I guess she knew what she was doing," I mused.

"A mistress bedding you down?" my mentor asked, obviously curious.

"Sometimes when she got needful, but her son actually owned me as his bed buck," I explained. "Mistress Harmon actually bought me to start with as a birthday present for her son, but she was the boss of that family," I giggled. "She decided to sell me when she heard tell that light skinned handsome bucks were bringing premium prices if they were sold at market's dealing in 'fancies.' She told that son of hers he couldn't have me anymore - I was too valuable to just be a bed buck for him and his friends and she bought him another buck to use that was real black and getting sort of old for a bed buck. She got that new buck real cheap. Her son, Master Clarkson, he didn't like it, but she was paying for everything, so I got sold just like she said. I imagine that new black buck has already been fucked raw by Master Clarkson and his friends," I chuckled.

"You're better off here, boy," the steward said comfortingly. "Master Fulton labels me 'Steward'. What's your label?"

"512," I replied.

"Oh, that's a breeding farm label. No one's labeled you since then, even that mistress that owned you and that master you were servicing?"

"No, neither one of them ever bothered. They just called me 'boy' or 'slave.'"

"Well, Master Fulton will probably label you as soon as he gets familiar with you a bit. There's five of us owned by Master Fulton who take care of the master's mansion and his gardens and him and his friends when they want pleasuring. We fancy boys all get along and we all get fucked about equally, so none of us are fucked very hard or too often. But still we're busy all the time, it seems. If we're not on our knees sucking a big one or bent over a chair taking one up our ass, we're scrubbing the floor, trimming the hedge, waiting table, or doing the laundry. Then there's the times we're in our little costumes being shown when our master feels like it. We have to douche every morning after getting up, each time we're used, and every night after the master retires. We have to keep ourselves greased up properly all the time because we never know when the master or his friends might want to use us. We have to keep our bodies shaved just in the style he wants each and every day and we have to keep our bodies spotlessly clean and free of all smell all the time no matter how hot it is or how much we've been used. We have to trim our fingernails and hair every four days however the master wants so we always look tidy and oil our skin every morning with a scented oil our master buys special for us. We get fed just twice a day - once in the morning and once in the evening unless we've messed up somehow in our master's opinion in which case we have to skip a meal and generally get a good whipping - not a bullwhipping or anything that would damage our hides, just a good lashing that sure makes you want to do better for the master, whatever it was. We can't ever shoot off unless our master gives us permission and we're responsible for keeping ourselves erect and ready like he wants when he's viewing us no matter what we have to do to get and stay that way. The master feeds us well, but just enough to keep us in top shape - you're always going to be a little bit hungry. Master Fulton thinks that keeps us slave boys on our toes and responsive to his commands. I can't help but agree with him there, especially since if you do something really, really well with a right willing attitude and a big smile on your face all the time, he gives you a little candy treat now and then. The only thing kind of strange from other masters, boy, is that all our names are what you call 'use' labels rather than a regular slave name like Cicero or Servicus. But, whatever he labels you, you better learn it fast and respond to it right away. The master gets real mad and takes his whip in hand if you don't respond when he wants."

"So, you were labeled Steward because you are the steward?" I asked.

"Exactly," Steward answered with a look of satisfaction that I understood his function as well as his name. Before that, like you, I didn't really have a name and like you, I m a product of a breeding farm - Slave Depot's Mexican Breeding Station right outside Mexico City. That's all they produce there - a new crop of slaves every year and just enough food to feed them."

"Sounds like we're I was produced. We were all half-brothers and sisters, every single one of us coming out of one stud."

"It wasn't that way at my breeding farm. We had at least two dozen studs for the wenches. If they didn't take with one, she got put with another stud right away. You never had any idea who you're papa was," he laughed. "If you had all those brothers and sisters, you ever run across any of them?"

"Not that I know of. I'd probably recognize them if I saw them because we all looked a lot alike - the breeding wenches were all picked for having the same body build and looks so a lot of us looked almost like twins. One of these days, especially here in a big city like Memphis, I expect to see some of them if their masters ever let them out."

"Probably will, slave boy. Lots and lots of slaves here in Memphis - a lot more slaves than anything else - dogs, horses, mules, and especially free persons," he laughed. "Most of them working down at the docks as cotton loaders but the greatest number these days are working in the factories here making things for their master's profits. And then, there's a lot of public slaves doing all the street work, picking up the garbage and recyclables, sweeping the streets free of litter, and taking care of the parks. There's also quite a few slave athletes for the big league sports events they have here as well as the wrestling and boxing shows. But the real pretty ones are working in the big hotels, the brothels Memphis is noted for, and all the mansions and townhouses the free people own. Almost all the big plantation owners have a house in town as well as a big house out on their plantation these days. This is a big place for conventions and business conferences as well as tourists so there are lots of hotels, motels, bars, strip joints, and brothels for their satisfaction. There used to be lot of porny shops at every corner, but there are so many slaves in Memphis anymore, you can just have slaves do whatever turns you on rather than just look at it on a DVD so they're about out of business. The churches here are real happy about that, claiming they closed the porny shops singlehandedly. Heard the master tell someone the other day the newspaper here estimated there were about 29 slaves for every free person in Memphis anymore, although nobody really counts the slaves of course."

Our conversation ended when my new master appeared and, with a flick of his wrist, indicated I was to follow him to his bedroom upstairs now that I was completely clean and ready for use. There, nothing unexpected happened since I was well aware of why he had bought me except now I knew he was well hung himself, had a trim, muscular body, and was a demanding, but reasonable man as long as you tried hard to please him every way you could think of. I was surprised at his endurance. He fucked me twice to a full orgasm before he had me suck him off

for a third emptying of his balls. Only then, a full hour later, was I told to go down to the washroom again to clean myself inside and out and then report back to the steward to see how I could be put to my chores. Tonight, he announced, unless I got slothful with my assigned chores, I would get supper and he would assign me a name.

As soon as I had douched again, I met the three household slaves I hadn't already met and was startled at how well built and good looking they all were - easy to see since they were as naked as I was. To a man, they were very well hung, all semi-erect with bands around their balls, all tit-ringed and two, like the slave I had already met, had huge earrings as well as a nose ring. All were collared with the tall gold collars that forced their heads into an upright position. The brown Mexican who had explained all the house rules to me earlier quickly assigned all of us specific chores before I could really talk to any of the others. Within an hour, the metal smith arrived and I was called down to the washroom again where I was unceremoniously collared just like the others, had a band soldiered around my balls and the base of my cock forcing it into a full forward protrusion at all times, had both tits ringed with medium sized gold rings, had one ear pierced and fitted with a big dangling gold ear ring, but my nose was left alone. Inserting the ear ring didn't hurt much, but installing the tit rings was about as painful as anything I'd experienced up to that point and would take, I was told, a few days to fully heal. The band around my sex didn't hurt, really, but rubbed against my body with each step I took and shifted my body balance enough that I was mindful of it all the time. The metal smith explained I would get used to it soon enough and, as soon as I calloused a little down there, I wouldn't even notice it after a while other than I could expect a great deal more fondling and stroking of my prick as well as more cupping and massaging of my balls now that it was handier to do. He expressed surprise that my new owner had decided I didn't need a nose ring, at least not yet. "You must suck cock exceptionally well," he conjectured, "so he probably didn't want a nose ring in the way of those nice lips of yours."

That same day, the steward delivered my first "costume," as he called it, to put on when the master wanted to display us in public. Holding it up for me to see, it consisted of black wool "tights" cut three inches below my navel to show off my abdominal muscles and stopped just short of exposing my sex, over my muscular butt and thighs just above my crack, and then stopping just short of my knees. Once on, it was so tight the outline of my obviously ringed genitals was clearly visible despite the black cloth and the huge bulge in the material was the most noticeable aspect of the attire other than clearly outlining my prominent rounded and somewhat "uplifted" muscular ass. Attached to my neck collar was a big black bow tie as if I were formally attired while black kid leather slippers were also supplied. My large golden ear ring and matching tit rings completed the outfit. The steward ordered me to try all of it on and look into a mirror located in the dining room. Once encased in the skin tight shorts and with the bow-tie attached to my collar, I saw myself for the first time in the full-length mirror and was astonished.

I knew it was me but I also saw about the most erotic, sexy man I had ever seen anywhere and immediately became fully erect.

The steward noticed the response to my own image.

"Now you understand why we're made to wear these costumes, slave boy. It makes his properties a lot sexier than if we were just naked as usual. I'm surprised Master Fulton doesn't have us wearing these outfits all the time. If I owned a slave boy, that's the way I'd keep him unless I was bedding him down right then and there."

"I'm happy you approve, fuck boy" Master Fulton said sarcastically from the back of the room.

We both jumped in that we had no idea he had entered the room and both of us assumed the usual slave position: legs apart slightly, eyes lowered in respect and hands in back of our necks to best display our body.

"It's not a bad idea, fuck boy, except it's harder to tell if you're keeping yourself nice and hard for me all the time," he chuckled. "Besides, I'm not sure I want to wait for you to shuck out of these provocative little outfits before I fuck you when I get the urge."

"Of course, master," the steward said. "Whatever you want, master."

"Damn right, whatever I want, fuck boy. That's why you're a slave and I'm the master. But I was interested to hear that if you were a master, you'd have your slaves looking as appealing as they could for you. Pleasing a master is everything for a slave, isn't it?"

"Yes, master," the steward said smoothly as he thrust his naked erect genitals a little further out to demonstrate his total subservience to his owner. "Is the new slave's outfit to your liking, master, or should I have him put on another one, master?"

"It will do for now, fuck boy. Put it away now that we know it fits properly and both of you get to your chores if you still want to get fed tonight."

"Yes, master," we both said in unison as I quickly wiggled out of the skin tight trousers and removed the bow tie from my collar. The steward just as quickly put these two objects, along with the special slippers, into a special box marked to identify it and then into a nearby closet. He then told me to go back into the dining room and start waxing the floor while he turned to head toward the kitchen.

"On your knees, fuck boy, in front of me," Master Fulton ordered the handsome Mexican who complied immediately with his mouth open expectantly.

"A quick draining into your throat," the master said as the slave beneath him carefully loosened his owner's trousers and withdrew the large white organ before swallowing it all the way down his well-practiced throat before putting his throat muscles into full action while his tongue massaged the huge organ within his mouth.

"Nice," Master Fulton commended as he pumped the organ even further into his slave's throat.

The slave sucking could only sigh in agreement since his mouth was fully stuffed. If he did a great job of sucking his master off, he not only would get supper tonight but possibly one of the candy treats his master sometimes had with him.

Over time, I became good friends with all of Master Fulton's other slaves. Steward, one of the others, named Phallus, and I were from deliberate slave breeding farms but the others were just circumstance - born into slavery of course as products of a slave womb but not scheduled or planned in any way outside of the usual dollar coin given to most any slave woman producing a pup for her master no matter who sired it. All of us were truly exceptional in the looks and build department. We had all brought top prices at the sales venues due to our appeal, out bodily beauty, and our huge, ever ready sexual equipment which, over the years, we had learned to use to bring our owners maximum pleasure. The steward was a rich tobacco brown, I was a quadroon, of course, 'Showboy' was a mulatto, 'Shaft' was a shiny jet black, and Phallus was an octoroon, but was so white looking with his light brown hair and green eyes and smooth ivory colored skin he could have easily been mistaken for a pure white slave, especially since he had the deep brown brands of Master Fulton's initials burned into his right butt and left pectoral, so typical of pure white slaves these days. All in all, we covered the full range of hide tones available in Memphis' current slave offerings. In visiting the homes of Master Fulton's friends, we found this variety of skin tones prevalent among those holding a bevy of premium 'fancy' slaves kept primarily for their startlingly good looks and the sexual pleasures they could provide their owner.

My outfit for show, along with the other slaves, changed periodically with the master's whims. Shaft, the jet black slave was once fitted out in pure white ballet tights that displayed his huge basket in startling contrast with his black skin. ShowBoy, the mulatto, often wore only a small red silk sash cupping his genitals tied to a red silk rope wrapped around his waist The 'white nigger,' as Phallus was sometimes called, often wore a tight green tunic with gold trim patterned, they told me, after slave boys from someplace called Ancient Rome which was so short that if he did anything but stand straight up, his ass or genitals were exposed. The brown Steward was often dressed as an slave from a place called Egypt with a tiny little ivory colored linen skirt to cover his sex, a linen turban on his head and a small vest that matched his skirt to best display his muscular chest. Those costumes from other places reminded me of what they always said back at the breeding farm. "Every advanced culture had slaves, of course, since day one" Master Winfield used to say. "And all those millions and millions of slaves over the centuries just proves that this is the natural order of things - some people are meant to be slaves and some people aren't - it's as simple as that. Anybody would be stupid to try to fight nature by trying to change it. Obviously, it's the way God ordained it and you can't fight nature or God, now can you?" Now I could see what he said was absolutely true, though I had never doubted him on anything.

No matter what the public costume, they all exposed most of our body anyway and emphasized our sex more than it hid it. Not one of us didn't feel more naked with our costumes than we did when we were in the house totally naked, mainly because the costumes were always designed to draw attention to our sexual attributes rather blatantly. When accompanying our master dressed like this, people on the streets, in the parks, and in the shops invariably commented on our good looks, of course, but also on our tit rings, our high collars, how well we "displayed" our talents, the nose rings on those so equipped, and, in the case of the octoroon slave, on his prominent ownership brands. All of these features were usually felt for themselves in addition to the visual inspection: our tit rings were tugged at and twisted; the nose rings were flicked, our ear rings were played with, and, with all of us, our sex was felt through the material that covered it and squeezed and fondled until we were erect and dripping. Many a hand played with our muscular ass checks and stray fingers often were inserted far up our well lubricated holes and pumped a little as they enjoyed our reactions to these stimulations. Usually, after just an hour or so accompanying our master on his little forays, the material that covered our sex showed huge wet spots where the pre-cum was leaking through the material and making it sticky and easily soiled by the probing hands that fondled us. Master Fulton viewed this as a good trait, rather than punishing us, however, in that he said it showed we were "responding appropriately for a slave being displayed" and never cancelled our evening meal for this unless, of course, we ever drew away or were less than fully cooperative in somebody fondling us in public. He did enjoy using the little slave whip he carried with him on these forays, however, and we could expect to be lashed on some part of our body several times during the little trips, no matter how cooperative we proved to be. Since he never really lashed into us hard, we slaves all thought it was just part of the show as much as our little costumes.

There were plenty of inquires concerning our costs, however, which obviously pleased not only Master Fulton but all the other wealthy masters displaying their stock of fancies like this.

"If you have to ask, you probably can't afford stock like this," was one of Master Fulton's favorite responses which he delivered with a little wink of his eye, but "a king's ransom, if the truth were known," "too much, I'm afraid, to make any sense at all, my friend," "it's hard to justify such an expense unless you're into collecting like I am," "well, they say you can't take it with you anyway," "less than a really good thoroughbred horse, but a lot more than a decent carriage horse," "it's not just for the looks, you know, but for their breeding potential although even that doesn't quite justify the costs in that good studs can be had for next to nothing these days," or even "I'm afraid I was spoiled rotten as a child and just never got over it - never had to really," or "I was brought up to appreciate the very best, and among our slave animals today, these probably are the best to be had."

Master Fulton often read and discussed the articles in the prominent daily newspaper (the Memphis Gazette) with his longtime friends. This usually took place in the downtown parks where they too, like Master Fulton, were displaying their current stock. Such a multitude of available flesh usually attracted a sizeable crowd who, with the owners' permission, frequently fondled us openly and completely while our owners took issue with or agreed with various articles in the newspaper.

"Did you see this article on the increased number of owners stocking boys like we've got - boys kept just for the pleasure they can provide. Says here the price of pleasure stock is going up due to demand."

"Yes, George, but the price is only increasing on the very best - those with outstanding good looks, perfect physiques, and magnificent equipment. It says that anything less than that depreciates pretty fast here in Memphis, so the point is you should insist on buying only the very best to start with."

"Only makes sense, George. Nobody buys a house slave anymore than isn't something to look at. Why should they, when you see what's available these days."

"The market is well aware of this apparently. You hardly see a house slave offered anymore that isn't sexy and pretty. I think the breeding barns are wising up to market demands, Henri."

"Even those not bred specifically for the pleasure slave market aren't bad, though, Henri. Even those through the courts and purchased outright are obviously being carefully screened for the pleasure slave market. They're picking out the very best looking for that high mark-up market and sending all the others to the industrial and agribusiness markets. Only makes sense - every dealer wants to make as much as he can. I've got two pleasure boys myself that weren't bred for market and they've worked out just fine."

"So have I, George. They're so well trained by the time they're marketed, you can't tell a dime's worth of difference between a bred boy and a boy broken to his status later in his life. Once they understand their only reason to exist is to give you pleasure, who cares where they came from originally?"

"Speaking of industrial slaves, the whole market is expanding. Did you see the report on the GNP in today's paper? It's really interesting in that the whole economy seems to hinge on slaves anymore."

"Must have missed it, Henri. Do you mind reading it aloud so we can all hear it. After all, it's a healthy economy that makes it possible for us to enjoy meeting here everyday and giving our boys a bit of fresh air."

That "bit of fresh air" offered us "boys" involved being pawed over by scores of people each and every day where we had to pose absolutely still with our sexual organs thrust out for easy handling while absolute strangers hefted and massaged our balls, stroked us to full dripping erections, squeezed our ringed nipples until they had swollen to three times their normal size, and felt endless fingers explore the innards of our ass chute before pumping us with those probing fingers to "see how we took to a good fucking." It was all part of being paraded around town by our proud owners.

Henri began reading the newspaper report:

"The Department of Commerce issued their annual report late

yesterday afternoon. The Gross National Product (GNP) reached

a record high as labor costs per unit produced steadily decreased,

a trend found in all slave economies, the only economies able to

compete in current world markets. This record low cost of labor is

attributed to three converging factors: (1) increased supply of

competitively priced labor units; (2) health care costs being

minimized; and (3) current salvage rates allowing for quick

turnover of labor units. Slave availability is attributed to continual

high output of breeding operations, court decisions leading to

lifetime enslavement for even minor socially disturbing acts, and

sustained war operations yielding a steady supply of "enemy

combatants" who are subsequently sold into slavery following

"breaking." The United States continued to lead the world in both

low prices for new slaves; minimal maintenance costs; and enforced

output for each 'work unit.'

"The report cited the auto industry as an example of increased

productivity throughout the nation. General Motors, once near

bankruptcy with one of the industry's highest labor costs, including

runaway health care costs, is now one of the world's most

profitable car makers following a 98% switch from free to slave

labor over the past two decades. The company now runs its own

breeding operations to cut labor supply costs even further and

health care has been eliminated by a liberal replacement policy

where health problems interfering with full output, where in-plant

disciplinary measures are no longer sufficient, simply lead to

salvaging the slave and replacing him with fresher and more

energetic material. Quality has also increased following their

highly advertised campaign "Quality based on blood" where slave

workers are routinely beaten for even the most minor quality

mishap. The report pointed to the current General Motors TV ads

following this productivity strategy which feature slaves standing

in a pool of blood with permanently whip-scarred bodies fervently

tending to the smallest detail of their work assignment. Ford

Motors is also now extremely profitable, exceeding all but General

Motors in overall profits for the year among world auto

manufacturers. Their quality too has reached a rate of 1 defect per

5,000 cars, unheard of only eight years ago when over 116 defects

per 1,000 cars was fairly routine. The Ford program, also highly

advertised currently, features the famous "two defects and you're

out" strategy where any slave causing two defects in their work life

is automatically scheduled for salvaging and replaced with a new

admittedly fear-crazed worker. Daimler-Chrysler, now also noted

around the world for extremely well-made quality automobiles,

uses yet another strategy to obtain record low defect rates- a

strategy based on innate slave needs. No defects for a full month

and industrial slaves are given five percent more food allotment

above the motivational near-starvation rations normally allotted

slave workers; no defects for two months and a slave worker are

allowed a quick sexual release, generally with a co-worker of his

choice or masturbation - a privilege normally never allowed slave

workers in manufacturing. Daimler-Chrysler TV ads now

emphasize 'Chrysler quality is as basic a need as food and sex.'

"Administration officials hailed this latest Department of

Commerce report as proof of the positive economic impact of their

policies and hailed American manufacturing as the world's best

examples of 'entrepreneurial leadership, wise management, and

prudent fiscal responsibility.'

"Administration officials also pointed out that slaves in the service

area should not be overlooked as examples of how efficiently slaves

are currently being trained trained and managed. The report

emphasized that 'Almost every American citizen now benefits

directly from having slaves available in the home to meet almost

every need' leading, they pointed out, 'to a standard of living equal

to most other major slave holding societies in the world. Those

countries still tied to free labor suffer economically from lack of

competitively products, poor product quality, and a considerably

lower standard of living which led to what was described as

'detrimental citizen malaise'"

"You're right, Fulton. That's a great article and pretty well sums up where we're at," Henri said. "Since we're all slave owners ourselves, we can certainly verify the truth of the report."

As I stood there desperately trying to prevent myself from shooting off in an onlooker's hand who persisted in stroking my organ for over 15 minutes now, I could certainly concur with the accuracy of the Department of Commerce report myself. As a 'service' slave, it was quite obvious we were easily available at the nearest dealer, were cheap enough to where Master Fulton and all his friends could afford whole stables of us, and trained well enough to fully satisfy our owners, no matter what they wanted us to do. But the new incentive programs for industrial slaves sent a shiver down my back. How fortunate I was to be good looking, well built, and sexually appealing.

Over the next few years, all of us Master Fulton 'fancies' decided our owner got even more pleasure out of displaying us in public and taking in all the envious compliments and reluctant respect for such grandiose wealth than he got out of us in bed, although that too was a big component of our lives, especially taking into account we were serving his friends and business acquaintances as well when he wanted.

There was a sort of pride, though, in being admired in public like that, even if it was just for our nice bodies and sexual attractions and we all enjoyed the status that came, especially from other slaves, in the fact we cost so much. And we all admitted that serving our master sexually wasn't unpleasant at all in view of the fact he was relatively young, good looking, and fairly easy to please. Besides that, he allowed us to unload at least once a day during one sexual duty or another in that he felt a good discharge helped a slave maintain his body better and kept his sexual apparatus working properly. That, we knew from bitter experience, was fairly uncommon with slaves in general where you could go months without being allowed to ever unload if you had an uncaring master who enjoyed seeing you in constant need. On top of all that, despite missing meals periodically for disciplinary reasons, we were well fed as are bodies radiated good health and, although chastised regularly and painfully with a slave whip for minor infractions, we were never bullwhipped or caned which often caused permanent scarring of our valuable hides and from which some slaves never really recovered. We were simply too valuable to be damaged in any way that might hurt our resale value and in that sense, were very spoiled compared to most other slaves who were often so cheap they could be beaten or starved to death with little economic consequence.

Such slaves, the vast majority who didn't have the magnificent bodies and handsome good looks and huge sexual equipment that distinguished us, were cheap to buy, cheap to feed the poorest quality slave chow, and cheap enough to work to an early grave under the ever present bullwhip of a heavy handed overseer. Most slaves ending up in the enormous agribusiness fields or even more in the huge new factories springing up everywhere could count on 18 hour work days under shackles and a heavy whip, slave chow so vile even pigs turned it down, and nothing in their lives but constant back breaking work. Most slaves didn't live much beyond 35 or so. Those sold "down river" to the car assembly plants in their early twenties, with its horrible heat, the constant whips of the overseers during their 18-hour days seven days a week driving them relentlessly on, and the tasks so demanding and yet numbing that slaves often slid into madness, but this was unnoticed or disregarded in their close shackles. Even the sturdiest slaves there generally had about 10 or 15 years at most in them before death gave them some relief. But it was cheaper to replace them with new stock than "coddle" them with a healthier life style. In the final analysis, economics determined everything. Fancies' scarcity protected us from physical abuse; draft slaves' chronic oversupply meant it was cheaper to get the last ounce of energy out of them at a fairly early age and then replace them with fresh meat.

Any thought of running away and heading to this land of Canada didn't make much sense anymore. Where else would I be taken care of as well as I was right here in Memphis. I got fed well most of the time, although I was kept, as they said, always just a little hungry to 'motivate' me properly. I was admired by others for my beautiful body, and I knew I'd never get beaten hard or damaged in any way that could be prevented because I was worth so much at the marketplace. Even if I got sold, my high price would ensure fairly good care by another master simply because no one wanted to lower my resale value if they could help it. Having to suck my master off when he wanted or take his prick up my backside was easy enough now that I was well used to it and didn't hurt me really as far as I could see. In fact, I'd even come to appreciate the sweet taste of my master's cum and got all excited when he stimulated me up my ass with his big prick. Many a time I got fucked, the master let me shoot off when he got me all excited and so I looked forward to him bending me over a chair or having me get down on all fours or laying on my back with my legs swung up over my head to open my hole for him properly. I even got to like dressing up the little costumes and watching all those white men envy Master Fulton for owning me, wishing they could bed me down whenever they wished. Every time one of those free men starting feeling my body, I knew they admired and desired me. It was a far cry from being whipped to death in the fields of some agribusiness in some Louisiana hell hole or worked to death close shackled in a car assembly plant in Alabama. Up North, if I made it, I remembered they said I would still be looked down on because I had been a slave, only have the worst jobs available to do, and would be hungry most of the time. All that for just not having an owner use my body. Not much of a deal in my opinion. Besides, if I got caught, there was no doubt I would be sold off to the worst place imaginable for a slave and my good looks couldn't save me as a runaway slave with those big brands all over my body to prove it. When I broached the subject of this Canada where slaves were free with the other slaves owned by Master Fulton, they all thought the whole idea was stupid. "We were born to be slaves and always will be, I reckon," they said without further interest in the topic.

But one day, Phallus, the 'white nigger' hadn't been fed for two days. He had been loaned out to one of Master Fulton's friends for the weekend and that had proven to be a real trying time for the slave. First off, according to his recount of the events, this Mister Laboune that he had been loaned to had a huge collection of dildos and he tried every single one of them out on the borrowed slave over a two day period, including some that were way beyond human size, being modeled after horse and elephant dongs as well as ones made of copper, glass, and even woven leather which tended to tear up your insides if they were twisted around even a little. After a while, the slave Phallus' ass, despite all the stretching it had had over the years, was bleeding and so sore he couldn't even stand up. When this Mister LaBoune started in on the slave's throat with the dildos the next night, the slave just started howling and crying and wouldn't cooperate like the master wanted so, naturally, Mister LaBoune got out his whip and really laced into the octoroon boy. When he returned the beaten boy, Master Fulton apologized for his slave's unseemly behavior and promised to discipline him appropriately over and above the beating he had already received from Mister LaBoune. That discipline was being locked up in a small cage "to think about the errors of your ways, boy" and no food or water for 48 hours "to learn to appreciate how pampered you are around here, boy, and we expect your full cooperation for such good care, slave." It was shortly after this, and the threat of a return loan to Mister LaBoune to "make up to my good friend" that prompted some radical new thoughts out of the 'white nigger.'

"I'm going to run away up North the minute I get out of this damn punishment cage," Phallus started out. "Once I up in this Canada land, I'm going to be free and won't have to take any of this slave crap, bowing and scraping all the time, taking God knows what up my asshole all the time, and spending half my life down on my knees sucking a big one rammed down my throat. You (pointing at me) and me, we're better than half the gentlemen fucking us and squeezing our tits and making us suck them off. If we weren't wearing these slave collars, they couldn't make us wear those stupid little costumes that mark us as their pets and playthings, no better than a damn dog. I'm going to steal me some free person's clothes that hide this slave collar and nobody can tell just looking at me whether I got slave blood in me or not, let alone suggest I just a slaveboy underneath those duds. When I get up North and I'm free, nobody's going to ram some huge old dildo up this boy's ass and this boy isn't going to be down on his knees stark naked begging for a big dick to suck on. No sir, this white nigger going to be doing the fucking and fucking who he likes for a change."

"Leave me out of it," I quickly responded to his rantings, looking around to see if anyone but us slaves heard his stupid talk. If they did, I was sure we'll all be whipped to near death for even listening to such a spiel or even hung by our necks. 'Abolitionist talk' the masters called it, I think, and I knew in Memphis they killed slaves for even listening to it. "I'm not going anywhere and even if I was, I can't escape the slave blood in me - like the Bible says, it marks me a slave for life."

"That just free man's talk," Phallus said. "Who says your blood line makes you a slave?"

"Everyone I know," Steward, the beautiful brown slave interjected. "There have been slaves since anybody can remember and I don't believe this Canada doesn't have slaves - that's silly. Who does all the work that needs to get done? Who makes them money so they can live properly? Who satisfies their natural lusts? Naw, you have to have slaves to make a place work - can't be no place without slaves. If this Canada place doesn't have slaves as such , believe you me, they've simply called something else. They've got human livestock up there under some different name, I'll wager.. I don't know, but there's some properties up there with slave blood in them of one kind of another. Somebody just mad at the world back in the slave pens made up such a stupid story."

"Once you get some food in your belly and your asshole heals up, you'll appreciate what you're got here, Phallus," I counseled. "We're all brought up to expect our masters to enjoy our bodies one way or another. You just got loaned out to a bad master who doesn't understand how much you would cost if he had to buy you. I'm sure Master Fulton will never loan you out to him again, no matter what he might have said - you're too valuable to get torn up like that."

"Then why was I caged up to 'think out the errors of my ways' and he did say he might loan me out to him again if I didn't shape up. And why am I so damn hungry I could eat the bars on this cage? And why is my asshole so sore it's still bleeding a little? Is that what I'm suppose to be appreciating, slave boy?"

All four of us refused to listen to any more of this and, as we predicted, a good night's rest on a full belly solved the problem. Within a week, he was back being fucked on a regular basis without any complaints and strutting his stuff when being parading around town in his little costume with no objections but a big smile when passer byes squeezed his ringed tits, fondled his erect organ and stuck a finger or two up him periodically. And, as we predicted, Master Fulton never loaned him or any of the rest of us to the dildo-lover, this Mister LaBrone, again.

Over the next few years, nothing much changed except, if anything, you saw more and more slaves doing all sorts of tasks, not just working in the agribusiness fields or manufacturing plants. As their usefulness increased by ever more factory work and building and repairing the infrastructure, slaves were also increasing being trained for skilled crafts so they could be used in jobs that free persons used to have to do.

One area steadily growing were athlete slaves. Stock bought up for their potential in athletics didn't fare much better than industrial slaves other than the crowds cheering them on and the short-lived fame they got when they scored in an important game and the fans flooded into the locker rooms afterwards to get to feel their steaming bodies "up close and personal." Usually hyper-masculine and with colossal physiques, they were often injected full of steroids, growth hormones and testosterone which gave them a pumped-up 'superman' look and behavior so aggressive they had to kept separately caged all the time they weren't in competition. Shock collars were mandatory for a coach's control and their scarred bodies attested to the bullwhip and hot irons essential as disciplinary devices. Playing their sport stark naked except for some protective padding in contact sports, their eyes reflected the drugs coursing through their bodies as well as the constant fear of a coach's wraith beating and burning their bodies in his quest for the perfect performance. Often athlete slaves were thick-skinned blacks who sweated freely and who seemed to hold up better to the punishments, but even they rarely lived much beyond 30. During their short lives, they got fucked a lot by fans buying tickets to do so (carefully chained in position for the fan's protection), but were almost never allowed to find relief themselves. Coaches firmly believed any draining of an athlete's juices significantly lowered their performance on the field.

Seemingly in all areas, the demand for slaves was steadily increasing, including right here in Memphis. Fortunately, the supply of slaves being steadily bred throughout the country even exceeded the increased demand, so prices were holding steady and now, with increased prosperity, even middle-income tradespeople could easily afford a slave or two to help them around the house, warm their bed, or even 'lease out' for a little extra income. Along with the increase in slaves, there was also an increase in the demand for lighter colored slaves and here again, the slave breeders were keeping up with market demands. Pure blacks were bred solely for the heavy work out in the blazing sun where their thick hides were invaluable but for everything else more and more white blood was being introduced to "brighten the breed." They had done so well with the latest batch hitting the auction blocks that the 'white nigger' and myself were no longer exceptional novelties, but more like the majority of slaves being offered. Who was and wasn't a slave wasn't so much a matter of skin color anymore as it was a matter of blood lines. Even one-thirty-second slave blood legally made you a slave, no matter how much you might resemble a freeman, who themselves now included recently immigrated Africans, Hispanics, Asian Americans and everything else you might think of whose ancestors had never been slaves. Adding to this was the steady influx of newly trained slaves who had once been free - prisoners of war, court mandated, and self-sales to avoid starvation. Thus slavery and skin color were no longer correlated in any way. Nor was color or national origin associated with being free. But ancestry and slave blood was everything in determining your social status. The color of the slave's hide was simply for practical reasons or owner's preferences. I overheard one of my master's friends saying the Memphis newspaper predicted that in 15 years, most industrial and domestic slaves would be indistinguishable from free persons by appearance alone but draft, athletic, and farm slaves would probably be even more black than they were now. Therefore, the newspaper was calling on mandatory ownership brands, ever bigger slave collars, and legally mandated unique "slave" haircuts and clothing that would clearly identify a slave from any distance. Of course, they also recommended that all slaves be kept nude at all times as the easiest way to distinguish slave property, but recognized this wasn't always possible when cold weather hit, some people were getting tired of viewing all those constant erections in male slaves which made them look so animalistic, and that some slaves were so ugly their nakedness offended polite society in which case you had little choice but to cover them. If slaves had to be clothed for whatever reason as a last resort, they recommended a clearly distinguishable bright florescent orange tunic unique to slaves that would be one size fits all, cheap, easy to launder, and readily spotted even in poor light.

Out on the streets of Memphis, the change was dramatic. 'White niggers' as the public like to label light colored slaves, seemed to be everywhere, all sporting huge collars, highly visible brands to distinguish them, and naked when they could be. But, owners reported, they were "easier on the eye, generally," "easier to train due to their almost humanlike intelligence," and "most affable in your bed, without the strong slave musk we had gotten use to over the years." The pure blacks bred for the farms and athletes were almost a species by themselves: huge in stature, almost muscle-bound, and unresponsive to anything but a good whip or the promise of throwing them a wench now and then. They were often so frightening in appearance, it was common to work them in gangs where they were chained together by their thick neck collars with a good whipmaster over each of the naked chain gangs to make sure they did exactly what they were told without hesitation. Interesting, both 'breeds' of slaves sold for about the same price. Exceptional pure blacks that possessed towering strength, raw endurance, and high disease resistance sold for sometimes staggering prices, especially if you could breed from them. Likewise, exceptionally pretty near-white, Latino, Asian, Arab, or pure white bucks who were already well trained in some useful skills and who were acclimated to sexually pleasing their owners also brought high market prices, again if they were proven breeders.

Even the dealers had partitioned themselves around the differentiated slave breeds: one set of dealers sold 'niggers,' mules, horses, farm implements and wagons. Another set of dealers sold household goods, light-skinned 'servants,' and house furnishings and hardware. Both sets of dealers stocked plenty of slaves for a good selection and some were even guaranteeing their products as breeding became more and more predictable.

One day five beautiful slave girls were delivered to Master Fulton's townhouse by a dealer from one of the better slave merchants in Memphis who specialized in light-skinned 'servants.' They were delivered to the rear slave entrance of course where only Phallus, the 'white nigger' was doing his morning chores at the time.

Immediately, he went into a panic since women of any kind, even slaves, hadn't been in the house since he'd been there, maybe never.

Phallus ran into the front rooms where the rest of us were scrubbing floors and dusting as was our routine on that particular day.

"Master Fulton's replacing us all with wenches," he wailed. "I just knew this would happen - the master is losing his interest in boys - and now we'll all be sold and shipped downriver to a car plant or to one of those brothels downtown," he despaired as tears rolled down his cheeks. "It's all my fault, probably, not giving him the best sucking he'd ever had last night. And you slave boys are probably responsible too - not giving him the last drop of pleasure you had in your bodies. It's just as much your fault as mine, probably."

"Calm down, Phallus," Steward counseled, "until we find out what these wenches are here for. Who brought them over, anyway?"

"Mr. Hardwick, that dealer down on Beale Street that only handles the real fancies, that's who. And he's probably going to take us back with him to the sales pens," he cried harder than ever. "I just knew this slave's life was too good to last," he looked at the rest of us with a growing erection, a common occurrence when slaves like us got agitated for one reason or another.

"You mean you just walked out of the kitchen with Mr. Hardwick there, not even offering him a cold beer or a Coke?" Steward asked incredulously. "If he tells the master how disrespectful you were, we'll all get our rumps beaten still we can't sit down and miss more than just a couple of meals, I'll wager."

The brown steward hurried to the kitchen to make amends muttering the 'white nigger' was going to get beaten by more than just the master if he missed a meal over this shocking lack of decorum on the part of a presumably well trained house slave. Simultaneously, he told us to get back to work and for Phallus to go stick his head in a bucket of water to calm down before he did even more damage than he already had.

Within two or three minutes, Steward returned with a big smile on his face.

"Seems we'all going to do some fucking ourselves," he exclaimed as he unconsciously reached down and began stroking himself to a full erection. "Mr. Hardwick made arrangements to have us boys service his wenches that need a good knocking up. They're all in heat and ready to produce some puppies for whoever they're sold to. You know a wench always sells better if there's a puppy in her belly. Sort of like getting two for one when they sells her and it shows she'll be a good breeder with a new little pickaninny on the way."

"We're going to fuck a woman?" the mulatto Show Boy asked, obviously astonished.

"That's how you make a new little slave, stupid," Steward answered. "Ain't you even seen slaves breeding before?"

"Not that I can remember," Show Boy replied rather sincerely. "Heard tell about it, but never actually seen it."

"Then I guess you've never been put to a wench before?" Steward went on, still stoking himself.

"Not that I can remember," Show Boy echoed his previous reply.

The rest of us broke out laughing at that response. We all knew the breathtakingly handsome mulatto was pretty dim most of the time, having to have most instructions repeated three or four times before he seems to understand, but this was too much.

"Oh, even you'd remember it if you were, I reckon," Steward laughed. "Nothing to fret about, Show Boy, you'll probably like it once you get going."

"You saying this slaveboy going to be doing the fucking, instead of a master fucking me?" he slowly processed the information. "Is that alright, me being a slave? I didn't know slaveboys allowed to be the ones doing the fucking - I thought slaves just to be fucked," the mulatto struggled.

"You're right most of the time, but once in a while, when the master wants to breed us, we're the ones doing the fucking for a change," Steward's smile got even bigger along with his erection.

"We're to make slave babies for the master?" Show Boy reduced the conversation down to the basics since he didn't understand the word 'breeding.'

"Sure are," Steward responded as he indicated we should all move back to the rear entrance where Mr. Hardwick had been left with his string of slave women.

Once we were in the serving kitchen which was just off the rear entrance, Mr. Hardwick already had the five light skinned beauties down on their hands and knees spaced around the floor of the large room with their legs spread wide and their pussies stretched slightly open. The dealer's fingers had obviously been busy as each of the girls were "wet" in response to his manipulations and were obviously lubricated with some KY jelly he had brought in a small tube with him. When the girls sneaked a look at us entering the room, naked and mostly erect, they giggled, unconsciously licked their lips, and spread their legs a little wider in anticipation.

"Ah, Jonah," Master Fulton beamed as he strode into the room. I thought that was you I heard down here. Right on time, I see," he commented as he glanced at his fine pocket watch. "And I see you brought those wenches in heat you were talking about. You're sure they're in season to get knocked up?"

"I've been timing them since they last had their period and this should be their peak for mating," Mr. Hardwick responded professionally. "If don't take today, we put them to the boys again tomorrow like you said."

"And if they still don't take, you bring them back in a month and we'll get them covered again and again until, my God, they either take or they've gone sour on you for breeding."

Mr. Hardwick reared back in laughter. "We fuck a brood until she can't remember anything but being fucked before we give up. Rarely run across a brood who can't be bred properly if some decent seed's put in her. I assume all these studs proven?" he inquired.

"Nary a one as far as I know, Jonah. These pretty boys have never been the one's doing the fucking as far as I know, but that's no reason to doubt their seed. We're talking about virgin studs here - that should make the seed even stronger," he guffawed.

"Once I saw you strutting down the street with this handsome passel, I just knew I needed to use them for breeding. There's a good mix of the colors we're looking for nowadays in the 'fancy' market, they're real muscular and powerful looking, they're all well hung like the buyers demand nowadays, and they're about as good looking as slaveboys get. Mated to these light skinned beauties you see here on the floor all ready to go, the offspring should be top quality and, a few years down the line, bring about a good a price as you ever see on the venue block."

"Well, you're paying me enough for their seed," Master Fulton admitted. "Of course, I understand I only get paid the stud fee if the broods take."

"That's the standard arrangement with stud fees - no one's willing to pay for blanks," he acknowledged.

"You pick out who you want with which of your broods if it makes any difference," Master Fulton said looking around back to us. "I see they're all hard and ready to go," he smiled.

"All my broods are light skinned so it won't make any difference with this bunch of yours. The worst I can do is a mulatto with your pure black and most of the others will end up as white looking as that 'white nigger' over there with that big dick that looks like it's about to pop off he's so eager. Of course, a few of the pups revert back, as they say, and will come out darker than the stock they've been bred from, but that's tolerable in that, with beautiful stock like this to start with, even the dark ones are damn good looking and still have a lot of white features to them. We're lightening the breed over time, you know, Mr. Fulton, and, along with that, breeding out some of the things buyers don't like much, like hairy bodies, flat noses, pimply skin, big fat lips, and that wool like hair. Another generation or so and, except for the field and industrial slaves, it's going to be hard to tell a slave from a master by the way they look except, of course, the slaves should turn out to be a lot better looking in general," he laughed. "Nobody's breeding us deliberately, so we just stay ugly and kind of puny," he slapped his thigh in enjoyment at his little observation. "Even those industrial and field slaves are being lightened quite a bit and certainly being made to have prettier faces while at the same time making them even bigger, stronger, and sturdier while we're at it."

"Slave breeding is becoming quite a science in itself," Master Fulton observed. "I read in the 'Memphis Observer' the other day that by the year 2060, slaves will be sold by categories and the slaves in each of those categories will be so alike they're look almost like brothers if not twins. Futhermore, the author claimed, by then slaves will be bred toward traits like obedience, response to authority, and compliance so a lot less training will be necessary. But the real surprise was that no matter what category of slave you were looking at, any of them would be handsome, well built, disease-resistant, sexually attractive and eager to perform in that area, and hard working in their particular line of work without much need for a whip over their head to get the upmost out of them. Is that too fanciful, do you think Mr. Hardwick, you being in the breeding business and all?"

"Not fanciful at all, Mr. Fulton. In fact, I think we'll be way beyond that by then based on the progress we've made over the last 30 years. Why just a few years ago, slaves were being bred just wily-nilly. Just put a stud to any old mare and hope for the best, or even worse, in the most pitiful examples of poor slave management, just harvesting whatever crop resulted from all the random matings going on at your place. Slave stock is so randy, there was always a big crop even when you weren't controlling it in any way. But since we started actually controlling the breeding of the slaves, in just a few years we've already got a steady supply of 'fancies' available all easy on the eye and eager to please their masters in bed and a much better stock of field hands and industrial workers in the pens that are sturdier, bigger built, and without a lot of the ugly traits that used to plague that breed. All that in just a generation or two. Imagine what you could do in 10 or 20 generations of planned breeding. I imagine by no later than 2075, you could tell them what you want exactly and they could produce it. Well, we better get started with some of this scientific breeding right now before these broods get all tuckered out pushing their pussies out for a good fucking down there on the floor."

Mr. Hardwick then grabbed me and led me behind the first slave girl in the lineup, put Phallus in back of the next girl, Shaft, the jet black boy, in back of the next one, ShowBoy in back of the next one, and Steward in back of the last one. He then took a small slave whip which had been attacked to his belt and snapped it to get our attention.

"You boys been hired out to serve stud for a little while," he explained. "Your purpose now is to make a new little slave pup with the wench in front of you. I understand most of you are new to this, so let me explain. You've all been fucked plenty up your ass yourself for your master's pleasure. This is no difference except now you're going to stick your dick up the wenches pussy in front of you, that's the hole a wench has below her asshole. That second hole in the wench is the babymaking hole so that's the one you use, not their asshole. Now I want you to get down on your haunches so you can stick your dick up that hole beneath the wench's asshole and stick it in all the way and then start pumping, just like the master's pump their dicks into your assholes - no different, really - it's just your dick is going up the babymaking hole. You keep pumping fast and hard until you shoot a big load up there and don't pull out until every last drop of your seed is up them just as far as you can shove it up. Even then, you stay in them until I've felt your balls to make sure you've unloaded everything you've got into the wenches to make a good slave baby. After that, I've give you a short rest and then you'll do the same thing again and then I've give you another longer rest, and then you'll be sticking your dick a third time up that baby making hole so we make sure the wench is pumped full of your seed. These wenches are wet and dripping for you and are at the peak of their rutting season, so they're eager to be fucked, especially by nice looking, big dicked boys like you. I know this is new to you boys, but my guess is you're going to really like it. It's going to be a ride of your life if you haven't studded before. How many of you slaveboys been studded before? Just say "yes sir" if you been put to stud before."

Only ShowBoy said 'yes sir.'"

"When was that, boy?" Mr. Hardwick asked interestingly.

"Master Fulton, he fuck me most everyday, Master," ShowBoy replied politely.

"He stupid or what?" Master Hardwick asked Master Fulton.

"He's stupid," Master Fulton confirmed. "I doubt if he can figure out the difference between fucking and being fucked. As he says, he's certainly been fucked often enough, but I doubt if anyone's ever put him to stud. He's been with me since he was just a young kid."

"Well, we're breeding for looks today, not brains. As you know, Mr. Fulton, a bed buck doesn't need too many brains to be good in bed and that's what we're breeding for today."

With a crack of his whip, we were order to "get going." Steward and I were the only ones, apparently, who had been put to a female before and we proceeded without hesitation. Certainly, the beautiful young wench beneath me was more appealing than the crusty Mistress Harmon I had serviced previously and Steward acted like he was in slave heaven, but, then, he had told me on many occasions he liked women better than men - not that it mattered since he was a slave. But the other three were "virgins" in this area and Mr. Hardwick had to take their pricks in hand and guide them into the right hole and start them pumping away with some sound smacks to their rumps.

Within five minutes, we had all emptied our balls into the wenches amid a lot of moaning and sighing beneath us, and then felt our balls being squeezed by Mr. Hardwick to make sure we had emptied them as ordered. Only then, one by one, were we allowed to withdraw and take a rest kneeling in back of the excited female broods, all flushed and panting from the good fucking they had just received. They were allowed to stand up and stretch for 10 minutes or so before being ordered to resume their receptive positions once again and, with a crack of the slave whip over our butts, we were ordered to "mount the wenches" once again and start "pumping and make sure you get it all the way in, especially when you shoot."

This time around it took longer to pump out a load, and, as I looked around, all our bodies were wet with sweat and the room was filled with the strong smell of sex, loud moans, grunts, sighs, and the ever-present sound of flesh slapping against flesh as we were mated. Seeing all five couples being forced mated like this reminded me stronger than ever that slaves were just animals. Here was indisputable proof - we were even being breed exactly like animals. Bred with whom our owners chose; when they chose; right under their eye; and under the supervision of a whip. For reasons I still can't explain, I started crying but didn't dare stop doing what I had been ordered to do. I looked around trying desperately to maintain my erection and noticed Shaft and Phallus were really struggling to do what they were told - their main problem being keeping their pricks stiff and upright despite a steady whip on their butts by the sharp-eyed Mr. Hardwick, obviously an expert in scheduled slave breedings like this. Amidst the sounds of the whip mixed with the slapping of skin, the groans and squeals, the gasps, the panting, the strong smells emanating from our steaming bodies, and, in my case, the tears streaming down my creeks, we again emptied our juices into the receptacles beneath us and were again given a rest to "recharge." The wenches beneath us were beginning to tire and stretched their frames to alleviate the cramps in their legs and arms. One, put to Shaft's huge black organ, had tears spilling down her cheeks, but I couldn't tell whether it was from the pain of having such a huge instrument rammed up her repeatedly, being bred with a pure black (perhaps for the first time), or, like me, some obscure inner feeling of shame at "being bred." Master Winfield, back on the breeding farm, had always told us "slaves shouldn't think - it just gets them into trouble." I tried to heed his sage counsel now and pushed the thought about "being bred" out of mind. That made it a lot easier to start concentrating on getting my prick back hard and eager if I was going to avoid Mr. Hardwick's whip and some missed meals from Master Fulton. I recalled being fucked by Master Fulton just yesterday and how I had got so excited I had shot all over the floor while he was fucking me long and hard with his own substantial tool. Within seconds, I was hard and ready for action.

The third time around took the longest, but we all succeeded eventually in emptying our balls once again and were allowed to withdraw after Mr. Hardwick had squeezed our balls hard to make sure they were truly empty.

"Same time next week?" Master Fulton asked Mr. Hartwick.

"Same time, but with a different batch of wenches to be covered. If any of this batch today don't take, I won't bother you with them tomorrow, but will bring them back next time they're in heat."

"They should take after all that," Master Fulton laughed. "Smells like a barnyard in here - those wenches of yours sure put out a scent when they're in season."

"Let's hope for the best," Mr. Hardwick concluded as he snapped his whip once again and ordered the wenches to their feet. Within a minute, both he and the wenches were gone and Master Fulton lost no time in telling Steward to get us busy cleaning first ourselves and then the floor slippery by now with all the juices and sweat dripping off the rutting bodies.

We were put to making slave babies for the next five years, each and every week at the exact same time with a new set of wenches beneath us outside the occasional one that "didn't take" and was slipped back in when she was next "in heat." We never knew their names, only had fleeting glances of their faces since we had to fuck them from the rear like all other animals, and never got so see any of the offspring, let along hear about what happened to them or where they were being reared for market. If they all "took" at a reasonable rate, I figured each of us was producing at least 40 pups a year, or 200 new slaves every year if you counted in all five studs. Shaft always wondered how many of his pups turned out to be black, Phallus wondered whether his output were all white, and ShowBoy still couldn't understand why we were put to women slaves once a week when he strongly preferred men partners. Steward was the only one who actually seemed to enjoy the breeding sessions in that he still, after all these years, resented being fucked and having to suck off men although he had accepted long ago he had no choice in the matter and just accepted his fate.

"I just love those soft bodies of the wenches and the smell of a hot cunt," he confided in me. "Never have learned to appreciate having to take a really big one up my butt or having to swallow a big one down my throat, although, as a slave, I know I have to pretend I'm just loving it not to offend the master. In fact, if you never tell anyone, I'll tell you I just hate it really, but I know slaves can't hate anything their master is in favor of."

In contrast, Phallus and Shaft both confided they hated being put to the wenches and found it all they could do to get through the forced matings without losing their erections and the ability to shoot a good load. They especially hated the smell a rutting wench put out and sometimes threw up once a session was over and the master was out of sight. They, like myself, had either learned to enjoy what we slaves were bought to do primarily - service other men - or we were just that way to start with. In that respect we were lucky, especially as compared to Steward who just had to grin and bear it each time he was bent over a chair or ordered to his knees. ShowBoy seemed to like anything that kept him from missing a meal or getting his rump whipped. If they were breeding for smarts, Mr. Fulton used to say, ShowBoy would be the first to have his balls cut off.

I overheard Mr. Hardwick tell our master one day while we were humping away that while slaves were being bred "up" toward lighter and lighter skins, more muscular and appealing physiques, certainly more handsome faces, and always bigger and bigger sexual organs. Simultaneously, slaves were being bred "down" in brains.

"Just enough to take to their training well and understand the instructions given them," Mr. Hartwick said. "Anything over that tends to make them unruly and obstinate."

Master Fulton was in full agreement and used ShowBoy as an example. "Sexiest body in Memphis, damn good looks, one of the biggest pricks in this part of the state, minds his master like he was God Almighty, can last forever in bed doing any damn thing you want, never gets sick, is holding his looks over the years, and yet - stupid as a sheep."

"Point well taken, Mr. Fulton," Mr. Hardwick laughed. "That's exactly what we're aiming for with our future bed bucks, except they'll be a little lighter than he is and, hopefully, even bigger between their legs."

Most of our time wasn't spent breeding, of course. Most of our time was doing what we had always done - serving as bed bucks round the clock, keeping the house clean and tidy at all times, and being paraded around Memphis mainly naked to have everyone and their mother admire us and envy the Master who owned us.

But time takes its toll, even when you are rigorously exercised each day to prevent your body from deteriorating. Eventually, age catches up with even the best maintained slave and we were no exception. By the time most of us were into our early thirties, there were little winkles around our eyes, our hair was thinner and hints of gray were showing up, and it was getting harder and harder to maintain those constant erections our Master demanded.

We weren't too surprised then when our Master hooked a street leash to all five of our slave collars and walked us the short distance back where he had bought us - Slave Depot. There, after being thoroughly examined by their appraisal expert, we were unceremoniously traded in on five new boys still in their late teens, fresh from the breeding farms, and, like us, of unusual handsomeness, hugely endowed, easy to arouse, and of varying skin tones. Mr. Fulton had to pay a lot of money to "freshen his stock" like this, but we were still worth a little it seemed for the work that could be wrung out of us as industrial workers now that our sexual appeal had faded.

After a single night in Slave Depot's holding pens, we were sold as a lot to the Hyundai plant right outside Memphis which manufactured light trucks. By the end of the next day, we were chained by both a newly fitted shock collar and a manacle attached to our left ankle to a work station complete with a slave chow and water dispenser, a slave boy that came by with a chamber pot twice a day for us to crap in right there chained to the station, and a urinal jug attached right to the work station so we could relieve ourselves when the chamber pot boy wasn't there. The ankle manacle kept us from going anywhere ever, the shock collar kept us at full production. It was a clever arrangement worthy of our Korean masters. If we ever faltered in any way doing our assigned tasks in assembling the trunks, an ever watchful supervisor, in an air conditioned booth high above us, simply hit a switch and the next thing we knew we experienced the worst pain we had ever experienced in our life - the electrical jolt was so severe it usually resulted in severe skin burns around our collar. If the inspectors at the end of the line ever found a quality fault attributable to our assembly tasks, we weren't fed or watered for two days and a whipmaster was assigned to our particular work station to administer some of the harshest, cruelest beatings with a genuine bullwhip that I had only heard about up to this time. After such a beating, quality was usually perfect from then on, although the slave doing the work was left chained to his work station with an entire body, front and back, permanently scarred and often with torn muscle tissue from then on. Sometimes, the slave being "trained" in "quality control" died as a result of the training session, while others were left crippled for life, while a few others went insane. Most didn't die, however, and were kept chained to their work station in that they could still produce with all the control devices in place. There was no air conditioning and the heat inside the plant was like Hell itself, but other than the sweat in our eyes all the time, that was the least of our worries. At first, we were in constant need and showed hard all the times - before a week of the exhausting work, we seldom ever thought about sex, let alone have an erection as all our efforts were attuned to just surviving.

We worked like that for twelve years, right next to each other but not close enough to where we could ever touch each others bodies - 18 hours a day seven days a week, 365 days a year. Only when the production line shut down for 6 hours each night from midnight to 6 AM were we allowed say a few words to my colleagues chained next to me, sink down to the floor, find a place to curl up as far as our chain would allow, and fall into the deepest sleeps we had ever had - a result of total exhaustion. Other than that, our only rest was to crap when the young slave boy can around twice a day, and a four minute break every hour to get a drink, take a piss, and wash down a little slave chow. It was all scientifically arranged for maximum output with minimum loss from the rather cheap slave meat chained to the work stations. Our Korean owners called us "work units" when they took visitors through, but always referred to us as just "slave meat" when we were subjected to "quality control training," shocked to maintain output, or fucked when an engineer or plant manager felt a need to unload right then and there. For some reason, Shaft, the jet black slave, seemed to be their favorite to fuck who stoically bent over his work station or sunk down to his knees to accommodate them without a word one way or the other. I suppose he was too tired to comment.

At the end of 12 years, we were in our mid-forties and our bodies were clearly worn out. Our joints were stiff and sore from sleeping on the concrete floor and being on our feet the rest of the time, our flesh beginning to sag despite the heavy muscular demands of our work, our eyes red and blurry from years or sweat and squinting, our sex organs atrophying from lack of use, and our posture permanently stooped from being permanently chained to the work station by the heavy chains attached to our collars and the result of being bullwhipped periodically. Most of us had lost a lot of hair on our head, but lack of any shaving left out bodies hairy and unkempt, especially since we were never allowed to bath. We were a far cry from the beautiful bodies being paraded on the streets of Memphis just two decades ago, something we found hard to even remember now.

When recent whippings left us half dead but not more productive and when the shock collar, no matter how long they kept holding down the button, didn't increase our immediate output but simply left us quivering in neurological shock, we were unchained at long last from the work station, leashed by our collars, and taken down to a waiting slave delivery van, barely able to walk at all after all those years chained in place.

We knew where we were going. The final journey for any slave - the rendering plant. By that time, it was a relief and we actually welcomed this last trip. Our leashes were locked to the

bars lining the sides of the delivery van and when we arrived at our destination and were fastened upright to a conveyor belt by our neck collars, we witnessed, one by one of those in front of us on the conveyor, the final jolt - an electric prod set so high it looked like lightening when it touched the slave's hide. I watched Steward, then Phallus, then ShowBoy, then Shaft all twitch and quiver as death was delivered and their hide sizzled a bit where the prod was placed at a spot that wouldn't ruin the appearance of their hide once it was tanned. Whip scars added to the value as you tell from the most expensive luggage and attache cases these days, but recent tears and burns made the hides difficult to tan properly. It was my last thought - a thought I tried to blot out. As the prod approached, I remembered the advice of Master Winfield, even more appropriate at this time. "Slaves shouldn't think - it just gets them into trouble."

THE END

[Comments are always appreciated, even if only to let me know someone is actually reading this story. Readership always makes the time and effort of posting worthwhile. Send to anonymous4371@juno.com. Thanks. Bill Smith]