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Warning: This erotic fiction contains sexual experiences between fictional males. If this is not your thing, leave now. Furthermore, any similarity to any person, place or thing living or dead is merely coincidental.
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Story codes: M, MM, SM, bd
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Born – Chapter Twenty-One
The rigors of this new era in Sir Ben and Phil's slave company simplified my life in certain ways, yet in others forced new dimensions of my psyche. I no longer prepped for the catering business. This was now all done downtown. I now taught middle-aged slaves how to be proper manservants.
In most ways, this was a fun job. I missed being a full-time chef, but I did teach basic cooking skills to these new slaves. As a manservant slave, he must be aware of the essentials of food. The slave must be familiar with courses, etiquette, proper pronunciation of dishes, particularly any food referenced in French, have a general understanding of wines at least proper serving technique and subtleties such as knowing to serve on the right and remove from the left.
There were classes on how to clean, how to make beds, and how to be as invisible as possible except when needed. We also discussed in great detail how to anticipate a Master's every whim. The course was arduous and short. These slaves needed to be turned quickly. This meant keeping discipline of men that were more my father's age than mine. Most of the slaves were happy to be in this new situation away from the demands of their former life. In many ways, a slave has an easy life because it does not have to focus on family, money, home, cars, health, insurances, taxes... That is the perks of slavery. These former men, who were selling themselves to get out of the rat race, cooperated well with me.
However, there were a few that didn't totally get what they had signed up for. All our slaves received the hair removal treatment by Dr. Gatz. For some, the emasculation was hard to take, regardless that this was all explained to them prior to them agreeing to become slaves. A manservant must reduce his ego to a minimum. Some of these men had gotten themselves into trouble in the outside world because of their egos. These are the ones we had difficulty with.
Buyers of manservants typically do not want scarred slaves. They want decent, unmarred bodies even if the Master's purpose for the manservant did not include sexual pleasure. How does one control the unruly without a whipping?
Torture can come in many forms. If I was having a problem with one of the new recruits, one way to force cooperation is to have them witness one of Dr. Gatz's geldings. The farm never had any intention of castrating a manservant, but the argumentative didn't need to know that. We eventually included viewing an orchiectomy into the curriculum for all slaves just to bring home the point that their life and body was no longer theirs.
Anyone who gave me further trouble was subject to Sir Ben. Somehow after a meeting with Sir Ben, there was an understanding. The troublemaker 99% of the time never fought again. I know one thing, every slave virgin to male sex would much prefer getting fucked its first time by my dick than by Sir Ben's beer can. More than once, I would visit the slave pen after such a consultation with Sir Ben to see this formally straight macho stud in tears curled up in a ball crying for his mommy. The slave's cunt was stretched open and wet with lube, cum and blood.
Every so often, one of the Sir Ben conversions would ask specifically to be sold to a Master who would use it sexually. The slave had loved being raped by Sir Ben's cock so much that an unyielding desire was spawned in it. Depending on the slave's level of cooperation after the conversion, Sir Ben may grant the request. Other times, if the slave still gave me a problem, Sir Ben would make sure to sell it to a Master that didn't want it for sex, only for man service. That way the slave would spend its life desiring something that would never get again.
The final straw to the uncooperative would be a visit to Dr. Gatz's snipers. Time was of the essence with these slaves. Foolishness costs money. Dad told Sir Ben and Phil that too much time spent on one detracted from the focus of all. It was more cost effective to take a breakeven on one extra eunuch. I have to say that the darkest part of my psyche enjoyed the castration ceremonies of the uncooperative middle-aged male. I would usually run to a private spot on the property and work out a load remembering the scene or see if I could get Phil to fuck me as a bitch in heat bottom slut whore. Phil took great advantage of my sick desires. "Yeah fucker. You want to be a real girl? You want to not have a functioning dick any more? You want to have to wait for a real man to come and satisfy you? Fucking faggot slut whore..." On and on Phil would go. I loved it and came buckets grateful that I still could.
Ben and Phil hired sous chefs who knew nothing about the farm for the catering business. These chefs worked exclusively out of the kitchen in their downtown offices. This allowed Ben and Phil to have a weekly event and still focus on the slave business. The downtown chefs essentially ran the catering company. They knew nothing of the other business. Ben and Phil simply became figureheads and the face of the franchise at each event. Ben's magnetism ventured into every area. Socialite women would swoon over him. The catering company got lots of business just on the personality of Sir Ben and Phil. I'm talking about how hot each of them was beyond Sir Ben's ability to manipulate others without knowing it was happening to them and thoroughly wanting to be manipulated by Sir Ben. They knew he wasn't available to fuck their dried up cunts, but that didn't keep them from lusting after him and Phil. With the expansion of the chefs, the catering business became more legit and also legitimized Sir Ben and Phil. This was the perfect cover for the less socially acceptable business of theirs a few miles out of town.
My slave life lessons that Dad, fag and Phil were teaching me were becoming clearer as time went by. I was learning how to be dominant to the slaves-in-training, but still understanding my role as a slave. Phil was right; the problem with my relationship with Mr. Brown was that I didn't have distractions. This situation at the farm working with many people, being involved with Phil and fag, plus having my Dad around (though rarely seen) kept me from brooding as I did with my previous Master.
Sir Ben had not been around me very much since the transition of the business. I spoke to him when I had a problem with one of the manservants. We were formal, yet, there was no sexual tension. Sir Ben had not required my body. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever have him again. Was this a test of my devotion? Was this a test of my discipline? Was this a test of my slavery? Sometimes I would see him with his shirt off after obviously fucking one of the slaves. That incredible broad chest, matt of brown hair and those man nipples that could comfort a baby drove me nuts. I wanted to feel him so badly. The thought of never having sex with Sir Ben sent shivers down my spine. I was devoted, but that truly would be the ultimate test of servitude. Could I manage being Sir Ben's loyal slave for the rest of my life and never be given physical intimacy with my Master? Those were hard thoughts that I sometimes took out my frustrations on fag, my Dad or one of my slaves.
I did know that eventually I would become a total bottom again. I still was quite shocked at the fact that I did fuck anyone, even if they were another slave. Taking a straight slave's cherry did a lot to release my tensions for not having sex with Ben. Dad loved for me to fuck him. I think that he had wanted me to fuck him for a very long time; probably even as a boy. I'm glad he waited. Since I spent my entire adolescence masturbating to slave porn and imagining myself as one of the characters in some raunchy Nifty Authoritarian section storyline, Dad coming on to me would probably have fucked me up bad. Fag received my ringed cock less and less often; more and more our relationship was one of kissing, holding and jacking off. He seemed happy with that. Fuck, fag was always happy. He was as content in life as Dad and fag was a year younger than me! Why was he so much wiser when it had been said to me that it takes a long time for a young man, slave or otherwise, to live in the moment?
One day all these answers came to me. They came from Sir Ben. Sir Ben came into my manservant class one afternoon. He said, "Jim, dismiss your class for the day. Send them to fag's cooking class as observers."
"Yes, Sir." The slaves walked out of the room not saying a word. They knew better. I was scared. Sir Ben had never interrupted my class.
"Come with me, boy." Sir Ben ordered.
I felt all of my dominance flowing out of my body as if I was witnessing the death of someone and felt their spirit leave to the heavens. I walked head bowed looking at his huge legs and tremendous feet. Sir Ben was clothed, but I imagined myself on my knees in worship in front of this incredible hulk of a man.
Sir Ben led me to the dungeon. My cock became even harder at the thought that I may actually get to touch Sir and that he would touch me.
Touching in the conventional sense of the term may be a stretch. Sir Ben took me to heights of ecstasy I had never experienced before. Sir took me to the center of the dungeon, which is the staging area for all things pain. While I was still clothed in my chef's jacket, jeans and sneakers, he attached leather wrists restraints with d-hooks to my arms. He did the same to my ankles. I wondered why Sir had not removed my clothes.
Sir chained me with outstretched arms and to the concrete floor with legs spread about shoulder width. There was plenty of play in the chains so I knew that I was in for a whipping. I was already so grateful I could hardly stand it.
I happened to have my best chef's jacket on that day. The coat had the script of the name of Sir Ben and Phil's company. I loved that jacket. They had given that to me when I first worked for them freelance. Sir took his big paw of a hand ripping the breast pocket off. I was in such shock for a moment then I started to cry. Why was he doing that to my favorite coat? He took a pair of scissors cutting holes out where my nipples were. The paws then went after my nipples twisting and pulling on them while I screamed in agony and lust. My knees would buckle from the desire for more.
"Stand up faggot. Keep yourself steady, god damn it." Sir ordered.
Sir grabbed the top of a sleeve tearing it off me. My god he was strong. Chef's coats are incredibly well-made and durable. To rip the fabric is like ripping a phone book. Sir did the same to the other side. Then he took the back at the bottom of the coat and tore it up the center exposing my scarred slave torso. Now the jacket was nothing but a collar and front; my back naked and unprotected.
"Whish!" Came the whip across my back. I had never been whipped with any clothes on before. This was erotic and hot; my cock straining in my jeans for release. Oh it felt so good to have the leather impaling me again. My back had not borne this pleasure in a while; since Ben made his point to Phil that fateful day Phil and I were tied together while Sir flogged me.
Dad was more spot on than ever. I understood on a deeper level today; "The whip has been my greatest friend. The whip has taught me that I am an object to be used by humans." "Crack!" I could feel that one cut into my skin. I was happy that I was going to have new scars; scars that had been created at the kindness of my Master, Sir Ben. "Snap!" Sir was merciless and methodical. Each gash was extraordinarily timed. Each movement was given to exponentially heighten the level of hunger and love for my Master.
When it was over, I collapsed to the floor. Sir came around doing the one thing that made me so appreciate him. He dressed my wounds. Every time he took the alcohol and cotton balls out to clean up the blood, he was a completely different person. The compassion in his touch was 180 from what had just happened. Those same strong hands that had held the whip creating these wounds became the instruments of healing. His whole essence was one of deep concern and caring. How could anyone be able to turn on a dime like that? His body was still breathing heavy and there was sweat pouring off his brow, yet, he was now a completely different person; a person of strong kindheartedness. He had done this each time I had received his wrath. This was why I could devote my entire life to him.
The moment went away as quickly as it had come. Sir kicked me in the rump with his huge boot saying, "Fucking get up, queer."
Now here I was still chained. The blood on my back had stopped. I still had on my jeans, my tennis shoes and part of my chef's jacket. Sir came around with a pair of scissors cutting my jeans off. He did the same to my shoes. He threw the tattered remnants on the floor in front of me. Lastly came my jacket. Sir simply ripped the front open; the buttons flying in all directions. Now I was naked. I was standing. I was looking at the rags on the floor part of which was the ruins of my favorite chef's coat. Tears streamed down my face.
"Lose your attachment to things, boy. They are not important. There is only one thing that is important in your life, boy. What is that, boy?" Sir questioned.
"Serving you, Sir."
"That's right, boy. That's right."
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