Dad And Me by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 16
The following day Charles came and stopped me cutting the grass with dad and told me to follow him. He walked briskly, with me trailing after, right across "our" part of the plantation towards the gate that gave entrance to the "working" part, where the niggas all lived and slaved away on the crops. As we approached it, my collar began to tingle, and I remembered what I'd been told all those years ago about not trying to leave the place. Charles looked around, saw me hesitating, then got a small thing, rather like a cell phone, from his pocked and keyed in some stuff. A moment later my collar went to its normal dead state, and Charles looked at me and remarked sternly "Don't try to make a run for it, or do anything stupid, Steve - remember, we've still got your dad in here. And, in any case, you wouldn't get very far, without any money, or any clothes!"
I recognised the bit about clothes as I was only wearing the brief, stained loincloth which was all we wore for cutting the grass, but, to tell you the truth, I'd rather forgotten about money, until Master Charles mentioned it - well, for year now I'd never had a need to buy anything, had I? I wondered, idly, if the USA was still even using the same dollars and stuff that I'd know before enslavement. Still, I could see Charles' point, and so I just followed him through the gate and along the path towards the nigga sheds. It was quite a thrill, actually - you probably can't imagine how it feels to have spent so long confined into one area - albeit a very large one, as the gardens and yard were extensive - and suddenly to be allowed out, into some different environment. As we walked along I saw several nigga coffles coming from or going to the fields - I felt really sorry or them, as their collars were thick, black iron and you could just tell that they were weighting their heads down, even without the lengths of chain joining them. Each coffle had an overseer with it, an overseer with a tawse and a cane (as Mr Stryker used on dad and me occasionally), but the overseers appeared to be much more active - if the coffle halted, or if there was some kind of hold-up that meant that the chains went very slack, or very tight, they'd quickly go along the line of slaves, slashing and striking, to restore what I assumed was "proper" separation between the niggas.
I remembered dad telling me how awful life was in the coffles, even without the thought of all those big nigga dicks fucking you - and wondered if this is why I was being brought here: Was II going to be attached to a coffle, and made to work the rest of my life chained like this? But then I remembered Mr Hawthorne saying that I was a really expensive piece of property, and so it seemed to me that he wouldn't "waste" me just chaining me up in a nigga coffle, and I relaxed a bit.
We stopped at a kind of corral - a fairly big open space, surrounded by a post and rail fence, and watched as a a truck reversed in through the gate into it. There were several overseers, with their canes and goads out, rather than their tawses, and as I looked more closely I could see that the truck was one of those you usually find transporting animals - they have kind of slatted sides to let the stock breathe as the truck bowls along. Except that peeking out through these slats were not sheep or cattle, but niggas!
"We're getting a new delivery of niggas today, Steve", Charles told me, "And so it's really convenient - I can get a lot of stuff done to you without needing a lot of additional admin, and expense. You can just join the new niggas for a bit, then I can collect you tonight." As he said this, the overseers opened the tailgate of the truck, and the niggas inside began to stumble out: they were a very mixed bunch as far as dress was concerned, with some being in Jeans and Ts, some on slave shorts, and some wearing those really fanciful outfits you sometimes see free niggas wearing (well, you used to, as I recall) - you know the sort of thing: baggy white tracksuits, with all sorts of odd words on them, or basketball gear several sizes too big, as if to emphasise their limbs. I assumed all these niggas were newly enslaved and had been bought by Mr Hawthorne, or why else would they have been transported like this, and be here?
"Right, you men", an overseer called out through a bull horn as the niggas stood there, evidently wondering what to do. "Strip off - we need you all naked. You were all convicted and enslaved, and here at Manderleigh, nigga slaves don't need clothes: your nigga hides are good enough."
I watched as they behaved as you might expect: some of them were clearly resigned to have become slaves, and just stood there shedding their garments onto the ground, and some of them rebelled, and started shouting and arguing - the overseers soon stopped this, though, as a few examples were made, and once the others saw the effects of a prod on the body, all of them began to obey the order. They stood there then, and again there were two basically different types: one who was proud and unashamed, and just stood there, his hands by his sides, or clasped neatly behind him; and the other, who tried to shield his dick and his balls with his hands, as if this was going to do him any good in the long term! I mean, surely everyone knows that niggas sold into work on a plantation go around naked? As I thought this, Charles said "You too, Steve - drop that stupid loincloth, and go and join them."
"Please, sir, please don't make me join a coffle.... Whatever it is I've done, I'll try harder..."
Charles just laughed. "It's nothing you've done! It's what you are, how you look - you heard me telling my uncle why no one is choosing you to stud. So I'm just using the regular services that we put new niggas through.... You'll be back cutting the grass, with your daddy, before the day's out, don't you worry." I wasn't sure that I could trust him, but I didn't have much choice, did I? I let the grubby shred of cloth fall to the ground, and strode over to join the niggas in the centre of the corral.
They all stared at me - well, I suppose they weren't used to seeing a whitey naked, especially not a whitey like me, magnificently tanned, with a superb body! I stood there, definitely one of the "unashamed" guys, and gradually the overseers herded us into a line, then marched us off out of the corral and in to a barn at the side. As we went through the door though, we went between two parallel rows of horizontal bars - one at about knee height, one at waist height, and one that was just under my armpits. They shouted at us to put our arms over the top two rails, and then we just stood there, and waited.
After a time, the line shuffled forward, then stopped, then shuffled forward again. Outside the bars an overseer was sitting at a small desk, and Master Charles was standing next to him. "This is the one", I heard him say. "Make sure you don't fuck it up, or you'll be out of a job!".
I watched as the overseer wrote something on what looked a bit like one of those luggage tags you see hanging from suitcases at airports, then he stood up and clipped it to my left tit - there was a kind of small crocodile clip, and a tiny length of chain on the tag. I hissed under my breath as the clip bit into the sensitive tissue of my nip, and it felt really humiliating then to have to stand there with that tag hanging down from me. I saw Master Charles smiling to himself as he saw me, and I was tempted to reach up and snatch the thing off - except that the overseer was there with his goad at the ready. "Move on!", the man snapped, and I took a few paces forward, until I was right behind the guy in front, and stopped.
It seemed to take almost the entire morning as we all stood there lined up between the bars. At one point the overseers made us all move so close together that I was completely sandwiched between the guys on either side of me, my dick pressing into the cleft of the butt of the guy in front, my chest pushing against his sweaty back, and with the guy behind me doing the same to me. Well, it wasn't very special for me, as I was after all used to being in very close contact with niggas, but clearly it was a bit different for the guy behind me, as I felt his dick stiffen and stab at me as we stood there. It must have been really embarrassing for him, as he was muttering "Sorry, dude" to me, until an overseer came along and ordered him and me to remain silent.
The first thing they did as we stood sandwiched there was to take us one at a time into a wider section of the parallel bars and shave us - well, they looked at the tag hanging from my nip and I was spared that, as of course I already had the amount of body hair that Mr Hawthorne liked, and my balls were always shaved clean anyway. But the niggas were shaved totally smooth, as they stood there between the "rails". Some of them tried to protest as the razors ran over their chests and pubes, but it was no good - the overseers totally ignored their pleas, and brought their canes down onto the shoulders of the niggas as they stood there if they made too much noise. But I wasn't so lucky at the next "station" - most of the guys seemed to be passed through without halting, but when they got to me they came and strapped a ball gag into my mouth - it was already wet and slimy from a previous usage, but that wasn't a particular problem for me: I mean, when you're used to kissing guys like My Hawthorne, and dad, a bit of spit on a ball gag isn't anything to worry about, is it? I wondered why they'd done it, though.
A moment later a gate was closed across the front of the "rails" holding me in and I was pushed right up against it, and then another gate was closed behind me and squeezed right up against my butt. As I stood there, now pinned helplessly, one of the overseers reached in and quickly tied my knees to the side railings with a leather thong, so preventing me from clamping them together. I was now completely helpless as I stood there, unable to move my body at all, and two more leather thongs then quickly went around my wrists, holding them to the side rails, further increasing my sense of helplessness.
I stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck was going on, and wondering why so many of the niggas had just been passed straight through, and I'd been stopped. And then I found out why: another overseer-type stepped up to the side of the rails, and then I began to scream - well, only inarticulate muffled sounds came out, but all the power of my lungs was going into screaming! The pain that sot through my dick was absolutely indescribable, and it seemed to go on and on. It was hot, and searing, and kind of sharp and spiky, and there was nothing I could do to stop it: lashed and pinned helplessly there, I desperately tried to move my body in any way possible, but I could not - and then I knew what was happening to me: they were circumcising me, without the benefit of any anaesthetic. They'd pinned me like this so there was no possibility of me moving, and the ball gag was designed to stop me alarming the other slaves, or distracting them from their work.
It went on and on, and then finally there was a shaft of pure agony, as I heard the overseer who'd being doing it say "There - he's done: that's the antiseptic and styptic solution - he should stop bleeding soon."
At the next "station" as my progress resumed again, through the tears that I had been unable to prevent pouring down my face, I watched the nigga in front of me to see what was happening, They pushed a rod through the bars in front of him, then pulled his head down so that his back was parallel to the ground, and a clamp was run across between the side bars, holding his neck there. I was looking directly at his ass right there in front of me, and the overseers quickly bent down and read his "tag" and read off a string of numbers. As I watched, a square box-like thing was moved across the nigga's back, and he was evidently in some discomfort, as his body tried to writhe, within the limits that it could, and he kept moaning. It didn't seem to take long as there was then a "clank" as the neck clamp was released and the belly rod pulled back, and the nigga stood up. There, right across his shoulders, where dad had "Joe" tattooed, the nigga now had a five digit number.
I now saw what was going on: they didn't bother to give these niggas names! They were so expendable, so much like dumb animals just to be herded in their coffles, that all they needed was an identifying number. It must be the ultimate degradation, when you think about it, to be owned by another man but for him to have so little regard for you that he doesn't even bother to give you a name, just some sort of inventory number.
But even as I thought this, the cold steel of the belly bar was pushed across in front of me, the overseer was pushing my head down, and the neck clamp closed around me, holding me there. "This is the fucking troublesome one!", the overseer called. "He's got to have letters, not numbers. It looks as if his name is 'Steve'." I had to stand there then, bent double, as they fiddled and messed around with the box thing, fitting different templates of something in to it. Then I felt the cold metal on the skin on my back, and the next moment there was an endless series of terrible pricking and prickling: now I would be like dad, I knew, with "Steve" right across my shoulders in future, as this was an automatic tattooer.
They had to do one more thing to me, though - my identification number had to be added in a second "pass", just as dad's was, on my lower back right on the slopes of the top of my butt, almost disappearing down the top of the crack.
They hadn't taken the ball gag out of me, but as we all moved along between the parallel bars confining us, they came and gagged the guy in front of me. The rails disappeared through a door, and I thought I could hear something on the other side of it but wasn't sure what. The door opened, I was encouraged to move forward through it, and found myself standing on a grill in the floor. There was a terrible sick stench in the room, and as I stood there, it was as if I was standing over some sort of open sewer. A belly bar came across again, I was bent and clamped once more so that I was again horizontal, and I wondered what the fuck was going to happen - after all, my back was already full of tattoos!
I suppose they don't want to alarm slaves, as they didn't bring out the branding iron until I was absolutely immobile and couldn't do anything about it.
I started to scream in sick anticipation even before I felt the kiss of its heat as it was brought near to my butt, but nothing can prepare you for the searing pain of having a white-hot branding iron pressed into your skin. And the terrible thing about it is that the pain goes on and on - they have to hold it in there, burning its way through the layers of your skin, I discovered later, or else the brand will simply heal over and not swell up properly to make the
sharp, raised mark in your hide that an owner wants. The singed smell of charring meat assailed my nose, and I knew it was my own flesh that was burning. And I found out why this station was on a grill over an open sewer, too - even I was totally unable to prevent my bowels opening - I just lost it, and a great slick of shit ran down my legs as I stood there whimpering and sobbing into the gag. At least the ice-cold water they used to wash my legs served to take a little of the terrible heat out of the brand, but only a very, very little.
It was over for me then - I already had a slim-line "high-tech" collar, of course. But the niggas in front of me had one more process to go through: the heavy iron collars that were favoured for niggas had to be sized, put around their necks, squeezed closed with a giant pincer-like device, and then welded permanently shut. Finally, we were routed back into the corral, where we all stood, looking utterly shell-shocked, and all hurting from our tattoos, and our terrible, scarring brands. It was worse for me, and a small number of the others, of course, as we also had the additional stinging pain from our circumcision. None of us spoke to each other - it was as if we simply could not believe what had happened to us. These poor guys had come in on the truck, many of them looking quite like "free men" as they were clothed, and all evidently very recently sentenced to enslavement. And now here they were, tattooed with their ownership number, branded with the big ornate "M" on their butts, their bodies shaved totally hairless, and the heavy collars bowing their necks.
And what did I think, when I could think above the waves of pain assaulting my senses? I now knew that I was a slave, finally, once and for all. I think that up until this point I'd harboured, deep down, some glimmer of hope that it was all sort of bad dream. Dad was clearly a slave, with his tattoo and brand and rings around his dick and balls. But I, after all, had had none of this done: other than getting fucked, and being made to run around substantially naked a lot of the time, my body had been untouched. Sure, I was wonderfully, deeply tanned, and my hair had lightened from the constant exposure to the sun, but other than that, I was still "me". I was still, somewhere inside, a "man", But now I could have no illusions - they'd taken my 'skin, tattooed me, and seared the "M" for Manderleigh into my flesh. There was no way that I could doubt that I was a slave - there's no way that one man can order this to be done to another, unless he is absolutely and totally confidant that that man belongs to him utterly and completely, in the same way that the owner owns any piece of his property. It was this realisation, as much as the terrible pain I was in, that made me dreadfully, totally depressed.
I had no idea what Charles might order for me next - I watched as they niggas were taken and their collars chained together to make coffles, and wondered what was going to become of their lives now: not so long ago I'd seen these guys getting out of the slave transporter as "men" and now here they were , like animals - animals who were to be kept naked without even a scrap of cloth to cover their most intimate parts, animals who were numbered, and not even named, animals that were going to be chained together for the rest of their lives, animals who would be whipped and prodded to make them give all their strength and energy for their owner. Resignedly, I thought that this would be me, too: at least as a slave with dad I'd had some variety in my life, but now as a coffled animal there would be nothing except the unrelenting toil in the fields of the plantation, and, I realised, endlessly being used by the niggas at night in the nigga sheds, as dad had always worried about.
But Charles came up and ordered me to follow him, and through a haze of pain I stumbled after him, and back through the gate into "our" bit of the manicured and cultivated pleasure grounds surrounding the house. That night in the mower shed it was almost impossible to sleep - I couldn't lie on my back, because of the tattooing and the brand on my butt, and if I tried to lie on my face, the sharp stabbing pains from the wounds on my dick made sleep impossible. Dad tried to all he could to make me comfortable - if I lay of one side and kept very still, it was just about bearable. But you know how it is with two guys in a narrow bed - however hard he tried, dad sometimes brushed against me, and then I'd wake up, moaning with the discomfort.
Work wasn't much fun the next day, either - Charles was by the pool when I appeared to do the usual morning routine, and watched as I tried my best to do the cleaning and sweeping without stretching my back and butt too much. When I'd finished, he beckoned me over to him and then ran the tips of his fingers lightly over my various wounds and scars. "Nice, Steve", he murmured, as if to himself, "Very nice. You're so much more like a slave now."
He'd evidently ordered Stryker to give me no respite from normal toil, either, and I suppose I ought to have been grateful that it was a grass cutting day - at least then I didn't have to wear shorts, which would have constantly hurt my brand scar, as our loincloths left it mercifully uncovered.
Still, things got better, day by day - I was a tough, young, fit guy, after all, and about a week later Charles again examined me as I was doing the pool. As I stood there, trembling slightly, he took my dick in the open palm of his upturned hand, and gently stroked at it with the tip of his fingers. "Nice", he said, not to me particularly, just generally making an observation. "Nice, now we can see you properly, and the head isn't covered by all that 'skin. Now, let's see....."
He carried on stroking me, and, naturally, I started to go erect. Soon my erect dick was lying there in his hand, and now his finger tips brushed the area just under the flange of he head, where the skin was still pink and tender from my 'skinning. "This will soon colour up", he told me, "And then your dick will be more uniform - our 'skinners do a lot of men, comparatively speaking, and they usually do a nice, neat job, like this. No scarring, no excess skin when you're soft, and yet no obstruction to a full erection. Just what a stud needs, and what the guests like to see: you're altogether more, more...." He groped for words for a moment and then went on "More sleek. Yes, that's it - sleek. I always think that our guests appreciate a really nice, buffed body, but they want to see a dick that's neat, and sleek, as you are now. I think you're going to find yourself busy, Steve. You seem to have healed well - have you fucked with this yet?"
"No, sir... It's still a bit tender..."
"And so you've had to just jerk off! That must be hard, being in bed with a body like Joe..."
"No, sir. I haven't been able to jerk off, either."
Charles carried on stroking my dick as he was speaking, and it was getting distinctively uncomfortable. "So you've got a whole week's worth of cum in those balls, have you? Well, I wonder if we can stud you this afternoon? Still, it wouldn't be much of a show, I suppose, as you'd shoot almost as soon as we'd introduced you into her!"
He was proved wrong, though, as the stimulation of his fingers on my sensitive dick proved too much. I felt my balls suddenly tighten, and before I could do anything about it, I began pumping out huge streams of cum, with incredible force. They shot out and fortunately Charles had my dick pointing slightly to the side of him, so long, white streaks of my cum appeared on the tiles of the pool surround.
"You fucking animal!", he screamed at me. "Look at what you've done! How dare you!"
"Sir, I'm sorry, sir... But you stimulated me, sir, and I haven't cum for a week..."
"You fucking animal! And you haven't learned, have you, Steve? You're trying to blame someone else, as usual. How dare you even think that this disgusting exhibition is anything other than your own fault. I've a good mind to have Stryker take you out and flog you - it's about time you slave learned to control yourselves."
I was seething inside, as once again, it was so fucking unfair. I mean, if you hadn't been able to cum for a week, and then someone started stroking and teasing your dick, what would you do? I opened my mouth to tell him this, but somehow, with a heroic effort, managed to get myself under control. "I'm sorry, sir", I muttered, although I had to fight to get he words out.
"Just as well!", he said. "After all this trouble I'm going to, it would be a pity if your back and butt was all torn up with whip scars: it would spoil the effect I'm trying to create."
He let go of my dick then, but held his hand up to my face. I could see that there were a few dribbles of my cock snot there which had evidently dribbled out either before or after I'd shot. I realised what he wanted, and reached out to hold his wrist gently, so that I could bring my head down and gently lap his palm and fingers clean. The utter subservience of this action seemed to calm him, and when I'd finished and let his hand go and stood there in a submissive slave stance, he just turned and walked away. I have to say I breathed a sigh of relief - if he'd ordered all this stuff to be done to me already, I didn't doubt that he'd order me to be flogged, if I upset him.
Dad and I were working away later that day, though, when Charles appeared again. "Come with me, Steve!", he snapped. Dad looked at me, and his eyes said it all - "Just do as you're told! Don't make trouble! Keep calm!". But then Charles said "Oh, and you too, Joe... There's a bit of unfinished business for you as well."
Dad and I followed him and we went into the workshop where minor repairs and stuff were done to the plantation machinery, and there was a guy who, I realised, dad recognised. "I want the same thing done to this one...", Charles said, pointing to me, "...as you did to that one", pointing to dad.
The guy gestured for me to get up onto one of the work benches, and to sit there with my legs dangling down. He stood between my legs and began to handle my dick and balls, pushing my balls right down in my sac, pulling my dick and sac away from my body, stroking my dick so that it went erect and then repeating the process, and all the time kind of feeling around me, grasping my tackle in one of his hands, as if sizing it somehow. I was on edge, I can tell you! I mean, we all know how it is when someone is touching your balls - your body just knows there's a lot of pain there if they get it wrong! But this guy seemed to know what he was doing, as although this "examination" went on for some time, and he really did stretch and pull me, I can honestly say that he didn't actually cause me any pain at all.
Still holding my dick and balls in one hand, he ended by pulling them away from my body as much as he could, and then with his other hand used a pair of callipers to measure the "bridge" joining them to my body. He had a big case with him which he then opened and fussed around selecting stuff. And then I realised what was going to happen to me - I was to be banded and cinched, just as dad had been right from the beginning.
Look, as I said, he was an expert: it didn't hurt at all as the first ring went around the top of my sac and was tightened, pushing my balls down, and then the one at right angles to it was fixed to hold my sac and dick up and thrust away from my body. It only took a very few minutes, and then he said "OK, get down, and let's see you running on the spot, to make sure everything is properly in place...."
Watched by Charles, dad and this guy, I therefore jogged up and down, and it did feel very strange: having your balls held like that, and your dick thrust out from you subtly alters the way your body "feels" - it's almost like being slightly off balance. After a couple of minutes I was told to stop, and then the guy knelt in front of me and ran his fingers all over his handiwork again. "Perfect!", he declared to Charles. "Nice and tight, so there's no danger of it coming off - that's the beauty of the dual ring arrangement, of course: owners who only have them cinched often find the cinch ring slips a bit, but as it's held by the sac stretcher in this arrangement,....."
"Quite!", Charles interjected, cutting him off in mid flow. "He looks good, and that's all that matters. It won't affect his performance, will it?"
"Oh no, sir. He'll be a bit off balance until his body adjusts to the new positioning of his dick, but in many ways he'll work better: with his balls more out of the way like that, he'll learn to be less cautious - did you notice how, when he sat down, he went slowly as a naked man is always worried about trapping his balls somewhere.? Well, after a few days he'll have learned that this isn't such a potential problem, so he'll be less cautious...."
"No, I mean will it affect his ability to stud?"
"Oh no, sir. The operation of his balls isn't affected - indeed, some would say that the sight of properly ringed balls swinging there as the stud does his duty is rather erotic. And when he starts to fire, you'll see the contractions much more clearly. Many owners think it vastly enhances the spectacle, sir."
"And it doesn't affect his virility, having his balls pushed down like that?"
"Good heavens, no! With an inexperienced fitter there's a danger of damaging the tubes between his balls and his vesicles, but I've ringed lots of slaves and know what I'm doing. He'll be in some pain for a few days, though: as you know, sir, a man's balls constantly rise and fall in response to temperature and so on, and now his can't as the ring prevents them rising in his sac. Until his body adjusts and leaves them hanging down even if it's cold, there'll be some pain - no, let's say discomfort - but no loss of function, or of sperm volume."
"Good. Now, the other thing.... I want both of them done, as I mentioned. 'Modern Slave Owner' says that gentlemen of discernment always have their studs done in that way, as it signals quite clearly the function of the slave, and that the gentleman can afford to have a slave whose function is studding and he isn't constrained to use any old buck who happens to be passing!"
"Yes, sir, I'm getting a number of requests like yours. Right down here we are a bit isolated, and I don't think you gentlemen owners appreciated what the folk in Atlanta and Raleigh and the other fashionable places were doing. Since that article in 'Modern Slave Owner', I've had quite a lot of business from your neighbours, and I think it's a as well you're having these two done, sir.... You wouldn't want to be thought to be lagging behind the times, would you?"
"Quite so. Now, get on with it, then, as my father is coming down tonight, we're having some gentlemen over for supper, and I want these two ready to perform as an entertainment afterwards."
The man got dad and me to kneel by the side of one of the work benches, with our backs to them and our calves underneath, and then to put our heads back to rest on the bench top. I watched as he went and stood in front of dad, between his knees, and pushed against dad's chest with his body. One hand went around dad's throat, as if to hold him, then there was a sudden movement with something in his other hand, and dad gave a shout as his body kind of jerked in reaction.
Before I could see properly what was happening, the man was in front of me, pushing me backwards. His hand was hot on my throat and held me quite firmly - but I could still breathe easily - then there was something cold in my nose. The next instant a searing pain went through me, there was the sound of a sickening, crunching, grating noise that seemed to be right in my head, and I got a horrible salty taste as blood flowed into my throat. I too shouted out, but the man had let me go and I was able to bring my head forward.
"Don't touch", he snapped, as I went to feel my nose. "Right, you two, that's the worst over. I've punched a hole through your septums, and now I can ring you...
It's best to do it quickly like that if you're not being anaesthetised.. Most of the pain is in the anticipation, rather than the execution, for the cartilage punch."
Well, how the fuck did he know? It felt pretty painful to me as I knelt there. He was working away again, though: I saw him push dad back again and still couldn't quite see what was happening as his body was blocking the view. But there seemed to be some fiddling around and a lot of adjustments going on. And then it was my turn: it was painful, sure, but I could bear it, especially after what else I'd been through recently. Something was in my nose, something that needed pulling, tugging, moving, and general manoeuvring. I could feel blood running down my face and falling into my mouth, and then when I clamped my mouth shut to stop the horrible taste, it dribbled off my chin onto my body. But then it was finished, and the man stepped back.
"There you are, sir", he told Charles. "A perfectly matched pair. And very handsome they are too, if I may say so. There's no doubt they're studs now."
I looked across at dad, and saw a huge steel ring hanging down from his nose - it almost filled his nostrils, and hung right down to rest on his upper lip. I reached up, and found I had the same thing - as I touched it, I realised it wasn't exactly a ring, more of a sort of elongated shape, like a paper clip, so that it could be fitted high up my nose and still hang down. My nose was incredibly tender, and there was blood and snot pouring out of it. I couldn't help it - as if my reflex my tongue came out and licked around this thing hanging there on my lip.
"You should ensure that they keep the snout rings moving for a few days", the man told Charles. "You want scar tissue to form in the septum and not get the ring embedded in the wound. Are you going to be using them?"
"Oh yes, as I mentioned, they'll be studding this evening, and I intend to use the new methods."
"That will be sufficient, I'm sure - although you should make them slide them around every few hours for the next couple of days, just to be certain that healing proceeds properly."
I could see dad listening to this, as was I. It's one of the problems of being a slave that men like this tradesman don't speak to you directly - they talk to your master about you just as if you're not there, rather like a veterinarian might talk to an owner about a pet dog, knowing that it's the owner who will ultimately decide what's to be done.
Charles looked at us, and snapped "Off to Amos and Andy, you two! You're studding later tonight, and I want you properly cleaned, as I'm expecting that there'll be a lot of interest in using your asses, too."
I went to pick up my shorts, but he went on "You don't need those. In fact, neither of you are ever going to need them again. Big studs like you should always be on display - after all, you're collared, and that's all a slave really needs to be decent. So get rid of yours too, Joe - it's bare hide for both of you from now on."
It's not that either dad or I were particularly self conscious by now - we were used to being naked in front of other people - but somehow what had been done to me seemed to mark some sort of change in my status.
I had been a slave since I was sixteen, after all, abut in-between times when I was being used sexually, or was doing my daily duty cleaning the pool, I'd gone around in slave shorts (or a loincloth on grass mowing days). But now Charles seemed to be saying that both dad and I were never going to have anything other than our bare hides, ever again. At a stroke, he'd somehow downgraded us - we were now just like the niggas, who were of course always kept entirely nude. Our owner could not even be bothered to give us a scrap of cloth to differentiate us from an animal. It felt odd, too, to have my dick sticking out so prominently in front of me as we crossed towards the house and the preparation area, and I began to realise how easy it was for dad to be semi-erect all the time and to have his massive erections at the slightest stimulation: I felt myself going semi-hard just from the way the cinching and ringing trapped the blood in my dick. These rings in our noses - snout rings, Charles had called them, hadn't he? - were vile, though. I looked at dad, and he looked at me, and instead of seeing a handsome man, I saw something else: a man reduced not just to being a slave, but to being some sort of blank canvas on which men like Charles could play out their fantasies of utter domination and control.
I said something like this to dad, and he seemed resigned to it. "Look, Steve, what's done is done, and neither you nor I can change it. Just accept it, will you? If you're cross, or shout, or even seem to be angry at what's been done to us, they'll only punish you. It's not worth it, Steve: we're slaves, remember? And a slave just has to accept his lot."
"But dad - we're to be kept naked, erect most of the time, and with these snout rings... We're not even slaves, dad, we're more like some sort of beast..."
"Steve, shut the fuck up! Just learn to accept that this is what Mr Hawthorne wants, and as he owns us, owns us totally, that's what he gets."
End Of Part 16