Dad and Me

Dad And Me by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 28

Jeff looked a bit uneasy when I said that after our run that evening we were going out for an evening's poker.

"What's the problem? I thought soldiers all played stuff like that...."

"No, sir... Well, it's just that I've got no money. I haven't been here a month yet, and as you know, I was right out...."

"Oh that's OK, I'll give you an advance."

"Well, sir, it's not that... But if you're playing with your buddies, sir, well, there's no way I can keep a place at the table: you've got so much money, sir, and I guess your buddies are the same...."

"Well, yes. Both Tony and Miles are in good jobs at the bank But we 're not stupid, you know! This poker's just for fun. We set a limit before we start - fifty bucks - and that's all any of us is allowed. I'll happily advance you fifty on your salary, so you'll be on the same basis as all. And ,who knows, you might make more money from the game than you do from working... Are you any good?"

He gave a kind of wolfish grin. "Oh, OK, you know. I've had some experience... I hope you guys aren't put off by playing with an expert...."

It was my turn to smile now, but secretly: Tony was an ace player - his whole job was keeping his hand concealed as he wheeled and dealed. And Miles had such an analytic brain that he just sat there quietly studying every player and every move. And me - well, I'd been a trader, too, hadn't I? And I was pretty used to "reading" men by now as I ran the bank. I thought Jeff would be in for a tough time - and, with any luck, we'd take his fifty off him so at the end of the month he'd have even less money than he was expecting, so binding him closer to me.

That evening we took the limo to Tony's - Jeff and I had had a long swim after my meetings had finished, then a light supper - I made sure Jeff had a couple of beers with his - and then we set off. It was "casual" of course, and Jeff looked really good in his tight jeans and loose T, with a pullover draped over his shoulders.

Miles was already there and Tony made us very welcome, kind of holding on to Jeff's hand as they shook and taking a step backwards so that he could take in a good look at Jeff's body. Miles was more subtle, and we were soon all seated around the table.

Look, there's an art to poker, isn't there? Not just the playing of each hand, but the need to keep a "view" of the whole evening: you want to give your opponents a sense of their own superiority, so that when you strike for the "big one", they feel secure and have an inflated sense of their own abilities and fall heavily!

Jeff was a good, no, above average, player, actually. But with experts like us, he really had very little chance and a the evening progressed, lost steadily - although he was probably not aware of this because after a loss he'd win, but then there'd be another loss, and a win, and each time the loss was a little larger than the win. He was steadily and surely being suckered into gambling more and more of his precious fifty at each shot..

Finally, at about ten, when we'd agreed we'd only play five more hands, I struck. I just knew he was bluffing - the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way his feet pressed the floor: I'd been observing him all evening. But he thought he was on to a winner, as I'd lost several smaller hands to him in similar circumstances before. Now, though, I cleaned him out, and he sat there looking almost devastated when he thought about how much of his month's wages he'd lost.

"That's me out, then!", he said ruefully.

"Hey, I'll stake you", Miles cut in. "Another fifty?"

"No, thanks, Miles, but I can't afford it. And my old dad always told me never to gamble what you can't afford to lose."

No amount of persuading him would cause him to budge, so perhaps he wasn't as stupid as I was hoping. Then Tony said "Jeff, we agreed to play five more hands! Come on, you're new here... Don't spoil the evening for the rest of us. We'll all give you a chance, won't we, fellas?"

Miles and I nodded, and Tony went on "OK, so you don't want to risk more money. But don't you want to try to win back what you've lost?"

Jeff nodded now. "OK, then... We'll play strip poker for the last five hands. Is that OK with you?"

Jeff looked doubtful, but Tony pressed the deal home with "We're all guys here, after all... And you've got nothing to be ashamed of, have you?"

Well, Jeff couldn't refuse a challenge like that, could he? He nodded, and we dealt him in.

It was like taking candy off a baby now, on this "home straight". In short order Jeff lost his sneakers (he hadn't worn socks!), T and jeans, and was sitting there in his boxers. The next round saw them go, and he was smiling ruefully as he had to stand there in front of Tony, Miles and me and push them down: we made a lot of fun out of it, and cheered and clapped as he pushed them over his hips and stood there in front of us totally in the buff.

"Well, that's me, totally out of it now", he said, when we'd stopped. He didn't seem all that upset,. Well, I suppose he was used to being naked in front of me after our exercises at the pool, and in the forces he may after all have done stuff like this before.

"No, Jeff... You can't stop now! We agreed on one more hand."

"But I've got no money, and no clothes...."

"Oh don't worry about that.. Come on, buddy, sit down", Tony was almost commanding now.

Jeff sat there, his naked body sweating slightly and gleaming in the lights, and we dealt the last hand - which he lost again.

"Sorry, guys...", he said, and got up from the table and went to pick up his boxers.

"Not so fast!", Tony called out. "You've got to 'pay up' for the last round!"

Jeff just shrugged his shoulders, and said, smiling, "Well, there you've got me! I can't get more naked than this. I've got nothing left to give."

"Oh, you're wrong there!!. Tony was in an almost jovial mood, but there was a hard edge of command to his voice. He swept the cards and chips off the table and said "Up on here, Jeff. Kneel - but you can put your feet over the edge, so it's not too uncomfortable."

Jeff looked, then saw Tony just sitting there, indicating the bare table, and shrugged again and climbed up and knelt down. Miles and I sat completely silent, almost afraid to make any noise at all in case it broke the atmosphere .

Tony looked at us, and said "There, that's Jeff. Look at him - he played in the last round, even though he knew he'd got nothing left to pay up with if he lost. But I think there is one more thing he can 'take off', don't you?"

Miles and I shook our heads slightly, as we didn't know what to say. I wondered for a moment if Tony was going to tell Jeff to jerk himself off, which I felt certain that Jeff wouldn't do, and the thing would be spoiled. But instead, Tony said, quietly but firmly, "Jeff, the whole point of strip poker is to get totally naked if you lose. And there's still one thing you've got on you, covering you..."

"Hey, man, no there isn't! I'm as naked as the day I was born....", Jeff interrupted.

"Well, Steve and Miles and I all think differently - you're still covered..... So why don't you 'skin back and show us your head? That's the last bit of 'covering' on you, so we'll take that in payment of your losses. Come on, just pull it back, and let's get a proper look at you."

"Hey, guys, come on.... You can't ask a guy to pull his 'skin back like that...."

"We're not asking, Jeff! We're telling you! You don't want us to think of you as a guy who welshes on his bets, do you?"

"No... But I'm already naked... "

"So if you really thought you'd taken everything off already, why did you take part in the last round? Come on, Jeff: pay up! Let's see you."

Jeff looked around, as if some help could come from somewhere, but Miles and I sat there impassively. Slowly, very slowly indeed, he reached down and took his dick in his hand, then kind of rolled it around a bit in his palm, then gripped his shaft and tugged back.... And then there it was: his dick head, all dark, and moist, popped out. There was a tiny jewel of pre-cum or something just lurking in the end of the piss slit and I wondered if Jeff was finding this as arousing as I was - my own dick was battering itself against my underwear, so hard it was almost painful.

"Attaboy!", Tony said. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it? But tell me, Jeff, is it true what they say about guys who still have their 'skins?"

"What's that?", came the reply, rather suspiciously, as if Jeff was expecting Tony to play some trick or other on him.

"Well, they do say that a guy with a 'skin never feels so naked as when he has to show his dick head to the world. And that's why guys like you always turn towards the wall in the showers and stuff when they're washing - they don't want other guys looking at them. And now we've seen it, it's nothing special, really... But I suppose its all in the mind. Have you ever done this before?"

"NO. Of course not...."

"There you are!", Tony said, looking at Miles and me. "I think that proves a point, don't you? There's something special a guy with a 'skin feels about his dick head!" He broke into laughter, and went on "Anyway, Jeff, you've done it now. You've got no secrets left from us. Come on, buddy, get dressed, and I'll send the slave out for another beer for you."

Well, all the way home in the limo Jeff was strangely silent. Finally I could stand no more. "For fuck's sake, it was only a bit of fun! The whole game was only a bit of fun. So, you had to strip - you've been naked in front of other guys before."

He sounded really angry. "Look, it was fifty bucks. That's more than a day's work for me! Almost two, if you take tax into account. You guys were all playing together, against me..."

"I can assure you we were not! We all compete, all the time, at everything. But we are pretty good at poker. But it's not about that, is it, Jeff?"

"No. Tony humiliated me. Making me 'skin back in front of you all..."

"Oh come on, it's not the end of the world. Guys do that kind of stuff all the time - I went to a cousin's wedding once and at the stag party they grabbed the bridegroom and stripped him and his best bud actually 'skinned him back for us all to see...."

"But it's private..."

"Hey, Jeff, perhaps you ought to remember that if you had been enslaved you'd have lost your 'skin totally by now. Most owners don't like their slaves to have 'skins, you know: I mean, a slave has no business hiding any part of himself from his owner, does he? So if you were a slave, you'd be trotting around now with your dick head always on show: think about all the waiters and bath servants at the apartment - you see their heads all the time. And down at Manderleigh all the niggas in the work coffles, without exception, are 'skinned. So lighten up - it's no big deal."

He still sat there silently, so I went on "And if it's the money, well, I owe you a bit anyway: Two of the bath slaves you've been giving it to are pregnant, and I was able to sell them at a good price as they'll have a light-coloured piccaninny inside them. Down at Manderleigh we charge twenty bucks as a stud fee when one of my whiteys covers a nigga bitch: I don't know what the going rate here is in New York, but it's bound to be more, as everything's more expensive. So let's say twenty five dollars for each one - I comfortably made a whole lot more on them - so I owe you fifty. You've come out of this pretty neutral, I'd say."

"What? They're pregnant?"

"Hey, Jeff, you're not sterile, are you? What did you expect if you fuck nigga bitches so consistently?"

"I assumed they'd be taking some sort of birth control pill..."

"Oh no. Look, they're young-ish women, and we only buy good looking ones. Then when they've got a piccaninny planted inside them - a half breed, so it will be lighter - we sell them at a tidy profit. It's normally hard to get a white stud to fuck a nigga as there aren't a lot of whitey slaves around, and most owners, with a good-looking whitey, choose to use him for proper man to man sex. So you've made me a nice little profit - and you'll go on doing so, I suppose, as you like bitch slaves..."

"No I won't! It's wrong. Where have you sold them to? They're my kids...."

"Jeff, where have you been all your life? They're not 'your' kids! They're slaves - all the progeny of slaves are slaves, and they belong to whoever owns the mother at the time. So unless you've got a big secret stash of money, forget it - you'd have to buy them, and, as I said, good looking young niggas waiting to drop a 'breed fetch good prices. In any case, I don't know where they've gone - as soon as it was clear you'd got them started, Henry would have sent them off to my regular dealers. I'd think they'd have been sold on two or three times by now."

Jeff just sat there with his head in his hands as we sped across the park. I did think he was making all too much of this - I mean, I had tens, if not hundreds, of progeny, and countless little 'breed half-brothers from dad's activities. It's no big deal, is it? I mean, it's one thing to have a brother, or a half-brother, or a son, who you know well and live with. But all these 'breeds are unknown - you never meet them, and if you met them in the street, you'd never know anyway. I thought he was being a bit stupid, worrying where a few spoonsful of his semen was going, and told him so.

Still, by and large, Jeff and I got on very well. He was a diligent worker, and I never managed to catch him out by demanding that he come and exercise and finding him somewhere else - in effect, he was "on duty" 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In-between times I sometimes wondered what he did - and I started to check up more regularly on his activities. He did a lot of exercise on his own account , making use of the private gym in the apartment, and "perfecting" his swimming in the pool if he found he had an hour or more to wait for me at the bank. In spite of his protests, he continued to fuck the slave girls who served him in his room, although, after his first salary check, he sneaked out and bought condoms. I was very amused by this and gave orders for them to be replaced with defective ones when he was out - he therefore ended up with the worst of both worlds: he denied himself the proper pleasure of sex with bare skin against bare skin, and yet he was still fertilising the niggas for me. But most of all he seemed to be trying to educate himself!

Jeff had barely managed to graduate from High School before going in to the forces, and he seemed to be feeling it now that he was in contact with his betters. He realised he knew little about the world of business, of international affairs, politics, and the way that the world really works. And in matters of taste and culture he was sadly lacking: I sometimes gave him unwanted tickets to symphony concerts, the ballet and opera when I was attending some event or other that was sponsored by the bank, and he appeared to be bored. He didn't like seeming to be ignorant of the finer things of life, either, and when we were dining together had no idea whether the wines I had selected were good or not (or even appropriate for the meal we were eating!). So I observed him sitting around the place reading "lifestyle" magazines, researching stuff on the internet, and ploughing his way through all the weighty supplements in the quality newspapers. He was not unintelligent, and more and more often managed to ask me the right questions to be able to carry the conversation on if I mentioned to him something of importance.

He'd been really disappointed, though, after the first month! Although we'd agreed five dollars an hour (I do of course always work in "new" dollars, introduced to stabilise things after the runaway inflation earlier in the century, just as Germany had to introduce the Deutschmark after that war in the twentieth century. It amazes me that some people still function, or try to, in the "old" dollars: I just can't handle the millions and billions of "old" dollars needed for even simple transactions, let alone the zillions that would be needed for most of the big decisions in the bank.) and that he'd be paid for a straight forty hours, even though he was "on call" for many more, he was seemingly unprepared for the result.

I had to explain it to him like this: forty times five is 200, times four weeks is 800, less taxes and welfare payments makes a nett of 500. Then you owe me for your board and lodging - you don't expect to reside in luxury in the heart of the most expensive city in the world, with the finest food and wines, slaves at your beck and call, all for nothing, do you? After you've paid for that you're left with a hundred.

Then there's the new clothes you bought - running shorts and so on. And the fifty you lost at poker - if you really won't let me pay you the stud fees we talked about. That's why you're only getting twenty this month!

"But sir, twenty, for a whole month's work! And it won't be much better next month, either... I'll never be able to save anything and move away..."

"Jeff, stop whining, will you? What on earth do you expect? You've got no proper education, and you're lucky to have a job at all, especially one that provides you with a place to live and decent food. You know that there's no real job market for the unskilled any longer, and, frankly, you're lucky not to be a slave! You should be grateful that I've given you a job at all, and a place to stay: you know what was about to happen to you when I took you in. And I could, after all, easily buy a slave to do what you do: after the initial outlay, which I'd mostly recoup when I sold him if I only kept him for a couple of years, it would cost me almost nothing: a few handsful of slave chow every day rather than expensive food and wines; I wouldn't need to provide a luxury bedroom as he'd sleep in that spare kennel you turned down; and most of the time he wouldn't need clothes at all, other than a simple slave tunic like all the others wear."

"Yes, but twenty bucks for a whole months work... That's not work, that's virtual slavery..."

"Jeff, stop playing with words! If you think it's 'virtual' slavery, you can always try the real thing. Just go downtown and turn yourself in as a destitute - but perhaps you should let Henry know, so that when you come up for auction I can bid, as I've got quite used to having you around and it's tiresome to break in a new slave to my requirements."

"But I'd like to be able to save, sir. Isn't there anything we could do?"

"Well I'm paying the fair rate for the job - that's the Government-set national minimum rate, you know, and you can hardly expect me to pay more for unskilled labour.... You don't have a degree in physical education, do you? As a responsible employer I deduct the appropriate taxes and so on, as the government doesn't want guys like you to get to the end of the year and find they have no money to pay their proper share of the costs of running our country. You could ask to go over to pay at the end of the year, but I'd warn you against failing to pay up when they send you the tax demand, as that kind of debt to the IRS will get you up on to the auction block almost without you knowing! So that only leaves your living expenses - and I think I'm being more than fair in what I charge you: this is an expensive city. You could always try to find a room somewhere, but do be certain that it's close to the apartment and the bank, as I don't want to be kept waiting when I need you. There won't be the requirement for new clothes every month, I suppose..."

"I hear what you say, sir... But this is just like slavery...."

"No it isn't, Jeff! You can quit whenever you want to - or, at least, after you've worked out your three months notice period. A slave can't do that. And you're forgetting the other things, too..."

"Three months? When did I agree that? And what 'other things'?"

"You signed a contract of employment, as I recall, which sets out the minimum notice period: it's for your own protection, as I can't arbitrarily fire you, you know. Oh, and whilst I think about it, don't forget that you're bound by absolute confidentiality - there used to be a spate of so-called 'kiss and tell' books and stuff after servants left their employers, and perhaps it's a good time to remind you that you'd be dragged through the courts, and would almost certainly end up as a slave, if you ever spoke or wrote about anything you saw or heard in my employment. And the 'other things'...."

"Yes, what else is different about me and a slave? I have to work all hours there are for almost no money. In effect, I have to live at your place. It looks to me just as if I'm a slave..."

"Jeff, when you piss me off, as you are almost doing now, being so ungrateful, I carry on arguing with you - if you were a slave of mine, you'd have felt the cane across your rump by now. And you don't have to wear a collar. You have your own clothes, even though I'd quite like to see your body displayed a bit more - a slave tunic would suit you, I think. And, I seem to remember from that poker evening, you've still got your 'skin! Any owner would, as I explained, have had that off you by now. Your attitude to 'studding' needs adjustment, too - you don't seem to mind fucking the bath slaves, but you're denying me a profit by using those condoms: as a slave of mine I could sell you of most afternoons and bring in additional money...."

I paused for breath, so he could see I was pretty fed up, and went on " So put up or shut up, will you - either carry on working ,or quit: I'll waive the three months notice. You've got your twenty bucks, so get out now, if you don't like it."

I saw him wavering, and almost cursed myself for going too far - my plans for Jeff still had a long way to go, and I hated the thought that I'd pushed him too hard, too soon. I saw his body language, his fists clenching as his brain sorted through all the factors involved in his life. Then he shrugged, just a little, almost imperceptibly, but it's things like that that give you away during a negotiation. "When are we going to exercise, then?", he almost growled. "I need to work off something..."

Smiling, I said "OK, lets' go now.... And I want a good, hard workout, OK? I'm starting to get into shape, and I sometimes think you're not doing your job properly..."

I thought that after this conversation I was making some progress - Jeff now understood that he was probably going to have to work for me for a good long time, as even if he really economised, his "savings" would only grow very, very slowly. I tried to tempt him to another poker session with Tony and Miles, but he wouldn't do it - he was almost gracious about it, saying that us guys really outclassed him and that if we ever got inducted into the military we could at least make a lot on the side in the barracks! So he just sat there quietly all evening, sipping a beer and watching my play intently.

It was time I went to Manderleigh again, as my training with Jeff and assorted commitments had kept me in the city on the weekends for too long. Or was it that I was somehow trying to avoid dad? I mean, I am in control of my life and my diary, and could easily have deputised one of my direct reports to go to one of the tedious dinners or charity functions that I accepted in that period. Anyway, on the plane down, I was curiously uneasy as I hadn't sorted through how I was going to react to dad: that last time had been spectacularly enjoyable, but now, what was I to do? One part of me wanted desperately to feel him close to me again, to revel in his lovemaking as we had before. Another part was saying that it was time I grew up, it was time that I made my own way, found my own friends, my own amusements - a guy can't be tied to his dad all his life, can he? I needed somehow to move the relationship on.

Jeff seemed to sense my vague unease, and just sat there quietly on the plane, not making conversation, even though he was bursting to! I guessed he'd probably only flown a little before, if at all, before he joined the forces, and after that it would have been in military transports and such. My private jet was a different world, with its comfortable chairs, space to move around, and the slaves to serve you whatever you wanted. The principal slave was extremely good looking, and as he bent over to serve me a glass of champagne I was sorely tempted to reach up under his short tunic and fondle his balls which were so delightfully revealed - quite often, on a Friday evening in the past I'd had one of the slaves on the plane as a kind of "relaxation" before the weekend, but with Jeff there I decided to hold myself in check as I wasn't yet ready to show him that I was a powerful and inventive lover.

Stryker met us at the local airport and as we came down the steps of the plane I saw him looking intently at Jeff - Jeff who, as ever, was casually dressed in his figure-hugging Jeans and a T. After the introductions, in the limo to Manderleigh, I saw Jeff eyeing Stryker, too: I was inwardly amused, knowing that Jeff would be impressed by Stryker's evident musculature, but wondering how he'd react if he knew that Stryker's impressive bulge in his formal shorts was the result of the plastic "inserts" he still effected.

On our arrival, Jeff seemed stunned: he was used to the space and opulence of the New York apartment by now, but had clearly never experienced anything on the scale of Manderleigh. As was customary, all the house slaves were lined up along both sides of the steps leading up to the front door, and I strode past, hardly noticing them; but Jeff clearly found it difficult to imagine that so many slaves were employed in keeping the mansion running to perfection. He said this to me as we strode up the steps, and I just shrugged and said casually "There are some in the pleasure grounds, too - but the vast majority of the slaves are in the nigga sheds down on the actual plantation itself as they're not allowed near the house as they're too brutish."

Over dinner Stryker did his normal update for me of all matters affecting Manderleigh, and I was pleased that it was showing a slight profit - well, if you didn't count the capital tied up down there, that is: all those hundreds of slaves represented a considerable amount of wealth, and if I invested it on the stock market I'd have a sizeable income. Not that this was a problem, of course, but sometimes people think that owning a big place like Manderleigh and having all those slaves at your command is something you can do at no cost: I was lucky to break even on the revenue account most years, and the loss on capital employed meant that the place could never really be profitable. It was perhaps fortunate for the local economy that there were rich financiers like me willing to continue to "carry" places like Manderleigh and uphold the old traditions, as without us the whole countryside would soon revert to small farms with virtual peasants scratching a living with only a couple of slaves to help.

Jeff, though, was looking at the slaves - it was summer, so even though the air conditioning kept the dining room at a reasonable temperature for us, the slaves were in their summer uniform. I liked to see the change of the seasons at Manderleigh, and so although the slaves in the New York apartment always wore the same tunics year-round, those in the house at Manderleigh had varying uniforms depending on the time of year. The summer uniform was just a tiny loincloth suspended on a thin gold chain around the slave's waist - the piece of thin white silk was not really designed to conceal the slave's tackle at all, acting instead as a reminder that these were trained house slaves, pleasing to the eye, who could equally well work naked as those in the plantation coffles did. Their butts were entirely uncovered, and I was a little displeased to see a slave who was bending over to serve Jeff some of the excellent lamb from the estate still had the remains of a severe caning glowing in red lines across him.

Stryker saw me looking, and flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, sir", he said quietly. "I ordered this slave punished yesterday for dropping a plate, which smashed - one of the specially imported ones from England, sir. Then I forgot to alter the duty roster."

"Get him out of here, Stryker - you know I like perfection around the house! And have him whipped this time - even if you omitted to have him withdrawn form the roster, he should have known better than to appear in front of me and my guests like that and should have begged a moment with you to remind you. After all, it's only you, me and Jeff here, but it might have been important guests."

I quite relished this opportunity to show Jeff that I was a firm but fair owner, and of course to emphasise his relative unimportance, but to my surprise, when Stryker got up to carry out my orders, he blurted out "Sir, a whipping? For that?"

"Of course. It's the only way to maintain standards! When the other slaves see the result of a real whipping, they'll be especially careful to think about the house rules. When you're ordering punishment, it's not just the slave himself you're punishing, you know - you have to consider the broader picture."

He was strangely silent for the rest of the meal, and when it was time to turn in, I said casually "Oh, Jeff, there's one more change down here from New York - all the house servants like waiters and bath slaves are male. The only females are the laundresses and cooks and such like, and they are not usually allowed above stairs. It's an old tradition in the south, where most masters find it more agreeable to have a pert young male nigga to service them.... Of course, if you want a woman, I can tell Stryker to find something down in the basement service areas for you..."

He looked almost affronted! "Sir, it's OK", he managed to splutter. "I can do without for a couple of nights, you know..."

"Well, suit yourself, but I like my guests to be comfortable... In fact, I think Stryker has assigned the most perfectly trained pair of bath slaves to your suite - Amos and Andy. I can never tell them apart - see if you can. He must think you're important, to give you these two, as they've always been my favourites."

"It's OK, sir... I can look after myself... Have this Amos and Andy yourself, sir...."

"I won't think of it, Jeff. This is your first visit to Manderleigh, and I want you to experience true southern hospitality."

I clapped my hands and told one of the waiters to show Jeff up to his suite then, and waited for Stryker to re-appear.

"So, Stryker, I think Jeff is in for an interesting night! Those two niggas are difficult to resist, aren't they?"

"Oh yes, sir. They've had more experience as bath slaves than any other niggas in the state, I reckon. And I've briefed them very, very thoroughly, as we discussed earlier in the week. They understand that if they don't succeed in shaving the guy's balls, and in trimming back his pubes generally, they'll have the worst caning they've ever known. I think we can rely on them!"

"They do know, don't they Stryker, that Jeff is to end up with a neatly trimmed patch, but not a full 'slave bar' just above his dick?"

"Sir, please don't concern yourself. We discussed it, and I have instructed Amos and Andy. Jeff will be much more pleasing to the eye, sir, when you next see him naked."

End Of Part Twenty Eight.