Falsely Enslaved

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Ten

There's something that adds that extra spice of eroticism to sex when you do it in your parents' house, I've always thought: I remember sneaking girls in on long, hot lazy summer afternoons, then being terrified that mom or dad might walk into my room without knocking and find me riding her. It all added to the excitement and the challenge, and even a fairly standard fumble could turn into something really special as my ears strained to catch the creak of a floorboard or the slamming of a car door that might announce the presence of others in the house.

So too was it with fucking Jamie: I had to wait until mom and dad were probably asleep, then creep along the hallway, terrified I'd be heard - I even started carrying a book as some sort of pathetic cover story, as I'd tell mom or dad that I was going to Jamie's room to see if he had the sequel, or something by the same author! Well, as they wouldn't expect me to be going there to fuck my brother, they'd accept that kind of explanation without question.

Jamie didn't take it easily, though: he's a sexy little buggar, and he likes to throw himself about a bit and make a lot of noise during sex. After the shock of me fucking him the first time, he quite entered into the spirit of the "brotherly love" thing though, and wanted to moan and cry as I entered him, then shout out in time to my thrusts. Well I couldn't let him do that could I? I mean, no way would mom or dad believe me if they found me inside Jamie's ass and I told them I was only there with him because I was cold in my own bed, or my room (formerly Jamie's) was too small for me and I missed my old room! Well, I suppose we might have got away with it if we'd both got boxers and Ts on, but I like proper, raw, skin-to-skin sex, so we were both totally bare in bed together. Consequently the second time I went to him, before we started I stuffed my boxers into his mouth as an impromptu gag - it's risky, though, as you do then have to concentrate a bit on making sure the guys isn't choking, so it takes away some of the fun; but on the other hand I could relax a bit more as I was that little bit less concerned about mom or dad disturbing us to find out what the noise was.

Look, I don't want you to think badly of me - I really do love Sam, and there's no way I'm ever going to leave him. So fucking other guys is, you might say, going a bit far! But on the other hand what Sam and I had was special, and a fuck is just a fuck, after all : Sam was my partner, my friend, my lover, my confidante, everything; Jamie or any other guy I fuck is only that, a good fuck, a nice way of spending time - I can never understand why people get upset when their partners have been having sex with other people:

it's just sex, after all, what the human body is designed to do. No way did I love Jamie in the same way I loved Sam - I was just using his ass and enjoying sex with him as he was the only available male thereabouts with any kind of half-way reasonable body. I suppose I could have gone to the disreputable bar that clung to business in the seedier part of our little town, but the people there were mostly on the lookout for women, and you know how long they take to get to the point of agreeing to let you fuck them. There were some guys around - I saw some older high school kids hanging around on the corner one night and thought that a twenty would probably get me at least a blow job, but I really like a good fuck, and even if I could persuade one of those kids to open up, where would we do it? I've long since given up on the uncertain pleasures of the grass in the park, or up against a tree! And the kids these days are anyway so suspicious - I'd have to agree to use a condom, and then, when I whipped it off before thrusting in to him, there'd be all kind of shouting and argument afterwards. No, it was all too much trouble, and, as I said,

Jamie was fit, kind of cute, and, most importantly, available. It also added a touch of excitement over breakfast, as Jamie tried to discover if this was the day mom intended to do the laundry - we made quite a mess of his bed, of course, and it must be hard for a young guy living at home to know his mom is probably looking at his sheets as she changes the bed anyway, and even a simple jerking off must need some effort to catch the cum in toilet tissue or something. But there's no way she could fail to notice the big stains of cum and shit all over his sheets after we'd been going at it. So when mom said it was laundry day, Jamie bolted like a startled jackrabbit and reappeared a few minutes later heading down to the washer in the basement with his sheets. Mom stopped reading the paper for a moment, looked at dad, and said "Mark must be a really good influence on Jamie! That's the first time since he' been living back here that he's ever volunteered to help around the house. You see, it's as I said: Mark has learned about how nice it is to have a fine home from living in the south - it can't be wholly bad - and he's being a good influence on Jamie now."

I smiled (an inwardly almost fell about laughing) and asked mom if I should go and fetch my sheets (which I knew were pristine, of course), and she put her hand down on top of mine a it rested on the table. "No, Mark. You're the guest, and we won't have you for long. Just enjoy your stay, and have a relaxing time:

I expect you have to work so hard back home with a big house and all those grounds to look after."

Mom went out, and dad put down his paper. He looked at me, and I went to get up from the table. "No, Mark. You and I need to talk. When are you planning on coming back home properly? Your mother has been a different woman these last two days, having you here...."

"And you, dad? How do you like having me home?"

"You're my son, Mark, you'll always be welcome here."

"A stock answer! You've never really liked me, never liked the things I do, or agreed that my plans were OK. All you ever did was to try and make me do well at school, as you wanted me to graduate well, get a 'good' job....."

"It's what any father wants for his son."

"No it isn't, dad! It's what you wanted for your son.

Some fathers want their sons to grow up strong and independent, and are proud when they make their own way in the world, and do what they want.... You hated it when I tried to take my freedom, and went off on my bike...."

"And look where it got you! Running around naked, treated like and animal....."

"....yes, but I survived it. And found my life-long partner. And ended up rich. But you don't care, do you, dad? You don't care that I'm happy now, that I'm living my own life. All you want me to do is to come back here, and get a 'respectable' job."

My voice, which had started calm, was almost shouting now. I couldn't stop myself as I carried on "Well I'm not coming back, not ever. It's all washed up here. There are no good jobs. The fuel's running out and the winter's are terrible. And I can't bring my partner here, not ever."

"You're being hysterical, Mark! Of course you could come and live here with your partner. She'd always be welcome, and your mom is looking forward to the grandchildren. We'd prefer she was your wife, and it only has to be a small, simple wedding.... But if you two don't want to marry, I think we can live with that.

"Dad, my partner's a slave, and that's why we can't come and live here in the north. It's forbidden to bring slaves out of the south. If I was discovered doing it, all my land and everything would be forfeit."

Dad raised his eyebrows. "It's very noble of you to partner a slave, Mark! I suppose it's a black one...."

"Yes, actually, dad. But you and mom always told me not to be prejudiced."

"Quite so, son. And your mother and I won't worry about the prospect of having dark grandchildren. But we would prefer you to marry- that is possible, in the south, isn't it?"

"I don't know, actually. I've no idea whether you an marry a slave or not, but I think the answer's no. And kids born to a slave or fathered by a slave are themselves slaves of course. But there aren't going to be any grandchildren....."

"The purpose of marriage is the procreation of children...", dad began, intoning those dreadful words in the marriage ceremony with a terrible solemnity.

"Dad, my partner's a guy, dad! It doesn't matter whether Sam is a slave or not - I can't marry him down there, or even up here, as same sex marriages still aren't legal anyway in the USA, unlike most civilised places."

I thought dad was going to have a heart attack! Finally he managed to splutter "Mark, you have truly shocked me I thought your mother and I had always raised such a normal son, a bit wild, perhaps, but perfectly normal! And now you dare tell me that you have been having relations with a man! And a black man, at that. A Slave."

"Which of these is the problem, dad? The slave, the black, or the man? You and mom always taught us not to be prejudiced, and when I demonstrate it in the most practical way possible, you seem upset...."

"Upset? Upset? ! A son of mine being some sort of disgusting pervert, consorting with an other man in a totally unnatural way...."

"But you told us not to be prejudiced...."

"It's different when it's your own family, Mark!"

I gave a little shrug. "You only discover the truth about your friends and family when it really matters, dad! It's easy, isn't it, to be unprejudiced until it matters to you personally. Like all those folk who are perfectly keen on integration, until a black comes and lives next door to them. You know what, dad? You're a hypocrite!"

"How dare you call me that...."

"If the cap fits, wear it, as they say."

"I don't think I want you in this house, Mark. It will upset your mother terribly. And I don't want you spreading your vile ways to Jamie. I suggest you leave immediately, go back to the south, and your lover..." Dad almost spat out that last word, and I was so angry that for a moment I felt like telling him that there was no risk of me corrupting Jamie, as he'd long ago began to take dick. But what was the point? There's no sense in arguing with rampant prejudice, is there? Nothing I could say would change dad's mind, as he wasn't amenable to rational argument, or even the emotional one that Sam and I really loved each other. So reluctantly and a little sadly, I turned and stormed out of the room.

Mom was terribly upset when she saw me coming down the stairs with my suitcase, and asked me what on earth had going on: dad had told her I was a disgusting pervert. So I stammered a few words about loving Sam, and she kissed me softly. "You'll always be my son, Mark. Your father's a difficult man, but he'll come around in time..... Take care, please. And if you truly love this man, that's all that matters....". She hugged me, and we both had tears in our eyes.

I didn't wait to see Jamie, but on my way in a cab to the airport left a message on his voicemail telling him that his secret was safe and that dad was only pissed off with me, and knew nothing of Jamie's enjoyment of proper sex, and suggesting he call me the following day for the whole story. There was of course no problem in getting a seat on the next, nearly empty plane home, and taking a last look at what used to be my home environment, but where I now felt totally unwelcome, I went to go through security.

They still have all this rubbish at the airports even though the number of passengers is so small and the seats so expensive that terrorists would stand out a mile, so I had to endure the indignity of having a man sweep his hands over my body because I "bleeped" in the machine. Why they should think that someone like me, so obviously wealthy , could possibly be a terrorist, I don't know; it's time they started thinking about who might be a criminal if you ask me, and strip searching all the Arabs and such like, leaving decent folk like me totally alone.

It must have been some deep memory in my body that alerted me - I certainly hadn't taken as close look at the man as he began his work - but I glanced down as he knelt there bringing his hands up my calves, patting and probing, and my dick gave an involuntary twitch. He carried on, telling me gruffly to raise my arms so he could run his hands up my ribs inside my jacket, and now I was looking at him closely: there as no doubt about it at all - he was the younger of the two cops who'd taken me of my bike all those years ago and who had sold me off to the slaver, Jed! He was the one who'd undid my jeans and pulled down my boxers to "show" me to Jed, and he'd knelt there to do it on that day just as he had now knelt in front of me to pat my legs in his odious search.

He'd changed a bit - as a cop, he'd been a trifle overweight, but heavily muscles had showed through his tight pants and his short sleeved shirt, and his hair had been neatly cropped, and he was clean shaven. Now he looked as if he was definitely running to seed a bit - there was clearly a roll of fat visible at his waist on the cheap, mean, polyester uniform he now wore, and he looked as if he generally did not take as much care of himself. His uniform shirt had a food stain on it and there were some sweat marks at his pits, his hair was long and kind of greasy, and I'm sure he hadn't bothered to shave that morning.

I stood there wondering what to do, but he muttered "You're clean. On your way, bud." And when I hesitated, he almost snapped "Move on! We've got proper work to do here you know." In a tone that suggested he deeply resented the folk like me who had nothing better to do than catch aeroplanes, even though his job depended on us! His broad southern accent had mellowed a bit, but still sounded odd as my ear was now once more tuned to the nasal twang of Boston. My mind raced - what should I do? Call the cops, and tell them he was an escaped criminal? Or perhaps I just could be mistaken - those big, southern "cop" types were after all a not uncommon subset of humanity, and maybe my mind was playing tricks on me as I was still upset from that scene with dad. So I went on and boarded my flight, and was gratified to find that it was a southern airline, and instead of the ungenerous steward I'd had on the way up, my needs were to be attended to by a young black slave - and there was no doubt that I could if I wished now fondle his enticing butt, as his uniform consisted only of a tiny pouch in the airline's colours to cover his genitals, and a bow tie on a ribbon around his neck. As well as the "S" burned into his butt there was a motto tattooed "Here to serve".

The guy sitting next to me saw me looking in astonishment, and asked "First time to the south? Your first view of a slave?"

"Oh no, I live there. Have several of my own. I was just surprised to see one here, given the attitude to it up here - I thought it was illegal to take slaves out of the south., and that he'd have the right of sanctuary here...."

"I think it's some sort of agreement they negotiated - they treat the aircraft like a ship, or an embassy - it's "flying the flag of the south" and remains part of the south, even though it lands in the north. So our laws apply on board, and the airline can use slaves - so much better than some of those straight-assed stewards on the northern companies, don't you think?"

"I agree - I went to stroke the butt of a cute steward on the way up here, and he threatened me with jail!"

"No problem like that with this young beauty - I travel this way occasionally, and I've decided that my next job is going to be slave master for this airline - judging from all the slaves I've seen, he must spend all his time a the markets selecting absolutely the choicest stock: what a job, eh? Inspecting all that slave flesh to pick out the absolute best for cabin crew...."

I smiled. "Sure. Problem is, I guess it pays peanuts, so you'd never be able to afford to travel..."

He laughed. "Who'd want to travel, when I could be in the office administering the new employee tests? I'd almost pay them, never mind them giving me a salary."

I laughed, but went on, rather more seriously "But why doesn't he escape, the moment he touched down at Boston?"

"Part of the landing procedure: when the Captain announces 'Cabin Crew - ten minutes to landing' on the way north, the cabin services director simply manacles the slaves to the crew seats, then they're unlocked when we're ready for takeoff on the way home. Now, if you'll excuse me......" He pressed his call light, and when the slave hurried up, the privacy curtain was pulled around his enormous seat, and shortly I heard the unmistakable sounds of lips slobbering up an down a dick, accompanied by the sighs and moans of my travelling companion. I thought of taking a little relief myself as there was a nice, very pale brown nigga who came to offer me another glass of champagne, who appeared to be pleasantly well hung as his tiny pouch was bulging with hidden delights, but I thought of Sam waiting for me, and so did nothing except run my hand over the nigga's butt, just for practice, as you might say.

As soon as I got home - and my reunion with Sam at the airport was ecstatic - I put a call in to Stu. Our rendezvous as I came off the flight was not something I'd ever experienced before: to have a guy run up to me and throw his arms around me and hug me and slap my back. I heard someone say as we were standing there embracing that it was good to see a master who was so good to his slave that the slave was delighted to see him come home. The lady's companion muttered "he's some sort of wimp, who brings slavery into disrespect.

A slave should be cowering in terror when his master comes home, fearful that he'll be whipped because he might have let standards slip in his master's absence.

And if a master isn't like that, it doesn't say much for him: a slave is a tool, after all, and if a master doesn't use his tools properly....." Still, I didn't care - I just wanted to feel Sam's body pressing into mine, to smell his sweat, to feel his lovely breath against my skin. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed him.

Stu called me back when Sam and I were kissing and cuddling on the couch later this evening, and I told him I thought I'd seen the young cop at Boston. I heard him typing away, and then he muttered "Yes, the bureau's keeping track of him...."

"But why the fuck isn't he in jail, or on the slave block for sale...?"

"Look, Steve, it's difficult..... When we realised that you and the others had been falsely enslaved, we mounted a huge operation to round up all the dealers, slave trainers, and all the other involved people. Of course we had to ask the local cops for support as so many places had to be covered and so many people were involved.... And someone goofed as they asked the local force where you were 'taken'. The cops look after their own, of course, and someone tipped off the two who'd been taking guys like you - and they fled to Mexico. The older one died - he was humping some whore or other and his heart gave out. The younger one couldn't find any work down there - well, there isn't any, is there? All the Mexicans come here, always have. So he scraped up every penny he had and managed to get on a ship going to New York so he didn't have to come through the south. We know where he is, as he was a bad cop and therefore always a potential security risk....."

"So why don't you arrest him and bring him to trial?"

"Steve, there's no point, as it wouldn't work. If we arrested him in the north, they wouldn't extradite him. His lawyers would say that he was being extradited to a state where slavery was legal, and that the punishment for the crime of which he was accused is enslavement.... And therefore the extradition would not be allowed. And he can't be tried in the north, as there was no crime committed there!"

"Fuck me! That's outrageous. He's a known criminal, and he's going Scot free. There's no justice in it...."

"Steve, you have to accept that justice and the law are different. Justice is something we all understand. The law is a set of rules, a set of complex rules, that lawyers play with."

We chatted a bit, and Stu promised to bring his new wife down for a vacation with us, and I chuckled about finding some afternoons when she could go to the beauty parlour so Stu could have some real fun, and he said that would be great.

That night, in bed, I could hardly focus on Sam as I was so pissed off about the thought of that cop living as a free man even though he was a criminal, I kept thinking about it so much that I couldn't even think about how dad had treated me. I suppose it was just as well, actually, or else I'd have been consumed with hate for dad and his prejudices, and for being so two-faced about it all: preaching tolerance and stuff to us all his life, and then, when it mattered, being like the rest of the world. Sam did his best to distract me - and his 'best' is truly excellent - so I did eventually get to sleep, but the next morning I was seething with impatience to "do" something about the cop, and Sam and I jogged over to Dave's pace, as he's a found of useful information about all matters related to slavery.

He stopped checking his records with a slave when we appeared - it must have been a morning for paper work - and at once called for cooling drinks and showed us to a seat in the shade on his veranda. I couldn't help noticing how his eyes roamed up and down not only Sam's body but my own - it was a hot morning so I'd only bothered to pull on a pair of brief slave shorts, like Sam's, and a small T that exposed my belly if I moved. Well, slave clothes are after all designed to be light and airy so the slave can work easily in the heat, and so if you want to go running they're not a bad choice and one hell of a lot cheaper than the fancy designer gear you see in the big sports shops. I suppose they are designed to be a bit revealing, though, as a master naturally wants to appreciate his slave at work, but that's not a problem to me: I have, after all, got a nice body, and the tiny shorts and T did emphasise my long muscular legs and my hard flat belly; and I don't mind folk seeing the outline of my dick as, well, as you know, I've got nothing to be ashamed of! Dave carried on looking, though, and as I sat there and stretched my legs out I suspected he was trying to sneak a peak up the legs of my shorts: if he wasn't married to Sheila, I'd have thought that he fancied my body, actually. But then the thought occurred to me that being married had nothing to do with it if he was contemplating just a "bit of fun on the side", as so many married men do. Perhaps Sam and I ought to ask him over for an evening's poker - strip poker, that is!

Still, we sat and talked and Dave gave me a wealth of information about slave transporters, slave cages, the effects of shipping slaves immobilised, and all that sort of stuff. Sam sat there and listened, and I could see him looking curiously at me from time to time, wondering why I needed all this information. We jogged home - or, rather , ran, as Sam said I was getting out of condition and needed to work a lot harder, and when I failed to keep up with him he pulled a switch from a bush and came up behind me and started to hit my butt and back.... It didn't hurt - well, not as much as a carriage whip - but with Sam shouting "run you idle fucker" like Brett used to sometimes, and with the feel of the switch on my skin, it somehow made me determined to run in step with Sam just as we been made to as ponies. So when we got home I was really tired, and almost collapsed. Sam raced me down to the lake, though, and we threw ourselves in and swam a bit, then, floating close together, lazily treading water and enjoying the feel of each other as we kissed and stroked our dicks under the water, he suddenly asked "So what the fuck was all that about?"

"What?"

He squeezed my balls, and laughed. "Cut the crap, Steve. Assuming you're not planning to sell me and ship me off in a crate, what was all that earlier....? Come on, the truth, or else I'll squeeze a little harder...."

"What makes you think I'm not going to sell a slave who hits his master, and who hurts his balls....?"

"Because you like it! And you deserve it - you know it's good for you to exercise properly.... Now, come on, cut the crap."

Over the next few weeks as I firmed up my plans and acquired stuff and prepared to leave for Boston, Sam begged and pleaded with me to give up on the scheme I'd planned. He was terrified that I'd fail, and get caught, and then our life would be over: he begged and pleaded with me to stop, as if I was caught I'd surely be imprisoned in the north for many, many years, and he couldn't even visit me "even if they don't the sue you for enormous damages, and I get sold off as part of your chattels", he added. I hugged him and it was almost with tears in my eyes that I told him there was nothing on this earth I valued more than his love, but there were some things that a man had to do if he was to be a man. "You love me for what I am, Sam. Not just for my body, but for me, the person who is Steve. And I can only be that person if I do the things that I hold dear, the things that are critical to my life. You don't want to be with someone who's a wimp, someone who has a burning hate inside him that's consuming him but which he lacks the courage to do something about..... So you see, Sam, it's for us that I have to go and do this.... If I don't, there is no 'us', a the Steve part of the 'us' wouldn't be the Steve that you love. As John Wayne used to say, 'a man has to do what a man has to do', and I'm a man, Sam, and I have to go and do this."

Sam shook his head slowly, as if denying my words. His eyes were filled with tears, and he whispered "These fucking slavery laws, Steve.... I ought to be there, at your side... I ought to be fighting with you: I was a marine, and I can handle trouble.... "

"I know, Sam. But there's no point in making a bad situation worse... What I'm going to do is risky, but even trying to take me with you would just double it. You're doing all you can, Sam, with your love and support. Now, look after things here whilst I'm away, so I don't have to worry about the other slaves fucking things up, so I need to spare not even a moment's effort in thinking about or worrying about everything that's going on here."

Sam and I journeyed almost in silence to the airport, and I kissed him in the taxi and asked him not to come in to the terminal for a final farewell. "I need to start my mission here, Sam. I need to be tough and strong, and leave behind everything else. This is a kind of 'cut off', Sam: the current Steve and my life with you is here and now. And when I step out of this taxi, the new Steve has to take over. Help me here....."

Sam kissed me, deeply, and toyed with my dick through my pants. "Come back to me, Steve. Whatever else you do, do that."

I got out and walked in to the terminal and never looked back - if I had, and had seen Sam still there, I don't think I would have go on. But this is something I had to do, to do for myself.

My mood on the flight was calm and severe, to the extent that I don't even remember whether it was a cute northern boy in tight pants or a nearly-naked nigga who served me. In Boston I visited the companies I had dealt with on the internet and phone, and my plan started to roll. I hung around the airport as much as I could - even in my expensive clothes, the hysteria surrounding potential terrorist attacks still persisted and I couldn't go there too often or stay too long. But I located the ex-cop on duty, and discovered his hours. I lurked in the back recesses of the terminal to find out where the bus for the staff parking left from. He wasn't on it, so he must take the subway somewhere, so the next day I was on the platform... And my heart almost skipped a beat when he appeared, still looking vaguely scruffy in cheap clothes and seeming to be rather downtrodden and weary. I followed him on to the train and got off at the same station, watched as he downed a couple of beers in a seedy neighbourhood bar (a very poor neighbourhood, full of blacks and Mexicans), and then as he crammed a disgusting burger in his face, before trudging along the mean streets to a grungey, broken-down apartment building.

The next night I was waiting for him in the shadows outside the apartment. As he fumbled with the key, I crept up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled, so he couldn't breathe, and my other hand went up to his face with the rag soaked in the slave drug that Dave had told me about. As I released the pressure on my arm, he sucked in a great gasp of air... and collapsed.

I was at the biggest risk as I had to drag his inert form into the back of my hired truck - there weren't a lot of people about, but he was heavy as he was a big guy, and it took some time. But once inside I began to feel safe: I cuffed his arms and legs, and managed to get one of the special slave gags in to this mouth and secured behind his head - the kind that keeps the mouth wide open with a big "O" ring, but which makes it impossible for the slave to make a noise because of the tongue plate: you usually use them when you want to cum or piss into the mouth of a reluctant slave, but for my purposes they were excellent as they ensured silence and minimised the risk of suffocation.

I thought about stripping him before stuffing his body into the crate I'd purchased: he'd certainly need to piss on the journey, and maybe even to crap, and it would be kinder to him if he could do that without clothes on - but there was little enough time as it was, and, after all, look at what he'd put me through, so I didn't.

The crate was filled with small plastic balls so that his body was supported and he couldn't move around, but air could flow in - provided he didn't need too much. I screwed down the lid, checked the address was correct, and drove to the 24 hour a day UPS depot.

It was out of my hands now. If UPS fucked up, if he vomited and drowned in his own vomit, if the customs officers were very vigilant at the border.... Still, I'd done all I could.

I was very careful to "clean up", returning my rental pickup, throwing away the clothes I'd bought to wear on my mission, and finally returning to the expensive hotel I was checked in to for a shower and long call to Sam. I had a limo to he airport for the morning flight home, and was so relieved that, like my companion on the last flight, I pulled the privacy curtain around my seat and availed myself of the nigga's soft, sensitive mouth to relieve my throbbing dick. I'd told Sam not to come to the airport as he needed to be at our place to receive my crate, so there was perhaps some justification in my use of the nigga as I wouldn't be home all that early (hey - why do I need to justify this to you, or anyone? It was only a bit of casual sex, after all, nothing serious!).

Back at our place I was too anxious to be able to focus on Sam or, indeed, on anything. I was like a bear with a sore head pacing around nervously. I kept checking the progress of my UPS crate as it edged its way across the country (although I could have afforded it, I'd thought the rare and extremely expensive air freight might have attracted too much attention). Sam tried his best, but ultimately kept out of my way, as I snapped at him every time he made some sensible suggestion, like going for a run to release the tension.

It finally appeared late at night, and I was in a fever of excitement as I checked to see if my security tags were intact - they were, and I began to relax a little. Sam and I dragged it out to the barn, and then we opened it - it had been deliberately designed to be difficult to open to deter casual thieves, and it took us quite a time. There was a faint movement in the plastic spheres then, which gave me some hope that the cop was alive, and we scooped them away so we cold get to the cuffed figure near the bottom: he had indeed soiled himself, as I'd expected, so it wasn't pleasant, but at least he seemed to be alive. Sam and I pulled him out and he had difficulty standing, and I did feel desperately sorry for the poor guy as I could imagine how he was hurting - but then I remembered what he'd done to me, what I'd had to endure, and felt less bad about it.

Sam uncuffed him and he stood there rubbing at his wrists and ankles and trying to stand, still. I ordered him to take his disgusting clothes off, and he stood there looking totally bewildered. Even when I pointed out that they were soiled, he made no move to do it - although perhaps the thought of having his soiled body exposed was even worse! So Sam did it, with a harp knife, totally ignoring the cop's protests as he stumbled around. And it was Sam, too, who used the hose to clean him up and at least make it so that he no longer smelled so vile.

He stood in front of me then, perhaps an inch taller than me, but not in such good general condition: I could see his fat belly and his tits were beginning to sag, but nothing, I reckoned, that some good exercise couldn't cure. He made a feeble attempt to shield his dick and balls with his big hands but I commanded him to move them to his side, and when he hesitated, Sam stepped over to him and slapped his face. He was nicely hung - once a lot of the thick thatch of his pubes was removed, he'd be better.

"You're a slave now", I told him. "Do you remember how one night you and your partner pulled a young guy off his bike, and sold him to the man you called Jed? Well, now you're in the same position: I've taken a lot of trouble to acquire you, and tomorrow we'll start your journey into slavedom. You'll sleep chained up in here tonight, and I'm leaving your gag in as I don't want you disturbing my pony who also sleeps in here. You can drink through the gag, but I'm not feeding you - you're going to lose that flabbiness and I'm going to turn you into something a little more pleasing to the eye. I'd ask you if there were any questions you had, but now you're a slave, that doesn't apply: slaves don't have questions!"

He tried to say something, and failed of course. Sam pushed him rather authoritatively into one of the far bays of the barn, and I watched as Sam locked an ankle cuff around his ankle with the other end secured to one of the shacking eyes in the floor. We left him with a bucket of water, and went back to the house.

As we lay in bed, Sam asked me what I was going to do next, and I shrugged. My planning hadn't gone further than capturing him and bringing him here. "You can turn him over to the authorities", Sam commented. "Didn't your mate Stu say that he could be prosecuted here? That might be best - after all, he doesn't know where he is, we could drive him fifty miles and leave him somewhere trussed up with a note referring to his past crimes....."

I nodded. "That would certainly be one way. And he'd probably end up as a slave. But I want him not only to be a slave, but to know that he's been falsely enslaved. He did it to me, and it's only right he gets the same in return."

"You're taking a big risk, Steve - if you're found out, won't you be guilty, as he is?"

I just shrugged. You need to take risks, to get rewards.

End Of Part Ten