FALSELY ENSLAVED
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
A story in two parts. Part Two.
After the way we'd been bundled in the back of an SUV to be brought to this dealer, I assumed that the distinguished man and his son would take us away there and then in much the same way. But as Sam and I watched, they shook hands with tan suit, and left. The goons pushed us back into the display window, and we now had the added humiliation of having a big "Sold!" label slapped across it, and as I deciphered the backwards writing I saw "Why not drop in? Other fine slaves like these could be yours." It was just as if we were animals on sale in a pet store - now the current crop of puppies or kittens had been sold, you could come in to see the next lot.
Once it was dark, though, and the passing pedestrians had really thinned out, the real purpose of our stay was revealed: tan suit was chuckling to one of his lieutenants about the additional profit he'd made on us by taking money from our new owners to have the vet come in and circumcise us! Sam and I both shouted that he couldn't have something like that done to us, and he just went on laughing, telling his lieutenant that we had typical new slave behaviour, and that we clearly hadn't yet understood that an owner could have what he liked done to us - that was the meaning of life for a slave, to be totally under the control of someone else, so totally under control that these modifications to our most intimate parts could be carried out.
They dragged Sam out first and strapped him down on one of the "horses" that have so many uses in the control and punishment of slaves, as I was to find out, and it was even worse than I thought, if you can imagine such a thing. Tan suit was still sniggering about how he'd made a vet's fee on the side, as he did "little things" like this himself: I watched as he tore open the paper on a disposable scalpel, and went to work on Sam's dick.
Men aren't supposed to scream and cry, especially not men who were marines. But when my turn came I understood why Sam had made such a fuss. I don't think it's because he used the same bloodstained scalpel on me as he had on Sam, and it must have been that little bit blunter. No, it's that your dick is just so sensitive, especially when they slice around underneath where the little triangular thing is underneath. My whole body was arching and spasming in a futile effort to escape, but it was absolutely no good of course, as once the belly and thigh straps on a "horse" are tightened around you, and your wrists and ankles are cuffed to the legs, there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.
Later in my career I asked why slaves weren't given anaesthetic when stuff like this was done to them, and the overseer I was talking to shrugged as if it was a a matter of no great importance. I learned that it was considered better for slaves to feel the pain of stuff like branding, piercing and 'skinning, as it helped their brains to understand that they were now totally controlled by their owners. "And, anyway, most of them make so much fuss over almost nothing, just a some momentary, passing discomfort", he went on: I wish I could have held him down there and then and taken a scalpel to his foreskin, and showed him what "almost nothing" was! And he went on to say that it was another instance of the law of unintended consequences in operation - some do-gooders had decided that injections should only be carried out by properly qualified veterinarians: far from preventing suffering by making sure trained vets did this kind of thing, dealers and owners now simply did small operations themselves without anaesthesia.
Sam and I were put back into the window/cage after that, a scrap of plaster around the end of our dicks now being the only evidence of the removal of one of our signs of manhood. The United Nations long ago said that female circumcision was a crime against humanity, but Sam and I had lost our 'skins just as if it was totally unimportant. We lay there on the straw in silence, almost - I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I'd start to whimper as my brand, and now my dick, was hurting so much, and I didn't want to appear weak to Sam. Of course it didn't occur to m that Sam might be feeling the same way, and so we lay there unable to comfort each other with even a few words. In the middle of the night, though, we were both awake: I needed to pee, and there didn't seem to be any provision for it in the window, so I had to ask Sam to move so that I could do it into the straw in one corner. Once I'd done it - the piss started the sharp, searing pain in my dick all over again - Sam decided he needed to, too. He knelt there, his back to me, as he pissed into the corner, and I couldn't help admiring his broad shoulders and the way that his body tapered down to his narrow waist before flaring out into his butt. It was interesting, too, to observe the paler skin on the soles of his feet, as Sam really was otherwise a very dark black all over: you see it on their hands, of course, but it had never occurred to me that the soles of their feet were like that, too.
The stench of Sam's piss was very strong in the confined space, and he came and sat beside me and muttered a few words of apology for it - well, he couldn't help it, could he? And I guess mine was much the same. We sat there peering out into the dark street with only the occasional car going past, and speculated on where they were going. We agreed that it wasn't so long ago that we might have been out late like that - we'd have been in a bar, chatted up some woman all evening, and then might finally have got her to agree to sex, and we'd be on our way to her place or ours. We had to stop talking like that, though, as it made our dicks hard, and as they stretched and grew, the pain from our 'skinning got worse and worse.
Sam laughed, actually, and said he thought it made a pretty good contraceptive: if a guy got a pain in his dick every time it went erect, there'd be a lot less screwing going on.
We hadn't been fed at the dealer, and in the morning, although we were given water, there was still no food.
Sam reckoned it was not only to weaken our general resolve, but also to make it less likely that we'd need to crap. As he pointed out, it was pretty disgusting when we'd had to piss in that cage, and it would have been infinitely worse if we'd needed to crap. I sat there almost stunned - it was another revelation about life as a slave: I mean, crapping is kind of private, isn't it? Guys don't mind pissing in a line in a public rest room (and most of us even sneak a peek at the guys next to us to compare dicks, don't we?), but the thought of crapping in public was awful. Sam kind of shrugged, though, and said that in the marines' barracks the lavatory bowls were generally not in cubicles, and you got used to it: I could only hope he was right.
We stank a bit, I suppose, with the sweat from not having showered or anything for more than a say, and our sweat had that extra note to it that comes from fear and pain. And my face was all scratchy and almost itching from not having shaved. But mid morning, when Sam and I were crouched at the far corner of our cage as the sun coming in through the big class windows was unpleasantly hot, the goons appeared and unlocked the cage door and told us to come out one by one. As was becoming familiar by now my hands were cuffed behind me, and Sam and I were led out the back - we were expecting to see our new owner, I suppose, but instead it was a UPS truck there, and the driver was completing the paperwork for us. Well, to them, I suppose we were just "goods" to be delivered, and that meant that you needed to be signed for and stuff, just like a normal package. But to me it was another sign that my normal life was ebbing away - no free man would be monitored like that, after all.
Inside the truck there was racking along one side with packages of various sizes piled up, and on the other very small cages, smaller than shower cubicles. Two were empty, but the remainder were filled with slaves - once Sam and I had been locked into the empty cages, I turned to the guy next to me and was filled with horror: he was really big, but a deathly pale white all over except for the rash of really ugly tattoos all over his skin - bit swirls, terrible expletive words, and crude diagrams of cocks and balls, covered him. I saw huge, ugly patches of hard, scabbed and scarred skin on his elbows and knees, and the moment the truck started into life, he thrust his hard dick at me through the bars separating us. I could hardly move away as the cage was so small, and he was getting more and more excited as his dick touched my skin. I shouted at him to leave me alone, but that only seemed to excite him more and he thrust his big, calloused hands through the bars to try and grab me and pull me even closer.
"Punch him in the balls!", Sam shouted to me as he saw my plight. Look, I've never done anything like that at all, not ever, but his big hands were all over me, and he was trying to turn me around to get his dick at my ass. All the time he was making strange, excited grunting noises, and I was terrified. Mustering all the energy I had, I bent slightly, as much as I could within the confines of the cage, and struck out at him through the bars. His terrible moaning went up a pitch or two, and his grip on me relaxed, and he stood there then for quite a long time making strange, almost unearthly whimpering. I thought he must be some sort of imbecile, being transported to a lunatic asylum to be locked away so he was no danger to anyone, but Sam explained it all. The big men in there were miners, he thought, being taken from one mine to another for some reason - they were deathly white because normally they never came above ground, spending their entire lives deep in the depths of the earth, and the crude tattoos all over him were "home made", as doing that to each other was the only form of amusement, other than sex, that they had. That explained all the callouses and big patches of hard skin on his knees and elbows, too (and on his back, I saw, as he now turned away from me and was attempting to fuck the guy on the other side of him, who was not resisting). "He probably spends his entire life crawling on his hands and knees through very small tunnels", Sam explained. "I saw a program on TV about it - the productivity of the mines has soared as they now no longer need to dig big, wide roadways, as the slaves can crawl along pulling the tubs of soil behind them - and the poor guys' backs suffer, too, from scraping along the ceiling". Sam also pointed out that it wasn't considered necessary for slaves like that to be able to speak, and, indeed, that the mine owners considered that it might even stop them working by engaging in idle chatter; so slaves sold for mining generally had their tongues cut out. I shuddered, and I didn't know which I thought was the worse - being muted like that, or being so desperate to have sex that I'd even do it to a complete stranger through the bars of a cage in a slave transporter.
Fortunately our trip didn't seem to be too long - there was no airconditioning in there, and as the sun warmed the metal of the truck, it became almost unbearable hot. As I said, I was a bit rank already, but the miner guy next to me positively stank. And he seemed to be totally unconcerned about personal hygiene, as I heard him start to piss - I hated it, as I could feel the stream hitting the floor then rolling along and wetting my feet! But there was no way of avoiding it, as the cages was so small there was nowhere I could move to. He grunted away, though, emptying his bladder, and in the dim light I saw him start to crouch, as much as was possible - and drop a huge turn onto the floor between his feet! The smell was awful, and I felt myself begin to gag and wretch. Sam put his hand through the bars and tried to hold me, to comfort me, and pointed out that it wasn't the salve's fault, as down the mines there were no lavatory facilities of any kind to save the expense of having to pump it all to the surface, and so he imagined that miners just got used to doing these things where ever it was easiest for them.
When the truck eventually stopped, we emerged blinking into the strong sunlight, to find ourselves ins some sort of enclosed yard - low buildings stretched around three sides, and a wall with a huge pair of high gates enclosed the other. There were guards, in smart "uniforms" of dark khaki shorts and matching short-sleeved cotton shirts, embroidered with "Walker Plantation" and the man's name underneath. A thick leather belt around their waist held assorted whips, tawses, a short club, cuffs, and, inevitably, I suppose, what I now recognised as a slave prod. Their matching black leather boots were highly polished (no problem, as there was a slave assigned to do this, I subsequently discovered), and they wore khaki forage caps to shield them from the sun.
A tall, lean man in jeans and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt was scribbling his name impatiently on our delivery documentation, and, when he'd finished, and the UPS van drove away, he came over to where Sam and I had been herded by a guard. He looked Sam and me up and down, then spoke. I don't think I'm investing him with characteristics he didn't display when I say it was harsh, and cold, and rather cruel. "You are at Walker Plantation now, and I am Frank Straughan, Mister Walker's overseer and slave master. You will of course always call me 'sir'. Mr Walker has just under three hundred slaves here working the fields to produce high-quality fruit and vegetables: he is proud of his ecological record, as none of the earth's precious resources of oil are used in cultivation, all the work being done by slaves. In fact, it's a selling point for our produce, as it has the prized 'We care for the earth' logo on it."
I remembered mom saying how she always was prepared to pay that little bit extra on the price of produce at the market with that symbol on it, as it was so important to do all we could to help save the planet. I wondered if she really knew what that implied, and that she was supporting this cruel life in the South by her actions, but Straughan was going on "We have only one rule here: slaves obey, or are punished. There are several other rules that flow from that, for example, 'slaves do not speak unless spoken to, and then only to answer the guard'. 'Slaves work at their assigned task for as long as ordered ,and always work as hard as they can.' And, perhaps obviously, 'Slaves do not escape.' Failure to obey any of these rules results in punishment - and you two should know that the punishment for attempted escape is, invariably, death. It's not much of a problem for our regular slaves as they are coffled when working and the coffle chain is more or less unbreakable. But you two are, I am told, a present from Mr Walker for young master Brett, and are to become his ponies. Theoretically, therefore, you could try to make a break for it, but I would advise you to think carefully about it: our last failed escapee took two days to die on the cross, as that is the customary method of disposing of slaves who are so rebellious."
He turned to go, and I blurted out "Please, Mr Straughan, I'm not a slave, and neither is Sam here. We were captured by slavers, illegal slavers, and we're free men....."
Straughan snapped orders to the guards, and Sam and I were hustled along behind him into one of the low buildings. It was a bare space, with a concrete floor leading to a drain hole in the middle to make for easy hosing down an cleaning, and there were various curious devices standing around. Straughan told them to fasten me to a "horse" - one of the very strong, "industrial" models, and the undid my cuffs, threw me down onto the hard metal surface, and snapped the ankle and wrist holders closed.
"Leave his body free", Straughan said to the guard. "He's new, and needs to feel how impotent he is when he's on the horse - the more he thrashes around, the more he begins to realise he is totally powerless." He came to my face then and said calmly "You didn't listen, did you, boy? I had just told you that slaves do not speak unless spoken to, and that infractions of the rules are punished."
"But I'm not a slave, I was captured illegally....."
"We do not tolerate sedition here, either. How dare you suggest that Mr Walker would engage in any practice that might be illegal. That deserves a second round of punishments." I carried on protesting, but he simply walked off, over to the wall, and I saw him starting to select from a range of canes that were all lined up on a purpose-build holder. He took one and swished it a few times through the air, and rejected it. Then a second, which seemed to be satisfactory.
I heard the swish of the cane the instant before my body exploded into pain. I stopped protesting my loss of freedom as a terrible scream ripped out of my throat. And as the cane fell again and again across my butt I knew I was howling senselessly and incoherently - Straughan didn't care what I said anyway.
The agony stopped, and, almost as it I was an observer, rather than a participant, I heard myself sobbing uncontrollably. Straughan said quietly "Slaves who disobey are punished. That is your first lesson." But I was unwise enough to manage to force out "But I'm not a slave.", and saw Straughan shrug. The next ten strokes were on the back of my thighs, and if the pain from my butt was bad, that from my taught-stretched thighs was simply indescribable. When he'd finished, Straughan asked quietly "Anything else to say, slave?". My monosyllabic "No" (I'd judged it wiser to try to get a message to the police via a delivery man, or someone, whenever I could) caused two more strokes to my butt, followed by Straughan saying, again in that quiet, cruel tone "Remember what I said about addressing your superiors, boy? Try that again - have you anything else to say?". I managed a "No, sir", and once more felt my freedom slipping imperceptibly away as I acknowledged the rules of the system under which I was now living.
We didn't see Mr Walker, or Brett, for the next two weeks - one of the other slaves thought they might be on vacation somewhere like Europe. Straughan used the time to get us "really into shape", as he called it. I thought I was in good condition from all the sport I did, and Sam's body looked fine as I've told you, and life as a a marine must have anyway been hard. But we both learned differently at the plantation - with all those slaves, it was worthwhile to have a special "training facility" to get new slaves who might be overweight, or under developed, or both, into a proper state to work very hard. Only a small adaptation to the settings and timings of the exercise machines was necessary to take two fit, muscular guys and turn them into exceptionally fit, and even more muscular, men. We soon learned that it was required that we drove our bodies to exhaustion, and then beyond that, if we were to avoid the electric shocks and other punishments that the machines could deliver once we were fixed into them.
Straughan had also identified that I was not properly tanned, and my skin had been artificially coloured after my capture, and so some part of this unremitting work was in the full heat of the sun - Sam was there, too, as even deeply dark niggas will go a shade or two blacker when fully exposed. I heard Straughan telling one of the guards that exercising in the sun meant that all parts of me got the same even colour, and it was a pity that all those idle people who lay by the side of a pool didn't realise that. His timing was erratic, though, and on several nights both Sam and I lay there in our stall in the stables trying to rub cool water from our drinking trough over those patches of skin that were burning. Yes, we were in the stables: regular field hands were housed in large dormitories, but as trainee ponies we merited a stall in the stables, along with the two sets of dray slaves who pulled the farm carts around, and a long-limbed slave who pulled Mr Walker's trap when he went on inspections tours of the place. Straughan had his own pony who worked probably harder than any of the others - a black-eyed Mexican of about thirty five with muscles of steel, as he almost never stopped during the day as Straughan constantly patrolled the place, making sure everything was running like clockwork. He often told us how he missed his family, and how he constantly rued the day when he'd decided to enter the USA illegally and had been picked up by the border patrol, to be sold off to help defray the enormous expense of patrolling the border properly.
We were chained into our stall each night with a short chain attached to a manacle around our ankle - we could move around, but not leave the stall and could therefore only shout to the other guys in the stables once the doors had been closed for the night (earlier on we remained silent in case Straughan came on an inspection tour, before or after his dinner). As these things go our stall wasn't all that bad - there was enough room for Sam and me to move around, and lie without touching each other. The straw was reasonably high quality and therefore quite soft (hard straw is no fun to sleep on, as the sharp ends stab at you all night), and it was changed once a week. We had water always available in our little trough, and a hole in the corner allowed us to piss or crap without soiling our quarters. It could be unpleasantly hot when we were first taken in there in the evening after the sun had been on the building all day, but we got to understand that this was not necessarily undesirable as the evenings and nights could be cold down there, and without clothing or covering of any kind, we knew it: the residual heat made it at least bearable!
Master Brett was waiting when we were brought out one morning - we were hosed down by the stable slaves and shaved as part of the normal morning routine , which included giving us our bowl of slave chow which was all the nourishment we were allowed until the evening.
Straughan was there, his cane and slave prod at the ready, and so we knew we needed to behave. Brett was like a kid with a new toy - he was seething with excitement as he ran his hands all over our bodies, and complimented Straughan on how fit we were and how his initial training had "brought us on" from when he'd seen us at the dealer. I had to stand there as this eighteen year old then reached down for my dick and fingered it all over, almost bubbling with excitement as he told Straughan that whoever had 'skinned me had done a "fucking great job" as there were no unsightly scars, and when my dick was just hanging there, no unpleasant folds of skin were now visible. "It's true what they say in 'Slave Owner Monthly'", he added. "A slave does look so much better 'skinned - it's aesthetically more interesting, and an owner deserves to be able to see all of his purchase - I don't want my slaves to think they can conceal any part of themselves from me!"
"I've kept them totally shaved, as you asked", Straughan interjected, but your instructions about their hair in your e-mail were a little unclear, and I did not wish to spoil the effect you had in mind: we can take them back inside in a moment and have them cut as you wish. And, of course, there's the question of owner's introductions - I assume you will be doing it, as is customary?"
We saw Brett nod, and Straughan and he walked back into the stables, followed by us and a guard. There was indeed some discussion about our haircuts - we'd been given an all-over crop by the odious Jed, and now Brett wanted us to have a three-inch wide "Mohican" down the centre, with the rest shaved off. He'd planned to let this grow long, especially down the neck as he told Straughan he thought it looked good to see a slave's hair wet with his sweat, and "a pony slave looks good with a kind of mane". Straughan pointed out, though, that Sam's hair would never do that as it was short and very curly, "like a typical niggas's", and that therefore if Brett wanted a matched pair, mine would need to remain short. Brett then had the stable slave brush fierce straightening gel in to Sam's head, and the poor guy cried out when a moment's inattention caused a trickle of it to run down into his eyes. Even such a legitimate complaint caused Straughan to strike him on the shoulders with a tawse, though, and I heard Brett say "Well done, Straughan! They need to learn that ponies are silent.
I had in fact considered having them muted."
A wave of cold horror went through me as I heard this - I remembered the way that miner had had his tongue cut out. I mean, it can't be right to take away a man's prime means of communication with his fellows, can it? Fortunately, though, Straughan replied that although this was easily possible - and the local vet was quite expert at slicing the vocal chords and often did it for slaves used in the boudoir of local ladies to prevent tittle-tattle about what they got up to, he didn't recommend it as our value would be radically decreased. Brett thought for a moment, and responded "Good thinking, Straughan - I'm supposed to be adding value to these guys as part of the deal with my father to have two, rather than one, so I'll have to rely on their bits in normal usage: I saw a fantastic double one in a store at Atlanta Airport when we changed planes to come home, and we'll try it out later." How easily these southerners, apparently used to owning and controlling slaves, took these fundamental decisions about the way they could treat our bodies.
The morning was far from over for us yet, though. Straughan now asked Master Brett if he was indeed going to exercise his owner's rights over us. I saw the kid look at us, and he ran his hands over Sam's butt as if thinking hard, before muttering "No, Straughan: in 'Southern Slave Owner' they say that whereas a gentleman has a right to use any slave he chooses, 'good manners' suggest that those who are trained as animals are unsuitable. I mean, a gentleman would not fuck a sheep, or a pig, would he? So in polite society it's not considered good form to use pony slaves for anything other than proper pony work."
Straughan stuck his thumbs into the loops holding his belt and sort of paced around: "I don't like to dispute with you, Brett, and maybe these folks at 'Southern Slave Owner' know what they're talking about, but I've got a lot of practical experience of breaking and training slaves, and my experience is that the sooner you get a slave broken in to sex properly, the better. It makes for a much more harmonious working environment, when the slaves know and understand each other - and what better way of getting them started than to let them see how their owner uses them?"
"I'm sorry, Straughan, but it would be death if it was ever discovered I'd had relations with my pony - it's a very small world, you know, and this sort of thing gets out. But I agree with you that these two need sex: fine strapping men like these need every part of them exercised, and it's no good me having them as ponies with magnificent sculpted bodies if their dicks are all shrivelled up with lack of use."
I wanted to shout out that of course my dick wasn't under used - what in Christ's name did he think most single guys did with their hands most of the time? But I kept silent, not wanting to risk another caning .
"Well, Brett, if you're determined not to have your privileges, are you interested in watching them for their first time? I assume it is the first time for each of them, as we've been keeping an eye on them and neither of them wants to touch the other, it seems. It can be a fine sport to watch them fumble around - although I have ways of speeding it up - and a lot of men don't like being watched at all, and so having their owner present is a real problem for them."
"Actually, yes, Straughan, but we'd best make it fast, as I have a tailor coming by to measure me for my new blazer in my frat colours - it's so important to get these things absolutely right, as after dad has spent all that money on a pair of ponies for me, it would be a shame to spoil it if I looked less than elegant when driving them, don't you think?"
Straughan kind of nodded, as if he thought the whole thing was stupid. He shouted orders at the guards, one of whom who pulled a "horse" over, and I'm sure that poor Sam thought he was in for another caning when he was strapped to it. Straughan then came over to me, put one hand on my shoulder as if to steady himself, or perhaps it was to extend a gesture of physical control over me, and, looking me straight in the eyes, reached down and began to stroke my dick.
I realised then what was going to happen, and started shouting at them that they couldn't make me do this, that it was disgusting, that I was a straight guy, and all that other stuff. It didn't help, though, as my body betrayed me - the action of Straughan's hand made me go rock hard.
Straughan started to tug at my dick, using it as a kind of handle to pull me over towards Sam, and when I resisted, he told me I was risking another severe caning. I called him all the names I could think of, but he just laughed quietly, and shifted his grip so that he was now clutching my balls. A little squeeze, and my stream of invective morphed into a scream, and Straughan now told me to behave, or worse would happen.
You can't argue, or even put up any resistance, with your hands cuffed behind you and a guy's hands clutching your balls, and so slowly and inexorably I was led and positioned between Sam's legs as he lay there. On a command from Straughan one of the guards leaned over and pulled Sam's butt apart - I could see Sam's asshole now, it's pale, puckered surface contrasting with the deep chocolate of the rest of him, and in spite of what Straughan might do to me, I screamed "No, no! Please don't....."
It was no good, though: Straughan guided me inexorably closer and closer until e changed tactic again, and started to wipe my dick head up and down Sam's exposed ass crack. As he did so, shivers of excitement went through me, and every time I touched Sam's pucker, I thought I might actually cum there and then!. I heard Straughan say to Brett "This one's just like all the rest - they all say they don't want to do it, but once they get started, the excitement carries them on....". And, as he did so, he expertly left me positioned with my dick head against Sam's moist, warm pucker, then slashed at my butt with a punishment cane.
Well, as you'd expect, I shot forward in surprise, and my dick rammed into Sam so quickly and powerfully that I breached his sphincter. He now screamed, a deep, terrible scream of pain, anguish and outrage. I stood there, not knowing for a moment what to do, then felt Straughan right behind me, his clothes rubbing against my naked body, which in itself was somehow exciting - a clothed man next to your naked skin is a real turn on, I find. He rested his hands on my hips and began to push and pull at me, moving me in and out of Sam.
I'd never done anything like that before, but it was so fucking amazing to feel Sam's body gripping my dick. It was far, far better than fucking a woman, and somehow being made to do it like this, and having Sam writhing around underneath me trying to avoid it, all added to the excitement. I soon forgot that there were other men there watching me, and the thing took on a life of its own, as I found that I wanted to plunge deeper and deeper into Sam, I wanted to go sometimes fast and sometimes slow... And, all too soon, my body betrayed me again as that huge excitement built up in me when you know you're going to cum. I arched my back as if I wanted to get as deep into Sam as possible, and gave one huge last thrust before I was rendered weak and helpless as my balls pumped what seemed like gallons of cum up into him. My whole body shook with that ecstasy you get when the little "aftershocks" come along, and I couldn't help crying out "Oh yes, Jesus, fuck....."
I felt pretty foolish then, standing there with my dick buried in Sam, with that audience watching me, especially as Straughan turned to Brett and said "A natural, this one. I bet if you'd met him in a bar and asked him whether he'd like fucking ass, he'd have taken a swipe at you and would have been outraged. But mark my words, and I've seen a lot of slaves introduced to sex like this, and there haven't been many as enthusiastic as Steve here: this boy will really enjoy it, once he overcomes his stupid prejudices."
I saw Brett nodding, and Straughan went on "Still, you're in a hurry.... So on with the show."
I watched as Sam was unstrapped from the horse and stood there shaking with fury, and glaring at me. And I think it came to both of us more or less simultaneously, when Straughan ordered the guard to tie me down onto the horse, what was to happen next.
In some part of my brain there's still tucked away the memory of feeling the spine of the horse wet from Sam's sweat, and the way the cuffs were all hot and clammy as they were fastened around my ankles and wrists. And I shouted and yelled as Sam's dick was moved up and down over the sensitive skin deep in my butt crack, culminating with a primeval roar as Sam's dick penetrated me. I wanted it to stop as Straughan made him fuck me, I wanted the pain to cease as his dick forced my ass muscles to open in a way they'd never done before, and I wanted more than anything else for the humiliation to end. But it was an odd sort of pain - each stroke hurt me and made me cry out, and yet at the same time it was like nothing I'd ever experienced before, sort of "right" somehow, and incredibly, utterly sensual.
Of course that was all a long time ago, but they say you always remember the first time, don't they? Well, I do, and I think Sam does, too. That night as we lay in our stall, we were somehow embarrassed and didn't want to talk about how we'd been made to rape each other. In fact we were silent, as if by not speaking about it the memory of it might somehow be erased. Finally, Sam said in a quiet voice "I reckon they'll make us do that again, Steve. That Straughan said we needed to be 'trained' in sex...."
I nodded. "There's not much we can do about it, is there? I'm sorry, Sam.... If I hurt you like you hurt me.... But they made me....."
We were silent for a minute or so, then Sam shuffled a bit closer to me. "You know, Steve, we ought to cheat on them. It's the only way we can resist them. We ought to deprive them of the pleasure of seeing two straight guys like us being made to have sex together."
I nodded. "Yes. It's bad enough being made to exercise and everything, but being forced to fuck a guy's ass is the ultimate in taking away his freedom.... But what can we do about it? Tomorrow, when they strap us on the horse again and grab our balls to make us go in, how are we going to stop them?
Having Straughan squeeze my balls is even more painful than having that giant black dick of yours up my ass...."
"Same for me, Steve. So I reckon we spoil their fun by practising.... Let's get used to the feel of it, get used to being inside each other... Kind of do it willingly, to show them we're still in control of our lives."
I wanted to tell Sam that he was talking complete and utter rubbish. I mean, at one level he was right, we'd be taking charge of things for ourselves. But at another level we'd be having man-on-man sex, and we were straight guys. I went to say so, and then I remembered that exquisite sensation in my dick as it slid in and out of Sam, and I thought of how the pain as he fucked me transmuted into something else: something so incredibly exotic, that I wanted to experience it again. So instead I muttered "I reckon you're right, Sam.... Come here....."
End Of Part Two
Note to readers: this started out as two parts, but Steve and Sam's saga has got to me, and, like their dicks, it's "kind of grown". So expect more! Pete