FALSELY ENSLAVED
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Six
Actually all the legal sorting out and the transfer of titles and so on took a couple of months: we could try, find guilty and enslave someone in days, but property transfers take longer.
I told them I did not want to own Walker Plantation as it had too many unpleasant memories for me, so it went into a government auction of surplus property, and I ultimately received the cash (minus a lot more fees). I thought of going "home", back north, but I k new that then I would never be able to have Sam with me all the time, as slaves were not allowed to leave the south. It was Stu, who, when we were saying goodbye after our torrid few weeks together, took me aside and told me he thought I needed time to "find myself" again: "Steve", he said, "Sometimes you're in there thrusting, sorting things, making things happen; and some times you just roll over and give in. Who are you, really? Mark, educated, free? Or Steve, a slave, driven by the demands of his dick?"
The solution I found was to purchase a farm - I didn't want the thousand acres, but the modest house with a sweeping view down to the private lake, on a secluded road outside a small town (I won't even hint where it is, as it's still a favoured retreat of mine) seemed to be the ideal solution. I went to the regional slave market and bought a gardener to keep the surroundings grounds in order - a big, strong, blond Russian or native of Belarusse or somewhere like that who was, as you might expect, enslaved for working without a work permit as so many of them do. I liked his flashing blue eyes and his long legs, and thought that if Sam and I ever had a serious falling out, he'd be a good relief for my dick. I decided to get a cook, too, well, more of a chef, really, and was fortunate in finding a soldier whose main duties had been cooking for the officers' mess on is base until he was found taking bribes from the suppliers: his body was still neat and trim and, in fact, rather on the skinny side, but he was easy on the eye and a nice contrast to my gardener who was so much more heavily built. Finally, I had to have a valet. Well, a man living alone needs someone to launder his clothes, make the beds, and all that sort of stuff, doesn't he?
I bought a pleasing young nigga of eighteen, and sent him off to a school where such men who had previously only known a life of crime on the streets could rapidly be turned into proper, responsible servants (with rather a lot of physical instruction involved, I rather imagined, judging by the state of his back, but and thighs when he was finally delivered to me). He could also serve as a waiter and general cleaner, to keep the whole place tidy.
Finally, when all the paperwork cleared, Sam came "home". I can't describe the joy of our meeting, and how we fell on each other with such passion and frenzy that my valet ran in, thinking that Sam had attacked me! Sam at one tried to take charge, as he often did, and I agreed with him that we should at once call the farrier to have his nose ring and cinch rings removed (my own had gone as soon as he case was over, along with my tit rings, and the holes ere now starting to heal up). Sam was surprised when I insisted he keep this tit rings, though - I told him I thought they were "sexy", and that cheered him up, but there was method in this: I've told you how we wrestled and tussled to see who was going to fuck whom, and generally it was me who lost out to Sam's superior training. Now, provided I could get a finger into one of those rings, the odds changed radically as Sam had no choice but to give in to me or suffer the pain of a sharp wrench to his nips. All of a sudden it was me who was fucking most of the time (which, if you think about it, is only right, as I was a free man and Sam was my slave).
I wanted life to be simple, and so all the slaves except Sam lived in a small slave house that I bought at the local builders' merchants and had a team of slaves erect almost overnight: it wasn't elaborate, as it had no need to be, so there was just a single space for them to live in and a lavatory and shower that was connected to the main house system. I had a bell installed, though, so that any of them could be summoned over to the main house if I needed service. T was out of sight of the main house, though, so that when I was on my veranda at night looking at the lake, I could forget all about the many problems a slave owner has, if I wanted to. "Out of sight, out of mind", as they say.
The problem of the land was easily resolved, too. My nearest neighbour was a really nice guy, married with a couple of kids. Dave and Sheila didn't have much money and were trying to make a go of the place with only a couple of slaves, but the prospect of renting my spare land from me radically altered things: the slaves could now work much harder on the enhanced acreage, and their profits took a leap.
Not wanting to flaunt my wealth (no one associated me with the great false enslavement scandal, which local folk thought "was all in Houston"), I decided against buying a car as we were only a couple of miles from town, where there was a train station, and I would rely on the local taxi service, and a bicycle. There were some "rich folk" in town, lawyers and accountants and the like, who mainly lived elsewhere but who liked a "country place", and they did keep ponies, and I suppose I could have bought one for myself - perhaps even one of the ponies I used to work with, who had been sold off when Walker Plantation changed hands. But I didn't, and the trap which came with the property languished in one of he barns. Deep down, I didn't want to be reminded of how terrible it is to change a man into an animal.
Sam and I were idyllically happy for a time. I was integrating into local society, giving generous prizes for all the raffles and whist drives to support good causes, attending the bake sales and stuff to support the local schools, and turning up to cheer on our High School footballers. As a slave, Sam couldn't do most of this of course, so he stayed at home, and it was good to have him there after a day of "the social round". We could eat dinner together quietly, and then go to bed to fuck. You must remember that even though we were getting older, we were both very fit and very active, and I'm astonished when I hear of some guys in their late twenties who don't fuck at least once a night.
All was going well until the local pastor called on me to try to persuade me to attend this church - a vain hope, of course. Still, I was polite and didn't tell him his whole life was founded on a lie: normally I don't suffer fools gladly, or at all, and it was only because he was a guest that I refrained from telling him that there was as little likelihood of me believing in his juju in the sky as there was in me believing that the earth was flat. He was about to leave, having nevertheless wished me "the peace of our lord", which I corrected to "your so-called lord", somewhat to his surprise, when Sam strode in.
He'd jogged up from the lake where he'd been swimming, so he looked magnificent: his body glistened and shone with the water still on him, and his muscles were all pumped up from the exercise. I'd not had him collared when his cinch ring was removed, but, ever careful now to obey the law in all things, I'd had a very thin stainless steel band fixed around his right ankle: it was so easy to overlook, and never physically intruded in our love making as a cinch ring did, and a proper collar certainly would ( especially as I like to nuzzle and bite at the neck and shoulders of a guy I'm fucking). In his simple unaffected way, Sam kissed me and I of course responded, and I introduced Sam to the pastor then, saying something which I now see was stupid, like he was my "partner".
The next day I cycled into town as I had an appointment at the hairdressers (my Mohican stripe had grown out, and I now had an all-over relatively short crop, but that style does of course require a lot of maintenance). When I went in, the normal chatter of the other patrons stopped, and the barber, of whom I was a good customer as I generally had a trim once a week and always tipped generously, looked in his book and flatly denied I had an appointment. I could actually see his finger hovering over "Steve M" in the eleven o'clock spot! I remonstrated, but he was firm:
no appointment, no hair cut. Then, when I tried to make an appointment for the next day, or next week, or even next month, there was, politely but firmly, "no available time slot".
Baffled, I went into the cafe for my usual double expresso, and when the slave came over to take my order and went back to the counter, the manageress came over and announced that all l the tables were reserved, and she was sorry but I would have to leave.
In the empty place, even she must have felt foolish telling me this.
I had similar baffling experiences in the feed store, where they "couldn't find an account registered" and so couldn't accept my order for more slave chow. And so it went on, all morning.
My social antennae were sensitive enough to know that something was badly wrong, and that afternoon I cycled over to my tenants, Dave and Sheila, to ask their advice. You may think it foolish of me to care about things like this, but I did after all have to live near this small town. Sheila seemed really embarrassed and announced she'd "leave us men together". Dave asked me to sit, then sat opposite me, and sat there for what seemed like ages, twisting his hands together in nervous tension as he clearly didn't know what to say in answer to my questions about why the town had turned against me. Finally, he blurted out "The pastor saw you kissing a nigga.... And folks around here, well, they're uncomfortable with that...."
It was so totally outrageous that I spluttered in indignation. I mean, how long has it been since the racial equality laws made it perfectly acceptable for white guys to fuck black ones? I told Dave I'd never heard of such blatant discriminatory behaviour - I had a good mind to call the local TV station and denounce the whole place as racist.
Dave still seemed to be in an agony of indecisiveness, though, and finally muttered "Steve, this is difficult... I don't know quite what to say... You being such a good neighbour to Sheila and me and all..... "
I glared at him, and he went on "It's not that it was a nigga, Steve. Folks around here don't like... Don't really think it's right to... Well, the bible says it's wrong to.... Well, for one guy to kiss another. I mean, we're all red-blooded men around here, and we know that kissing invariable leads to... Well....."
"To fucking? Of course it does! So they're all prejudiced because Sam and I are lovers?"
Dave nodded. "Look, Steve, I don' mind, and neither does Sheila. But folk around here are powerfully in fear of the lord, and the bible says it's wrong to plant one man's seed in another man's furrow....."
"...and wrong to divorce, although quite a lot seem to do so around here. And OK to stone folk for adultery, which would take out about a quarter of the town. And I don't see too many people marrying their deceased brother's wife..... Who cares what the fuck the bible says? It's all rubbish anyway, and the ones who pick and choose the stuff about one guy not going with another blithely ignore the other bits, like those I've cited...."
I was really warming to my subject now, and went on "And , in any case, I know of lots of the guys around here who fuck their slaves, their male slaves, that is! When I've been in the bar some evenings they're all there bragging and boasting about how many inches they can thrust in at one go...."
Dave looked puzzled, then shrugged. "But the guys around here fuck slave, Steve! It's not the same as fucking another guy."
"....except anatomically? I reckon a slave's ass is much the same as a free man's!"
Dave shrugged again. "Steve, stop this northern logic! It's talk like that that caused the civil war in the first place, and we don't want all that going on again. Sheila and me have kids, remember, and we want them to grow up in peace, and we don't want the whole place torn apart as it was fifty years ago in the Second Civil War. A lot of folk around here found it hard to accept you in the first instance, as you're a northerner, at least judging by your accent. But when we saw how you were blending in with the community, and how you bought those slaves for yourself, we accepted you. But guys around here, Steve, don't fuck other guys! Of course an owner can use a slave if and as he wants to, but that's totally different."
I began to laugh. "You southerners! No wonder you don't like Yankee logic. It's OK to fuck another guy, as long as he's a slave, but not otherwise, is that it?"
Dave couldn't understand why I thought that odd. "It seems pretty clear to me. Slaves are not really guys, are they? They're males, but slaves."
"Well I'm in the clear then, Dave - the 'guy' the pastor saw me kissing - and I guess that is where all this started - is actually a slave. I own him, and, yes, I do fuck him. As you say, why not - he's only a slave, after all!"
Dave seemed to be angry now. "You lying Yankee! The reverend saw him buck naked, and he wasn't collared. Just those homo tit rings, like the fancy men in New York City wear...."
"...because his collar is around his ankle! Come over and see, if you don't believe me."
Well, I calmed down Dave, and, I suppose partly because I was such a good neighbour, and his landlord, he went away thinking that I was at least "normal". But he warned me that folks in that town were naturally a suspicious lot, and that I was going to have a hard time convincing them that I was behaving to their norms.
Thinking about it, I decided the only thing to do was mount a totally spectacular demonstration that Sam was indeed a slave, and therefore that there could be no possible objection to having sex with him, and I remembered the unused pony trap out in the barn. When I first told Sam of my plan, he flatly refused: if he hadn't been my buddy as well as my slave, I'd have had him whipped for even thinking of such disobedience, but you can't do that for someone you're fucking, can you? Instead I went through all the arguments one after another, and then resorted to tweaking his nip rings painfully so he knew I was serious.
We both worked away, just as we used to, at cleaning the trap until it was gleaming and bright. I also insisted that Sam shaved himself properly - like me, he'd wanted to grow it again but frankly I didn't like it: as on a lot of niggas it was very short and very tightly curled, and I thought it looked a bit like some sort of mould on him, and it spoiled my pleasure in running my hands over his muscles. I'd been planning to get him to start shaving again anyway, and this provided me with the ideal opportunity.
On Sunday morning Sam and I had quite a jolly time as I massaged slave oil in all over him, even though he was wearing pretty standard slave shorts, and we went out together to the trap not quite I arm in arm, as I' dressed up in a smart new white suit with a bright blue cravat and I didn't want to get oil on it, but the closest thing to it.
Sam was quite happy trying out the shafts again until I casually snapped the manacles closed, holding his hands onto the pulling bars, as was customary: that was always the way we worked. Sam began to protest, but I pointed out that all the ponies I'd seen in the town had been shackled, and that as we were trying to show that Sam really was a slave, he'd better be that way, too. He didn't like it when I slipped off his training shoes, though - that was silly really, as the soles of his feet were still perfectly tough from our previous life, and his strong legs did not have any need of that fancy "springing" the things were supposed to provide.
When I told him to kneel, so that I could put a bit in his mouth, he began to swear, shouting "No fucking way, man! I wore that bit with you for three years, and I'm not going to start again...." It didn't matter how much I explained it really was necessary, he just refused to open his mouth. Time was getting short, and I could see that this was not an argument I was going to win. I hated the thought of my plan going wrong as it was so important to me, and there was only one thing I could do: Sam forced me in to it, and he only had himself to blame. I took the goad from the holster on the side of the driving seat, and stabbed at Sam's butt five or six times until he howled at me to stop (along with a lot of other very unsatisfactory language for a slave to use to his owner, which I won't repeat here).
Once I'd got the bit in and had allowed him to stand, I did try and explain, and to apologise even, but Sam was having none of it and I could tell by his body language that he was really pissed off. He was even more pissed off when, having looked at him, I decided we ought to go the whole hog and reached down and undid his shorts, so they fell to the floor.
At first I thought that he was jumping up and down in rage - I can't imagine why, as he had a superb body as you know, and there was actually no reason why he shouldn't display it. I suppose I'm being charitable to Sam to say that I did give him the benefit of the doubt, though, and perhaps he was just trying to show me that his dick and balls were really jerking around as he was no longer cinched. I could sympathise with him, as running totally without support really does make your balls ache, as I'd found out the first time I ran down to the lake after my own cinch had been removed. Fortunately, though, I'd bought some small mesh pouches for the gardener to wear in the hot weather, and I called for him to bring one over - they're a fairly broad mesh, in a little triangle, with three strings to hold it in place - two around the waist, and one up the butt crack, to join with the others at the back. I think the gardener enjoyed putting it on Sam and "settling him in" - you could still see Sam's dick and balls quite clearly, but at least now they were comfortably secured. There was a bonus for me, too, as I decided that seeing the thin white strings around his waist, and, more excitingly, emerging from Sam's butt crack, was really rather exotic - they emphasised his gleaming black skin really well.
All that messing around had made me late, though, as I wanted to drive him around the town square just as most of my superstitious neighbours were streaming into the little church, and even though I told Sam to jog, and then trot, he was almost ambling along the road to town. I warned him, really I did. In fact I warned him several times, and even asked him if he still remembered what the pony command words were - he turned his head and tried to mouth something at me which looked suspiciously like "fuck off!". Well, if a pony's not behaving, as I knew only too well from my own experience, there's only one course of action the driver can take - Sam's body still remembered exactly how painful the carriage whip can be, as he jerked forward most satisfactorily when I slashed at his butt with mine! Perhaps it's true that "the body remembers", as Sam seemed to respond to my verbal commands properly after that.
By the time we got to town Sam was a fine sight: sweat was running down his body in big broad streaks, and the bit had held his mouth open just enough so that long trails of drool were falling from it. His chest was heaving from the exertion as he tried to get his breath back. I slashed at his back a couple of times as we jogged around the square - I did feel a bit guilty about that, but I wanted to make a real "effect" - no-one seeing him displayed and working away like that could have any doubt that he was anything other than a slave.
I went to the bar, leaving Sam tethered outside, and stood there having a beer and waiting for most of the guys to come out from church, and of course when they did so, most of them stopped to admire Sam as he stood there. They were mostly farmers, after all, and so could appreciate the finer points of slave stock, and so when they came in they congratulated me on what a fine animal I had, and we had a lively discussion actually about the set of his butt, and the way his thighs, knees and calves were so perfectly formed. Dave was there, to give me moral support, I suppose, as he was too sensible to be a churchgoer, and he was particularly interested in Sam's dick - indeed, I'd seen him and a couple of the other guys pulling down Sam's little pouch and "feeling" him, as they say in those circles.
Dave did a stupid thing, though - just as I thought I'd got away with convincing everyone that Sam was a "proper" slave, Dave asked me if he could borrow him to stud! "I know the fees must be very high for a fine stallion like him, Steve, but perhaps you might do your neighbours a kindness?", he asked jovially. "A lot of us around here have got nigga bitches who need breeding, and with a stud like that there'd be bound to be a fine batch of pups...."
Several of the other guys agreed, and one even proposed setting up a syndicate to rent Sam from me occasionally, and then "doling him out" to the members. Well, I cold hardly refuse, could I? Any owner would, after all, be proud that other men admired his slave so much that they wanted to breed from him. I could hardly refuse, and then Dave went on "How about you come back with me for lunch, Steve? One of my nigga bitches is in season right now, and I'd like to catch her with that stud of yours.... I suppose he's done it before? He is a proper stud, isn't he, and not some sort of homo?"
I laughed. "Of course! In fact he's got excellent confirmation, with over eighty percent of his studding of in-season bitches taking first time. And he's above average at siring male pups, too, so you help keep down all those vet's bills for the abortions of the bitches."
All the guys in the bar were really impressed as I reeled off those statistics - Straughan kept that kind of thing at Walker Plantation - and I knew I'd won. Unfortunately Dave then suggested that he and I drove back to his place right then, so that Sam could cover the bitch immediately. Sam of course knew nothing of these arrangements, although I could tell that he was really pissed off at having to pull both Dave and me back towards home, and he realised he was In for a longer run when we turned off to Dave's place rather than going straight home. His whole body language was wrong, and it was the kind of dumb insolence that would have driven a lot of owners to order a caning for him back at the stables, frankly.
At Dave's place I stood and chatted to Sheila and the kids while Dave went into the barn to get the bitch strapped down on the studding bench - he thought it was probably her first time, and was expecting trouble! Little did he know that I was expecting trouble too, big trouble, from Sam. Fortunately, though, he came out from the barn with a studding kit - pretty standard, as most of you probably use them yourselves - and buckled the heavy leather collar around Sam's sweating neck. Sam knew, of course, what it was and began move around and make incoherent shouts through his bit, and Dave just laughed. "Your pony sure is frisky, Steve! He knows what's going to happen next, and he can't wait to get stuck in!"
Dave was a practical kind of guy, though, and I'm sure he'd done this before, as he didn't unshackle one of Sam's hands from the trap until he'd done the first one and got it safely secured into the manacle dangling down Sam's back from the collar - with all the work he did Dave was a pretty strong guy, probably not as strong as Sam, but he did have two hands to work with in bringing one of Sam's arms around and up his back, so it wasn't much of a contest.
"Easy, boy! I can tell you're ready for it", Dave was saying to Sam as he pulled down Sam's pouch and then, as had been done to me so many times before, started to stroke Sam's dick to full hardness. The kids were squealing with delight at seeing their daddy handle the big nigga with such skill and ease, and for a moment I thought Dave was actually going to let one of them lead Sam by his dick over to the barn; but at the last minute he told the child that it was "work for daddy, as you never could tell with slaves, when they were in an excited state."
I must say I enjoyed it, actually, I'd always liked seeing Sam at stud, the way his powerful buttocks and thighs worked to force him in and out of the bitch, and the way the sweat poured off him. Now I could really relax and enjoy the spectacle, as there was absolutely no danger that I would be the next one to have to perform in this way. Considering the bitch was probably a virgin, judging from the way she screamed and cried when Sam was "introduced" to her and then made to thrust away, Sam didn't seem to really be as enthusiastic as he had been on all the other times he'd studded. As I watched, I wondered if he'd really got to prefer being with a guy like me; or, of course, he might be totally pissed off with being made to perform like that.
Dave was really considerate when it was over, too, using a damp cloth to wipe not only Sam's dick, but to go over him lightly totally to help get rid of some of the sweat, and refresh him. They wanted me to stay to lunch, but I declined as I knew I was in for a difficult time, to ay the least, with Sam, and if I kept him standing around half he afternoon, it could only make matters worse. So Dave re-shackled Sam into the trap and put him back into the little mesh pouch, and we set off for home. I didn't even attempt to make him go fast, and never even thought of using the whip or he goad on him.
Wen I did take out the bit and free his hands form the manacles, Sam was totally and absolutely lived - no, almost berserk. It didn't matter what I said about it being no worse than he'd done many, many times before.
It didn't matter that I reminded him that he always said that he liked cunt. All he could do was stand there and scream at me that he thought we were meant to be free men now. I ought just to have shut up and taken it, and let his anger subside and melt away. But I was pissed off, frankly - he was spoiling it all for me, when everything had gone so well - no one would now doubt that Sam was a "proper" slave, and that therefore my behaviour was perfectly acceptable.
"Listen, you dumb fuck!", I finally screamed. "Let me remind you that I am indeed free. But you, Sam, are a slave. You'll always be a slave, as there's no remission, not ever. You're fucking lucky that you're my slave, because I care about you. But if your attitude doesn't change, boy, that could soon be different: I'd get a good price for you at the auction, probably make a handsome profit on you compared to what I had to pay to get your sorry ass! I don't think you appreciate how I had to beg and plead to get someone to advance the money to buy you - we took a real risk, you know, as it wasn't clear I was going to get the money from Walker's enslavement. So I suggest you shut the fuck up, right now! "
Sam came towards me, his fists clenched at his side, seething for a fight. "One more step, boy, and I'll have you whipped. Really whipped, not with that toy carriage whip."
"You and whose army? You can't even stop me fucking you when I want t - I could flatten you before you could even get the whip out!"
"No, not me, Sam - the Slave Police. I'll call the SP in, and get them to instil a little respect into you."
Sam calmed down instantly then - some thing every slave knows is that you don't mess with the SP. All of us had seen the battered, mutilated bodies brought back to the Walker Plantation and unceremoniously dumped out in front of the slave barn.
I turned and went into the house, expecting Sam to follow, but he didn't. At first, I thought he might just have gone for a walk to simmer down, or even for a swim in the lake to help him cool off both metaphorically and physically. But when he hadn't appeared by dinner time, I began to get worried. My valet said that the chef had my dinner ready, and when I said I was going to wait for Sam, he looked surprised. "He's eaten, sir, with us. We always eat before your dinner, in case we have duties to perform afterwards. He came over to the slave house and shared our chow."
I demanded to know where he was now, and the lad, seeing my anger, began to tremble. "I think he's still there now, sir. He was making us all move around earlier, so he'd have somewhere to sleep, and it's already really cramped in there with the three of us.... I'm not criticising, sir, honest I'm not, sir, but the slave house is very small, and the gardener's a really big guy, and with Sam in there too...."
I ordered the lad to go and fetch Sam, and he came in and stood in front of me, totally naked, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back in the "slave rest" position. He just stood there, as I raged on at him, asking him what the fuck he was doing.
"I'm a slave, sir, as you keep telling me, so I assumed you'd want me to live in the slave house with the other slaves, go around naked as I used to, and all that, sir. I expect you'll want me to stud again, and so perhaps I should stop having sex, sir, so that I have a good head of cum when you want to sell my services?
So that was his game, was it? Trying to make me feel guilty. "You're right, Sam", I replied calmly. It's probably better you do sleep in the slave house for a while. And it won't hurt you to do a bit of real work for a change - tomorrow you can harness yourself into the grass mower and help the gardener as I think I'd like to see all the meadows down to the lake a little shorter. He doesn't have time to do it himself, but with a strong slave like you pulling the mower, it's probably possible provided you work exceptionally hard. Be sure he understands that you're to pull the mower, not him, and that you are to be harnessed to it - you are, after all, a pony."
Sam looked surprised, and I was secretly pleased that I'd beaten him at his silly game. "One more thing, Sam - send the gardener over when you go back to the slave house, but tell him to clean himself up properly before he does. I haven't exercised my owner's rights over him yet, and I think his nice firm butt is just what I need after today's excitement."
I could see Sam was furious, recognising that I'd trumped his ploy, but in order not to lose face he had to turn and go. And, actually, the gardener was fun and made a nice change from Sam: his big soft eyes were very appealing, and he had long, long legs ,which I always think is nice. He kept making little Russian noises as I fucked him, and afterwards he lay in my arms and there were tears running down his face - I assumed they were tears of happiness, as when I suggested he could go back to the slave house the, he pleaded with me to fuck him again. It turns out that because he was the biggest, my valet and chef always wanted him to fuck them, whereas all he wanted to do was to relax utterly and let someone else take charge of things.
It took a week or so before things were "back to normal" in our little household. For the first few days Sam stubbornly "acted the slave", making a point of dragging the heavy mowing machine past me if he saw me on the veranda or walking by the lake, sending word by my valet to ask if "master wanted the trap brought round today", and all that kind of childish thing. I got tired of the gardener, though, as I much preferred the excitement of Sam and our little tussles, and the chef valet weren't much better - OK for the odd casual fuck, but not anything special that you'd want to use over and over again. Sam, I imagine, had the same problems over in the slave house. So eventually Sam and I both kind of compromised, with me complimenting him on the grass, and then gently stroking his butt in appreciation, and him giving me one of his slow, sexy smiles..... And, before either of us really knew it, we were in bed together again. It was a memorable "reunion" - Sam fooled around, acting the slave until I was almost in him, then quick as a flash he turned and was thrusting into me with a vigour that left me screaming with the sheer ecstasy of it all, and with us both laughing afterward as we lay there.
I decided that I didn't want to put Sam through all the trauma of studding again, telling him that I wanted his dick for myself, which pleased him. So I took up my neighbours' idea of a kind of "co-operative", and generously bought them a big nigga, with a proven tack record, for their communal use. I was the hero of the town, and at the Harvest Supper, after the ridiculous blessings of the food from the pastor, one of the farmers stood up and said what a fine man I was, even though I was a northerner, and how rare it was to find someone from the north who actually understood slaves properly.
Sam and I continued to live our rather quiet life, therefore, taking long walks over my land, doing a bit of duck shooting, swimming in the lake, and all that sort of stuff. Sam was always curious to know why I didn't go up north to visit my folks, though, and told me that if he could, he'd go back to see some cousins and stuff of his in Chicago, but of course he was not allowed to leave the south. In truth, I didn't know why I didn't visit them - I'd spoken to mom and dad on the phone, indeed, called them once a week, and mom was of course overjoyed at having me "back", and really proud of how Jamie had helped "in spite of the danger" - I assumed he didn't tell her that he'd fucked his elder brother! Dad, though, was his usual gruff self and as much as said that he had always said hat I'd come to no good, as I hadn't worked hard enough at college, and had been squandering my time living with a totally unsuitable woman. He even went so far as to suggest that he assumed I was doing the same thing again, shacking up with some totally unsuitable girl that he wouldn't approve of, and that's why I wouldn't go home as I didn't want to let them see her! I smiled to myself as he said this - if only he knew! Then he went on and on at me about "finding a nice girl" and "settling down" as my mom really wanted a grandchild. I did manage to keep my temper and not tell him to mind his own business - I reckon he'd have been really shocked, in spite of all his liberal views, to hear he and mom were already grandparents many times over: well I reckoned I'd studded about three hundred times in those past years, always in bitches "in season", so if my confirmation rate was about eighty percent, like Sam's, that would be 240 pups. Ignoring twins and so on, and there probably would be some in that many, and allowing for the fact that half of them would be aborted as a big stud like me would only be used to sire males, that meant there were well over a hundred grand kids somewhere or other in the puppy farms!
I expect that things would have gone on like that for a fair time, except that over breakfast one morning Sam drew my attention to a small paragraph in the New York Times. It was talking about "how the mighty were fallen" and citing the case of old man Walker. But then went on to say that "Evidently the misfortunes of the father were to be visited on to his child. Brett Walker (25) has escaped his father's disgrace and financial crash by virtue of trust funds set up by his grandfather. It could not be proven that he knew his father was using the illegally enslaved, and he had sufficient money of his own for good lawyers, and was therefore free. But 'fast living' and gambling and a love of luxury cars had taken their toll: the trust funds had been exhausted and Brett Walker had not seen the end coming in time. With debts of tens of thousands of new dollars, he had been enslaved and would be auctioned shortly. 'Like father, like son' " , the article concluded.
"Sam, we haven't given ourselves a treat since we've been here, have we?" Sam shook is head, a slow smile spreading over his face. "I think I deserve a pony, a proper pony. Do you think you could train one for me, if I bought one? I can hardly do it myself, as I'd be bound to betray the fact that I knew a little too much about the 'practical' side of pony life." Sam nodded, the smile now becoming almost a laugh. "This Brett Walker sounds interesting..... He enjoys pony life. And isn't there a book you could use, by a Herman Wright, or someone? As I remember, Brett wasn't strong enough for long-distance work, but it's only two miles from here to town.... And then, there's always the dressage - and I'm sure he'd 'prance' well...."
"And I wonder if he's already 'skinned,?", Sam asked. "Perhaps we ought to have him decorated, branded, ringed.....?"
End Of Part Six