FOUR THE SAME by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Three
The slave's body had given an involuntary shudder as he mentioned the horror of his training in fucking, and I suppose I should have simply told him to move on. But he was a nice boy, who had made this extraordinary effort to please me by "opening up" his life, and I decided to give him a chance to talk out his unfortunate experiences. It's always helpful, I find, to let people recount their personal horrors, if they can, as over time that person can gradually then come to terms with what has happened to them.
So I lay there in his arms, occasionally stroking his back and giving him a comforting cuddle, as he recounted the training sessions with the big American trainer and his monstrous cock. Time prevents me from transcribing the whole conversation, but I remember him saying that they used one of the standard "training frames" that slave owners use to restrain slaves, and that when he was then held immobile, the American had, as an initial introduction to anal intercourse, taken him unprepared, and very hard. It was a real rape, and the justification was, apparently, that every other man who fucked the slave subsequently would be "easy" by comparison. However, I am digressing: regardless of how the training was done, it clearly was highly effective as I have seldom had a man respond so well to me as I ploughed into him, and who was, overall, such a totally satisfactory piece of flesh to play with.
After the slave had recounted the horror of his introduction to sex, however, he did begin to tell me the-up side of his experiences. The American trainer insisted that the four slaves used each other for further "exercises", and so he had quickly become used to having three other men always totally available to him to "play" in whatever way they wanted. He never lacked a companion to work out with, or to suck his cock, or who could provide a convenient hole for more intimate and satisfying sexual activity. And it seems that his life after that period of harsh training had not been altogether unpleasant: as a young guy with a nice body he actually enjoyed being fit and in-shape, and so the continuing physical training sessions that they had, every day, were not unduly arduous.
He had also discovered that having the facility for unlimited sex was something that was very, very desirable indeed. He'd gone from a situation in which he had to mostly jerk himself off, with occasional bouts of sex with his girl friend, sex which had to be "earned" by endless conversations, dinners and presents, to one in which sex was available whenever he wanted it. There was a small down-side, of course, in that as one of the Sheikh's pleasure slaves he sometimes had to have sex with men whose bodies he found less than desirable, even repulsive on occasion;
but, by and large, the men he went with enjoyed a healthy attitude to sex, and his own three companions were, like him, always in superb physical condition and ready for mutually enjoyable experiences at all times. We lay there, and he whispered, a big grin running across his wide, open face "You know, sir, I used to make fun of guys who went with other men, whilst at the same time I was hardly getting any sex at all. Now I understand what sex is really about - two men, joining their bodies together in ways that please them, and I can do it every day, many times, with three guys I really like. I guess most guys, if they thought about it, would see that I've kind of fallen on my feet."
The slave was, like all the Sheikh's slaves, branded. He bore the Sheikh's house mark on his upper right forearm, and on his left buttock. It was interesting to lie there and let the tips of my fingers occasionally stray over those marks. Feeling the pit in a man's flesh where a brand has been seared into him is, I find, strangely erotic, and if my cock started to flag as we lay together and he recounted his story, I found that I could recover my ardour by thinking about this. Branding is surely the supreme act of one man demonstrating his complete mastery and domination of another - the brand is irremovable and will be with the slave for life, and to those that know, it instantly makes the man recognisable as a slave, an owned object, rather than as a normal human being. It was strange, though, that the slave did not have his registration number and name tattooed onto his flesh - the Sheikh was one of the more merciful slave owners in his kingdom, it seems, and did not require these details to be branded in to the skin of his slaves, causing considerable suffering: he considered a plain tattoo, generally on the upper arm and on the left pec, to be perfectly adequate. But this slave exhibited only beautifully clear skin in these places. So I asked the slave about this, and I shall perhaps let his own words tell you the story.
THE SLAVE'S STORY
Well, once we'd been taught about sex and our battered ass holes had recovered a bit, there seemed no point in holding back, did there? The American trainer had insisted we "practice" on each other, so we'd lost all our previous inhibitions about touching each others bodies, playing with each others cocks, and now, actually sucking and fucking each other. I mean, when you're young and fit and strong and in perfect health you need a lot of sex, don't you? And it just seemed silly to lie together in the tiny cell each night "pretending" not to know that the other guys were jerking themselves off. Actually, I really like having my cock sucked, and of course fucking a guy is so much better than fucking a woman once you've tried it: men kind of "bond" together, don't they, and can enjoy sex without all the emotional baggage that women seem to carry along with them? It's a bit surprising, I sometimes think, that the human race hasn't died out as sex with another guys is so much better than sex with women, and once you've done it for the first time, I can't imagine you reverting to fucking women. When I think how difficult it was to get my girlfriends to give me a blow job, or even to touch my cock, and how much effort I needed to put in to get them into the mood for fucking, it was just astonishing now to find that we could all enjoy really great sex, with guys we liked, with no inhibitions and no need to go through an elaborate process of "buying" permission. We basically just fucked and fucked and fucked.
You know, sir, I'm surprised that the UN or someone hasn't made it compulsory for guys to try fucking other guys. It would be rather like having to get a driving licence or something - if you wanted to marry a woman, you'd first have to demonstrate that you'd been on a training course to try out other men. I bet that if they did that, the population growth would fall dramatically, really dramatically. I mean, as I said, once you've done it....
Anyway, perhaps I'd better continue with my story, sir. As my body strengthened and I found out how great proper sex can be one you lose all your silly inhibitions, it was almost as if I started to enjoy my experience as a slave. After all, I was well fed, I got all the exercise I needed, and now I had three great buddies to fuck with. Gone were all the cares of the everyday world - would my bank account hold out until the next pay day? Why was my job so boring? Why did my girl friend keep whining on about this and that? No, all I had to think about now was my body, and sex, and I didn't really have a worry in the world. Being a slave didn't seem quite as bad as I'd thought.
I suppose I should have known that everything couldn't be that easy in the world of slavery, though. My circumcision scar had long since healed over, and, I suppose, I'd got used to now being 'skinned. In some ways it was a lot more convenient - I didn't have to stand there in the shower whilst the young lads rolled it back and washed under it: when they'd said that being 'skinned made for easier maintenance, I guess they were right. I did miss the feeling of sliding the 'skin on and off my cock head when I was jerking off, but then, I wasn't jerking off much any more - in fact, not at all. But if I'd thought that the initial pain of my 'skinning was almost worth it, I just had no idea how I could be hurt again.
One morning, after our program of exercises, we were taken back to the room where they'd done my 'skinning.
The various restraint tables and devices were still there, and I wondered what the hell they were going to do to me now - after all, I'd lost all my hair, and been 'skinned, so there was nothing else left to take off me. I suppose I had a momentary feeling of panic when I thought that they might be going to castrate us all, but then I'd never seen any other slaves around the place without balls, and it didn't seem very sensible to have taken four big "studs" like us and the cut their balls off - we wouldn't be nearly so good to look at. Similarly, they couldn't be thinking of performing amputations or anything like that, otherwise why would they bother to exercise us so hard to give us such special body definition?
I couldn't voice any of these concerns to my companions, of course, as it was forbidden for us to speak as we were kind of "on duty", so I had just to stand there, wondering what the hell was going on. I'd already been here once, of course, but the two guys who were already 'skinned must be really worried when they looked at all the surgical instruments and stuff. My musing was cut short, however, when that same doctor who had so brutally 'skinned me without anaesthetic strode in and told the guards to take us and restrain us in the "barrel" apparatus.
There were four of these in the room, looking like large wooden barrels securely on top of sturdy wooden legs. In turn, each of us was led over to one of these "barrels" and told to lie across it. They pulled my arms down and held them onto the front legs with Velcro fastenings, and then my legs were spread and I was secured there, too. The "barrel" was quite a large diameter, and so my body was fairly stretched over it once I was secured - there was a convenient hole in it, though, through which my cock and balls poked, so it wasn't all that uncomfortable. I began to wonder what was going to happen, though, when more straps were run from one side of the top of the barrel, across my waist, and cinched tight to the other side of the barrel. One of the guards has some sort of long, sharp spike, and once the binding had been tightened around me, he stabbed it into the big muscle of my ass! I just couldn't help shouting out at the unexpected attack and the pain, but I was totally unable to move.
"Good", the guard told his companion - this one's tight."
Each of my companions was lashed down in the same way, and tested with the spike, and then the doctor stood in front of us. By bending my neck upwards, I could look at him as he spoke.
"Now, you slaves, have you observed anything different about yourselves and the rest of your owner's property that you see around the place?"
As we'd been taught, and mindful of how exposed our asses were to punishment, we all chorused "No, sir."
Well, look around you - all the guards' uniforms, all the furniture in this room, the smock I'm wearing... everything.... has the Sheikh's personal house mark on it so that it is readily identifiable as a piece of his property, in case it should be lost or stolen. In addition, any item of property worth more than one hundred dollars has an inventory number, so that we can properly account for the value of the Sheikh's property, and trace individual items.
What you should have noticed is that, uniquely amongst the sheikh's property, you four are not marked with his house mark. And you're individually all worth more than one hundred dollars, and yet you don't have an inventory number. We're going to remedy this morning ,as you're going to receive your house mark and number. The number we tattoo on, but that's rather impermanent as the whole purpose of a house mark is to be ineradicable, to prevent loss or theft - it's difficult to do, but tattoos can be made much less prominent by a skilled plastic surgeon, and so a stolen or escaped slave can appear to be something else.
"Now, look at this...." He held up a thin metal rod with a circular thing just under an inch in diameter on one end, and on the other, arranged so that it looked a bit like a pistol grip, was one of those canisters of gas that you see on small picnic stoves, and firing chafing dishes in swanky restaurants.
"This is the humane brander. So much better than the old way of doing it, with a brazier of charcoal and a big, heavy branding iron. The iron rarely got above bright-red heat, and so it needed to be held into the flesh for quite a long time to get a good, indelible brand, and, in turn, this meant that the actual mark left was fuzzy and indistinct. But with this little baby, I just press the igniter....." There was a kind of "click", then a faint roaring and hissing noise, "... And the gas will start to heat the branding tip up to white heat. I really only have to press it against your skin for a few seconds, and the job's done."
"Now I'm not saying that it won't hurt - in fact, it will hurt you more than anything you've ever known before. But at least it will be swift, and clean - you'll have a most professional-looking brand seared into your hide, with nice crisp edges so that everyone can easily tell that your the Sheikh's property. We've strapped you down most carefully, as there's a real risk, if you moved, that you might injure yourselves, and that would never do! You're valuable property of your owner, remember, and so we need to take care of you. I'm going to go along the row of you doing your left ass cheek in turn, as soon as the iron's at the right temperature, so let me give you a small piece of advice: scream! It's good for you! If you try and hold back your cries because you're afraid that we'll think you're some sort of sissy who can't take a little pain, forget it! It's much better for you to really let it out, as it simply doesn't do you any good to bottle it all up, and, believe me, you won't be able to anyway! If you hold back the initial scream of agony, you'll end up sobbing with the residual pain anyway, and it will tend to go on for longer. My advice is to get it out of the way 'up front' - a loud, unrestrained howl of total anguish and desperation really will help you get over the whole thing quicker!"
"Please, sir...." It was Marc who spoke. He's always the daring one, always pushing things a bit, and he gets more canings and stuff than the rest of us as a result!
"Yes, slave?"
"Please, sir, could you give us a shot, or something, so that it doesn't hurt?"
"Well of course I could - a shot of Novocain into that delightful rump of yours would mean that you hardly felt a thing. But what would be the point of that? It's the psychological effect that's important: you men were all proper free men a few short weeks ago, and whilst you may appear to have adjusted to your status as slaves superficially, deep down inside your brain something is still saying that you're not really slaves, and that one day you'll be free. When you've experienced the agony of your owner's mark being seared into your flesh, you'll know, know in a way that's burned as deep into your unconscious mind as the mark is burned into your hide, that you truly are now slaves. That you truly are owned property, and that's all you are. You will carry your owner's mark for the rest of your life, with no possibility of it being eradicated. Every time you brush it with your hands, you will remember this day, the day that you were finally turned form men into slaves. It's only the pain, the pain that will be so totally overwhelming, that will flood your senses to the exclusion of everything else, that can give you that realisation., and without that realisation you will never become proper, complete slaves of the Sheikh."
I don't know whether he would have gone on wit h his explanation, but at that moment there was a "ping" from the device, and he said "Right, up to operating temperature! But I don't always trust these electronic sensors, and it would be terrible to have to inflict this process on you twice if the iron were too cool and the marks came out all indistinct...."
As we watched in fascinated horror, he opened a small fridge and took out a piece of pork, raw pork, with the rind on. "Now, let's test it", he told us. "This is a really close analogue of human skin and muscle, so let's just see if the iron's hot enough...."
He held the iron by the handle, and pressed the tip clearly and squarely into the pork in front of him. We could actually hear the sizzling as he did this, and the room filled with the pungent burning smell of charring skin, underlain with that delicious smell of cooking meat that you get at barbecues! He seemed to hold it there for some time - I guess that's just my subjective view, and it wasn't all that long really - before he took it away, then peered at the still-smoking piece of meat. He brushed at it lightly with his fingers, cursing, and jerking back as it was obviously hot, then looked at us and said "Perfect. Now, remember what I said...."
I really was going o hold it in. I'm a man, and a man can take a bit of pain, can't he? But I sensed his presence behind me, and then I was no longer in control. It was just like a great wave of pain crashing over me. My body tried to jerk away, of course, but it couldn't as I was held down so securely. It seemed to go on for ever and ever. I could smell my own skin charring, my own muscle actually "cooking" with the heat. A part of my brain heard myself howling, a harsh, terribly loud, dreadful wail of pure anguish. I wasn't rational. I didn't scream for him to stop. I didn't shout out that it was hurting. No, this was a deep, deep response from somewhere down in the primeval part of me that knows no reason, only knows that its body is being violated, and that the outrage must stop, and gives a great cry of anguish, rage and despair.
I carried on sobbing for several minutes, gasping for air to replace that which had been expelled totally from my lungs. My throat hurt - funny, I remember thinking that, in spite of the remorseless pain from my butt. And all my companions were in the same state, too - I don't suppose the whole process, to do all four of us, had taken more than a couple of minutes, but in that time I know we all felt as if we'd lived almost a lifetime.
The doctor was standing in front of us again ow, still holding the vile tool, which was still hissing as the gas burned steadily. "You slaves ought to be grateful that you have such a caring owner", he told us. "I am a qualified doctor, you know - he doesn't just get some butcher to do it! And if any of you had had a real problem, I could have fixed it."
"What the fuck was a "real problem", I thought to myself. If I hadn't just experienced a "real problem", then what was?
But he was carrying on speaking: "Yes, it's not unknown for a slave's heart to arrest with the onslaught of the pain, and then, of course, I can do what a doctor does and resuscitate him. You guys really ought to be grateful to your master for taking such care of you!"
He didn't seem to find these words even slightly ironic, and went on "I'd like to be able to tell you that the worst is over, but, sadly for you, it isn't.
It's fine for you slaves who are mostly going to live totally naked to be marked on the butt, but what about slaves who area allowed to be clothed? The rule is therefore that you also get marked somewhere that's visible when your butt is covered, and in the case of your owner that means your upper arm, just below the shoulder. It's never clear to me which is the worst - the brand in the butt, or the one in the arm. Some slaves I've spoken to afterwards say one, and some the other. But still ,you know what's coming now...."
He moved to stand in front of me, and with almost maniacal strength brought on by my sheer terror, I tried to move my arm, desperately flexing and contracting all my muscles to get it out of the way of the dreadful instrument.
"Steady, boy", he snapped. "I have done this before, you know...."
He moved closer and pressed his trousered knee into my lower arm, pressing it hard against the sturdy wooden leg of the "barrel". Then his hand pushed into my arm just above the elbow, and these actions, coupled with the straps holding me, made my biceps totally immobile.
I distinctly saw a kind of small smile of triumph play across his face as he realised I absolutely could not move, the then he pressed the hot, glowing brand home.
It was actually worse this time. When he'd done my butt there was an element of surprise, and I couldn't really see what was happening. But now there was this slow, deliberate advance on my body, and it was right up close to my head, where I couldn't help seeing. I felt the heat on my flesh, and then my nose was assailed by the smoke and the sickening, charring smell. Was it worse for me, or better than the brand on my ass? I honestly can't tell you. I just remember lying there across the barrel, utterly shattered by the experience. I felt chilled, as the sweat that had broken out and covered my body started to evaporate. And there was another nauseous smell in the air now, too - one of the guys had been unable to contain himself, and there was a pile of shit underneath him.
When we'd all calmed down, the doctor came along and rubbed some sort of soothing balm onto our wounds, and I started to feel better. It was evident that they only wanted us to experience the pain at the time of the branding itself, and once that was over, it was fine to apply some sort of combined antiseptic and analgesic to us.
They let us recover, still strapped in, for about ten minutes, and the doctor went out and came back with a mug of what smelled like coffee - my mouth started to salivate almost uncontrollably, as since becoming a slave we'd never been given anything like that - slave s drank water, that's all. It all seemed so normal, somehow - a medical man going out to get coffee in the middle of a procedure - but on the other hand it was bizarrely surreal, as that "procedure" had amounted to the most brutal inhuman marking of our bodies.
He finished his coffee with a little sigh, and by this time a slave had come in to clean up the shit, so it was all kind of "normal" again.
"Right, slaves, just two more procedures to go, and neither hurts - well, not as much as the branding did!
We've got to put your inventory number on you: the owner's mark branded into you will be sufficient to get you returned to one of the Sheikh's properties, should you stray, but then, if it was not 'home', here, the inventory number could quickly determine where you belonged. You're lucky that your owner is a merciful man, as I've said - some owners require further branding to get a number like that burned into your hide permanently. But your master considers that a simple tattoo will suffice. Normally, that's on the pec, just above the left nipple, as I told you, but in your case he wants you to be absolutely the same to look at, so different inventory numbers would rather spoil the effect. We'd probably have tattooed your numbers onto the underside of your dicks, therefore, where it wasn't usually visible, but as you're sex slaves, some of your owner's guests who might want to use you might find that aesthetically displeasing. I mean, suppose one of those men likes to suck dick, then he might be faintly repulsed if he saw big black numbers sliding in and out of his mouth."
"We've given it long and careful consideration", he went on, "And there just aren't all that many places on a totally naked body that you can hide a tattoo. It was going to be the sole of your foot, but then there's the problem of the thick, hard skin that builds up there - constantly going around on our rough roads and the sand, heated as it is by the sun, you get that horny coating growing to protect the skin. So the only place left is inside your ass cracks - not far enough down so that a 'user', if I might call him that, would see it when he was about to fuck you. And not high enough up that it creeps out of the top of your crack and spoils the look from the rear. Fortunately you've all got superbly muscled buttocks, that stand well proud. So your ass crack is nice and deep, and so we can do it on the inner side of that crack. Normally, it will be completely invisible, but any sensible inspection of your body, which would be certain to look at your ass if it was suspected you were a "misplaced" slave, would detect it.."
It wasn't the doctor who tattooed us. They seemed to have some "expert" who was brought in from outside to do it, and his small portable tattoo gun was soon buzzing away like an angry bee. He evidently didn't find it at all strange to see four naked guys restrained as we were, so I suppose he was used to tattoo all the Sheikh's slaves If he'd tattooed me when I was first enslaved I think I'd have died of shame, but now I was used to having other men touch my body. And so when one of the guards pried my buttocks apart so that he could gain access, it almost seemed "normal" to me. I mean, when you're kept totally naked, have two young guys wash even the most intimate parts of you, and have lots of sex with your companions, then having another guy prying at your ass isn't a big problem!
Actually the tattooing didn't hurt, well, not really. Not compared with what I'd already experienced. I suppose you'd describe it as "unpleasant" rather than "painful", or perhaps that part of the body is just not very receptive to pain. I suppose that if your cock was being done, or your nipples, it would be far, far worse.
The final process he had mentioned was a bit painful, though - well, more uncomfortable, again, I suppose. He did put something on our skin this time, and there was just a very unpleasant sensation, rather than any actual pain. He stood there and told us that we were to be fitted with radio locators - a bit like some of the circuitry in mobile phones. If we ever did escape, or, as he put it: "euphemistically, let's say you were 'lost'", they could quickly track you down. And if you tried to go through the airport, for example, to try to leave the country, that would now be impossible as the radio chip inside you would trigger the alarms."
The chip itself was tiny - smaller than my little finger nail but the way it was fitted was fearsome! It was inserted on the end of a long, shiny, razor-sharp steel shaft, and this was then pushed right inside us underneath our shoulder blade.
"Keep still, keep very still", the doctor told us each in turn. "I have to slide this along the bone of the shoulder blade itself, then let it latch on to your muscle, and get the insertion tool out. If you move or wriggle, it can easily plunge in to you and puncture your lungs, and we wouldn't want that, would we?
As I said, it wasn't painful, just very, very uncomfortable to feel something like that sliding deep inside you. And then we were finished! The guards came and undid all the Velcro binding us to the "barrels", and the four of us stood there, kind of moving our shoulders as we believed we could feel the chip in side us, and gingerly, very gingerly, touching at our brands.
Marc came up to me and said "Bend over, Steve ."
"Why?"
"I want to see your number, mate. I've never seen a tattoo inside a bloke's ass before, and I want to see what it's like. Come on..... Bend over, don't be shy, you know I've seen up there lots of times before...."
"Fuck off, Marc, maybe tonight, but not here, in public...." Funny, isn't it, how I seemed still to have some inhibitions, however slight!
The doctor told us that we were free for the rest of the day - no exercises, nothing. He rubbed some more of the healing and soothing ointment into our brands, and told us to "take it easy" He also said that we'd experience some bleeding from our tattoos, and maybe some drops would fall out of the puncture mark under our shoulder blades, but that this was to be expected and wasn't serious.
It was like heaven, almost - we'd not had any "free time" since becoming slaves, and to be able just to sit around and do nothing seemed like paradise. You probably don't realise it, but a slave is kept busy all the time. Even if you're not doing your "work", then you can start exercising, or something. Most owners believe that if slaves have nothing to do they start to think, and once they start thinking, they become wilful and disobedient. Keeping the slave in constant activity therefore prevents this.
They let us lie outside in the sunshine (well, they wouldn't want to miss that opportunity to add to our tans, would they?) And as we lay there we realised there was no prohibition on us talking to each other, either! It was wonderful to be able to talk freely again, and we started discussing what we felt about being branded, tattooed and micro-chipped. I think it brought home to all of us the utter hopelessness of our situation - not only was escape now impossible - they let us lie there out of doors, without even chaining us down, after all. But somehow we knew that we were now irreversibly changed, now we were truly slaves, property of our owner, and visibly so. We bore his marks, we belonged to him. We'd seen that our bodies were no longer ours to control, and that if he commanded it, the most terrible things could be done to us.
The happy state of not being required to work only lasted one afternoon, though. Our exercise program went on for two or three more weeks, and other than the unrelenting physical effort that was required and the kind of mind-dulling sense of utter futility that it induced, nothing much happened to us. Of course we were caned and slapped and tawsed if we failed to perform properly, but there were no more things as awful as the branding, and we all avoided being sent off to the whipping frame for harsher punishment - although it was threatened often, and it was almost as if Marc enjoyed going "right up to the wire" in this area. Still, he survived, and I'm glad: Marc was my special friend - oh, sure, I liked all the guys, liked them all a lot, and I'd happily fuck any of them, or let any of them fuck me, I suppose. But Marc was special - if there was a choice, I'd always have sex with Marc rather than the others, and I suppose it was fortunate that Dan and Ray seemed to feel the same way about each other, too. We were really like two couples, but two couples who were completely uninhibited in each others company, and who would readily "swap partners" for a bit of added fun, if the mood took us.
We kept wondering what was going to happen to us, and why we'd been enslaved, and then one day we found out:
the boys who shaved us and washed us took three or four times as long as usual to work on us one day, and afterwards rubbed faintly scented oil into our skins. We looked amazing, our skin then shining in the light, exuding the scent overlaid with our own maleness, and the chief guard had us lined up in front of him.
"Right. You boys are going to meet your owner, and your owner's special guest, tonight. Now, understand this, and understand it well. You are all brothers - identical brothers. You've always been brothers. In fact, you're quads. If you so much as make the tiniest mistake on this, we will flail you all and castrate you, as the loss of face to your owner would be considerable. If you are asked questions by the owners' guest, you must of course reply, properly and respectfully. But make no mistakes, not the tiniest slip, not the tiniest thing that might arouse suspicion about your real provenance. Fail in this and you will no longer be whole men, and will never be able to stand upright again as your back will be bent permanently when the flailed flesh tries to heal."
What the fuck was going on, we all wondered. But the chief guard had turned on his heels and snapped his fingers for us to follow him.
End Of Part Three