Human Collateral

HUMAN COLLATERAL, By Richard Davies

(Richard Davies sadly stopped posting stories just over a year ago, and nothing is known about why. A number of enthusiasts have collected all his work together and filed it at the Yahoo group homagetorichard. If you enjoy this story, go to

groups.yahoo.com/group/homagetorichard to read all his known work.)

Human Collateral, Part One

My father broke the news a few days before my eighteenth birthday. He had decided I should be enslaved, but kept in the family rather than sold. Times were hard, and there were debts to be paid as well as interest on a second mortgage. Everyone had to make sacrifices. Dad was working all hours, my older brother was dropping out of medical school to take a job, and my Uncle Tom was going to move in and contribute rent. Even Dad's best friend, Bob Riddle, who had recently left the army, had agreed to be a lodger.

With income assured, all that was required was some more collateral for the bank, and that's where I came in. A slave, especially a young male, is a tradable commodity, and therefore acceptable as security for a loan. My father was at pains to reassure me it was all a technicality. Nothing would change. The bank wasn't demanding I be auctioned off. All they wanted was a family slave made over as security. Although I would have to leave school early, I would remain at home. After three years there would be enough money to pay off the bank, and then I could be set free. I had some misgivings about it all, but didn't take too much persuading. There was a crisis, and the family had taken so many hard knocks I felt I had to do my bit. And I trusted my father to do his best for us. I didn't want the family to end up on the streets.

The bank proved more than willing to accept me as collateral, and everything was rushed through so I could be taken before the Slave Court the day before my eighteenth birthday. A father has the right to enslave his son up to that age provided there are no objections. The family lawyer turned up at the house and asked me to sign away my right to challenge my father's application. He told me that I would have to be taken into custody before being presented to the judge. After the hearing I would become the property of a court appointed agent and made ready for sale. My father would waive his right to benefit from any sale, while the bank would apply for a lien over his property, including me. The agent would then hand me back to Dad as his legal slave. It all sounded very formal and frightening, but Dad told me not to worry. Everything would go according to plan.

The Slave Court was part of a drab nondescript complex near the big slave depot out beyond the railway station. The entry hall had the shabby look common to municipal buildings. The side walls were covered in posters offering rewards for the capture of runaways, lists naming those recently enslaved, and various notices about amendments to the Slave Act, and a rise in the charge for registering change of slave ownership. The back wall was dominated by a large mural depicting happy slaves at work in various locations under the paternal eye of kindly free folk. There wasn't a whip to be seen.

The reception desk was beneath this work of art. My father told the lady on duty that he was surrendering me to the Court, with an application for enslavement. He produced various documents. The lady gave them a quick glance, and called over a uniformed guard and told him take me into custody. The guard asked to see my birth certificate, studied it, consulted the date on his wristwatch, nodded and handed it back to my father.

He had spoken with an Australian accent and was sturdily built, with blue eyes that matched the colour of his uniform shirt, and a full moustache that was as trim as the snug fit of his uniform pants. His manner, however, was pleasant and friendly as he took me aside and told me that I would remain a free man until the judge issued an enslavement order. Furthermore I could appeal the order, although I would be placed in custody in the meantime 'for administrative reasons.' He then asked me to turn round and put my hands together behind my back. I felt cold steel encircle one wrist and then the other.

The guard told me to keep my hands up against my spine and not let them hang down over my buttocks. 'You'll get a whack if they do.'

To make his point he positioned my wrists high under my shoulder blades and then patted my butt as he turned me round to face him. 'Just do as you're told, when you're told, and you'll have no worries.'

The receptionist wrote out receipts for the guard and my father. There followed an embarrassing moment when my father held out his hand to me, and then quickly withdrew it when he realised I couldn't shake it. He said something about seeing me later, but by then the guard had put his receipt in his shirt pocket, and had one hand on my wrists and the other gripping the back of my neck. He led me gently but firmly towards a door marked 'Slave Area - Authorized Personnel Only.' He raised his forearm to prevent me glancing at Dad over my shoulder.

'Best not to look back,' he said pleasantly as he guided me through the door into a short bare corridor.

Straight ahead there was another door with a sign saying 'Slave Holding Area - Report before Entering' with an arrow pointing to a window in the wall. A glass partition slid back and an arm encased in a blue uniform shirtsleeve reached out and took the receipt. We waited a moment and then a voice said 'seventy six.'

My guard acknowledged the information with a grunt, took a yellow marker pen from his pants' pocket and pulled my head towards him. He used his teeth to remove the marker's cap and frowned as he carefully painted the number in numerals on my forehead. 'That's you sorted,' he said as the door's lock fired and he pushed me forwards.

I found myself in a wide, brightly lit hall, with a concrete floor and bare walls. It was divided in two by a triple tier of metal-framed cells. On the near side a guard sat behind a desk reading a newspaper, and I could see through the cages to a much larger area where naked slaves were standing in line. A few of the cages were occupied by slaves, some of whom were fully clothed, while most were semi-naked or stripped. My guard led me forwards to the desk and gave my number. He walked round and stood beside the duty guard who was entering my number in a ledger. The two of them exchanged a few words and shared a laugh. When my guard came back to me he was still smiling.

'You'll not have long to wait, so we'll strip you now and send you through. I reckon you'll be seeing the judge in about an hour.'

He took a mobile from his belt and spoke into it while signalling that I should turn round. I felt the cuffs come off, and massaged my wrists and hands and I turned and thanked him. He replaced his mobile on his belt and ordered me to strip. 'Fold everything neatly and leave it in a pile. Empty out your pockets. Get on with it.'

He took a short stick from his belt and twisted it round between his fingers. 'You're in a slave area now, so look sharp.' His tone was a lot less friendly.

Everything I took from my pockets was familiar - dark glasses, mobile phone, bus tickets, comb, wallet, ID, coins, keys, diary, handkerchief, pen - it was like emptying myself. My leather jacket was my favourite and my shirt was new - I'd only worn it a couple of times and it suited me. A cold depression settled over me as I removed my undershirt and felt the air against my chest and back. When I stood on one leg to remove my shoe and sock I started to wobble, and this seemed to annoy the guard who snapped that he would not tolerate me fooling about. His change from being friendly to strict disciplinarian somehow deflated what was left of my courage. My eyes filled with tears and when I stood on my other leg I began to wobble immediately.

Before I had time even to grab my shoe the guard had walked round behind me and swatted me hard across my butt. This made me yell and jump, and he landed another. What shook me was not so much the pain as the speed and ease with which he delivered the blows. It seemed so unfair - he in smart uniform, me half undressed on one leg. A sudden surge of anger made me say, 'For Christ sake man, back off will you? I'm not some fucking slave yet.'

I knew it was a stupid thing to say even before I'd said it, but it slipped out involuntarily. The guard came closer. Our eyes met for only a second before I dropped mine, but long enough for the chilly disdain to register. 'I gave you an order shit-fuck. Strip.'

His voice was no more than a whisper. My outburst had attracted the attention of the guard sitting at the desk. He rose and walked over and stood beside his colleague. They both watched me, hands on hips, as I got my shoe off, removed my sock, unzipped my fly, dropped my pants, removed and folded them, and then slid my boxers down over my genitals and butt towards my knees and then kicked them up in the air, caught them, folded them and dropped them on top of the pile. I guess I hoped this little comic performance would melt the guards' hard expressions. It didn't. The second guard kicked out at the pile of clothes, scattering them and my possessions. 'Pick 'em up...and this time....' (To my horror I saw my guard draw a whip from his hip pocket. Although not large - it was what was known among free men as a 'boy's whip' - the sight of it filled me with terror. I'd seen plenty of whips before, but never before as a slave sees them. This one was made from strips of smoothly tanned leather braided together to form a snaking lash. The contrast between its sleek coil and my delicate skin made me tremble. There was no doubt he meant to use it.) '....keep your mouth shut.'

He raised it, swung it back, gathered it with his left hand, and repeated the motion. This time he let it fly free to curl round my upper arm, across my shoulder-blades, my other arm, and then round to lick my chest as its knotted end came to rest on my left nipple. It made a creaking sound as its grip tightened as the guard pulled it back. The pain was too much. I let out an anguished cry that silenced the hall. My guard gathered the whip and glanced sideways at his colleague, who nodded with a smile on his lips. He drew the whip back again. I let out another terrible sound, half hoping to arouse the guard's sense of mercy, but more just to express my sense of terror, abandonment and outrage. This was not what my father had in mind. But the sound was cut short as the braided leather cut into my back and chest a second time.

HUMAN COLLATERAL, Part Two

The whip is a quick teacher. My thoughts may have been full of defiance, but my body and my tongue were immediately obedient. The Australian guard put his whip back in his hip pocket and his colleague wandered back to his desk. I stood shifting from one foot to the other, shaking with fear and shock, my lower lip trembling and my vision blurred with hot tears. My torso felt as if strips of skin had been ripped away. My guard looked me up and down and nodded. 'Let that be a lesson.'

He must have been pleased with the effect of his whip because he smiled and sounded friendly again as told me to pick up my belongings and follow him. We went under the cages into the larger holding area. The floor was marked out in numbered yellow boxes and I was placed in 76. The guard put a hand on the back of my neck and squeezed. 'Cheer up, we'll soon have you in front of a judge.'

I attempted a smile, but only released another batch of tears. I muttered something, adding a 'sir.' He nodded and walked off. I couldn't help but notice how attractive he was seen from behind. Good wide shoulders, a narrow waist, broad hips on which the buttocks stuck out like two halves of an apple. The equipment on his belt swayed with his swaggering gait, and his whip's handle stuck out of his hip pocket at a jaunty angle. I felt my cock stir. I found myself thinking how good it would be to be his friend and do things with him and to please him.

After about five minutes a furtive grinning slave appeared who gathered all my belongings in a plastic bag, marked it with my number and took it away. When I asked him what he was doing he waved a finger in front of his mouth.

On my right there was a line of about twenty naked slaves standing chained close together at the neck, wrists and ankles. They had barrel chests, thick arms and muscular and legs, and their backs and buttocks were disfigured by whip marks. Their heads were shaved and their faces were a patchwork of in tattoos and brands. Teams of working slaves were a common sight along the highways or digging up the city streets, but free men seldom give them a second look because they are always kept apart and securely chained. Seen close to they made a strange sight. One was masturbating vigorously while others were muttering to themselves, or twitching. Most wore expressions of blank, wide-eyed surprise on their faces, as if eager for something... anything... to happen.

To my left three glum youths stood side by side. They were chained together at their wrists and ankles and all showed signs of recent rough treatment, with cut lips and black eyes, bruised chests and butts covered in deep welts. Whatever they had been up to, the Slave Police had awarded them to their traditional welcome. There was no way they would be leaving the building without collars.

After about half an hour my guard reappeared and told me we were due in front of the judge in three minutes. He led the way towards the swing doors marked 'To the Courts' and told me to say nothing, to bow to the judge, call him and everyone else sir and do exactly as instructed.

We went up a flight of creaking wooden stairs to a corridor lined on both sides with courtrooms. A slave-usher in a fancy scarlet uniform directed us to Court Ten. As we walked to it, side by side, he in full uniform, me totally naked, I felt no sense of the incongruous or the absurd. My guard said I would be made to kneel to have my collar fitted, but should otherwise stand on the yellow marker. There was, he said as he opened the door to the courtroom, nothing to be gained from trying to listen to the legal arguments. 'Keep you mind clear to obey orders.'

He directed me to the mark before the judge's bench. 'Keep you head down, hands behind your back, feet eighteen inches apart, stomach in, chest out.'

I did my best to comply. 'Good boy.' He patted my butt.

The room was, as far as I could see out of the corner of my eye, an entirely ordinary court, with oak furniture and a skylight. It was empty except for some guards and what looked like a group of schoolgirls in the public area. My spirits had been rising since leaving the holding area. The hearing would be a formality after which I'd hurry home and get on with life as before. I would feel better when my father arrived. My optimism was dented, however, when a whip-master came in and sat at the back of the room. Why had he been called in? He glowered round and shifted his butt as if bored. Like all whip-masters on official duty he wore the Whippers' Guild uniform of black leather breeches, boots, belt and shoulder strap, with whip pouch, over a dark grey shirt emblazoned with stripes of rank and medals of achievement. His black cap had a shiny peak that fell almost vertically over his eyes, and his gloves were stowed under his left epaulet. The effect was no doubt as impressively reassuring to free men as it was terrifying to slaves, and at that moment I felt myself very much among the second category.

Fortunately, before my thoughts could turn morbid, my father, brother Steve and the family lawyer appeared, along with several other men in business suits, and two guards. As they made their way to their seats my father smiled and waved. I had to blink away tears. We had not always been close during the years following my mother's death, but he had troubles of his own, and I had been a snotty teenager. The surge of love I felt for him seemed to promise a new start. After all I was making a big sacrifice. He had to be grateful. He was looking very smart, in grey slacks and a tweed jacket, with a check shirt, club tie and paisley handkerchief. His hair had recently turned grey and was cut trim, and if he had put on weight over the past year, he had not lost his vulpine sharp good looks. He may not have been a success in life, but he was my dad and I loved him.

Steve aroused more ambiguous feelings. Three years older than me, we had once been good friends, but in his late teens he had spread his wings as a college athlete and stud, and since then had little time for his kid brother. He struck me as pompous and smug, and I had not disguised my lack of respect. Even so I felt a tremor of affection for him, if only for old times' sake. His hair was black and hung down over his collar in glossy locks. To play football he gathered it in a ponytail, but he managed to avoid any hint of the foppish with dark intense eyes, a square jaw and thick neck. He too was smartly turned out in a blue blazer, open-necked shirt with cravat, chinos and polished brown loafers.

Before I could return my father's wave a clerk called everyone to rise and the judge entered. He was called Judge Hendricks, and was tall, slim, bent and greying with a long broken nose, close set eyes, and a hoarse speaking voice. When the judge called my name, my guard pushed me forwards to stand on red markers. The judge told me to look at him. He half smiled as I met his eye, and that made me feel better. He asked me to confirm that I had waived my right to appeal my father's application to enslave me. I said that I had. The judge asked whether coercion had been used. I said it had not. He told me that although my father had no plans to sell me, there was nothing to stop him doing so in the future. Did I realise I was surrendering my liberty? I nodded, and was told to speak up. I did my best to sound convinced, but my voice cracked. I apologised and repeated my answer. The judge sighed, picked up his pen and signed two documents.

He nodded to the guard beside me who told me to drop on my knees. 'You will now be collared and consigned to your father's keeping as his property. As of now I strip you of all your rights as a free citizen.' He brought his gavel down. 'Place the collar on him, and register him as a common slave.'

The court official came towards me carrying a briefcase. He took out a tape measure and placed it tight round my neck below my Adam's Apple. Having taken the measurement he rummaged in his case until he found a collar of the correct size. He tore off the plastic wrapper and held up a black metal chain collar set on a two-inch thick leather strap. It was hardly discreet. The official put on a pair of spectacles and read off the number on the ID tag. The judge took it down and asked my father if it was an acceptable design. I had to stifle an urge to protest, but my father did not hesitate to say that it was fine, and before I had time to swallow the clerk had run it round my neck, and fastened it with a loud snap. The leather was soft against my skin, and the whole thing was a bit heavier than expected, but it seemed a snug fit.

The judge ordered me to stand, told me to be a good and loyal slave, to serve my Master well and truly, and to offer him service, obedience, and devotion. I bowed in submission, and the judge brought down his gavel again. He rose and left the room. If I had expected to become the centre of attention I was mistaken. My guard beside me placed a hand on my shoulder and growled that I should not move. My father meanwhile was shaking hands with his lawyer and advisers, and looking well pleased.

My brother didn't so much as glance my way, but went over to the whip-master who rose as he approached. Steve had never shown much interest in the technical side of slavery, so I couldn't understand what he was doing, but my attention was distracted by my guard telling me we were going down to the slave handling area. I would be registered and handed over to my owner.

As my father was still deep in conversation, there was no alternative but to obey. As I was led from the court, as naked as I had entered it, but now collared, I came face to face with Steve who was shaking hands with the whip-master. This time he didn't avoid my eye. 'That went OK, didn't it? See you downstairs.'

He spoke in his usual breezy tone. I felt reassured. Maybe he had been at school with the whip-master, or knew him socially.

My registration didn't take long. I was third in line and soon had my ID swiped. The duty slave explained that I would be given a second tag to wear on my collar that would give my slave name, owner's name and registered address. I was then locked up in a metal barred holding cell. I hoped my father would not be long in coming for me. Although relieved it was all over and had gone smoothly, I found my surroundings depressing.

The majority of slaves being dealt with by the courts were receiving whipping orders, and there was a constant flow of freshly flogged slaves being brought down from the punishment hall. Their backs were a terrible sight, torn and bloody, and the anguish on their faces, and their broken hopeless cries, chilled my heart. Like most young free men I had no time for uppity slaves, and had always favoured the unrestricted right of owners to whip their property. Nor had I ever imagined such punishments to be trivial affairs, but I'd never seen the effects close to. It was as if the courts were not only punishing errant slaves, but also intent on reducing them to shattered wretches, devoid of all dignity.

In the end my brother appeared, looking cheerful. He waved to me, and then got into conversation with my Australian guard who took out a notebook and began scribbling. It was a couple of minutes before Steve came over to my cell.

'Can we please get out of here?' I saw no reason to hide my impatience.

'What's the hurry....' Steve shook his black locks in disapproval. 'There's stuff still to be done.' He took out his mobile and put it to his ear.

'Like what, for God's sake?'

Steve whispered into the mobile and then put it away. He studied me carefully with a quizzical look that I both knew and distrusted. 'Your hair needs cutting for starters, and then there's your kit, food, all the stuff you need. We're not finished here by a long chalk.'

I'd had enough. I told Steve to find my clothes and to forget about a haircut. I didn't need one in any case, and if I did I'd get one in town. But he seemed not to be listening. Typical fucking brother! To get his attention I swore, adding a personal reference to his deafness in one ear. I knew he hated being taunted about it, and had suffered at his hands before for merely mentioning it, but I was determined to get his attention. After all who was making the big sacrifice? I was due some respect.

Steve flared his nostril and fixed me with a steady glare. 'I promise you'll regret saying that.'

I shrugged and told him to get me out. I felt a bit ashamed of myself, and a little apprehensive. Steve did not make promises lightly. A duty slave came running, bowed and whispered something to Steve who beckoned to my guard. I was getting thoroughly pissed off. What was Steve up to? Why didn't we just leave? There was nothing more to be done. Hadn't I been humiliated enough? The guard came over and unlocked my cell gate. To do so he pushed his cap back on his head. By the determined set of his mouth I could tell he had a job to do, and did not expect it to be easy. As soon as the door was open he took me roughly by my collar and told me to turn my back and kneel.

'What the fuck is this?'

The guard slapped me hard and said that I would be wise to kneel before he called for back up. I knelt. My wrists were cuffed and my ankles shackled. Blinkers were placed over my eyes. In desperation I resorted to meekness. 'Please sir, why are you doing this?'

The only answer I got was a muzzle placed under my jaw and over my nose and a leather bit shoved between my teeth. I heard Steve thank the guard.

'We're in Room 4. They're waiting for us.'

My guard told me to stand. 'Face your brother.'

He stood back. In the narrow field of vision the blinkers allowed I could see Steve standing hands on hips. As always when he was excited or annoyed his head was tilted back with nostrils flared, and his cheeks were flushed. 'You need to be taught a lesson, brother...no time like the present.'

I couldn't speak but managed a growl of protest.

Steve laughed in derision. 'Too late for that. You'll be getting no favours from me. I intend to treat you exactly as I would any other slave - and that means firm discipline.' He nodded to the guard. 'Take him up.'

The guard snapped a chain on my collar and dragged me out of the cell. My shackles dug into my ankles and I felt sick. As to what was going on, my mind had gone blank. It all seemed so absurd. Why wasn't I being taken home? Was Steve playing some elaborate joke? If so it wasn't funny anymore.

Not until duty-slaves were securing me to the whipping frame, while Steve and the Whipmaster stood to one side discussing the choice of whip, did I accept the fact that I was to be flogged like a common slave. The punishment room had whitewashed walls, an uneven bare concrete floor, and the usual bright lights, wash basins, and cabinets full of medical equipment and punishment tools.

I couldn't see sideways because of the blinkers but heard Steve's voice close beside me. 'You'll be getting twenty-five lashes.... cat 'o nine tails.' I felt a hand on my shoulder. 'I'm taking a video so be brave. Dad will want to see it. Don't let him down.'

An encouraging squeeze on my biceps, and then Steve moved forwards and came into my vision. He pointed to a hook on the wall and a duty slave appeared with a mirror. Steve made sure it hung at the correct angle for me to see the Whipmaster behind me, who was warming up by rolling his shoulder blades and jogging on the spot. 'Best you see what's going on.' Steve tapped me on my forehead. 'Makes more impact inside your head.'

He was gone from my vision, but a second later he appeared reflected in the mirror. He was holding up one of those fancy digital recorders. 'If you please Mr Whipmaster, commence punishment!'

The Whipmaster let the cat hang loose at his side, and shook its tails free. He raised the cat to take aim, frowned in concentration, used the back of his free hand to wipe his nose, and then took a sudden two-step run, bent forwards at the waist, and brought his right arm round in a fast swing. The cat landed fair and square across my shoulders.

As any slave will tell you, there's nothing like a flogging. It is both an experience that most slaves share, and their best kept secret. Free men order their slaves to be whipped as a just punishment, or on a whim, or as an encouragement, as a reminder of who is the master and who the slave, or in the sincere hope of helping a slave to improve his attitude, but they have no idea what they are doing. They know the whip cuts deep because they can see the bloody marks. They know it hurts because they hear the cries. They know it's effective because a flogged slave will always be willing and obedient.

What they don't know is the divide it opens between them and the slave. By the time I was taken off that whipping frame and made to kneel before my brother to thank him for my punishment, I was something other the young man who had entered that room. The cat's lash had worked its alchemy and both my mind and body were changed forever.

Steve had no doubt hoped the whip would do its work well, and must have felt justified as he looked down at his younger brother grovelling at his feet. All he saw, however, was my desperate desire to placate, and not to be whipped again; nothing of the transformation within. Steve helped me to my feet and congratulated me as he ordered the duty-slaves to clean my back with salt and water and prepare me for the ride home. There was a certain solemnity in his manner, at once both patronising and respectful, as if in taming me he had uncovered a hitherto unsuspected stoicism.

There was no denying I had taken my punishment with dignity. I hadn't cried out after the first half dozen lashes, nor had I allowed myself to faint. I had felt the impact of each lash that cut into my nerve ends and made my back a bloody mess. Pain can be an ally to a slave just as it is an enemy to a free man. I greeted my initiation to its secrets full in the face, without blinking, and let it do its work unimpeded. When Steve said it was time to get me home there were tears in his eyes, but my vision was clear.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Three

The whipping was barely mentioned after we arrived home. Like some minor social embarrassment deemed best forgotten, it was alluded to only in passing as a general reminder of what might happen if I didn't pull my weight. My back healed as quickly as I adapted to my new life, but that brief episode of savagery nevertheless served as the true introduction to my life as a slave.

There is no need to talk about unpleasant punishments when there are tables to be laid, laundry to be sorted, letters posted, animals fed, and errands run. If the flogging cast its shadow over everything, it did so subtly, like a thin covering of high cloud that sheds a hazy glare across a landscape. My father established a tolerable regime. I served as the household slave, but without unnecessary humiliations. Since everyone else was working hard I did not object to my daily routine of chores and service. When Uncle Tom moved in, I gave up my room willingly since he would be paying good rent, and I was fond of him.

I would have moved into the spare room had that not been reserved for my father's friend Bob Riddle who was also becoming a lodger in the New Year. So I put up a simple camp bed at night in a corner of the utility room and folded it away again each morning. It seemed simpler too to use the toilet and shower in the garage, and keep my clothes in the small closet there.

I was not the first young man to discover the attractions of a simple disciplined life. Slave-mush may not look appetising in its plastic cartons, but it tasted OK and ensured regular shitting, while the distinctive taste of vitamin-water proved addictive. While I learned to cook for the free men of the house, my own yearning for fancy food faded. Only a sneaking hunger for ice cream remained. In the same way I soon abandoned my old clothes and bought a slave outfit from M & S. It didn't take me long to get used to going into town wearing a woollen jacket with the symbol of a working slave emblazoned on the back. I felt comfortable in blue work shirts with ample pockets, pants with a yellow strip (yellow being the colour of slaves), a forage cap with 'slave on duty' printed on the peak, and plain slave sandals. The uniform came cheap, was washable and rugged, could be easily replaced and did not draw attention. In it there was no doubt who and what I was. Underwear was banned because my father insisted it was inappropriate for slaves. This took a while to get used to. Nor did I take to the fancy waiter's outfit that the free men in the house I should wear while serving their evening meal. Its bum-freezer jacket, tight-fitting pants, frilly shirt and ice blue bow tie tucked under my collar, made me feel an idiot, but I quickly realised guests expect to be served by slaves in silly uniforms.

At Christmas they had me wear a Father Christmas cap, and bright red tunic and pants. It was while wearing these cringe-making outfit that I received my first spanking, administered on Christmas morning as a joke by Uncle Tom. Although given and taken in good heart, I later realised this merry incident had served to break the ice surrounding discipline spankings.

Outside the home I got used to doing things the way slaves should. Walking in the gutter isn't difficult, and jogging keeps you warm. Using slave entrances and waiting to be noticed at slave counters becomes natural when you're collared and wearing a slave's kit. I got to enjoy the quiet camaraderie among slaves as we waited in line, or stood on the bus. I learned how to carry parcels in both hands, and to balance a burden on my back. I knew to drop to my knees when stopped by the SP so that they could swipe my slave ID tag through the machine on their belts. I accepted the odd swat or kick up my butt as part of everyday life. Light bruises are not worth worrying about.

Sometimes I'd have a double take when seeing myself in a mirror. In just a couple of months I'd come to look like any other young domestic slave. My hair was cut short with two shaved strips running back off my forehead. My leather and metal collar rode high on my neck, and my regime of daily exercise and diet not only kept me fit, it had given my body the hard contours I had always craved but never had the will to achieve. I was especially proud of my broad shoulders, my six-pack, muscular legs and butt - all emphasised by the slave uniform.

Nor did I become entirely cut off from my old friends. My best mate Gary made a point of sitting on a park bench every Saturday morning in case I happened by. So long as I crouched on my haunches beside him we could chat away like we used to. Gary was fascinated by my new life and asked questions about every detail. My other good mate Buster was more doubtful about being seen with a slave, but he would sometimes drop by the house, or stop and chat in the street. He would stand hands in pockets on the pavement, while I stood in the gutter. So long as I remembered to call him 'sir' he was happy to tell me the latest news and gossip.

At home Steve could be tiresome in his demands, but he was working hard and was decent to me most of the time. My father was as distant as ever, but would sometimes ask me how I was and say how pleased everyone was with the way I'd settled down.

Uncle Tom liked to be pampered, and was fussy about his food. He was getting on in years and had recently retired and had too much time on his hands. A plump man with thick glasses and a high nervous laugh, he had never married. He took to inspecting my uniform before dinner and would make me change my shirt or pants. I had to watch my tongue or end up bending over to receive a light spanking with a table tennis paddle or a wooden spoon. Childish stuff, but irritating. I had always been fond of my uncle and had hoped he would treat my slavery as a mere charade, but that seemed as impossible to him as it did to everyone else. But Uncle Tom was not a dominant figure in my life; Bob Riddle took that role.

From the moment I had set eyes on him, and felt a ripple of disquiet in my gut, I'd known he was going to cause me grief. He moved in one cold Saturday afternoon. He had rented a slave for the day, and this poor blundering creature was already at his wits' end. Bob stood in the middle of the spare room, whip in hand, spewing a flood of clipped commands that the poor trembling slave did his best to carry out.

Being a son of the house, as well as its slave, I felt myself above this intense and needlessly cruel regime and went about my duties displaying a quiet dignity that the rented slave sadly lacked. The whip, however, disturbed my equilibrium. Not only did it remind me of my traumatic enslavement; it seemed out of place. Uncle Tom might spank, and Dad had slapped my face the previous week for spilling whiskey, but whips, even those with short tails, were unknown in the house. But Bob laid it repeatedly and with a will across the slave's butt and shoulders, and was not shy about flicking it across the back of my legs. Although I was wearing long trousers, the leather end hurt enough to keep me on my toes.

When my father looked in to see how things were going, Bob complained of having to make do with 'poorly trained slaves.' My father looked thoroughly bemused, but felt obliged to tell me I should work harder and not stand around doing nothing.

'He needs to feel this across his lazy hide.' As Bob spoke he took aim at the rented slave's backside, landing a cut that added to the lines of blood oozing through his white uniform shorts.

'Quite right,' said my father as he turned to go.

Without a pause Bob had me by my balls. He dragged me over to the window and told me to place my hands against the glass panes. Then he stepped back and aimed a couple of well-aimed lashes at my butt. As they landed I was sure they had cut my skin. My body had not forgotten the lessons whipped into it down at the Slave Courts. I cried out, hoping my father would hear and return.

'That's all the noise you'll be making...there's a yellow streak in you boy...drop your jaw.'

He took the large silk handkerchief that had been drooping from his jacket top pocket and stuffed it into my mouth.

'You'll be getting another half dozen, so stick out your butt and thank your lucky stars you're not an army-slave. I'd have the skin off your back if you were.'

He snapped the whip and landed a cut low on my shoulder blades. 'Some things may have to change round here.'

Another knife-blade slash landed low on my butt. But that was all. He turned his attention back to the other slave, threatened to recommend him to his owners for a flogging, and told me to hand-wash the handkerchief and return it within twelve hours. So saying he tossed down the whip and went downstairs.

The slave looked at me and shrugged. He was an ugly fellow, and I had to feel sorry for him, but when I said something about Bob being a bastard, he shrugged and went back to work. I went into the bathroom to take a look at my cuts, and was disappointed to see that I had been wrong. There were no cuts, just red marks such as any slave might expect to pick up during an afternoon's service. When I went back into the bedroom and saw the slave's bleeding backside I realised how clever Bob had been. In truth the whip had not landed hard, and although it had hurt, my scars would not impress my father, let alone Steve. If anything they might decide a few more cuts would not come amiss.

Sure enough as the rented slave was leaving he passed Steve who was returning from a session in the local gym. Steve stopped him in the street and made him remove his shirt and lower his shorts. I was watching from the bedroom window and heard Steve's low whistle of approval before he sent the slave on his way. When Steve came in he shouted for Bob and told him he had made a good job of disciplining the slave.

I was still in the bedroom sorting shirts and collars, and heard Bob say the rented slave wasn't the only one to have felt the whip. The next thing was Steve shouting for me. I could see the trap Bob was setting, but could not disobey, so I ran downstairs and into the living room trying to look cheerful and obedient.

'Hey there,' Steve came towards me, frowning as he looked me up and down. 'So how's the family slave doing?'

He looked good in his clean T-shirt and jeans and smelt of fresh soap. He took hold of my arm and turned me round. 'Can't see any evidence of severity.'

'I dealt with him as I saw fit. If I've gone too far say so.' Bob sounded concerned.

Steve told me to raise my shirt. I felt his cold fingers tracing my marks. Then he patted my butt and told me to drop my shorts.

As I obeyed Dad appeared in the doorway. 'What's going on?'

Bob was on his feet. 'I think I may have gone too far with the family slave.'

Steve gave me a hard smack and told me to pull up my pants. 'There's barely a scratch on him.'

'Perhaps there should be.' My father walked past me without a giving me a glance. 'I heard him making an awful fuss about something just now.'

Steve told me to get out and back to work. 'You're too soft with him father. He needs discipline or he'll walk all over us. You know what he's like.'

As I left the room I heard my father say, 'Perhaps you can help here Bob, you being an army man.'

'I'd be happy to try. He seems a good lad. No reason why he shouldn't turn out a decent slave.'

'Well, we'll be most grateful if you can improve him.'

From his tone of voice I knew my father was about to change the subject, and sure enough he began talking about the price of shoes. As I pushed open the kitchen door I swore under my breath, but I knew Bob had got what he wanted, and had got it the day he moved in.

After I'd served dinner that night Bob called me into the living room and told me I should go to the garage and prepare it for a flogging. Half an hour later I got a dozen lashes with the whip from Bob. My father, Uncle Tom, and Steve all came out into the cold to watch. At Bob's suggestion the garage door was left open. It was dark outside, but brightly lit within, and being a Saturday night there were kids out on dates and adults taking a stroll. The sight and sounds of the whipping brought quite a crowd, and put a stop to neighbourhood gossip that my enslavement had been a sham. And as for me, I wanted more than ever to curry favour with Bob. After all he was my master.

Bob had spent twenty years serving in the Army and knew all there is to know about handling and leading men. Any uncertain novice slave of eighteen would have been putty in his hands, but I both hated him and was besotted with him. I craved his respect and affection, and all I received was his cool sneer of command, and his polished brown brogue up my backside. If he had been a simple thug, who knew what he wanted, my days would have been easier. But Bob was complex mix of warring elements, and that made him cruel, and worse, made him unpredictable. He would have made any slave suffer, but for me he dug deep to uncover a thirst for humiliation and pain that he inflicted with unflinching skill.

He was not the most handsome of men. There was something foxy and mean about him that mingled with a streak of sensuality to fuel his cruelty. In his late thirties, only a little above average height, with dark complexion and tufty brown hair cut short and kept tidy with oil of Mahonia, his face was dominated by close-set brown eyes, a prominent nose and chiselled lips. He spoke with an upper class drawl inflected with a nasal twang. His jutting jaw was narrow and it gave him a severe expression along with the habit of holding his head back and looking down at the world from a haughty angle. His hands were lean and elegant, and his shoulders were not broad, but his neck gave him away. It was as thick and muscular as any field slave's, and it sat on a torso as wiry as a gypsy boy's, without an ounce of surplus fat. His waist was narrow and his pageboy buttocks were hard and muscular and stuck out invitingly above thin legs that led to small feet. Part dancing master, and part executioner, it was as easy to underestimate him as it was unwise.

Most mornings he would spread himself out on the sofa in the living room to read his newspaper. When I came to remove his coffee tray he would look up over the small reading glasses perched on his nose, and watch to make sure my bow was deep and my manner respectful. His moods were as variable as any flouncing tart's, and he would as often wish me a brisk good morning, and ask my opinion of some item in the news, or compliment me on the taste of the coffee, or my smart appearance, as he would issue a scathing rebuke. This would be followed by threats of punishment that might, or might not, be carried out in the privacy of the utility room, or upstairs in his bedroom.

Despite everything I could not bring myself to admit to any criticism of Bob. The whipping had set the seal on my obsession. I was too much under his influence, too fearful of his punishment, too infatuated, too eager to earn his respect, and too willing to submit to his manhood. And it wasn't only his whip and cane that he used to assert his authority. If I haven't yet mentioned his cock, it's not for reasons of ignorance or prudery, but rather an abiding sense of awe, both for the thing itself and for the manner in which it was used

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Four

Having subdued me with his whip, Bob lost no time in mastering me with his cock. Although not as fearsome in size and effect as a whip, it did its work just as well. Of no more than average length, cut, and elegantly thin, the first time I saw it I felt a sense of relief tinged with disappointment. There was surely no need to be in awe of a man with such a modest cock.

Even slaves have their pride, and Bob's cock was not the stuff of legend. In this I betrayed my ignorance of manhood. Among boys the length of a cock may be the test of manliness, but among grown men a cock will be judged by its track record rather the mere sum of its dimensions. Bob's had seen hard usage, having done its stuff on army recruits, prisoners of war, the slaves of several nations, along with the usual tally of whores, friends and lovers. What it lacked in magnitude was made up for in diligence and reliability.

Bob hurt me when he fucked me, and I liked that. Just as the searing pain inflicted by the whip contains hidden at its core the lessons a slave must learn if he is to survive, so a master's cock educates best when entering a slave's anus without benefit of lubricant. As slaves are traded naked, they are best fucked in the raw. Slaves have much to gain from unadorned truth, and nothing from the sweet illusions preferred by the free.

Like most men who have fucked their way across several continents, Bob had firm ideas as to how it should be done. Not for him the comforts and intimacies of a bed, or even the useful contours of household furniture. The first time Bob fucked me he set the template for all subsequent encounters with his cock. He took me by the ear and led me to the garage where he had me strip and bend over the hood of his saloon car. He used a cane to thrash my hide and then opened his fly and spread my legs and forced himself into me. The pain was exceptional, and I don't suppose the ride gave him much pleasure, but it had the unambiguous brutality required of a first fuck if one man is to set his seal of ownership on another. Bob may have cursed me as he pumped, and rained blows on my back as he came, and then withdrawn with undisguised contempt, but he left his marker in me as surely as his whip had dug indelible lines across my back.

Within a couple of weeks my hole was itching for that undistinguished looking cock with all the urgency of a bitch on heat. My anus became a second mouth, and whether hungry or sated, aching or yearning, it made its voice heard. None of this went unnoticed by my father and brother, but nothing was said. Like my uncle, they became cooler in their manner towards me, and then cold. Those moments when they had used to indicate with a smile or wink, or some passing remark, that I remained to them the person I had used to be, became rare, and then ceased. My infatuation and abasement soon doused any flickering part of me that hoped to retain anything of their affection and respect.

I could not keep my eyes off Bob, and responded to his voice of command with a reflex whose urgency mocked my lazy obedience to the others. When he punished me in front of them, they would look away, bewildered my greedy acceptance of every blow and insult. Everything to do with Bob took on a magical quality. His voice penetrated my brain as directly as his cock my anus, and I'd press my face into his discarded clothes each morning, breathing in his smell until it suffocated me. In my hands his plain shirts felt as soft as silk, and I washed and ironed his underwear with devotion and a hard cock in my pants. If his shoes gleamed it was because a fellow slave gave me the secret of spit and polish, and I rubbed the toecaps with rags until my elbow ached. All this Bob enjoyed as if by right of his manhood, and he spared me no pain or punishment, no humiliation or petty discomfort.

At the time I revelled in it as a young man will in any sudden discovery of the self, but I knew I was treading in fast flowing water, and that sooner or later the dream would fade and I would have to save myself. If I did retain contact with reality, it was through my dealings with other slaves and my old mates, and in particular Buster. He had overcome misgivings about being familiar with a slave because he had received a young male for his eighteenth birthday and was finding masterhood hard going. He therefore turned to me for advice, and in return offered me the same with characteristic blunt candour.

An early riser, Buster would drop by when returning from his dawn run. He would come lumbering into the kitchen, sweating and breathless, demanding drink and towels. He had always been a big, loose-limbed boy, more comfortable on the football field than in the classroom, but he was no fool, and had none of the fake clownish manner favoured by many athletes. He had small blue eyes, dirty-blond hair, puffy cheeks and wore a goatee beard to disguise a weak chin, but his torso was broad and heavy and his legs and butt were as muscular as a boxer's. He would sit at the kitchen table with a cup of sweet black coffee and tell me about his recalcitrant slave and ask about my servitude.

For my part I would bow and scrape and call him 'sir,' while he liked to swat my butt for not putting sugar in his coffee, but these were mere courtesies to our roles because we had always understood one another with unusual clarity. Our urgent dilemmas set our arguments in a high relief of logic and mutual sympathy that would have surprised those who knew Buster only as an amiable jock, and me as a willing family slave. My advice to Buster was simple - that he should master his slave without delay. I did not go so far as to suggest he use a whip and his cock, but my message was clear.

So when he turned up one sunny morning with a big grin on his face to tell me he had fucked his slave, and had since noticed an improvement in obedience, I knew the whip would be in use before long. Buster's advice to me was no less straightforward. Sooner or later Bob would tire of me, and go and live elsewhere, or my infatuation would wither, leaving me as the mistreated bum-boy of an unremarkable thirty-something sadist. Wasn't it about time, he suggested as he put his feet up on the kitchen table, that I took a long hard look at myself?

'But how can I...as a slave?' My words sounded bleak even to me.

Buster picked up the cat and stroked it. 'You should have thought of that before you signed on the dotted line.' He held the cat over his head in both hands and made a face at it. 'Why not try to be a good slave to everyone...and not just Bob.'

'Do you think Steve wants to fuck me? Or Dad? Uncle Tom?'

Buster placed the cat carefully back on the table. 'You're fucked, aren't you?' He laughed at his joke, but his unblinking eyes saw through my pretences. 'I reckon your dad should send you away to have the shit flogged out of you.' He let out a long low sigh, as if to say, 'and that's the truth mate.' and then got up to go.

'Well maybe you should flog your slave, instead of whinging about him. Seems like you're more looking for love than a slave.'

Buster stopped in the doorway. He was too honest to pretend he hadn't heard the truth, and too proud not to hate me for telling it. Without turning round he said evenly, 'You're lucky I don't have you flogged.'

He raised a hand in farewell and began to run down the drive. Watching him as he crossed the street, I knew there would be no more candid talks. Another connection with the world of the free had been severed.

A few weeks later two men came to the door. Even as I let them in I knew they were in the slave business. There's a flamboyance about the dress of those who trade in human beings, that fails to mask their venality. For all that slavery is an accepted institution, its piratical past and the violence at its foundations, taints those who make a living from it. Nevertheless my father seemed glad to see them and took them into his study. He told me to serve refreshments and then return to work in the shed where I was chopping logs.

The more senior of the pair must have been in his forties, and was brawny and overweight, with wavy oiled brown hair brushed back off a red face. He wore a suit with an exceptionally wide chalk stripe, a red shirt and blue tie. Several cigars stuck out of his top pocket. His colleague was in his mid-twenties, tall and slim, with dark features on a thin face. He wore a leather jacket, white shirt and chinos and boots, and carried a battered brief case. The only hint of the unconventional was a small earring in his right lobe.

I served them coffee and biscuits, and then went out back to the woodshed to chop some more logs. Of all my chores this was my favourite, and as I picked up the axe I hoped there would be no more interruptions. It was a sunny morning with a cool breeze and I felt quite at ease and put from my mind all questions as to what business the two men might have with my father. When you are powerless, you learn not to fret over the things you cannot control. If I had given a moment's rational thought to the possible reasons why a couple of dealers had turned up on a Tuesday morning, I would certainly have concluded that my future might be at stake. But I didn't. Instead I concentrated on getting my swing and aim right, and took pleasure in the way the logs split.

I must have been chopping away for a quarter of an hour when I realised I was not alone. The younger of the two visitors was watching me. The woodshed was open on the garden side and he stood on the path, holding his brief case in front of him. I put down the axe, wiped my brow on the back of my gloves and went to see what he wanted.

Any man who has been using his muscles and is sweating freely has about him a certain authority, and although I bowed before asking if I could be of service, I did so with a minimum of fuss and used my gloved hand to check my running nose. If the man was a slave dealer he would surely be impressed by the sight of me in my blue work shirt covered in sweat patches and loose grubby white shorts. Wasn't I the very picture of a hard working slave?

The man smiled but said nothing. I was about to tell him I would carry on working if he had no need of me, when he asked if there was a light in the woodshed. I told him there was, and went to switch it on.

'That's good,' he said as he looked round at the brightly illuminated interior. He placed his briefcase on the workbench and opened it. 'I'm just going to give you a quick inspection.'

He took out a small recorded and whispered into it. 'Step close. I expect you know the drill.'

I said that I did, although in fact I was quite at a loss. He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a tape measure. 'Stand still and do exactly as you're told. Couldn't be simpler could it?'

He placed the tape measure round my neck. He recorded the result on the machine and told me to remove my shirt. He took out a small bottle of disinfectant, dabbed some cotton wool against it and rubbed my nipples. Without warning he produced a small pin and drove it through my left teat. I cried out and he told me to be silent unless I wanted to be gagged. The pain was wracking me, and my voice was hoarse as I begged him to remove the pin, but he immediately drove another pin through my right teat. My head span, and he busied himself using a small scalpel to scrape and excavate my navel. After whispering some more into his machine he fondled my stomach, testing the musculature, but also causing my cock to stir.

The firestorm in my nipples was subsiding into a deliciously sexual glow of pure sensation. My lips quivered and the inside of my mouth rippled with feeling. It was as if every nerve in my body had been switched on. He pulled on surgical gloves and told me to drop my shorts and step out of them. He smacked my thigh to part my legs and grabbed my balls and gave them a hard squeeze. I groaned loudly. 'You're not trained are you?'

If I had a reply it was lost in another groan as he plunged his thumb into my scrotum to separate my balls and feel each one. A finger was pressed up under my cock, causing another extreme sensation: not pain exactly, but too fierce for pleasure. My cock was as hard as granite.

He knelt before me, put his recorder under his chin and used the tape to take my leg measurements. He threatened to thrash me if I moved so much as an inch. When he got back to his feet he took hold of my cock to steady himself.

He yanked my jaw down and inserted his hand into my mouth as casually as if it were his glove. His fingertips probed the back of my throat and made me gag. The invasion did nothing to stop the ripples of feeling running over the roof of my mouth. He withdrew his hand and immediately inserted two fingers up my nostrils. I could feel the blood spurt as his fingernails dug into the tender tissue. That done he tore off the gloves and used bare hands to examine under my lower and upper eyelids. He stepped back to speak into his recorded while I tried to deal with my nosebleed. He told me to use my shirt to wipe my face and as I did so he removed the pins from my nipples, leaving behind a hot itchy burn.

At this moment my father appeared. 'Ah, here they are Lennox.' He called over his shoulder as the other visitor came into view. 'They seem to be making progress.'

'I've done the front...back and rectum still to come.'

My father put his hands in his pockets and looked at me with a smile of paternal pride. 'What do you think so far? No bad eh?'

The man inspecting me said nothing, but the one called Lennox muttered something about me looking fit and strong. He stood close to me, mouthing slightly as his eyes ran over my naked body. My father was beside him, still smiling at nothing in particular, and looking as shabby as ever in his shapeless tweed jacket, flannels, club-tie and rather too prominently displayed paisley silk handkerchief.

If Lennox was venality personified, my father looked an unworldly innocent. Lennox stood back. 'The bank has a lien on him?'

My father nodded. 'Unfortunately.'

I felt a hand on my butt. 'Bend forwards, legs apart, and spread your cheeks.'

Lennox came round behind me to get a better look. I hesitated until my father confirmed the order with a nod, but the delay earned me a brisk smack on my butt. Lennox snorted. 'Is there an obedience issue here? Has he been trained?'

'Not formally, but....' My father shrugged.

'A pity. Do you beat him?'

My father looked embarrassed. 'Major Bob... the lodger here, he sees to the discipline, and my other son of course...when he's here.' His voice faded away.

Even after three months of slavery it felt strange being told to bend over for a rectal examination in front of my father. Even so I put my legs apart, bend forwards and used my hands to part my buttocks. I felt the cool air on my anus. I had to sniff to stop my nose dribbling. There was the snap of plastic and then a finger probing my arse-cheeks. It found my hole and slipped inside me. I clenched a little, enough to confirm acceptance, and then relaxed a little, so as to provide comfort as well as firm grip. All this Bob had taught me, but I surprised myself in front of my father. My cock reared and stiffened.

Despite everything happening in front of his eyes, my father's mind was still on the matter of my training. 'Major Bob had been very good with him....'

The fingers were withdrawn. 'Do you fuck him?'

The interruption was deliberate. Lennox's affront to my father made me wince even though I was bending over.

It was my father's turn to wince. 'Fuck him? Oh dear me. I hardly think that would be proper. I'm his father.'

Lennox snorted. 'I'd forgotten.'

At that moment my anus was breached again, this time as three fingers were shoved up my rectum. My muscles clenched in reaction, and then relaxed. The fingers were spreading, opening up my hole. The agony was intense, but the man knew exactly what he was doing. He tickled my prostrate, causing intense pure feeling to flow through my insides, and then probed deep until I felt a tightening in my chest and my heart began to race.

When he pulled out he expressed satisfaction. 'Someone's been up there, and often.'

'That would be Major Riddle again.' My father sounded rather sad.

'He's done a good job.'

The man who had been up me patted my butt and told time to stand upright. 'I'd say this slave is sexually trained.'

Lennox looked pleased. 'That's something to be thankful for.'

He told me to face him and grabbed hold of my cock. He placed his thumbnail over the slit and pressed down. Blood spurted. 'Good.' He took out a handkerchief and wiped his bloodied fingers. 'From what I've seen, we may be able to do business. What do you think Grant?'

The man who's inspected me came round to face me. He placed a hand over my face and squeezed my nose. 'I'd say this is a well prepared and well presented slave from the sexual point of view.' He tore off his gloves and smiled as the blood started to drip from my nose.

Lennox turned to face my father. 'He's fits the bill. How much do you want for him?'

My father glanced at me. 'Perhaps we could talk in private.'

Lennox laughed. 'We are in private.'

My father stared down at the ground. 'The bank has first refusal...'

'Yes, I know about banks. We'll square any deal with them' Lennox put his hands in his pockets and gave his colleague a sharp look.

There was a silence, broken by Grant. 'Have you considered an outright sale?'

'No, no... you don't understand.' My father's voice rose. 'He was enslaved voluntarily...to help see us through.'

'You mean he can't be sold?' Grant snorted with derision. 'What's the point of a slave you can't sell?'

'Well I could... legally, but it's out of the question. I have an agreement with my sons...'

Lennox broke in. 'And if you don't meet the payments to the bank?

My father shrugged. 'They'll repossess this house.' He looked like a cornered wild animal.

Grant put a hand on the back of my neck. 'Not the slave?'

'As I say... he's my son. I'd rather they took the house?'

Grant tugged on my slave collar, forcing my head back. 'You'd offer the bank your home rather than this common slave?'

'I've told you, he's my son.' My father sounded exasperated.

Lennox held out his hand to my father. 'Then we can't help you. Many thanks for letting us examine the property. If you change your mind do get in touch.'

Grant ran a hand down my back and pinched my waist. 'A pity. We could have made something of this. There's always demand for quality slaves.'

With a light pat on my butt he went over to the workbench and closed his briefcase. 'Banks don't pay much heed to family sentiment. To them a slave is a slave.'

He shook hands with my father and hurried after Lennox. I was left alone with my father, who gave me a long look, then shrugged and walked slowly back to the house with his head bowed. My nose was still bleeding. My nipples were burning. My anus felt as if a dozen bees had stung it. And yet I felt sorry for my Dad.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Five

Bob Riddle lay face down on his bed. The covers had been removed and the morning sunshine warmed his naked body. His chin rested on a pillow and he had closed his eyes to concentrate on planning a meeting at the bank later than day. But serious thought was difficult so long as the household slave had his face buried between his arse-cheeks.

His morning rimming had become something of a ritual. When you've trained a slave to perform an act well, it is foolish not to take full advantage of the skill implanted. Furthermore Bob preferred to have his adoring slave pay his respects to his anus than have him sitting at his feet gazing up as if he were looking at the living god.

The truth was Bob had grown tired of the slave. It was, he thought as the ripples of pleasure spread out from his anus, always the same story. First you train them to take a fucking, and their mouths to suck cock, and in the process they come to worship that cock as their true master. Pretty soon you can't bear the sight of them, and so keep them occupied and out of sight by having them eat your anus. When you tire of that, you discard them and move on to something fresher.

Bob had trained slaves ever since joining the army. During his basic training his drill sergeant had lined up his recruits and told them to take out their cocks. The grizzled old soldier had gone down the line commenting on each young soldier's equipment, combining humiliation with jokes and backhanded compliments. When he stopped in front of Bob, and had seen the modest scale of the tool, the sergeant had merely remarked that Bob's cock would be ideal for training slaves in the art of giving a man a decent ride. 'Too thick busts the ring, too long gives pleasure: for instruction, use a short one.'

It was advice taken to heart, and Bob had soon become the regiment's number one arse-tamer. The officers in his unit would often be given slaves by grateful potentates whose tottering throne had been shored up by 'peace-keeping' exercises. These would be handed over to Bob for sex training. It only took a few sessions, and he was always careful not to spoil the quality of freshness that is so large a part of a young slave's charm. Usually he would suggest that the slave's owner take the cherry on the principle that a gentleman opens his own mail, and then hands it to others for response or action.

No one knew better how to deal with a slave than Bob. Like a cook mixing flavours in a stew, Bob would instil fear as his basic ingredient, thickened with the whip. He would toss in bright shafts of pure pleasure (usually in the anal region), stir with gentle approval, and then season the whole with solid fucking. He got used to having chubby young faces smiling up at him in gratitude for being taught how to suck a cock, or take it up their rectums, and it no longer amused him that he could generate such devotion as the by-product of their training. He would send them back to their masters with no more regret than one would feel when returning a pet rabbit to its cage.

Now that he was out of the army, he was toying with the idea of setting up in the slave business. But for that he needed access to capital, or stock in hand. And his experience as lodger in the Gibson household had provided the clue as to how he might acquire both. The slave who at that moment was so expertly chewing the rim of his anus, was Gibson's younger son Harry, who had been so naïve as to allow himself to be enslaved to provide collateral for a bank loan. Gibson, being almost as big a fool as his younger boy, had not been able to meet the interest payments, and it seemed inevitable the bank would seize Harry and sell him at auction. That would of course free up plenty of cash, and not only pay off the loan, but keep Gibson and his foppish older son Steve in comfort for a few years.

The bank had already sent in a team to make an assessment and report on Harry's likely worth at auction. It was that report that Bob was hoping to set eyes on that afternoon. Of course it was unethical that he should be given first sight, but it had been his experience that bankers prefer sound business practice to airy-fairy ideals. If he played his cards right, he'd be well on his way towards his first big break in the slave trade by the day's end.

Coming out of his thoughts Bob realised his anus had been chewed for too long. Harry had been indulging himself. Without a second thought he told Harry to get his face out of his arse, to go wash his face, and then fetch a thick and flexible bamboo cane. The slave obeyed, but with a slight hesitation, and when he brought the cane he did so with a glum expression. No properly trained slave would dare show such personal feelings in carrying out an order. Harry was sexually trained, but not professionally trained. The slave, Bob decided, as he laid a dozen hard strokes across the well formed bare buttocks, not really a slave at all. He was more like a common male whore.

The meeting with the bank was not at some local high street branch, but at the Chattels Department in the city's financial district. Bob had made sure he was looking his best, but even so found himself feeling a trifle shabby compared to the immaculately dressed men going in and out of the imposing head offices of the financial, trading and legal institutions. The massive sombre buildings rose over the traffic-clogged streets whose sidewalks reserved for free men, while slaves hurried along with their burdens in the special 'gutters.'

Bob could only marvel at the mass of slaves. The spread of slavery into every small suburban home and business had been a great success story, but one had to visit the city to grasp the sheer scale of the slave system. The city's streets were full of slaves dressed in every style and colour of uniform and fashion. They had been bought in from every corner of the planet, so that willowy Nubian adolescents loped alongside pint-sized gypsy-boy scamps, and locally bred stock had to find a path round chained teams of slaves so ravaged and savaged by hard use as to be of indeterminate origin.

To keep order among this moving mass of the subjugated, the Slave Police manned special circular observation posts erected at the main intersections. Although no more than ten feet off the ground, the officers on duty had no difficulty in directing the flow of slaves below with the help of rhino whips, whistles and barked commands. The city fathers were tough-minded men who enforced a rigorous code of conduct among slaves that left no room for the enlightened ideas promoted by such pressure groups as the Society for the Welfare and Protection of Slaves. That nonsense was best left to suburban intellectuals who could afford to feed their slaves steaks and have them sleep on soft mattresses.

As a reminder of the discipline that awaited the lazy or insolent, half a dozen permanent whipping frames, made of stainless steel, stood in the open space in front of the law courts. Not that a court's permission was required to flog a slave there. It was a public whipping post, open to all. Bob noticed several slaves mopping up blood and scrubbing the paving stones where slaves had been flogged during the lunch break. Two such wretches were still in place, suspended by their feet from the top bar of the frame, and swinging slightly in the afternoon breeze with their naked buttocks and backs a fretwork of bloodied cuts and stripes. No passing slave could fail to shudder at the sight.

Bob felt refreshed and energised as he entered the vast marble clad banking hall. He had been too long in the quiet suburbs and was glad to be back in the city, a free man among free men who saw no reason to fetter their manhood and did not shrink from using old-fashioned methods to keep their slaves in place. He had to smile as he approached the inquiry desk and saw a notice stating, "We will whip any slave showing disrespect. Third party corroboration not required. Please ask for a complaints form."

A blue-eyed slave-boy page took Bob up to the Chattels Department. The skinny lad wore the livery of the bank, and looked charming in tight-fitting royal blue knickerbockers, white stockings, and slippers with gold buckles. His burgundy velvet jerkin had tails that hung down on either side of his bottom, and his white cotton shirt was tucked in below the neck to show off a slave collar made of silver links embossed with the bank's logo. A royal blue fez with a gold tassel was perched on a full head of glossy golden locks. It was not common practise to shave the heads of pre-pubescent slaves.

This decorative boy led the way into an office furnished in the modernist style, and bowed deeply as he introduced Bob to a Mr Freddie Patel. Two adult male slaves were on hand to make Bob comfortable and serve refreshments while Bob and Patel exchanged pleasantries. The slaves wore a more modern version of the bank's livery, still with royal blue pants and burgundy jerkins, but fashioned more simply from harder wearing fabrics. Their heads were shaved, and left bare. As with every other slave Bob had seen since entering the building, these two were thin and gaunt-faced.

When Bob mentioned this, Patel confirmed that it was the bank's policy to underfeed its slaves. 'All our slaves are trained and serviced by Anderton International, and they tell us to keep them lean and hungry. Seems to work.'

Patel sat behind a large pine desk. It was bare except for a family photo, a phone and some files. On one side a glass wall gave a view out over the city as far as the distant hills, while on the other the two duty slaves stood formally 'at ease' with their legs apart, hands behind their backs, and their eyes lowered.

Bob believed himself to be a good judge of men, and he liked the look of Patel. The plain black suit and tie, white shirt, and heavy silver cufflinks spoke of decorum and taste while the gelled black hair and excellent grooming spoke of a proper vanity. He was about thirty, darkly handsome, with an athletic build and an innate elegance that showed in his every move. Nor was he a man to beat about the bush.

'You're interested in this Gibson slave?'

He leaned back in his chair with the air of one who has made the first move and hopes the response will not be a waste of time. Bob met the challenge with candour.

'In my view Gibson can't meet the interest payments and you'll have to repossess the slave. My proposal offers you a way to prevent that while doubling your profits.' Bob took a folder out of his briefcase. 'The details are all here. I believe you have a report on the slave.'

Patel did not move. His fingers were pressed together under his chin. 'The bank's position is secure.'

'But not, as thing stand, particularly profitable.'

Patel sat forwards. 'I'll take a look.'

'First, I'd like to see the report your valuation boys did on the slave.'

'You are not the owner?'

'No, but Gibson is dithering. Deep down he's resigned to losing his son.'

Patel frowned and waved a hand in disdain. 'Please... this is a slave we're talking about. Whose son he may be is neither here nor there.'

'I think it is.'

Patel slumped back and looked out of the window. 'The slave is your bed companion, is it not? If you're hoping to save him for yourself, you've come to the wrong place.'

Bob laughed. 'One slave's backside is much like any other's... I've trained this slave, but only for the bedroom. Let me have him for professional training and I'll double his value. I don't need to own him. Leave him in place and pile on the interest and penalty charges until you've made enough from Gibson to make everything worthwhile. Then repossess the slave. Hand him over to me for training, and then send him for auction and share the profit.'

Patel smiled. 'But we could get our people to train and add value. Why should we trust you?'

Despite his words, Patel glanced at one of the slaves who stepped forwards. Patel pointed to the file and the slave picked it up and carried it round the desk and put it before Bob. He was back in his place within five seconds.

Patel shrugged. 'It's a straight valuation. It makes no recommendations. And I might tell you it confirms the slave's status as suitable only for sexual service. He's not worth much more than we're already owed.'

Bob said nothing but opened the file. He read quickly. 'Here it is.' He glanced up to make sure Patel was listening. '"There is a second offspring in the Gibson household - male, twenty one and with free status, but of high potential value if enslaved." There we have it, Mr Patel.'

'How do you propose to enslave this young man?'

Bob sensed Patel's interest. 'Best you don't know, but I'll need some capital. If I prove my worth with the slave Stephen, you'll know you're on to a good thing.'

Patel rose. 'The bank cannot lend money to entrap a free man into slavery.'

'Of course not. But you do invest in business start-ups in the slave trade.'

'We'd be foolish not to.'

Bob rose and held out his hand. 'I shall be in touch.'

There was a slave beside him, ready to help him on with his coat.

A week later Bob was again in discussion about the Gibson boys. This time he was sitting in the darkened back room of a pub in the eastern section of the city. The slave fights put on for the lunchtime crowds were over, and the place was empty except for a couple of women sadists in leather suits who were lazily torturing a young female slave on a rack over by the silent juke-box. A bent old house-slave was sweeping the floor. Apart from the odd scream there was nothing to hear other than the muffled roar of traffic passing outside.

Bob sat in a battered red upholstered booth opposite a young man smartly dressed all in black. He had an ex-soldier's stance and build and an expression of intense disgust on his face. Bob took a sip from a glass of beer and smiled. The man swore under his breath and then repeated himself more loudly. And then he relaxed, rolled his eyes and grinned round to see if anyone was watching. After one last grimace he apologised for his language and lit a cigarette. Although a free man he called Bob 'sir.'

As he did so a young female slave emerged from under the table. She swallowed hard and smiled up at the man and cupped her hands. He felt in his trouser pocket for change.

Bob shook his head. 'You don't have to. She's on the house.'

The man tossed some coins. 'Try her yourself sir, she's very neat and tidy. Even tucked my cock in.'

Bob tried to mask his distaste with a smile as he suggested they talk seriously. The man placed a finger on the kneeling girl's lower lips and told her to scram before he spanked her little butt. She giggled and was gone. There was a blood-curdling cry from the tortured slave.

The man chuckled. 'Those bitches mean business.' He brushed between his legs with the back of his hand. 'Right sir.. you want some college boy framed?'

Bob shook his head and leaned towards the man. 'No. I want him to volunteer to be a slave.'

The man raised his eyebrows. 'Just like that? "Please sir, can I be a slave sir?"' He spoke in a falsetto that made the slave sweeping nearby laugh out loud. The man pointed at the slave. 'Even that piece of shit can see it's a dumb idea.' He sighed and drew on his cigarette. 'Go on then sir, tell me about it.' He exhaled and stubbed it out. 'I'll see if I can help.'

Bob looked round to make sure no one was listening. Places like this were full of ears, free and non-free, hoping to catch some item juicy enough to earn a reward from the Slave Police.

'I know this kid. I've been watching him closely for six months, and I've seen the way his mind works. Believe me, we can get him. I just need some help.'

'What type?'

'Help that doesn't mind getting its hands dirty.'

'I reckon I can help my old CO.' The man stared across the room to where one of the leather-clad women was turning the rack's wheel. 'I think it's time to take a closer look.'

Bob didn't even look up, but drained his glass. 'Bring two mates, and yourself. Here, same time. In a week.'

There was another scream, louder and more despairing. As he crossed the empty room Bob heard one of the women laugh.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Six

Standing in line is a part of any slave's life. I seemed to spend half my mornings waiting to reach the front of the slave's line in the pharmacy, or the butchers, at the library or greengrocer. If you were the only slave waiting you were ignored. If there was a long line it took forever because of free people going ahead. Many slaves used the time to do their exercises, and sometimes we formed ourselves into a group and worked out together, much to the amusement of free men passing by. But all too often there was nothing to be done but stand in line with that blank expression common to slaves.

It was while standing outside the public library slave entrance, sheltering from the rain under a piece of plastic sheeting I kept for the purpose, that I got talking to Rudic. I'd first noticed him because of his Slavic features - high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, brown hair, and good build. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but was easy to talk to, and that was more than can be said of most slaves. That morning he was shivering with cold and had on nothing more than running shorts and a pullover top. The tip of his cock was sticking out under his shorts, but he seemed not to mind it being seen any more than he did the cold. His owner was a local car dealer with a reputation for being tough on his slaves, but Rudic seemed happy enough. He was one of those slaves who made the best of life and enjoyed not having to worry about where the next meal is coming from, or job security. He took the blows that came his way in good heart, and was a regular in the various slave dives that spring up in every town on the wrong side of the tracks.

He had seen me get my face slapped in the dry cleaners for not responding quickly to a request for payment. Slaps and kicks were a matter of routine, part of the everyday texture of a slave's life. I had handed over the money and hadn't given the incident another thought. But Rudic was intrigued. He asked why I'd hesitated, and when I said I didn't think I had, he laughed.

'But you did! It was so obvious. When I saw, I thought, I'd slap that slave if he was mine.' He jogged on the spot and refused my offer to share the plastic cover.

'I did my best.'

'Have you been trained?'

Rudic looked at me with suspicion. Did he think I was a SP plant? He frowned as the rainwater trickled out of his hair.

'Not really. I serve at home, and they teach me how to do things.'

Rudic looked at his feet and shook his head as if hearing something very sad. 'That is so bad. Very cruel, not to train a slave. It means you will always be beaten.'

'Were you trained?'

Rudic looked at me as if affronted and puffed out his chest. 'Of course. I was sent to professional training camp in Germany. Near Augsburg. Very nice place.'

'You enjoyed it?'

I could hardly believe my ears. Runic laughed and punched me on my arm. 'Enjoy? Are you crazy man? What do you think? Every morning the whip. Every afternoon the boot up the arse. Every night the whip and the boot, plus the fucking and sucking. For six weeks. Those bastards made us tough, and they made sure we know to be obedient. Real obedient, not like you.' He winked as he gave my arm another punch.

'You think I need that?'

Rudic fixed me with his big blue eyes. 'Sure man. You must be trained. Stands to reason, slaves have to be trained...to be real slaves.'

To make his point he did a small dance, chanting 'do this' and slapping his backside, and then 'do that' and slapping his thigh, and then repeating the mantra on his stomach and chest. It was an odd sight. When he had finished he scolded me for not joining in.

'We were taught that in the training camp. Obedience. You've got to have it man.'

It was my turn to go into the tiny office where slaves handed on their owners' library book. I managed not to get my face slapped, but I did notice the librarian lady seemed a little exasperated when I hadn't got the library cards to hand. As I jogged home I wondered if it mightn't be a good idea to do a training course. As things stood I seemed to be getting the worst of both worlds.

Later than day my brother Steve called me up to his room:- correction, he yelled my name at the top of his voice. Sensing trouble I ran upstairs and found him half-dressed and standing hands on hips in the middle of his bedroom. A number of shirts were scattered round his feet. He told me none of them had been properly ironed. As I moved forwards to take at look at the crumpled heap he slapped me across the face. I reeled a little under the force, but said nothing and bent down to pick up the shirts. I could see at once that Steve had a point. The ironing was pretty rudimentary. I apologised and said I was iron them again, straight away.

'What the fuck do you do all day?' Steve was indignant, but also, I sensed, curious. 'Ironing a fucking shirt isn't rocket science. Why can't you get the simplest things right?'

'Maybe I need training.'

I didn't call Steve 'sir' because we were brothers. In fact we'd never worked out what I should call him, so I didn't call him anything. It was symbolic of my uncertain status.

'Training? Are you serious? You want to be sent away to be trained? Have you any idea what that means?'

I shrugged. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. But Rudic had struck a chord. 'I don't know, but I'm expected to do all the things a trained slave does without the training. It's not fair.'

Steve gave me a look I could not interpret and told me to go and iron his shirts. A few minutes later, as I stood over the ironing board in the utility room, I was overcome by a fit of shaking. It was as if my body was succumbing to some internal upheaval. My teeth chattered, my hands and knees shook, and my chest tightened. I found myself saying over and over, 'This can't go on.' The spasm lasted only a few minutes and left me feeling calmer and clearer in my thinking.

I did a good job on the shirts and took them back up to Steve, who was sitting in front of his computer. When I tried to show him the shirts, he waved them away without so much as a glance. 'Go and see Bob. He's in his room.'

I went along to Bob's room and entered. Slaves don't knock because it was taken for granted that no matter what private activity a free man might be engaged in, a slave's presence would make no difference. He was lying naked on his bed, watching the television news while playing with his cock. He used his forefinger to beckon me to kneel and put my mouth over the cock. He groaned with pleasure and told me to take care not to let him come. I slid a hand under his butt and used my forefinger to probe his anus.

My infatuation with Bob may have dwindled, but everything about him and his room remained erotically charged. His smell, the texture of his skin, the lean warm flesh and his cock's silky feel against my lips, all made me hard and a little breathless. Even the dim lighting, the creaking bed, the vague scent of cologne, helped me into a mood to serve Bob willingly. After a while he pushed me off his cock and raised himself off my finger. He told me to lay out some clothes. He was going out later with some army buddies and they would be visiting a brothel. That meant boxers rather than y-fronts, slip-on shoes rather than lace-ups, a condom in his wallet in case the tarts weren't hygienic, and plenty of cash in his money-fold. As he was choosing a tie from a selection, he said casually that I had better put from my mind any idiotic ideas about being sent away for professional training. I bowed as he pointed to a raw silk and turned to add it to his clothes for that evening.

'Did you hear what I said?'

I bowed again and said that I had. My tone was, I admit, a little on the sulky side. It wasn't often I was the subject of conversation, and I wanted to make the most of it.

'You could no more take a full training than be fucked by a horse. You haven't the capacity... do you hear?... you're not up to it.'

He got off the bed and took me by the scruff of my neck. 'So forget it. If I hear you whining about it I'll whip the skin off your back.'

He let go with a shove that sent me flying against his bookcase. 'I've half a mind to flog you here and now, just to get some sense into your head.' As I steadied myself, he shrugged derisively and told me to dress him. 'And concentrate on what you're doing or you'll never eat my arse again.'

'Training would make me a real slave. Not the half-arsed thing I am.'

I don't know what made me say it, and I shuddered as I heard my own words, but too late. He reached for the riding crop he kept in a tall vase by his bookcase. I felt quite calm and wondered whether I'd be getting stripes across my back, or butt, chest, thighs, or even the soles of my feet. Bob decided it was my butt's turn, and he positioned me carefully for the punishment. I was entirely co-operative, and icily calm. Just before the first stroke landed I found myself wondering whether I was experiencing despair. Or maybe coming down with a fever. And then the crop landed and all thought ceased.

Steve's fall from grace came a few days later. The local police called late in the evening to say they were holding Steve on a charge of dangerous driving under the influence of drink and endangering the life of a free citizen. My father went pale as he listened and slumped down in his chair. He told me everything in a flat voice, treating me as if I were his son again and no longer his slave.

Two days later, after a brief court appearance, a date was fixed for a trial. My father's lawyers suggested they should go for a deal with the county prosecutors, and after a week's wait my father learned that the court would accept a plea of guilty on a lesser charge. Steve would be enslaved for four years.

I did my best to comfort my father. His grief for Steve was a contrast to his cheerful acceptance of my enslavement for life, and I could not help feeling a little gratified that my cocky older brother would now feel the humiliation of enslavement, and perhaps the kiss of the whip. But my smug reaction was short lived. The same week the court enslaved Steve, my father received a letter from the bank. They were calling in their loans. As I was the collateral they would be taking possession of me. Bailiffs had been appointed. The asked that my father have me ready for surrender the following day between the hours of two and five in the afternoon.

I suppose my repossession was considered a low risk assignment because the bailiffs who came were two very relaxed young men in jeans and leather jackets armed only with cuffs and domestic whips. They couldn't have been long out of their teens and drove a rather battered pick-up. My father demanded to see the paperwork, but everything was in order. The two young scruffs kicked me up my backside as they loaded me on the open back and made me sit with my hand cuffed behind my back and my right ankle chained to the floor.

It had been snowing and the route to the slave dealers appointed by the bank went past the town's main high school. The guy driving slowed down to chat to some of the kids and that left me as a target to be pelted with snowballs. I did my best to duck and weave until a SP patrol car passed by and one of the officers inside used his PA system to tell me to keep my head bowed and my eyes down or they would take me in to be whipped. Strange how a slave, as soon as he is up for sale, or changing owners, becomes the target for abuse and the attentions of zealous SP officers.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Seven

Bob Riddle smiled as he turned into the Almond Grove Slave Training and Correction Centre. Everything was falling into place nicely. He knew from his days in the army that in any operation small things will go wrong, and that it is the task of the commanding officer not to be distracted, but to stay focused and see things through to their proper conclusion.

It had been easy to frame Steve. The young man was a fool, and not only had he fallen into the trap set for him, he had been drinking. An enslavement order had followed as surely as a slave will shit after eating mush. And Patel had proved himself no slouch when it came to issuing a repossession order for young Harry. Things were going according to plan, and the financial backing was in place to make a killing when the two slaves were auctioned.

The downside was Steve being enslaved for a mere four years. Any owner worth his salt could trump up some charge and get an extension for life, but that would not be wholly reflected in the price. If only there was a reason to submit an extension application before the auction. But apart from that everything was coming up trumps.

Almond Grove was typical of the slave training facilities that had sprung up in every affluent suburb to meet the needs of the ever-expanding class of slave owner. Owned by a US entertainment conglomerate, within its walls a slave could be bought or sold, traded, disciplined, trained, clothed, tortured, rewarded, impregnated, branded or cremated. There were medical facilities, with a slave hospital and special departments offering dentistry, castration, shaving, circumcision, anal loosening and limb removal or prosthesis. Slaves could be stretched on a rack, flogged, and fitted with every restraint on the market. The whip store boasted of having in stock over a hundred makes of whip, dozens of canes, and a full range of traditional and contemporary paddles. Special classes in slave control and management, whipping, physical and sexual domination were on offer, along with a full-service slave rental operation.

After Bob had handed his car keys to the young black slave standing at the head of the line of parking valets, he looked round with amazement at the sheer scale of this temple to modern slavery. An institution that had once been the preserve of government, large corporations and the rich, could now be a part of life for anyone on an average income. The number of slaves had increased tenfold in as many years, and was forecast to triple in the near future.

He sometimes wondered at the docility of the slave population, and was glad to see a SP van parked nearby, ready to nip any trouble in the bud Bob walked into the foyer past the crèche and took the moving stairs down to the discipline and slave-trading centre. Dark blue walls, gold furnishings, discreet lighting and background music helped create an atmosphere both mysterious and sensual.

Bob stopped at the enquiry desk to ask directions. In the background a whip was cracking. The slave designated to show him to the dungeon was a short female, wearing a heavy collar, thick iron wristbands and a pair of pink satin panties. She had rings through both nipples and five whip marks cut vertically into her back. She moved with disciplined grace, always taking care to stand aside as free people passed while not delaying Bob's progress. They passed by the Discipline Centre with its punishment diagnostic and administration areas, special torture chambers, and the Bambi Spanking Centre for young slaves.

Steven was being held in the Dungeon Arena that was approached down a circular descending walkway lined with slave cages in which slaves 'on special offer' were displayed for quick sale. Slaves of all ages, races, colours, sizes, stood gazing longingly at potential buyers. If they failed to sell within a week they would be bought by wholesalers and shipped off en masse to wherever there was a demand for poor quality slaves who could be worked to death.

When they reached the main dungeon area, Bob's slave-guide showed him into a reception room. The walls were covered in deep red wallpaper and easy chairs were arranged to provide a view of an examination table and a display block. Mr Patel was already there, sitting on a small gilt chair sipping a cup of tea. Away from the office Patel favoured a more informal style of dress and had on a black leather jacket, with jeans and a blue shirt.

As they shook hands, Bob congratulated Patel on his efficiency in executing their joint plan. Patel shrugged and handed his cup and saucer to the slave-girl. He mind was on personal matters. 'I've been here for a couple of hours taking a look round. My wife is nagging me to buy a second slave so I went up to the young females department and checked out the stock. Ideally we'd like an Indian girl, but they fetch top dollar, so we'll probably have to make do with one of these new purpose bred girls - they're available in all racial types.'

Bob took a seat and waved away the offer of refreshment. 'I don't go for purpose bred myself. I prefer my slaves tamed.'

'My wife wants hard work and unquestioning obedience. I expect she'll want one that's been sexually modified so there won't be any fun for me.'

A guard appeared who asked how the gentlemen wanted the slaves presented for inspection. He was short and brawny, with a high voice and a Scottish accent. He offered to muffle the slave's ears with earplugs and repetitive sounds, while blindfolding them with plastic caps over the eyes that would allow them only a narrow downward vision. Bob said a muzzle would be fine.

'It'll be amusing to see their faces when they see mine.' He added, 'they'll be securely cuffed?'

The guard said he would fasten the slaves' wrists behind their back and attach the cuffs to a chain running from the back of their collar. Bob nodded. 'The comfort of the slave is not an issue.'

The guard smiled and said he would prepare and present the property in question.

'Which one is on first?'

Patel tipped himself back on his small chair and shoved his hands in his pockets. Male slaves held little fascination for him. Now if young females were to be brought in....

The guard consulted a clipboard. 'The newly enslaved older brother. Was known as Steve.'

Patel yawned. 'I hope I'll be impressed.'

The guard went swaggering out. He had a rather fat butt and his belt was cluttered with various devices that bumped against his arse-cheeks. Bob had to smile, but knew it was unlikely the slaves under his care saw him as a comic figure. A minute later the door opened and Steve was led in.

Bob was used to most sights of the modern world, but the change in Steve was enough to make his catch his breath. As Bob had hoped, the slave bore obvious signs of the SP treatment. Although he was wearing a pair of grey shorts and a sleeveless vest, there was no disguising the effects of rough handling. There was a deep red mark on the side of his neck and another bruise on his upper right arm. His slave registration number had been written on his forehead, and the front of his thighs was criss-crossed with cane marks. He hadn't yet been shaved, but his collar was permanent. A small plastic muzzle was fixed on his mouth with a white linen gag beneath.

When Steve saw Bob his mask of misery turned to one of hope and utter delight, and despite the ugly muzzle he managed a smile. Bob was almost touched. After all they had been friends and Steve was a charming young man. But he managed to maintain his cold stare and was gratified to watch the way the hope and colour drained from Steve's face as the truth dawned. Bob had to use a hand to adjust his cock as it expanded in his pants.

'He's been in trouble.' Patel sounded bored, as if disappointed to see such a bruised piece of property.

Bob had to suppress his delight. No one would ever pay good money for a slave in such a condition. He would be able to buy him for a song. How fortunate it was that the SP never gave a thought for the damage they caused or the effect their treatment might have on a slave's price at auction.

He went over to Steve and laced his fingers inside the elastic holding up the shorts. He paused for a moment, fascinated to find himself face to face with a friend who was now a slave. He had no fear because the guard was standing close and had taken the precaution of pulling his short rhino whip from his pocket. Bob stared deep into Steve's face as if to carve the betrayal onto his retina. What had Steve been through in the past three days?

As he looked into the unseeing face he noticed the nostril twitching. Was this a sign of contempt? He nodded to the guard who immediately unfurled his whip, motioned bob to step back, and laid a couple of lashes across Steve's chest, tearing the vest and cutting the skin. Blood oozed lazily from the wounds. Bob thanked the guard who replaced his whip with the satisfied expression of one who knows he's done a good job.

Bob disregarded the muffled cries and tear stained face and yanked Steve's shorts down past the knees, and let them fall around the ankles. Standing back he could get a proper look, and was reassured. He pulled the vest up above the nipples. Apart from recent damage, things weren't too bad. The balls were swollen from a punch, as were the nipples from torture, but while the body was nothing like as trim as that of a trained slave, the basics were there - good muscles, strong arms, legs and back. A well made butt, good neck, fleshy big nipples and a flat stomach. And he was a handsome devil, the type wealthy ladies like to have carry their shopping bags and serve their friends tea. Bob was relieved to note that the back hadn't been marked and the butt had nothing worse than the usual dozen cane stripes.

'What do you think?' Bob looked back over his shoulder at Patel who was still showing no signs of enthusiasm.

'Pretty ordinary, if I may say so?' Patel looked at his watch. 'We'd be willing to lend the money to buy him, but only on condition of a full training and resale within six months. I'm sorry, but I just don't see him fetching a good price. There's too much of this type of stock on the market.'

Bob had to smile at the expression of horror on Steve's face and he couldn't resist running his hand through the slave's hair. How nice it would be when he owned him and could fuck him. If his anus was half as good as his brother's he would be well worth all the trouble.

He turned to Patel. 'He goes on the block tomorrow. I'll need credit in place.'

Patel nodded. 'No problem. What about the other slave?'

'Rubbish I'm afraid. Spoiled and fucked stupid, but if trained hard he might fetch a respectable price.'

Bob told the guard to remove Steve and bring in Harry. 'Same muzzle please.'

When Harry was brought in Patel sat up. And Bob was surprised too. The contrast with the older brother was remarkable. This slave moved like a slave, quickly and with precision. And he was naked, and his body had been hardened by use. He was no more a trained slave than his brother, but he was very much a slave with his shaved head, collar rather too tight below his Adam's Apple, and developed musculature. And he bore the scars common to all slaves - old whip marks across the shoulder blades, and a set of fading cane stripes on his butt. He breathed through his nose easily, flaring his nostrils as slaves always did. And there was a stillness about him; a sense of being under discipline that marked him as a slave.

'So this is what we've been using as collateral.' Patel stood up and came close. He used his thumb and forefinger to close Harry's nostrils. The mouth opened but the slave neither winced for changed expression. 'I prefer this one, frankly.'

Bob shrugged. 'He needs training.'

He felt a little put out that Harry should make such a favourable contrast with Steve. He had an urge to kick Harry up his nice tight butt. Memories of long nights spent buggering him stirred his cock.

'Send this one for auction. Keep the other back.' Patel spoke with finality.

Bob was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected this, not had he expected Patel to sound so confident.

'It's chucking money away. He's not trained for anything but to suck and fuck. Let me train him and he'll be worth double.'

Patel was examining the slave closely, still using his thumb and forefinger to pinch a nipple or testicle, gather the flesh on the stomach, or probe the butt. The slave's face registered sensation and discomfort, but not in a way that could be taken as a complaint. Patel was clearly impressed.

'I disagree. I think this slave will do very well at auction. And with the money from this one in your account you won't need credit for more than a few days.'

Bob was exasperated. Why was Patel being so difficult?

'The deal was that the bank lends the money so I can train both slaves to peak condition.'

'Maybe, but that was before I saw this one.' Patel was in no mood to retract. 'Too much can be made of the value added that comes from training. This is a real slave, and a handsome beast as well. If you like we'll underwrite his price. You can make your money off the older softer one. He will benefit from training.'

Bob was about to protest but knew it was pointless. Patel was already holding out his hand to shake on the new deal. Bob had no alternative but to take it. They shook and Patel turned and left the room without another word.

The guard coughed discreetly. 'Do you want the slave put back in custody?'

Bob turned and looked at Harry. Their eyes met. It was a difficult moment. Bob had fucked this slave rigid for weeks on end, had been rimmed by him daily, and sucked by him more often than that; it was as if Patel were insisting he sell his own slave, and for no very good reason. He did not drop his eyes, and something in them must have told Harry not to drop his either. For a few moments the free man and the slave stood staring at one another, and then Bob seemed to come to a decision.

'Remove the muzzle.'

The guard did not move. 'But sir, when they are excited and distressed like this...'

'I said remove it.'

With a perplexed expression the guard stepped forward and began to loosen the plastic muzzle and its metal bit, and then pulled out the linen gag. Harry breathed deeply, shuddered and hung his head.

'You are to be auctioned tomorrow morning.'

Harry did not lift his head. 'Yes master.'

'It is not my wish, as you heard.' Bob was pleased his voice betrayed none of the emotion he felt.

'Yes master.' Harry slowly raised his head until their eyes met.

'Be a good slave.'

Harry's eyes bore into Bob like needles. Only then did Bob understand why he had been acting as he had those past months. He loved Harry as Harry had loved him, and that had made him afraid. His heart had been stifled by the sullen fear of free men who find they love their slaves. A wave of self-loathing washed through his system.

'I have tried to be good and loyal, master.' Harry's voice was soft and hoarse with emotion.

'You have been.'

Bob could take it no longer. He turned to go, and as he did so the guard smiled knowingly and placed his hand on the back of Harry's neck and led him back to the cells.

When Bob reached the exit and asked for his car the black slave told him there had been a problem and he would have to wait a few minutes. The young slave was shaking with fear, but for once Bob felt able to shrug off the delay, and instead of swearing and sending the slave to be punished, he stood in the light snow under the garish lights and chatted to the young slave about the progress of the local slave-football team.

When his car did arrive and the driver jumped out with an expression of terror on his face, Bob tipped them both and went to get into the driver's seat, but before he could both slaves had dropped to their knees and kissed his feet in gratitude.

'No need for that. I'm sure you did your best.'

The young black slave, and his young white colleague both rose. There were tears in their eyes and they bade him good night and a safe journey home.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Eight

From the moment the bailiffs had arrived to repossess me, I'd known that I was lost. The commercial machine that the slave system had become would devour and digest me. By the time it shat me out of its anus I would be a different creature, in another world, laden with other hopes and fears.

My brief inspection by Bob and his Asian accomplice had been of small interest. Even the sight of Bob wilting under my gaze had given no pleasure. The comfort I had once found in having Bob's cock inside me had been burnt away by the fierce reality of life in the holding cells at Almond Grove.

Our guards were the usual scum - overweight young men of limited intelligence in bulging uniforms, glorying in their power over cringing slaves who were for the most part no less dim-witted and gauche. They stuck their cocks in our moths and cracked their whips as they assured us we had entered the hell zone and would henceforth lead lives of misery and pain.

Fortunately Almond Grove was run for profit, and keeping its costs down and earnings up meant a quick turnover of the slave stock. I was put on the block on my third day there.

The auction room served wholesalers and had none of the trappings found in the fancier galleries at Almond Grove. We were lined up, cuffed and shackled, naked except for collars and signs hung round our necks providing technical information. As I looked into the gloomy room, devoid of daylight or fresh air, I could see that there were as many dealers still over at the bar as there were interested in me. They were the usual bunch of fat overdressed slobs hoping for a bargain. The block was nothing more than a brightly lit wooden platform.

Before the bidding began my details were read out on a PA system and I was told to jump, stand on one leg and then the other, raise my arms, put my legs apart and show my anus. I had to twist my head back and forth, hold up my cock to provide a view of my scrotum, and drop and give fifty push-ups. By the time the bidding started I was sweating freely. I was afraid this might deter the more upmarket bidders, but such was the speed of the bids I had no idea what was going on. I heard the gavel and a guard told me to get my butt off the block. I stumbled down into the gloom and was led back to the holding cells.

The atmosphere was tense. Those who had been auctioned ahead of me were weeping and complaining, much to the irritation of the guards who threatened to use their whips. As each slave came in from the auction room, he would give way to his emotions. It was, I suppose, an understandable reaction. They were freshly enslaved, and the speed of the sale, the lack of decorum, and their ignorance of what lay in store, made them hysterical. Although the guards cracked their whips as they cursed us, they did not use them. I took this to mean our buyers didn't want to receive their goods covered in fresh marks.

I had to endure an hour's worth of bedlam before a very smart young man in a blazer and chinos came to claim me. A fit-looking slave with neatly cropped black hair was at his side, equally well turned out in crisp blue shorts and a white collarless shirt. He had a mobile on his belt and a briefcase in his hand. The words 'Forum Slave Training: Obedience Above All' were printed on his shirt pocket. The guard who opened my cell and removed my cuffs whispered that I was a lucky boy. Perhaps because I had not broken down after my auction, this guard handed me over with a friendly smack on my butt and told the man in the blazer that I was 'as good as gold' and would give no trouble.

'We never take trouble from slaves,' replied the young man dryly.

My eyes met those of the slave; just for a second, but long enough to glean all the information I needed. The slave's even stare told me that he was a proper slave with proper duties, and that everything was under control. From that it followed that any attempt, deliberate or not, to disrupt that good order would be punished. The glance offered hope of a well-structured life even as it cut off any lingering dreams of liberty. Above all it told me to stay cool and take what comes with the stoicism of a proper slave.

For the first time since my father had enslaved me I felt I had an identity. I was a real slave at last, and it hadn't been any master's whip, or judge's gavel, not even the grip of my collar, or the lottery of the auction block, that had confirmed my status, but another slave's even, knowing stare that had welcomed me to the fold.

I had always imagined a slave training centre would have all the squalor and terror of a prison compound, with the charm of an army boot camp, with whips to add flavour.

How wrong one can be? The Forum Slave Training Centre was housed in a converted Victorian manor house deep in the countryside. It had once been a hotel and retained much of the aura of an earlier era of leisure and pleasure. Although surrounded by an electric fence, security was light. My arrival was low-key and informal. No orders to strip, no confusion, no barked commands, no slaps or drawn whips, no sights seen from the corner of the eye to make one shudder.

My cuffs and shackles had been removed in the transit van, and I'd been given a smock and warm water. When I arrived there was no formal induction; instead a 'trusty' slave took me to the kitchen where I was given some mush and a special vitamin fuelled drink. Afterwards the slave led me to the shit-house and shower room where he left me with directions to the clothing stores and laundry room where I'd be fitted with a uniform. By the time I reported to the office I was feeling fresher and more relaxed than I had for days. My bright yellow uniform - sandals, shorts, shirt, over-shirt, and forage cap - fitted snugly and the hot shower and food had worked their magic on my mood.

The office was a rather shabby room off the entrance hall. The walls were covered in flow charts and notices, and faded Turkish rugs were scattered on the floor amid piles of files and the clutter of a busy, but not overly efficient, office. A middle-aged black female slave took my details, told me I could keep the name Harry until resold, gave me a bunk number and directions to my dormitory. She told me in a motherly way to stop sniffing and make sure I always stood with my feet apart and my hands behind my back. Trusty slaves were addressed as 'chief', instructors as 'boss' and all other free staff as 'miss' or 'sir.' The words 'master' and 'mistress' were forbidden. My training would last five weeks and would begin in two days time. Until then I should get to know my way around, introduce myself to other slaves, rest and relax. The day began at 4am, and ended at 8pm. Sexual activity of any sort was forbidden. Total obedience was required. Discipline was strict, but designed to help the slave under training to achieve the very best. There was nothing to fear for those with the right attitude.

I spent the afternoon with the only other new arrival, a boy from Manila with a sweet-nature who had been sent for training by a local hospital where he served in Accident and Emergency. He was eager to be fucked, but I told him sex was forbidden and we shouldn't get off on the wrong foot. He gave me a nasty look and said he could see that I was 'a career slave.' But his hostility did not last for long and we spent the few hours of recreation telling our sad stories and laughing at the madness of it all. At five o'clock we filed into the dining room for dinner. We lined up with trays and were each given an enormous dollop of mush plus a special drink that tasted of iron rust.

The dining room had once been a ballroom, and it still had a chandelier, classical mouldings on the ceilings and some faded portraits on the walls. There must have been about fifty slaves, sitting on low benches at five long tables, while about a dozen instructors sat at a high table and were served free men's food by duty slaves. In their casual slacks and denims, and with their rolled up shirtsleeves, and eating with their elbows on the table, they could have been a group of graduates anywhere except for the whips slung over the back of their chairs. After the high security in force at the courts and the Almond Centre, or even on the streets patrolled by the SP, the atmosphere was eerily relaxed. I found myself among a group of young men who had been enslaved for a large-scale financial scam while working abroad. Intelligent, lively and educated, they were being trained with an eye to being sold back to their old employers. Although tired after a hard day's training, they were in good spirits and looking forward to their auctions in a couple of weeks.

Their training that day had consisted of a run followed by sparring in the boxing ring in preparation for a tournament to be staged at the weekend. That had been followed by several hours of obedience training. They had enjoyed the former, but not the latter. When I asked how obedience could be taught, I was told firmly that I would find out.

A slim young man with curly brown hair and a gap-toothed grin sat on my right. He was friendly and told me to keep cheerful. 'There's not much to worry about.' He made a face as he used his fingers to stuff some mush into the corners of his mouth. 'The instructors are mostly pretty decent guys...all graduates in slave management, so their heads are full of shit theories, but they don't make life too unbearable.' He wiped his hands on his yellow shorts. 'It's this mush that's going to kill me.'

A friend of his sitting opposite - big boned, shaved head, rugby player's shoulders - finished licking his plate with his tongue and farted loudly. 'I'll have to shit within five minutes, so listen... it's OK here, but take it like a man, right. No sissy stuff. The instructors are decent lads but they enjoy a bit of hazing now and then.' He let out another fart, provoking protests. He held up his hands. 'OK guys, I'm out of here.'

I asked the man next to me if there was ever any trouble. For a moment all conversation stopped, several pairs of eyes were on me and glances were exchanged. Somebody said quietly, 'We keep things cool.'

'Sure,' I said quickly, 'that's great.'

As if cued by my enquiry there was a sudden drop in the noise level. A man had entered and made his way to the instructors' table. I looked at him as he took his place, and can remember thinking he must be somebody important. The slave next to me whispered, 'That's Baxter...the big man round here.'

I had finished my mush. Slaves were getting up and heading for the shit-house, and my own bowels were stirring, but I remained seated for a few moments with my eyes on the man called Baxter. I knew slaves were meant to keep their eyes to themselves, and any instructor might see me staring, but I couldn't help myself. Baxter was a big man, who I guessed to be in his late twenties. What set him apart from the instructors was not so much age as maturity. His moustache and black hair were both neatly trimmed. His face was craggy and he wore a white business shirt and a subdued tie held in place with an old-fashioned silver pin. As he'd sat down I'd noticed his narrow waist and the neatly scaled hips that showed off a butt that would catch the eye of any slave dealer. Overall his appearance was that of a fit and energetic man in command of himself and his job.

'Don't stare, man,' said the slave next to me as he rose. 'You want the whip?'

'Who is he?' I got up, forcing myself to take my eyes off the man.

'Baxter. He runs this place. Quite a guy, but keep your eyes off him.'

The pressure in my bowel was becoming intolerable. I had to hurry to the shit-house.

The training was tough but tolerable. We rose at four, stumbling and cursing in the dark as the bell rang until someone turned on the lights. We had an hour's worth of exercises before breakfast and then two spent cleaning and polishing the place for inspection by our sleepy yawning instructors. Then it was obedience training until lunch as the instructors beat into us the right way to perform every last duty that might be demanded of a slave. It wasn't just that we learned what to do, and the way to do it; we had to be made to obey without hesitation or anticipation, to receive punishment, to offer our bodies for whatever use or purpose might be required.

To help us the instructors had a variety of instruments - boots, paddles, canes and whips, butt plugs and expanders, tit clamps, prods - but mostly they just shouted and called us everything under the sun, instilling in us the desire to get things right as well as the fear of punishment.

We ate huge plates of mush and drank gallons of specially concocted drinks. We were weighed and measured, had our blood analysed, our reactions timed, and our semen tested for fertility. We lifted weights and ran for miles in the rain only to be intercepted by instructors who would roll us in the mud and send us back the way we had come.

They said it would make us tough and resilient. We were made to play games that could only be won by betraying one another. Any sign of honour among slaves was stamped on with a brutality otherwise absent from the regime. A slave who covered for another who was late returning from the shit-house found himself flogged. A friend of his who showed shock was knocked to the ground and kicked unconscious. The rest of us watched and learned the lesson. In the evening we were made to box each other, denounce each other, gang up on each other and punish one another.

Loyalty to the instructors was rewarded, while any hint of it among ourselves got us extra duty cleaning the shit-house. We reserved our smiles for the instructors and blamed each other for our failings.

In the third week we were taught how to fuck our owners, and how to be fucked. We learned to eat pussy and tease a clitoris, how to lick the stem of a cock or take one halfway down our throats. We had cock rings fitted and learned to smile as the tears flowed from our eyes as we took rectum-expanders up our anuses. One night our dormitory was invaded by local men who raped us under the approving eyes of our instructors, and on another slave girls were brought in and we were made to fuck them under orders from whip-wielding matrons from the female slave department.

Slowly, but inevitably, we began to lose any sense of ourselves as individuals. We were taught how to please, and were eager to show off our skills. If that meant betraying a slave who had once helped save us from a kicking, so be it. We were slaves and expected to act like them. We were too tired to think much about what was happening, and instead came to rely on our instructors to keep us informed on our progress. It was from them that we learned whether we had mastered the right smile, bowed deeply enough or dropped to our knees fast enough. They decided when we were sufficiently servile to be allowed to masturbate, and whose rectum was too loose or too tight.

It would be nice to think we resisted our indoctrination, but we didn't. We were pleased to avoid the whip, and instead have our butts patted in praise at some task mastered. Above all it was good to feel the strength in our arms and legs, the constant grinding power of sex in our balls. We became as vain as courtesans, staring at ourselves in every mirror, delighting in our shining skin, clear eyes, lengthening jaw bones, flat stomachs, steep erections, firm butts and pecs. Each morning we had to shave off the fresh pubic hair that had sprouted in the night. And then one afternoon, as we were being taught how to administer mouth to mouth resuscitation, a duty slave came for me. Mr Baxter wanted me.

It is in the nature of slaves to be optimistic. I thought Baxter might want to congratulate me, or show me off to admiring visitors. It crossed my mind I might be in for a flogging, but dismissed the idea. What had I done to deserve the whip?

Baxter's office was reached up a wooden staircase in the converted stable block. It was a spacious, open-plan room, with skylights, sloping roofs and bare floors. When I entered I saw Baxter sitting at his desk giving instructions to a young female slave. When you've been pumped full of testosterone for five weeks you can't help noticing the shape of a slave-girl's rump, or the way her tits poke up under a low cut top. She had a pretty face, but her head was shaved and her left shoulder blade was branded with the logo of a large oil company, and when she turned I noticed at the base of her neck a sign of a baby with a red line through it - indicating infertility. As she left she passed right by me and we exchanged a brief smile.

'Come here.'

Baxter beckoned me with a finger without looking up from some papers he was reading. He pushed his chair back from the desk. He was wearing blue jeans and a check shirt with brown boots. His desk was clear except for a silver-framed photo of a woman holding a baby, a laptop and phone. To one side there was a coffee table and some easy chairs. A short leather whip lay on the table's glass top.

'Harry isn't it?'

I bowed deeply and then took the position of a slave ready to serve. 'Not a slave name. Strip.'

He finished reading the papers while I got out of my clothes in a matter of seconds. He looked me over.

'You look like a slave.'

Taking this a compliment, I did not move a muscle. Baxter stood up and opened a drawer in his desk. He took out a plastic glove and slid it on his right hand. Just the sight of this simple action stirred my cock. It rose quickly. The instructors had done their work well. All those sessions probing and testing our anuses had trained my reflexes. Sexually I was an open book, with no hiding place left for my secrets. I was told to bend and spread my cheeks. The finger went straight up my rectum, making the muscle contract a little, but not too much. The finger was withdrawn and I was told to stand and face Baxter. He tore off the glove and tossed it in a bin and then took hold of my stiff cock. He peeled the foreskin right back and ran a finger over the slick surface. He held the finger to his nose and sniffed as if judging a wine from its cork.

'Not bad... not bad at all.'

He sat down in one of the easy chairs and told me to come close. He leaned forwards, as if eager to see something, and took my balls in his hand. He fondled them with gentleness, and then twisted them. Moisture was starting to dribble from my cock's tip.

'I think we've done a reasonable job.'

He sat back and motioned me to move away. Although I felt only slightly turned on, my cock was stiff and straining as if it knew something I didn't. The floor creaked somewhere behind me.

Baxter smiled. 'He's all yours.'

A hand on my shoulder made me jump. I may have let out a small yelp.

'I've no quibbles with the rear.'

The voice was male and cultivated with a hint of merriment. Fingers pinched my right buttock.

'The texture...firm...and warm...I hate cold bottoms.'

Not daring to move my eyes, let along my head, I had to wait until the man came into view. He wore a dark suit and tie, but was young and a few inches shorter than me. With a flick of the eye I took in wavy black hair, deep blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a narrow mouth and a prominent nose. I lowered my eyes.

'Quite a classy piece of goods.'

He put his hands on his hips. When inspected by a dealer there are certain things a slave knows to expect. The mouth will be checked for tooth decay or a messy tongue. Nipples will be played with until erect. The cock will be stimulated and the balls squeezed. Nine times out of time the anal muscles will be checked. This young man did none of that. Instead he placed the palm of his right hand lightly against my left hip. It felt warm, and stirred my cock. He used the fingers of his left hand to delve into my navel. And that made me stiff. He seemed pleased.

'Absolute peak condition.'

He moved his right hand slowly down and tested the skin above the base of my cock-stem, checking for any pubic stubble.

'Shaven or creamed?' To inform me he wanted me to answer, he added a brief 'Hmm?'

'Razor shaved sir. This morning.'

He nodded, plunged his hands into his pants' pockets and said I had a nice voice. 'I always think we traders underestimate the voice.'

He took his right hand from his pocket and punched me in the solar plexus. I bent double and let out a low yawning groan. I hadn't seen it coming, and cursed myself. Both men were laughing. Glancing up I saw the traders slip a steel knuckle-duster off his right hand.

'You know, Baxter, that never works with slaves trained at Windsor Castle. Their reactions are unbelievably fast.'

He slapped me casually across my left cheek and then held on to my chin. 'You'd not hack it as your master's bodyguard. So what are you good for, eh?'

He frowned up at me as if genuinely puzzled.

Baxter stood up. 'We train 'em here for domestic use. We don't claim to teach them to stop bullets with their teeth.' He sounded a little put out.

The trader stood back with an appraising air. 'So how much are you asking?'

'Forty two and a half. That's double what we paid.'

The trader nodded. 'Is he free of all restrictions?'

'There was a lien on him, but it was lifted. He's freehold and registered for life as a common slave.' Baxter picked up a file and tapped its cover. 'Health record, sperm count...obedience and endurance...all well above average.'

'And if I don't want him?'

'We'll send him for auction at Almond Grove.'

The trader sneered. 'He deserves better than that.' He cocked his head. 'I like him. He's got that nice English look. Always sells well.'

He put his right hand on the front of my slave collar and pressed it hard against my Adam's Apple. 'On the other hand, there is something quite ordinary about him. Very much the boy next door. He's not got what it takes for the top of the market.'

Baxter shrugged and came close, standing beside the trader who was still blocking my air passage. 'That's why we're only asking forty two and a half.' He scratched the back of his neck. 'Mind you, I reckon we'd get fifty five at auction.'

The trader let go of my throat and I exhaled deeply through my nose and then opened my mouth to gulp air.

'Good boy,' said the trader with a smile. 'He knows how to breathe.'

He walked round behind me. 'How did he come by these whip marks?'

'Ordered by his brother on the day of his enslavement. I guess there must have been a melee.'

A warm hand was placed on my right butt-cheek. 'Is that right? Did you resist?'

'No sir. My brother said I showed disrespect.' My voice was cracking with shame. I hated to be reminded of that day.

The traders gave me a light smack. 'Well, that's understandable. If my brother enslaved me I might get disrespectful.' He chuckled and then cleared his throat. 'OK then, decision time.'

He walked round to face me and grimaced. 'What do you say to forty?' There was a moment's silence while Baxter also stared at me intently. Then, slowly, with mock hesitation, he extended his hand. 'Done.'

They shook. The trader reached up and placed his right hand on my shoulder. 'You're mine, you lucky thing.'

Both men turned away and went back to the desk. As Baxter slumped down in his chair he took his fountain pen from his shirt pocket and asked, 'Want him gift-wrapped? Whipped? Castrated?'

'All of those,' said the trader as he took a chair.

He looked round at me, smiled and gave me a wink. To show I understood the joke, I grinned and bowed deeply. My instructors had taught me it is impossible to over-flatter one's owner.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Nine

I had been sold cheap. A month after Baxter agreed to let me go for forty thousand I was resold at just under a hundred thousand and became the property of Tenderfoot Logistics, an outfit specialising in the warehousing and leasing of slave teams. Not that I was anything as lowly as a slave for hire; Mr Underhill, the company boss, was eager to ensure I earned his money back within five years. That was the company's time limit on the ownership of any slave.

I was put to work sorting incoming stock, and choosing replacement slaves for teams who had suffered losses. It was hard work on the sharp end of the slave business at its most raw, and I took to it like a duck to water. Working alongside the guards and slave-drivers, conducting tests to select slaves for special duties, or to fill vacancies in the many chain gangs we operated for clients, was a responsible job, requiring the ability to judge human stock at a glance. It was a tough environment, and the company's slaves got no special treatment just because they held positions of responsibility. The boot up the butt, the lash and the rack were in everyday use, and any slave found slacking on duty would soon be made to regret the day he'd been born. But my training proved the making of me.

My reflexes were fast, my obedience not in doubt, my focus unwavering, and my loyalty absolute. My diet and exercise regime had added two inches to my height, given me wide shoulders, a firm jaw, thick neck, ample pecs, a hard lean stomach, a long cock and a tight scrotum. My butt was all muscle but sufficiently well curved to be thought worth tarring with a red cross indicating it was not for use by the guards. Only company directors had access to my rectum. With my shaved head, slave name and registration number stamped in thick blue lettering on my forehead and left shoulder blade, and with heavy rings though my nose and left nipple, I was not likely to be mistaken for anything but a slave. Nor did I wish to be. I liked the leather ring that held my cock and balls in prominent display, and was proud of the deep scar on my right hip, a consequence of an encounter with a maddened slave. A metal wristband and anklet ensured I could be shackled at a moment's notice.

My uniform was no less generic. In summer I wore shabby old white shorts left open at the fly and no less frayed singlets and shirts, a forage cap pushed back off my forehead, and simple sandals. In cold weather I had various garments discarded by free men. Over everything, in all weathers, I wore a plastic yellow jerkin giving the company name, the number to call with complaints, and my slave name (Rudman52 - I was known as Rude) and registration number.

I slept on a hard bed with no pillow and coarse blankets in a tiny cell on the top floor of the slave block. I was fed mush and vitamins twice a day. Each morning I showered and shaved before dawn, and once a week was issued special pills to keep my eyes clear and my skin lustrous, and my breath sweet in case I was required for fucking. I worked six days a week from six in the morning until seven at night, with a half day on Sunday and one day off a month when I could receive visits.

Being a fully registered slave meant any free citizen could look me up on the central computer and see who owned me and check my free days. Visiting enslaved old friends and relatives had become a favourite pastime among the free. My father came to see me, as did old Buster and his wife, and a group of schoolgirls who had developed a crush on me while I was supervising a slave team working in their school. My father praised me for my stoicism, and said how pleased he was to see me looking so well, but we soon ran out of things to say and he left early. Buster was shocked into silence by my savage appearance, but his wife wasn't the least bit embarrassed and asked all sorts of questions about my life as a slave.

I had become, I suppose, free society's idea of the perfect slave: strong, contented, hard working, loyal, and (above all) safe. My slave collar was tight, despite being extended twice, and its plastic coating was fashionably ripped and faded. My ID tags were smooth from use in swipe machines, and my left ear stuck out at a peculiar angle because of the mobile receiver attached to it all day every day. Not permitted to wear a belt (company rules) I had to hang all the paraphernalia required for my work round my neck, or stick it in my pockets. As the months passed this gave me an increasingly bedraggled air that stood in contrast to my obvious strength, health and well being. Free people seemed to find this combination irresistible. A week seldom passed without some elderly lady telling me what a fine figure of a slave I was, and how refreshing it was to see a hardworking contented slave serving his owner well.

Although I was careful never to show disrespect to the guards, there was no doubt who was in charge. I deferred to them, while making sure they did my bidding. Being a slave I carried no whip, and could not strike a slave, or even kick one, but I made sure there was always a guard at my side, and a glance or a nod from me was enough to have him draw his whip or slip on his knuckle-duster. My job demanded my full attention, from seven in the morning when the overnight stock deliveries would be unloaded and paraded, through to the final selections made from slaves who had been washed, fed, rested and shaved. I attended all arrival parades, standing behind the duty officer and the guards on the inspection platform.

I may have looked like a meek duty-slave, but I was the sole judge of who should be saved for special requirements, who would fill gaps in the chain gangs, and who could be sent straight on for auction. Officially I was always a mere adviser, but each day it was left to me to fill a hundred places from a total of perhaps three hundred slaves. It required a sharp eye and the confidence to make snap decisions.

As the seasons passed, and I became more and more the lean, battered slave, my power and importance increased. Some of the free employees began to show me deference, and more than once I was called to board meetings to offer advice. The instructors who had trained me had warned of the dangers that face influential slaves, and I was determined remain true to my status. There were always rumours of the sudden downfall of over-mighty slaves, and I enjoyed my life too much to risk offending even the lowest free man. I bowed to everyone whose neck was unencumbered by a collar.

It did not trouble me that the regime I supported was brutal. It's all very well for sentimental free men to imagine slaves as being gentle, downtrodden creatures, the victims of circumstance and corruption. Those who oversee them know better. The average slave was an idle, larcenous, mendacious, ignorant villain. Given half a chance he'd turn into a merciless sexual predator. The whip, buggery, Spartan conditions, and firm no-nonsense supervision were essential.

The expansion of the slave population had led to an increase in the number of delinquent acts committed by slaves, and even the exemplary punishments meted out were not sufficient to quell rumours and plots. Each year Underhill would complain about rising insurance costs, and the constant interference by the SP who would drop by without warning to check out the security and discipline regime.

Like most men who have managed to make something of themselves despite the odds, I became a firm supporter of the status quo. The whip-masters cursed me for keeping them with sweat on their brows, and the guards knew there was no point cutting corners while I was around. They didn't even bother to beat me, but let me be, treating me like a piece of inconvenient office machinery that they both relied on and resented. But whatever we become remains a mystery to us until something happens that makes us face up to ourselves. In my case it took nearly four years.

The years of Spartan living, spent eating nothing but mush and vitamins, of exercising two and a half hours a day, torturing the body until it could do no more, had made me a formidable slave. Underhill would tell me of the offers he'd received, expressing amazement that many came from respectable families who seemed to yearn for a rugged slave to add flavour to their genteel households. My neck had thickened still further, and furrow had appeared on my forehead, and my chest had deepened and my legs developed into sturdy trunks. A new slave collar had been fitted - a simple inch thick band of steel - and as my butt broadened I was made to wear a more conventional uniform of company shorts and shirt and cap along with sandals. I was even allowed a shoulder strap and belt, but I refused to carry a whip, even in self-defence. Nor did I plead to have my nose and nipple rings removed. My name and number remained imprinted on my forehead and shoulder.

When I refused offers to sit in meetings with the directors, they laughed at my conservatism and called me an old fuddy-duddy, but I was always aware of the dangers lurking in the offices of the powerful. Slaves often fall foul of free people's ambitions and conspiracies.

One hot summer's afternoon the PA system announced the arrival of two trucks of slaves. I was working in my office, the after lunch silence broken by the sound of a slave being whipped in the female quarters. There had been discipline problems among some young female slaves and the whip-masters were working overtime. I put my mobile on my ear and set off for the parade ground. As I went down past the guardroom a couple of recent recruits fell in behind me. Without thinking I stood aside to let them go first. One remarked on how obedient I was. The other said nothing but quickened his pace as we reached the ground floor.

The yard where inbound stock was paraded was a small compound, maybe twenty metres square, surrounded by a high wire-mesh fence, with a whipping frame and special observation platform. Apart from the two guards and myself, there were several trusty slaves on duty ready to unshackle any slave who required punishment. The slaves were led in. They had been travelling overnight and they moved with the stooped, defeated air of slaves who have had the fight beaten out of them. They were shackled to each other at the ankles and linked by chains attached to their collars. >From where I stood at the back of the observation platform I could see at once that the slaves were ex-prison stock. The give-aways were their sallow faces, crude haircuts, and shapeless jeans. They had none of the dignity of free men and none of the fitness of slaves. I ran my eye over them - there were about sixty in all - to see if there was anything I could use. I'd be taking a closer look later, but from initial appearances there was not one worth keeping. The whole lot looked destined to be auctioned off in a job lot.

The young guards, however, were in no hurry to dismiss the exhausted wretches. Cute in their tight-fitting crisply ironed olive green uniform pants and shirts, with their wide-brimmed hats, shoulder straps, polished boots, gloves stowed under epaulets, and with whip handles poking out of their hip pockets, they decided an inspection was necessary. That would mean a delay while they made sport of the slaves. As soon as the guards stepped down from the platform, I did the same, but rather than follow them forwards to the rows of slaves, I stood to one side and whispered into my mobile that we might be requiring back-up.

The two young guards were well known to me, despite our never having exchanged more than a few words. For all their sadism, I approved of them. They were smart, clean-cut, self-assured, eager for promotion, and above all, looked the part. They strode along with a broad rolling gait, their hats at the approved jaunty angle, and they showed off butts tight and muscular and curved enough to be flattered by tight uniform pants. They did not hesitate to be brutal, enjoyed beating, and paid no heed to the time-keeping practicalities of slave handling. If they delayed everything by half an hour to kick some butts and order up a few floggings, so be it, and in my slavish way I rather admired them for it.

You know where you stand with brutes. It's Mr Nice Guy one can't be sure of. And had they not decided to indulge in a little hazing that hot afternoon, Bob Riddle would have slipped through my fingers. A free man may have his life's story written on his features, but slaves' faces tend to be all the same. So I seldom checked eyes and mouths when sorting slaves. More important are the genitals, the chest and neck, the muscles in the thighs and calf, the instep, and the state of the back.

The guards were soon causing mayhem among the arrivals. They got one wretch out of his chains and kicked him hard and often enough to have him lying unconscious by the time they moved on. I took no notice. The drill was to leave punished slaves where they fell until the parade was dismissed and then send for the orderlies to remove them. One was punished while standing in his chains for no better reason than he had snot dribbling from his nose. The fastidious sadists gave him a good punching for his unsightliness, aiming at his testicles with sufficient force to ensure castration the following day. A third must have displeased them because they both drew their whips and dealt with him in an instant. Another was ordered to be freed from his chains and flogged. The whip-master was leaning against the fence reading the sports page of a tabloid, and he stirred himself with a sigh, pulled his whip from his belt and went over to the whipping frame.

I glanced at my watch (worn by special permission). We were already ten minutes behind schedule. How many lashes would the guards insist the slave receive? The wretch was given twenty-five. As I watched I felt a slither of irritation at the time the whip-master was taking. He was new enough to the job still to gather the whip after each lash, rather than keep up a perpetual motion. My highly developed sense of self-preservation went on alert. It was not for slaves to object when free men caused delays, or whip masters dallied over their duty. I told myself to relax. What did the distress of other slaves matter to me? I served the company, and my master was Mr Underhill.

The tedium of slow whipping began to bore the guards as well, and they lost patience and came over and told me to dismiss the parade, clear up the punished slaves lying in the dirt, and make sure the flogged slave wasn't forgotten. I bowed and complimented them of their discipline. They both gave me the same sneering smile. They thought I was a crawling slave, currying their favour, and they may have been tempted to kick my butt, but they knew my value, and being ambitious boys, merely walked away.

The whip-master finished his task and came over to me while the trusty slaves went to work on the slave's back and butt with brine and swabs. He was cleaning his lash on a piece of blood stained cloth and looked annoyed. He asked why the parade had been dismissed, clearly suspecting me as a well-known fanatic for strict time-keeping. I gave a respectful reply that no more than implied it was the guards who had grown bored, so the whip-master, being a junior in his own ranks, decided not to press the matter. He walked off, his boots stirring the dust as he passed a slave lying on the ground. His leather trousers and whipper's black jerkin reflected the low evening sun and made him resemble some hero in a boy's comic. No wonder whip-masters had replaced train drivers and astronauts as the role models of the young.

The flogged slave had been lowered from the frame and was being tested to see if he could walk. He wobbled and his knees bent a couple of times, but he did not fall. His back and butt was lined with streaks of blood, but to my weathered eye the flogging had not been severe. He would survive.

The slave turned towards me. I was about to give instructions to the trusty slaves when our eyes met. For a moment I felt nothing, but some part of me, some deep alert corner of my memory, went on alert and it wasn't until I had looked away and given the orders, and then given the whipped slave another look, that I realised who he was. Bob Riddle had been whipped. Without thinking I let out a loud laugh. The trust slaves looked at me in amazement - I was not known for laughter - until I told them to scram.

'It is you.' My voice was hoarse, as if I had to rip its sound from my throat.

The slave nodded. We stared at one another and then he whispered, 'Save me.'

HUMAN COLLATERAL ^Ö Conclusion

Bob knew he had deserved the flogging. No slave can hope to escape punishment if he ignores an overseer's command. And Bob hadn't only ignored the young guard who told him to open his mouth for inspection; he had stared ahead, frowning and mouthing as if preoccupied with more important matters.

The whipping had been an education, and its ferocity had stunned Bob. As a free man he had always enjoyed watching a good flogging, and had idly speculated how it might feel to be on the receiving end. He had used to talk admiringly about the 'kiss of the whip,' an expression that had proved to be somewhat wide of the mark when the first lash fell across his shoulders. It was as if he were being pelted with bricks. In his misery he tried to think of the slave he had seen standing behind the guards.

This figure, so familiar and yet so different to his memory, was now his only hope. Nothing else stood between him the certainly of being worked to death. He had recognised Harry at once. The changes wrought by four years of servitude had only made him more recognisable. When Harry had been his fuckable house-slave fretting about his uncertain status, there had always been something out of focus about him that had made him hard to pin down. Bob remembered fucking him - the tight anus, the warm butt, the lean silky smooth back, the soft mouth, the sensitive balls and the young uncut cock - but little else. But nothing remained of that ambiguous and unformed youth.

The slave who had stood on the platform behind the two strutting uniformed thugs was wary and wily, alert and powerful, and clearly in control as he whispered into the mobile attached to his ear. During his brief, ill-fated career as a slave dealer, Bob had come across such formidable slaves, and had learned not to underestimate them. Many of the best-run businesses depended upon them.

After the duty slaves had helped Bob to his feet, it was all he could do to remain upright. It wasn't just the pain and shock of the flogging that sapped his strength and willpower. The sight of a familiar face was like a miracle in the midst of despair. He would have dropped to his knees had he the energy. As it was, he could only confront his former bugger boy, and beg for mercy.

Whatever mixture of emotions Harry experienced when he recognised his old master, he showed little. The whip and the boot, his training and experience, ensured Harry quickly regained his composure. Rather than answer Bob's plea, he told duty slaves to make sure Bob was hosed down, watered and fed. He noted the slave registration number and then walked away.

Danger lurks in those moments when a slave feels free to act on his own behalf, and when chance may trick him into revealing his true inner self. Rather than make his own plans, Harry went straight to Mr Underhill. His position of trust permitted him to do this, but the currency of a slave's credit is easily debased by trivial pleas, so when he entered his boss's office he took care to cover himself by first reporting on the discipline problems among the female slaves.

Underhill was eager to get home. It was his daughter's birthday and he was already late. Sensing danger Harry cut short his report, and asked if he might interview a slave in private. Among slave dealers Underhill was known as a straightforward family man who had done well with a business that he had bought from a large corporation. A dark thickset golf enthusiast in his early forties he enjoyed a rather different reputation among his slaves. He had a connoisseur's eye for human flesh, both male and female, and he took full advantage of his position to enjoy what he called 'erotic atmospheres.' Fear ensured compliance with his every sexual whim, and it had sometimes been Harry's duty to supervise the cleaning up process after his master had taken his explorations even further than usual. He was also a strict disciplinarian with no time for whinging slaves. So he sighed as he put on his coat and nodded to his body slave to take his briefcase.

'Leave it 'till tomorrow.'

Underhill came round from behind his desk, and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. This gesture both offered Harry hope and served as a warning, for his master was inclined to treat gently those he had selected to serve as his amusement.

'He'll be shipped out first thing in the morning, Master.'

Harry had never pushed his luck with Underhill before. His stomach was tightening and his mouth was dry. Underhill turned at the door. Harry knew his master's changeable moods too well not to quake under his gaze. Underhill shrugged.

'Interview him if you must.'

Harry stood rigid. He hardly dared breath, and he was suddenly covered in sweat. A terrible rage burnt inside him as he realised what a risk he had just taken. And for what? To save the man who had demeaned him, and plotted his sale as a common slave. Tears sprang to his eyes as he turned to leave the room. The female slaves working in the office outside wished him a cheerful good evening, but Harry walked past without a word. His cheeks were wet and his eyes red. The slaves looked at each other and giggled. Had he been reprimanded by the Master? Was his long reign as favoured slave coming to an end? By nightfall the slave blocks would be alive with rumours.

When Harry went to the guardroom to request access to an interrogation cell and for a certain slave to be delivered there, the overseers did not question his authority. Four of them sat slumped in easy chairs in the dreary room just inside the main gates. A television was showing a porno movie, and a pretty blond female slave was perched on the edge of a desk, naked from the waist down with her legs spread wide. Her pubic hair was dyed blue and there was a dildo stuck in her vagina. A guard was gagging her mouth with her pink regulation panties.

The most senior guard said, 'You'd better have one of us present, just in case.'

'My instructions, sir, are to interrogate the slave in private, sir.'

The guard widened his eyes. 'So slaves are interrogating slaves now. What's the world coming to?' He shifted his butt on his chair. 'But if the boss says so...you'd better be issued with a whip and cuffs.'

A junior guard went over to the racks of guns, prods, whips, canes and restraints and took down a short rhino whip. The senior guard said, 'If you need assistance ring for us...only use the whip if you have to. Don't try to torture him yourself. Send for a pro.'

Harry thanked him, taking care to sound respectful, but when the junior guard handed him the whip and cuffs he was at a loss to know where to put them. He fumbled with his pockets and for a moment he felt close to panic.

The senior guard looked at Harry closely. 'You do have permission, don't you?'

There was a clatter. The dildo had fallen from the female slave's vagina. The guard standing over her said, 'Clumsy girl,' and slapped her hard across the face before stooping to pick it up. He rammed it back up the vagina, screwing it deeper and then stood back, sniffed his fingers and smiled down at her.

The brief interruption gave Harry time to gather his wits. 'Yes sir, I've the Master's permission sir.'

He managed to sound confident, but his hands were shaking. The guard glanced around at his colleagues, who all turned to look at Harry. He nodded to his colleagues to check their agreement.

'OK. Hand over the whip before you leave the interrogation centre.'

Harry bowed. Sweat was drenching the back of his shirt. 'Yes sir. Thank you, sir.'

Bob lay face down on a bed in the slave block's recovery unit. His right wrist and left ankle were cuffed to the bedstead. He was not alone. Two females had been brought in after flogging and lay whimpering, while a handsome young purpose-bred male with sores on his face was recovering from a medical experiment. The room opened on one side into a corridor where a slave-nurse sat at a table dosing as she listened to the slave-radio station.

Bob had not rested his head on a clean surface for months, and the fresh linen and mattress, felt like the luxury of a first class hotel. He had trouble staying awake, but knew he must. Somehow he had to see Harry. Somehow he had to persuade him to take pity, and save him. But his body was too exhausted, and before long he was asleep.

He woke to the sensation of cold steel wrapping his wrist. An uniformed guard was bending over him changing the cuffs. Despite being startled from sleep, Bob's spirits rose. He had been a slave long enough to know that nothing is certain until it happens, but felt sure Harry had sent for him. That could only be good. Even if his former slave wanted revenge and was planning to put him on the rack and flog him, that was better than being abandoned to a journey from which there was no return. He jumped off the bed eagerly and let himself be led, still naked, out into the corridor. Something of his old military training gave him the strength to ignore the ripples of pain running down his spine, and he marched along with a semblance of dignity.

The interrogation cells were under the main stores, and were approached down a steep flight of metal steps and through a barred door. There was just one corridor, with fully equipped torture chambers on one side and interrogation cells on the other. Nothing was done to make this part of the compound pleasant or hygienic. The walls were covered in peeling black paint, decorated here and there with splashes of dried blood. Most of the furniture was broken, the lights dim, and the floors were littered with debris dropped by the interrogators. The still damp air was scented by vomit, urine and shit. It was a filthy place where filthy things were done as casually as a man places his hands in his pockets.

Bob's guard paused just inside the entrance to chat with a young freelance torturer who was taking a break. He had cropped dyed blond hair, and said with a twinkle in his eye that he had been hired to deal with the disturbance among the female slaves. His work was proving fatiguing, and he was moping his neck with a red bandanna. As was the tradition with men in the torture trade, he upper arms and chest were covered in lurid tattoos depicting his skills and duties, and he wore only a faded and tattered pair of denims, thick gloves, and had a mass of small instruments hanging round his neck. In reply to the guard's joke about females being harder nuts to crack than males, he laughed as he put his bandanna half back into his hip pocket.

'The girls do like to keep us waiting...but I'm getting the hang of this one...together... we're getting there.' He gave a mock salute and wandered off back along the corridor.

In the gloom just one ray of light fell across the floor from an open cell. The torturer went in and slammed the door. The guard cupped a hand behind his ear. 'Listen now... there's he goes.' He laughed as a muffled scream disturbed the silence.

The cell Bob was led into was completely bare. The light shed by two small wattage bulbs let into the low vaulted ceiling scarcely reached the corners. It was cold and the air fetid. There was no sign of ventilation. The end wall was splattered with half dried yellow vomit, and two hooks in the ceiling were smeared with blood. There was a coil of rope in a corner and some discarded bandages with a pile of fingernails neatly arranged on top. A more disgusting place could not be imagined.

Bob was left alone, shivering uncontrollably, for half an hour before the door opened and Harry strode in. He tossed Bob a blanket and told him to sit on the floor. Bob felt a surge of optimism as he wrapped the blanket round his shoulders. He tried to find a place to sit, but the floor was too soiled. He said he preferred to stand. Harry no more than half turned before kicking Bob on the shin. Bob doubled over, and as he did so Harry used the side of his hand to punch him on the back of his neck. He fell face down in a shallow pool of blood.

'I'm going to sit,' said Harry cheerfully. 'Why not, we're both slaves.'

With a weary sigh he sat down under one of the lights and crossed his legs neatly in front of him. He checked to make sure his whip was still safely in his shorts' side pocket, and then watched as Bob slowly raised himself from the pool of stale blood and attempted to find a way to sit comfortably.

'Harry, help me...for godsake...only you can.' Bob's voice was little more than a low whisper.

'I'm Rude... that's my slave name.' Harry sniffed. 'I like it, but you can call me Harry... for old times sake. What are you called now?'

'Was Spike, but that was my owner before last.'

'Poor old Captain Riddle. You're not making much of a go of things are you? Can't even hack it as a slave.' Harry sniffed again, frowned in irritation, placed a finger over one nostril and shot some snot from the other. It landed close beside Bob's left hand.

'Jesus man!' Bob looked up in disgust.

Harry smiled. 'Slave manners...you should be used to them by now.'

'I've lost the ability to get used to things.' Bob looked down at the floor. He lifted a hand as if to wipe his eyes, but saw how filthy it was and let it drop. 'I'm done for.'

Harry yawned and shifted his butt. 'Damn cold in here. You enslaved for life?'

Bob nodded but didn't look up.

'How come?'

'Your brother. He was framed by some low-lifes. The SP got wind of it and came to see me. The rest... as they say... is history.'

Harry laughed. 'No more than you deserved.'

He looked past Bob for a few moments and then laughed again. 'Where's my brother now?'

There was no answer, so Harry said, 'But you think I should help you?'

'Remember how we used to be...together?'

Harry shivered. There was something about Bob's grovelling manner that annoyed him.

'Slaves should be cheerful, we should make the best of things.' He stood up and went close to Bob. 'Let me see your back.'

He raised an eyebrow as the blanket slid down to reveal the livid marks. 'Not bad. That whip-master knows his business. I'll steer clear of him.'

Bob stared up at Harry. 'Don't pretend. You're the master round here. You run the place.'

Harry lifted his foot as if to kick Bob in the chest or face, but stopped himself. 'Never speak like that. You fool...I'm a slave. What do you think this place is but a stop on the road to hell...between the auction rooms and slow death under the lash.'

Bob leaned forwards and kissed Harry's raised foot. It was a slavish gesture as simple and spontaneous as it was desperate, and as such it moved Harry.

'All right, I'll see what I can do.'

He went to the door and rang for the guard. 'No promises. I'm just a slave...never forget that.'

When the door opened Harry bowed and thanked the guard for his trouble. He handed over the whip and cuffs and pointed to Bob. 'He's fit to sleep in the slave block tonight.'

'That didn't take long.' The guard was clearly curious.

'Turns out, sir, we didn't have much to say.' Harry bowed again and wished the guard a good evening.

The guard said nothing but went into the cell. The figure crouching on the floor took his time getting to his feet, so it seemed no more than common duty to help him along with a swift boot up the backside followed by an encouraging punch in the balls. It did the trick. Bob gave his guard no trouble at all.

The daughter's birthday party had gone well and Underhill was feeling pleased with life. He had received the draft accounts for the last quarter; earnings were up and costs were well down. The early summer sunshine filled his office and the young female slave who had bought him his coffee had a delightful bottom that he hadn't noticed before. He made a note to spank her. If that proved enjoyable, he had other plans...

When Harry came in Underhill wished him a good morning, but the slave, while as polite as always, seemed under the weather. Underhill was pretty sure he knew why. A frank talk was long overdue.

Harry bowed and waited to be given permission to make his report on the day's slave deals. When Underhill nodded and told him to get on with it, Harry started straight in about the slave he had interviewed the previous evening.

Underhill had bigger things on his mind than some confusion about a worthless slave. 'Must I hear all this? Does it matter what happens to this slave? There's something I must talk to you about. Sit down.'

Harry seemed befuddled. 'But sir...Master...this slave can't...'

'I said...SIT.'

The leather upholstery felt strange. Harry was not sure he liked it. Everything seemed so out of joint. If only he'd never set eyes on Bob...

'Are you sick?' Underhill leaned forwards and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

'No sir... you see sir... it's just that this slave... he's...'

'Do with him as you will. What's wrong with you?'

Harry was bemused, but managed to nod. Why was his lower lip trembling and his vision fuzzy? Was he losing his mind?

Underhill opened a file. 'As you're aware, it's company policy to sell all slaves after five years. You've been with us for four years and nine months.' He sat back in his chair and looked at Harry. 'I've been wondering what to do with you.'

A wave of cold terror passed through Harry. Sweat broke on his forehead and his bowels turned to water.

'I had you valued last week...you probably didn't notice...a dreary young man... Anyhow it seems you're not worth as much as we hoped.'

Harry could hardly listen. A vision of the chain gangs loomed in his mind's eye. He had sent so many doomed slaves to them; perhaps it was only justice that he should join them.

'Frankly we were hoping to get a small fortune for you, but it seems you're too much the whip-hardened working slave, and not enough the pretty young thing. So we've been in touch with the tax people and they've agreed that we can lend you your worth to buy your freedom. There is also a payment in lieu of tax. We'd keep you as an indentured worker for as long it takes to pay off your debt to us. To be candid that's not likely to be anytime soon. But you'll be free. We'll pay you a fair wage. And of course no collar.'

He turned a page in the file and read for a few moments. 'It's our understanding that there's no one who has first refusal on any sale, so there's no impediment to your being freed. Usually a slave's family is entitled to match any offer, but in your case that doesn't apply. It seems that your father enslaved you...with your consent. Can you confirm that?'

'Yes Master.'

'Well, it certainly makes everything a lot easier... and cheaper.'

He smiled and sat back in his chair. 'So how does that strike you?'

He frowned as he saw Harry put his hands over his face. His shoulders were shaking. Underhill looked at his watch. 'You're a loyal slave, and deserve your freedom... but don't push your luck. Get out before I change my mind.'

Harry rose. He wiped the tears off his cheeks. 'But Master, about that slave...what should I do?' Underhill slapped the palm on his right hand on his desk. 'I'll not say this again without ordering you flogged. Do as you think fit.'

I had Bob pulled from the lines of slaves waiting to be loaded onto the trucks that would take the surplus stock to the company's discount warehouse. From there they would be sold in lots to be worked or used for experiments. Life expectancy was short. The chances of escape zero. For the slaves it was the end of the line. For us it was routine stuff.

I watched from my usual position, standing on the platform at a discreet distance behind the two guards in charge of the operation. Bob had no time to look up at me, or to call out. He was dragged unceremoniously to one side and chained to the fence as the whips cracked and the other slaves filed out of the compound and climbed onto the waiting trucks. Other than the snap of leather, there was no sound.

One of the guards standing in front of me - a rugged youth with no front teeth and a Welsh accent - turned and asked what was to be done with Bob.

News of my impending liberation had spread fast and the guard called me 'mate.' I told him to put Bob in with the slaves in the metal crushing gang. I took care to add a 'sir' to my instruction. I was taking no chances. Slaves can still be flogged on the eve of their liberation.

'The Metal-crushers? You sure mate?'

'Quite sure sir.'

'He won't survive for long in with them...you know what they're like.'

'We all have to take our chances in this world sir.'

The guard looked at me with a puzzled expression. Then he smiled and tapped a finger against the side of his nose. 'I get it mate. Clever. No wonder they're setting you free.'

END