IT'S NOT EQUAL AT ALL!
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Seven
The chef sprang out of his bed as we went into the slave dorm. In the moonlight filtering in through the windows set high up in the eaves I could see that his body really was white - he evidently didn't spend time in the summer without a shirt, as I did. He was kind of skinny and I could see all his muscles move, but the most extraordinary thing about him was his dick - really long, and almost as thick as mine. I'd kind of been expecting it to be "in proportion" to the rest of him, but life has taught me subsequently that those kind of lanky guys often have disproportionately big dicks - or is it just that they seem bigger against the rest of their bodies? There again in the case of this chef it might also have been that his body was totally smooth, so his dick and balls weren't shrouded by any pubes - when I mentioned this to Walter the following day as I thought it was a bit strange he looked at me as if I was some sort of simpleton. "Oh come on, Steve! What do you expect? He's a chef, right? And so obviously the Club makes him shave all his body hair off - it happens to the waiters, too. What simpler way is there of ensuring that none of the members ever finds a pubic hair in his food?"
So once more I'd shown that I was ignorant about the ways of slavedom, and I hated it that Walter might think of me as stupid. It seemed very unfair though to make guys shave their bodies all over - I mean, a man isn't a real man without his pubes, is he? That's how you know you're a man, and not still a kid. So OK some guys have a lot more than others - I'm pretty hairy, and like to feel the stuff on my chest and belly when I'm showering, but even guys who are naturally smooth usually have a big thatch around their dicks, I'd noticed in the showers at school. Later that week I was looking at porn on the 'net as I'd failed to make out and needed something to jerk off to. Instead of just looking at the bitches, I happened on a lot of stuff with guys screwing them, and I was amazed to see that most of the actors in those porn movies were shaved - or, even if they were not shaved totally, all of them seemed to shave their balls and really trim their pubes back so there was only a suggestion of them there. It's hard to talk about those kind of things to your buddies as I didn't want them to think that I'd been looking at guys that closely - I mean, you're meant to be watching the bitches, not the bodies of the guys doing the fucking, and if I said too much my buddies might start teasing me for being too interested in men. But when I made some tentative oblique references to it, one of the guys I really admired as he was a great footballer sort of shrugged. "I'm going to do it, Steve. My bitch doesn't like to get hairs between her teeth when she sucks my balls! That's probably why porn studs do it, too. And, of course, when I have to jack off it's easier to clean the cum off bare skin - I just hate it when it dries in my pubes, all wiry." So that was it - still, there was no way I personally was going to go around looking less than a "proper" man.
Anyway the chef looked ready for it, judging by the way his dick was jerking around, and like Brad, he started to undress me. But whereas Brad had been somehow gentle and sensual, the chef was in some kind of frenzy and I thought he was actually going to rip my shirt open, almost tearing the buttons off. The moment my torso was revealed he then lunged at my tits - I'm sensitive, very sensitive, there like a lot of guys are, and as his teeth nipped at them I had to stifle my cries as I didn't want to wake the other men in the dorm. It didn't last long, though, ad he wanted - no, it seems as if he needed, rather than wanted - my slacks and boxers off. I was actually aroused by all of this as having another guy so desperate to have you naked is somehow very exciting; and as he stripped off my boxers, my cock sprang upwards as it was released.
I'd kind of assumed he'd immediately start to suck my dick, but once I was as bare as he was, he threw his arms around me and pulled me close to him, and started nuzzling at my neck and biting my shoulders, all the time rubbing and gyrating his hips against mine so that our dicks, trapped between us, rubbed against each others skin. A few seconds later though he had a hand behind my head and was forcing his tongue into my mouth - not gently but insistently as Brad had, but with a kind of desperate longing.
We kissed and squirmed against each other for a bit, before he guided me towards his bed and, still locked together in our embrace, we fell back on to it. Then he went for my cock, stroking my shaft, then licking and sucking at me as if he was ravenous to taste my cum - but as he worked on me, his hands snaked upwards and he began to tweak my nips. Well, as you can imagine, I arched my back in ecstasy, forcing my dick deep into him, down his throat.
Everything was so totally different from Brad - his age, the speed and agility of his lithe body, and his urgent, frenzied attack on all parts of me. I was at first totally overwhelmed by the sheer passion he was showing towards me, and it was a bit scary. But as he worked away I calmed down and began to actually enjoy it - so much so that the thrashing around of my own body in response to his was itself exciting me and adding to my ecstasy.
You know I don't really like touching other guys' dicks, but now it seemed so right, such a great thing to do, and I when we were a little calmer it seemed almost as if my hands had a life of their own. I needed to touch his smooth skin all over, I needed to somehow experience not just the smell and warmth of him, but the feel of his skin, the contours of his ribs and his ass, and, of course, his dick. Once I'd gripped it, it seemed so right to begin jacking him off, and as I did, my other hand crept up and cupped is balls and started to stroke them - I'd never done this before, and I was at once totally exhilarated by the feel of them, and scared. I mean, a man's balls are so sensitive, aren't they? And although I revelled in the strange sensation of those squishy yet firm objects inside their smooth sac, I was terrified I might do something stupid and cause him to scream with pain.
He shot quite quickly - I wasn't really aware of it at first as he carried on licking, kissing and nuzzling me and didn't make a lot of fuss as his orgasm happened. I only realised it had happened as it got so much easier to stroke his dick as his cum spurted out onto my hands and lubricated them as they slid over him. At one time I'd have been disgusted to even think that another guy's cum might touch me, but now it seemed somehow natural - something you'd be glad to do to a buddy (well, something you'd be glad to do for a buddy you were naked in bed with, which hadn't happened to me in my life!).
I thought he'd start to suck my dick then to bring me off, but instead he unwound his body from mine and turned to lay on his belly, kind of pulling me on top of him. Now my face was buried in the nape of his neck, and my bigger, stronger body was on top of his almost enveloping it. One of my legs was between his and the other to the side, and his small, hard ass was pressed up into my crotch. I felt as if I was in total command of his body as my bigger frame encompassed his and I revelled in the feeling of covering him with me. He started to move, sliding himself about under me and causing my dick to begin to ooze with pre-cum. We were both sweating a lot, and it was so sensual to have his skin in such intimate contact with mine. As I lay there like that I felt as if I was totally possessing him, his smaller, thin body being crushed into the bed by my own. I stopped for a moment, motionless as I enjoyed this feeling of power, and relishing the
way my heart was racing and my lungs were labouring: somehow my body felt different, more as if it was acting independently of me: as if it had taken control and was acting out all sorts of primeval passions.
"Don't stop!". His muffled voice came as a total shock. "Please don't stop - it was just getting exciting."
As I said, I'd only paused to enjoy the moment, and I wanted to carry on. But what should I do next?
"Please don't stop.." He sounding almost pleading now. "Fuck me, please...."
My erection collapsed. There was no way I was going to fuck a guy. And the very fact of him using this term had brought home to me that what I was doing was wrong. Yes, it might be enjoyable, hugely enjoyable, but I wasn't a queer, and there's no way that I ought to be doing this, having my dick poised over the ass of another guy. If it was as if some deep-seated knowledge in my body was overriding my brain's hunger for sexual gratification.
I rolled off him, and pushed him away, as much as that was possible in the narrow bed. He turned towards me and his hand reached down to my dick, now lying useless and limp. I felt shame and embarrassment as he did this, and knew that a hot flush was creeping over my shoulders and face - I wasn't a real man: I was not able to hold an erection, and this chef knew it.
He inched himself closer to me, and his earlier desperate biting, sucking and scratching at my body in his frenzy of desire seemed to have subsided. He stroked my dick gently and buried his face into my neck, gently licking and sucking at me. "Don't worry, Steve", he whispered. "It happens to us all sometimes. You've just had a long day, been working too hard....."
"I'm sorry...". My voice was almost stammering, and I felt like crying.
"Shhh... Don't worry.... It's not the end of the world.... Most guys can lose it sometimes.... It happens to me, too.... Just relax, and let's see if we can wake it up....."
His head moved down and he began to lick and suck at my nipples, as all the time his fingers continued to caress and stroke my dick. He manoeuvred so that his legs were intertwined with mine and began to rub them, just a little, up and down.
"I'm sorry...", I started to whisper again, but his head moved up from my nips and he kissed me, gently, before muttering "It's OK, Steve.... It happens to everyone.....", and kissed me again, this time with his tongue gently probing at my teeth.
Somewhere inside I felt so ashamed, and yet scared. A young guy like me had never experienced having my dick fail to perform: quite the opposite, in fact - I usually shot my load too soon, spoiling the potential for a lot more sexual gratification. So I was deeply, deeply ashamed whilst at the same time scared that the chef's attentions to me might cause my erection to rise - if it did, it would be a sure sign that I liked having sex with another guy, and I suppose I knew that this was wrong, that I wasn't a fag. But the chef's tongue touching mine, and then his lips sucking at my lower lip, triggered a reaction - I thrust my tongue into him in return, and began to probe around in his mouth. I really got quite passionate about it, pulling his head towards mine so that he couldn't move back as I kissed him deeper and deeper.
I could feel his dick stabbing at my belly and, sure enough, as you all might expect, my own body's natural instincts overcame my brain's sense of shame and guilt: my thoughts were in a turmoil as the senseless arguments raged backwards and forwards inside me: I wasn't a fag, and yet having another man doing these things to me seemed somehow so right. And he shouldn't be doing them to me: I was a strong, virile stud and he was a weaker guy - he shouldn't be making the running in this, it was me who made all the sexual advances. I always made the running when I was having sex with a bitch. Somehow it would all be better if I stopped lying there waiting for something to happen - if it did, it must mean I was really a fag inside. If I took charge and made it happen, I somehow "knew" that it would really only be because the chef happened not to be a bitch, and I needed sex. I was "normal" really, I'd be taking the opportunity for a bit of harmless
sex with another man because a bitch wasn't on offer. I'd be a strong normal dominant guy who was simply taking sex from a weaker male as there wasn't a bitch around - a natural thing to do, given the way evolution favours the strong to control the weak.
Look, I know it sounds mad! Thinking about it now, it's just ludicrous. But in the middle of the night, when you're in that state between sleeping and waking, your thoughts aren't always totally coherent, are they? But I do remember going through this rationalisation, and of course it allowed me to react, as it removed the mental block that was stopping my dick from doing what it normally did. I felt it start to go hard, and that intensified my kissing, which in turn stimulated him further to jack my dick harder and to rub himself against me more.
I don't know how it happened, really. One minute we were facing each other, mouths locked together, and the next he'd turned around and was lying "spooned" into me. He raised a leg, and my rampant dick slipped between his thighs. I could feel the moist warmth of his ass and sac against my dick, and this only excited me further. I began to thrust backwards and forwards in some strange parody of fucking - my dick wasn't in his ass, so it was OK I suppose as I knew I wasn't really fucking him so I wasn't being a fag. And at the same time his body against mine, the slapping of mine against his, and the way his thighs, slippery with his sweat, were gripping my dick was totally exciting, totally arousing. My arm was across his body, and I slid my hand down his flat belly (no ridges of muscle like Brad had, I thought. But very pleasing, nevertheless. And then I stopped myself, as I knew I ought not to be comparing men's bodies like that). I felt his
dick stick out rigidly and my hand bumped into it, and I began to jack him. In turn he reached down and started to touch the end of my dick as it poked through his thighs - as his fingers stroked gently over my piss slit I moaned and pushed my face into his shoulder to stop the noise.
Who shot first? I don't know, and now of course it doesn't matter really. We lay there panting, both now drenched in sweat, and he somehow nestled his head on my other arm which was thrown across the solitary pillow. It felt so right, somehow, to have his body tucked against mine like that, and I felt deliriously happy - no, that's not the right term... It was more like a great wave of contentment and fulfilment swept over me. I wasn't a fag, and yet I'd shown I was a man, a proper man, a man whose dick gave him satisfaction and fun. I drifted into sleep.
It was Walter who woke me the next morning, pulling the sheet off me and slapping my ass as I lay there. I guess I was a lot less embarrassed after all these weeks at Walter seeing my morning wood, as indeed was I at seeing his: his long black dick always seemed to be bobbing around as he stood over me. He looked down at the sheets, which I knew must be covered in semen stains, and he grinned. "Another big night for Steve...."
I sat up and put my feet on the floor, still drowsy with sleep as I don't like to be woken suddenly like that. I rubbed my hands through my hair and without thinking reached down to scratch my balls as you do in the morning, forgetting that Walter was watching me do these intimate acts.
"Come on, sleepy head!", he told me.
"Where's the chef?"
"I guess he got up hours ago to start the bread - it's baked fresh here, and it takes a few hours you know."
I yawned. "What the fuck time is it now?"
"Half nine."
I sprang to my feet. "Oh fuck... Half nine? I won't even get the nine forty five bus... So I won't get home in time for breakfast.... My dad will kill me!" I was hopping around now, searching for my clothes that had been discarded in the frenzy of the passion of the night before. "Oh shit, shit.... And I've got to get back, and get changed, and get to the new job by eleven...." I found my shirt and realised it was sweat stained and crumpled. "Oh no.... I can't wear this.... I've got to be smart, and mom won't have time to wash it and iron it...."
"Calm down!", Walter said almost sternly. "You're not the first guy to oversleep after a hard night's sex, and you won't be the last!"
"Shut the fuck up! I've got to shower, maybe run home, perhaps mom can press my stuff...."
"Stop it, Steve! Calm down! Now the sensible thing to do is to take a shower here. Then there's lots of razors that the slaves use so you can scrape away that manly stubble, too, as I expect they'll want you to be clean shaven and not looking as if you've tumbled out of bed. Then you can have leisurely breakfast, as if you're like me, sex makes you hungry. We can find a clean uniform in the slave quarters, and I'll drive you directly there as my trap with the faithful Rory will be waiting outside as usual. You'll get there a long time before eleven...."
"But mom and dad will be worried - I won't get home until seven as I have to work until six..."
"Oh for Christ sake, call them! You can use my mobile...."
It just showed how out of touch Walter was with the way folk like us lived. We didn't have a phone, as there was no way we could afford the rental with dad's meagre wages. No one we knew had a phone either, so it really didn't matter all that much. There was a phone box on the corner two blocks away if you had to call in sick or something like that, and we managed somehow - it seemed normal to us and all the other poor whiteys who lived in the streets around us.
"We don't have a phone!"
"Well call a neighbour, then."
"Walter, we don't have a phone - no-one in our street does. We can't afford it."
"Jesus Christ, Steve! No phone? How do you people live? I spend half my life talking on the phone..."
"Walter, shut the fuck up, and let me think! I've got to get to work - promised I'd do it. But mom and dad will worry all day if I don't get home soon.... Oh shit, shit.... Why did I oversleep..."
"...because you had too much sex!", Walter added, laughing. "It's just as well you don't like sex with guys... If you did, you'd probably never wake up as you'd be totally wasted all the time!"
Walter's attempts at humour weren't funny at that moment. Then I thought of something. "Is it very expensive to send a telegram?"
"How the fuck should I know? No one uses telegrams - we phone people."
"When dad's aunt died last year, we got a telegram from his cousins saying the funeral was in two days. He couldn't go, of course...."
"So if a telegram arrives, it's bad news?"
"Yes, I suppose so. We don't get all that many in our street, and it's usually someone's dead, or someone's been fired and the boss is telling them not to go in to work."
"So even if you could send one, Steve, it would frighten your folks? I mean, when the slave knocked at the door, they'd think there was something wrong?"
"Shit! Yes!" I sat there, my head in my hands, worrying.
"Think, Steve! Don't you know anyone who's got a phone?"
"NO! I've told you! How the fuck do you think poor folk can afford it?"
Walter was thoughtful. "I suppose you're right. Dad's got stock in the phone company and they're always debating lowering the prices so that more people cold afford lines - dad says that the extra volume, if everyone had a phone, would more than compensate for the loss of revenue from the high prices on the much smaller number. But there's some sort of government restriction to keep the prices high - he's always cursing it, but when he calms down he says it's probably for the best: if everyone has a phone, it's too easy for you poor to organise, to find out things, to apply for jobs in other cities, stuff like that."
"Thank you for that lesson in how we poor whites are kept in subjugation! But what the fuck am I going to do?
"Don't you know anyone with a phone?"
"Well the bodega on the corner - they must have one, to order stuff...."
"We'll call them, then, and you can ask them to get someone to go around to your house."
"I couldn't do that! They wouldn't do that.... I can't ask a favour like that.... Dad says you shouldn't impose on folks...."
"Steve, shut up! It's not a 'favour' - it's business! I'll find the number, I'll call them, and I'll offer to pay them to grab the next kid who comes in and pay him to go around to your house. Or, rather, I'll tell them to do all that, and then you'll go in tonight and pay them. OK?"
I hated the thought of losing some of my hard-earned wages, but it would mean I could earn more today, so I nodded.
"See, Steve? It's easy! You whiteys just don't think the right way. It takes us niggas with our business brains to think through things properly. It's just as well you have us niggas running things or else the world would be in a terrible state if it was left to you all - everyone says that whiteys aren't as sharp as niggas...."
Well I didn't feel like telling Walter he was talking crap. I'd read somewhere that science had proved that there was no difference between a whitey and a nigga brain, and it was only lack of experience that stopped whiteys performing just as well as niggas. But it was in a science journal I found in the school library, a very old one, and the idea didn't seem to have had a very wide circulation and wasn't much known. Most folk accepted that us whiteys were inferior.
We walked off to the shower, and there were no other slaves around now as it was so late. Walter stood there soaping himself, then turned to me. "One favour deserves another, Steve, don't you think?"
"I guess so."
"I hate washing myself. Come and help me."
"No way!"
"Steve, look at what I'm going to do for you, sorting out your problems this morning! And all I ask is for a simple bit of help...."
"No way! I don't touch other guys' bodies...."
"Steve, what were you doing all last night? Or is it OK with a slave, but not with another free man? You're always telling me there's no difference between free men and slaves.... Don't you really believe that, or are you just mouthing off some liberal crap? And you owe me now, big time! And you've admitted you should repay favours - doesn't that dad of yours believe that you shouldn't just take things from other folk?"
There, he was doing it again! Using my own words and ideas against me. I was just too tired to get my thoughts straight. I stood there, the water cascading over me, not knowing what to do.
Walter pushed the bar of soap towards me. "Come on, Steve... .get to work."
Look, I've told you that at school we sometimes wash each others backs after a hard game as you can't easily get the mud off from between your own shoulder blades. So I thought it would be OK to do that to Walter - after all, I reasoned, if I kind of "showed willing" and did a bit, he'd probably think I'd fulfilled my obligation to him. It did seem strange at first, though, as of course at my school there were no niggers, and as I slid my soapy hand over Walter's shoulder blades I suppose I was surprised to find that nigger skin didn't feel any different from white. In fact, had I been blindfolded, I reckon I wouldn't have known it as nigger skin at all - the variation between guys (hairs, etc.) was a lot greater than between nigga and whitey.
Walter somehow wouldn't let me stop, though. After I'd done his back he turned around suddenly, and I found my hand running over his chest. I'd never done that to a guy before, and as my hand brushed over his nips, I could feel them all kind of hard and pointy under the soft skin of my palms. Walter grabbed my wrist then, and although I'm strong enough to have pulled away from him easily, I didn't - I don't know why. And he sort of "guided" my hand down over his flat belly.
There was no way I was going to touch his dick, though, and it seemed I didn't need to as Walter put his hands on my shoulders and exerted a gentle force pushing me down. I knelt under his influence - why, I don't know.
"Kneel on one knee, Steve". His voice was calm and confident above the noise of the water, and I found myself complying. Walter put his foot up onto my thigh as I knelt there, and I knew from watching the slaves what I was supposed to do. His foot felt so strange on my bare skin, and somehow it made me feel so utterly subservient to have my body used in this way. But I soaped my hands again, and cleaned his foot, all between the toes, and then carried on kneeling there as he exchanged one foot for another so I could do the other one. Actually it was kind of interesting, feeling another guy's toes - I mean, it's not something you ever do, is it?
I went to stand up then, but Walter stood above me, still resting his hands on my shoulders, preventing me - not, not really preventing me as I could easily have overpowered him. Somehow he was exerting a "control" over me, and perhaps it's some racial memory that says that whiteys are inferior to niggers and that niggers are naturally in control that prevented me from moving.
"You know what's next, Steve!", he said in that same calm controlling voice. And indeed I did - at this point the slave soaped his hands again and reached up and washed Walter's dick and balls. I wasn't going to do that, of course - but why was I turning the bar of soap over and over between my hands, working up a good lather?
Almost as if mesmerised, I reached up and gently, oh so gently because of the sensitivity, cupped Walter's balls in one hand, and slid the other one along the shaft of his dick - he was half erect, and as I began to spread the lather, I could feel his dick stiffen. It felt so different from either Brad's or the chef's - both of their dicks had been veined, whereas the skin on Walter's shaft felt silky smooth as it slipped between my fingers.
"Go on, Steve. You know you want to do it....". His voice came to me again above the noise of the shower, and with fingers trembling with excitement, I nudged at his 'skin so that as his dick stiffened it retracted and exposed his dick head. I knelt there looking at it almost in awe - Walter's dick itself was so black, and yet his dick head was a deep, rich purple-black.
"Yes, Steve.. You like that, don't you? Clean it with your tongue, Steve...."
"No!" Suddenly it had all gone too far. Kneeling at Walter's feet, his hands on my shoulders and his dick bobbing in my face made me feel like a slave - well, I must certainly look like one, anyway. I got to my feet, half angry.
Walter just looked at me strangely. "It was just getting interesting, Steve. Why did you stop?"
"Because I'm not a fag! I don't play with guys in the shower, and especially I don't touch their private parts."
"...unless they're slaves, eh, Steve? What about Brad? And that chef? Perhaps we're more alike than you think, Steve. You say it's wrong to treat slaves differently from men, and you don't like the way I treat slaves because of that. And yet you're happy to have sex with slaves, but not with another free man.... Are you sure you're treating slaves as if they're men, Steve?"
"Shut the fuck up, Walter! I've got no time for all this word play." I turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and started to towel off.
"Aren't you going to help me, Steve?"
"Fuck, no! Do it yourself, Walter. Without a slave to help! See what it's like to be a poor free man, rather than a rich nigga boy."
Walter could see we were treading on delicate ground now, I guess, as he kind of smiled and shrugged, and we towelled ourselves off and pulled on our clothes just as if we were two normal guys in the changing room at school, and not a nigga and a whitey. Or, rather, Walter got dressed but suggested I remain naked as we were going down to the slave areas in the basement to find me a clean uniform. I wouldn't do it, of course, even though Walter assured me that on the back staircase I'd only meet slaves, and who cared about being naked in front of slaves? I decided to inject a bit of humour into the situation, so I muttered "It's not the slaves I worry about, Walter, it's you! You'd be following me, staring at my butt.... And I know you think I look like a slave as all whiteys look the same to you, nigga.... So before I know it, you'd be all over me...."
We both laughed then, and the incident was over, I reckon. And it didn't take long to find me a clean uniform - although it felt so strange just to leave my crumpled and dishevelled one lying there on the floor where I dropped it. "Stop worrying, Steve! That's what slaves are for, to clear up after free men", Walter assured me.
Walter insisted I ate a good breakfast as he thought (rightly, as it turned out) that no-one would think to bring me any lunch when I was working - after all, they were used to having slaves around the place, and most owners fed their slaves only in the mornings and evenings. And then we went out and the faithful Rory was standing there in Walter's trap, waiting for him, so we climbed aboard.
"Take master Steve and me over to the Johnson place, and then you can bring me back here", Walter told the pony. "I think I'll lunch here and swim a bit, before you take me home."
"Hey, master Walter! Two of you? To and from the Johnson place? That's a couple of miles each way... It's not fair - it's Sunday, and I'm ready to go home..."
"Get your lazy ass moving!". Walter was smiling as he said this, and raised his carriage whip and gave a couple of gentle slashes to Rory's butt as the slave pulled away. "You're getting lazy!", he shouted at the pony, "And it will do you good to work a bit - I'm sure I can see you looking just a bit too sleek - too much chow, and not enough work...."
"Please, master, please, master Walter.... I'm getting on a it, you know.... Please, master, be merciful, and spare the whip....". Rory was at a light jog now, his body moving in that sensual natural rhythm that athletes do as he turned around to call this to Walter. Both men were smiling, and I could see this was some sort of general repartee between them.
I found myself staring at his butt as he pounded along, and the interplay of the muscles in his brawny shoulders. I needed to distract myself, to think of other things. So I turned to Walter and said "I read somewhere that ponies were not allowed to speak. And yet Rory seems to answer you back...."
"Of course he can speak, Steve! One of the advantages of human ponies over real ones is that they can listen, understand, and question any orders they don't understand. It makes driving around so much easier. It's not acceptable for Rory to speak when it's kind of formal - like when I drive him to church, followed by with mom and dad and my sisters in our family carriage with the two big Swedes pulling them, and we're all dressed up and will be joining our neighbours. Then all the ponies have to be properly professional, and not speak, remain silent, unless they're given permission. But Rory and I go back a long way - I can remember dad buying him when I was a kid, and he's been 'mine' since I was old enough to be allowed out on the roads by myself when I was ten. So of course it's OK for him to speak to me: there are different relationships between owners and slaves, you know. Take my personal slave - well, he's been around since before I started to jack off, helping me bath and dress and stuff: he knows every inch of me intimately, and of course we talk as he showers me like you were doing this morning, and if I tell him to suck me off in the shower, I kind of expect him to moan and complain. But if I see one of the gardeners, or one of the other outdoor slaves, I wouldn't speak to them except to command them to do something, and then I'd certainly only expect them to say 'Yes, master' in reply - anything else, and I'd probably order them punished for insolence."
I nodded. This slave business was clearly a lot more complicated than I thought. And as we drove along and I thought of Walter in the shower, and as I looked at Rory's muscled body working away in front of us, and as I caught the intoxicating smell of his sweat, I didn't like the way my cock stirred in my slacks. I hoped Walter hadn't noticed.
End Of Part Seven