Micha, Ka to his peers, heard some crinkling under his pillow as he lay down for the night. It was a printout of a story. He asked around and no one owned up to putting the three folded pages beneath his pillow. It was called "The Ponykids Race." In a nutshell it was about a culture where slavery was expected and accepted; and one of the slave's roles was as beasts of burden; these slaves start out their lives as ponies who learn their places by running races. Aside from making him hard enough to go seek a field hand to fuck, it peaked his imagination.
Confrontation
Buck was going to be spending some time with Sam going over the progress report on the lots that have been introduced to the general population of field slaves. Dax knew he had time to talk to Seth.
It was dinnertime, so his movements toward the rest of the ranch would not be unusual. It would be unusual for him to stop however, but he was willing to take the risk. He had already suffered what he hoped was the worst punishment they mete out at the ranch and guessed that talking with his workmate wouldn't land him (them) in the same level of trouble.
Dax grabbed his food and headed towards the shack he called home every other week. Seth noticed him as he motioned with his head for the German to come to him.
"Does Buck need me to replace you early or something?" He asked.
"No, I want to talk with you about something." Dax sat down with his bowl of chow and motioned for Seth to do the same. "I saw the brotherhood of the eagle website."
"So?" He began eating. He was a wary, a little nervous at this point, but wasn't going to show more of it than he had to.
"So you came here to avoid their wrath or something like that?"
"Yep."
"Would they really have killed you if you stayed?"
"They would kill me now if they found me."
"You have to be kidding, I mean I know they have a reputation for being vicious and brutal, but . . ."
Seth just stared at Dax; Dax made no more effort to finish his statement.
"You didn't kill anyone did you?"
"What would it matter if I did?" He watched as Dax flushed. "If I had killed someone, what would you do? Would you alert someone? Who?"
"Hold on a sec Seth. I wouldn't do anything. You are pointing out that I really can't do anything without fucking up my own situation. Duh. I just never met a real, like honest to God real, skinhead before."
"By their standards you still haven't. Faggots are as much a target as Jews and niggers, so I can't be one of them."
"You know what I mean." He hated it when others resorted to that and he hated himself for resorting to it.
"I guess I do. Look, I know what you are getting at too. I will tell you I never killed anyone and never saw anyone killed, but I was involved, actively and as a witness, to several severe beatings. I know you want to know about my thoughts too, what I believe. That isn't any of your business. I am a slave, same as you, so what I believe means nothing."
Dax wanted to argue. He wanted to say that what Seth mattered to him, but knew where that would go. Besides it was true. They were both slaves and the only difference in the circumstances of how they came here was one of magnitude (Dax only felt like he would die in his original surroundings, Seth really would have). It was highly unlikely that Seth hated fags-if he did he was in a self imposed Hell whose only escape at this point would have been death.
"I never fucked any kids."
"It never crossed my mind that that part was true. I know the standard slams that anti-gay bigots use. I know it isn't any of my business, my curiosity got too big for me to control."
"That's ok. Will you keep it between you and me?"
"Promise."
On the way back to the office, Dax didn't feel sated. He believed Seth's claim that he had never murdered anyone, but the rest was troubling.
Dax had been in close confines with Buck for many weeks now and was well in tune with Buck's sense of urgency that the delicate balance of the ranch be kept. Both he and Seth were likely candidates to be hands. What kind of havoc could an unreconstructed skinhead have on the place?
A New Tradition
Before a field slave or trustee can become a hand, they have an initiation ritual. They have to get a group of 4 slaves to perform the task of loading bales of hay into a cart they pull as yoked animals, then unload at another point on the ranch and repeat. All initiates worry that if they fail, they will not become hands. They only find out after that no one has ever failed at it, that it is, in fact, designed to be passed. Buck had never chosen a hand who caused problems, so the initiation is more of a formality and old tradition than anything else.
Ka knew what he was going to do. The only thing that bothered him was that the thought didn't occur to him on its own. At 26, Ka had been a hand for almost five years, which made him one shy of the most experienced hand. He joined the ranch at 19, but because of his experience on a horse and amongst cattle for his childhood, Buck assured the still acned teen that he would be a hand in very little time. The only reason he hadn't become a hand after only six months was because of the turmoil it would likely cause. Ka would have been fat if he had stayed home in rural Iowa, being that he was as cornfed and Iowa healthy as everyone else around him. But on the ranch he was five ten and broad shouldered and relatively thin waisted. His hair would ordinarily have been dark brown, but the almost constant sun had it bleached to a light wood-brown. Kyle was the only hand who had more seniority as a hand, but he deferred to Ka in nearly all matters making Ka the de facto head hand.
The idea, basically fully formed, occurred to him very quickly as he strolled back from the shack nearest the bunk house after shooting a load up a field slave's ass. There would be 8 hands involved-him and 7 others. They would start it. The two with the worst times would be removed and replaced by two other hands (those two could petition to get back into it after a probationary period). Each hand would pick two slaves to pull him in a small cart he would make himself (or oversee as his slaves made it for him). Now he had only two things to take care of: which 7 to invite to begin this new tradition and the track he would use.
By lunch the next day he had settled on his 7 and let them all know to meet him before getting chow. He picked Ted, Mark 1, Mark 2, Paul, Billy, Todd, and Chet. He believed each of them to be not only smart enough and aware enough to make a good go of it, but also had the most energy. The preparation and training would have to take place in the few hours between dinner and shack time (Ka had to go on the assumption that the races would have to take happen well within the normal bounds and rules of the ranch).
Colloquy
"Who put the story under your pillow, Ka?" Chet asked, he was concerned.
"Beats me. I guess it was Buck, but it might have been the man itself, they are the only ones I know of who could have."
"Well now there are the two slaves helping Buck with the recruiting now, you recon one of them could have done it. They could be setting you up boy." Paul said.
"Listen, what would happen to either of those boys if they had been caught coming in here? It could have been, but I really doubt it. Look, they added those auctions, maybe this is another way to spice things up for the folks who run this place." Ka spoke calmly though he was perturbed that they weren't taking to the idea like he thought they would. "I'm going to do this, I'll tap a couple of trustees to do it if I have to. Anyone who wants out now, say so and I'll find someone to take your spot."
He paused. Then: "No? Ok then. Now each of us has two days to pick our team. Mark the two you want by tying a small piece of one of the lashes of your flogger around his main collar ring. Once we've done that, I'll set a deadline for when the carts have to be ready."
All went to get their chow as if no meeting had taken place. Ka decided only to be crestfallen if they didn't get excited while picking out their team.
Teaming
Chet had been the most visibly anxious. He fully understood the logic that only Buck or the man himself could have planted the story, but he couldn't help but feel like he was walking into an ambush of some sort. If so, he would be walking in with a full stiffy though since he had spent all the time after the meeting trying to determine which ones to mark as his team.
As he considered it, he knew that his boy, B. J., would not be a good choice. Chet was almost a total opposite of his boy. Chet was a small but proportional five foot six twenty-four year old. At a hundred and forty or so, he was scrappy. B. J. was a spindly and lithe twenty-three year old standing at six three. Chet was black and black, B. J. very light blond and blue. What Chet believed he needed was something closer to his own shape with a bit more thigh and ass than chest and arm. He figured they would be better suited for speed, or at least quick bursts of it-the rest could be trained into them or whipped out of them.
The typical habit for the hands was to get the cattle moved to the right place, then to take turns keeping watch; those not tending the herd made their way to the fields or the barn or wherever their quarry was. Chet left after his turn at tending to do some searching. He went to the fields first. He went between two patches.
"Ho, slaves, present." He shouted.
There was some scrambling sounds coming from the stalks and six slaves appeared on his right and left standing at attention. He got down from his horse, to get a look at the proper angle to determine their legs' muscle quality. None of the first set had the muscle structure he wanted, so he ordered them back in. He went two patches over and did the same thing. He noticed that one of the slaves already had a brown leather strand tied to the front ring of his collar.
"Slave, who tied this to your collar?" He asked, flicking the leather strands with his crop?
"Sir, a hand called Ted, Sir." Ty said. If he wasn't following protocol and looking downward, his and Chet's eyes would have met on the same plane.
Chet wanted to know from curiosity. He wouldn't have chosen Ty himself, but Ty would have caught his attention. The slave's legs matched what Chet wanted, but his upper body did not. Ty's chest and shoulders were larger than what Chet had in mind. Next to Ty though was someone that did catch his eye.
"What's your name slave?"
"Sir Pete sir."
"Hands behind your head . . . turn around . . . flex your shoulders . . . do a deep knee bend . . . hold it." Pete complied quickly to each of the requests Chet gave. He stopped when Chet said to hold it, about half way up. His thighs began to twitch as the seconds wore on.
"Hold it."
"Sir yes sir," Pete said as calmly as he could despite his hamstrings beginning to cramp.
"Keep holding it."
"Sir yes sir." The burning in the muscles was causing problems balancing. He feared the lash from one who seemed to be calm-the calm ones, he learned are the more vicious-but he finally had to give and fell to a knee, moving his hands to break the fall. He braced for the whip.
"Stand up and turn around boy." Pete had yet to really feel many lashes across his chest and was dreading it. He was very surprised when Chet approached to tie a piece of leather to the front loop of his collar. "I'll be back to get you in a few days, don't take it off."
"Sir yes sir."
Chet got back on the horse and headed off to the soybean sectors. He was pleased with his choice. He believed that Pete's body form was the type he wanted. He would have preferred that the legs be a little larger, but there was time to make that happen. Now what he had to do was find the mate for his new pony boy.
The search of the soybean area and the grain area yielded some possibilities that he would check on, but wasn't getting the gut feeling he wanted. He got the sense that his race mates were probably in the same boat-or at least the majority of them-so he felt he wasn't going to have to compromise.
Chet went through the rest of his day as normal, replacing those on watch when it was hit time, and keeping his eye on the herd. He continued to give thought to the race however. He could name all the hands and had their images fully formed in his memory, short and long term. But the sea of field slaves was one faceless naked man in his mind. He of course knew his boy, Eddie, well, but even then he was more familiar with Eddie's back and ass than he was any other of his parts. Now trying to remember what . . . um . . . lessee . . . Pete looked like, he was drawing a blank. He could remember the shape of legs and ass, but couldn't remember if Pete was fair or dark haired. As a field slave, Chet knew, was convinced, that his memory was broader than that-that he 'knew' the faces of his mates and other slaves he could see on a regular basis in addition to all the hands he would see fairly often. He would puzzle over that odd circumstance when time permitted, as it stood it was time to return his horse to the barn and get some chow.
He was helped from the saddle, as he was every evening by a slave who then took care of his ride while Chet went about the rest of his night. This time he actually paused to look at the man. He saw a blond man with a swimmer's build who stood about five ten or five eleven with decent legs.
"What's your name?"
"Sir Nick sir."
He put Nick through the same paces as Pete and received a similar result. He took a bit off the end of the same lash of his flogger and tied it to Nick's collar. No need for further thought or energy spent on at least the initial stages of this new attraction.
Colloquy, Second Part
"I want to make sure one more time that everyone has two ponies picked out and is ready to move on." Ka had spent a ton of time scouring the fields to find his two-he would make a decision on one and then decide against him because he didn't match another that he liked a bit better, and so on. Normally he was cooler than this, but for some reason this activity left him a bit scattered. Plus he had the extra responsibility of fining the equipment they would need.
Everyone nodded or mumbled that they had already assured their peer that they were ready to proceed.
"Great. Go get your ponies and meet at the far barn, the one Buck got ready for the auctions a couple of months back."
Eight men wearing cutoff denims headed to find their ponies.
Chet started at the patch where he had found Pete and it was empty. Great. The shacks the slaves used were not necessarily anywhere near the place they worked, so he was going to have to hit each one until he found a slave whose face he couldn't really remember, so rather than look at his face he would have to look at their collars to see if they were marked, then ask them who they were.
It took four shacks and asking two slaves if they were Pete before he found his Pete.
"Sir can I ask a question sir?"
"Sure," Chet said but was leading Pete to the barn where he would pick up Pete's ponymate . . . um . . . Nick.
"Sir, um what is going on; I mean a hand came by to pick up Ty a few minutes ago and I was just wondering . . . sir?" Pete was nervous and did nothing to hide it.
"Nothing bad or anything, so don't worry about that, you'll hook up again with Ty in a few minutes and you'll all find out together what's going on." It was going to take too long to explain, especially if the slave had questions that Chet couldn't or wouldn't answer, so it was more convenient for him this way.
In the barn they ran into what turned out to be a silly obstacle. Chet noticed for the first time, probably since mounting his horse on his first day as a hand, that Nick's collar was attached to a chain bolted to one of the barn's support beams.
"Well fuck. Why are you locked into this thing, you do something that got you in trouble enough that they wanted to make sure you didn't wander off?"
"Sir sorry sir?" Nick couldn't immediately make sense of what Chet was saying. He was locked in the same as all barn slaves, but they were velvet bonds, if you will-the keys to their locks hung where the slaves could get them. He had long since stopped feeling the chain and had done nothing to get him in trouble so he didn't understand the hand.
"The chain slave, why are you chained?"
"Sir, that is just how it is here sir, do you need me to follow you out or something sir?"
"Yes, but I don't have time to wait for the slave to run to find Buck and get back to unlock you."
"Sir, sorry I'm so used to it that I don't think about it sir." Nick walked over to the wall where the keys hung and quickly unlocked the chain from his collar and walked back to Chet, who had a stupid look on his face.
"Why the hell are you chained in here if you can get to the key?"
"Sir, you know, I never really thought about it sir, we just unlock ourselves when we have to go out to take the horseshit outside and to get our chow, then we lock it back, just how it works in the barn I guess sir."
(Well sort of. The barn used to be the place where difficult slaves were put for punishment, and they were chained in a real way; a hand was used to keep his eye on them and to stay in the barn-it was his responsibility to unlock all the slaves if a fire broke out. Buck decided, after taking over, one, that the hands deserved slaves who weren't so much trouble to take care of their horses, and two that no matter how fast a hand was, he wouldn't be able to get all the slaves (typically 10) out of the barn before the any but a tiny fire got out of control. But there were several slaves who actually liked being in there when the change in regime and policy took place. They lobbied to have the chains kept as a sort of tradition. Buck consented and just made sure they could all get to the keys.)
Chet decided not to waste the opportunity he had in front of him. It was probably half a mile to the auction barn; it would leave them all winded (hopefully no more than winded) if they jogged to the barn, but it would give him an idea of what he had chosen-actually looking into the poke to make sure the pig was really in it.
"I need you both to jog, but don't just run or trot or whatnot on your own. Match your strides and your rhythm. I'm going to trail a little bit to see how you do. We're heading toward the barn in the distance."
Chet said nothing, but just followed them to the barn. Nick and Pete spent most of the time trying to match each other's stride; the problem was that neither was willing to take charge in any meaningful way that meant they were constantly readjusting to an ever-shifting pace. For the whole trek, the two slaves were constantly out of balance, like improvised jazz. Fortunately the two slaves would respond to English and the lash faster than a horse.
Chet and Paul arrived at the same time and they were the last. Each trio took their place in the semi-circle that formed around Ka and his ponies. All ponies knelt before the hand who chose them.
"Welcome. The sixteen field slaves here have a new title for a while: pony. You will not be ponies exclusively; the training and competition will take place after your normal days. The hand that chose you will direct the training as he sees fit. Each team will construct a dray for the hand to stand on and the ponies to pull. It is up to the hand how this will occur, whether he will do it himself or instruct and supervise the ponies as they do it. You have two weeks from this night to build the dray and get what training in you can or see fit. The track will be around this barn-I'll be putting out markers soon-we will start with running the track three times and adjust it from there depending on performances. Do the hands have any questions?"
All were silent.
"Ok, you will have plenty of opportunities later if you need. Anyway, in the corner over there are sixteen wagon wheels and enough tools to build the dray for yourselves. I've given everything a once over and believe it all to be about the same condition. So go on and pick out the wheels and everything else you think you need. Honor system gentlemen, you can work on your dray when and how you need, but do not fuck with someone else's if there has been any monkey business in that respect, everyone will be disqualified and I'll get seven more hands to take over-the ponies will remain attached to their dray at that point so we don't delay things too long."
There wasn't a mad rush. In fact it started sort of timidly. The thought seemed to spawn to each at the same time: what the fuck was a dray and how was 7 city/suburban boys and their equally situated ponies going to figure out how to build one?
"Ka," Paul said, "what the hell is a dray?"
"Duh, sorry I didn't realize it was a mystery. In a nutshell, imagine a chariot without the barrier. Basically it is a two-wheeled cart with no sides. You'll just need to put a platform and something you may want to hold on to. Keep these things in mind though. Anything you add is weight your ponies have to pull, but if you don't have it balanced well, you will flip on the turns hurting yourself and your ponies."
"Um, no one said anything about us getting hurt." Paul said voicing what he was sure wasn't just his own opinion.
"I cleared it with Buck, he doesn't think anyone would get seriously hurt and if you do, you know you will be taken care of. In a word, don't be a pussy, guys."
Pony Eye View
We have done this the same way as the others, at least according to Chet. We built the platform that he is going to stand on (a railing basically with braces to keep it steady so he can lean against it with full force and it not collapse, and can pull against it with the same force). We built the T bar that Nick and I will use to pull him (the top of the T is a sort of double yoke that fits around the back of our necks and the front of our shoulders for maximum control). What we are having trouble with is the same thing that Chet says everyone is having trouble with except Ka-the axle and putting the wheels on it.
Nick was a network specialist in his life before, and could (he says) put together any network anyone would want. He understood servers and routers and security and whatever else goes on in that strange world. I was a legal secretary with very vague aspirations at law itself. I could put together a brief with very little information very quickly. I have no idea what Chet did before and it isn't a field slave's position to ask, but I know he wasn't a wheelwright. I'm sure the other teams are similar. This means a room full of men with expertise in all sorts of areas important beyond the fence of this ranch, but most of us would be beyond totally worthless on a real ranch-this one is real enough as any of the whip marks on my back and ass would show, but this one isn't one for profit. I doubt that there is much call for someone who can build a real cart either, but someone at a real ranch would likely have a better idea how to get it to work.
The axle is one of the simple machines from centuries back and none of us can quite figure out how to get it done. Either the wheels wobble or fall off. We have a week to go and none of us has practiced.
Earlier tonight I heard Chet talk with Ka. Ka said it would be a waste of time to continue if no one could solve the problem.
"Go talk to Buck." Chet said.
"I don't want to do that. He did set us up here, but he didn't seem to be too big on the idea of us doing this. I think he might be doing it so that he could set us up to fuck up."
"Why would he do that?"
"Beats me man, but I just got the feeling that he didn't want us doing this for real."
"Then I'll go talk to him."
"Whatever you want man."
And Chet left at that point.
Nick and I have been sitting here in the stall. We've talked some, but mostly we have just sat against the wall of the barn and napped a little. The nights here have been pretty long and we haven't had as much sleep as normal, so most of us are dragging.
After a while and some vague dreams of life outside (it's ok here, but I must still crave freedom more than I thought because I keep having dreams of eating steak and fish in high end restaurants), Chet returns with some paper.
"You talk to Buck?" Ka asks.
"Tried to find him, but he wasn't around, so I just ordered the little German fucker to find some designs on the internet."
Ka looked at the printout and said: "A'ite all hands huddle up!"
The six other hands walked over to Ka and Chet. They each look at the printout and discuss what to do.
In a short while, we have both wheels on and are ready to take it for a quick spin around the barn.
As each team finishes their dray, the ponies take it outside the barn and trot it around the track-it is too dark for full-on running. Nick and I can hear it as we put the finishing touches on the dray. We know that if it tumbles there will be double hell to pay (at least) for us, one when we get injured, one when we get whipped for letting it happen.
Nick takes the left spot in the yoke that would be on the inside for the turns. Chet takes his place and directs us.
"Ok ponyboys, when you exit the barn, turn left and go at an even trot around the barn."
"Sir yes sir." We both say.
The wood was softer on my shoulders and neck than I thought it would be. If I hold it just right, it doesn't jostle as we move. Left, right, left, right, a little faster. We take the first turn pretty wide and Chet tells us to take it easier. We do a little better on the other turns.
As we get to the front of the barn again, Chet says: "Let's bring her to a stop boys."
It is here we find we can't do that. We forgot what everyone else forgot: brakes. It could have been a disaster but both Nick and I had wits enough to keep holding onto the yoke and just move slower and slower going in a straight line until the dray stopped.
"Guess we have a little more work to do." Chet followed it with a nervous laugh.
We take the dray back to our spot in the barn. Chet looks again at the document he brought back from Buck's office. There is some information he and the other hands overlooked about brakes. But it was already late so Chet said we could start working on it tomorrow night.
"You fucked any since this started?" Nick asks as we walk away from the barn.
"Now that you ask, no I haven't." The extra time on this activity gets me back to the shack too late and leaves me generally too tired to bother.
Nick stops and I stop too; he sticks a finger in his mouth and sticks it quickly, like a probe, up my hole. Satisfied, I guess, he takes the finger out and uses both hands to position me on hands and knees. Then, in the light of a three-quarters moon, his sizeable cock followed where his finger had been. Being fucked outside on west Texas dust isn't romantic, but it is hot.
Noah's Proxy
Noah knew that Scott could not handle the day to day by himself. He was a friend and was trustworthy with the slaves when Noah was there to back him up, but Noah knew that he would likely be too lax with them if left to his own. So, before he began looking for other slaves and masters to fill out his own utopia, he needed to find a real taskmaster.
He mentioned to a few friends what he was looking for. He wanted a very young, muscled man who basically lacked any amount of empathy. Within a couple of weeks, Noah had a list of names of men who, according to his friends, qualified. Noah chatted with most on the list and determined most unfit. But he liked the sound of one of them very much.
Hayden was an eighteen year old who had recently been 'released' from a group home his parents had sent him to when he was 14. His parents had been taken in by the sales pitch of the inexpensive home that would transform her troubled teen into an obedient and productive member of the family and society as a whole. It was a foreign home-in Costa Rica-which operated cheaply and without pesky American laws.
Hayden explained that it was basically a Darwinian setup. The new boys where stripped of everything-possessions, clothes, hair. They would 'earn' these things back based on their behavior. The people making the decision on what behavior was acceptable and what the boys earned were older inmates of the facility. The adults just sat back and watched at the very least, or encouraged the more brutal inmates; after all, frightened and cowed teens are more docile and less apt to cause trouble than teens who were being coddled with group therapy and other such expensive nonsense.
He went from grunt-the bald, naked, new arrival-to squad captain (over half a dozen grunts), to group captain, over three squads, by the time he was 17. He would probably have been the highest-ranking inmate in the place had it not been for the raid that local authorities coordinated after American officials requested it. So he was sent home first class to parents who were mortified at what they had done.
So, unrepentant and unreconstructed, he was back home.
Noah found out about Hayden through one of many masters he met in Chicago. The master had read about Hayden in the paper and decided to contact him to see if the boy had talent. His hunch was right. He wanted to continue to use the boy, but his slave was so scared of the boy that the master had to choose sides. Which is why he let Noah know about him.
"You gay?" Noah asked him when they met face to face.
"No, but I fuck guys. I got sent away because I was already fucking pussy at 14 and the folks couldn't stand it. I rebelled and they sent me to that home." The muscled teen explained. "I fucked lots in the home though. I was raped a few times before I learned how to fight back, which is how I got to be leader so fast. The problem is now I can only get a nut if I'm beating a guy first. I still want pussy, but I just can't do it like that now."
"Makes you frustrated?"
"Fuck yeah it makes me frustrated."
"So what do you do about it?"
"Beat the fag harder."
Sold.
With that, Noah offered Hayden a place to live with free room and board for as long as the young man wanted it, with the understanding he would stay for the long term. Apart from the obvious that he couldn't kill the slaves, he was only prohibited from breaking bones.
Just When Things Seemed To . . .
I have to try to sleep on my side tonight. The taskmaster that Master Noah got for us while he goes on his trips whipped my ass, back, and shoulders like Noah or Scott never did. Crete fared no better. He is already asleep though, or I would see if he would want to escape with me.
"This is your new taskmaster. That's all you need to know. He knows your names and that is all that matters. Instead of sir, you call him taskmaster. He has free reign to do what he feels is necessary to get out of you what he and I and Scott expect." Noah said at the building site, then he walked off. That was it.
The taskmaster next to him was a blond boy maybe 18. He was almost six feet tall and had to be almost 200 pounds of muscle. His boyish face seemed very out of place, especially when compared against the crop in his hand and the flogger hanging from his belt. It made no sense to me that Noah would pick a kid to look after the situation while he was off. That doubt quickly disappeared.
The taskmaster made the hocking noise and spit a lugie in front of Crete. We're both pretty used to the masters spitting, so it meant nothing. Then he walked behind Crete and kicked him behind the knee so he collapsed.
"Nothing that comes out of my body hits the ground. What comes from me is more valuable than you and will not be wasted." He screamed. "What you are cannot really be defined, but it is beneath shit. You have a job to do and it is my job to make sure you do it right. You," he touched Crete on his back with his crop, "lean down there and lick my spit off the ground."
"Yes Taskmaster." Crete started licking the thick slime off the grass.
"Now I obviously can't let that slip go unnoticed." He said when Crete came back to his kneeling position. He pulled the flogger out of his belt. At this point I expected what has become a sort of run of the mill situation-it is still painful, but not nearly so much as it was when I started and it is less frightening. What I got was not run of the mill, and at that point I had felt nothing. He swung with everything he had across Crete's back from one shoulder down to the opposite lat. It made Crete scream. I hadn't heard him scream no matter what happened to him. Nine more followed and each of them left deep red marks and a little blood. Each one got at least a yelp from Crete.
"Where's my thank you turd?"
"Thank you Taskmaster." Crete was able to get out between pants.
"Here's the deal. I am not going to waste my time telling you when I have to spit or piss or whatever. You just need to keep an eye on me and an ear out for when I start. Nearest puke comes running and opens up."
"Yes taskmaster." We both said.
He made the hocking sound again. I was right in front of him so I knelt down and opened my mouth. He spit; part of it went in my mouth, the rest stuck to a cheek and dripped onto my shoulder. It was horribly salty and slimy. "Thank you Taskmaster." I knew I was going to catch same as Crete.
"Now you know that's not good enough." I didn't have a chance to make any response before the crop whizzed across my chest. It knocked the wind out of me. It felt like being hit across the chest with a hot poker. Then he did to my back what he had done to Crete's. I couldn't feel the small space of time between each lash. I screamed with all I had. When it was finally over, tears, snot, sweat, drool fell off my face and onto the ground. He used the toe of his boot to lift my face to look up at him.
"The lesson you just learned is that you will have to keep your eyes open and may have to move to catch it. I ain't going to bother aiming at a slave mouth. Now don't I get a thank you?"
"Thank you Taskmaster."
There are two pains from a serious lashing. The first is obviously from the lash itself. It burns first. It also feels like being punched, even the thin strips have that sort of punch quality to them. The second pain is the longer one. It would never have occurred to me that the pain after can in some ways be worse than the pain during. The muscle pain is like waking up from a very tough work out, but it begins right away.
He ordered us to start working on the concrete after our whippings. We both stumbled to the machine that Scott brought to mix the stuff. They decided it was faster that way, that having only two slaves mix it by hand in vats would not make the foundation strong enough.
We carried the bags of concrete on our shaky shoulders slowly. We had to be careful to go fast enough to avoid anything from the Taskmaster but not so fast that we dropped some and incurred even more from the mutherfucker.
Crete was emptying a bag into the mixer as I went back to get two more. I heard the Taskmaster hock again. Crete dropped the bag into the mixer and ran to the man with the whips. Crete knelt a little and caught the whole lugie. I was too scared to be sickened. The idea of eating a phlegm gobber versus being whipped again put me in a position where the lugie didn't make me that sick anymore.
But Taskmaster was not to be bested. He ripped a very loud fart. Crete made no notice and started back to the mixer. Taskmaster grabbed Crete by the collar and pulled his face very close to his own and screamed:
"I just gave you a gift from my body you fucking turd. What came out of my hole has more use and value that you. You do not just walk away from me when I give you a gift like that." Then he forced Crete down and kept his boot on Crete's neck. Out came the flogger. Taskmaster didn't seem to care where the lashes landed so long as when they did they were moving at max speed. Then, "Thank me for my gift you fuckwad."
"Thank you for your gift Taskmaster." Crete screamed as he writhed under the lash and boot.
"What did my gift smell like slave?"
I would die at this point. I would not be able to come up with an answer I wasn't sure would get the skin whipped off my back.
"Like a gift from the Taskmaster to a worthless slave turd."
In life before the collar, that thought would never cross my mind, and if it did, I would have too much dignity to think about saying it. Now I was making a mental note.
I was also making a mental note about what was next.
I was going to do all I could to avoid being around him when he has to piss. I'd only begun to have to do that and am terrible at it-can't swallow it as fast as Crete. He laid into Crete like gangbusters for not commenting on a fart, I didn't want to know how much worse it was to let any of his piss spill out of a mouth. So when I had to walk the distance from the mixer to the stack of concrete bags, I went as slowly as I could manage for maximum time further away from him; Crete knows this, but for one he doesn't care, for another I think he is still protecting me some since I am not in this situation by choice-at least that is what it feels like; he's never said anything about it directly.
This sense of protection showed itself a little while after the fart incident. We were both at the mixer when we heard the zipper. Crete gave me a quick look as if to say, I got it. He hurried to Taskmaster, knelt and opened his mouth just an inch or so away from what turns out to be a fat uncut monster even mostly flaccid. This fucker was obviously just sadistic because he could be as vicious as he wanted without retribution. He pissed as he would standing in front of any urinal basically which meant he, like many men, spit too. We were forbidden from allowing anything of his hit the ground, and he spit in a place where Crete could not both catch the stream and the spit. So Crete jerked slightly to try to catch the spit, instead he missed it and allowed part of the piss to stream down his neck and chest. He got back into position quickly and finished the task.
"Thank you Taskmaster."
"A'ite, back at it slave." He said calmly as he zipped up.
"Yes Taskmaster."
Now I was totally fucking lost. My back still stung from something as simple and gross as a lugie and Crete got far worse from a fart thing. Now Crete spilled something these master types seem to think as valuable and special as a vintage wine and nothing happened.
I got a chance to ask Crete about it a few minutes later when Scott came to check on things. While Taskmaster's attentions were not entirely on us, I whispered:
"What happened? Why didn't he fuck you up?"
"Dunno, but it is probably one of a couple things. Either he thinks it keeps us on our toes to be unpredictable like that, or he was wondering if I would react differently-I've been at this too long for that-or, and this is what I'm betting on, he is chalking it up to use later." His breath still smelled pretty strongly of piss almost an hour later.
"Man, I can't take it if he is going to whip me like that again."
"Rex, dude," he said with a sort of pitying look, "what else are you gonna do?"
What else WAS I going to do was fucking right.
Scott came over to me after we emptied the contents of the mixer into the area for the foundation and were getting ready to fill it again.
"You like the taskmaster boy?"
"Sir yes sir."
"Not too hard on you?"
"Sir no sir." There was no good answer to this; it was one of those questions masters ask when they just want an excuse to punish.
"Yo, Rex here said you weren't that hard on him. Maybe Noah was mistaken when he brought you on."
"Has it now? We'll let's do this then. Tie him to that tree and we can take turns giving him some licks and see what he thinks then."
My knees got weak and I stumbled a little.
"Oh, now it won't be all that bad, just a game amongst masters." Taskmaster said while Scott led me to the tree.
I tried to stifle some tears as he binds my hands so that I was hugging the pine tree loosely.
"See it let a little of my lung biscuit hit its cheek instead of eating it like a good slave, so I gave it ten of these."
My back lit up with fire. I didn't bother counting lashes, I would be here until I am whipped to death and it didn't matter how many lashes it took to do that.
"Now you try it and see if he screams as loud." I heard Taskmaster say.
More lashes landed and I screamed. I didn't know what whip was being used; a feather at this point would have made me scream.
"I don't know, mine sounded like they got a louder scream out of it. Here, I'll do one then you do one."
Fuck. It didn't matter anymore. One lash hit from one direction and I screamed. One lash hit from the other direction and I screamed. This went on as I tried to find a place in my skull where the body noise from the whipping was quieter. There was no such place in a brain overcome with every sort of physical and psychic stimuli.
I felt a hand jerk my head back. "Tough enough now you runny dung?"
My eyes would not focus, my jaw would not unclench and drool poured from my lips. I could only nod.
Scott untied my hands and I collapsed.
"Good game." Scott said to Taskmaster. "I guess I'll let this one rest for five or so before having him get back at it."
I leaned against the tree with my knees beneath me. Drool leaked out of one end, piss leaked out of another, the muscles in my body were all fighting a war with each other and I could only wait it out. They continued to talk near me.
"I notice you call the slave him. Mind if I ask why you do that?"
"Haven't really thought about it. He's got a dick, so he's a him." Scott said.
"Yeah it has a cock, but you own that cock. You own it like you own your truck or your tv. You get stuff out of those things but don't call them him, well maybe your truck, but that is a sign of respect and that isn't something a slave gets."
"Don't know why it even matters." Scott said.
"I guess it don't. Except that it ain't fair to the slave. It is confusing for it to be treated like a slave should be but be called like a human would. I mean, Rex and Crete ain't their real names are they? No, they're animal names. If you're gonna change their human names to slave names, there ain't much reason to call them him and he."
"You learn that in Peru or wherever?" Scott sounded a little ticked, like it was a good idea, but he didn't want to admit that an eighteen year old could come up with it.
"Costa Rica, and yeah." Taskmaster said.
"Well, 'til Noah says I have to do it, I think I'll do it my way." Scott walked back to the house.
"Ok, up and back to work slave." Taskmaster said to me.
"Yes Taskmaster," I rasped. It wasn't easy standing up, but once on my feet again, the pain wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
I didn't get another chance to talk with Crete before we were caged for the night. He had to drink Taskmaster's piss once more-his bladder was huge, the piss stream had to last for more than a minute. He only hit either of us a couple more times before we were done. They are what Crete called 'encouragement' lashes when he was telling me about the rules of this life. To me, every lash is an encouragement lash, pushing me to avoid it, and to find a way to break from it altogether.
So I'm lying on my side trying to find the least uncomfortable spot to sleep in. Crete is asleep leaning his whipped back against the cage and is whistling a little through his nose.
It isn't long after I quit moving that the door opens and Taskmaster comes in. He sees that I'm awake and I move to sit up at attention as much as the cage will allow.
"Hey faggot." He says kicking Crete's cage.
"Sir, uh yes Taskmaster."
Taskmaster pulled down his sorts and hopped up onto Crete's cage. With little pause I can smell and hear him taking a shit. Crete moves to position himself under Taskmaster's asshole.
I can't watch this. I turn away and hear the noises and try not to puke. His smell is almost as bad as Crete's. No doubt he knows what to eat to make it so much worse for us.
"Rex, it better not keep looking away. I talked with Master Scott and he said it wasn't ready for this and I promised him I wouldn't force it . . . yet. But it needs to learn how to do it, or today's whippings will be easy as pie in comparison pig."
I have to follow the order. All the while he speaks to me, he is just going about his business and Crete is going about his. Taskmaster looks down at me to make sure I've faced him, then he looks face forward and puts his elbows on his knees. I keep my face pointed towards the action but refuse to focus my eyes on it. It is bad enough to hear the sounds Crete is making. He sounds like a dog denied food for a long time-since he cannot control the flow, he has to breath when he gets a chance and the sound is as sickening as the stench.
"Damn Rex, I'm here filling up this dungeon with my smell and there is a slave here who hasn't give me my due. Is it going to do that, or does it want to be whipped again?"
Fuck. I can't remember what it Crete said earlier. "Thank you for the gift from your body Taskmaster, I appreciate it."
He looks down at me, still shitting into Crete as if it were as common as using real porcelain. "Not 'i' slave. It is in a cage, it serves a purpose but it is no longer a man or anything like that. Look at its slave brother. Crete is eating my shit, that isn't something a man or an I would do is it?"
"No Taskmaster."
"So say what you did, but do it the right way."
"It appreciates the gift you've given it Taskmaster." I blush while I say this.
"Oh, look how it blushes." He says in a mock baby voice. "Look at its slave brother. Is Crete blushing?"
"No Taskmaster."
"And Crete is serving a more useful purpose right now than it is, so what does that make it? If Crete is useful now and it isn't, what does that make it?"
"Less than Crete Taskmaster."
"Kinda. It makes it less than a shiteating slave. It is lucky, if it belonged to me entirely, it would have to eat what came out of its brother until I felt it deserved a promotion."
"Yes Taskmaster."
"Right," he says coming down off of Crete's cage, "it don't sound at all like it believes its position. I guess it really don't matter though. It will come to understand it soon enough. Now suck my junk slave." He puts his semi-hard cock through the bars and I do as he commands.
"Thank you for your gift Taskmaster." Crete says, panting a little.
He stands still as I do all I can on his thick, salty meat. "How did it taste, slave?"
"Better than a slave deserves Taskmaster."
He must be very horny because his cock isn't even fully stiff when he starts bucking against the cage to thrust better. I then get a very hot and bitter mouthful of Taskmaster jizz. It's like he saves it all up for one blow and it all comes out at once. I swallow and fight making a face.
"Thank you for the gift of your cum Taskmaster."
"More than it deserves." He says offhandedly as he pulls up his shorts and leaves the dungeon.
I look to Crete to try to talk him into helping me escape, but he is already asleep again.
The Other Side of the Lash
I blow a nut into my girlfriend at 14 (she was 15). She gets pregnant-until I knew better I was sure she was lying about being a virgin since I though you couldn't get knocked up your first time. Her parents freak. They come to my parents who were divorcing and then they freak out. Then there is a call to Costa Rica and just a few days after, I'm wearing handcuffs on a long drive from Fort Worth to a town outside San Jose.
The men escorting me tell me it is a school for young men with behavior problems. They tell me to expect something less than a military academy and more than a boarding school. It calms me a little, but I'm sick at my stomach for the whole trip and barely able to eat. What they tell me wasn't even close to what it really is.
I get there and they 'process' me. This means they strip me and take me to room with other 14 year olds. We are all naked and only some of the wooden beds have mattresses or sheets on them. There is one cracked toilet and one sink for the half dozen of us. I am handed a dog tags that have one number on them in bright white paint-I notice the other boys have them too. Mine is 525.
"You will get your name back when you earn it with enough behavior points. Until then you are 525. You will refer to yourself that way and your buds here will do the same. Using names of any kind is punished severely." The man says as he shows me to the slats on legs that is my 'bed.' "You earn bedding and clothes as you learn to behave. The more points, the more you get. Once you get to the point where you are fully clothed, you move up to a better dorm."
Then he leaves. I would ask questions if I weren't so busy trying to hide my dick from everyone else and basically being embarrassed. I sit on the bed with my back to the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. They are looking me and I see that they are all thin, pale and dirty.
I sit there for a little while before one of them asks me where I'm from. They all tell their hometowns and at least two of them get teary-eyed. I don't remember where any of them are from now. I find out that we are fed only once a day unless one of the older guys came to get us. I ask about classes and they all laugh a little.
"You'll try to learn how to keep your asshole exit only, but it won't work."
I pull my knees even closer. I know they are all naked and hungry and dirty, but I think they are just kidding about that.
"522 report for chow." An intercom blares.
A kid goes to the door, it buzzes unlocked and he disappears. A few minutes later he shows up with a rickety cart that had 8 bowls on it. The food is a mostly bean soup slop. I watch as the other kids start eating the shit with their hands. At first I refuse to do it, then I realize if it is only once a day, I'll have to put pride aside for a little while. It doesn't have much taste and no meat as far as I can tell.
After each boy finished his bowl, he put it back on the cart. I wasn't quite finished with the intercom rang again ordering 522 to return the bowls. He takes mine from me with as much force as his bony body will allow.
"I can't be late with it or they beat me."
I let go, disbelieving. And off he goes.
Apparently more time ticks away than is usual and a couple of the boys get nervous. Then 522 returns and his back is welted with a ton of red stripes. His eyes are red and his nose is running.
"You didn't finish all your chow. I didn't want to tell, but they beat me till I did." He can't look at me.
"525 report to staff room block D."
"Um where is that?"
"Turn left when you leave the room and go to the end of the hall." 522 says.
I walk to the door still cupping my hands over my junk. The door buzzes and I open it and walk down the hall. I go about 20 steps and get to the office. It is a metal desk and a guy of about 17 or so.
"We expect grunts to eat all that is given them in the time given them. It didn't comply. For every fuck up, it pays." He says sitting on the desk with his boots propped up on it still.
"It?"
"We don't call inmates still naked and called by only numbers by human terms. To us, inmates are it until they prove they aren't. I've got all my clothes; I got more hair on my dick than you. And I have this." He holds up something I don't know the name of, I think they use it on horses though. "Bend over the desk and spread your legs wide." I have no choice; I do it. "Now grab the sides of the desk. First rule it gets reminded of is that anyone better than it is called SIR, since it is the lowest there is, everyone is SIR. So you get 10 for that. Second is the reminder that all contents in its food bowl is to be eaten in the time given. 10 more for that."
I'd been paddled before; I figure this won't be much different. I am determined not to make any noises. The fucker calls me it for not finishing the bean shit in my bowl. I ain't going to give him any satisfaction.
"Count each stroke." He stings. I hear the swish the feel the burning swipe across my ass.
I jerk, then say. "One sir."
"No you see, when it gets beat, it has to use the whole title. Mine is Block Commander, Inmate Block D."
The next one crosses my ass. The sting is horrible, but I keep my cool. "Two block commander, inmate block d sir."
"No, see it has run into a problem. The first one didn't count because it counted wrong. Start back at one."
Swish. Oh fuck. "One, block commander, inmate block d sir." This goes on for nineteen more. I am able to keep my wits and my calm a little. By twenty though, I am hoarse and shaking and pouring sweat.
"A'ite 525, back to the room."
"Yes sir." I whisper and head back. My legs work, but they wobble and are stiff at odd times. It is hard to balance. I get back to the room and I am hit with a stink. One kid is getting off the toilet and another getting on as I come back in. The one leaving doesn't flush.
"Let's see." One says pointing to my ass. I turn and he says. "No blood, but I know it hurts like shit."
"Yeah. Why don't you guys flush, it smells like shit in here." I ask.
"Look at it when it's your turn, there's no flusher on it. They control it. So sometimes they flush it after each one of us, sometimes not. When a new person gets here, it can stay full all night."
"You're kidding." The stink is horrible. After the new boy does his business, another follows. There is no toilet paper, and the smell with each boy seems to get worse. Now I feel my own guts churn. I fart and realize I will need to be next in line.
"I think they sometimes put stuff in the food." 523 says to me as I walk towards the toilet.
It is cracked. There is no seat and no water in it, only a couple of loads of boy shit. I have no choice. It is either in the can or on the floor-and on the floor is worse for them and no doubt painful for me later. I barely just touch my red ass on the rim and I realize I won't be able to do that. So I have to take my dump standing up. I squat as best I can and hold my cheeks apart gingerly and then just relax. Whatever they put in the chow does all the work as it comes out of me blown by several farts. I gag a little as I walk back to my bed-the closest to the toilet.
I lie on my stomach on the hard slats and start to cry a little. I didn't do that the whole trip down and didn't do it when my ass was being beat, but now I can't help it. 523 comes over to me as another boy blows his ass load into the toilet.
"Its ok to do that here. But don't ever let any of the commanders see you do that."
"What would they do that is worse?" I know as soon as I ask.
"Just rest."
The morning starts with us being started out of bed with a loud alarm like a fire alarm. The shit is still in the toilet, the stink still in the air, and all of us tired and hungry. 522 goes to the door, stumbling a little and rubbing his eyes. The door buzzes open and the guy who beat me last night is there with a bucket in either hand.
"Holy fucking Christ. The smell inmates make is criminal enough to keep them locked up." He puts a surgical mask over his face. He walks over to the toilet. We all stand at the end of our beds, except for 522, who takes the buckets to the sink. He fills one up with water and leaves one.
"525, this is too full to flush. It will have to empty the inmate shit into that bucket. I can tell by the way it looks around that it is trying to figure out what to scoop it with. Well, obviously its hands are good enough. The rest know what to do!"
523 and 524 start licking his boots. The rest take the bucket and the scrub brushes in it and start scrubbing the cell floor. I take the bucket under the sink and look at the toilet. I am going to die. This is a standard sized toilet and it is mostly full of boy shit. My ass still stings from last night. I know I can expect more and probably worse if I don't do what he orders. I dip my fingers in like I would water I think is hot. I start to gag.
"525, puke and it eats what comes up no matter where it falls . . . where is my yes sir?"
"Yes sir." There is no way for me to describe it. I hold my breath and keep my eyes closed as much as I can. I pretend it is mud and so long as I can keep my breath held, I can make myself believe it. I fill the bucket and he comes over to inspect. He nods his head and the toilet flushes. There must be a camera in the room.
"525 get the bucket and come with me; the rest head to the yard."
They all say yes sir, I say yes sir and follow him.
I follow him out of the building into the heat and humidity of a Costa Rican day. He walks to a little creek and says to dump the bucket in the creek then rinse it out after. Next I follow him to back into the building and in the showers.
"Wash up."
"Yes sir."
The water is lukewarm but the idea of getting clean is better than just about anything. I don't even mind that much as the soap and water sting the welts on my ass. I'm totally soaped up when he grabs me and rapes me.
I know boys say that it feels like you're being ripped open when another guy shoves his dick up your ass, but it isn't like that for me. It hurts, but there it's more like my asshole is on fire and I'm having cramps further up. That pain though is nothing compared to the feeling of having no control. I never knew how much I have tied up in a feeling that I can control at least some things.
Later, when we are all back together, 523 notices the way I look.
"He fuck you?"
I nod.
"Did you bleed?"
"Um, I don't know . . . I don't think so."
"Let me look. I know its gross, but it's important." He says. I bend over and let him look. "Looks ok. He must like you, it looks like he might have used some lube."
Two more times I am raped during that first week. The next time, I have decided that he will have to kill me if he wants to do that again. I know his pattern by this point and when I feel the air move around my midsection where he grabs me; I whirl around and kick him in the balls. He goes down with a thud and I kick him in the jaw and then in the chest. Then I go back to the cell. I fully expect to have the hell beat out of me, but it will be worth it to say, at least once, that he wasn't going to get my ass for free anymore.
He and two more commanders come to get me. They are silent as I walk between them to what I guess is the main office.
"Did you attack your block commander?" A man in his early twenties asks. We are in his office and it is cool here. I shiver some because I'm not used to air-conditioning now.
"He was trying to rape me again sir, yes I attacked him, but only after he came after me again sir."
"Is this true?" He asks my commander.
"Of course not. I asked it to do something it didn't want to and it just went nuts."
The man behind the desk thinks on this for a minute. "Tim, go get Hayden a commander uniform and take yours off, you're being demoted."
"What!?" Tim says. "I just told you that this fucker attacked me for no reason."
"Look I know you've gone at his ass, and I don't give a shit about that. You know how it works. You have 40 pounds and 8 inches on this kid and he took you down. So even if you weren't fucking his tail, you fell victim to a runt so you would no longer have any control over the rest of the inmates." Then to me. "I'm going to give you some training for a week or so, I'm expecting some 13 year olds to show up soon and you'd be perfect to handle them."
Tim comes back naked, but carrying a jock, pair of shorts and t-shirt for me. "Get your own damned boots."
I hold onto the clothing. I look at the main man and he nods, so I put them on. They feel a bit funny and constricting even though (except for the jock) the area pretty loose-I never would have figured I would be comfortable being naked all the time.
"Now, Tim. Take Hayden's number. It will now be 525 in block A."
I take the dog tags off, happy to be rid of them.
"You better watch your ass fucker, next time my dick is in it you'll suck your last breath." He rips the tags from my hand.
"Perfect time to start your lessons, Hayden." The man says. He goes behind his desk and hands me whip thing that had been Tim, um 525's until just a few minutes ago. "I'm sure you've been on the other end of this, show me what you can do with it."
"Um, 525 assume the position." I sound scared.
"Are you a faggot Hayden?" The man asks, I shake my head. "Did 525 pop your cherry?" I nod; I also get the picture.
"Fucker, bend over that fucking desk now." My voice is deeper and louder than I though I could ever get it. 525 bends over the desk. I start whipping his ass. I must not be doing it very hard because 525 isn't making any noises and the man seems concerned.
"You'll need to be quicker with the swing and put your full weight behind it. If he raped me, I'd be trying to cut him in half with it."
I take his advice and swing with all I have, my bare feet coming off of the floor with each stroke. He made me count, but I'm enjoying this too much to have to slow down for any reason for him. It feels good in an odd, cold way to be doing this. I am very calm despite having a raging stiffy. I hear him yelp as I watch the welts form on his ass. I want to stick my cock up his hole so badly. That makes me even madder, so I find a way to swing harder. Blood starts to leak out of some of the newer welts.
"I think that's enough. Now, 525, don't you have something to say?"
"Thank you sir." He says as he turns to face me. I shoot a load into the jock.
"You just get a nut without touching Hayden?"
I am panting and very surprised myself. I blush and say, "Yes sir."
"Don't be embarrassed dude, just means you're a natural at it."
I practice on 525 and a couple of other demoted commanders in the man's office (I never do learn his real name, he's just always "sir"). He gives me the rules that are simple. I am to maintain order with an iron hand and a leather crop. Any means are fine so long as the kids do not require medical attention for broken bones.
"Just keep an eye on them and if they look unhealthy for any reason, let me know and I'll look in on the inmate and decide if any action is necessary. Otherwise, do whatever you think it will take to keep the boys in line.
On the first day after I get the revenge on 525, I promise I will never do what he did. I would be better about it. By the third day, I get so good at bringing the older boys to tears with my lashes that I realize I like doing it, and it was going to be hard to keep that promise to myself. By the fifth day, I say fuck it to my promise. I cum nearly every time I made the older boys crumple on the floor.
A few days later, I get 6 thirteen year olds numbers 600 through 605. I am certain none of them had ever had nightmares to compare to me.
In turn, each of the six get 10 whacks with my crop. Each one is in tears when I have finished.
"When I come in to the room, all y'all have to kneel on the floor with heads on the concrete and ass in the air. You have to ask permission to get up. What I say, gets done, or you and one of your little faggot buddies get beat." I have no idea where these ideas come from, 525 never had us do any of that stuff.
The first night for all of them is like my first night. They all get food with a small amount of laxative in it. I watch their progress and torment in a room behind the man's office with him and a couple of other block commanders.
"You going to pick one of them and do what Tim did to you?" The man asks.
"Nah, thought I would be more fair about it. Have each of them scoop some out and walk it to the creek. Spread the joy."
"You are one mean fucker Hayden." He says.
Over the course of the next three years, I get more and more clever and more and more vicious about handling the inmates. I do not fuck any of those under me. I sometimes fuck the demoted commanders when the man wants a show, but that is as far as it goes. For the first 18 months or so I can cum just by beating or humiliating an inmate. After that though, it doesn't happen so easily. So I leash 522 making him my suck-slave. I never do get his real name-it never matters to me.
The inmates are so fucking scared of me that when the authorities raid the place, none of them will finger me in any way, even though I expect to be arrested with some of the others. I chalk that one up to luck I guess.
I get home to a very guilty mother who is so horrified at what has happened she doesn't know what to do. She buys me anything I want and tries to get me a tutor who will catch me up on the 4 years of school I lost. But it is useless. All I want to do is fuck chicks.
But that is all useless too. It isn't for lack of pussy. Girls hear about how wounded I was and they are waiting in line. The problem is that I can't stay hard long enough to get a nut. The only time I am able to do it is when I get the mental image of whipping a cowering inmate. It is frustrating to the extreme. They couldn't have found a better cure for getting a girl pregnant if they had tried (short of cutting my nuts off).
So I go online. I figure that I could find some girls into SM. This turns out to be frustrating too. The 'girls' online who want what I need to get off are fat old and ugly; no matter how hard I smacked them around, I'd never get a nut.
But I get a message from this guy in Dallas. He chats with me, discovers my past and wants to see me in action with his slave. I haven't gotten off in a real way since leaving Costa Rica two months back, so I do it. I impress him enough for him to call a friend of his in Colorado.
The Race
Friday evening of the race, all of the hands and as many field slaves as knew about the event showed up at the barn. With nothing to bet, the spectators were there for the prurient joy alone. They began to arrive at the barn about an hour before sundown, many brought their dinner with them.
Ka decided that there wasn't enough incentive not to lose, or for that matter, to win. So he changed the rewards. The winning hand would take the hands of the last two teams to cross the line as his horses the next time-his winning horses then being 'freed' for the other hands to fight over if they liked (this would tend to mitigate the likelihood that any one hand would run away with many consecutive wins). That was incentive for the hands. For the ponies, the losing pair would have to lay in the main honeyboy's trough for a day, giving those pigs some relief from the hard tile.
The test runs proved that the ponies couldn't maintain enough speed through all the turns to keep things interesting. So the route was changed. The distance would be half a mile. The teams would run to a post a quarter of a mile out and return to the barn, making then only one turn. The starting line was a bit diagonal, with the first position-closest to the main line-farther back than each of the others following.
When everyone was gathered, Ka called each of the hands leading teams together.
"Ok, I'm putting 8 numbers in a hat. Each of you take one, the number is your position.
Each hand then took his team and attached them to their positions, then guided them to their position.
"Ok, Buck, will you do the honors of starting us off?" He shouted towards Buck who was standing at a skeptical distance.
"Actually, I think I would rather do that." Sam said; he was walking up.
"Certainly, Sir, we would all be honored."
Sam walked to a position a dozen or so yards forward from the starting line and held up a white cloth. "Can everyone see this?"
Yes sir's all around.
"Ok, men," Ka said, "bandanas." With this each hand tied a bandana as a gag. They had to direct their team with rein and whip only.
"Ready . . . Set . . . GO!" Sam dropped the flag and stepped back a bit. Once everyone cleared his position, he went back to watch with the rest of the crowd.
"I still don't see why you think this is a good thing." Buck said to Sam as he came back.
"For me it is fun to watch. And-you know how often I pull rank-that is enough." Sam said watching the teams speed and bunch up.
"I just want to go on record as saying this will cause problems that I don't think you've considered."
"So you've said, but since you have not been able to tell me what those problems are, there is no reason for me not to continue as I see fit." Sam said in a calmness that belied the sternness of the words.
At this point, the audience saw one team break away-from the distance it wasn't possible to tell who, only to know that he was using the whip more liberally than the others. He was the first to make the turn and had to turn very widely because he hadn't slowed down enough to make it happen more easily. In the process, three other teams moved past him.
The lead changed five times before one team crossed the line. Chet and his two ponies crossed the line a length before the second place finisher.
It would be ironic to anyone who hadn't felt a whip perhaps, but the last place finisher was the one who used the whip so effectively at the beginning. Ka came in last by about fifteen full seconds-not even that close to the next to last finisher, Todd.
"That," Buck said as respectfully as he could, "is what I meant. Ka is in a very difficult position now and he doesn't handle that well. I ain't saying that this will wreck the whole thing, but it brings in an uneasiness that wasn't there before."
"So keep an eye on him and let me know. I know how to take care of that sort of thing." Sam smiled and went to shake Chet's hand.