SCAMPI, By Richard Davies
(Note from the poster, Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com Over a relatively short period Richard Davies contributed many stories to Yahoo groups, and then suddenly stopped. Some of the work is incomplete, but all the stories are set in a mythical near-future where slavery is the norm. They have a fascination for many people, and are well written. His work is being consolidated onto a single Yahoo group, and some of it is being cross-posted to reach a wider audience).
SCAMPI Part One
The police picked me out of the gutter and drove me home. They got my mother out of bed and handed me over like I was some piece of garbage. It wouldn't have surprised me if they'd given her a ticket for littering.
After they had gone my mother went straight back to bed. She had shrugged off my attempt at an apology and told me to sleep it off.
'When I think of what Scampi's made of his life, and then look at you....'
The remark stung and I lay awake for the rest of the night thinking about Scampi, and his great success, and wondering whether I would ever amount to anything. I fell asleep around dawn and woke mid-morning feeling better than I deserved. After a shower and breakfast I put on some decent clothes and took a car. Mother and the slaves had gone to the races, so I left a message: 'Gone to see Scampi.'
My mother liked to tell people that Scampi had cried non-stop for a week when he first arrived. She had found him in rags chained to the wheel of a caravan at a country fair. It was raining and his teeth were chattering. There was a sign hung round his neck that said simply, 'for sale, $500 ono." My mother had knocked on the caravan door, and offered three fifty to the woman who poked her nose out. The woman nodded and went to unchain the boy while my mother scribbled a cheque. When the boy didn't stand up straight the woman thrashed him across the backs of his legs with the chain. My mother asked his name and age, but the woman just shrugged.
'We call him Shrimp. Don't know how old, but his balls are dropping.' She gave the boy a parting cuff on the ear. 'Whip 'im well and he'll work well.'
Too wet and dirty to sit inside my mother's car, the boy was put in the trunk for the drive home. My mother could hear him moving about and crying, and she was tempted to stop off in town and deliver him to the police as lost property, but thought better of it. After all, such a skinny boy wouldn't cost much to keep, and there were always plenty of small jobs that needed doing round the house.
If he did weep for a week, he must have rid himself of all his tears, because I have no memory of Scampi unhappy. He seemed to love his life as a family slave. Even when he had been punished he would restrict himself to a few sniffs and misty eyes, as if the occasion demanded nothing less, and then would return to being his usual cheerful self. Although always ready to serve, he was always up for a game with us kids, or any piece of light mischief.
To me he was like a perfect older brother. He taught me to swim, and to climb trees, make knots, track animals and catch fish. He never minded clearing up after me, and would put his butt in line for a spanking to save mine. He never argued or asked favours, never made me feel a fool, and when we fought he did so gently, and soon turned the contest into a game. In front of my parents he always called me Young Master or Master Lloyd, while in private I was Massel, an affectionate shortening of Master L.
My father had renamed him Scampi when he noticed how the young slave was putting on weight and height. 'No longer a mere shrimp, more like a piece of scampi!' It was a joke, and as such it stuck. And it was true that Scampi was no longer anything like the snotty-nosed waif my mother had brought home. He was not tall, but he worked on his body to make himself as fit and strong as any other slave in the neighbourhood. Like many young men endowed with a long cock, big balls and a bubble butt, he was a sexual fireball, capable of coming six times a day. Even so he'd have enough energy left to give me a goodnight suck, and then nip over the fence to fuck one of the slave girls next door. He had dark eyes and wavy black hair that fell across his brow in clumps. My father was always threatening to whip him if he didn't get himself a proper slave's haircut, but for one reason or another neither the whipping nor the haircut ever seemed to materialise.
When I was thirteen my parents sent me away to school, and Scampi became my father's body slave. This changed Scampi. He became more serious and put away childish things. He was still willing and eager, but he no longer dragged me from my bed to go swimming on summer mornings, nor did he take the outside backstairs six steps at a time, rattling the whole house. He stopped whistling popular songs, and could pass through the kitchen without jumping to grab the crossbeam and test his strength with pull-ups. The house was less noisy, and my father's temper improved, but something was lost.
My mother had grown used to scolding Scampi for flirting with the slave girls down the street, and forgetting to put a shirt on before running to the shops. My sisters missed not finding chocolate buttons under their pillows after he had changed their bed linen, and I mourned the porn magazines I no longer discovered under mine. Nor did he any longer serve lunch on Sundays with the food on our plates arranged in rude designs that made us giggle in front of the vicar or neighbours.
It had always been a paradox that Scampi-the-slave was the free spirit among us. In service to my father, however, he adopted that air of discretion and loyalty that was to become his adult persona. Although my father was short tempered and could be harsh with his household slaves, Scampi won him over. 'That boy's the best slave I've had,' he would say as Scampi went jogging off on some minor errand. 'Willing, obedient... and a damn good brain.'
More than once I remember him looking at me with a wistful expression after singing Scampi's praises. It's hard for a teenage boy whose father ignores him in favour of a slave, and I can't help thinking my life would have better if I had stayed at home and Scampi had been sent away. He had a talent for inspiring love, something that I lacked. He never showed me disrespect, but when he became my father's personal slave he lost interest in me. There were no more jokes, no more games and tricks; no midnight visits for a bout of sketchy adolescent lovemaking, no more laughter, and no more friendship. Being unpopular at home was as lonely as being unpopular at school.
My father died when I was fifteen, and I began to go downhill. Drink, drugs, bad company at school, my mother's indulgence, all played their part. In his will my father gave Scampi his freedom and a thousand pounds. I got more than two hundred times as much, and yet here we were seven years on, and I was skint while Scampi was worth millions. It may have been fair and just, and the way of the world, but it hurt.
We'd never lost touch with Scampi, and he was devoted to my mother who had saved him, and who was the widow of the man who had taught him the ways of the world and given him his freedom. He still bowed to my mother and showed her every respect. His financial advice had made her secure. Even with me he was friendly and willing to pass the time of day, but his easy subservience to my will and whims was gone. Now he had his own slaves to fetch and carry and sleep in his bed.
Scampi lived in a modern house in the Surrey Hills with four acres and long views. I did not need to announce myself, and left my car on the gravel drive for the slaves to park.
The front door was open and a young slave with a gypsy's face came running to greet me. I'd once fucked him when I'd stayed overnight because I was too drunk to drive. I gave him a kiss and a pat on the bottom, and told him to run and tell his master that I had arrived.Scampi didn't keep me waiting long, and he came downstairs at an easy jog to greet me. 'Massel! What a nice surprise. Come through.'
He looked fit and relaxed in a blue shirt and chinos and he led the way down a corridor and through a sunny living room out onto a patio. The view stretched as far as London. It was a blustery morning but we decided to sit out. We slumped down into comfortable chairs and gave our orders to a slim young male slave wearing of white shorts and shirt. He had broad shoulders and good legs, but the most striking thing was his deep blue eyes and glossy black hair. He spoke with a soft burr.
When I asked for a Bloody Mary, Scampi frowned and asked for a coffee. To escape his disapproval I said, 'Did I hear an Irish accent?'
Scampi smiled as we watched the departing slave. 'No bad is he? Top of the range. Cost a fortune, but I like Irish slaves. There's something comforting about them.' He turned to me and asked about my mother, and then about me.
'I'm in a lot of trouble. I've debts... such as you wouldn't believe.' The slave appeared with the drinks. Scampi dismissed him as soon as the drinks were set down.
'Why don't you make that your last Bloody Mary? I mean it Lloyd, why not stop now, right here, change your life?'
I had never heard him call me Lloyd before. It had always been either Master Lloyd or Massel. The change sent a shiver down my spine. 'I just need five thousand. I'll pay it back.' I hadn't meant to get to the point so quickly, or ask so bluntly.
'Never throw good money at a bum's debts. There's only one way I'd consider it.' He picked up his glass and took a sip. 'Be my slave. Like I was yours. If you agreed to that, I'd settle all your debts.'
He leaned over and placed his hand on my arm. 'When I was down and out, your mother saved me, and your father gave me my freedom. Now you're down and out, it's my turn to rescue you. When you're better, fit and strong enough to stand on your own feet, I'd set you free. I promise. And is there an alternative?'
My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I no longer wanted the Bloody Mary. It tasted foul. I felt as if I was driving a car that had run out of control and was about to crash. This is how it ends, I thought; this is how it starts.
After that day I didn't set eyes on Scampi for six months. His assistants saw me through the enslavement procedure and afterwards I disappeared into that half-world inhabited by company owned slaves. I felt tricked. Instead of being a domestic slave as Scampi had been, I was just a cog in a machine of exploitation. No one would ever find me. Scampi had played a cruel game of revenge for his own obscure purposes and I had been fool enough to fall for it. Bitterness and self-loathing consumed me, and would have done for me had I not been kept hard at work. My craving for alcohol dissolved in the face of the whippings meted out to those caught drinking anything other than water.
My first assignment was to join a maintenance team servicing an office block. I worked on site four days a week; otherwise I was held at the company's central training camp. It was a rough time. The company that had bought me, and taken on my debts, was a joint venture between Scampi and some venture capitalists eager to sweat their assets. I was classified as a Grade C Ordinary Slave and lived in a dormitory with eleven others of the same category. We each had a wooden bed and a blanket, a uniform and a wooden spoon. Everything else had to be earned. The system was carefully designed to humiliate and degrade those who couldn't keep up the pace, while rewarding those who did.
It was soon clear who would be promoted to Grade B where conditions were a whole lot better. No less clear was the fact that many were trapped in a downward cycle that would lead them to the auction block. Our days were spent competing as individuals and as a team. We were required to keep ourselves shaved, but the razor-slaves never had enough time to shave all twelve of us. Half went on parade with a day's beard. Go three days without a shave and you'd fail the morning inspection. The showers had warm water for a couple of minutes and then ran cold. If you smelt you were soon pulled out of inspection. That meant no breakfast, as you had to wait in line to be flogged. It was the same with uniform. There was never enough washing liquid to go round, or enough electricity in the iron for everyone to get their overalls clean and crisp. Those who always looked good were promoted. Those who turned out with crumpled and dirty uniforms were taken for the Monday auction. Replacements would duly appear.
As a team we competed against the others on the training field as we struggled to achieve high rankings in fitness and competence. Of the eight teams only the top three would be rewarded with an enriched diet that gave its members a further advantage.
My team just about held its own, and so did I, but more than once I came within a hair's breadth of being sent for auction and afterwards worked to death by some mining company, or contract labour outfit. Two days a week we did slave training. This meant hours of exercises to develop out bodies. The guards drove us until every muscle ached, and we were fainting from thirst and exhaustion. We were taught to obey without question, to offer our cocks and butt-holes for the pleasure of others. We had to suck each other's cocks, swallow come, and sit on each other's faces. Our nipples were toughened, and our lips used to pleasure pussy and anus, tit and foot. We had to stand still while a guard slapped and kicked us, and after each blow we had to thank him with quiet conviction. Weights were dropped on out stomachs to strengthen our muscles, and we learned how to drop to our knees, kiss ass, and present ourselves for sexual use. We were taught to carry out an instruction while being distracted by barking dogs and guards, and made to stand still while they played with our belly buttons and balls, stuck their fingers in our mouths and up our noses, and scratched our nipples.
Once a month we were taken to the medical lab to be weighed and have our vision and reflexes tested. We were injected with vitamins and our urine was analysed. Out teeth would be scoured, our skin cleansed. We would be given laxatives and enemas, and be made to masturbate for a sperm count.
It was a pitiless regime. When working in the office block we had to wear overalls printed front and back with a number to report complaints. Since my task was to clean the men's executive toilets, complaints were common. Successful men don't like slipping on a wet floor, nor do they take kindly to finding their trousers sopping wet after sitting down for a shit. I came to loathe those toilets, with the smells, the constant flushing, and endless swabbing, blocked urinals and shit-stained toilet bowls. It was like some all-white, over-lit, stench-ridden, mirrored hell. The executives ignored me even when I was working stripped to the waist and bleeding after a whipping. Getting blood on my overalls was asking for trouble. The guards would come round on inspection and kick the daylight out of me if they found scum on the washbasin or shit in a toilet bowl. One liked to shove my head down the toilet, and another always fucked me in a cubicle. One executive demanded a blow-job every afternoon. I felt ashamed afterwards to have wet patches on my knees where I'd been made to kneel on the wet floor.
You never knew if there had been a complaint until the end of the shift when we all gathered down in the basement car park to sign off and wait for the bus to pick us up. We would line up and hand in our duty cards to the guards. If there had been a complaint you were told to stand to one side. This meant you were to be flogged. There was no other punishment. Never any leniency. The flogging was bad enough, but it was not all. Almost as bad was trying to find someone willing to do the flogging in time for you to catch the bus. If you missed it you had to travel by public transport and that meant finding someone to give you the fare and sign a permit-to-travel. All that took time, so that by when you did get back to barracks you had missed the evening meal. You went to bed flogged and hungry.
Floggings were all the same, as were our diets, exercise routines, workloads, and uniforms. Everything was done to a set standard. Floggings were given across the bare back with three-foot bull's hide whips. The official number of lashes was a dozen, but we were always given fourteen. Any guard could flog, but it was up to you to find one willing to do it. If there was a line of slaves waiting to be dealt with, you joined it and hoped the guard wouldn't tire before your turn. If he gave up you had to find another one willing to use the whip. This could take a while, and the delay could get you into further trouble. So although a flogging officially took no more than five minutes, it could use up an hour or more of precious time. If you failed to get yourself flogged you had to report to the punishment room in the barracks in the evening. There you would not encounter any delays - just a whipping of twenty-four lashes with a longer whip. If you were caught evading a whipping you were sent for auction.
Most of the guards were young working-class free men, with a basic education, and only too willing to exercise their right to flog. Most had the blunt features and hard bodies of their kind, and swaggered around in their close-fitting khaki uniforms. They carried whips coiled on their belts among the prods and sticks, cuffs and chloroform. Some were OK, and would overlook minor infractions in exchange for a blow-job or a quick fuck. Quite a few were brutes. By the end of six months there was not a slave among us who had not been whipped a dozen times. Our backs were scarred and we had developed that reflex obedience that seems so puzzling to free men. We had no ambition except to obey and avoid the whip.
Then one morning I was told to step aside as we lined up to go into breakfast. My heart sank as I stood and watched the others go by. Some smirked at my misfortune, a few risked expressions of sympathy. Most looked through me as if I were a ghost.
I heard a young man in a sharp suit and wearing dark glasses ask one of the guards whether the slave was reliable or required shackles. The guard said he was OK, but to use 'a bit of welly' at the first sign of trouble. They were talking about me. It was time to meet Scampi again.
SCAMPI ^Ö Part 2
The house in the Surrey Hills hadn't changed. Seen from the drive it stood serene in the mid-morning sunshine, and for a moment I imagined my ordeal might be over. Could it be they'd drop me off outside the front door so I could wander in and be greeted by a smiling slave who would offer me refreshment and hurry off to find Scampi? But I would have to learn not to indulge in such fantasises.
Half way up the drive we forked left along a secondary drive that took us down towards the slave quarters. We entered a yard with garages along one side opposite the windowless side-wall of the main house. Single storey slave dwellings made up the third side, with a fenced-off exercise yard and slave wash-house completing the square. While in no way squalid, it was a charmless utilitarian place.
I followed my young courier in through the rear entrance, past storerooms and the kitchens, and up a half flight of stairs to a wide landing. On one side the stairs ran on up to a green baize door, while on the other there was an office. I was led in and told to stand to one side on some floor-markers. The courier went over to the main desk and shook hands with a tall man who rose to greet him. They chatted as papers were signed and exchanged.
The room had a low ceiling and was dominated by the large desk. Elsewhere it was split down the middle. On my side the floors were bare and painted with markers where slaves should stand. There was an examination table, washbasin, a flogging stool, a glass-fronted cabinet containing various punishment instruments, some photographic equipment, and a metal bar and hooks fixed to the ceiling and to the wall beside me. The other half of the room was carpeted, and furnished with a coffee table and leather armchairs, a cocktail cabinet, and a TV and video.
His business concluded, my courier left, walking past me without a glance. The man behind the desk beckoned me. I moved up to the set of markers in front of the desk, bowed my head and fixed my eyes on the edge of the desk. I could see a phone, some family photos and scattered papers, but my eye was on the riding crop lying within easy reach of the man's right hand. He said his name was Bevan, and that he was the Overseer and should be addressed as Sir. 'There's only one Master round here, and that's Mr Wells.'
I'd not often heard Scampi called by his real name, and it must have made me smile a little, because Bevan reached for his riding crop, stood up and came round. He laid a couple of fierce cuts across my backside, but made no comment. He didn't have to. I got the message.
He told me I was lucky to be in the Master's house, and that I should try and live up to the Master's faith in me. The highest level of service, loyalty and obedience was expected of domestic slaves. I could be returned to industrial usage at any time. He said that he ran a tight ship, but slaves in his charge had nothing to fear so long as they worked hard and remembered their place in the scheme of things. Uppity slaves were dealt with harshly; good slaves were rewarded with a decent quality of life.
While he was speaking a chubby middle-aged slave with a large ring through his nose appeared, bowed to Bevan, dumped a pile of clothes on the desk, and took a position beside me. Bevan told me to strip and then mildly asked the slave about some washing machine that was malfunctioning. The slave answered in a strange high-pitched whisper. As soon as I was out of my overalls, the slave took them, bowed and was gone.
'That used to be the most valuable stud in the county.' Bevan picked through the clothes on the desk. 'Had more women than Casanova. Hence the bull's ring. He's a gelding now - his sperm went bad so we had him cut to prevent any accidents.'
He tossed me a pair of white shorts and a plain white shirt with epaulets and twin pockets. 'We'll start you off in those. Don't put them on yet. The Master wants to see you, so we'll have to get you cleaned up first.'
Bevan came close and told me to turn round. I felt fingers tracing the whip marks on my shoulders. 'I see they trained you whip-smart.' He flicked the crop across my butt. 'Nice shape; the Master likes that.' He used his crop to turn me to face him again and told me to look him in the eye. He placed the fingers of his right hand on my lower lip. His thumb edged its way into my mouth.
I was staring into a pair of round brown eyes. Bevan's face was that of a sane intelligent man. He had dark hair cut short and greying a little. His face was narrow and long, dominated by a Roman nose and a sensual mouth with moist red lips. Only his receding jaw hinted at weakness. After the animal overseers who had supervised my training, he seemed reassuringly normal.
'Don't let you attention wander.' He slapped my left cheek lightly. 'I like slaves fresh from training. There's a special something... an extra alertness, a reflex obedience, that's most appealing.'
He let his hand drop to grab my cock and balls. 'The pity is... it never lasts.' He squeezed tight, dividing the balls and pressing hard into the soft flesh behind them. 'In six months you'll be as fat and lazy as all the rest that pass for slaves in this house.'
He turned round and bent forwards a little with his hands resting on the desktop. He used his crop to tap his backside. I knew what to do. Executives in the washroom toilets had often taken the same position and made the same gesture. Another slave had told me college boys got into the habit with their frat house slaves.
I dropped to my knees. Every slave knows that men like to have their backsides licked. Kissing arse is a formal business. First you stretch up and place you lips against the middle of the seat of the pants just below the belt. While doing this you remove anything from the hip pockets. Then you go down to the left and kiss the very middle of the left buttock, and then the same with the right cheek. Only then do you press your whole face into the middle of the arse-crack, forcing your nose as far into the cleft as the tightness of the material allows. This was not unpleasurable: the pants were made of cotton that was warm and soft, and the arse smells were agreeably faint and mixed.
I must have judged right because Bevan purred and unbuckled his belt and tore open his flies. 'Lets see what you can do in the raw.'
I edged his pants down. He was wearing light blue cotton boxers and I couldn't resist rubbing my nose against them even as I edged them down. I could feel the resistance as the elastic waist was pulled over the erect cock. But on my side they slipped down easily to reveal a fine muscular butt well covered in black hair. The skin was pale, but warm and hard to the touch, and when I ran my tongue over the right cheek both buttocks quivered and clenched. I took the opportunity to press my face into the crack, using my nose as the invader as the muscles relaxed. In no time my nose told me I was at my target. I raised my nose an inch, and used my tongue to lick and probe the anus. It was warm, salty, and a little shitty. Six months before I would have gagged, vomited, and fought for my life to get out from there, but my training had done its work. Those executives, all the whip wielding guards, the other slaves restless in the night, had taught me to serve. I was not only happy on my knees with my face up Bevan's butt, I was taking pride in making the man happy.
While I was working on the rim I heard someone come into the office. A female voice asked if Bevan would like coffee. He said he would and also asked for some biscuits. There was some clatter and then whoever she was left. I had not stopped my probing, sucking, and puffing, and when Bevan used his hand to shove me away, I was confident I had done well. First impressions are all important, even for slaves.
In any slave household the Master sets the tone. It may seem like he does nothing but sit around being served, but it is his standards and expectations that govern everything. Trusted slaves, housekeepers, wives and grown up offspring may think they carry weight, but in reality the slaves will always follow and obey the Master. It is not something that needs to be taught. It is in the nature of slavery itself.
Pleasing Bevan had been easy: sucking his cock was no less so. It was all a matter of acting on a hint and seeing it through to its conclusion. The female slave had returned with the biscuits while I was sucking Bevan's cock, and he seemed to enjoy being served his refreshments while I serviced him. However, I did not kid myself that getting on the right side of Bevan would be enough. Pleasing Scampi might prove a harder task.
Having brought Bevan to a climax, and then sucked him dry, I was sent off to take a shower. The eunuch appeared and shaved me, clipped my hair, and dressed me. He gave me a new pair of sandals and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I had to admit I looked smart. The eunuch told me to go to the kitchen to wait to be called. I chatted to the female slaves who were preparing food. The atmosphere was relaxed, and the talk candid and I began to think that being a slave in such a house might not be all bad. After enduring six months of hell it was good to safe.
The atmosphere changed when Bevan came down to tell me the Master was ready to see me. The slaves were obviously frightened of him. Bevan said Scampi was in his first floor study. I would know the way.
He hadn't changed, but I had. He was sitting with his feet up on his desk while a very attractive young slave stood by typing into a laptop. Scampi had on his usual chinos and casual shirt, and his dark hair fell, as it always used to, across his brow. When he saw me he laughed out loud, said he couldn't believe it was me and that I was transformed, and how great it was going to be having me as part of the team. He really couldn't have been nicer. He jumped up and held out his arms and embraced me. He patted my butt and tested my muscles. 'I knew you'd make it. And you did.'
He turned to the young slave and explained that I was the son of his old Master, and that I was going to prove myself a chip off the old block. The slave smiled sweetly, and Scampi kept feeling my muscles and slapping my stomach and butt and congratulating me on looking like a healthy slave rather than a free bum.
'We must go for a walk - just the two of us.' He went over to the young slave and planted a kiss on the back of his neck. 'You carry on here... be good.' The slave smiled as if he had been promised a present, and then turned back to his task.
We walked for about an hour. The afternoon was sunny with a warm breeze, and we followed a path down through some woods to an old mill built over a fast stream. Scampi sat down, and told me to sit beside me. At first I crouched on my haunches but he pushed me back on my backside and told me it was OK to sit.
I knew this would be the only time we were together in this way, and that from then on it would be Scampi the Master and me the slave, but artificial as it was to pretend to be friends again, it was very pleasant. Most of our talk was about the old times, and we laughed a good deal, but when it was time to walk back Scampi became more serious. He asked me how my training had been, and I began to tell him, but before long he stopped me. 'We all go through hell... sooner or later, in one way or another. I did before your mother found me, and I vowed never to go through it again. I expect you're feeling the same now.'
My reply was to pull my shirt over my head and show him my torn back. I could not see his reaction, and when I pulled the shirt down again he was already walking ahead. He had his hands in his pockets, and his head bowed, as if lost in thought. 'I believe in slavery. That's why I've made my fortune from it. If I'd grown up a free man I wouldn't have amounted to anything. Serving your father made me the man I am. Unless I'd been his slave I'd never have learned anything. I owe all this to slavery.'
There was nothing I could say. I walked along beside him, hands behind my back, listening attentively to my master, as a good slave should. 'Remember how I used to take breakfast up to you in bed. Your mother used to forbid it, and I got walloped for doing it. But I figured a slave has to get his bottom kicked if he's to serve the family and keep the peace. So I never said you'd told me to take it up. I took my licks and learned that there's nothing wrong in taking licks. Or giving them.' He stopped and looked at me. 'Do you understand what I'm trying to say?'
'Yes Master.' What else could I have said?
He slapped me on the back (making me wince where the whip marks lay) and then grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. He slipped his fingers under my collar and pulled, half choking me. 'You're going to make such a good slave. No question. It's going to be great. I want you to serve me at meals, and help me about the place, and wake me in the morning and put me to bed last thing. All the things I used to do for you.'
'Yes Master.'
I wasn't fooled. In my time I'd sweet-talked slaves, offered them hope and encouragement, only to feel compelled to betray and humiliate them. It's the way it works between slaves and masters.
When we got back to the house Scampi kept me with him as we went back to the study where the young slave was still working away. Scampi called for a slave and told him to fetch Bevan. Then he turned to me. 'We must get you settled in.'
When Bevan appeared Scampi told him to take me off and show me the ropes. Bevan nodded and motioned me to leave the room. I waited outside, my eyes drawn to the modern paintings on the wall, the shining wooden floor, the rugs and antique furniture. Through the deep windows I could see trees caught in the evening sunshine and the green lawns stretching away. I could hear Scampi giving Bevan his instructions. I was to be kept busy. I would be Scampi's night duty slave two nights a week. I would also act as chauffeur and personal slave. I was to be given vitamin supplements and put on an exercise regime. I should have a cabin to myself. I could write to my mother. But first I was to be flogged. Fifty lashes. Afterwards I was to be cleaned up in time to serve at dinner.
Scampi called me back into the study. I stood with my eyes downcast. Any illusions I had were gone. From that moment I knew that I would be no different to any other slave. 'Bevan here is going to teach you a lesson. All new slaves here are taught it.' Scampi glanced over at the young slave. 'Aren't they?'
The slave nodded and muttered, 'Yes Master.'
Scampi came close and told me to raise my eyes. 'Often this whipping is the only one necessary. You'll be grateful for it.... afterwards. Your father whipped me when I first arrived at your house. I kept crying, and in the end he lost patience and whipped me half to death. He told me he'd do it again every time I cried. So I never did. I smiled and joked, and became a happy slave.'
'Yes Master.'
Scampi turned to Bevan. 'Get on with it then. Make it hot and strong, and you'll need someone with medical back-up.' He reached out and drew me to him. 'You'll survive. Everything will be all right.'
As I turned to follow Bevan I caught the eye of the young slave. He gave me the thumbs up.
Bevan flogged me as only an expert can. It was a beautiful whipping. An oak punishment frame had been put up in the exercise yard, and several outdoor slaves were assigned to assit. They were gentle with me. The air was fresh and the wind had dropped. The sky above was blue and golden evening sunshine caught the tops of the trees. When he raised the whip I sensed something loving in the way he snapped it back. It must have floated lazily high in the air, before being brought down across my back. Other lashes landed on my butt and the backs of my thighs. It was also a terrible flogging, beyond my imagining. Until then I had believed there was a limit to the pain the body can generate, but there isn't. Pain is infinite.
As I stood shackled, trussed, gagged, and stripped and the whip rained down, I understood why slaves always have been, and always will be, whipped. It is simple. Only the whip can cut through to the brain's quick where we have our being. Once it reaches the core of us, there is no hiding place. That is why there have to be fifty lashes. We beg for mercy after the first dozen, abandon hope after twenty, cry out to the gods after thirty, and then surrender to the last twenty, and in doing so we are sculptured forever into the shapes of servitude and obedience.
When the slaves released me, and Bevan inspected my cuts, I was no longer full of self-pity, anguish or rage. I was born again as the most willing slave there has ever been. Had Bevan told me I was in no condition to serve Scampi at dinner, I would have wept and begged on my knees to be allowed the privilege. All I wanted was Scampi's protection from his whip. To achieve that I would serve him on my knees, smile in the face of his blows, and shiver at his displeasure.
I had been a free man and now I was a slave.
END