Someone Has To Do It
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 6
In spite of everything I seemed to have slept well, although in the morning when I woke up my bum was still throbbing with the pain of the red welts from Rob's caning of me. And when I gingerly felt down between my legs, my arsehole felt all puffy and sore from the brutal going over it had received with that dildo. Still, at least I would be out of the training centre, I thought, assuming they did do as they intended and sent me off for auction today.
I was allowed to shower myself and take a long time over it, and was given a razor to shave my face with, and then a set of clothes were produced - grey cotton shorts as I'd sometimes used for exercising, and a matching T shirt. I felt almost human!
There were four other guys being sent with me to the auction rooms, and we were loaded into a normal minibus, the only difference being that once we were seated manacles went around our ankles attaching us to the floor of the thing. The driver was a cheery sort of bloke who told us he was indentured, as you'd expect for someone doing an unskilled job like that, but that he only had a year to go before he was free again. The training centre was out in Uxbridge and we set off for central London along Western Avenue, and I always like the look of the old Hoover building, that 1930s masterpiece, although, as expected, the traffic was all snarled up around the Hanger Lane gyratory, and then the Westway was almost stationary. It took us quite a long time to get into the centre, therefore, and our minibus crawled down Gower Street. The driver looked really stressed, poor guy, as he said he had a strict timetable to adhere to and the bosses just didn't understand the problems of the traffic in London, especially as we had to get to Dover Street, just off Piccadilly, where the dealer's showrooms were.
I was surprised that the dealer was in such a plush place, but once we did eventually arrive I began to understand why: this was definitely a place for "top of the range" auctions, and buyers coming there would expect to pay premium prices, and therefore liked the comfort and luxury of a dealer in the better part of the city. A couple of guards from the dealer stood on the pavement as we were unshackled from the minibus, and then we were led in: it was all glass and chromium, and prospective purchasers (well, I took them to be that) were sitting around on suede sofas thumbing through the Financial Times and Tatler, as they sipped coffee or champagne which was being served by handsome young waiters. We were hurried through, of course, and out the back it was the kind of arrangement you'd expect: barred cages or cells to hold us, showers, and preparation rooms.
Even though I was freshly showered and shaved, the dealer's staff wasted no time in ordering me to strip, and then I was cleaned again - only this time by indentured servants who positively scrubbed at my skin to make sure it was absolutely clean. And it hadn't occurred to me before when I'd been to auctions myself (well, not at places like this, of course - they'd never have let me in through the door) that the merchandise on display was cleaned inside, too! So I had to endure the sheer humiliation of having an enema nozzle up my poor sore arsehole, and then the pain as my belly filled with the cleaning fluid, and the humiliation of shitting it out as the servants watched me. They shaved me again so my chin was satin smooth, snipped away at my hair so that it was crisply cut at the sides and back, and shaved my balls and trimmed my pubes once more so that my cock really was displayed fully. I hated it all - hated their hands on my body, hated the lack of control - I ought to have been allowed to do these things myself.
It seemed that I was going to be on display all that afternoon and evening, and then auctioned at eight that night - apparently it was considered "fashionable" to sell high quality indentures at this time as it allowed buyers to finish work, have a drink, and then come along - and it was expected that most purchasers of stock like us would indeed be working, to be able to afford us!
I was dressed in what they called "display shorts" - cut very low on the hip so that my hard muscled belly was fully displayed (and my trimmed pubes almost peaked up from the waistband), and with an open fly so that a prospective purchaser could slip his hand in and feel my cock if he wanted to. The legs were cut very high too, to emphasise the muscularity of my thighs, and they were wide, to allow a further means of feeling my cock, or even of slipping a hand up to stroke my bum. I should have been used to the idea of a collar used to restrain my wrists behind my head after yesterday, but I still hated it as they were buckled on, making me effectively powerless - the indentured guy who did this said that it made the buyers feel more secure, knowing I couldn't hit out at them if they caused me any pain or discomfort when I was being inspected. But the final indignity was the ball gag that was forced into my mouth and fastened with straps running around my head, as they said the purchasers didn't like to hear servants groaning or complaining, either!
After that I was just taken into the main showroom - and elegant place where the lighting was a soft pink-tinged colour to make my skin look better and glossily healthy. There was the sound of Bach playing through concealed loudspeakers, and the pile of the carpet was so thick that it just shrieked wealth and richness. They led me to an obviously pre-assigned spot where a small panel was opened in the carpet and a shackle came out, so that I could be held there by my left ankle. As I watched, about twelve other servants were brought in and similarly shackled - men and women - and directly opposite me was a woman of about my age who in addition to the shorts that the men wore had a loose halter that served to make a feature of her beasts, rather than conceal them. I couldn't help starting to have an erection at the sight, and then, of course, I had to try and stop it or else my proud cock would poke through the open fly of my shorts!
I'd been to an indentured auction before, with Rob, actually, as we'd wanted to know what they were like. But the one we went to out in Ealing hadn't been anything like this - the servants had mostly been "modestly" dressed and although you were allowed to touch them, generally it was just to feel the development of the muscles in their arms, and stuff like that. The public was free to wander around much as it chose, and Rob and I spent an interesting hour or so looking at the men and women there. Here in Dover Street, though, all the prospective purchasers were accompanied by salesmen who were keen to recite the benefits of the "stock", as they referred to us. The first time this happened and I heard the man say "A good solid buck here - thirty three, so a lot of life left in him. Very well muscled, as I'm sure you'll agree and guaranteed to be in superb physical condition: we have a 'no quibble' guarantee and if he falls ill in any way in the first six months of your ownership, we'll gladly refund your purchase price."
The prospective purchasers could of course "inspect" me - running their hands over my pecs or shoulders to feel the power there, or squeezing my biceps as they were held by the cuffs. And about half of them absolutely couldn't resist plunging a hand in though the open fly of my shorts to grope around rather inexpertly at my tackle! One old bloke - he must have been at least seventy, who I heard tell the salesman that he was looking for a "valet who can render all the personal services a gentleman needs" insisted on seeing me totally naked ,and the salesman at once pushed my shorts down to the ground. I saw the woman opposite me staring at my cock, and I began to blush with shame. My mind was in an absolute turmoil from this, and I was absolutely terrified that this old bloke would buy me - it was bad enough to think that I might be used sexually, but the thought of having to perform "services" for some shrivelled up wizened old body like that was just too awful. Fortunately, though, as soon as he saw the stripes on my bum the old bloke curtly told the salesman that under no circumstances could he consider a "wild young thing" like me, who was clearly "totally undisciplined"!
After that the salesmen were much more reluctant to strip me totally naked, and I had several more "Inspections" of my upper torso before I next had my shorts whisked off. The two men who had asked for this were in their forties, and were clearly "together". It was, paradoxically, Rob's harsh use of the dildo the previous day that saved me now: having ordered me to bend over and spread my cheeks, one remarked to the other that I'd clearly been fucked senseless, judging from the puffy state of my ass, and that he knew they wanted a virgin!
The poor woman across form me seemed to fare worse, though, as every young man that came through the place seemed to want to see her totally naked, and her breasts and cunt were fingered and teased by almost everyone. The first few times it happened my own cock did indeed jut out from my open fly, but after a time it became sort of "normal" and I tried not to notice. Mind you, it was the women who were almost worse than the men when it came to examining me: almost every single one would reach into my shorts to feel my cock, although, curiously, few chose to ask to see it.
In a way I was glad when it was time for the auction, and the guards came to unshackle us and line us up. We seemed to be "backstage" as there were steps leading up to a door which opened and bright light streamed out, and you could hear a ripple of appreciation and applause before it was slammed shut. They pushed us really close together, though, and I was jammed right up against the guy in front of me - it was lucky we had shorts on, or else my cock would have been wedged in his arse crack! But when the woman who had been opposite me was pushed forward and I felt her breasts push into my back, I couldn't help it - well, I mean, you'd have an erection, too, wouldn't you, feeling tits pushed into the warmth of your own sweaty back? The bloke in front of me seemed to be really pissed off when he felt me poking at him, but there was nothing I could do about it.
When my turn came to go up the steps and through the door I was heartily glad that at least in front of this audience I wouldn't have to be naked. But the moment I stepped onto the brightly lit stage a guard stepped up and simply pulled my shorts down, and that was what caused the ripple of applause I'd been hearing. Then it was complete humiliation as the auctioneer read out my vital statistics - age, height, weight, waist, length of cock (!), and said that I'd been indentured for vagrancy, but that the auction house offered no warranty, either expressed or implied, for my conduct as I'd been known to be difficult. As he said this he made me turn around, and there were knowing mutters from the men and women sitting out there beyond the lights as they evidently saw the stripes across my bum. I had to turn around to face the audience again then, and the auctioneer lifted my cock up with the end of a short cane - and, in spite of myself, in spite of thinking every non-sexy thought I could, I went hard, and there was another polite round of applause from the audience. The bidding started then, and rapidly soared to big numbers - I stood there, naked and erect, and heard myself being sold just as if I was some prize steer at a cattle auction.
Like all auctions it was pretty quick, as I think they want to build excitement so folk bid without really thinking, and it can't have been more than a couple of minutes before I was ushered off the stage through a door opposite to the one I'd entered, and a guard simply led me off, still naked, into the "despatch" area. I felt almost desperate - I'd been put on display like some mere animal, and had just been sold as if I was a mere object, not a man, a living, thinking human being.
Gradually the two cells there - one for women, the other for men - filled up as the auction continued, and then gradually started to empty again as one by one the guards took us out to be taken to our new owners. After about an hour I was the only one left, and a guard came up and said to the holding area guard that I was to be kept overnight, as my owner wanted mods made. I was ordered to come to the bars and they uncuffed my wrists from my neck, and then I was thrown a blanked to keep me warm and told to bed down on the leather bench in the holding cell.
"Please, sir, what's happening?" I asked the guard, and he just shrugged.
"You heard. Your owner wants mods done to you, and that always causes delay as they have to wait for the courts to approve it. But they normally get you away, down to the hospital, the next day. I know it's not very comfortable in here, but it's only for one night generally.... So don't worry."
I froze. "Mods? Hospital? Court?... Please, sir, what's going on?"
"Oh, you're probably a new 'lifer' aren't you? Well, it's obvious, isn't it - your owner wants a few changes made to your body, but he doesn't own it, after all, only your indenture. Only a court can approve physical changes to you, having regard to all the circumstances. So don't worry, son - the court will look after your interests."
"Sir, what changes? Please....?"
He consulted a list on his clipboard, and shrugged. "I told you there's no need to worry.... Your owner just has you down for a circumcision, and a vasectomy.
It's all minor stuff, so the court will almost certainly approve, and you'll be out of here tomorrow."
"How can the court approve something like that? When do I get to tell them I like my 'skin, and want to keep it?"
He laughed. "You don't, of course! The courts are for free men. How on earth could a 'lifer' have anything to say to a court? No, they'll look at your owner's request, and if it's reasonable, they'll give approval - it's a humane system, designed to stop owners ordering there servants to lose a leg, or something like that. But a circumcision - well, that's minor stuff, and a whole lot of men are done anyway so the court certainly won't object if your owner says he prefers seeing his servants with a generally 'sleeker' look. And as for the vasectomy - well, I expect your owner has some maids around the place, and doesn't want the mess and expense of having them aborted all the time when a young stud like you mounts them. Or, of course, you might have been bought by a mistress anyway, and then it's obvious why she wouldn't want you shooting live swimmers into her...."
"No, please... I want to stay as I am..."
"Look, son, it's not up to you any longer. You should have thought about that before you got picked up for vagrancy! Now you're a 'lifer', these things aren't your concern any more. But don't worry - the courts are on your side, and if your owner wanted something really serious done to you, they'd really be diligent in understanding it."
Well, if being on my side meant that I was going to lose my virility, and my 'skin, then what the fuck would it be like if they were against me? But the guard wandered off, and I just sat there on the bench in the cell with the blanket around my shoulders, feeling the picture of misery. They gave me a good breakfast the next morning, though, and let me shower so I felt a bit better. I sat there again dressed in the loose grey shorts and T, until at about eleven o'clock the guard came and said that the court had just approved my mods!
As I was to be done at St Thomas's Hospital, they fitted me with a collar and "dead man's" lead - I'd seen them around before, but like a lot of things I'd never really thought about them, I suppose. Now, as the metal of the collar was snapped shut around my throat and the short length of chain with its special handle attached, it was as if I'd reached a new low point - they were going to send a "trusty", a short-term indentured servant, with me to the hospital, and this apparatus was to make sure I didn't escape. The trusty had to grip the handle on the chain tightly, as if he let go, or if I broke away and pulled free, the collar which worked on the same principle as a prod would send a charge through me and knock me insensible.
We set out, him leading me just as if I was a dog, and we dodged the crowds thronging Piccadilly and went into Green Park Station. At the barrier the trusty told me to stay really close to him as he only had one Oyster card to operate it, and, like dogs, servants on leads were allowed to travel free provided they went through the barrier with their handlers. I felt myself blushing with embarrassment again as some American tourists openly stared at seeing me being led like this, and I heard the mother say to one of the kids that I must have been very bad indeed to get a life sentence! Those fucking American were so naive as usual, but at least they hadn't allowed this dreadful indenture thing to take old there, so I suppose there's something to be said for good old-fashioned simplicity!
A Jubilee Line train pulled I just as we got to the bottom of the escalators, and I went to leap in before the doors closed but my handler jerked me back on the end of a chain. "You idiot!", he told me. "You might have got us both punished! That was a normal carriage, and servants travelling unaccompanied by their owners are required to go into only the first and last ones. Don't you know anything?" Well, I suppose I didn't. I just hadn't noticed this blatant discrimination before.
When the next train came in the rear carriage was very crowded, but we were all servants together and when they saw my leash they all did their best to make space for both of us, as they all seemed to know what it meant. Mind you, one bitch said something in a voice that I'm sure I was meant to hear about "ruffians" like me giving them all a bad name, as it made free people think that servants couldn't be trusted! It had just never occurred to me before that there were so many distinctions in practice between free men and indentured servants, and now, it seemed, even between servants themselves.
My handler chose to go on to Waterloo rather than just go the one stop and walk across the river from Westminster, and we went out via that really depressing rear entrance from the station, along the side of the taxi road, down to Westminster Bridge Road. I hated being led along, but the "trusty" seemed a nice enough bloke and made it as easy as he could for me by keeping an even pace, and when he saw the look of misery on my face as we got closer to the hospital said "Hey, don't worry! I bring a lot of blokes like you here, and you all seem to think it's the end of the world - but they all tell me it didn't hurt a bit really, and I don't think the hospital's ever killed anyone yet! So cheer up, will you? What's going to happen to you is inevitable and you can't alter it, so you may as well relax and think about your new life - after all, an owner who's prepared to make you look 'fancier' is going to take good care of you, isn't he? You're much better off than if you'd been knocked down to work as a dray, or something like that - I've seen them delivering beer and stuff in Soho and those poor guys are treated just like dirt, as the drivers seem to take a delight in whipping them at every opportunity. Life's not so bad provided you obey your owner and work hard, you know - look at me, out here enjoying London, and not cooped up in an office or factory...."
We crossed Lambeth Palace Road and went up the pedestrian ramp into the hospital forecourt, and there were the usual crop of direction signs in that standard lettering they always use - emergencies, out patients, mother and baby clinic, day surgery wing (free men), and, at the bottom, day surgery (indentured servants). My handler saw me looking at it and laughed. "Don't worry - it's not that they treat you differently, just that they have specialists there who know more about the kind of things owners want done. They do say that if you want a circumcision, it's better to have it done by the doctors in the indentured servants' part, as they have so much more experience!"
I think he must have been joking, or mistaken! Inside the indentured servants' day surgery unit it was very depressing - kind of scruffy, and not particularly clean looking. A guard had some special device for neutralising the leash thing and undid the collar on me, then told my handler to cut off back to work, giving him a light slap on his bum as he turned to go.
Then, in a way that I was getting used to by now, he put a restraint collar on me and told me to put my hands behind my neck so he cold fasten them there. I could see his prod at the ready, so there was no point in arguing, was there? An orderly came over then once I was "safe" and asked me if I was Steve who had just been auctioned yesterday, and when I nodded, he consulted a PC and came back with a label on a string, which he simply tied to my collar. "There you are - all ready for the doctor!", he said, and casually pulled off my shorts so I was standing there in just my T shirt. Look, I don't know how it is for you, but somehow I feel really foolish like that - I mean, if you're totally naked then it may be demeaning, but at least you're "natural". With your bum and your cock hanging down under the hem of a T, I think you just look stupid. But what could I do? The orderly pointed to a row of plastic chairs, and told me to go and sit down, and they were so uncomfortable on my bare bum - especially as I was kept waiting for at least a couple of hours: evidently, time wasn't considered to be important here.
They called me in to a treatment room, and there was a doctor standing by the wall getting instruments out, who never even acknowledged me. The only real furniture in the place was a big treatment chair, rather like the thing that dentists use, and the doctor called out to the guard, without even turning around, that I should be sat down and secured. The plastic was really cold against my bare bum, and it didn't seem right to be strapped in when I was going to be operated on - the guard fastened straps around my calves and thighs, and then pulled my T right up to my neck and fastened a big strap right around my chest. I sat there with my hands still behind my neck, and wriggled to see if I could get free, but it was no use.
The doctor came towards me then, pulling on a white face mask, and picked up the tag on my collar and read it. "Oh, fuck me, not another vasectomy and circumcision!", he said, sounding totally bored, and at the same time reached down and took my cock in his hand and started to 'skin me back.
"Please, doctor... Please, it's not right, doing this to me. I don't want to lose my 'skin, doctor, as I like the feel of it...."
"Shut the fuck up, boy!" It seemed odd that he was calling me "boy" when I was clearly a whole lot older than he was. "And I'm not a doctor - I'm a medical student. You don't need a doctor for this stuff, and I'm just doing it to make some spare cash to help pay my bar bills!"
He'd got me completely 'skinned back now, and was looking with interest at my cock head. "Still, you've got a nice cock here, boy. I can see why your owner wants it exposed - why hide a good thick flange and a well-formed piss slit away from view?" He started to wank me, which is something I didn't think he ought to do, whether he was a doctor or a medical student, and I protested.
"Shut the fuck up! I've told you once.... Where's the harm in me having a bit of fun with your cock? I'll bet there's going to be enough men playing with it in future - a servant with a body like yours is only going to be used for one thing!"
"It's not right....", I started. He glared at me, went over to the cupboard on the wall and came back with a small tawse, which he slashed down four times - twice on each of my nips. I screamed, and tried desperately to thrust my body out of the way, of course to no avail.
"I told you to keep silent, boy", he said. "The next time you speak, it will be worse for you - your owner's paid for a 'soft' operation - i.e. with anaesthetic. But you say one more word and I'll simply claim I didn't see that part of the instructions and do you raw. Do you understand?"
Glumly, I nodded, and said "Yes, sir." Look, I know you may think I'm a coward for giving in like that, but the thought of having surgery done on my cock and balls was pretty dire anyway, and without anaesthetic....
He continue to play with me, obviously relishing the feel of a nice hard real man's cock, until I shot - he deftly caught my cum on a medical tissue and threw it into a medical waste bin. "Nice!", he told me. "One day soon, when I've qualified, I'm going to buy a boy like you for real fun and games.... Now, let's get started...."
It didn't hurt at all, actually - he gave me a couple of shots into the groin that were effective pain killers, and then sat between my open legs. First he pushed my cock up onto my belly and simply stuck it there with a piece of surgical plaster so that he could work on my balls - I started to watch as he made a small incision next to my sac, near the root of my cock, then had to turn away as it make me feel ill to see myself being cut open. I was surprised when he said, after only about five minutes, "There you are - all nicely tied off. You'll feel as if someone's kicked you in the balls as soon as the shots wear off, but it will soon pass. Your owner ought to know that you may still be fertile for a couple of weeks after a vasectomy, so if she starts to use you, or puts you to a woman, you'd better remind her. Now let's do the serious stuff - the 'skinning."
He reached up and read my label again, and remarked "Same old boring stuff - a 'high and tight', as we say in the trade! The whole cock head exposed all the time, no loose skin on the shaft when you're fully erect, and minimal scarring. I do wish owners would be more inventive - it's a whole lot more skilful to do you so that your head just peeps out and exposes your piss slit when you're not erect. Or to remove so much skin that you can't erect properly - still, I suppose with a cock like yours, they're going to want to use you for sex. Never mind, though - bog standard again, but let's get on with it."
He wanked me to a full erection again, then, before I could look away, cut at the bottom of my cock head to free the 'skin all around. I almost threw up as the blood spurted out, and just couldn't watch what he did with a small metal cylinder he slid over me.... I only knew it was over when I saw a part of me, a flap of skin, all bloody, lying in one of those stainless steel basins doctors use.
He seemed to lose interest then, and just said "I've put some stuff on to stop the bleeding, but I don't believe in bandaging a freshly 'skinned cock as it heals faster if it's exposed to the air. Still, I've done a nice neat job on you - there won't be any unsightly scarring on your shaft. But no wanking - don't touch your cock tonight at all, as it will tear the stitches. In fact, don't wank for at least three days. Understand?"
"Yes", I said, as I was in shock, and the next minute I was screaming as he slashed at my nips again with his miniature tawse.
"You fucking servants come in here and think you can stop being respectful to free men! Let that be a lesson to you."
He turned away and began to wash his hands, calling for the guard to take me off to a holding cell as it would be sensible to keep me in overnight so he could examine me again in the morning.
I lay there, my balls and cock now starting to ache, smelling that "hospital" smell that seems to pervade everything, and listening to the woman in the next cell sobbing - I couldn't see her as the walls of our cells were solid except for the barred fronts giving on to a narrow passage way. I gathered that she'd got pregnant by her owner, who didn't want the kid and so he'd had her aborted - stupidly she'd kept it as secret as long as she could in the hope he'd change his mind, and so when it had been flushed out of her it had been quite recognisable. Some women really are stupid - once a bloke's said he doesn't want a sprog, he isn't going to change his mind, is he?
Actually, there's a simple way of making sure a bloke doesn't even try to wank after he's been 'skinned: keep his hands cuffed behind his neck! I was vilely uncomfortable all night, and I went hungry, too, as there was just no way I could eat the tray of food they pushed into my cell - well, I suppose I could have got down and stuck my face into it and eaten it like a dog does, but there are limits to what a man will do, after all.
The next morning, though, it got a bit better. I was told to stand there against the bars as a guard undid my restraints, and stood there with my cock hanging down from under my T as he pushed a tray of breakfast through the bars - so at least I felt a bit better, as I could eat it. But it's true what they say about hospital food - it is dreadful.
The guard had his prod out when he unlocked the cage about an hour later, and he kind of herded me back towards the room I'd been in yesterday, when the medical student told me to sit down - I wasn't strapped in, thank god - and he then sat between my legs again and examined my cock closely. He pronounced it "a good job", and that was that!
I was put back into the waiting room on those vile chairs again, but at least my shorts were given back to me so I didn't feel quite as conspicuous as other servants came and went, although I was shackled to the floor - I was getting used to this by now - as it seems that somewhere I'd been "flagged" as not yet properly trained and likely to try to make a break for freedom. It was so fucking boring, as even when there were other blokes waiting we weren't allowed to speak, and I was glad when a guard came over with an older, grey-haired man. It was only when this older man called the guard "Sir" that I realised he must be an indentured servant too.
"I'm Finch", he said bluntly. "You will call me 'boss'. I'm the butler at your new home, and I manage things for the master and mistress, who are too busy to be concerned with the detail of keeping things running and all the servants fully occupied. I am, as you may see, a trusty - I've been with the master and mistress for eight years, and plan to stay on even after I'm free the year after next. They allow me a modified prod..." He produced something that looked like "the real thing", and went on "It can't knock you out, but at maximum setting it has a very unpleasant sting, so I would advise you to obey, and obey promptly. Is that clear?"
I'd seen blokes "playing" with their prods as he was now doing with his, tapping one end of it in the palm of his hand, and I'd learned that they are just itching for a chance to use it, so I answered softly "Yes, boss."
"Good, Steve. I can see you and I understand each other. Now I'm told you've got a reputation for being wild and disobedient, and that simply won't be tolerated in our establishment. I have the authority to cane you if necessary, and our master is himself something of an expert with the cane, so I would advise you to put out of your head all thoughts of being wilful, or of trying to skive and not pull your weight. The cane, when wielded by the master, is a very good teacher, but a very painful one. Now, we need to be going, as we need to catch the train at thirty-two."
He turned to the guard again, and I could see his whole stance change almost visibly as he bent kind of subserviently, and asked the guard if he would please attach one of the "leash" collars as I'd worn the day before. Then, gripping the handle firmly, he simply turned and walked out, expecting me to follow, which of course I did.
We didn't go to the Underground but to the mainline station at Waterloo, and with an almost practised air he scanned the departure boards and led me to the fourteen thirty two to Guildford - the servants compartment was at the front this time, so we had to walk the whole length of the platform, and only just had time to make it. As we clattered out of the station over the points, we found a seat and we sat side by side.
"Look, Steve", he said, "Watch the suburbs and stuff as this is almost certainly the last time you'll see them. The master and mistress don't let the servants off the estate, except for me, and so this is the last time you'll see the rich panoply of London life."
Well, the sad office blocks and nineteenth century housing in Clapham are hardly what you'd call "London life", if you ask me, but I did watch, just the same, seeing the streets full of people and cars and shops as the train clattered on. We made a stop at Surbiton, then at Esher (although there was no racing that day, so the race course was just refreshingly green), and Walton On Thames, and then, as we pulled into Weybridge, Finch got up and pulled me to my feet.
Those of you who are familiar with the area will know that it's quite a long walk from the Station to St George's Hill, that most exclusive of private residential estates - I suppose that the owners of the big houses there get driven backwards and forwards by their chauffeurs. We walked, though, were "nodded through" the entry barriers by the servant on duty, and then it was a further long walk along the winding roads. Finch told me that all the plots had to be at least two acres as the residents valued their privacy, and that "our" house was on one of the larger ones, as we had just over three. "That's why the master and mistress have decided to buy you", he went on. "The current gardener, Ian, has too much to do, and our master and mistress want to maintain a very high standard indeed. You'll be doing the hard graft, the digging, cutting the lawns, that sort of thing, whilst Ian concentrates on the planting schemes, the pruning, growing the vegetables, and so on."
It's difficult to keep a perspective up there as its rhododendron country and the whole area is very mature, having been started way back in the last century, so when we turned a corner and Finch said "There... Home...." It was a bit of a shock. The place was huge - it's last century "Surrey vernacular", I'm told, it's tile-hung walls and low, sweeping roofs owing much to the influences of Lutyens. We went past the big oak front doors studded with "nails", around past the garage block (in the same style, but hung around with ivy), and to the rear courtyard.
Finch led me in through a plain door, and we were in a large room with a stone-flagged floor and a table in the middle of it - a fairly y crude one, in oak, set around with chairs. "This is the servants' hall", Finch told me. "It had that function when the house was first built and they paid wages to servants. Now it's for us - we're a big, happy family here: Ian the gardener, as I told you; Marco the chauffeur - he's from Italian stock, as you might guess; the chef's a nice young bloke - Pavel - from one of those Eastern European countries who entered here illegally and was indentured for his troubles. Then there's three maids, and a nanny for the young kids - I didn't tell you, did I, that the master and mistress have three kids? The eldest, Master William, is thirteen, but the youngest is still only toddling, As I said, I keep all this running, and I expect you to fit in, Steve! The mistress does not like the male servants having sex with the maids, and if I ever even suspect that you have, there will be terrible trouble - she has said it's a castration offence! Do you understand?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Good, Steve. Now, we like to be one big happy family here, working together to make life easy for the master and mistress. I expect you to work hard, to listen to Ian and obey him, and not to cause any fuss or trouble at all."
"Yes, Boss."
"Good, Steve. Now there's just one thing we have to do, and I can release you from this dreadful leash thing... Kneel down, please...."
I was so used to doing as I was told by now, that I dropped to my knees - the big flagstones feeling hard and cold as I knelt there. Finch went to a cupboard, and came around and put something cold and metallic around my neck. There was a "click", and he said "There, Steve! This is the latest technology collar, and the mistress and master have had it installed on all the servants. If you try to leave the estate, it will activate. In any case, it has GPS built-in, so a satellite can always track you. And this...."
I felt a tingling in my neck, that became a sting. "That's the control circuit. The master, the mistress and I all have a controller, and if you're disobedient, or wilful, we can activate it. You just felt five percent power, and believe me, you won't want to feel the one hundred percent. So just stay on the estate, and obey, and obey willingly, and, as I said, we'll all be like one big happy family. Now, get up..."
I stood up and Finch undid the leash thing, and I reached up and felt around my neck - the collar seemed to be of steel, but with the edges subtly rounded, to prevent chafing, I suppose. I was like a dog - collared, to be controlled. How much further could I fall?
"It's locked on, Steve, and don't try to remove it - that will trigger the pain circuit. Now.... Your uniform.... Remove your clothes, please."
I looked at him, and he said coolly "Steve, is this how you're going to be? Disobedient? Wasn't that clear enough? I told you to remove your clothes - now, do so. Get naked!"
As he spoke Finch put his hand on a small device he wore on his belt, and I thought I'd better obey. I pulled off the T and dropped my shorts, and to my surprise, Finch then did a somewhat reduced version of the "inspections" I'd had at the auctions rooms- only this time over my whole nude body. His fingers ran over my pecs, stroked my hard belly, then he turned me around and felt my shoulders, and I could feel him running down my ribs, until he cupped my bum, testing the firmness of my musculature, before stroking my thighs. He turned me around to face him once more, and took my cock in his open palm. I winced, as the site of my 'skinning was still very sore, and he whispered "Easy, Steve...." And then, as I calmed, he went on "I can see why the mistress bought you - you really do have a most interesting body. Most of the other men here are not as developed as you...."
"Boss, I thought it would be the master who bought me.... They said that with a body like mine it would be men who wanted to use me..."
Finch laughed. "You'll wish it was, Steve. The mistress is VERY demanding, and poor Ian, and then Marco, and then poor Pavel, in turn, have all found out. I suppose you're the next one she's going to wear out.... And she fancies something a bit stronger and more 'meaty' this time".
Inwardly, I started to smile. Some bitch of a woman was going to discover what a real man could do for her.
End Of Part Six