Steve's First Job

Steve's First Job by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at Groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 7

Stu: I'm glad we had that second phone call. When my phone rang immediately after you'd got that last message, we were both so keyed up that I though we'd never recover. So OK, it did take us almost two weeks to pick up the phone again, but then, we're both very strong willed. And even now I'm not sure which of us backed down! I think we'd better agree to differ on this one - I'm certainly not going to change my view that my slaves are better off working on my dray than they would be down the mines, or still locked up in a prison camp. We agree, I know, that we couldn't just send them back to the north - so what are we going to do with all those rebel prisoners of war? It's not right to keep them locked up all their lives, and so making them slaves is the only other solution. There, I've said it again, and I hope that doesn't spark off another round of "discussion". And I promise not to make fun of the Jesus myth in future - I've known you long enough to see you grow out of believing in the tooth fairy, and Santa Claus, and so I'll hang on until the day that you finally see that Jesus is just another in that long line of inventions that amuse us in childhood but which we discard, with a smile, once we are mature and start thinking for ourselves.

Anyway, let's put all that bitterness behind us, and you said you wanted to know how I was getting in with my slaves, so here' a bit of a catch-up. Things went well all week - I kept two muzzled the whole time, and tethered to the dray whenever we went out - he was the only one like this, and I could see it eating away at him as he couldn't function properly in the way he wanted to, even though he was functioning perfectly as far as I was concerned: he wanted to be with "his men", and at lunch time and so on he couldn't do that as he remained tethered when they went off to sit down; and he couldn't give them orders, or even talk about their problems at night. But for me it was fine - he was a big, strong healthy animal pulling the dray, and his performance wasn't affected by the muzzle or tether - indeed, it was perhaps improved, as two's anger turned inwards, and made him work his balls of to "prove" to the others that he was still a "leader".

We had a problem on the Friday, though, as we were delivering one of those big double fridge/freezers with the ice-making mechanisms and stuff: they're really bulky, and fucking heavy, and this one had to go to the third floor of an apartment block and it wouldn't fit into the elevator. It only just fitted into the stairwell, too, and I told six of the slaves to get themselves behind it and get it carried up. These ex-soliders work well under orders, but sometimes you need to be very precise and they don't always show much initiative, and I "took my eye off the ball" for a moment and they lost it! The thing slipped, and almost trapped seven underneath it - he'd have been seriously hurt if it hadn't just got wedged in angle of the staircase in the nick of time, and as it was, it still took ages to get him out, then to actually get the box up, and then to fill in all the paperwork as we'd damaged their building. As I stood there completing the forms for the block Super, I could see the other slaves telling two what had happened, and he seemed to be almost stamping his feet with frustration as he stood there, unable to speak. I realised that had he been with them, it would never have happened as two would have been "in charge" and would have made sure the whole thing went smoothly.

Perhaps I haven't mentioned it to you, but we work six days a week - well, only half a day on Saturday, as we mainly do "domestic" deliveries then where the householder has not been able to be home during the week. And on Sunday we don't work at all. It's not particularly for the benefit of the slaves, but as a benevolent employer we don't want to make the draymen work all the time, and we don't want the additional expense of hiring additional draymen to work some complicated shift pattern. On Sundays the slaves have to attend a church service, and there's a rota for about a quarter of the draymen to come in just to "supervise" the slaves as they stand there in the depot: we arrange for a pastor to come in and do it, so we can control the content of the service, and it's not particularly hard work for the drayman on duty as all he has to do is stand there with a carriage whip in case any of the slaves seem to be falling asleep, or fail to kneel, pray, stand, or whatever as the pastor tells them to do. See, Stu, religion does have some uses - we get the pastor to preach on the themes of obedience, rewards in heaven for those who lead a good life and obey here on earth, being kind and gentle and not violent to others, and all that other stuff that's in Christianity and that's really useful for keeping the oppressed in their places. Wasn't it Marx who said "religion is the opiate of the people"? - well, it certainly works for at least some of the slaves, as they seem quite fervent as they are ordered to their knees to pray, and perhaps it makes our job of controlling them easier. Mind you, the pastor had a bit of a job when he came to administer that sacrament stuff to two - he managed to stuff the wafer thing in through the hole in two's muzzle, but then two couldn't swallow it as his tongue was depressed, and the pastor seemed really upset when, as he tried to get the wine in (well it's not wine actually - we don't allow the slaves any alcohol, so we just use coloured water. But it makes no difference - if you can believe that wine transmutes to blood, you can presumably believe that coloured water does, too) he couldn't, and it trickled down two's chin and dripped down on to his chest.

After the service I locked some of the other sets of slaves in their cages and fed and watered them, leaving my own slaves standing in the yard. When I was finished I went back out and was pleased to see they were still standing in formation, two blocks of four, in their numbered sequence, properly at "slave rest" - they were managing to meld all that training they'd had in the forces with the ways of slavedom, and I was proud of them. I was going to take them back to their cage, but it was a nice day - the sun was shining and it was not too hot - and I had not much else to do, so I thought they deserved a bit of a treat. Jon would argue with me if he ever heard me using words like "deserved", as, he says, slaves "deserve" nothing: their only role in life is to obey and serve. But, as I said, it was a nice day and I was in a good mood, so I decided to take them out, down to the river park, for a bit of a change in their rather boring lives.

My first thought was to take the dray, but I had come down to the depot that morning in my trap and my pony was resting for the return home in the shade of one of the barns. I went over and told him to pull the trap over in front of the slaves, and then to wait for me on my return - he could have the afternoon "off" but I ordered him not to go into the barns where the dray slaves cages are as he's really keen on sex, and I didn't want him bending down in front of the cages so that he could take dick through the bars! I got up in to the trap, and said to the slaves "OK, guys, I'm going to take you to the park for the afternoon. I want you to line up in twos, and you'll jog in strict formation after me. One of you can pull my trap, and the rest follow. I pretended to scan the slaves, as if choosing which one to pull me, but I had of course already made up my mind. "Two, get between the shafts", I snapped, and as he came forward and stood there, I commanded him to kneel so that I could take out his muzzle. He knelt there, flexing his tongue and exercising his jaw, but not for long - although it isn't necessary as the pony is perfectly capable of obeying verbal orders, it's the fashion to always drive pony slaves with a bit, bridle and reins - you've seen me do it often enough, Stu, to know what I mean. So I told two to open his mouth, and then put the metal bit in, and fumbled and fiddled to attach the restraining straps behind his head and under his chin.

He probably felt this was much the same as the muzzle, but then I attached the reins to the end of the bit where they protruded from his mouth, and he began to look uncomfortable as he realised he was being transformed even further, from a big, tough slave down to something that was going to be steered by tugging on his bit! But worse was yet to come - I don't usually do it for my pony, but there's a ring under the strap that holds the bit in place, and I told two to bow his head, and then attached this to the D ring on his collar, so that he was unable to raise his head. From the box on the trap I then got out the blinkers - again, not something I put on my pony except on very formal occasions - and slipped the thin leather harness over his head and adjusted them so that he really could only see directly frontwards.

I commanded him to his feet and he stood there moving his head as if to try to see what was going on - his view was now severely restricted, to the small patch of ground directly in front of him - and told him to pick up the shafts of the trap. As he did so, I snapped the wrist restraints closed, so that he was held immovably between the shafts, and we were ready for the off.

I went and stood by him, and said, calmly, "You're a trap pony now, two, and it's rather different from working the dray! For one thing, I don't give verbal orders - if I want you to turn left, I pull your head to the left with the reins, and similarly for the right. When I want you to slow down I'll pull back gently on both, and pull harder when I want you to halt. You speed up when you feel the carriage whip on your butt, and if I want you to run really fast, you'll know it as the power of the strokes will increase. Obviously you can't see much, so you have to rely on me to guide you - you have to trust me, two, and believe that I won't let you run into a wall, or under a truck, and I'll steer you around the bigger potholes in the highway. All you have to do is feel my commands through the reins and the whip, and react and obey: provided you do it promptly and well, there'll be no difficulty. But if you resist me, or fail to feel some of my lighter touches, you might be in big trouble - I only steer you around potholes with

a very gentle tug, and if you go into one of them and stumble, you might break a leg. So this is all about trusting your driver, two, and complete and utter obedience to the smallest command.

I didn't give him any chance to reply or react - not that he could say much with the bit in his mouth, and went and got into the trap. I pulled the reins to position him towards the gate, and gave him a light flick on the butt with the whip to tell him to move off (the carriage whip is a lighter version of the dray one, and shorter, as it only has to reach the rump of one slave rather than four. These light "driving" touches don't hurt at all - they barely sting - but of course like any whip, if you increase the power of the stroke, you can really make the slave understand you mean business!). I could tell from the way that two was trying to move his head that he hated being forced to keep looking down, and straight ahead - he could have no sense of the landscape, or of turnings coming up, or anything, and he was absolutely reliant on my touch commands to perform. He kept shifting his hands on the shafts, too, although again the shackles holding him there prevented anything other than a tiny movement of an inch or so - it was as if he was now an integral part of my trap, just there to serve me, as were the wheels, or the seat. And he knew that any faltering, any hesitation, and the carriage whip would sting across his butt. I had finally reduced him to something that was even less than a dray slave - he was no more than a dumb beast, totally devoid of any means of independent action or thought.

At first I was concerned about taking my slaves out without even the dray to provide some degree of "control" - even though, apart from two, they were not tethered to it, it served as a constant reminder of their role and of the fact that they had the depot to go back to, and the resources of our company to hunt them down should they try to escape. Now they were just lined up in three rows of two and one at the rear, and there was nothing "binding" them to their normal role. They were just seven naked men who were expected to run behind my trap, and I was concerned that their sense of freedom might get the better of them and they might run off - it's pretty pointless, of course, as with those heavy slave collars on they aren't going to get very far: no one is going to use heavy machinery or an arc torch to take a slave's collar off, and they can't board a bus at the bus station, or a train at the train station without going through a metal detector that the collar will surely trigger, and they'll be caught. But nevertheless it's a risk - if they did do anything foolish, when they were recaptured we'd have to have them whipped, seriously whipped by the bull whip, and then they just wouldn't be the same - not only does their back never really recover, but somehow once he's been whipped like that a slave loses that little "something" - such small amount of independence he's allowed as a slave is totally dissipated and he's dull and totally lifeless and cowering - not something I wanted in my slaves.

I kept casting occasional glances behind me as we went along the highway towards the city centre, but the slaves were performing well, jogging along behind my trap, with their dicks neatly bobbing up and down. I suppose I could have had them run in front, so I could keep an eye on them, but then I couldn't have the pleasure of "steering" two by tugging on his reins and guiding him where I wanted to go - I'd have had to have shouted orders to the leading slave. Now, at least, I had two's sweating body in front of me, his powerful butt and thigh muscles pounding away, and the spread of his shoulders and the taut muscles in his back all accentuated by the fact that his head was bent, held there by the strap to his collar. It was a magnificent sight, and I flicked casually at his butt to speed him up, enjoying seeing how he was spurred forward as the sharp stinging tip of the whip caught his cheeks.

My trap is very light, and I don't suppose it was any harder for two to pull it than it was for him to take his one eighth share of the effort of pulling the loaded dray, but I sensed that for him this was the hardest work he'd ever done in his life - he couldn't toss his head proudly for relief, or spit a huge gob to clear his mouth. He couldn't vary his grip on the pulling bar, or reach down to scratch an itch, or even wipe sweat out of his eyes. No, he was totally helpless, there in front of me, unable even to see clearly where he was going and totally reliant on me to steer him clear of potholes and obstructions. He had to trust me completely and feel for the small movements I made with the reins to control him, and he knew that if he faltered, or slowed, the sting of the whip would be there to remind him of his duty to run at the pace I wanted. It amused me to make him go faster than he would have liked - a run, almost, rather than a gentle jog, as I knew this would tire him. It was bad enough for the following slaves, who were free, but for two the effort of the increased speed would be terrible, and as we stated up the gentle incline towards the city centre I felt I could sense the problems he was having in maintaining the power and speed I demanded. The breath must be whistling in and out of him through the hole in his muzzle, I thought, and now I could see his back and butt starting to shine in the hot sunlight as the sweat ran out from him as if it was a glossy coating on an iced cake. I wondered how much longer he'd be able to keep it up, and at a stop light I could see him visibly flagging as his body bent almost double as he tried to suck more air in: he needed to learn valuable lessons now though, so I pulled hard back on both reins and called out "Keep your body straight two - a show pony, pulling his master's trap, always maintains good posture so that the public can see what a fine animal his master has!".

It's unfortunate in a way that from the city centre it's all downhill to the River Park as I felt that two might even have "broken" if I'd driven him at that pace much longer, but going downhill is a little more risky in a trap because of the lack of effective braking, so I had to slow down somewhat (and of course the load was much reduced). So two had recovered somewhat by the time we were going along the path by the river, and it being a nice day, the grassy areas were full of people lying around or playing games, and from under the cool shade of the trees a little further back there was the appetising smell of families' lunchtime barbecues. We were quite a spectacle, I suppose - although pony traps are relatively common, as are delivery drays, it was unusual for a man as large a two to be harnessed in a trap as most ponies are younger, and thinner; and of course you do not usually see a line of well-drilled slaves following a trap, as I had. So people stopped what they were doing and to watch us, and mothers and fathers were probably telling their infant children to remember to behave, or else they'd end up like those slaves over there, and even like that pony, who must be very bad indeed if his owner needed to keep him restrained like that.

In response to the possible sensibilities at having so many slaves mixing with free people on a Sunday, I drove the trap for a mile or so along the river bank until we had left the normal Sunday family crowd behind, and there were just a few couples well back towards the bushes, probably enjoying some semi-secret outdoor tryst. I stopped two out in the sun, but conveniently near a shady tree that I could sit under, and looped his reins around a litter bin so that he was effectively tethered there. From under the seat I took my blanket and lay down in the warm afternoon air, and then dismissed the seven slaves and told them they could go off and play, or swim in the river, or whatever, but that they were not to stray by more than 100 metres from me as if I called and they failed to come, they would be punished. Several of them clustered around two as he stood there, but there was nothing they could do for him as he was immobile and muted by his harness and muzzle. They stayed there for a while, as if to show solidarity with him, but after a time they all drifted away to take part in an impromptu game of soccer, and a refreshing swim in the river.

I lay there in the cool shade, watching two as he was forced to stay there in the broiling sun, and after about an hour, by which time I judged he'd be very hot, and his legs would be aching as he couldn't sit or even move very much, I pulled on my sun hat and sauntered over to him. He must have heard me coming, but when I ran one hand over his butt and with the other gently tweaked his left tit, he shuffled nervously, as if surprised. "It doesn't have to be like this, two", I told him. "If you were a good, obedient slave, you too could be frolicking round in the meadows here, and taking a refreshing dip in the river. It's only your own stubborn pride, refusing to accept that you are now truly totally a slave, that must obey your master's every order, that makes me have to treat you like this. If you agree to behave as a slave should, all this would be over - I'll set you free from my trap and you can join your buddies... But I'd need your assurance that you would obey me completely, just a you used to obey your officers in the service. I cannot and will not tolerate you dumb insolence, and your attitude. Now, is that a deal?"

To the best of his ability, two shook his head. "Very well", I told him, "It's of no real concern to me as you can remain tethered and muzzled for ever, so far as I am concerned. The cane and tawse will ensure you put out the amount of effort I require, and the muzzle, tether, and perhaps those blinkers, worn permanently, will ensure you are not too independent. It's a pity for the others, of course, as without you they are at risk." This seemed to stop him dead, as he at once looked as if he was taking an interest, and I went on "These men are used to having a leader, two, you know that. They're only simple soldiers, and they need a sergeant to keep them in order, and to make sure orders are properly obeyed, so they avoid punishment. Without someone like you to guide them, two, they'll get slovenly, and will need punishment; and they might even do themselves serious harm - have they not told you how seven nearly had his back broken when that delivery went wrong on Friday? What do you think happens to a slave with a broken back, two? Do you want your men injured because your stubbornness and pride is making you so intransigent? Still, it's your choice - as I said, I'm happy to keep you working as you are, and perhaps that's for the best: no arguing, no concern for what you're doing, just neatly tethered and muzzled - I can live with that. And I suppose the others will get used to the more liberal use of the tawse and cane that their increasingly lax behaviour will bring them." I turned to walk away, and there was mumbling sounds of protest from two. I went back, and rested my hand on his butt again, enjoying the warm wetness of his crack as I allowed one of my fingers to stray into it a little, and with my other hand I traced patterns on the firm wetness of his belly.

"Yes, two? Were you agreeing with me, or starting some argument again?" I could tell by the way his body was slumped now that he was not in the mood for further argument, and so I said gently "here, two, let's take the bit out for a minute or two, so we can talk." I fumbled with the straps holding the bit in his mouth, and could almost feel the impatience building up in him. Then when he'd moistened his lips with his freed tongue, he said "Please, sir, let me look after my men...." - and I knew I had him! I just stood there, with him helplessly shackled as I let my hands experience the richness of his torso and the splendour of his belly, and then to wander down to savour the delights of his manhood, and told him that it was completely up to him. I would release him, but only provided I had his complete and utter obedience. I finished by saying "You see, two, I don't really think that you've accepted that you are a slave, that your only role is to obey me dutifully and completely. I shouldn't need to bargain with you to allow you to look after my slaves - a truly dutiful slave would want to help his owner get the best possible service out of the others. It's still symptomatic of your wrong thinking. I'm not sure that keeping you muzzled and shackled isn't actually in your best interests - it's not much fun being a slave when you are constantly chafing against it and are not content." Finally, he broke down. He stood there, his head bent, now in misery rather than because of the physical constraints I had placed on him, and said "Sir, please don't do that. I hate it, sir, being muzzled and shackled. I know I'm a slave, sir, but I am a man, too, a man who likes to use his body. And keeping me shackled and muzzled is not good, sir, for you, or for me. I can manage your other slaves, sir, and I want to do that.... Please let me, sir... Please."

I nodded, and said quietly "I think we both understand each other now, two. I will let you run free with the others, but if there's ever the slightest resistance from you again, I will have you muzzled and shackled again, but this time permanently. And as a shackled dray slave working in a team, you would really have no need of sight and so I would think of replacing blinkers with a little laser treatment to your eyes, to permanently dim your vision. And to save you even attempting argument, a shackled slave could be muted, permanently, by the simple cauterisation of the vocal chords. So think, two, and obey - or take the consequences. This is your only, and final warning." As I'd been saying this, I'd taken the blinkers off him, and then I used my key to unshackle him. He stood there, and as a man does ,even if he's a slave, he stretched reflexively, and I was rewarded by the sight of his firm, flat belly stretching as his arms went above his head, and his dick was inevitably tugged upwards: there could be no doubt that here was the absolute perfection of the male form.

"OK, two, off you go and organise those slaves - it would be better if they were to exercise by playing volleyball or something like that, or by swimming. Don't go far away - when I whistle, I expect you all back here almost immediately. Understand?" He snapped "Sir, yes, sir", and I thought he was going to salute me - but he turned and raced over the grass towards the others. A few minutes later I wished I could go over and watch the volleyball - the sight of those hard, fit slaves leaping around entirely naked would have been spectacular, but I needed two to know that I trusted him to organise these things for me.

At the end of the afternoon - or, rather, when I was bored and wanted to get off home, I whistled and two at once rounded up the others and they jogged over towards me, neatly in formation. This slave management stuff was going to be so much easier with two to organise things, I thought. I looked at them, and said "Now, which of you is going to pull my trap back to the depot...?" And to my surprise, two at once stepped forward. "Sir, I pulled you here and I have the experience and expertise - please allow me to pull you back, sir." At first, I thought he might be being sarcastic and that he'd need to be whipped after all for this, but then I realised he was indeed sincere - to two, it was some sort of special mark of respect to have me select him for a task different from the others, and so as their leader it was "his right", irrespective of whether it was hard work for him.

After I'd fed them and locked them in their cage that night, I decided to have a little celebration, and went over to Jon's for the evening. He sensed my happy mood, and when he asked me why, I just said "Oh, things are kind of shaping up, you know. I'm getting the hang of these slaves, and so life is a lot easier than it was!" He looked at me for a minute, then slapped my butt, and said "So let's see if we can't make it just a little harder, then!". Steve.

Steve: That's not the way it works! You humiliated that two in front of his fellows, and at some point it will rebound on you. He's just obeying you because he's afraid of you - and who wouldn't be, when you've threatened to have him blinded! Take care, old buddy - you may be heading for big trouble here. And what did you mean when you said "Jon slapped me on the butt...."? Stu P.S. I've posted you the manuscript of my new epic "Consequences" - it doesn't look right in an e-mail as the indentation of the lines is important. Stu.

Stu: I never threatened to blind him. I specifically said I'd "permanently dim his vision" - some owners have it done to all their slaves as it quietens them down - it just makes most things more than a couple of feet away be totally out of focus, like not wearing glasses. You wouldn't want to blind a slave - think about it: his value would be halved!

Now, about "Consequences" - I'm not an expert, and I'm more of a prose person than a poet, but I think I can see what you mean. The spacing of the lines like that adds a certain power to the feeling of emptiness and loneliness in the last stanzas that wouldn't be there if all the lines were packed properly. But then I'm no judge - unless poetry rhymes, I don't think it's poetry! But I'm glad you shared it with me - even though it makes me glad I'm not doing that sort of thing at college: I'm a tad more practical, as you know. Still, I'll keep it safe - if you ever get to be another T S Eliot or Sylvia Plath, it will be worth real money!

I might even have time to write something myself - but a story, or even the first chapters of my autobiography (I may as well get it out of the way now, as it's happening, as I have this feeling that I'll be famous, ha, ha.) - with two now effectively "running things" when we're out delivering, and constantly inspecting and monitoring the slaves in the depot, I've not got all that much to do. He chides and kind of "nudges" the others into the correct behaviour, and is an absolute stickler for them being neat and smart at all times - his background as a sergeant helps, and even though they are all technically the same, all slaves together, the others don't seem to resent him doing this in any way. I suppose it's all their training as soldiers, when a sergeant was an authority figure, who they obey instinctively. Steve.

Steve: You? Write? Don't make me laugh! You've got no creative imagination and don't use imagery. Don't get me wrong, old buddy, I like you, and you're great to go out partying and drinking with, but you're just not "creative" - artistically creative, that is. I doubt that you could string a story together, let alone a poem. Stu

Stu: Of course I can write! Look back at our correspondence. I'm telling you a whole lot more about my life than you are telling me about yours. When we had to sit through all those endless dissections of famous poets and their work at high school I always thought they were arrogant.... You're at least qualified on that score to be one, then! But don't stop - when I do my memoirs, I can always say "And before he had that string of lovers that his poetic temperament suited him for, he had me. My hand was the first to make love to him...." There - isn't that poetry? What an image! Steve. P.S. Have you actually fucked the Scandinavian yet? Steve.

Steve: Ha fucking ha! "Making love to your hand" is hardly a poetic image. Even though it makes the trouser snake stir a little at the thought. And don't ask such personal questions, not even to your best friend. What happens between Inga and me is our business. Stu.

Stu: So you haven't, then (fucked her, that is)! Steve.

Steve: Mind your own business. Stu.

Steve: Where are you, buddy? When I said "mind your own business" I didn't mean for you to go totally silent. Come on, I want to hear more about those slaves of yours. Stu.

Stu: I don't know how to write this. It's really hard. But if I don't tell someone, I'll go mad. Maybe putting it down on paper will make it better. I just couldn't even bear to sit at the screen these last three days. And just when everything was going so well.

Look, it was late. I'd fed and watered my slaves and caged them, then gone to have a little talk with Jon, and was about to go home when I crossed the yard and there was a team of slaves just standing there, in the dray. It was raining, and the poor guys were all huddled together, trying to keep warm (I've told you how rain is the enemy, even on a relatively warm day).

They were the team that that big guy I told you about - the one who hauled the bar tender across the bar - drove, and it was always whispered (although not in Matt's presence) that he didn't look after them very well, and was unnecessarily harsh with the cane and tawse. I knew where he'd be, of course, and by the time I'd marched across the road to the bar, I was pretty pissed off - these slaves are, after all, a valuable asset of the company, my dad's company.

I tied to be reasonable, and went over to him and said that I'd seen his slaves standing there shivering, and wasn't it time they were fed and caged. He put his beer down, looked at me, and just said "Mind your own fucking business!". I lost it, Stu - I was so cross that I shouted back "It is my fucking business! Those are the company's slaves getting cold out there, and they might come down with pneumonia, or something.... It is my business - it's my dad's resources you're risking as you stand here with that beer...."

That was it! He just grabbed me, slapped me a couple of times, and shouted "Mind your own fucking business!

Daddy's boy, coming here and trying to tell a real man how to manage a few slaves. We've all seen you, treating those slaves of yours as if they were free men, almost. Keep your nose out from where it doesn't belong, boy." Well, I went for him, but it was no kind of fight - he'd huge, and although he's flabby, immensely strong, and taller and much heavier than me, and a few punches and I was a crumpled heap on the ground. As I lay there he slowly and deliberately finished his drink, as if he was in no hurry, then said to all the other draymen "I'd better go and deal with my slaves, I suppose. They need teaching a lesson - causing me trouble like this!". He turned and ambled out of the bar, and as soon as he'd gone, some of the others, who all seemed afraid of him, came and helped me to my feet. I stood there ,hurting like hell from where his punches had landed, but I staggered to the door and across the road to see him standing in the courtyard just slashing wildly at his slaves with his punishment cane as they still huddled together in the pouring rain. I half ran over, as best I could, and tried to stay his hand, screaming at him that it wasn't their fault and to stop hitting them - he just lashed out at me then, and floored me again, then stood over me saying "I ought to cane you, you young puppy, interfering between a drayman and his slaves."

I though he was going to start caning me, and, as it turned out, that might have been the best thing to happen. I couldn't get to my feet, but I curled my arm around his legs and tried to pull him over. He seemed to lose all sense of proportion then, and reached down and grabbed me. He had me in some sort of wrestling hold that I couldn't break away from as he was so big and strong compared to me, and he half carried, half dragged me across the depot to the stairs leading to the BDQ where he and some of the other draymen lived, then hauled me up the stairs. I remember hearing his door crashing open, and then I was face down on his bed - it's funny, isn't it, but you mind takes snapshots of things that you can recall later, and I can remember seeing a hard patch on the sheet, probably his dried cum, and getting the sour smell of where his body had been lying on sheets that need laundering. His weight was heavy on me, and his head was next to mine as he muttered "Now you're going to get it, you little fucker - let me show you how a real man deals with interfering busybodies...."

He was so violent that he actually tore the buttons off my pants as he wrenched them down so that I was lying there half naked, and my shirt and T fared no better as he pulled them off me, not caring if he caught my ears or anything. I realised what he meant to do, and began to really struggle and fight again, but far from making things better, it made them worse - it semed to inflame him, to drive him on, and he was shouting at me telling me that now I was going to get it.... And when I saw him dropping his pants and tried to get up and run out, even though I was stark naked, he just caught my arm, slapped me across the face with his other hand so hard that I almost passed out, then hit my ass twice as he threw me down on to the bed.

Stu, I don't know how I can tell you how awful it was.

I'd always thought that to rape a guy you'd push him over something so he was bent at the waist, but Matt just threw himself on me. His one knee was pressing painfully into my right thigh, and that in itself was almost enough to keep me pinned to the bed, and his other knee was pushing my other thigh so far over that

I thought I might split open. One huge hand was around my neck, and he forced my face so far down into the mattress that I thought I might suffocate. And then I felt his dick at my ass - his other hand was forcing my butt apart, and once he was satisfied he must just have pushed down with all his body weight, as there was no stopping it as his dick speared up into me. From somewhere I heard myself scream, or try to, as my face was deep down, as I've said. The pain was indescribable. And then, as he began to pound up and down, I shouted, raged, screamed and cried, all to no avail. I could hardly breathe as his huge body pressed down on me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to, as I hurt so much.

I'd always kind of imagined that a rape would be over quickly. I mean, in those stories, and in the movies, it's all over after a couple of quick pumps of the guy's dick into the woman, and if I'd ever thought about it at all, I'd imagined it would be like that when one guy takes another forcibly (not that you normally need to - most guys are happy to have sex, after all. But then, you wouldn't know that, Stu). But this went on and on - I was almost suffocating, and I was hurting: hurt like I've never known it before, as he remorselessly and ruthlessly continued to pump his huge dick in and out of my battered ass. And it wasn't like when I've fucked slaves - relatively gentle, and slow and sensual - no, it was fast, hard, pumping action and above the sound of my own attempts to scream I could hear that awful slap, slap, slap noise as his big body crashed into mine. He was grunting with satisfaction as he worked at me, and the rank smell of his stale sweat was nauseating.

I hung in there with everything I'd got as I needed to remember this - I was going to have my revenge on him, and in spite of everything I was going through I didn't want to pass out as I needed to be able to recall it so that his punishment could match his crime.

Finally it was over as he gave a great shout and stopped pumping in to me. You know how they say in those stories that you could feel the hot cum spurting up into you, well it's not true - there are no sensors up there and you can't detect it, and the only way I knew he must have cum is because he stopped the terrible pounding of my body. But then he flopped forward onto me, and I could feel his big flabby belly on my back and his weight almost crushed the breath out of me. Fortunately he'd let go of my head so I could just about breathe, and he now put his mouth next to my ear and said "There you are, you little fucker! That's how a real man deals with a boy like you. Now you've had a real man's dick up you, perhaps you'll learn not to interfere in other men's business." The stench of his breath was foul, as he'd been drinking and the beer and alcohol fumes washed over me, and I felt like being sick.

He moved his heavy thighs and the weight of his body eased a little, and I took the opportunity to slide out from under him - we were both so slicked with sweat that it was relatively easy. But before I could make my escape he'd grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the bed. "Come here you little fucker!", he roared, and before I knew where I was he'd sat on the side of the bed and put me over his knees. It was all a bit of a blur - being up-ended like that, and one moment I was standing, the next I was conscious that my eyes were staring at his feet with their horny misshapen long toenails. It was absurd, I know, but the thought went through me that a man ought to keep his toenails neat! But it was driven out as he began to spank me, his big hand falling repetitively on my ass. I tried to get away, but he opened his thighs and neatly trapped my dick and balls between them, and that, and his other hand around my waist, held me there as his huge, heavy hands beat me again and again. I'm not proud of it, but I screamed - no, squealed is probably more like it. I tried to stifle it, but the stinging violence of his brutal strokes really hurt.

Finally, he'd had enough, and he just pushed me off his lap and I lay there, sprawled at his feet. He was s laughing now, laughing at me, and this was almost the hardest part of it, Stu. "You think you're a big man, dealing with those slaves of yours just as if you're a proper drayman. But you're just a boy, aren't you? A boy who gets put over a real man's knees and spanked if he's naughty!" I felt my eyes fill with tears from the pain I was suffering, but my anger was so fierce that I got to my feet and threw myself at him, my fists and legs flailing wildly as I tried to punch, kick or even scratch him. I saw his arm draw back and his fist coming towards me, and that was it.

He must have carried me back to my own room in the BDQ as I woke up lying naked on my own bed. There was cum and ass juice everywhere, and as I tried to move I realised just how much I was hurting. I managed to drag myself into the shower, but the face I saw when I went to shave was almost unrecognisable: I had black eyes, bruises on my cheeks, and all over my body were big hand prints and more bruising. I tentatively ran a piece of toilet tissue along my ass crack, and I almost screamed when it came away covered in blood. I'd never hurt so much in all my life. Steve.

End Of Part Seven.