SUPPLY AND DEMAND
by Bill Smith
[The promise of hydrogen fuel cells fizzled when it was evident technology had been overly optimistic once again in overcoming the cost factors. Consequently, the world's reliance on oil continued through the first few years of the 21st century until, ultimately, by 2005, it was so scarce the cost was now over $400 a barrel with refined gasoline running around $80 a gallon. Solar energy had been harnessed to produce sustenance levels of electricity through photovoltaic cells, although it too was so expensive this form of energy was reserved primarily for air conditioning and refrigeration anymore. As a result of these drastic changes, most domestic energy was now supplied by animals, similar to man's history for the first 3000 years, including civilization's old standby, the smartest, the most easily trained, the most prolific, and the most efficient animal available, the human slave. Although cars and trucks were still around here and there, their operational costs precluded any widespread usage although freight movements involving transocean shipment were still possible via a resurgence of sailing and slave-powered galley ships and the reintroduction of dirigibles with their low power demands which could also be met with galley slaves Nowhere was the transition from oil, coal, and gas to human slave energy resources more evident than in the United States, still the world's leader in trade, popular culture, consumerism, and finance for well over 150 years. Nowhere had oil resources been so recklessly squandered than in the U.S. in their constant quest for more affordable energy. Hence, it was not surprising that Americans, while certainly not the first, were the most influential in turning to slavery on a massive scale to supply the energy and conveniences they considered their rightful inheritance. Indeed, there were now more domestic and imported human chattels in the U.S. , proportional to the free population, than anyplace on earth.]
Rubio sat sipping his expresso at the sidewalk cafe, his mind deep in thought as he took in all the colorful sights he had learned to appreciate in the everyday life of contemporary Los Angeles. The small restaurant was filled with his fellow citizens, all fitted out in the latest fashions, all tastefully displaying a few symbols of their wealth (a Rolex here, a gold necklace there, designer shoes on practically all), and all with an almost arrogant look that they owned the world around them.
That attitudinal look was quite accurate. They did own a great deal in their affluence, including a good 90 to 95 percent of Los Angeles' population, a few of which were standing close by their masters ready to serve when needed. All of the restaurant staff, including the supervisor, were owned properties as were almost all the workers surrounding the restaurant: the construction workers, the road builders, the haulers units trudging up and down the street pulling the endless drays, the cleaners, the window washers, the litter bearers, those pulling the passenger rigs, even the "personal assistants" most free people had accompany them on the streets nowadays to handle all the small details as well as add to the prestige of their owners. Those owned were clearly distinguishable from those who owned.
The first group were almost always naked, collared, body shaved, branded, and usually showing a few bruises and whip weals of recent discipline along with a furtive look revealing their main goal was to escape further punishment whenever they could, no matter what it took. They were generally well built and extremely muscular due to the heavy physical demands placed upon them. The second group, in sharp contrast, were well covered, sported facial and body hair at their fancy, had bodies reflecting a life involving little physical labor, and had an arrogance that only comes from outright ownership of the same species totally subject to their will.
Rubio's self-absorption was broken by the sharp crack of a whip out in the street about 50 feet away. Rubio and every slave in the restaurant turned to look at this disciplinary disturbance. The whip had torn into the back of a middle aged slave who had both his feet shackled and his neck collar attached to a long line of other slaves, all as naked and scarred as he was. The slave had apparently stumbled and fallen to the ground, dragging the slave in front and back of him down also due to the close neck chaining. The driver, cursing loudly at the slaves for this interruption in their passage to wherever they were being driven, raised his whip and, in a fury, beat the slaves on the ground, quickly turning their backs into a collage of torn skin, raw pulsating flesh, and blood everywhere.
"Up, you miserable bastards," the driver screamed, his face red with rage as his arm repeatedly brought the whip down on their bodies.
Two of the slaves, their backs a dark red with blood and bruises, struggled to their feet, dragging the third by his attached neck collar upright with their efforts. The third slave, the one who had first stumbled and dragged the other two down, seemed limp, his head hanging sideways over the thick iron collar locked tightly around his neck.
"Shit!" the driver said as he redirected the aim of his whip to the rumps of the two upright conscious slaves, who screamed in agony at this new assault on their already well scarred asses. The dead weight tugging on their neck collars pulled each sideways and was obviously interferring with their breathing as each of the slaves began gasping for air. "The fucking animal has up and died on me." Whipping out his cell phone with his other arm, he quickly contacted the slave rendering outfit his company had contracted.
"Dead slave at 14th and Santiago - male, middle aged, badly scarred hide, could still see and hear." Listening intently to the party at the other end, the driver's eyes darted to the dead slave's genitals. "About 5" long but his balls are big and hang well. Yeah, he's been banded and has got big rings through both his tits and his nose. Look like they're all copper or bronze, so it's worth salvaging, but his collar is just standard issue iron." He listened a while more and then answered, "OK, I'll just leave him in the gutter here in that I have to get the rest of this gang over to the galley and chained in place on the benches they're assigned to by 2 o'clock when the galley takes off. You pick him up and do what rendering you can. I'll notify the company you're responsible for that clean-up and to send me a replacement slave from their holding pens over to the galley as quick as they can."
The driver then quickly called his home office. "George, had one die on me enroute to the galley - stupid bastard. What? .. Well, I don't know why he died - he just did, the son of a bitch. Frankly, George, he was over the hill anyway...Whoever put him in that coffle must have been blind or just wanted to cause me trouble.. What? ...Well, hell. He must have been at least in his late thirties and from the looks of his back and rump, had been beaten to death anyway on his last few assignments. They shouldn't give me these old, worn out slaves when I have to march them clear across town to even get them to their new work stations, let alone hope they would last long enough to even get the galley out of the harbor no matter how much their driver beat the hell out of them. When you've got an assignment to a galley, no one over 28 or so should have even been considered, and even those should be big and muscular with a lot of life left in them - not a worn out cur like this old slave that just ups and dies on an easy walk across town. Whoever put him in the pack today is going to have to answer to me for causing all this trouble, let me tell you. Who was it, anyway?"
The driver paused, his eyes darting back and forth in his anger, while the two slaves standing in front of him were still coughing and choking from the strain on their neck collars. "Oh, so it was Sam - just as I thought. Well, George, tell Sam he's in deep shit with me. Tell him that, George - the fucking bastard. Probably kept the good ones back at the holding pens so he could fuck them while I'm out here in the streets sweating my balls off trying to keep the company profitable. What?" he paused and listened again. "Yeah, I've called the rendering company... They're going to pick him clean and cart off what's left to the rendering plant. At least you'll be able to get back the copper rings and bands someone had fitted the slave with somewhere down the line, probably his teeth and hair, and, of course, his balls, maybe his eyes and ears... I don't know. Organs? Depends how soon they can pick the slave up, I suppose. If it's pretty quick, you'll probably get a liver, kidneys, lungs, cochlea, and retina - possibly some functional balls, but I have my doubt on his heart and prick. His heart is what gave out, I think, and his prick isn't anything special - I doubt if they'd take anything that small. And I don't think they'll bother skinning him - he's just too scarred up for that. They'll just mix that in with the rest of him when he's turned into slave chow would be my guess. You better check they get here pronto - people don't like it when they start to stink on the street and he's got the company's brand on him so they'd know who to complain about. And, besides, they'll help themselves to that copper on him if he's there for more than a few minutes - you know how they are - they just tear it off those tits and noses and balls no matter how much effort it is - copper is running high in salvage value these days and they could use it on their own slaves probably. What?" the driver strained to hear the incoming message. "Probably won't matter that much.. Let them have it if they're that eager," he laughed. "Teenagers always seem to want a souvenir if they can get it, and dried up slave tackle is all the rage these days, I understand. They turn the ball sacs into coin purses and stuff those pricks as dildos to hang from their belts. Teenagers.... what will they think of next?" he chuckled. "Just one damn fad after another." He paused and listened again. "Well, you're right there, George. Back in our day we used to collect dried up slave tits, soak them in whisky, and then chew on them as a little snack - all the rage in my high school crowd," he chortled.
With a final snort of laughter at yet another remembrance, he put his cell phone back in his pocket, reached for a key in that same pocket, and quickly unlocked the dead slave's collar so that his body fell to the ground and both the remaining slaves, gasped for air as they once again stood straight up, awaiting orders. "Back in line, you two. They're going to send another slave over to fill that collar as soon as we reach the dock so you won't get lonely. You're damn lucky we don't just you have you do his work, you know. That's what a lot of companies would do when a slave just ups and dies on them." With that, he slashed both slaves across their rumps to make sure they understood and, screaming from the fresh attack, they quickly aligned themselves with the other slaves standing patiently in the chained coffle. The driver then kicked the dead body into the nearby gutter where it rolled face up, its still open eyes staring at all those passing by. The company's brand clearly showed on the dead slave's upper right pec, so the rendering company could spot this slave as theirs from other dead slaves that might up end up in the gutters of that same street that day.
"Is there a contract on his body?" a 14-year old asked who happened to be strolling by.
"Yeah, they are on their way," the driver told him. "If you want some souvenirs, I'd advise you to look for an unbranded slave - their owners often don't give a damn what happens to them and just let the city garbage trucks have them. Keep your eyes open - you'll find one soon enough and have all the souvenirs you want in a week's time. Seems like there are slaves dying right and left these days - so damn many of them anymore, I suppose it's inevitable a few of them die every day," the driver mused.
He turned and, with his whip, took aim at the slave in front of the chain line. "A slow even run, you bastards.... We've got to make up for lost time," and again his whip found its mark on the back of a huge black slave who groaned in agony as he felt his back's many scars tormented again, but jerked into the commanded run, dragging the others chained behind him into action. The long coffle quicky disappeared down the street, their shackled feet clanking on the hot concrete as their connecting neck chains swayed between them. The sharp crack of the driver's whip grew more and more distant as the restaurant's patrons once again sipped their drinks, their attention no longer given to the dead slave in the gutter in front of them.
But to the slaves attending the patrons, their eyes lingered on the naked corpse of a fellow slave and reminded them, for the thousandth time, what it meant to be a slave. How long would it be before they too were worn out and abandoned in the gutter for a rendering plant to turn them, after the sellable parts had all been harvested, into the very food they ate each and every day? It also reminded them how lucky they were to be owned by their present masters and mistresses instead of being driven to a galley where they would row until the bull whip and hot irons could no longer extract any more energy out of their bodies. To a slave, they vowed to renew their efforts to please their owners in any way requested, no matter what was asked. Swallowing another slave's huge prick and then sucking it until it spurted a huge load of steaming hot cum down their throat, all for their owner's amusement with his friends, was minor compared to the lashings they had just witnessed. Being fitted with a huge butt plug to make sure they kept themselves showing hard at all times, and to give them the feeling they were being fucked everytime they moved, was small potatoes to being chained to a galley bench being bull whipped until you finally gasped your last breathe. Yes, they were lucky indeed - pampered even.
They would make sure they would keep it that way as long as they were able. The next time some slave complained in the master's pens about being fucked until they were raw, or having to suck off twenty of their master's friends at a party, they would remind them of a slave's alternatives - that would make them appreciate their current ownership no matter what they had to do. One of the slaves owned by the restaurant glanced again at the dead body in the gutter, still bleeding profusely, and, shamefully, thought about how he had felt resentful the last time he had to submit to being sequentially fucked by 12 of his master's teenage son's friends, all in one afternoon, after sucking 10 others off while his master's son collected the fee's for his usage to pay for some gift for his girlfriend. How silly he had been! What was that compared to the dead body in front of him who had obviously been beat to death over the years? How glad that slave would have been to merely have his body's holes be used for other's pleasure rather than have his body torn into shreds with a bullwhip.
Of course, the slave ruminated as he once again studied the dead slave's body, that the slave's looks, let alone his just average sexual apparatus, didn't warrant a good bedding down - certainly not now and probably never. He was fortunate to be exceptionally good looking and sexually attractive with his large well shaped equipment - what the market labeled "likely" these days. That assured him a considerably higher market value and far better care than a mere slave destined to the galleys.
Rubio motioned the waiter, a medium sized blond boy with a nice even tan, appealing good looks, and a large nicely shaped, semi-erect prick (displayed nicely due to genital cinch ring that has been tightly fitted), to refill his coffee. The slave did so instantly, pausing only with Rubio took his penis in hand, stroked it to a full erection and then squeezed his balls.
"Nice," he commented to no one in particular as he released the waiter.
"Cream, master?" the blond slave asked.
"No, I brought my own," Rubio smiled, motioning to his 'personal assistant' who was positioned at full display right behind him.
"Of course, master," the blond slave smiled back and quietly retreated, adding, "Remember, master, I'm here to serve. Whatever you might desire, master."
Rubio noticed streams of white cum oozing out of the slave's nicely rounded ass. Apparently, at least some of the restaurant's patrons had taken the slave up on his offer or perhaps his owner had used him recently, although surely he would have had least douched the slave before putting him back waiting tables.
The restaurant manager took notice of Rubio's interest in the slave and quickly approached.
"Would you like the slave to service you, sir?" the manager asked politely. "The cost is negligible and most satisfactory. Perhaps a nice sucking this morning?"
"No thank you," Rubio laughed. "I brought my own," he added, pointing to his own slave, still standing on full display just a few feet away, "But your waiter is fresh and appealing and his band shows his equipment off extremely well. I couldn't help but admire it. Where is the property from originally?"
"Utah," the manager said. Bought him from a batch shipped in from there about three months ago. "Already fully trained, including all the fittings - the band around his balls, the ring through his nose, and even those big tit rings. There's a wholesaler out there that specializes in fresh young native stock."
"That's good," Rubio responded. "So many imports on the market, it's getting hard to find native stock anymore."
"Yes, kind of sad, isn't it? But imports are underselling the native stock more every day that passes. Won't be long until native stock is priced off the market if this keeps up."
"From the looks of his butt, he's making himself useful," Rubio chuckled.
"Sorry about that, but we'll get him douched out right away. We got busy and, well, he just didn't have time to clean himself up. Normally, he takes pretty good care of himself, but he's smart enough to put first things first - if he can sell himself, he postpones the cleanup until he's got some free time. They trained that boy well out in Utah, I tell you. Puts first things first and he knows damn well he's here to make money first and foremost."
"I dare say you won't find some of these new imports all that smart," Rubio retorted.
"They can't even understand what you're telling them to do half the time," the manager said with disgust. "Give me a home grown every time."
Motioning his own slave over next to him, Rubio lifted the full black's massive balls in his hand and roughly massaged them. "This one's home grown too," Rubio said. "Mississippi stock."
"Nice looking boy," the manager commented as he ran his hands over the black's cheeks and then down his chest, pulling on his large copper nipple rings. "Working out OK?"
"So far," Rubio replied as he began stroking the slave's huge black prick. "Bought him as a display slave, basically, but I've loaned him now and then to some of my friends for their enjoyment of his body and I've rented him out for stud to a few others who own female slaves they want knocked up. I've had no complaints so far," he added as he continued stroking the slave, now fully erect, until he began to drip. "Use him to cream my coffee," he explained as he increased his stoking until an eruption was eminent and then aimed the prick toward his cup. "Like the flavor of the boy," he commented as gobs of thick, creamy cum shot into the hot coffee as the slave gasped, arching his body in his excitement. "No matter how many cups of coffee I have every morning, this boy is always full of jism, it seems. I've never had any trouble that way with black slaves - they just seem to produce it as fast as you milk it out of them."
"I've heard that about the blacks, but, frankly, I've never had problems with any slave I've owned that was still in their twenties. After that, well.... that's another story. My experience tells me it's a matter of the slave's age, not the color of their hide, but you're not the first to tell me that about blacks. Stories like that keeps their value up on the auction block, let me tell you," he laughed again. "How old is your slaveboy if I may ask?"
Rubio motioned for the slave to retreat to his original position and reassume his display position, his penis slowly shrinking to its usual semi-erect status. "He's 19 now, I believe. Bought him when he was first marketed on his 16th birthday. Product of one of those huge Mississippi slave breeding farms that's turning out thousands just like him every month. Places like that are responsible for keeping the prices reasonable - simple supply and demand. If we breed our own, we won't have to import all that foreign stuff just to keep the prices affordable. Not that I want the price of slaves to go up - Lord knows we should keep them just as low as possible these days if we're to keep the economy going."
"Low cost labor is the only way we're going to keep going," the manager said soberly. "A plentiful supply of slaves is essential, especially the way some applications of slave labor are simply devouring them these days."
"Like what?" Rubio asked.
"Like what you just say happen out there in the street," the manager said. "Those galleys are literally consuming slaves like hotcakes. They tell me a slave doesn't last more than a year or two on the oars before they're dead meat. That's means a lot of new slaves have to take their place. If we didn't have so many slaves on hand ready to market, I tell you the prices would be sky-high. But that steady supply keeps the prices manageable, no matter how many up and die on us in those construction gangs, galley ships, dray wagons, and on and on. Like what you see out on the streets these days. I bet you the rendering companies will be picking up 200 to a 1000 dead slaves off the streets before the day is out if you take in the whole city as well as the ports. That's a lot of future slave chow, my friend," the laughed. "And it all has to be replaced either through imports or breeding them ourselves."
"That's what I was reading in this morning's paper," Rubio replied. "Slave imports are up 10% over a year ago, and there is a 10% increase in production at our own breeding operations. But there's a 20% increase in demand for new slaves, so supply and demand are about evened out and prices are holding steady. That's good for the economy. But cut either the import rate or the breeding production and prices shoot up and inflationary pressures will ruin us. So far, we're fine, but it's essential we pay attention to future supplies."
"Mind if I pull up a chair?" the manager asked. "I'd love to talk to you about this, but I have to keep an eye out on the waiters." Just as he said this, one of the waiters, a striking Latino boy of about 20, sunk to his knees and crawled under a table, obviously to orally service a customer desiring some modicum of privacy as he was being sucked off by the compliant slaveboy.
"By all means," Rubio said as he pushed a chair out in invitation. "It's obvious you're as interested in the economy as I am. Would you like to play with my slave while we're talking?"
"Why, thank you. I believe I will take you up on both offers - both the talk and the slaveboy."
"Upright in display or kneeling?" Rubio asked as he motioned his slave over next to the table.
"Kneeling," the manager replied. "I think I'd like to play with his tits to start with. It's easier to talk that way."
The black slave sunk to his knees besides the manager and thrust his chest out for easy handling of his ringed tits, a task he had tolerated many, many times since he'd first been sold..
The driver arrived at the dock with his coffle about the same time the renderer's cart, pulled by two very muscular naked Mexican slaves, arrived at the dead slave's body in the gutter. At the command of the cart's driver, the two dray slaves left the cart's poles and swiftly picked up the dead slave and threw him in the back of the cart where two other bodies had already been stacked. Without further ado, they ran around to the front of the cart and quickly resumed their place in the cart's harnesses fastened to the poles. With a "Gi Hah" from the driver, the dray slaves struggled with the heavy load but managed to reach a trot before long despite the weight of not only their driver but three dead bodies within the cart. "One more to pick up, boys, then we'll head back to the rendering plant," the driver announced brightly, flicking his whip over the Mexican's rumps lightly to urge them on as he watched their large pricks and balls swing in coordination with their trot. "As soon as you've unloaded them, I've a mind to fuck you two before turning you over to the operations manager. If you run fast enough, we can work all of that in before you're scheduled for duty there," as he again smacked their rumps with his whip as a way of conveying the urgency to move fast. "I'm sure you'd enjoy a good fucking this afternoon to break up the monotony of turning those bodies into slave chow after the goodies have been removed. You two like a good fucking this afternoon?"
"Yes amigo sir," the two slaves said in broken English, having been in the United States only a couple of months now, although both had been slaves for years in their native country before being bought up by an slave exporter. Their enthusiasm for being fucked wasn't feigned. Compared to the horror of mixing the ground up meat of dead slaves and other animals with the right portions of corn and wheat and vegetable juice to make the nutritious flavorful slave chow combined with taking in its horrid odor prior to baking the wet mixture into the hard bite-size chucks fed to the slaves as a finished product, then being fucked by even the driver's huge organ was a welcome relief, even though, when fully inserted and pumping away within them, it seemed at times like it was tearing them in two. No matter how many times they had been fucked with that huge tool over the past two months, they had still not been stretched enough to feel comfortable taking the huge tool, and their asses constantly ached and were chronically sore from the continued assaults up their rear by this driver. As the two slaves reflected on the huge tool being driven up them once again as soon as they returned and got the cart unloaded, they thought back to their days back in Mexico with their previous owner, who fucked both of them regularly. But his smallish organ was easily assimilated, especially since their holes had been stretched by a succession of butt plugs as soon as they had come of age and were first being marketed . But they had apparently never been stretched enough to prepare them for this gringo driver proud of his 12 x 5 tool. Someone should tell the slave trainers back in Mexico to prepare their new charges better for the marketplace demands these days.
"If I didn't enjoy the way you two carry on being fucked, wiggling and squirming around like you do when it's all the way up you, I'd fit you with a big plug before we take off for each day's rounds. A nice big plug up your butts churning around all day as you trotted down the road would be like getting fucked on the run and open you up good for the likes of anyone wanting to use you, but I'm not going to do it unless I'm ordered to. I like it too much to hear you moaning and groaning when I stuff it up you," he laughed. "You're practically virgins, you know, when it comes to being fucked - nice and tight - just like a virgin."
"Yes, amigo sir," the two slaves said simultaneously, already well aware of how it felt to have to work with a plug up you - at least a smaller plug then this man seemed to have in mind. He was right - it was just like being fucked with every step you took. A plug the size of this driver would be something else again - something best taken when at least they were still in a given postion of their user's choice. Having to trot down the street with something that size in them - they could picture the blood gushing out of their ass-holes as their ass muscles churned around without any prompting.
"You like a big plug up your butt-holes to open you up properly" the driver asked rhetorically.
"No, amigo ...sir," one of the dark Mexican slaves. gasping from his brisk trot, answered for both of them in his halting English. "We best slaves when we good.... and tight... so master can enjoy us best."
"Yes, .... amigo sir," the other slave, also heavily panting from his exertions, added. "Like you say, ..... sir, ......tight like virgins. Plugging us .......only make your .......slaves loose and sloppy, .........amigo sir, like worn out...... whores."
Within 30 minutes, both dark-skinned slaves, their bodies coated in sweat, had finished the unloading of the dead slaves and were now both on their hands and knees with their legs far apart so their ass holes were fully exposed and open for the forthcoming fucking. First one and then the other slave was mounted by the driver and his huge tool was pounded deeply and repeatedly up each of the slave's holes until he had completely emptied his balls into both of them. This time was no different than the others: each felt like they were being split in two; each were sure they were bleeding profusely from the usage (although they weren't); and each moaned, groaned, and wiggled around attempting to find a more comfortable position to tolerate the pain in their already sore, stretched and well used asses. Despite their pain, both Mexican slaves sported huge dripping erections as the tool up their chutes stimulated their prostates, although they knew they wouldn't be allowed to shoot off without express permission to do so. But when the driver was through using them, they quickly remembered to clean his tool, dripping with his cum and their own stinking ass juices, with their tongues and lips, swallowing every last remnant of their own usage. Finally, when ordered back to the rendering plant to their duties mixing the obnoxiously odoriferous slave chow, they remembered to bow low and thank the driver for using them this afternoon, their pricks still dripping and rampant in need. They had found every free man expected slaves to thank them for being chosen to be used by them - after all, they didn't choose to fuck just any slave around - they had chosen them - and they expected to be thanked for the honor.
With another slash of the bullwhip over the rump of a chained slave chosen randomly who responded with a hoarse blood-curdling scream despite his fatigue, the driver corralled the coffle of slaves over the gangplank and down into the oar banks of the galley, three levels below the open deck above. Quickly unchaining each slave from their neck leash, he turned them over to the galley's own slave handlers, themselves naked slaves, who quickly took each new collared body, chained at this point only with their legs shackled together, to a vacant seat on the oar benches and quickly chained their wrist shackles to the oars themselves, their collars to the beam over them, and their feet to the galley's deck floors. Once chained, they could neither stand, change positions, or use their hands for anything from gripping the oars themselves. It was immediately obvious to the new slaves that, thus restrained, there was no way they could feed or water themselves, wipe their bottom, direct their piss, masturbate themselves, scratch themselves, pick at their whip scars, feel any part of their body, or escape in any way the whip the handlers all carried ready in their hand.
"You slaves are now in your new home - a home you'll have for the rest of their cursed lives in all probability unless the owner or one of the crew take a fancy to your body which, from the looks of you scum, is highly unlikely. If your bodies had any appeal left in them, you couldn't be here - it's as simple as that although me and some of the other handlers may use you once in a while since that's all we have access to, being slaves ourselves. So you're going to shit, piss, take your food and drink, sleep when allowed, and suffer the discipline a good galley ship demands all in that one little space you're chained to right now. For most of you, your life from now on will be centered around that oar your hands are chained to and nothing else. Put your back into each and every pull and you'll live a few years of good hard work. Slack off at any time for any reason and you're going to have your body slashed to pieces right there on that bench until you will pray to your Gods you had died long before you ever set sight of this ship. Our job is to extract the last ounce of energy your miserable body has pulling these oars before, inevitably, someday, you'll be dead from the whip and at last we'll unshackle you to throw you to the sharks and another piece of muscle will take your place.
"In the interim, you've jerked off the last time - all you can do now is think about it and, if you're lucky and have a damn good imagination, you might have the energy left to spew all over yourself , but that's it for any sex. We'll feed you plenty of slave chow because it takes a lot of calories to pull those oars 16 to 18 hours a day. And we'll water you every hour, because you're going to sweat buckets down here in this hot hole. Once a day, we'll flush all that shit and piss down the drain to keep it healthy, but the stench never goes away no matter how much we try to keep the place neat and tidy. And although we dowse your body with the hose once a day to wash away all that encrusted sweat, the snot from your nose, some dried up cum if you're lucky, and the blood from the whip, you still stink like a pig all the time. No one shaves your body here, so after a few weeks, you simply look like the animals you are. Hardly anyone comes down to this deck to see you because they can't stand the stench and sight of you. On a modern galley like this, you get to sleep 6 to 8 hours a day, chained right to your bench, even if the wind isn't up. We don't rotate slaves anymore - it's cheaper to just stop dead in the water for a time than take up cargo space with rotating slaves. And, if the winds blowing, we slack off in a good strong wind and let you rest up, taking it out of your sleep time later.
"If one of you dies, we don't like the stench of a rotting body down here, so we unchain you and throw you overboard for the sharks. But we don't replace you bastards - it's not economical to take up the room in the cargo hold a replacement slave would take. But the others chained next to you have to take up your load, so it's very wise to keep the body next to you alive and well enough to pull his share of the load. Once a day we give you a chance to use your mouths so you don't forget how to talk. That's the time to tell us about some malady that can be fixed on the spot, like pulling out a rotten tooth, putting some antibiotic cream on an infected whip wound, plucking out an infected eye, or cauterizing a larger wound where we can just burn the infection out. We even keep some medicine on hand if you're all plugged up to clean you out, but other than that, we usually just cut the part off if you don't need it, or burn it out. And don't you sissies ask for any pain killers - we don't have any on hand and, even if we did, wouldn't use it on the likes of you - remember, pain is a slave's best trainer as our whips will quickly convince you.
"Oh, one other thing, it one of us slave handlers wants to get off using your bodies, you damn well better cooperate the best you know how, or we simply cut your balls off and cauterize you. Cuts your strength some so we have to beat you all the harder, but what the heck? We have to beat the hell out of most of you anyway to keep the ship at the pace ordered by the owners. On the outside chance a freeman wants to use your body - and remember who in their right mind would ever want to bed down a stinking dirty animal like you - we'll clean you up and shave your body, give you a series of enemas, and even oil that scarred up body - you'll think you've gone to slave heaven. The trouble is, most of you are so beaten down by then you can't even remember what to do to please them, or you can't get it up again, and they send you back with orders for a through beating for your bad manners and insolence. But you'll be surprised how many mistresses and a few masters like to bed down a slave beaten half to death and looking like a damn animal. So you may luck out - who knows? But cargo ships like this carry few free passengers. Now if you were on a passenger ship, your luck might improve, but here? Doubtful.
"But some of the free crew, especially those without a body slave of their own with them, don't have much to relieve themselves with, so sometimes you might be called upon if you're lucky. But usually its just us slave handlers using you and maybe a few of those body slaves of the crew their masters allow to fuck the slaves down here. So try to look eager and pretty - being fucked beats pulling the oars and breaks the monotony let me tell you. I've been on the oars myself before being made a handler, so I know what I'm talking about. I caught the eye of one of the officers when I was first placed on the oars, just like you are today, and after fucking me for a couple of years while I was on the oars, one of the handlers died and he chose me to replace him. Luckiest day I ever had - thank God I had enough sense to make sure I made that officer as happy as he'd ever been when I graced his bed." The slave handler stopped his diatribe for a moment and reflected on his good luck. "That officer claimed I whored my way to a handler's job. I say I earned the position fair and square. Slaves make their own luck - no one makes it for them," he added philosophically. "Just ask all those slaves whose bones are now littering the bottom of the sea."
That said, he and the other handlers checked all our restraints, fed and watered us, handled all our tits, tackle, and ass holes to check us out for future sexual use by them or perhaps make suggestions to the freemen on board, and by then it was time for the ship to depart.
We were ordered to grip the oars, put them in the "up" position, and with the sound of a huge gong in the rowing deck, smoothly and with perfect coordination put them in the "down" position in the water and pull with all our strength. At first, we got the oars tangled and the lack of coordination lead to a flurry of backs being beaten black and blue with the bull whips. Within five minutes, the shrieks of pain died down and the slaves carefully learned to coordinate all of their movements with each other to the sound of the never ceasing gong as blood ran copiously down many a slave's back.
Many had lost bowel and urinary control in their severe pain; some were showing hard as their reaction to all the pain; but most were just weeping and sobbing between panting in the severe effort of pulling the oars forward, no matter how coordinated they were. Most had never ever faced such an overwhelming task that required such raw strength and endurance. Most couldn't imagine doing this for 16 to 18 hours, no matter how much they were beaten. As they pulled forward, their legs had to find purchase on the footholds built into the deck floor to prevent them from sliding around, their shoulder muscles popped from the strain as their biceps felt like they would burst. Every muscle in their bodies, from their feet to their necks, were strained to the breaking point. No wonder the "old hands," who the handlers said had been there three months or more, looked like obscene stacks of layered muscle that one could barely recognize as human anymore. Within an hour, some of the slaves, already bleeding profusely from all the whip tears on their back, were begging the handlers to kill them. Others tried to choke themselves with their neck collars which had been fastened to the overhead beams. Still others, at the end of the day, refused to eat or drink, but the handlers, used to this simplistic tactic, simply pried their lips open and forced a funnel down their throat and power-plunged the food and water directly into their stomach. A few simply refused to pull or slumped over their oar, but this tactic was anticipated also. Those pulling that stunt were branded with hot irons or burnt with electric prods directly on their balls or tits just to the point of unconsciousness until pull they did and, this time, with all the strength left in their tortured bodies.
There was no escape from the demands placed upon them; they would not be allowed to kill themselves, or resist in any fashion whatsoever. Everything had been carefully thought out in advance and obviously, galleys had operated for years now and very efficiently, thanks to the techniques now almost universal with the slaves powering them. It took all of 24 hours for every slave onboard to realize this, and by the second day, most did what was expected of them, albeit under the constant encouragement of the omnipresent whips, which guaranteed the last ounce of energy was extracted from their bodies, exactly as planned.
"There are ways we can cut our demand rates," the manager said as he continued to squeeze and massage the black slave's tits, now red and swollen, kneeling beside him. "One research showed, according to the papers, that if you worked the galleys on shifts so the slaves got 10 hours rest a day, you could increase their working life by five fold. But that would mean twice the slaves each ship and twice the capitol investment, not counting the costs of storing and feeding them which cuts into your cargo space seriously. All told, the research showed that slaves would have to cost three times what they do currently before that would be economically prudent. At current prices, it's just cheaper to replace them more often like we're currently doing and that, my friend, means a steady supply coming to the marketplace."
"I read where if slave prices were to double, economists claim their use for domestic tasks like cleaning the house, gardening, pulling rickshaws, etc., would prove to be prohibitive for the middle class. And if they were to triple, even most of the upper classes would have to give up their personal assistants and body slaves - essentially their sex life. So everything from keeping the house tidy to having your bed warmed with a willing body depends on supply."
"Thank God for an ample supply," the manager laughed. "Do you mind if your slave sucks me?" he added. "All this talk of possible shortages in personal assistants convinces me I better get drained while I can," he chorted.
"By all means," Rubio said as he indicated his approval of the request to his black slave with an admonition to do a good job.
The black nodded and quickly gobbled down the manager's prick to its roots, slurping and swallowing the large shaft completely down his well-trained throat before he began a rhythmic tight sliding up and down on the shaft to make the sucking as pleasurable as possible.
"What's your experience with imported slaves?" Rubio asked his new found friend.
"OK, but I don't buy many in my business. Too many language problems and the customers won't put up with it. I pretty well have to stick with native stock that all speak English."
"I have a lot of them, "Rubio responded. "Have too. You see, I import foreign beers and have to have slaves that speak all the different languages with the galley captains that haul the stuff over here to the States. When the beer is unloaded, it's the galley officers that supervise the unloading by my slaves and the slaves have to understand what they're saying or risk getting beat to dead. I used to use native born slaves that only understood English until I wised up - most of those poor boys got beat to death before they even got the ship unloaded no matter how hard they tried - the captains thought they were being obstinate and rebellious and were intent on beating it out of them - they never bothered to think that the slaves couldn't understand one command they were giving them. When the crew would come back all bloodied up, usually carrying five or six dead ones with them, I figured I'd save a lot by just switching over to the imported slaves who tend to speak a variety of languages and can understand the commands given them by these foreign captains. At least, they all return intact anymore, no more bloodied up than you would expect from a good day's work behind them."
"I see your point," the manager said. "But to keep our balance of payments even, that means we've got to export an equal number of slaves. And, as you say, our domestic slaves generally only speak English so who wants them?"
"Oh, there's a ready market for American slaves," Rubio said. "First off, a lot of slave's jobs don't require you to speak the language. Taking a good fuck, for example, or working under the whip in a chain gang. You don't hear much exchange in language in those situations typically."
"No," the manager admitted.
"Secondly, American stock is generally in better shape to start with. Most of it is off the breeding farms anymore and they have good teeth, hides not all scarred up, and generally have been well fed with all their shots. The selective breeding practices are paying off: the stock is bigger than average; better looking; healthier; and heavy hung with high sex drives."
"Like this black boy here," the manager said as the black slave continued to vigorously suck him.
"Well, yes. That black boy was bred carefully, it seems. But even the American slaves coming out of our courts and emptying our prisons have been inoculated for the major diseases, been fairly well fed over the years, have a very clear idea of what is expected of a slave these days so they are already half broken when they first enter slavery and the training time is minimal, and most of them were fucked silly in the prisons so a slave's sexual duties are nothing new to them. All of that makes them attractive in foreign markets. Besides, I suspect there's a certain panache in owning an American slave abroad. Sort of a put-down to American arrogance we're so noted for. All of that keeps the value up abroad. Even a court-sentenced slave in his late twenties whose hung halfway decently is bringing a pretty competitive price in the European and Asian markets these days. And the products of American breeding farms are consistently bringing in top prices abroad."
"As long as we can ... keep... them ... coming," the manager choked out as he arched his back and shoot deep down the black slave's throat. "Jesus, that boy's sucks well," he commented as his began to withdraw his tool from the boy's mouth.
'Yes, he does," Rubio said. "That's one of the reasons I paid top price for him. But your comment on coming wasn't just about your own, I take it. Didn't you mean a steady supply of new marketable slaves?"
"Yes," the manager laughed. "Supply and demand. That's the key to a healthy economy. But back to the imports. Which, in your experience, work out the best?"
"Depends on what you want them for," Rubio responded. "For waiters here, I think you'll find Americans best of all due to their language skills. But if you have to have imports, nothing like Italians or Spaniards when it comes to waiting tables. And generally they're damn good looking too once you buffed them up and stripped them naked. They tend to be easily trained to service their better's sexual needs has been my experience with them. Sort of comes natural to them after a little initial urging with the whips."
"And beyond waiting tables and servicing the customers?" the manager asked.
"Eastern Europeans, the Slavic stock, is best for the warehouses and road gangs. They're big and sturdy, used to hard work all day long, and respond well to the whips. Sort of like horses that way. That makes them good dray slaves as well.
"For the galleys and dirigibles, you need a smaller slave to fit into the tight quarters - there I think Asian slaves are best if you can find the really muscular ones. They don't take as much feed, and, for their weight, put forth the best effort. Besides, they hold up for years if you steer away from the Indians, Indonesians, and Filipinos who are sort of puny by comparison. The best are the Chinese, Vietnamese, and Malays in my opinion.
"For jobs that require a lot of training, like technical sales, computer programming and such, you want a slave to live as long as possible to pay you back for all that training. That's where I think the Middle Easterner is a good choice. They live forever, practically, if you feed them regularly and make sure they get some rigorous exercise, and they're smart enough to pick up on their training without excessive punishment.
"For the mines, rendering plants, sewage disposal, and heavy lifting, the big blacks from central Africa are the slaves of choice. They're as strong as a bull, about as durable, and can work under the worst imaginable conditions without too much harm to their bodies. But, I'll warn you, they're dumb as an ox, so you don't want them in anything that requires much training. And they're like Slavs - they work best under a very heavy whip. That's about all they understand, it seems.
"Finally, for personal service , body slaves, the brothels, and display slaves, it's hard to beat the American boys that are well built, heavy hung, and naturally inclined to show off their sexual abilities. Bred American blacks are the very best, in my opinion, but some bred whites are a close second. Even the court-sentenced formerly free slaves, both whites and blacks, turn out well in these assignments once they're properly broken to their slavehood. An Arab friend of mine, who owns a whole harem of good looking male slaves, buys nothing but American slaves anymore although he could easily afford anything he wanted. Claims they accept their new destiny with a relish once they see what other slaves have to do, like the mines and road gangs. He claims American slaves are basically lazy and eagerly seek out what they see as the easiest jobs - like offering a good fuck whenever their master so desires. But I don't think my American black boy here that just sucked you off is lazy at all - he's a hard worker when I assign him that sort of task - but why waste talent like that when almost any old slave can do hard work under an overseer who knows how to use a whip. Besides, that old Arab master works his slaves as hard as anyone I know when it comes to forced exercises to keep their bodies in top shape and flexibility. I just don't think he basically appreciates Americans - that's probably why he likes to fuck them every time he can get it up!" Rubio concluded.
"You're probably right about that," the manager agreed. "I've noticed here at the restaurant that most personal slaves accompanying their masters reflect their owners own backgrounds and experiences."
"How so?" Rubio asked.
"Well, Southern boys like an American black in tow," the manager said. "Germans tend to prefer the Slavs and Georgians and Circassians; Eastern Europeans like the English, Scots, and Irish as well as the French; the French like North Africans where their former colonies were; Black Americans like blond boys as do the Arabs; and Black Africans like light-skinned Arab boys. People of means seem to prefer what is different from themselves and who, at some point in history, used to serve their ancestors. Sort of like history repeating itself."
"Then why do I, an Italian, have this American black at my beck and call?" Rubio chuckled.
"Beats me," the manager laughed, "although you may be reliving the times Italians dreamed of another Roman Empire. Besides, you noticed I didn't mention the Italians before. That's because they're so horny they just buy up the sexiest thing they can find, regardless of color or nationality. That black of yours fits the bill, Rubio. That's the best hung, sexiest looking slave I've seen in a long time, overlooking the fact he's never less than half erect and dripping constantly - that boy has the libido of a goat it seems and I don't think for a moment that cinch around his genitals or the big rings in his tits are responsible for all that lust. That black is just a sexual animal if there ever was one."
"That's exactly why I bought him. I do like his black hide, but that's not the main attraction. It's his overall look and his eagerness to please that I like."
"Whatever. He sure turns me on. I thought I had some good looking waiters available until I set eyes on that black of yours. If you ever want to sell him, I'd like first option."
"So does everyone else," Rubio laughed. "But I'm not selling. And, besides, it's not like you really need him around here. You've a whole bevy of fresh, smart-looking stock around here that looks like they could please even the most discerning, no matter what was demanded. I bet a day doesn't pass but what they get a taste of you somewhere in their bodies, just to acknowledge your ownership if nothing else."
"Well, I can't complain," the manger smiled. "I admit I'm not hurting in the satisfaction department. Sort of goes with the territory of being a restaurant manager you know. All those waiters, cooks, cleaners, etc. You've got quite a choice around you most of the time."
"Lets's trade off occasionally," Rubio suggested. "I'll loan you my black stud and you give me the pick of your waiters for a day or so. Then we'll trade back after we've had our fill of them."
"A great idea. Starting when?" the manager shot back.
"How about right now?" Rubio suggested. "You take this black and fuck the shit out of him until tomorrow morning. I'll take that adorable Italian dark-haired Italian boy with the cute butt and that great big prick that waiting on the tables over on the far side. I'll fuck the shit out of him. By morning, we'll trade back - same time and place?"
"You're on," the manager said as he reached over, taking a leash from his trousers, and fastened it to the black's collar. "Boy, you're in for a long day and night," he commented as he reached down and hefted the black's banded genitals in his hand. "Giuseppe," he yelled over to the other side of the room to the naked Italian slave. "Get your ass over here pronto."
"Yes, master," the boy trilled back, "but who will cover these tables?"
"George," the manager yelled toward the bar at a blond English slave standing in full display with his hands in back of his head. "Take over Giuseppe's tables for the rest of the day and all of tonight. He's got something else to do now."
"Yes, master," the English slave said as he leaped into action, happy he wasn't in full display position any longer.
Giuseppe arrived at Rubio's table instantly and, without being commanded, assumed a full display position with his ample genitals thrust out for easy handling. "You called me, master?" Giuseppe said humbly.
"Yes. I'm loaning you out until morning to this gentleman here, a native countryman if I'm not mistaken. You make sure you don't embarrass me with anything less than your very best effort to please him, no matter what he may have in mind for your usage. You understand, Giuseppe?"
"Yes, Master. I won't embarrass you master, especially...." he paused and looked for approval to continue which a nod from his Master indicated, "especially if he's a handsome Italian master."
"You little whore you," the manager said. "A slave pleases whoever he is assigned to - it's not up to the slave to pass comment on their looks, although, in this case, I happen to agree with you."
"Sorry, master. I meant no disrespect master. I just got carried away when I saw who you were loaning me to." His eyes shot to the ground before he got into more trouble with his master.
Rubio took a leash out of his own pocket and fastened it to the Italian slave's collar. "You understand, slave, that I intend to make my time with you worthwhile. I hope you're used to some heavy action because whether you are or not, that's what's going to happen in the next 24 hours. You're going to be fucked senseless, slave boy."
"Yes, master," the Italian slave said brightly. "You won't be disappointed with your choice, master."
"Chatty, isn't he," Rubio commented as he rubbed the Italian slave's ringed tits between his fingers until they were fully erect.
"Italians are that way," the manager laughed as he too began pulling on the black's huge tit rings. "Tomorrow, same time and place?" he reiterated.
"Same time and place," Rubio reassured him.
"You know, Rubio, you're right. Supply and demand. I wanted this black - you supplied him if I supplied you the Italian. A simple barter for the day, but it proves the point. The market is based on supply and demand. If this black didn't appeal to me and you didn't want to bed down this Italian boy, we wouldn't have any trade. And without trade, where would our economy be? Damn good thing we keep the supply of slaves high so we can enjoy these little diversions."
"Well, in this case our loins provided the demand. Our own stock provided the supply. If we weren't able to meet the demand locally, we would of have to had gone to the nearest market and see what we could buy. And end up paying whatever the market would bear. It's simple economics, isn't it?
As Rubio led the Italian slave back to his lavish apartment by his collar leash, he passed all the scenes of Los Angeles life again: a chained road gang reconstructing a brick street under the steady hum of the overseer's whips, numerous drays being pulled by teams of huge muscular slaves, harnessed to the wagon's like the oxen they were; naked slave porters scurrying up and down the busy street with huge loads balanced on their bare backs; heavy litters being hefted by muscle bound slaves of every color and description, all fitted and decorated to the whims of their owners, riding comfortable inside; and the steady clink of chains as manacled coffles of slaves were being led to their work in the waiting galleys and dirigibles that required their unceasing energy. Along the sides of the road, slaves, chained to their stations, were working in assembly plants, manning the foundries, and running the remaining electrical energy plants, now mainly fueled with methane gas from the sewers, garbage dumps, and vegetable matter. The shops and grocery stores were manned with sparkling clean slave clerks, and the service industries, everything from insurance to computer programming, were all manned with slaves of both genders and every color in the world. Brothels were everywhere for the poor who couldn't afford a slave of their own: they were entirely staffed by slaves these days and, again, variety of offerings was the order of the day. Even the madams of the brothels were slaves themselves, happy to make sure service was problem free and seamless in return for the cushy supervisory job.
Yes, the Italian slave trotting behind him on his leash was just a tiny part of the whole society now completely dependent on slaves. His job was to bring pleasure for the next 24 hours. After that, he would be back waiting tables. Rubio's own black had the same obligation, although pleasing others with his body was his main job anyway. As Rubio continued down the street, he passed one of the numerous slave markets in Los Angeles, but saw little of interest in the offerings - the market seemed to offer only the cheapest stock for those who probably could only afford one slave, no matter how broken down they were. But the thought of slave supply he had discussed with the restaurant manager wouldn't leave him.
As soon as he got home and had fucked the Italian slave the first time, he took a break and called his broker.
"I want to buy in substantially with one of the largest slave-breeding operations in the U.S. Pick out the biggest and most efficient with substantial profits rolling in and buy up a good 10,000 shares or so. No reason for me not to profit from the supply end of the trade instead of just buying up those foreign boys I use in my own business. Yes sir, supply and demand. And now I'll be making a profit from both sides of the trade.
That done, he relaxed a little and went back to the Italian slave for another round of activity - this time fucking the young boy's pretty little face. The slave handled the face fuck beautifully, opening his throat completely to the assault and tightening his throat muscles completely around the embedded shaft just at the crucial moment. At no point did his well trained mouth gag or cough or choke with the usage. After spilling a full load into the boy's stomach, he rested briefly, rolled over on his back and then told the boy to mount him with his ass opened for full usage. When Rubio was fully in the boy, he ordered him to use his ass muscles to bring him off. Again, without a moment's hesitation, the boy did just that as he brought his user to another full orgasm up his ass, his ass muscles lending a whole new dimension to the pleasure. After another rest, there was another whole round of old-fashioned ass fucking that would last until around 2 AM. While resting again, Rubio asked the slave where he came from.
The boy's story was interesting. When he was 15, his father had run up huge gambling debts with the Mafia. Desperate to repay the loans, he consulted the village priest on what to do. After due thought, the priest advised his father to follow the traditional rural Italian way of resolving indebtedness - sell the best looking child and repay the debts and save your life. That way the family structure was retained, his other children wouldn't be orphaned, and all the other members of the family benefitted even, probably, the son sold into slavery who, if he was good looking enough, would no doubt find a good owner who would take very good care of him due to his high price. The father saw the wisdom of this advice and took him, the best looking of his ten children, to a large slave breeding operation located near the village. When he got there, they stripped the boy down for a good look, and, liking what they saw, told the father they would make an exception and buy the boy from him, although their stock in trade was strictly bred slaves. The boy said that was the last time he ever saw his father or any member of his family and the last day he ever wore clothes. The facility trained the boy thoroughly along with the same aged bred slaves being prepared for market and eventually he was sold to a dealer who shipped him to Los Angeles where his present owner bought him at auction. The boy seemed to hold no grudges toward his father, the family priest, or his brothers and sisters, all free due to him. In fact, he seemed proud he had been able to save his parent's life and help retain the happy little family in the Italian hills. Nor did he particularly dislike his duties as a slave. He thought his master was fair although demanding, and he had learned to enjoy being used sexually since he had no other options in that area. He seemed to be well settled in to his slavedom. When both he and Rubio finally dropped off in a deep sleep, the handsome slave's body was spooned next to his present user for quick usage the minute his temporary master awoke. .
The next morning, he returned the Italian slave, now walking gingerly with a very sore ass. His own black slave looked a little worn out himself.
"You know what?" Rubio asked the manager as they again exchanged leashes of the collared slaves.
"What?" the manager replied.
"After our talk yesterday, I thought about it a while and then bought up 10,000 shares of a large slave-breeding outfit down in the South somewhere."
"You rascal you," the manager smiled. "Would you believe I did exactly the same thing, except I invested in an company specializing in breaking and training new slaves sentenced by the courts. I have a notion there are some people that will always prefer a broken slave that was once free no matter how perfect they make these new fangled bred slaves."
"Well, you're probably right. Me, I'm putting my money on the quest for physical perfection like the black slave you must have enjoyed thoroughly last night from the looks of him."
"Well, either way, we're both in the supply end of the business now," the manager said. "Apparently, reviewing our little economic lessons to each other had an effect other than just getting us all hot and bothered. We actually translated the lessons into investing rather than just fucking," he laughed.
"Well, don't discredit the fucking part," Rubio responded. "I certainly enjoyed your Italian slave, although, it's true, I didn't make any money off of the trade. I don't know how he waits tables, but he's a great fuck."
"And your black performed just as I expected a display slave to - perfection in bed! Have you ever had him fuck you for a little variety?"
"No," Rubio admitted. "What's it like?"
"Wonderful," the manager said. "The black performs exactly to your instructions as you're going along. It's like directing a symphony of pleasure. And, guess what, he didn't seize the moment to shoot off but saved it so he'd be pert and ready to go the rest of the night. Totally considerate and shows great training. And, Rubio, the black's got the equipment to make the fuck damn interesting, if you know what I mean."
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure .... yet. But now that you have suggested it, I'll give it a try. I'm getting tired of just fucking his ass and face or having him suck me off - something new like that will be a refreshing variation. Thanks for suggesting it."
With that, the two men went their separate ways, never to see each other again! But Rubio did expand the black slave's duties from then on.
And both men appreciated the big dividend checks that started rolling in from their recent investments in the supply side of the trade.