Sweating The Asset

SWEATING THE ASSET

By Richard Davies

(This is one of the stories by Richard Davies which portray life in a slightly changed present! Richard sadly appears to have disappeared from the writing scene, and this opportunity is being taken to cross-post some of his work so that it will survive in the event of Yahoo deleting the group where it was originally posted; and, we hope, at the same time amuse and stimulate readers. Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

Part 1 My good friend Ford called to suggest a look at the local paper. It didn't take me long to find what he was on about. A small item about one Stephen Maine who had been enslaved for three years for blackmail and extortion.

'Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy', Ford laughed.

'The little shit is being sold through Scabbard and Drass. Remember what you said about buying a slave for college? What say you we get our butts down there?'

It was too good to pass up, and we agreed to meet at the auction house at ten o'clock on Saturday morning. Afterwards there would be time to nip across the road to catch a few of the public floggings that were a big draw each weekend.

Stephen Maine had been our classmate. The son of wealthy parents he was an arrogant jock who led the bunch of assholes who had given Ford and me a hard time over a period of years. No one forgets or forgives a bully, and Stephen was one of the worst. It was no surprise to discover he had fallen foul of the law, and I was determined to get my own back on the fair-haired bastard. Just to see him in a slave collar would be good for the soul, and if we managed to rub a little salt into his wounds, so much the better.

Scabbard and Drass had fancy premises on the town-square, right opposite the courts and town hall. Ford was there ahead of me watching some of the early floggings. He was one of those kids who are almost handsome, but not quite. He had dark colouring, and glossy black hair, but narrow shoulders, long skinny legs, and an awkward gait. But his excellent dress sense (plain chinos and a blue shirt) made up for a lot, as did his quick wit.

It was a warm sunny morning and a crowd had already gathered. Old men sat on benches under the trees reading the papers while keeping half an eye on the action, and groups of teenage boys swarmed round the ice-creams vendors, chatting and hoping for some serious flogging. Although there were four permanent whipping frames, only a couple were in use, and those were amateur punishments given by private owners. The flogging we enjoyed came later, when the professional whip-masters dealt with criminals brought in from the local prison. To watch some piece of scum receiving fifty lashes with a bullwhip was a deeply satisfying way to spend a Saturday morning. But first we had business. We put on our jackets, buffed out toe-caps on the backs of our trouser legs, slicked down our hair, and crossed the road to the auction house.

The entrance hall was oak-panelled and rather grand. Apart from a couple of cigar-smoking slave dealers chatting in a corner, the place was empty except for the female slave at the enquiries desk. She was a fashionable corporate slave, neatly dressed in a blue suit with nothing underneath. Her painted nipples were visible and the left one was ringed. Her collar was fixed to a broad leather neckband that held her head erect. Her cropped hair was dyed red.

We asked to inspect slaves of our own age group who would be offered for auction or private sale within the month. The slave nodded and asked us to follow her through into the main auction room. This was in semi-darkness, with the blocks, auctioneer's stand, and electronic scoreboards all half-visible in the gloom. The slave showed us into a viewing room, turned on the lights, and asked us to sit. A negotiator would be with us in a moment.

The room was typical of its kind, all pink and baby blue, lit by a chandelier with a stage enclosed by Doric columns and gathered white muslin curtains. It smelt musty.

Before long a door opened beside the stage and Mr Drass himself came in. He greeted us as if we were his best customers rather than a pair of gauche college boys. He asked after our parents and relatives - small town stuff. We were anxious to explain our mission. Drass held up a hand. 'Let me guess. You're at college together, and in you second year have come round to the idea of having a slave to look after you. Am I right?' We both nodded. Drass smiled down at us. Of medium height and built, with a smooth pink complexion and receding hair, he was wearing a light check jacket with a richly patterned silk square in the top pocket, dark pants, and an open-necked green shirt. He looked cool, well-to-do and pleased with himself. 'I think I've a few items in stock that may fit the bill.' He asked us to be patient for a couple of minutes and disappeared. We sat in silence. We were gauche but not ignorant. We knew all about hidden microphones, two-way mirrors, credit checks, and the tricks of the slave trade. Drass would be putting our eyes and judgement skills to the test, mixing good stock with bad, the superficially attractive with quality, the vulgarly tarty with the desirable. But we were prepared: not for nothing had we both been avid readers of the monthly magazine 'Slaves and Slavery' since the age of fourteen. We glanced at each other and grinned. We were up for the challenge.

The first slave Drass brought in was black, with a way-above-average muscle to fat ratio. Naked except for his collar, a nipple ring and a leather gag, he stood on the stage at the end of the room, and stared impassively into the middle distance. We knew at once that he was way beyond our price range, and trained for public display. His cock hung down between his thighs, and his stomach muscles were textured like sculptured ebony. He was not for domestic use, but would make a good mannequin in a gentleman's tailors, or as an assistant in a lady's hairdressers. Drass could not be serious. Nor was he - the merest shake of my head and he dismissed the slave.

Next out was one of those physically perfect but deadly dull purpose-bred slaves from Australia. Although in the prime of young manhood, he was already showing signs of decay in his sagging butt, and wrinkling face. No doubt we could get him cheap, but as an investment he was a non-starter. The resale value of purpose bred males was laughable. They lacked spirit and intelligence, and were like old men by the time they hit thirty. Once he'd been sent off, something much more to our lking came on - a short cocky looking youth with a gap-toothed grin and a well developed torso. He did not mind eye contact at all, nor did he blush when told to turn, bend and spread his butt for an anal inspection. Drass was at pains to emphasise the slave's fuckabilitiy, and said that if it was buggery we were after this was the slave for us. 'We had a German dealer who specialises in slaves for the big buggery houses in Berlin, and he was very keen. If only the German authorities weren't so restrictive about imports.' Ford decided to take a close look and used a surgical glove provided to test the sphincter and the state of the rectum beyond. 'Not a virgin I take it,' he said in his most grown-up voice. It was Drass's turn to giggle. 'God no,' he said, 'that boy's been buggered from here to Istanbul... and back.' He caught himself and coughed. 'Excellent tightness, even so. He's a firecracker. No question.'

It was an apt description, and I could see that Ford, whose two greatest loves were vanilla ice cream and a tight bum, was tempted. The butt was pert and the cleavage sheer and tight, and he had a back broad with beautiful musculature. Nor did the delights end there - seen from the front his chest was flat, as was the stomach. The Adam's Apple was large enoughto interfere with the collar when he swallowed. His eyes were bright and full of cheekiness. No question he would be a delight to own, if verylikely something of a handful. Unfortunately, he was not what we were after, and in any case his reserve price was too high.

Perhaps Drass had seen enough to decide we knew what we were doing, because the next one on was Renzo Filatino. This was embarrassing because we both knew Renzo. He had always been a tearaway, but a nice kid, and handsome. His enslavement for rape had shocked everyone in town. Things were made worse by the fact that part of Renzo's punishment had been a public whipping, and he had the torn back and hangdog expression common among the recently enslaved and flogged. He looked utterly broken. Ford lost no time in asking to see the next slave, and poor Renzo, his knees wobbling, and with a desperate look in his eyes, was led out.

Before we had time to relax Stephen appeared. He strutted in cuffed to a thickly bearded guard wearing a severe dark blue uniform with a whip tucked into his belt. Stephen was naked, and despite his arrogance, not in good shape. 'I should explain,' said Drass quickly as he took in our shock, 'this slave has been giving us trouble and we've had to discipline him, as you can see. However, given proper training we've no reason to believe he won't turn out to be a good slave. We've seen worse cases, but there's no denying he needs training.' There was a silence. Ford was staring at Stephen who was staring back. It looked like they might fight there and then. My eyes, however, were taking in Stephen's tight, trim body. It was very much to my taste, being limber, well proportioned and beautifully detailed. The cock was thick and uncut, and hung neatly over the large ballsack; the thighs bulged and the calf muscles stood out like bricks. The chest was remarkable for elegant pecs and small nipples, and the washboard stomach was made interesting by a tiny, deep belly button. The back view stirred my balls - the butt had exactly the right ratio of roundness to width. And seen objectively the face and neck were superb. Stephen's defiance and contempt only made his square jawed features more impressive, as did his unkempt fair hair. Now that the bully was caged, and the whip was in my hand, everything that had used to intimidate me was turned to my advantage. I wasn't rich, but I was determined. I'd find a way to have him. Looking back, I mark that moment as the start of my manhood. Stephen would be mine, whatever it took.

Being an experienced salesman Drass sensed what was going on. He seemed a little amused. Maybe he saw the movement in the front of my pants, or the look in my eye. Certainly Stephen did because he dropped his gaze the second our eyes met. Yes, I thought, you're scared stiff aren't you? Pity you didn't think of that four years ago. I turned to Drass and asked in a voice loud enough for Stephen to hear, 'How much is he?' Drass looked at the slave and cocked his head. 'Like that, without further training...' He pondered a moment and then mentioned a figure. Ford rolled his eyes, but I simply asked whether his company's Slave Owner's Starter Pack was included in the price. When Drass said it was, I turned to him and held out my hand. 'I'll have him. I'll be in Monday morning with the money order, and pick him up later in the week.' Drass shook my hand and gave me a long shrewd look. 'A pleasure doing business with you.'

Twenty minutes later we were in the crowd across the road watching a child rapist being whipped. The man was a gaunt lanky giant, and he had been secured so tightly at the neck his head was forced upwards. I could see the gag in his mouth, the sweat on his face, the expression of agony and despair. The whip-master had already landed lashes along his outstretched arms, down across his butt and thighs, and the shoulders and back were a mass of weals and seeping wounds.

'We can't afford to buy Stephen.' Ford seemed bemused by my decision. He could barely concentrate on the flogging. 'If we buy him now, and sell him next year, having training him up, we'll make thousands.' If Ford wasn't convinced, no matter. I had a plan. 'What if he doesn't train well? What is he runs away?' Ford's voice rose a little, as if close to panic. 'Don't worry. It's a challenge. We'll make a good slave of him. There is no alternative. Failure is unthinkable.'' Ford shook his head. 'But did you see that look in his eye? Pure venom and aggression.' 'We'll give him double everything he throws at us. I've a good feeling about this. Trust me.' I put my arm round his shoulder. He shrugged but did not push me away. The prisoner had fainted and the whip-master had to pause while water was used to revive the wretch. The whip was dripping blood, and the whip-master used a rag to wipe it clean. 'Let's be serious about this,' I said. 'If we get it right we'll have a decent slave and a valuable asset.' Ford seemed to cheer up. He turned his attention back to the whipping. The prisoner was conscious again. 'You're probably right.' He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted to the whip-master. 'Lay it on man... This isn't a kindergarten spanking.' There was laughter. Ford was always good value at a flogging.

Part Two

My Uncle Vincent was a bachelor who had made a fortune, and in retirement had taken a large townhouse where he amused himself dabbling in the arts and collecting antiques. He was also a keen slaver, and therefore the natural man to approach to finance our purchase of Stephen Maine.

No one had better trained slaves than Vincent, who was living propaganda for the slave system. He had always kept and traded slaves, and never economised on the number in his household. Even in retirement he was still active in the salerooms. Tall, slim, tanned, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache, he exuded a certain type of panache and energy expressed through ruthlessness of opinion and action, elegance of dress and movement, laconic speech and dry wit. He was not a man to be taken for granted.

When we told him about Stephen Maine he was amused. He had never liked the men in the Maine family who he thought drunken and philistine. Even so, he drove a hard bargain, and Ford was in two minds, but I knew we'd not get a better deal elsewhere. And doing business with him was simple: he set out his terms, we shook on the deal, and he wrote a cheque.

He did, however, offer us the warning that while we might enjoy breaking in our old enemy, there would come a time when Stephen would be ready to serve, and willingly. 'Then you will learn that there's more to being a master than willpower and the exercise of authority. There's the obligation to accept loyalty, hard work and devotion our slaves offer us.' On the Monday morning I met Ford for breakfast before setting off to take possession of our new slave. We discussed the slave-name we would give Stephen (deciding on Hades), and how we would divide up the training duties. Then we headed into town to Scabbard and Drass, arriving shortly after they opened for business. We were in a hurry because we were driving straight on to college.

Unlike the silence and languid atmosphere at the weekend, the place was already bustling as sellers and buyers arrived for an auction. Everyone was in a hurry, even the slave dealers, who seen en masse, looked like a breed apart with their droopy moustaches, Havanas, bulging bellies, jaunty waistcoats and loud suits adorned with bandannas and ivory-handled whips.

After completing the paperwork and waiting for the cheque to be approved, we were asked to go to the despatch area were Stephen would be brought to us. With some trepidation we made our way through the crowds and down the stairs to the stock rooms. Guards in olive green and black uniforms and peaked caps were guiding in-coming slaves to the holding cages. They used the deep barks and shouts of command, punctuated by whip cracks, that are common to all slave-drivers. There was the constant clanging of metal doors, and snap of lock-bolts firing.

We pressed on through the crowd to the despatch area. This was scarcely less busy, with rows of shackled slaves being loaded onto trucks. They were naked except for work-boots and sun-hats and cock rings with labels attached, and each slave was chained to another at the neck and waist, and all had been branded on the forehead and right buttock with the name and logo of a public utilities company. Whistle-blowing, stick-wielding, bandanna-headed young overseers stripped to their blue shorts drove them up onto the back of the trucks that drove off at speed.

We joined the line of those waiting for their purchases to be brought down from the courts or up from the holding kennels. Ahead of us a young couple with a baby were waiting for a young female who finally appeared weeping like a child. The woman tried to comfort her while the husband looked on in dismay. A very pretty golden haired young male was claimed by a purple-faced clergyman who immediately produced a chain from his cassock and attached it to the collar on the slave's thin neck, and then led his prize off like a puppy on a leach. A butch female guard brought up a girl with long auburn hair and a voluptuous figure, who was presented to a very tall, severe-looking woman wearing a black suit with a hat, veil and gloves. The slave girl had to bow while her new owner removed her bra. The woman put on a pair of spectacles and played with the slave's left breast before carefully fastening a brass tag of ownership to the nipple. The girl inced and tears fell from her eyes as the device was tightened, but the woman seemed not to notice her pain.

Then Stephen appeared. He had been cleaned up since we last saw him, and was wearing a cut-off dark red top, that left his stomach bare, and white cotton shorts a couple of sizes too small at the crotch. The bulge was eye-catching. They had even given him new sandals and a rather snazzy black iron collar. His hair was freshly cropped, but his beard had a day's growth. There was a piece of sticking plaster on his lip where it had been cut, and he had a yellowing bruise on his neck, but otherwise he seemed fit. The cuffs on his right hand were not attached to the guard leading him, perhaps because he was carrying the Slave Owner's Starter Pack. The guard walked beside him with an easy swagger of command and had a friendly smile. He had pale eyes, a long nose and wide thin lips, but powerful shoulders and a narrow muscular butt, and he wore his uniform well. His crotch also bulged, and some slave had laboured long to achieve the shine on his boots.

The guard explained in a soft drawl that Stephen had been behaving himself since receiving a 'sound spanking' over the weekend. He was sure Stephen's attitude would begin to improve, but in the meantime we should keep a close eye on him and 'give his butt the heat it needs.' He went on to explain that the Starter Pack contained most of the items we would require as slave owners. There was a spoon, and bowls for eating and drinking, spare sandals, shorts and work-shirt, jock, sun-hat, blanket, toilet bag, tattoopen, butt plug, cock ring, gag, hood, cuffs, shackles, nipple clamps, spare collar, various ointments, indoor and outdoor paddles, and a domestic whip. There was a book about slave training and maintenance, a selection of religious writings suitable for slaves, a punishment book, and leaflets on slave exercise, diet, and discipline. After we signed for our new slave, the guard handed over the cuff keys and gave Stephen a firm smack on his butt. 'You've got yourselves a good buy here; we've all become quite fond of old Stephen.' He ruffled Stephen's close-cropped skull; wished us good luck, saluted, and was gone.

At first everything went smoothly. Hades, as we now called Stephen, settled in well and followed our instructions to the letter. He showed no resentment and seemed to be trying hard. He certainly wasn't cheerful, but we saw no glimpses of attitude. A routine developed and Ford and I spent most of our time on campus. For much of the time Hades had little to do. The apartment off-campus was in an unfashionable neighbourhood, but had a pleasant old-fashioned feel with spacious rooms. We furnished it sparsely.

The slave quarters were beyond the kitchen, and separated from the rest of the apartment by a lockable metal grill. It consisted of a small bedroom with shower and toilet. Hades didn't seem to mind sleeping on a hard bed with only a blanket, any more than he missed the TC. It was as though he had decided to scale himself down to simply exist through his term of servitude.

Even so, it was hard not to be aware of his brooding presence. This annoyed me. At home I had never given a second thought to what the slaves might overhear or think. Their opinions counted for nothing. That was not the case with Hades. He might wear a collar but he remained very much a young free man doing his level best to play the role of a slave. There was always an underlying tension. We knew each other too well, shared too much history, and carried too much baggage for one another. Things changed when our friend Rey came over to watch a game on TV. He liked to come on like he was a redneck, and looked like one in his baggy old Bermudas, oversized T-shirt, and baseball cap. But his good old boy act masked a shrewd intelligence. Nor had his being overweight and bandy-legged, with no neck and podgy features, stopped him from gaining a reputation as a cock's man.

When Hades came in with our beers, Rey let out a low whistle. 'Didn't know you guys have help. Look at the butt on that. Fucked it yet?'

I shook my head. We were sitting in armchairs facing the TV. Hades looked at me for further instructions and I dismissed him with a nod. 'Hang on there.' Rey stuck a foot out and half-tripped Hades. 'Mind if I poke about? These shorts... they're kinda eye-catching.' He reached out and ran his hand over the front of the cotton shorts. He used his other hand to pat the butt and then pulled the shorts down revealing the cock and balls and the whole bottom. He took hold of the circumcised cock. 'Pity the rope's been cut... but very nice balls... needs shaving guys...the rear end could use a razor too... but cute.' He gave the butt another smack. 'Where did you get him?'

Hades was blushing deep red. His lips were moving although he made no sound. His knees trembled slightly. Ford said he had been on special offer. I said nothing. I felt uncomfortable, and it didn't take Rey long to cotton on to the fact.

'There's something I'm not getting here. What is it?' Rey still had hold of Hades' cock and was playing with the tip. Hades stood stock still withhis eyes closed. 'He was in our year at school.' Rey let out a great roar of laughter and raised his left arm and gave Hades a great swat on his butt. 'You've bought your best buddy as your slave. Man, that's cool.' Ford shook his head. 'You've got it wrong.' Rey cocked his head and then used his thumb and forefinger to flick Hades' scrotum. 'Hey slave, look at me.' Hades turned and looked down at Rey who fell back in his chair, crossed his legs and looked up at Hades with a cocked head. 'What kid of a guy gets bought by his classmates?' When Hades said nothing, Rey kicked out at his shin. 'Speak.'

'I guess they thought I was worth the money.'

Rey looked past Hades at me. 'What the fuck type of slave is this? He guesses... man you've got some funny ideas about slaves. I'd kick his butt to the corner and back if mine spoke like that.'

Ford told Hades to get out. The slave pulled up his shorts, sniffed deeply, and turned to go, not hurrying, and as he took a step Rey tripped him again. He fell awkwardly and swore, but was on his feet in a second and headed for the door as fast as he could.

Rey laughed and gave us both an old-fashioned look. 'So gentlemen... Why not tell your Uncle Rey all about it?'

Things changed for Hades after Rey's visit. No longer was he allowed to be the aloof and dignified figure who served us without expression or enthusiasm. Rey gave us a set of 'dos and don'ts' that soon turned our cool young school bully into a proper master-fearing slave. Rey taught us that it is as pointless to treat a slave fairly as it is to treat a pair of pants fairly. A slave is an owned object to be used, or misused. If we fancied sticking our cock up Hades's nice anus then we should not think twice before doing so. If our balls itched for release, then have him kneel and suck our cocks until the balls were drained of every last drop of come. A slave could be made to stand on one leg all evening, or run on the spot until the floor was slick with his sweat. We could shove a butt-plug up him and leave it there for days, or gag him full-time.

We knew all this, of course, but having never owned a slave before, and having been raised by conventional parents who ran conventional households, we were unaware of the possibilities. We had been inhibited, and only when we ceased to be did we begin to enjoy Hades.

At first he suffered the indignities with stoicism, but it could not last. He began to beg for mercy, and once or twice had to be beaten after showing signs of resistance. Before long he began to buckle under the taunts and all the discomforts and humiliations. I began to notice a different look in his eye, and cultivated it by beating him more often, and fucking him. When I relented I saw more than relief - there was gratitude too. The bully was being turned into a malleable slave.

But as his confidence waned his body developed. We kept him on a diet of slave mush with added vitamins and plenty of water. If he so much as ate a morsel of our food we not only thrashed his hide, we would force feed him a foul-tasting 'punishment mush' specially manufactured for disobedient slaves. When he gagged we would wash his mouth out, and then give him a stringent enema. And we made sure he exercised hard for two hours a day, ducking our blows as he sweated and strained. His body changed fast, losing puppy fat and gaining muscle, broadening at the shoulders and thighs and calves as his chest deepened and his backside grew more rounded. His voice lost its arrogant edge and became soft and pleading, and he learned to move silently, and to stand stock still, and obey instructions without hesitation. When Uncle Vincent came to visit he brought along his chauffeur who was a fine looking black slave who wore his dark uniform and boots with natural pride. Vincent inspected Hades and declared himself impressed by the progress we had made with him. He suggested the two slaves be made to strip and fight.

This seemed like an excellent idea and Ford alerted the neighbors. Students came piling out of the dorms and we had to take ourselves into the yard so that everyone could get a good view of the sport.

It made a fine sight. Vincent was dressed as always like a gentleman in slacks and jacket and club tie, while the rest of us were students eager to enjoy ourselves. We made a square arena and called in the two naked slaves. The chauffeur was a fine specimen, his black skin gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and there was a purr of appreciation at the sight of his muscles stirring and gathering, while he held himself with dignity and stared round with the fierce look of a true fighter.

Hades looked good too. His skin was fair, but shone with health and vitality, and his musculature was scarcely less developed. He looked nervous, but showed no desire to flunk the match. He raised his fists with a determined air and glowered at his opponent.

Vincent took a blue and red-spotted handkerchief from his top pocket and held it out saying the fight would begin when he dropped it, and would end when he retrieved it and waved it over his head. The winning slave would be rewarded with a roast chicken dinner eaten off china with napery, while the loser would be flogged. He then waited until the shouts of encouragement from the crowd died down, and let the handkerchief fall.

The chauffeur made the first move, and strode up to Hades, used his inside arm to smack the side of Hades's head, and then punched him in the gut. Hades groaned and doubled up, allowing the chauffeur a second punch in the same place and another smack on the back of the head. It seemed it might be quickly over.

But Hades was made of stern stuff. He rallied and grabbed the black slave by the balls and cocks, squeezing them hard enough to make him jump and squeal like a pig in a poke. The chauffeur fell backwards with Hades on top of him and the crowd roared its approval as the two slaves, one so black, the other a pearly white, but both perfect specimens, wrestled and bit and punched one another. It was excellent sport.

The chauffeur was soon bleeding where he had been bitten on his left buttock, and Hades's left eye closed after a savage punch. There was much tearing at nipples and balls, loud groans and exhalations, but the pair seemed well matched and there was no clear likely winner.

Vincent shouted that bets were permitted until he retrieved the handkerchief, so all the students dug deep into their pockets to find a few bills to lay on one writhing body or the other. Voices were raised threatening to whip the slave who lost and carry the winner shoulder high in triumph round the campus. When the fight became sluggish Vincent raised his silver-topped cane and declared all the men present should beat the slaves until they fought again like the brave slaves of ancient Rome. Switches were cut from trees and slaves sent running for sticks and whips, and soon enough blows were landing on the writhing, exhausted slaves to spur them on to better efforts.

Vincent knelt to retrieve the handkerchief, and shouted for the betting to cease. He acted just in time because it was becoming clear that Hades would be the winner. The chauffeur lay on his stomach with his face pressed into the dust, while Hades pounded and tore at him. There was blood on the grass, and desperate gasps for breath.

Vincent waved the handkerchief and declared Hades the winner. A great cheer went up and young men stepped for ward from the crowd to grab Hades and kick the chauffeur. They raised Hades high and put a crown of leaves on his head, and marched him off in glory. Ford and I exchanged a look. Would this triumph make our humble frightened slave into an arrogant bully again? Vincent came over. He was smiling broadly as he replaced his handkerchief. 'Not a bad afternoon of college sport.'

Ford shook his head. 'I hate to think of the effect all this will have on Hades.'

Vincent feigned shock. 'My dear fellow you will have to spank him if he shows signs of getting too big for his boots, but this display will enhance his value at auction.' He looked down and saw his chauffeur still lying trampled in the dust. 'Find some slaves to take this wretch to the nearest flogging frame.' He used his polished boot to turn his chauffeur on his back. 'Fifty lashes for you.'

The slave stared up at his master in despair. Too exhausted to plead for mercy, too weak to stand, and covered in blood, grime and snot, he lay motionless with his eyes closed.

Two young slaves from the kitchens came to remove him. Dressed in white overalls they took hold of him gingerly and raised him up. One complained that he would be punished for getting himself covered in blood and mess. Vincent said his chauffeur should be whipped at once and without being cleaned up. 'Get it over and done with. The wretch must drive me home tonight.'

When Hades returned from his tour round the cheering dorms, we let him enjoy his moment of triumph and sent him off to shower and tend his wounds. We had the slaves from the kitchens set up a table in the yard and lay it with silver and fine linen. We borrowed a slave cloak made of royal blue velvet and white slave-boots from the small museum in the Department of Slave Studies, and when Hades reported to us we sprayed him with fine cologne.

He was smiling and looked as happy as he had ever when bullying Ford and myself. So we let him have his moment, and dressed him and led him out to enjoy his roast chicken dinner. A crowd had gathered to watch and a roar of approval went up when Hades appeared clad in royal blue and still wearing his crown. And how he smiled round after he had bowed! Then he sat on a gilt chair. The kitchen slaves brought and sereved the food. They poured the wine, lit candles and spread a napkin across Hades's lap. He was naked except for his cloak and had a hard-on. There was no denying he looked a most handsome young man, and hardly like a slave.

Before Hades had time to take a mouthful of food, two slaves from the campus security division appeared with the chauffeur. Whereas he had been merely exhausted before and covered in cuts and bruises and bites, now he sported a back laced with whip marks, many of them raw and bloody. He slumped to his knees before Hades who laughed out loud at the sight of his opponent so humiliated and broken.

It was too much. No slave should get away with such an uppity show, and certainly no slave belonging to me would go unpunished. I stepped forward, and pulled the small whip from my hip pocket. As Hades reached for his knife and fork I placed the whip on the tablecloth beside his wine class. I took the fork from his hand and dug it into the mashed potatoes. I raised it to my lips, tasted it, and nodded my approval.

Hades was smiling up at me, and I could see the old insolence of the bully in the cool stare behind the boyish grin. With a flick of my hand I tipped the plate of food onto the ground, and then cleared the linen of wine and condiments. I grabbed my slave by the back of its neck, raising him and forcing him ass-up over the table. I kicked away the gilt chair, and used my boot to force the muscular legs apart. I tore the cloak off him and tossed it to the chauffeur, whose grime-caked face was breaking into what looked like a smile, and cupped my hands and spat.

'This slave is an insolent affront, and will be shown the error of his ways.' My voice rang out over excited whoops and laughter. Then I rubbed my hands together, pushed the palms between the slave's buttocks, withdrew them to be wiped clean by an attending slave, and then had another slave kneel and open my fly. Hades was bent over the table, and did not move. He would be weeping before long.

I plunged in deep, making Hades cry out for mercy, and then rode him like a Derby jockey heading for the finish. It took me ten minutes to climax, and after I withdrew I thrashed his red rump with a crop and then offered him to the crowd for general use for the next hour. I'd decide whether to have him flogged in the morning, but in the meantime I hoped my college buddies would take full advantage of a very well made hole, and a mouth as nice and softly comforting as any pussy.

By the time Vincent left around midnight the chauffeur had recovered sufficiently to wear his uniform and drive. Vincent told him the exercise had done him good, adding that no slave was ever the worse for a flogging. The chauffeur meekly agreed. He bowed deeply as he held the door open for Vincent.

I didn't see Hades until the next morning. He looked gaunt and was trembling, but I felt no compunction when I ordered him to be taken away and flogged as the chauffeur had been. What's sauce for the goose is good for the gander.

Ford and I sold Hades six months later and made a nice profit. As I watched him on the block, so trim and fit and handsome, and so meek and slavish in his demeanour, I felt a surge of pride. We had done well with him. He had another two years to serve as a slave. With any luck his new owners would apply to extend that to ten years or more. Enough to get good use from the asset we had created.

That night we celebrated and asked Rey round for a drink. The slave I'd bought that day to replace Hades served us. He was young and still fresh from the courts. Rey took one look at him and shook his head in mock-disbelief. 'Guys, what we have here isn't a slave, it's an affront.' He gave the slave a huge whack on his butt, and sighed. 'Listen up while your Uncle Rey tells you what has to be done with him.'

THE END