The County Line

THE COUNTY LINE, By Richard Davies

(note from the poster petebrownuk @ yahoo.com : This is one of the many fine stories by Richard Davies, a writer who, sadly, appears to have stopped posting to the net. All his known work has been collected together into a new Yahoo group, homagetorichard, and if you enjoyed this story you can see more there:

groups.yahoo.com/group/homagetorichard )

THE COUNTY LINE, Part One

There should be a warning as you cross the county border. Something like 'males under 21 beware - you are entering a "short servitude" zone.' That way, at least young guys would have some idea of what happens to those who step out of line.

I'm not complaining. I believe in law enforcement, and I've got a slave of my own. Furthermore a community should be free to decide on how they want to run their affairs. All I'm saying is; outsiders should be warned. The problem is simple. ****** County has a liberal policy on alcohol. At eighteen you can buy it, drink it, get pissed on it in a bar; and not only that. It's also a few cents cheaper than where I live. Small wonder guys came in from the neighbouring towns to stock up with as many six-packs as their cars could carry. But there was a catch. Whatever you do in ****** County, if you are under twenty-one, and male, you're in big trouble if you break the law.

My girlfriend had stood me up. Called to say she had to stay home and study. Bullshit of course. We were drifting apart. She was on the hunt for someone to marry, while I was not about to give up my sports and drinking with the guys. I told her I'd call her over the weekend, which wasn't really true. My plans were in place: to party from dusk to dawn. I shared a house with five guys and because I was in work and got paid on Fridays, and had a car, and a slave, it was my job to go over into ****** County to buy the beers. It had become a house tradition, and it suited me fine.

After a week spent working in an office, it was good to jump in the car with my slave and set off for the two-hour drive through the hills. It's beautiful country, and I could put on some music, smoke my first cigar of the weekend, and generally relax and be myself. My car and my slave called Pick were my two most precious possessions, and they had much in common, being both ancient, beat-up, much abused by me, and more reliable than I had any right to expect.

It was getting dark by the time we crossed into ****** County, and Pick was starting to fret over us being late getting back to base. He had promised to iron some shirts for one of the guys. I reminded him that he was my slave, not a house slave, but he just shrugged and said he needed no reminding of the fact, nor would it stop him getting his butt kicked if the shirts didn't get ironed.

On these expeditions I always made a point of stopping in the first town to buy some cigars. Low local taxes meant a decent smoke was cheaper and the choice better. The hill towns in this region are unwelcoming, but there was a cigar dealer on the main street who was the exception to the rule. It always gave me pleasure to browse in the little store, set between a barber's shop and a private slave auction house. Not only was the stock interesting, the whole ambience of male company and taste appealed to me.

Coming from a home dominated by women, the cigar store was like a male refuge with its dark wood cabinets, green-shaded lights, rich aromas, worn leather chairs, relaxed but amusing conversation. It was a small haven where men of all backgrounds could meet as men and as equals. Small wonder I tended to linger. By the time I left I'd spent more than I could afford, and was carrying two boxes wrapped in shiny brown paper under my arm (to this day free men in that region never carry parcels in their hands). As soon as I saw my car I knew there was trouble. Three men in the work uniform of the local brewery were standing by the car. The door was open and Pick was kneeling on the road with his arms in the air.

As I got closer I saw that his old work-shorts were down over his thighs. I don't know why, but I got angry. That was dumb. In such situations the best thing to do is simply wish everyone a good day, express amazement at the state of the slave, tell him he will not escape flogging, and then get him in the car and drive off. For better or for worse, in those parts slaves are considered fair game for main street hazing. So long as there is no injury or impairment, it is not for a gentleman to protest at the light misuse of his slaves by other 'gentlemen.'

So I'll admit the fault was mine. I called them some uncomplimentary names, told Pick to cover his butt and get in the car, and then without so much as a 'good evening gentlemen,' I drove off. Such discourtesies might seem negligible in a larger, or more open community, but they are not forgiven in small hill towns. For the next hour, however, things went pretty smoothly. Pick sat grumbling in the back, hinting that it was all my fault for being so long in the cigar store, and claiming he had been kicked to hell and back. I replied that he'd been lucky they hadn't whipped him and that if he didn't shut up I'd stop off on the return journey and ask those same gentlemen to remedy their omission. To this Pick had the nerve to say that they would as likely whip me as him. I told him to button his lip and be sure to remind me to cane his scrawny butt at the next convenient opportunity.

At the big liquor mart I chose the beers and paid for them while Pick carried them to the car. Since we weren't as late as Pick had thought he asked if he might have a bite to eat at a local slave-feeding joint on the edge of town. I should have refused, but I guess I did feel a little guilty at having left him alone in the car too long. Even so, on a Friday night it was asking for trouble. The slave-feeding outlet was set back in a rutted carp park beside by a stagnant lake. Like most enterprises that relied on slave-custom it had a makeshift air and was deliberately left scruffy. A smart appearance would attract the wrong kind of attention. Various cars and trucks were parked haphazardly. Some obviously belonged to wealthy locals who had let their slaves take their cars for the evening. Others were commercial vehicles, and a few beat-up old saloons that were presumably kept for the use of family slaves. As I drove in I was uncomfortably aware that my own car could easily be mistaken for one of those.

I told Pick to get a move on and not to strike up conversations with other slaves. I added that he could bring me a coffee and a slice of cake. It may have been a dump, but the feeder served the best food in town. Pick held his hand out for some money, muttered under his breath, got out, slammed the door and did not hurry as he went over to the feeder. Damned slave! Watching him helped me to make up my mind that a formal, hard, and lengthy encounter between his tough old butt and my brand new Malacca cane was overdue. I'd make sure he slept on his belly that night.

I lit a cigarette, shifted my butt forwards on the seat, tuned the radio to a favourite music station, and closed my eyes. Maybe I drifted off for a few seconds. A bright light woke me. A voice said, 'Take that out of your mouth.' I looked round and sat up. A police patrol car had drawn up. A cop had one of those portable searchlights trained on me. I swore under my breath.

'Good evening officer. My slave's inside.' I didn't bother to remove the cigarette. The cop must have taken me for a slave, and now he could see I wasn't one, he would back off and drive on.

'I said, get that thing out of your mouth.' The light was still on me.

'Officer, that thing...it's blinding me.'

I did remove my cigarette, and tossed it out of the window. It landed between the two cars. That was a dumb thing to do. Free men are seldom to be found waiting in slave car parks, and especially not in cars like mine. Nor, I have to admit, did I look like Mr Free in my tatty T-shirt and with my hair cut unfashionably short. It embarrasses me to admit it, even now, but I was also wearing one of those fake slave-collars that girls give their boyfriends as a joke when they are dating. In daylight it's obvious such collars aren't the real thing, but at night.... My father always said you know when a cop's serious because he'll take his time, and he won't take his eyes off you. This cop was serious. He got out of his car, stretched himself, asked his colleague to hand him his belt and cap, and wearily put them on. He stifled a yawn, but all the while he never took his eyes off me.

Like a rabbit stopped by a snake, I stared back not knowing what to do. All my gut instincts were telling me I was in serious trouble, but my conscious mind remained calm and collected, as if confident of a pleasant exchange with this representative of the law. He opened my door and told me to get out. He spoke evenly, as if he too were preparing pleasantries. But my mouth had gone dry, and my knees seemed only just able to support my weight.

No question he was a formidable figure of a man. He must have been in his mid-twenties and had small dark eyes under a broad jutting brow that matched a square chin. His mouth was thin-lipped and wide, and his nose was broken. His neck was thick and his shoulders massive, but he had none of the soft bulk that so often disfigures the torsos of large men. He was hardly skinny, but he was lean, and at well over six foot, with his dark blue shirt tight on his chest but loose at his waist, and with surprisingly narrow hips and long muscular legs, he was definitely worthy of respect. The first thing he did was reach into his hip pocket for his leather gloves. As he pulled these on a half smile played on his lips without softening his stern expression.

'Would you be good enough to retrieve your cigarette?'

He spoke evenly, as if dealing with a child. 'Yes officer. My mistake.' I looked down and saw the butt smouldering close beside his right boot. This had been polished so that it reflected the light coming from the slave-feeder.

'It's by your foot, officer, if you'd just...'

A gloved hand reached out, grabbed my by the top of my head, and pulled it towards him and then down. At the same time I was aware of the patrol car's other door opening and a second cop getting out. There was nothing for it but to drop to my knees. The pressure on the top of my head was too great, but I did manage some word of complaint. I found myself confronted by a pair of black boots inches from my face. I picked up the cigarette.

'On your feet.'

I sprang up, held out the butt and smiled.

'You're quite right officer, I should not have...'

'Eat it.' I stood stock still, and it dawned on me that I had better do some explaining if I was to avoid serious trouble.

'Officer I'm not a slave, my...'

'Eat it.'

The cop was standing, hands on hips, watching me with something approaching amusement, while his colleague was pulling something off his belt. I put the hand holding the cigarette to my neck.

'This collar is a fake. I know the police want them banned, and I can see now that they're not a good idea, but if you look close, you'll see it is a fake... a dating collar. My slave's getting something to eat. I'm waiting for him.'

A nightstick landed hard across my mouth, forcing my head back and my lips apart. It was a miracle my teeth didn't snap under the impact.

'Listen boy, you eat it.'

The nightstick was still held against my mouth. Its tip played with my lips and front teeth, edging them apart.

'Want another crack. I can loose you three of these.'

The side of the stick rubbed against my front teeth. 'Spit 'em in the dust.'

'Eat it.'

A car engine started nearby and I glanced round, only to receive a second whack in the mouth. This time I could feel my teeth move. I stumbled back and slumped against the side of my car. The cop ran his hand along his stick and then raised his stick. There was nothing for it but to obey. I opened my mouth wide and stuck the butt on my tongue. Its hot end sizzled and my mouth filled with acrid smoke.

'Chew it boy, and swallow. And while you at it, use your hands to drop your pants and show us your dick and butt.'

Despite having my mouth full of a filthy tasting cigarette, I had to laugh - it was just too absurd. As I did so I choked on some loose tobacco strands that flew out and dribbled on my chin. For the first time the cop took his eyes off me and turned to his stick-wielding colleague.

'You know Ches, I really don't think this piece of shit has a clue.'

'I'd say not.'

'So what'll we do?'

The cop stroked his chin as if deep in thought. 'Take him round the block?'

'Sounds good to me.'

The other cop chuckled and walked back to his side of the car. The first cop opened the back door of the patrol car. 'Drop you pants boy, then get in.'

My fingers fumbled with my belt... them my flies. I pushed my jeans down to reveal my freshly laundered y-fronts. A brief wave of muted laughter came from the slaves as they saw these - proof of my free status. Few slaves wore pristine white underwear.

'Where are we going officer?'

'For a short ride. Turn round.'

He pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his hip pocket. Using both thumbs tucked under the back of my y-fronts, he drew the tight-fitting material up to expose both butt-cheeks. He fondled them and let out a sigh of appreciation, and then gave each one a smack. Next he turned me back to face him and carefully pulled down the front of y-fronts until my cock and balls were revealed. He tucked the material under them, leaving them sticking out. It was as if nothing was happening. I felt embarrassed and humiliated, and yet somehow calm. Perhaps I just couldn't believe any of it.

'But my slave...'

Without realising what I was doing I swallowed some of the cigarette. I retched and spat out the rest.

'OK officer, so I was out of order. I apologise, but my slave is in there, and we've got to get back to ******.

The officer looked past me and said, 'Some piece of scum here go find that property.'

A group of slaves had gathered round, but not close. A voice yelled, 'Yes officer sir!

The cop looked at me. 'What's the name of this property?'

'Pick.'

The cop turned back to the slaves. 'Find him, and tell him to get this heap of junk out of this county within the hour. I'm putting out a stop and search, and if his slave-butt isn't across the line I'll have him whipped in front of every church and school in this county.'

He placed a hand on my shoulder. 'And you boy, get your butt in this car.'

They drove around to the far side of the lake. No one spoke as we bumped along the track. My buttocks warmed the cool leather and rubbed against some metal restraints. On the back of the seat in front of me someone had scrawled 'HELP.' Although my mind was racing I had no idea what would happen next. A voice in my head kept repeating the same phrase - 'don't get caught in ******* County if you're under 21.'

We drove up onto a jetty that stuck out about fifty yards into the lake. It was as decrepit as everything else in that neck of the woods, but I guessed we wouldn't be there is it wasn't safe. The car stopped at the far end. Both cops got out and told me to follow them. With my jeans around my knees and my y-fronts tight, I could barely stumble after them. At the end of the jetty there were some steps leading down into the water.

'Know why we bring slave-scum here?' The first cop spoke. He sounded matter-of-fact.

'No officer.'

'We give 'em a dunking.'

I said nothing. The black water was lapping the jetty and the breeze was cool on my butt and cock.

'Reckon that's what you need. Take some of the snot out of you.' The cop still spoke as if he were chatting to a child.

'Please officer, sir. I'm not a slave.'

The other one laughed. He was quite a bit shorter than his colleague, and had neatly cut sandy hair, a sunburnt nose, and narrow shoulders. He still had his stick drawn.

'Sure... we know you're a free man. It's just that you don't behave like one. You lick your slave's ass, is that it? Does he get to fuck you like you're his pussy?'

'OK, I shouldn't have stopped at that feeder, but my slave... he's old.'

'We know all about your slave. We had a complaint from three gentlemen that he was acting insolently in Main Street, but by the time we got there his owner had driven him off.'

'I see... I understand. I'll willingly apologise. I know this county has high standards of honour and courtesy.' I felt I should lay it on thick. That way they would finish with me.

'We should whip that slave like a rabid dog. And hand you to the judge.'

This was what I was afraid to hear. A reflex of panic gripped my throat. 'I must get back... my uncle... he's Judge Whitney... maybe you know him...he's expecting me.'

'Now let me see,' said the first cop. 'Judge Whitney... isn't the brother in law of our Judge Jim Hackney?' The smaller cop laughed.

'Think you may be right there.'

'Well if this young man is a relative we'd better get him in front of the Judge just as soon as we can. Thing is, Judge Hackney doesn't like to see boys brought before him who look as if the arresting officer has not done his duty to the community. He lies to see 'em mussed up a little.'

The cops stood back and laughed. The first one had his hands on his hips and was shaking with mirth, and the second one kept smacking his stick against the palm of his hand. Although it was dark I could see both pairs of eyes watching me.

'I'll tell you what... seeing as how you're a free man, we'll not dunk you in the water... but....what do you think Ches?'

'Look at his chin. Covered in strips of tobacco... ask me... this boy has a mouth that needs cleaning.' The cop chuckled.

'Reckon you maybe right there Ches.'

I was about to say something when there was a thud on my back. It seemed to dig right into my spine, and I fell forwards as the strength went out of my knees. I looked up and saw both cops laughing down at me, but they went out of focus, and all I could see was the slither of sliver that made the new moon. Whatever happens, I thought, the moon will still travel across the sky, and by the time it sets these two will be through with me. Other blows followed, falling on my back, across my butt and thighs. They took time and care in mussing me up.

The first cop told me to kneeling on my haunches while the other one got some restraints from the back of the patrol car. He cuffed my hands behind my back and attached them to the manacles holding my legs in position. Then he used my fake slave collar to link a chain running from the back of my neck to my wrists. He tightened it so my head was pulled right back.

'Seeing as how you're a free man, I guess we'd better fix your mouth so it stays open.'

A leather muzzle and an attachment added that provided metal struts that fitted inside to keep my mouth open and jaw stretched. They took their time and when everything was ready they went back to the car to check in and make some calls. They left me trussed and open-mouthed... at the ready. When the time came, the smaller cop went first. He opened his fly and drew out a thick pale stump of a cock that he tugged on and then aimed at my mouth. As he said, it was an open goal. He must have been three feet from me, and at first he aimed too high and his warm piss went over my head, leaving only a thin to descend over my brow and eyes. But a second later he lowered his cock and the piss splashed over my nose and then found its target. It filled my mouth with force and speed, and I began to swallow to prevent it from trickling down my throat the wrong way and drowning me. He was soon spent, but I had to swallow every last drop because my mouth was forced back and open. I could not breathe otherwise.

The first cop was in no hurry to follow on. Instead he tore open my shirt to get a closer look at me. He twisted my nipples, congratulated me on my fitness, and said I would make a fine slave.

'That's what you'll be this time tomorrow...a slave... you know that don't you? Judge Hackney is very much in favour of these 'temporary enslavement orders.' Hands them out like candy.'

The other cop wriggled his butt as he squashed his cock back into his pants. 'Especially when he sees a boy who's been all mussed up. Makes him think nothing but slavery will do.'

The first cop came and stood in front of me. He unzipped himself and felt inside for his cock. I could see the fresh white cotton underwear, and was close enough to feel the warmth and even catch a whiff of a soapy cheesy smell. 'You're going to thank me for this boy, My wife made me a fine hot chilli for lunch. Should sting your throat real well.'

The second deluge of piss was different. Hardly suprising as it came from a quite different size of cock. This one was long as well as thick, and burried in a thicket of public hair. And the piss was thicker and stickier, as if it had been stewed longer in the bladder, and it smelt powerfully of chemicals and the seashore. It came in a faster jet too, and I choked so badly he had to stop, but soon continued. By the time it was over, my nostrils were streaming in both directions, my mouth was full, my throat bubbling, my stomach retching, and my chest and belly were slick. The cop's piss dripped off the end of my cock.

'That's it. We'll let you dry and then call for a truck to come and fetch you. The judge is going to be angry when he sees you in the morning. He doesn't like you trashy boys coming across the line buying drink that's meant for decent folk.'

He stuffed his cock back inside his pants and zipped himself up with the air of a man who has finished a job. 'No question in my mind, you'll be a slave by this time tomorrow. How long do you reckon he'll get Ches... six months, a year?'

'My guess is a year,' said the smaller cop as he came round behind me and began to remove my shackles. Every part of me was aching. I was covered in piss. It was cold, and only wretchedness lay ahead. I looked up at the moon. It had gone behind a cloud.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Two

The judge looked at me over the top of his spectacles.

'Oh boy!'

He had a clipped way of speaking. He went back to writing on his pad. After a minute or so he looked up at the clerk and asked him if my rights had been fully explained. The lawyer assigned to me rose to say that I had agreed to accept a 'fast-track' judgment. The two cops gave their version of events. It was a shrewd concoction with plenty of the truth woven into their lies. When I gave my version I could tell it didn't hang together as neatly as theirs.

My lawyer had told me to expect a sentence of servitude. When the time came for the verdict, the judge looked at me again, and repeated his 'Oh boy!.' It wasn't hard to see why he felt compelled to say it. I was naked to the waist and still coated in piss. There were marks across my back and I had a black eye. My hair was filthy, my mouth bruised and I must have looked like a vagrant. The judge leaned forwards towards me.

'You're a mess young man. Until we can get a report on you, I'm handing you over to the Servitude Department. They will make arrangements for you to be placed with a free citizen on the approved list. You will serve that person in a state of servitude until the reports are in. You will then be returned to his court for official sentencing.'

He rose and I felt a gloved hand on my shoulder. Down in the holding cells my lawyer appeared to tell me that I had been assigned to a Mr Peter Riccardo and would be delivered to his house later that afternoon. In the meantime he had arranged for me to have a shower and something to eat. He said he reckoned the reports would take about three weeks. He was confident that he could get me a short sentence.

'Just hang in there for the next three weeks.' He smiled and apologized for not shaking my hand. 'Too grubby.'

After he left I was taken off to shower. The guards seemed unexpectedly relaxed. There was no cursing or kicking, just instructions given in the confidence that they would be carried out.

The showers were crowded with a team of slaves owned by a bankrupt quarrying company who were being reassigned to new owners. They eyed me as if I was something displayed for their benefit. Two huge slaves, with brands on their foreheads and deep whip scars on their backs stood pulling on their cocks as they watched me get the piss and grime off my body. One had the hairiest butt and legs I'd ever seen. He looked like an animal standing on its hind legs. Others had hard-ons and there were appreciative remarks about the shape of my butt. I had never been among commercially owned slaves before. Like most men who had grown up taking the slave system for granted, it had never occurred to me they might have lusts just like free men, or that their behavior might change when no overseer was around to supervise them. I was used to seeing them cowering under the command of a whip-wielding overseer. These were not cowed by anything. Their bodies were laden with thick slabs of muscle, and many had been disfigured with brands or as punishments. One had no nose, another only one ear. Several had leather pouches instead of scrotums, indicating they had been gelded. But they seemed no less fierce for being castrated.

It was not hard to see why their overseers were quick to use their whips. Just as I was ready to leave the shower, one of the slaves whispered in my ear that I should hang around. He spoke with an educated voice, and yet looked like a wild man. Out of curiosity I did go back under the showers one last time, and as I stood letting the tepid water run over me, two young men came in. They were nothing like the others, and nothing like me. It was, in fact, all too obvious that they were slaves from a whorehouse. They had rather long, crudely dyed blond hair and make-up around their eyes. They had soft feminine hairless pink bodies, and the stood giggling, holding their hands over their mouths as they ran under the showers. It didn't take long for the slaves to make their move.

There must have been a dozen watching, and each one's cock rose within seconds. Even the eunuchs had erections, and several slaves had thick long cocks that were far too large for the tender looking bottoms of the whore-boys. But mercy was not on the agenda. A fierce fight broke out after a brutally ugly slave made a grab for one of the whores. The slave without a nose jumped on him, and they fell on the shower room floor, their legs and arms sprawling. The whores screamed with alarmed delight, but this was cut short as the second one was hurled to the floor and sat on by a slave whose whole torso was covered in raised welts. After that the rest of them piled in and the floor became a mass of writhing, fighting bodies. The noise was enough to bring in a couple of guards. But they were more amused than punitive, and merely cracked their whips to bring order to the scene. They said a pecking order should be agreed and the whores taken one by one. Each slave could have one whore. There would be no crossovers. The whore's asses would not cope with double doses.

The whores were afraid, and loud in their complaints, but shut up when a guard flicked his whip across their backs. I stood back with the eunuchs. A small part of me was disappointed not to be thought worth having, but a eunuch explained cheerfully that a whore is always a whore, while it was clear I wasn't a real slave at all.

The slaves proved themselves expert rapists. They went to work ruthlessly, pumping the moaning whores' asses like thirsty men at a well. No one thought to turn off the showers, so the water continued to pour down on the scene of lust, as slave after slave thrust their cocks up the anuses until they came, whereupon they would withdraw to allow another to take his place. The whores' rectums must have been brimming with come, but no one was in any mood to worry about such delicate matters. The expression of lust was everything, and only when it was over did the mood change and helping hands were offered. The whores staggered away to the lavatories, and the guards withdrew. The sated slaves sat around the sides of the rooms, smiling to themselves and joking. A few dozed off. The eunuch beside suggested I might leave. Slaves were virile despite their servility, and it would not be long before their appetites returned. A second time round they might broaden their range and try my butt for size.

I left the shower area and went to find my clothes, only to be told by the duty guards that my free man's clothes would be washed and stored and that henceforth I would be wearing a slave outfit. I was given a pair of loose fitting yellow shorts and a matching T-shirt and battered sandals. The T-shirt had the county name printed back and front plus a number to contact if the wearer was seen lazing or caught not showing proper respect. The material was coarse. The shorts rubbed against my cock and butt cheeks. I was told to go and eat and then report back to be collared.

The food was slave-mush and hard biscuits. I'd fed mush to Pick often enough, and at home the slaves all ate it and seemed to like it, but to me it tasted sour, slimy and foul. It was all I could do to swallow it. And the biscuits were so hard a dog would crack its teeth. I was given a metal mug containing some form of warm liquid, and that tasted better. The slave sitting beside me, who had not spoken, suddenly asked me if I was 'for life' or 'under servitude.' When I said servitude he shook his head and seemed close to tears. He explained that he had been sentenced to life slavery for robbery and was waiting to be flogged. He expected to be called to the whipping room at any moment. I offered him my sympathy and that seemed to please him. How he had managed to eat just before a flogging I could not imagine.

I left when a guard from the 'department of discipline' appeared and called my companion's slave number. He gave me a wink and something like a smile as he went off. He made a forlorn sight, a middle aged man with a bent back and a defeated air being led off to be whipped by a handsome young guard in a crisp, neatly fitted uniform.

Back at the reception desk the guard on duty went to a cabinet and took out a handful of slave collars. He tried a few round my neck for size, and then, almost before I had time to think or swallow, he snapped on one, and twisted the lock to seal it. He clipped a couple of tags to the ring below my Adam's apple. Then he slapped me lightly across my cheek and smiled. 'You're a slave now. Official.'

At six o'clock my name was called and I was taken out and put in a taxi. It seemed there were no slave transporters available. The guard told me I would be whipped and gelded if I tried to escape and that ninety nine per cent of runaways were caught. The taxi driver laughed and said he would lock the doors to save me from such a fate. We drove out of town through the leafy suburban streets. When I asked the driver what kind of neighborhood I was being taken to, he said it was upper income. He went on to say he had once been given a term of servitude and it had been the making on him. 'Calmed me down.'

We drew up outside a large redbrick house set back among trees. A sign directed us to the 'slaves entrance' and I was dropped off in a small service yard. The driver said there was nothing to pay, and that it was not for him to hand over slaves. So he let me out and left me standing there. The temptation to run for freedom was intense, but I was wearing the yellow state slave uniform, and would not get far. Did I want to suffer the fate of the slave who had sat next to me. What state would he be in after that young guard had flogged him? It didn't bear thinking about. I went indoors through swing doors and along a corridor. A door at the end said 'visitors' and one to the right said 'slaves only.' Hard to know which to take, but chose 'slaves only.' After all I was one.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Three

Within ten minutes of arriving at the Riccardo household my spirits had risen just about as far as they could go. My temporary master, Peter Riccardo, was not some mad sadist living in isolation with terrified slaves, but a regular guy with a wife and two sons who ran a thriving business. The family owned three slaves, one of whom was convalescing after an operation.

The 'slaves only' door had opened into a slaves' pantry, a pleasant room furnished with some ancient armchairs, a table and a large Welsh dresser decked with all the tools of domestic service. I was greeted by Kit, a male slave in his thirties, wearing a white shirt and plain black pants, and he introduced me to Melly, a cheerful and overweight female of about sixty who was chiding a fair-haired pubescent boy who wanted some cake.

When I bowed to him he smiled as asked if I was the new slave. I did my best to reply respectfully, and got an approving nod from Melly, who said the boy was called Billy and that he was the terror of the household. She gave him a handful of cake and told him to take me through to meet the master.

This should have been a moment of stress and fear. I could remember at home how terrified slaves always seemed when they first arrived and were brought in to pay us respect and be inspected. But everything seemed so relaxed I couldn't summon any feeling except relief. After the degradation of the past twenty-four hours, just being back in civilisation was enough. As the boy led me along a passage and through a heavy oak door he explained that we were entering the 'family side' of the house, where he lived, while I would live on the 'slave side.' When I thanked him for the information, he added,

'You'll be our side most of the time, doing stuff for us.' His voice was hoarse, indicating the onset of adolescence. 'We keep our slaves pretty busy.'

He strode ahead of me, his trainers squeaking on the polished floor. A loose T-shirt hanging over his jeans could not disguise a cute bottom, and his broad shoulders hinted at the use of exercise bars and the swimming pool.

We crossed a large hall. On the far side I could see through open double doors into a sumptuously furnished living room. A woman was sitting on a small-upholstered chair beside the fire, and opposite her I could make out the back of a man's head. Somewhere in the house a piano was being played badly. Billy told me to wait and went into the room. His mother said something to him about having his mouth full of cake and he sat next to her to be chided. Nothing was said about me standing out in the hall. I began to feel self-conscious. In such a beautiful house my yellow County Slave Department outfit must have looked out of place.

A door slammed on the landing above and I head feet on the stairs. A strikingly handsome young man of about eighteen appeared. His crisp blue-striped shirt hung loose over his jeans and his brown hair was wet. He exuded a sense of health and preppy self-confidence. He was whistling a tune I recognised but he stopped when he saw me. 'Good god, what are you?'

I bowed and said I was the new slave. 'What are you doing here?'

He pointed back along the corridor. 'Slaves belong back there.'

'Yes sir. Young Billy is introducing me to the master sir.' The young man smiled and rolled his eyes.

'You'll wait all day if you're relying on him.'

He walked past me into the living room. I heard him announce the arrival of the new slave. He then got into a brief argument with his brother about being forgetful. A woman's voice suggested 'my darling' go out and deal with the slave. 'We don't want him in here right now.'

A man's voice agreed and told the boys to stop arguing. I took a deep breath and stood as smartly as I knew how. The man who came out of the living room was slightly shorter than me, about five foot nine, but well built, if a little heavy round the waist. He had thinning blond hair, large blue eyes and a rather poor complexion. He wore a check red and black woollen shirt, jeans and loafers.

I bowed as he came up to me. If I had been free he would have stopped within easy distance so we could shake hands, but being a slave I had no such invisible barrier. He stepped close and rather than shake my hand he took hold of my collar tags and squinted at them. 'Your name?'

His voice was deep, but not unfriendly. I gave my free name.

'Can't use that...don't worry...the boys will soon think of one for you.'

He placed a hand on the side of my face and used his thumb to push open the corner of my mouth. 'Tooth decay.' He sighed and placed his forefinger under my blackened right eye and dragged the skin down to expose the eyeball's underside. He grunted and ran his fingers over my bruised upper lip. 'Been whipped yet?'

'No master.'

'You will be.'

The older son appeared behind his father. 'What's his name Dad?'

'Dunno. You give him one.'

'Bruno. He looks like a Bruno.'

'Bruno it is then.'

Mr Riccardo held me by the back of my neck and dug his fingers in under my ear. He looked me in the eye. 'I wanted a trained slave, not some juvenile delinquent.' He frowned and looked stern. 'Make no mistake, you'll be treated round here as well as you deserve, no better and no worse. We all make mistakes, but you've been careless of your liberty boy, and I'll not tolerate sloppy indolence in my slaves. Do you understand? There's a wall in the yard the boys use to play ball. Any trouble from you and you'll find yourself against it for a whipping.'

The youth burst out laughing. 'That's telling him dad. Get him shitting in his pants.'

Mr Riccardo turned and shook his head. 'Don't talk like that.' He went back into the living room. The youth winked at me. When I attempted a weak smile he frowned and shook his head.

'Scram Bruno, before the old man finds his whip.'

With a laugh he span on his heels and marched back into the living room. 'You can relax mother, he's quite presentable.' A woman's voice thanked heaven for small mercies.

Life with the Riccardos was nice. There's no other word. Mr and Mrs Riccardo were good people, and well respected. That made being their slave easier. No one was going to haze Mr Peter's slave, and at the stores Mrs Riccardo's order was always dealt with promptly. And the boys were chips off the old block. The older one, Henry, liked to be stern, but his good humour kept breaking through. The one time he decided to spank me ended in farce and he never tried again. And Billy and I became firm friends after I helped him out of hot water a few times. His parents knew what I'd done, and scolded me half-heartedly, but it was obvious they were glad not to have to punish their beloved younger son.

Not that the Riccardos were slack with their slaves. We always had to be up at dawn, smartly turned out, clean and cheerful. We worked hard and Mrs Riccardo saw to it that we cut no corners. But they were kind people.

When news came that I was sentenced to nine months servitude, they broke the news gently and left me alone for an hour, and then sent some special ice cream to my room to cheer me up. On my birthday I was called to the living room and given tea and cake and presented with wrapped presents. Some were lovely, like the shirt Mrs Riccardo gave me. It was overwhelmed. I hadn't had such a luxurious object of my own for five months, and I admit I burst into tears. Mrs Riccardo comforted me, and whispered that the shirt was to be put away for the day when I was 'my own man again.' Until then I would continue to wear my uniform of cheap white service-shirts.

I was lucky to be serving the Riccardos. The slave-counters at the stores and service stations were full of slaves bemoaning their cruel masters who starved and beat them. I had no complaints, and served my family as well as I could. But if goodness shields people from evil, it also blinds them to its presence. The Eden of my daily existence with the Riccardos was not without its serpent. Looking back I'm always surprised I never said anything to my master my afternoons with Mr Tilling, and that no one ever noticed the marks on my body, nor the expression on my face when I returned. Maybe I wanted to protect them for the ugly truth. It was, perhaps also, simply a matter of closeness and distance.

Mr Tilling lived right across the street, and yet life in his house was light years away from that in the Riccardo's. Mr Tilling had been born into one of the most prominent families in the county. He had grown up in the family mansion, surrounded by adoring female relatives and fawning slaves. He had never expected to earn his living and had therefore developed a connoisseur's taste in music, literature and art. Although his trust fund had dwindled over the years, he was still comfortable, but seemingly always ill at ease with the world. He was, as Mrs Riccardo put it to me, 'one of those gentlemen who shouldn't need our help, but somehow always seem to.'

And for that reason she had me go over three afternoons a week to help Mr Tilling whose own slave had runaway and not been caught. The two houses were less than a hundred yards apart. When Mr Tilling had dropped by to agree to borrow me, I had been called in to meet him. From the moment I set eyes on him, I knew he was not a good man. A slither of cold seemed to slip down my spine to prickle my butt. Mr Riccardo was his usual bluff self. He told Mr Tilling I was a good slave but like all slaves needed keeping in my place.

'Don't forget to spank him where and when he needs it.'

It was a joke of course. Mr Riccardo had threatened me with the whip a hundred times, but had settled for lay his razor strop across my butt a few times. Young Billy was forever getting into rows with his parents that ended with him being sent to his room to await his father who would 'make sure you don't sit for a week.' But those whipping too never materialised. Not so with Mr Tilling.

The County Border Part Four Mr Tilling was a short ugly man with wet lips, a discoloured nose, no neck and a paunch double the girth of his hips. He had a goatee beard, and wore a smoking jacket, an ascot, handmade pink shirts and leather-soled blue slippers trimmed with gold. His house was full of oversized furniture passed down from his family's mansions and castles. He spent his days in a small parlour at the back of the house, watching videos and talking on the phone.

I worked for him in the afternoon every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, reporting at two and leaving around six. He had me strip and would attach a cock-ring and butt-plug before setting me to work cleaning the bathroom and lavatory, washing the kitchen floor and his underwear. He did not need me. An agency provided trained slaves to keep things clean and tidy. His interest in me was experimental.

Mr Tilling had theories about slaves and slavery. He used me to gather evidence in the hope that I would prove him right. In this he had an assistant. Bill Cochrane was a burly young man who worked the evening shift as a guard at the Tree Top Slave Centre, an outfit notorious for its robust approach to slave care and training. He lived in a small cottage at the bottom of Tilling's garden, and would drop by on his way to work around five o'clock.

Mr Tilling was happy to relate in detail all my shortcomings and then discuss with Cochrane the best methods to remedy them. Cochrane was a common sadist, but a cheerful one. He never aroused my hatred and contempt the way Tilling did. Nor did I blame him for what he did to me. He was, after all, only following his nature, and the bulge in his pants acted as proof of his sincerity. On the other hand Tilling, who liked to listen from the other room, and sometimes urged his tenant on to more strenuous efforts, lacked even the shred of dignity due to any man who has the courage to satisfy his desires.

For Tilling the only satisfaction to be taken from my suffering was the proof of his theory, and his only motive was pride. I think most slaves, if they are going to be beaten black and blue on a regular basis, would rather have a professional do the work. As in all things, the amateur may sometimes be lenient, or unenthusiastic, but he is also unreliable. With Cochrane the torture and punishment were always efficiently administered. As is the way with torturers and the tortured, there was nothing personal about our sessions. I think he rather liked me, and I can't honestly say I ever took a dislike to him.

He certainly looked the part. He was a tall young man, with cropped black hair, rather startled brown eyes and blunt fleshy features. He had a tree-trunk of a neck and his shoulders were as thick, while his chest and belly were solid blocks of muscle and cartilage. He wore khaki uniform shirts, complete with epaulets for his gloves, front pockets for his cigars and lights, and decorated with the badges of his rank and accomplishments. These shirts were always neatly pressed with squares on the back and their short sleeves were specially widened to fit his arms. His tight khaki breeches were stretched across the handsome curve of his big butt to accentuate the power in the hard-packed gristle. At the front his cock and balls were plain in outline under the smooth material, while the breeches expanded on his massive thighs to give room for a whip pouch and other special pockets. Below the knee he wore riding boots that it was my duty to polish and lick.

In the house he would not wear his broad-rimmed cavalry hat, nor his belt and shoulder strap, but would leave them over the back of a chair in the kitchen, and send me to fetch any item attached to the belt as the need arose. Tilling and Cochrane amused themselves with me from five to six on Friday afternoons, while in the neighbouring houses ladies played bridge, kids did their homework, slaves completed their day's duties, and retired men practised their golf strokes.

Tilling explained his obsession as follows. A slave must know slavery. He must become an expression of the condition of servitude. I was not a real slave, and with the Riccardo family I would never become one. He saw it as his civic duty to provide me with the authentic experience. In return he would use me as the means to observe in action his theories about getting the best from a slave. Society had given its free citizens the right to own slaves without investigating the science of handling and exploiting them. He hoped to do his bit to rectify that mistake. He was sure society could be far more prosperous and efficient if only the slaves were put to work properly. And so I would be timed and watched, and then beaten, and then timed and watched again. Then tiny changes to my work would be introduced, and after that I would be timed and watched, and then tortured, or threatened with torture, or with a fresh beating, and timed and watched again. It was quite a business, and Tilling seemed to find it hard work.

Certainly he would become impatient if my punishment impeded my ability to repeat a chore, or the torture turned my bowels to liquid and I would have to prevent myself fainting by running to the outside lavatory to remove the plug up my butt and empty myself. He sometimes said he thought I should never have been enslaved, and would despair of using me. But over the weeks I did begin to provide evidence that he was correct to believe that the application of systematic pain would make a slave work harder and better.

It seemed never to occur to Cochrane, as he beat me or inserted his stick up my anus, that Tilling was anything other than a sincere gentleman engaged in useful research. In the same way he was not in the least ashamed of his sadism and would often tell me how much he was looking forward to administering some whipping or other special punishment. As often as not he would tell me this while kicking me round the bathroom, or deftly pricking me under my fingernails, or expanding my anus to take a larger dildo.

If he were in a good mood there would be a playful quality to his torture, and if he were in a bad one, he would play the brute, and yet he was too much the professional to vary the quantity and quality of the pain. No matter what he was doing to me, he would call it a day as soon as he heard the clock strike six. He would accompany me to the bathroom and wonder out loud what he would choose to eat when he stopped off at a local steak house on his way to work. As he did so he would carefully remove my ring and plug, and rub disinfectant into any wounds and then have me help him on with his shoulder strap, belt and hat.

He would often tell me to give his regards to Mrs Riccardo, whom he regarded as a fine lady, and then call out to Tilling as he went out the back way. I would be left to dress, report to Tilling to be dismissed and by six fifteen would be back across the road to help Mally with the cooking and run upstairs to the boys with their drinks and snacks.

Old slaves reading this may shake their heads and say that an hour's torture a week is hardly here nor there, and go on to tell their histories of daily beatings, of duck's quills stuck up their cocks, and cigars stubbed slowly on nipples. And towards the end of my servitude, when Mr Riccardo began to fancy himself an expert with a Malacca cane, I would sometimes wonder whether Tilling and Cochrane were so bad as I bent myself double over a flogging stool to offer my bruised and battered butt for target practise. And then, as suddenly as it all began it was over.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Five

The Riccardos said nothing to me about the termination of my servitude. I was aware that the nine months were up, but slavery dulls the will to act in one's own interest. It can get a slave into trouble, while acting in his master's interest brings rewards. Maybe I had been driven half-mad by Tilling, or had simply lost hope. The distance between freedom and slavery is so great it's hard to believe it's possible to climb out of it.

So it came as a shock, if not as a surprise, as I laid out Mr Riccardo's clothes one morning, to hear him say that I was to be set free that morning. I suppose I was pleased, but more obviously I was confused and embarrassed. Mr Riccardo said he would not be at the court hearing, and would say goodbye to me when he left for work. The slave auctioneers would pick me up at ten o'clock and all being well I would be free by midday. He said the family would miss me and added I had been a useful and loyal slave. It would be hard finding a replacement.

I gathered my few things together, said a dry-eyed goodbye to everyone, and went and sat on the swing out front. I avoided looking across the road at Mr Tilling's house. Mrs Riccardo brought me some coffee and seemed to want to talk, but my slavery was over and I had nothing to say. I explained that I needed to be alone to collect my thoughts. I think she was offended. The court hearing lasted about thirty seconds. I had to go through the routine of being stripped to appear before the judge, but the guards no longer treated me like a slave. Everything that had seemed so threatening nine months before, now seemed safe and unexceptional.

As soon as the judge signed my papers I was allowed to put on a dressing gown before going down to have my collar removed. The technician effortlessly cut through the metal mesh and tossed it away. As he swabbed my neck with disinfectant he said, 'OK, that's you all done. Have a good day now.'

The sudden lightness on my neck and the routine, unthinking courtesy brought it home to me that I was free. I collected my clothes, put on the shirt Mrs Riccardo had given me, was handed a leaflet from the Ex-slaves Welfare Society, and walked out into the midday sunshine. I took the bus home.

Not long after I was enslaved, one of my roommates had written to the Riccardos informing them that my room had been let and the guys had decided they wanted to keep Pick as a house slave. As my owners the Riccardos had to sign their agreement that Pick should not be auctioned as was usual with the slaves of the enslaved. They had agreed without consulting me.

Slavery changes a man, and I couldn't go back to my old life. I dropped by the house and chatted to the guys, but they were no longer my friends. The scars and smell of slavery clung to me like an indelible stain, and they were as uncomfortable around me as I was around them. When old Pick appeared we stood tongue-tied like shy teenagers. He mumbled something about being a fortunate slave to be serving such gentlemen, and not wanting to jeopardise his position. I wished him luck and left.

I was lucky to find a job. It wasn't a good one, but openings were scarce since the economy had turned down. I settled into a solitary life and got used to pleasing only myself, but knew I was becoming one of those lonely, isolated ex-slaves to be seen in every downtown bar and restaurant, sitting in the corner and glancing around furtively, always afraid a tap on the shoulder might lead them back to servitude. But slavery had taught me how to work hard and without complaining, and my boss liked me. As with many a slave owner, he had little respect for free employees, and when he promoted me he said I was the best free slave he had. It was a joke, but nonetheless true.

I found myself supervising half a dozen slaves, and drove them hard. They knew instinctively that I had been one of them, and while obedient, they showed me how unimpressed they were. I responded by imposing strict discipline and handed out sets of fifty push-ups, spankings, doses of foul tasting vitamin supplements and heaven knows what else to keep them in line, but to no avail. My reflexes were all wrong. I lowered my eyes too often. I had lost the habit of standing with my hands in my pockets, and jumped at unexpected noises. I had to resist the urge to spring to my feet when a free man entered the office, and I found it easier to take orders than give them.

A pay rise meant I could move to a small apartment with its own tiny slave quarters. The weak economy had brought a glut of slaves on to the market and the prices at auction were rock bottom. I decided to buy myself a young male. I did not examine my motives with any care; it seemed the natural thing to do.

To try and shift some excess stock one of the big slave dealerships was advertising a special one-off bargain auction. I went along on a Saturday morning to find the hall full of families and teenagers, along with buyers from the agencies that supplied industrial concerns. Being in a slave environment made me nervous. I trembled as I passed guards with their whips drawn, heard the paddle in use against some bare butt, and smelt that the distinctive odour of frightened naked male slaves.

Even so the bargains on offer were too good to ignore. Older males were going for the price of a lawnmower or washing machine, while younger ones were trading at half the price the Riccardos had paid for me. At the 'trade in' centre, the line of owners with slaves they wanted to trade for a new one stretched outside into the street. And the 'goods inward' door had been closed after an invasion of free men hoping to sell slaves had swamped the staff.

It was a scene of confusion. There weren't enough sales staff to go round, and those that were available had only scanty information about the items for on offer. The crowds jostled round the raised stands where the slaves were displayed naked with their feet chained to the floor, and their hands cuffed behind their backs. The auction had already begun in the female section, and the rapid-fire talk of the auctioneer came over the sound system adding to the tension and confusion.

Despite the hundreds of slaves on display, there were very few that interested me. There was a young black with a fine body and an intelligent face, but the salesman said he had been enslaved for persistent theft. I didn't want to leave such a slave alone in my apartment all day. Another was a white youth with cheekbones and a butt that would have made him desirable had he not been gelded. Castrated slaves tend to become lazy. Most of the items were either wild looking, or had physical defects, or were not suitable for domestic work. Some didn't speak English, others had long lists of owners indicating trouble, and some were plain ugly.

In the end I found one who would be worth having if he went cheap. He was white, with brown stubble on his head and chin, dark eyes, and a firm but not overdeveloped body. His butt was a rusty red from a paddling, but he was otherwise unmarked. The downside was a pair of thick spectacles, too much round his stomach and on his hips, and his height. But he was cute, being rather short and with a wide mouth. I couldn't get hold of a salesman to give me the slave's provenance until the last minute. I had managed to check his mouth, and his gums and teeth were fine, and the salesman had him turn, bend and spread his cheeks so that I and a couple of other interested parties could slip on a plastic glove and check his anus. It was tight enough, but definitely not virginal. In the confusion I could only get the salesman to say that the slave had been sold into temporary servitude by his mother when he was twelve, and that she had re-registered him as a slave for life just before his seventeenth birthday. He had been sold to private owners on both occasions, and had a good health and obedience record. When I asked why his butt was red the salesman shrugged and said the paddle was in constant use when marshalling hundreds of slaves.

Five minutes later he was mine. The others had soon dropped out of the bidding. I got myself a bargain. Sold sales were being led away for processing and collection, while the unsold ones were made to parade in a corner where they would be sold off in lots to the agents looking to bulk but for industrial clients. I went over and stood in line to pay with my credit card.

All around me couples were discussing their purchases and wondering whether they had made a mistake or got a bargain. The middle-aged man in front of me was well pleased with the garden slave he had bought, while the woman behind me was having second thoughts about the elderly female she had bought for her equally elderly mother. When my turn came I paid the clerk who printed out a technical data sheet on my purchase.

As with all slaves he had no name, but a registration number and a local code ID. The registration was recorded on a national database, while the local ID related to the county records. While waiting for my receipt and owner's certificate I glanced over the data sheet. My new slave was twenty (only month and year of birth given; no actual date) and weighed 135 pounds. He was five foot two and had either had all the childhood contagious diseases or had been inoculated. He was a slave for live, category B, and that meant he could be sold at any time without court permission. But he could not be sold for any life terminating purpose. In the event of death, he would have to be de-registered within five days. He was subject to the Slave Act. If he ran away it was my duty to report him missing within forty-eight hours. Once I registered him as missing, my ownership was forfeit until the slave was recaptured, and had been disciplined by the state authorities (mandatory castration and flogging). He would them be either returned to me or sold. In the latter case I could apply for compensation. If I encountered problems with my purchase I could apply to the County Slave Department for assistance. At the bottom of the page there was a reminder that it was the owner's responsibility to ensure the slave was properly cared for and disciplined. I could be fined if my slave misbehaved.

Thus armed, I went off to collect my purchase. There was still more confusion at the Slave Collection Point. The sold slaves were standing in a line against the wall overseen by a free man in a blazer and chino carrying a heavy whip. This piece of equipment seemed a bit excessive given that the slaves were naked, shackled and cuffed. A man was loudly protesting that the slave presented to him was not the one he had bid for. There was some dispute over the age of a female. A male suddenly urinated, the thick jet of his piss splattering on the floor. A clerk picked up a paddle and whacked the slave across his cock and balls. This reduced the flow to a trickle. The slave just stood still, staring down blankly as if the puddle had nothing to do with him.

I could see my slave towards the back of the line. He had his head tilted back as if in defiance. The overhead lights were reflected in his spectacles. The clerk who helped me was an eager high school kid who was, despite the noise and chaos, enjoying his work. He went off to fetch my slave and was beaming when he returned and congratulated me on an excellent buy. He released the shackles and cuffs and presented me to my slave, who bowed. I had to admit I liked what I saw. Although his nose was dribbling and he was shivering he seemed alert. His eyes flickered behind his glasses, but he stood firmly without fidgeting.

I asked him if I could trust him to follow me without restraints and he replied in a pleasant voice that I could. He called me master. I bought him some plain slave house-clothes, some sandals, and an outdoors tunic and woollen working gloves. He smiled as he put them on, and looked at himself in the mirror with a young man's natural vanity.

To stop him using the back of his hand to wipe his running nose I had him use my handkerchief. I told myself not to pander to him. He was my slave not my son. I took him home and told him what was expected of him. I told him all the usual stuff about taking no nonsense from him, and that I was a firm believer in the paddle and whip. I had him drop and give my fifty, and took him to the bathroom to shrub him and give him a proper examination. To every command he would say 'Yes master' and give me a slight smile. When I tested him without his spectacles I discovered he could see nothing. His smile of relief when he put them on his nose again made me smile too.

For a second time I told myself not to be seduced by his charm. But it was impossible. I called him Lucky because he kept telling me how lucky he had been to be bought by me. Heaven knows how his previous owners had treated him, but he accepted everything I did to him like a gift. When I paddled him he looked pained, and tears would spring behind his glasses, but he was always abject in his remorse for having let me down. When I praised him he glowed and would literally leap for joy.

My apartment was small, and we lived on top of each other. Having been a slave I knew how much work a slave can do, and when he is overburdened. I could tell when Lucky was exhausted and when he was feigning, and met his attempts to seduce me into giving him a share of my food with a sound thrashing. By keeping him of a strict diet with plenty of exercise, he soon lost his fat and grew lean and hard. He even grew an inch. He knew I had the measure of him, and soon stopped testing me.

We slept together. I taught him how to suck my cock and he was a willing student. His anus proved tight but he worked on it with a dildo in his spare time and soon had it loosened. In fucking him I began to understand the full range of feelings and emotions that can accompany the act, and afterwards he would lie still beside me and let me sleep.

When my work took me away for a few days, I discovered I missed him, and when he was not there (I volunteered him to help with a local charity) I felt ill-at-ease. My boss told me I should think less of my slave, and get out more, and make friends among the free. It was not healthy, and I knew he was right.

Lucky was a good slave who regarded me as his saviour, but even he could not take too much close attention. But it was hard to break the bond. The truth was I found other people less interesting. Lucky was bright and quick to learn. And with an understanding of the world came maturity. He lost his boyish ways, and became more serious and dignified. Paddling his butt for spilling the sugar seemed petty, and our lovemaking grew more manly and intense. A bond of friendship began to replace that of master and slave.

If I felt he was my equal, it was not only because somewhere inside me I still believed that I too was a slave. In fact he was my lover; only freedom separated us. In the end it was Lucky who suggested I sell him. It was a joke, made during our lovemaking, but as soon as he said it I knew he was right.

Every slave owner's manual says you should never tell a slave he is to be sold until the dealer comes to take him away. But I hadn't the heart to delude Lucky. An agent came and posed as a friend from work, but Lucky wasn't fooled. When the man came back a few days later Lucky had cleared his room and was ready to go. If we said goodbye to each other we did so in our lovemaking. During those long last nights we made love as equals, and I found I could use what I knew of myself as both slave and free man to express my affection for him. And then he was gone.

The market prices had firmed, and a group of architects paid a good price for him. I did not go to the auction, but would occasionally see him in town. He had become one of those slaves in a position of responsibility, who are granted privileges and go about smartly dressed, but somehow always look a little absurd. With his poor eyesight he seldom recognised me, but on one occasion he did stop in his tracks as we passed. I asked him how he was and he said he was still a very lucky slave. For a moment we stood staring at each other before he fell to his knees and kissed my feet. It was a rather embarrassing and unnecessary thing to do, but I suppose he felt compelled to show his gratitude. I lifted him to his feet, but there was nothing more to be said. I touched him on his upper arm as he walked on. And that was the last I saw or heard of him.

I'm married now. My wife has been good to me, and we have a kid and a pair of delightful slaves. My own enslavement seems like a story heard long ago. Even so, there's a sense of emptiness that comes over me whenever I remember Lucky, or wonder what became of him. I don't have to think about Mr Tilling and Cochrane. They come to me often enough in my dreams.

END