THE INSTRUMENT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part One
The problem with new boys is that they just don't lie still at night - I've often found that, and this one was no exception. He was moving almost constantly, crying nonsensical words aloud as his dreams flickered across his brain, and occasionally his arms or legs would twitch so violently that it was actually painful if they hit me in the ribs, or genitals. Finally, around three a.m. I could stand it no more, and I slapped his bare butt hard a couple of times, so that he would wake up. He sat up in our bed, looking around in terror as if he had no idea where he was, and then rubbed his eyes in a kind of forlorn gesture as he realised that everything he could see was indeed real and that it was his dream from which I'd woken him that was the fiction.
"Lie still, you young fucker!", I snapped. "I need my rest, and with you thrashing around beside me it's difficult. You've got to learn to lie still so as not to disturb the other guy."
He looked at me, and I could see he was only half awake. "....and what's more, when you do get woken up, you'd better learn to be wide awake immediately - who knows, there might be some service you need to perform."
It was as if he was still in some semi- somnambulant state, as he just sat there, staring at me almost dumbly. He needed a lesson, if he was not to get into more trouble later on. So I lay back, put my hands behind my head so that I could look along my body, and said calmly "Get down on my cock, boy."
"No, please....", he whimpered.
"You heard me! Get down on my cock, and don't fucking argue with me, unless you want another of those thrashings on your ass that I had to give you yesterday."
Very reluctantly he stretched his body, moved down the bed and lay alongside me - I threw one of my powerful legs across his body to give him the sense that he was then trapped and under my control totally. His skin was so smooth (he'd been totally shaved when he arrived and it had not yet been decided whether he'd be allowed to re-grow his body hair), and his flesh felt hot even through the hairs on my leg as I rubbed it up and down him.
"Please....", he whispered, and I snapped "Get down on it, boy, or else....."
I knew he hated taking my cock in his mouth. I was teaching him the proper way to really pleasure a man's cock, but he was one of those boys who are really slow to learn - he'd told me when we first met that he was used to sex and had had a lot of girl friends, but somehow I doubted that he had got very far with them: well, he didn't seem to know how to give a really good blow job, and most young guys with a girl would surely have had some experience. Still, it wasn't a blow job
I was after tonight - I was planning on doing some fucking later in the day, and even though I'm only thirty two, I do feel the effects of getting older and like to "save" myself a bit when there's a marathon session in the offing. But I wanted to teach the boy a lesson about proper behaviour in bed, so as he gently (or do I mean timorously?) took my half-hard cock in one hand and lowered his head slowly towards it, I reached out and put both of my hands on his head and pushed him down almost brutally onto my hard erection. He began to gag a little, and I snapped "Remember what I told you - relax the throat! And if I feel any teeth on me, even the faintest scraping, I'll tan your hide."
I could feel his skull hot and sweaty under my hands - he had the standard very, very short crop that now was the only remaining vestige of his body hair, and yet, being a natural blond, it was kind of silky to my touch. I pressed down firmly so that his nose was buried in my pubes, and he did indeed calm down a little - he'd started to thrash around a bit when the gagging began, but he seemed to have got himself under control. The only remaining sign of the panic his body had gone in to was the fact that I could feel sweat soaking my leg where it lay across him. He hated sucking my cock, and hated it even more when I shot my cum directly into his mouth, so I knew he was going to hate what was about to happen! slowly and carefully I began to squeeze my bladder muscles, to start my piss flowing and yet to try to keep it under control. I had a bladder full, and if I wasn't careful, once I'd started there'd be a whole lot more than he could cope with and I didn't want to wet the sheets as it spilled out of him (well, it's not a total disaster, I suppose - you can always make the boy lie across the wet patches and then lie on top of him).
As he tasted the first drops of my piss, even though I was controlling myself so it was a mere trickle, he began his thrashing around again, and he tried to shout "NO!" - well, that's what I think it was, but with my cock filling his mouth and throat, it was very indistinct! I clamped my leg around him but it didn't seem to be enough to hold him down, so keeping one hand firmly on his head to hold him on to me, I reached down the bed and slapped his butt hard - really hard - a couple of times. Of course as I did this I lost the concentration I was putting in to controlling the flow of my piss, and I knew I'd really let go. And you know how it is - once your piss is really running, there's no way of stopping it, is there?
If you've ever drunk another guy's piss fresh from his cock - or been made to - you'll know that it's a real effort to swallow fast enough to keep up with a really strong, fast piss. When you're chugging a beer or something you think you drink fast, but when a guy's cock is hosing piss into you at high speed, there just doesn't seem to be a way of keeping up with it. I'd hoped that the boy's first experience of taking piss would be relatively gentle and that he could more or less allow it to trickle down his throat, but now all this had gone by the board - he was choking and spluttering as he struggled to breathe and swallow simultaneously, and now I was getting soaked as my own piss flowed out of his mouth and down on to me. Still, there was nothing I could do about it now, as there's just no "turning off" for me once I've started (well, I suppose I can, but it hurts!). So I just lay there and let it happen until I'd finished. I let go of his head then and threw my leg off him, and he sat up, choking and spluttering. There were tears in his eyes, and through his choking and coughing he muttered "Bastard! Fucker!...."
Well, I couldn't let that go, could I? His ass was out of reach, so I pulled back my arm and slapped him across the face, hard - so hard, in fact, that it knocked him sideways so that he was lying across my naked body, where he lay, still choking and now sobbing.
"How old are you, boy?", I demanded.
"You know that - I'm sixteen" he snapped back, and I was tempted to slap him again for his insolent tone.
"Well as you're a mature man, start acting like one, and stop this stupid snivelling."
"You bastard....", he muttered. "Pissing in my mouth..."
"Listen, boy, I do what I like. You're a slave in training, and you've got to learn to service your owner in whatever way pleases him. You didn't like taking my cock at all when you first came here, then there was all that fuss when I shot a load of cum down your throat...."
"...but piss.... It's disgusting...."
"Don't they teach you anything at school these days? It's perfectly OK to drink piss - it's more or less sterile. Just be grateful that eating shit has gone out of fashion: that's really disgusting, and dangerous, too.... Thinking about it, it might not be fashion at all, but prudence - most owners don't want their expensive slaves to have their guts churning around with disease."
"It's vile...."
"Listen, boy, you're going to learn to drink my piss whenever I choose to give it to you. So you may as well get used to it. And you've spilled a lot this first time, so get busy cleaning me up: get that tongue of yours working around my belly and pubes...."
"Please, no....."
Well, I slapped his ass hard again, very hard (I'm a big guy, and physically very strong with it, and I can tell you that you don't want to be on the receiving end of one of my hands!). He seemed to get the message, especially when I rased my arm to hit him again, and slowly and reluctantly began to lick at my body in a very half-hearted way, and I could see his body trembling and kind of shuddering with disgust as he did so. I've had a lot of new boys like him, though, and I know from experience that most of them adjust - although this one seemed to be taking longer than most.
When he'd finished - or, at least, done enough so I was no longer very wet - it was still only about three thirty and in a gesture of forgiveness, and to try and make him feel a bit better, I pulled him up so that he could rest his head in my arm pit as I lay there. "Lie against me and put your leg over me, so that your cock's close to mine", I whispered, and as he did so I wrapped my arm around him to hold him close. "Now, let's get to sleep, OK? And try to stay still, so you don't wake me up again.... Or I might need another piss!"
He seemed to be shivering slightly, so I reached over with my other hand and began to stroke his flanks and ribs slowly, then I turned my head towards him and kissed him - although, as usual, at first he tried to resist by not opening his mouth until I tightened my grip on his body and he knew he'd be hurt if he continued to resist me. It wasn't a great kiss, actually - the sharp, acrid remains of my piss completely spoiled that nice fresh taste of a really young guy's spit, and as usual he was unenthusiastic and not properly responsive - my tongue explored his mouth, I gently bit his lower lip, and yet he lay there almost totally unreactive. Still, I felt kind of sorry for him, so I let my hand move so I could fondle his cock and balls as they lay next to mine, and that had the right effect: I felt him begin to go erect, and then, as I held his cock against mine and stroked them together, be began to move against me almost sensuously, he started to moan with pleasure, and then his sharp tongue flickered against mine.
I broke off after a couple of minutes and looked down at him. "Not so bad, is it? Being with another guy? Do you want to cum?"
He shook his head and muttered something, but I was holding his cock and I felt it stiffen, probably involuntarily, giving a lie to his words. "I think you do.... So what's the problem? Shall I jerk you off, or would you like me to blow you?"
"I'm not a fag...."
I just laughed, quietly. "Listen, boy, I don't care. You're not anything now - you're just a slave. And a slave does what his owner wants. Sucks his dick, drinks his piss, gets fucked...."
"NO!" He almost jerked upright as he said this, and I pulled him down to lie against me again.
"Listen, you will get fucked. It's inevitable. Why do you think you were snatched and brought here? It's so that men can enjoy a hard, firm young body like yours. And by 'enjoy' I mean possess - possess it totally, use it in any way they want to. We've started on cock sucking and drinking piss, but I'll be opening up your ass later in the week.... Didn't you fuck those girlfriends you were telling me about?"
"Yes...."
"And fucking's fun, right? So You can understand why you're gong to get fucked.... I can tell you, there's nothing as good as a good firm ass clamped around your dick as you fuck...."
"I told you, I'm not a faggot..."
"And I told you I don't care, and it doesn't matter anyway - you're a slave."
This futile conversation might have gone on longer, but I'd been teasing and playing with his cock all the time, and now I could just tell he was right on the edge. I raked my thumb across his head, letting my nail catch slightly on his piss slit, and he moaned audibly with the pleasure.
"Come on, boy.... You like this, don't you....", I whispered, lowering my voice to add extra intimacy to the moment. And at the same time I allowed my hand to stray across his firm young butt, and then to slip gently between his clenched thighs so I could stroke his asshole.
He moaned again, very audibly now, and I felt the first hot splash of his cum against my body as he fired in that way that only the very young can - hard and fast! I carried on stroking his cock, and he began to struggle against me - I had to curl my arm tight to hold him. "Please.... Oh, fuck, no.... Please.....", he gasped as I continued to play with his cock. Then his body was thrashing around and he was almost shouting as I carried on stimulating him, until I relented, stopped, and kissed him deeply again.
We lay there then, the smell of his cum mingling with that of my piss and our combined sweat. I smiled down at him. "You're like me, you know.... I can't bear to have someone touch my cock after I've shot."
"I don't want anyone touching my cock at all, ever...."
"I used to be like that. I didn't even like my girlfriends touching it - but now, well.... You'll learn!"
"But I don't want to...."
"Look, Marc - that is your name, isn't it? Look, Marc, it doesn't matter what you do and don't want, can't you understand that? They snatched you, brought you here, did all those things to you...."
"Why? That's what I don't understand! Why? I never did anyone any harm...."
"Look, Marc, you're sixteen. They'd have been watching you for some time, waiting for your birthday so sex would be legal with you. Some of those people who turned up at your school to watch you play those matches wouldn't have been parents - they'd have been assessors, and they'd have spotted your long legs, your nice round butt, your classic body shape of the inverted triangle.... And you're fit, and a blond.... So they arranged for your abduction."
"But why all the other stuff?"
"Look, all new slaves are always shaved smooth, especially sixteen year olds. It makes you look even younger: I reckon when you saw yourself in a mirror after they'd clipped your pubes and shaved you clean you thought you were twelve again?" He nodded his agreement. "Well, it helps to display you better, gives potential buyers a better view of your muscles, and your cock, of course...."
"But why... Why.... Why did they do that thing to me, use that iron to burn me.... It hurt...."
"All slaves are branded. If you're ever tempted to think of yourself as a free man, just run your hand over your left butt cheek and feel the scar! You're marked as property now, and the fact that this can be done to you tells you once and for all, conclusively, that you are no longer in control of your body. It belongs to someone else, someone who has the power to have his mark burned into you."
"No, I mean.... The other thing as well, the thing to my cock...."
"Being circumcised? All slaves are 'skinned, as we call it. An owner likes to see his slave, see all of him. And they don't like the thought of your cock head hidden away, all secretly, underneath your 'skin.
And you'll be living mostly naked for the next few years, you know - and you must admit that it's a bit aesthetically unsatisfying to see a long droopy bit of skin hanging down from the end of the cock - much nicer to see all of the cock, and the head, all the time...."
"But they just did it, held me down.... It hurt like hell... Not even a pain killer...."
".... So you'll remember it for the rest of your life.
It's another part of becoming slave - knowing that your owner has such power over you that he can have you 'skinned. Every time you hold your cock it's another reminder - and the memory of the pain as it was done only serves to reinforce that."
The boy was silent then, and I went on "It's like the collar, and the tattoo - the collar is a signal to everyone, even when your owner has allowed you to be clothed. And the tattoo, with your SIN... Well, if you ever were so foolish as to try to escape, the police unit that found you could just rip off your shirt and look for it above your left nip."
"But I'm not a slave..."
"Boy, you are! You're branded, collared, tattooed, and 'skinned. You're someone's property just as surely as if you were a puppy dog, or a horse, or something. And you have just as many rights - or, rather, just as few! If you fail to obey, your owner can have you beaten or whipped, and in extreme cases... Well, let's not go there..."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if a slave runs away, he can have his hamstrings cut - then he has to crawl for the rest of his life, and that's pretty effective..... And a slave who strikes his owner.... Well, they cut off the offending hand, or even the arm.... "
"That's barbaric...."
"...it's effective! Once you've been out a bit and seen some of the other slaves, you'll think twice before doing anything foolish. And most owners take their new slaves to see a public whipping, one of the ones where the public whip-master flays the skin off the slave's back.... That's a powerful disincentive to disobey, too. But don't worry - just forget about trying to run away, and focus on being obedient, and it will be OK."
"But getting fucked...."
I shrugged. "It's no big deal, is it? You didn't like touching my cock when you first came here last week, or having me touch you... Now think about where you are - you actually enjoyed having me jerk you off, didn't you?"
"No..."
I laughed. "Don't lie! You're like a lot of so-called 'straight' guys, who never had any fun with their buddies when they were growing up - once they've tried it, they start to find they like it. It's perfectly natural, after all - why do you think guys get turned on by having another guy jerk them off, or feeling his cock up their ass? Thousands of years of evolution have evolved men's bodies so that they are enjoyable to each other. It's just that mostly we deny it these days in our societies, and some guys find it's a real freedom to be enslaved, and to get given the opportunity of experiencing what men are designed to do!"
"You're bullshitting me....."
"No I'm not. It's true, as you'll find out. Now, stop worrying about being fucked - I'll go easy on you, at least at first....."
"Look, can't....."
"Shhh... Come on, get to sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."
"But...."
"You want to stay awake? If you do, we may as well get on with it, and I'll fuck you now...."
The boy stopped talking then, and, I was amused to see, actually wrapped his arms around me so he could pull his body closer to mine: so much for his concerns about "being a fag"! Actually, it's pretty typical - I've had these boys before, and I know what they're going through. One day they've got nice homes, moms and dads, girlfriends, a "life". The next they're stripped naked, being transported in a slave crate half way around the world.... And when they arrive, the branding, 'skinning, collaring.... Mostly they're pretty traumatised, but it mostly wears off within a week or so as the physical pain fades, and then they're kind of "lost": everything they knew seems to have disappeared. They're shaved of all their body hair and kept naked to enhance their feelings of "difference". The kind of boys who are taken, though, are usually the attractive, strong ones with well-formed bodies, and going along with that seems to go a general attitude of inner confidence - they were not used to being social misfits in their past life as a result of their general physiques, and this seems to carry them through. Once they get to understand that things have changed irreversibly, but that their pleasing bodies and physical charms can be harnessed to make their new lives at least tolerable, most of them adjust. And, as I've said, after denying the pleasure of other men's bodies for their entire lives, most of them are agreeably surprised to see just how great "proper" sex is (i.e. sex for the sheer enjoyment of another guy's body, when you both know what turns the other on, rather than performing a process that was primarily designed for breeding).
Our little bout of amusement seemed to have calmed him generally, though, as he was soon asleep, and seemingly sleeping peacefully. So much so that a dawn broke I had to slap his butt to wake him up - not hard, just the kind of friendly tap on the bare skin that any guy might give another.
"Come on, Marc: exercise time!", I told him cheerfully. " You want to keep that body of yours in good shape, don't you? In fact, you want to improve it: I bet you were a real jock at school, spending time in the gym...."
"I needed the strength for the team..."
"Well you need it even more here! And it's a run morning - a good long one, to really work the heart and lungs, and that butt of yours.... Come on, before the sun gets too high...."
I pulled on a pair of running shorts and a loose running vest, but the boy was of course going to run naked. It's part of the training, to get him to realise that his body is there to be stared at, if that's what his owner wants. And, of course, it really helps with getting him that perfect, even, all-over tan that handsome young slaves like him need.
"Look, let me have something to wear..... Please."
"There's nothing wrong with a guy like you being naked. In fact you're not naked at all, really - you've got your collar on, and that's all a slave needs. Now a slave without clothes and without a collar... that really would be naked! But with your collar on, as a slave you're perfectly respectable. And we know you can't take your collar off as it's riveted on, so you need never bother ever again about being improperly dressed!" I laughed as I said this, showing him I was kind of joking, but only half joking, I suppose: it is after all the fashion to run good-looking male slaves naked, as most owners like to feast their eyes on handsome slave flesh. And the laws here explicitly state that whereas it's obligatory to have shirts and shorts as a minimum when a free man is out in public, then a slave, properly identified by the presence of a collar and a SIN, can be naked.
"It's not that.... Well, not entirely.... My balls are sore!"
I nodded. "It happens. You spend all your life exercising in a jock strap, or in those shorts with built-in support.... Once your balls are hanging loose they flop around, hit your thighs, get bashed by your cock.... But it passes, things adjust.... A couple of weeks of discomfort, and then you'll never notice it."
"Just today, please.... We had that run yesterday, and my balls are aching...."
I looked at him and he looked so appealing as he stood there, one hand resting on his balls as he spoke. I felt like calling off the run there and then, and spending the morning teaching some of the finer arts of fucking instead! But you know how it is - at that age a boy's body is really developing, and you need to work it hard if you're going to properly develop a nice ridged belly, good well-developed pecs carried high and firm, "tennis ball" biceps, and of course that all-important well-muscled butt carried high above long, muscled thighs. I really couldn't afford to give up a long, hard exercise session for him this morning if we were to maintain progress. But I was in a relatively good mood so I rummaged in a drawer and tossed him a small "training" string: you may have seen slaves in them around the town - they're not designed to conceal the slave's genitals as they are made of a fairly coarse mesh and are really only big enough to barely contain the cock and balls (slaves in such training strings are of course usually shaved, so there's no need to bother about the pubic hair). The small triangle is held in place by strings fastened around the hips, and a third one passes between the legs, and up through the ass crack to join the others at the rear. Marc looked pleased with it, but, frankly, I think they're a mixed blessing - they might stop your cock and balls flying around and give them some support, but on the other hand the string underneath can "saw" at your tender asshole and leave it quite raw.
We set off, and, like me, Marc was initially shivering a little. People tend to forget that with the clear skies the temperature at night can drop a great deal, and just after dawn it can be very cool in the desert.
But we were going to run eight miles, some of it across the desert sand which is really gruelling, and before long we were both sweating and I almost envied Marc as my running vest and shorts quickly got saturated with my sweat and clung unpleasantly to me. Mind you, after some further time I suppose I had the best of the deal as the sun struck at us and even though Marc was now quite tanned, I suspected he would be burning slightly from the fierce rays.
It was almost as if Marc was trying to challenge me, by setting a strong pace when we set off. But I've been doing this for a long time now, and I know how totally exhausting it can be when you get off the paved surface and on to the sand - the different action it forces on you really works your calves and thighs, and soon he realised that by pacing myself, I was in a more advantageous position. And after about six miles Marc was really flagging, and I had to resort to running just behind him and slapping his shoulders, and his butt, to make him maintain the pace. When we got back he sank to the ground, utterly exhausted, and kind of lay there with his legs twitching and his chest heaving as he attempted to recover. Mind you, I wasn't all that much better, but I've learned to hide it as it's important to be seen to be in good shape.
After a few minutes I dragged him to his feet and led him back to my quarters so we could shower - I was teaching him how a slave boy behaves in the shower, and so although he wanted just to lie on the floor for a bit, I insisted he join me so that he could practice soaping me sensuously (there's an art in rubbing another man's nips so that it's stimulating, but not so hard that it's painful, especially if they're erect from sexual arousal, for example). In line with last night's lesson I also gently pushed him to his knees in front of me, then commanded him to "open wide" so I could stand there and spray my piss into him. He clearly hated it, but he knows enough by now not to cross me at times like this - as I've told you, I'm big, tough and strong, and Marc didn't want to feel the power of my hand slapping his face again.
When we got out of the shower I allowed him to towel me dry - again, there's an art to this, so that the soft, luxurious towels cover every inch of you, but not so hard that it's unpleasant. And a well trained slave boy should be able to dry you whilst you're moving around, to answer the phone, or take a cup of coffee, or whatever. Marc wasn't there yet, but he was improving: he'd lost most of the shyness and embarrassment he'd initially felt when he'd first been made to tease the towel around my cock and balls, but he hadn't yet fully mastered the art of drying between my butt cheeks without unduly disturbing me.
He watched me then as I changed into my "working" gear: a loose white polo shirt that showed off my dark tanned skin, dark hair and blue eyes, and loose, reasonably short shorts - no underwear, of course, as it's just too hot: you need the sweat to be able to evaporate freely. I mostly went barefoot as the soles of my feet are really tough, but it was kind of a "formal" day so I pushed my feet into loose leather sandals, too. One advantage of this simple working "uniform", of course, is that it's relatively quick to get out of - just kick off the sandals, undo the button at the waist so the shorts fall to the floor, pull the shirt over your head, and you're stripped for action!
I shouted for one of the slaves to come in then and take Marc off to work: although he's clearly a "favoured" slave being trained for pleasure duties in the palace, it never does boys like him any harm to see some of the other things that he might have to do if he does not perform well. Today I'd arranged for him to act as a water boy for one of the agricultural coffles - he'd spend all his time running up and down the line of chained slaves as they toiled away in the fields carrying the water skin. It doesn't sound much, but under the scorching sun the niggas get desperate for water as they toil away, and the water boy has to keep a very fast pace up and down the coffle if they are not to suffer unduly - and the water skin isn't light, either: it can only be refilled from the irrigation pipe in the far corner of the field, so it's pretty large capacity to save too many journeys, and most water boys get very tired from the effort of carrying it. It makes for excellent exercise, though - the running across the sandy soil, the weight of the water skin, the need to reach up and water the niggas - it really means that every part of the boy's body gets properly exercised in a way that you usually do, I suppose, in a gym with a lot of expensive machines. But then you run the risk of turning a boy's natural physique into one of those "muscle boys" you see around, and here the Sheikh prefers men to be "natural": in perfect condition, of course, but that condition is to be arrived at through hard work, not from artificial exercises. For that reason he generally commissions the taking of suitable young men and we train them ourselves, rather than relying on "buying in" pre-trained slaves for pleasure purposes from a dealer.
After Marc had left and I was about to set out on my daily inspection tour of the estate, a slave came in and told me that I was needed in the interrogation chamber in the basement. I sighed inwardly - it isn't good to show the slaves that you are disappointed when told to do carry out an order - because although I know it's part of my function to assist in the interrogations, it's not the favourite of my tasks. Mind you, some guys would think I'm lucky: I mean, it's not that often that you get to fuck virgins, is it?
I set off through the palace, went down the grand staircase and then through the administrative parts to the rear "utility" staircase. I went down two levels, then had to pass the guard post where two armed guards watched the barred door that opened onto the staircase down to the third level. It's pretty grim down on this level - deliberately so, to induce a feeling of terror and despair on all those who are dragged down there. The lights are dim, the ceilings low and the corridors narrow, all to add to the feeling of oppressive dread that helps soften up the victims. Being so deep in the earth it's pretty cool, too, but there is air conditioning and it's kept turned right down as that adds to the general feeling of menace - and as many of those down there are of course naked, it makes it very uncomfortable for them.
The usual purpose of this lower level is to hold slaves who are to receive more severe punishments than we normally administer - it's pretty rare, as generally discipline is good on the estate, or, rather, slaves don't have many opportunities to offend seriously as the majority of them are kept permanently chained in their coffles. When you're attached to your fellows by a short chain joining your collar to your neighbour, there's not much chance of seriously offending, is there? The most serious punishments are reserved for attempted escapes, or for attacking an overseer or other free man, and all of this is simply impossible for most of the coffled niggas. Some of the slaves have to be relatively more free, though: the ponies and dray slaves clearly have freedom of movement, and whilst the slaves who work in the quarries are chained to their work positions, they are equipped with pickaxes and shovels, which can make pretty effective weapons of attack. The "domestic" slaves present a particular problem, of course, as they have free movement around the palace, and cannot really be constrained at all. They are also in intimate contact with free men, and if they break their conditioning and training, are clearly in a position to escape, or assail a free man. I suppose we get five or six instances a year of slaves who offend so seriously that we need to take serious corrective action, and it's these slaves who are held in this lower level awaiting the arrival of the public whip master, or the veterinarian who will geld them, or even the public executioner with his grim mallet and spikes, to nail them to the cross.
Normally, of course, we handle punishments ourselves. Most often this is withholding food for a minor offence, then going on through a tawsing and caning, up to a "session" with me! Well, that's not quite right - I do all the caning and tawsing of unruly slaves anyway, but the "session" I am referring to is the punishment for more serious crimes that don't warrant the public whip master, gelding or crucifixion. Before I came here I was a marine, and I learned to fight - really fight - in the special forces. My life here has made me even fitter and stronger, if you can imagine it, and so when we really want to punish one of the slaves he has to endure a "session" with me: effectively we go against each other, and I beat him up. Most of the slaves involved are the domestic slaves so they have little conception of fighting anyway, but even some of the tougher outdoor slaves ,who might themselves have been soldiers in a former life, have little idea of just how much I can hurt them as my fists pound into them.
We need to keep the slaves destined for this punishment as the Sheikh thinks it a particular pleasure to see the slave pitted against me, and he seems to relish the sweat, snot and blood that flies as I mercilessly pummel the other guy into a pulp. As the Sheikh is often travelling, the slaves sometimes have to wait for a week or so down in the lower levels, and this itself tends to weaken them and make them less of a threat to me. Of course I'm not supposed to permanently injure the slave - slaves are, after all, an expensive asset for the Sheikh - just hurt him so much that he'll never think of disobeying again. Mostly I manage this although occasionally there's a broken arm or something like that. And on one occasion, when the slave was mostly beaten into an unmoving bloody mass, he did turn unexpectedly so my fist slammed into his kidneys, and he subsequently died. The Sheikh was not at all pleased by this as the slave in question was a valuable pony who had "turned" one day when, in grossly oppressive heat, he'd been "encouraged" by the carriage whip to run well beyond any reasonable expectations. He'd grabbed the whip and pulled at it, causing the driver to become unseated, and so simply had to be punished severely. I suppose he thought he was lucky not to be crucified - but, as I said, I know what I'm doing, and I usually avoid accidents like that.
Today was different, though: they'd found six foreigners lurking on the borders of the Sheikh's estate, and they'd been brought in "for questioning". At first, they'd pretended to be locals and had even used some words of Arabic, but it was quite clear that they were foreigners, and that, coupled with their attempt at deception, clearly showed that they had something to hide. The Sheikh was eager to know what that was, and so it was, as usual in such cases, to be my task to assist him in finding out their secrets.
End Of Part One