THE INSTRUMENT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Nine
It's amazing how the human body recovers from even the most savage things that have been done to it. The next day they kept me shackled in my stall in the stables as the drays, and Jason, went out to "work", and I have to say it was pretty uncomfortable: the pain from my brand and my 'skinning was still very fierce, but began to gradually subside. I remember waking up from the sleep I had eventually fallen into thinking that I must have had some particularly awful nightmare, but then realised that the pain raking through me was indeed real, and with sick horror I remembered the events of the day before, and then began to worry about what was going to happen to me.
Actually it's pretty boring being in the stables all day - there's absolutely nothing to do. I had nothing to read, no PC to look at, nothing. All I could do was lie, and sit, in my little stall, totally unable to move out because of the shackle. The stable lads came and fed me - a bowl was pushed in front of me containing the usual mixture of slave chow and fresh chopped-up dates and fruit - and I realised that the only way I had of eating it was with my fingers, as no utensils were provided. As I munched my way through the mixture, though, I remembered the arguments I had had with the Sheikh about this very subject: I'd wanted to restrict the pony slaves to eating only slave chow, as, after all, it's a complete diet and the manufacturers guarantee that it contains all the protein, carbohydrate, vitamins and minerals that are needed for truly hard work, and that's the cheapest and easiest way of doing things. But he'd insisted that the addition of the dates and fruit would be beneficial, as he believed it would make his ponies "look better" if they were fed more naturally, in spite of the additional inconvenience and expense. I suppose I was glad now of this humanitarian intervention on his part, as the fruit did at least give some flavour, and some variation in the texture. Of course I knew it was storing up problems - standard slave chow as you probably know is designed to be "low residue" so the slaves produce as little solid waste as possible, so easing the problems of "mucking out" their quarters. The fruit, and particularly the dates, had quite the opposite effect and made the production of a lot of waste inevitable! I knew that I'd be dropping a lot of crap sooner or later, and even as I sat there, began to feel the humiliation that I would then experience.
As it was I had to piss of course, and being something of a traditionalist, the Sheikh insisted that his pony slaves emulate real ponies as much as possible and so no provision was made for this, and the slaves simply pissed into the straw. "After all, Steve", he once told me when I suggested putting rudimentary sanitary facilities into the stables - just a hole in the floor of each stall, "real animals just stand there and piss, so why should pony slaves be any different?" If only I had argued with him more forcibly at the time, perhaps my plight might now have been better - but, at the time, I had not wanted to press my point too much for fear of upsetting him. It just shows you, I suppose, that you really ought to do the right things all the time.
I was left in this wretched state for three days, as my brand and scars healed somewhat. All I could do was sit there in the straw, bored out of my mind. I began to really look forward to the arrival back from "work" of Jason and the drays, as even some small change from "nothing" was a welcome relief from the tedium. Jason just walked past me to his own stall and never even acknowledged me, but the drays, whose communal stall was opposite mine, did at least smile and wave. I kept hoping that they might come over and talk to me, but they never did - you may remember that I told you that the drays were not shackled into their stalls as were Jason and me as they considered they had a good life as drays, and would never try to escape. Well, I suppose they were worried that if they did not behave, and if they were found out of their stall consorting with me, they might be immediately assigned back to one of the field coffles.
And, anyway, I suppose they didn't need to speak to me as they had themselves: I could see them chatting quietly amongst themselves, and then settling down for the night, their glorious bodies all entwined. And, of course, in the dim light I could see them enjoying their bodies and having proper sexual relief before sleeping. It didn't immediately occur to me that they might not want to speak to me as they hated me - I had, after all, been one of the "masters".
On the third day, though, when I was just sitting there as usual thinking that this was going to be another day of boredom, a guard with a slave prod came along with some of the stable slaves, and watched as they unshackled me and then told me to walk off down the stables to the shower area. I began to get quite excited, as I hate to be dirty and all the time I'd been lying on the foul straw I'd had no opportunity to get clean. And I could feel the stubble on my face, which I really hate. I thought perhaps that the Sheikh had relented and I was being cleaned up before resuming my normal life, but as I stood there and the stable slaves began to soap me and then shave me - making sure my balls were absolutely smooth, and then trimming my pubes neatly as Jason's always were, I suppose I realised this was not so. And my opinion was confirmed when I was told to squat down so that they could cut my hair: it seemed to take ages, but it was only when they then took out the razors again and began to shave my scalp that I realised that they'd given me a "pony cut", like Jason's (a three inch wide strip from neck to forehead, cut short on top, with both sides of the scalp shaved smooth. The hair is then allowed to grow long at the back to trail down the neck, to look a little like a mane). I then had my first "dressing" of slave oil - of course I was familiar with seeing the sheen on the skin of slaves that this produces, but somehow it's very different when it's your skin that's being "polished" to please other men!
All the time the slaves were working on me the guard just sat and watched, with a faint smile on his face. When they were finished, he finally spoke. "Right, boy..... Come on.... You're off to work".
He was indicating that I should walk out of the door of the stables, and I said "Well, where's my fucking clothes, then?"
He didn't use the slave prod on me - I suppose I was lucky. Instead, his punishment strap slashed at my bare butt, and I gave a grunt of pain.
"Listen, boy, you're a slave now. Not some fancy overseer or manager. Just a naked slave. And perhaps you hadn't noticed - but good looking slave boys like you are kept naked! You don't need protective clothes for the work you're going to be doing, so you'll be naked all the time - it's easier, cheaper, and, well, easier on the eye too for a boy like you."
I was going to argue with him, but what was the point?
He indicated with his strap that I should walk out, and so, reluctantly, and very conscious of my nakedness, I did.
The sun was incredibly strong on my bare skin as I walked across the stable yard, and several of the passing slaves who evidently recognised me stopped to stare, and then to jeer at the sight of my naked body.
I halted for a moment and called out to them to stop, but there was that terrible "sshhh" sound in the air, and I squealed again as the punishment strap hit my butt and the guard snapped "Fucking walk on, and do as you're ordered!". There's something particularly humiliating about being made to walk - sort of driven - naked in front of another guy, knowing that he's in control of you and is waiting to punish you, given any opportunity.
On the other side of the yard the Sheikh and Marc were waiting, standing by two identical pony traps - one of which already contained Jason between the shafts, his wrists cuffed to them as usual, and his bit and halter already fitted.
Marc smiled at me. "Now, Steve, I'm going to take you for your first ride today - his Highness is using Jason, and he's promised me I can use you as my transport around the demesne provided I train you properly. So get between the shafts...."
Frantic, knowing that this might be my last chance, I called out "Your Highness, please... Forgive me.... I did intend to come back.... And even if you are going to treat me as a slave, please don't use me like this... I have valuable skills...."
The Sheikh rapped out "Silence! I do not want to hear pony slaves using speech. We have a simple way of stopping that, you know- the veterinarian can easily snip your chords! I will not tolerate disloyalty, and using you as a proper slave will be an object lesson for others. And as for you so-called special skills.... Marc here has my complete trust, and will run the estate, I'm sure, even better than you."
"Please, Highness, he has no experience... The business here is complex..."
I saw the Sheikh gesture, and the next moment I was writhing on the ground. I would have screamed if I could have, but my whole body was cramping and all my muscles were spasming so violently that there was no energy left in me to drive the air out of my lungs. Unless you have even been prodded with a slave prod you can simply have no idea of the effect it has on you - it's not just the pain, which feels as if your entire body has been dipped in boiling water - but the fact that you are totally out of control as you muscles alternatively spasm and twitch. And, of course, you lose control of your bowels and bladder, although you don't care about that at the time and it's only as you start to recover that you discover that you're rolling around in a pool of your own piss and shit.
Marc stood there, looking down on me, and finally said "Now, Steve, that's your first lesson. Disobey, and you'll be punished. Now, get between the fucking shafts...."
Very reluctantly, and now ashamed of my body as it was covered in piss and sand, I went and stood between the shafts. All the times I'd driven a trap, I'd never realised just how different it was to be standing there naked between them - of course I had admired the strong powerful buttocks of the pony in front of me as I drove him, and now I knew it was going to be my butt that was exciting Marc soon.
Marc came and snapped my wrist cuffs to the shafts, and I began to feel utterly powerless. I was now part of the trap, unable to escape from it. I knew that if the driver used his whip on me, there was no getting away from it - all I would be able to do would be to run faster, in the hope that he would stop hitting me.
"Kneel down, so I can put your harness on ", Marc snapped, and I obeyed. I knew I could so easily be prodded if I refused, and so I dropped to my knees between the shafts. Marc took the bridle and bit from one of the attending slaves, and came and stood by my head.
"See, Steve? You'll soon shut up with this in! I haven't got time to use the training ball down your throat, so I'm going to use a tongue suppresser bit - see...."
He held it in front of me, and I could see the plate attached at right angles to the bit itself, designed to keep my tongue immobile once everything was fitted.
Marc turned it over and went on "...and because you're new to this, I'm going to use the spiked side down: you'll soon learn to keep your tongue still, as these spikes are sharp and, I'm told, they really hurt as they bite into your tongue. Now, open wide...."
I did as he ordered, still fearing the prod, and for the first time had that strange metallic taste of the bit that I was to experience so many times in the future. Marc pushed and pulled at it, but seemed dissatisfied with the fitting, and after a few minutes of effort gave up. He left me there kneeling, and went over to the Sheikh, who had now climbed aboard the trap pulled by Jason, and said a few words. I saw the Sheikh nod in agreement, then there was a "hiss" as the Sheikh's carriage whip went through the air, and I saw Jason start into a brisk trop, bearing the Sheikh away (those unfamiliar with the use of human ponies should remember that a general carriage whip like the Sheikh's, and as I had used so many times myself, is not designed to produce permanent damage and complete agony in the subject as does, say, a bull whip used for punishment. It is deliberately made light and thin so that as it strikes the back, buttocks and thighs of the pony it stings, and "encourages" him to work hard, leaving no permanent mark on his valuable hide).
Marc strode off, and I was left kneeling there in the hot sun, wondering what was going on. I went to stand up, but the guard snapped "Fucking stay where your master left you, boy!", and so I did although, as you probably know, having to kneel on a hard surface for any length of time soon starts to become very painful on the knees. When Marc reappeared, though, he was accompanied by one of the huge burly nigggas who work in the blacksmith's shop, and this giant slipped behind me in the shafts, then moved forward and stood over me, grasping my head between his powerful thighs.
I could smell his male scent, that particular smell that shrieks "male" that you get excreted from the glands around the genitals, and I could feel his dick and balls sliding across the shaved parts of my head.
He reached down and his huge black hand grasped my chin, and as his thumb and finger pressed in painfully, I was forced to open my mouth. I saw Marc nod at him, and the next moment something metallic was in my mouth.... And then I was in agony. I tried to break free, struggling as hard as I could, but the nigga's thighs were so strong gripping my head that I simply had no chance from a kneeling position, with my wrists manacled to the cart's shafts.
I don't suppose any of you have ever had a tooth extracted without a modern anaesthetic. Especially not one of the powerful teeth at the back of your jaw.
So you probably don't know that before you can pull it out you have to press it hard, very hard, down into the jaw to break the "cement" that holds the tooth into the bone. Then and only then can you exert upward pressure to yank it out... Evidently the nigga knew this as he did it perfectly - well, if that's how you can describe it! It's absolute agony, as the nerves in the jaw and the tooth are ripped apart as the tooth goes down, and is then wrenched out.
The nigga held my tooth - a beautiful, white tooth, with a long, long root stained with my blood, in front of my eyes for me to see. I heard him laugh a bit as he was pleased with his work, but I was in no condition to notice it - I was shouting with the pain, although this stopped as I began to choke with my blood running down my throat.
I almost couldn't believe it as the nigga squeezed my jaw again and I was once more forced to open my mouth, and again his pliers went it. And then that same agony, that same terrible sensation as a tooth from the other side of my lower jaw was brutally torn out.
He let me go then, and I knelt there on the sand, tears pouring form my eyes, snot gushing out of my nose, and trickles of blood coming out of my mouth where I had failed to swallow it. I knew I was sobbing uncontrollably, and was ashamed of it, showing such weakness in front of the watching slaves. But I simply couldn't help it - the pain in my jaw and from my frazzled nerves was worse even that when I'd been branded and 'skinned, and my body was no longer under my total conscious control.
Marc was standing there again, and said quietly "I think your bit will fit better now, Steve - open wide". And then, when he saw me hesitating, he went on "Open up, fucker, or you'll be screaming with the prod, too."
I opened my mouth and spat to clear the blood and stuff, and Marc came and pushed the bit home, settling the steel bar in the gap where my teeth had been pulled. It hurt, of course, as it pushed into the soft gum, but this new pain was as nothing to that which I was already experiencing, and I could bear it.
I felt his strong young fingers tying the leather straps under my chin that held the bit down and in place, and could then feel as he attached the ends of the reins to the bit. I tried to move the bit but of course once it's held down tight like that your tongue can't shift it - and especially not, I discovered, as the cruel spikes from the suppresser plate bit into my tongue and I got a fresh taste of blood flooding my mouth.
Marc got into the trap, and snapped "On your feet!", and I somehow managed to stand up.
We spent the next few minutes with Marc telling me the familiar pony control words "When I say 'Wall on', you start. 'Trot' means you jog, and 'Whoa' means stop. But then you know all this, don't you, Steve, as you've driven a pony yourself often enough. I won't normally give you too much guidance as you know all the places we need to go on the estate, and normally I'll just say 'Home' or 'The upper fields' or 'The quarry', or whatever. You'll trot nice and briskly or else you'll feel the whip - I've often looked at your butt as you stood there talking to the Sheikh, or when you fucked me, and now I've got it nice and naked in front of me, it will be good to see it flinch as I stripe you a bit! Now, let's try out the reins, in case I ever do want to guide you...."
Having another guy "guide" you with leather reins attached to a bit in your mouth was yet another step on the downwards path of my degradation and humiliation. I had thought that being manacled naked to the cart was terrible; but now even the last vestiges of my freedom were removed from me - my jaw was so tender that even the slightest pull on the reins moved my bit and caused waves of pain to race through me, so I had no choice but to move my head as directed. In later days I was to learn that even with my jaw healed I had no choice but to obey the reins - a guy pulling on them is so much stronger than your own neck muscles, that you are simply forced to do as he wants. And of course they're not just to guide you - if your driver wants you to stop quickly, if he's in conversation and doesn't want to take the trouble to break off and tell you to "Whoa!", he simply hauls back hard on both reins!
All that day Marc "trained" me, making me walk, trot, and sometimes even run flat-out, goaded on by his carriage whip, and with the ever-present tug of the reins directing and controlling me. I was utterly exhausted, and, not only that, my feet were extremely painful - I'd always spent a lot of time in my spare time barefoot, but now having to run over concrete, tarmac, and stuff without any protection at all was a very different matter. The very worst think of course was when Marc deliberately "drove" me off the hard surfaces and on to the ever-present sand: not only is it much, much harder work to pull the trap through sand, but it's agony on your calf and thigh muscles as you can' get a proper purchase in the loose stuff. And my balls ached too - I'd always done a lot of exercise, but of course except when I was in the pool, I always wore shorts - not because of modesty, as in the palace surrounded by slaves I had nothing to be concerned about being very well hung; no, I wore shorts to give me some support, but now my balls were swaying around, crashing into my thighs as I ran or stumbled along.
When Marc went back in to the palace at lunch time I still didn't get any respite - I'd kind of thought that when he went in to eat I could at least sink to the ground and rest my weary body. But no - at the entrance to the palace he casually looped my reins around one of the ornamental pillars, pulling my face quite close to them and leaving no slack - I realised I was going to have to stand there until he came back out. It really shows one guy's power over you when he can leave you tethered and helpless like that, and I suppose I'm not really certain whether it was this I hated most, or the sheer pain and agony coming at me from all parts of my body. At least the palace slaves had some sense, though: they knew that after exercising like that for hours I'd be very dehydrated (you must remember that in the desert the air is very, very dry so that although you don't appear to be sweating you are indeed evaporating away gallons of sweat, especially in the fierce sunshine), and so they brought me water. A big bucket of it was placed at my feet with a thin rubber hose leading into my mouth - provided I was careful not to let the hose slip out from between my lips (not easy, when I couldn't close them properly with the bit), I could suck as much of it down as I wanted, when I wanted: this was the only decision I'd been allowed to make for myself all day, and for this reason the water seemed especially precious to me.
Mind you, there was some leakage - as there had been all morning of my saliva - even with the bit pressed right down to my jaw line in the gap where my teeth had been pulled, there was a problem: where it protruded from my mouth was still below the "natural" saliva level in my mouth, and so there was constant drooling from the corners of my mouth. I suppose I'd noticed this before with other ponies, but I'd never given it much though. Now I knew just how miserable it was to have your upper body flecked with your own spit as you ran along, drying on you in the desert air. Well now I suppose I was a bit grateful for the water that leaked from my mouth as I sucked it up - by tilting my head back it fell onto my body and trickled down, helping to cool me a bit.
Of course the inevitable happened - after drinking what seemed like several litres of water, I needed to piss. And what options do you have when you're tethered by your reins? You can't move away into the shrubbery, or anything: no, you just have to do it right there, where you're standing. And if your hands are immobile as they're shackled to the shafts of the cart, you can't even direct the flow away from you! Once the pressure in my bladder had become unbearable I simply had to just let the piss flow out of me, and even though I moved my feet apart, I could feel them and my ankles being splattered with it as it hosed down. I was still at that point, I suppose, when I felt shame at having to do this - especially when I looked down and saw a small rivulet of my piss running down the palace steps behind me, for all to see. Yes, I know it's silly - it wasn't my fault, and there was nothing I could do about it, but that still didn't prevent intense feelings of shame and humiliation once more welling through me. As I stood there, my buttocks clenched almost involuntarily as the terrible thought came to me that I might have to crap in public, too!
Marc took his time over lunch, and I suppose I was glad about that as even though I had to stand, that was easier than running pulling the cart. But when he did appear, he was accompanied by the Sheikh. The two men stood there and I saw Marc point out the rapidly drying stream of my piss to the Sheikh, and they both smiled. The Sheikh had his arm around Marc's shoulders in his usual proprietorial way (well, that is the right word, I suppose, as the Sheikh did indeed own Marc, just as he owned me!) - and to my horror they both climbed into the cart. If trotting and running with Marc had been hard work, with the Sheikh on board too the job was almost impossible: it was all right on the splendid drive sweeping up to the palace as it was level and the cart did make use of modern technology: the big rubber-tyred wheels were mounted on proper bearings on their shaft, so once you had got the thing moving it wasn't all that difficult to keep going. But at the slightest gradient I was in effect lifting both of them, and the weight of the cart, upwards! The sweat was pouring off me, and in order to keep me trotting along Marc (or was it the Sheikh - I couldn't turn around to see as I was so focussed on what I was doing), constantly "encouraged" me with the carriage whip. At the slightest slowing down, I'd hear the hiss of it flying through the air and the next instant it's vicious, sharp stinging pain on my shoulders, or butt. It really does make you put that additional effort into it actually - I'd sometimes done this to Jason when I was in a particular hurry, and now I found out just how effective it is as a means of getting the maximum effort out of your pony.
That evening when Marc had finally tired of "training" me (or was he really torturing me, amusing himself, as I had seen no evidence during the day of him paying any attention at all to affairs on the estate as he ran me hither and thither with no real purpose in mind) he drove me back to the stables. As he got out of the trap said to the slaves casually "Keep him in his own stall tonight, as I don't want him playing sexually. And keep his bit in - I want his jaw to heal in a way that will make it easy to keep him with a bit in the future."
The slaves led me to my stall, manacled me to the tethering chain by my ankle, and I just lay in the straw utterly exhausted, too tired even to acknowledge the greetings of the drays as they came back from work - they always seemed to be so cheerful, even though I knew they were made to work extremely hard indeed. Perhaps that's the way of living life as a slave, I thought - try to make the best of it!
There was one further terrible indignity heaped on me that night, though - as I lay there, I never imagined that things could get worse. But they did!
When they brought the food to our stalls in their plastic bowls, I was of course totally unable to eat mine as there was no way I could chew the slave chow with the bit and tongue restraint in my mouth. When they came to collect the bowls and found mine full, the slaves called the overseer who looked at me and remarked "Well, we've got a bit of a problem here - I've been told to keep the bit in you, and yet you can't eat....."
I shook my head, and made gestures saying I didn't care. In fact, I thought that if I starved myself, that might be the best thing, as then I'd soon be out of my misery. Bu the overseer shook his head. "No, boy, you've got to eat. A big slave like you, working hard in the shafts, uses thousands of calories. And I'd lose my job if one of the ponies here wasn't up to it because he hadn't been fed properly." He turned to the slaves, and snapped "Bring me a feeder!"
Now I was desperate, as I'd seen slaves "fed" before, and knew what was in store for me. I began to shake my head violently and attempted to say "No, please....", even though all the sounds I made were so muffled that they were indistinguishable. But I knew it was hopeless - chained up as I was, there was no way that I was going to avoid this.
The feeder was one of the standard ones used on recalcitrant slaves generally - a large funnel-like hopper into which the slave chow, or any liquid or whatever, can be put, attached to a thick, flexible hose. The overseer held the end of the hose to my mouth and commanded "Open wide, boy....".
I did nothing, and he now seemed to be at least a little kind to me. He said calmly "Now, Steve, you know what this is and how it works. You yourself ordered slaves to be fed often enough.... So come on, boy - open wide...... You know I've got to get the pipe far enough down your throat to avoid your windpipe. You're going to gag and choke as it slides down, but I've greased the end to make it as easy as possible...."
I still shook my head, even more violently now, and he looked sorrowful, rather than angry, as he went on "You know it's useless, Steve. Now co-operate, and it will be unpleasant at first, but once the pipe's well down....." Then on seeing that I continued to defy him, he simply shrugged and called out to the drays, who were watching from their stall across the aisle, "Two of you boys - over here - Now!"
I guess the niggas must have been used for this before, as they knew what to do. Acting in that smooth unison that drays learn from working so constantly together, the two of them simply threw me to the straw, and one at once sprang and sat astride my chest, his knees forcing my upper arms down. I could feel his hot, moist ass against the bare skin of my chest as he knelt there, and with his huge weight I knew I was pinioned down totally helplessly. I did try to thrash and kick with my legs, but seeing this, the overseer called over a third nigga who simply sat astride my thighs. I lay there looking helplessly at the first nigga's cock and balls as they waggled in front of my face, but then the second one came and knelt at my head, and I felt his immensely strong knees press into the sides of my head, holding it absolutely immobile.
"Right, you boys.... Hold him totally still", the overseer commanded the niggas, and then to me he added "So come on, Steve - you're helpless, as you can see.... Make it easy on yourself.... Open wide....."
When I still refused, he nodded to the nigga who was sitting astride my thighs and the next moment I let out a great shout as he grabbed my balls and squeezed them, hard! The overseer was clearly used to this, as the moment my jaws parted he thrust a wooden wedge between them, and I lay there futilely attempting to close my mouth.
Look, have you ever had anything pushed down your throat? I suppose it's a bit like learning to suck cock properly - most guys never take a whole cock in (well, not a really big one, anyway), and it's only a very few who train themselves to be able to let a hot, hard cock slide down their throats. There's an awful lot of gagging and choking and spluttering as you have to learn to suppress your choking reflexes, but it can be done. I've never learned, of course, as I am by nature a "top" and I like my cock up guys' asses, or down their throats as I fuck them. But as a kind of courtesy, almost, and to relax the other guy if he's a bit nervous when he first gets to see me naked with my huge cock thrusting out from me, I do sometimes take part in a little foreplay and I do then suck his cock and so on... But generally just the head and an inch or so of the shaft so it fits comfortably in my mouth.
I've never taken a cock right down my throat and so never learned how to do it.
Well, I got an instant lesson now! It didn't matter how much I tried to thrash and break free, three huge niggas holding me down made it utterly futile. The overseer knelt beside me and fed the tube into my mouth, and then as it hit the back of my throat and I started to gag, he murmured, not unkindly, "Try to relax, Steve.... It will soon be over....."
It was useless advice, of course, as you can't turn off your gag reflex voluntarily without a lot of practice, and I felt as if I was choking, suffocating.... I could feel my chest muscles spasming, and tears were streaming from my eyes and snot from my nose.... But, mercifully, it was over. Once the thick pipe was a certain way down me, I seemed to be able to regain control of my reflexes and could just lie there and listen as the slave chow was poured into the funnel and it slithered down into my guts. When it was over and the pipe had been pulled out (causing me to wretch again), I looked at the dray nigga who was sitting astride me. His huge cock was rigidly erect and a small slime of pre-cum was beading out of his piss slit and dripping onto my chest. I couldn't decide whether he was aroused because he could imagine his cock replacing the feeding pipe in my throat, or whether it was because he could see that he had me pinned down and helpless - and I had been someone who previously had had him under my control. I began to worry that as soon as the overseer left he'd attack me and try to fuck me, for whichever reason. But fortunately the overseer ordered the three niggas back to their stall, and I was allowed to lie there in my stall and to try to sleep. Mind you I felt dreadful - not only was I now a naked slave totally under the control of Marc when he was driving me, but now I couldn't even say whether I would eat or not - it was as if I was a car or truck that had been pulled up to a filling station, had the nozzle inserted into me, and had fuel pumped in.
The following morning the overseer decided that my bit could be removed, and so I wasn't subject to the same humiliating force feeding, but I was cleaned and oiled by the slaves before being shackled into the trap and led across to the palace to be tethered by my reins to await Marc.
The next to days weren't so bad, I suppose - my pain subsided from my jaw and I'd almost forgotten the skinning and branding, so all I had to contend with was my hurting feet and my aching limbs - Marc continued to drive me hard, and each night all I wanted to do was lie there in the straw and try to recover. On the third night, though, just after I had been shackled into my stall, Marc appeared with the overseer, leading Jason.
"Put them in together", Marc told the overseer, and his shackle chain was attached to the same loop in the floor that mine was. I saw a terrible look in Jason's eyes - one of pure savage lust, and he didn't even wait for Marc and the overseer to leave before he attacked me. Look, I've told you how occasionally I used to enjoy fucking Jason as his big, strong ass was a real delight, and how it added to my excitement when he resisted and I needed to grapple him to the floor and overcome him - but this was something that I could only do when I'd ordered one wrist to be manacled to his collar because, in spite of my good physical shape and strength, he was actually "working" his muscles constantly, and the five years he had on me had also begun to count. Now, of course, this didn't apply: we were both there totally naked, and both only chained by one ankle to the floor.
Although I fought, there was just no way that with my extreme fatigue I could prevent Marc from totally overpowering me, and those five years really count when you're fighting for real. I couldn't prevent him pushing me down onto my belly, and then almost choking me as one of his arms went around my throat. With his other hand I could feel him pulling my ass cheeks apart, and there was the sensation of his rock-hard cock thrusting at me. I was screaming and shouting, and the overseer asked Marc if he should stop Jason from raping me. "No", Marc said. "These two stallions are going to live together in the same stall from now on, and it's easier to let them sort out who is going to fuck whom."
End Of Part Nine